Dear Carlyle,--Some three weeks ago came to me a note from Mr.
Haven of Worcester, announcing the arrival there of "King
Friedrich," and, after a fortnight, the good book came to my
door. A week later, your letter arrived. I was heartily glad to
get the crimson Book itself. I had looked for it with the first
ships. As it came not, I had made up my mind to that hap also.
It was quite fair: I had disentitled myself. He, the true
friend, had every right to punish me for my sluggish contumacy,--
backsliding, too, after penitence. So I read with resignation
our blue American reprint, and I enclose to you a leaf from my
journal at the time, which leaf I read afterwards in one of my
lectures at the Music Hall in Boston. But the book came from the
man himself. He did not punish me. He is loyal, but royal as
well, and, I have always noted, has a whim for dealing _en grand
monarque._ The book came, with its irresistible inscription, so
that I am all tenderness and all but tears. The book too is
sovereignly written. I think you the true inventor of the
stereoscope, as having exhibited that art in style, long before
we had heard of it in drawing.
-------
* This letter and the Extract from the Diary are printed from a
copy of the original supplied to me by the kindness of Mr.
Alexander Ireland, who first printed a portion of the letter in
his "Ralph Waldo Emerson, a Biographical Sketch," London, 1882.
One or two words missing in the copy are inserted from the rough
draft, which, as usual, varies in minor points from the letter
as sent.
--------
The letter came also. Every child of mine knows from far that
handwriting, and brings it home with speed. I read without alarm
the pathetical hints of your sad plight in the German labyrinth.
I know too well what invitations and assurance brought you in
there, to fear any lack of guides to bring you out. More
presence of mind and easy change from the microscopic to the
telescopic view does not exist. I await peacefully your issue
from your pretended afflictions.
What to tell you of my coop and byre? Ah! you are a very poor
fellow, and must be left with your glory. You hug yourself on
missing the illusion of children, and must be pitied as having
one glittering toy the less. I am a victim all my days to
certain graces of form and behavior, and can never come into
equilibrium. Now I am fooled by my own young people, and grow
old contented. The heedless children suddenly take the keenest
hold on life, and foolish papas cling to the world on their
account, as never on their own. Out of sympathy, we _make
believe_ to value the prizes of their ambition and hope. My, two
girls, pupils once or now of Agassiz, are good, healthy,
apprehensive, decided young people, who love life. My boy
divides his time between Cicero and cricket, knows his boat, the
birds, and Walter Scott--verse and prose, through and through,--
and will go to College next year. Sam Ward and I tickled each
other the other day, in looking over a very good company of young
people, by finding in the new comers a marked improvement on
their parents. There, I flatter myself, I see some emerging of
our people from the prison of their politics. The insolvency of
slavery shows and stares, and we shall perhaps live to see that
putrid Black-vomit extirpated by mere dying and planting.
I am so glad to find myself speaking once more to you, that I
mean to persist in the practice. Be as glad as you have been.
You and I shall not know each other on this platform as long as
we have known. A correspondence even of twenty-five years should
not be disused unless through some fatal event. Life is too
short, and, with all our poetry and morals, too indigent to allow
such sacrifices. Eyes so old and wary, and which have learned to
look on so much, are gathering an hourly harvest,--and I cannot
spare what on noble terms is offered me.
With congratulations to Jane Carlyle on the grandeur of the Book,
Yours affectionately,
R.W. Emerson