Dear Emerson,--It is a special favor of Heaven to me that I hear
of you again by this accident; and am made to answer a word _de
Profundis._ It is constantly among the fairest of the few hopes
that remain for me on the other side of this Stygian Abyss of a
_Friedrich_ (should I ever get through it alive) that I _shall
then_ begin writing to you again, who knows if not see you in the
body before quite taking wing! For I feel always, what I have
some times written, that there is (in a sense) but one completely
human voice to me in the world; and that you are it, and have
been,--thanks to you, whether you speak or not! Let me say also,
while I am at it, that the few words you sent me about those
first Two volumes are present with me in the far more frightful
darknesses of these last Two; and indeed are often almost my one
encouragement. That is a fact, and not exaggerated, though you
think it is. I read some criticisms of my wretched Book, and
hundreds of others I in the gross refused to read; they were in
praise, they were in blame; but not one of them looked into the
eyes of the object, and in genuine human fashion responded to its
human strivings, and recognized it,--completely right, though
with generous exaggeration! That was well done, I can tell you:
a human voice, far out in the waste deeps, among the inarticulate
sea-krakens and obscene monsters, loud-roaring, inexpressibly
ugly, dooming you as if to eternal solitude by way of wages,--
"hath exceeding much refreshment in it," as my friend Oliver used
to say.
Having not one spare moment at present, I will answer to _you_
only the whole contents of that letter; you in your charity will
convey to Mr. Wight what portion belongs to him. Wight, if you
have a chance of him, is worth knowing; a genuine bit of metal,
too thin and ringing for my tastes (hammered, in fact, upon the
Yankee anvils), but recognizably of steel and with a keen fire-
edge. Pray signify to him that he has done a thing agreeable to
me, and that it will be pleasant if I find it will not hurt
_him._ Profit to me out of it, except to keep his own soul clear
and sound (to his own sense, as it always will be to mine), is
perfectly indifferent; and on the whole I thank him heartily for
showing me a chivalrous human brother, instead of the usual
vulturous, malodorous, and much avoidable phenomenon, in
Transatlantic Bibliopoly! This is accurately true; and so far
as his publisher and he can extract encouragement from this, in
the face of vested interests which I cannot judge of, it is
theirs without reserve....
Adieu, my friend; I have not written so much in the Letter way,
not, I think, since you last heard of me. In my despair it often
seems as if I should never write more; but be sunk here, and
perish miserably in the most undoable, least worthy, most
disgusting and heart breaking of all the labors I ever had. But
perhaps also not, not quite. In which case--
Yours ever truly at any rate,
T. Carlyle
No time to re-read. I suppose you can decipher.