Dear Emerson,--The sight of my hand-writing will, I know, be
welcome again. Though I literally do not write the smallest Note
once in a month, or converse with anything but Prussian
Nightmares of a hideous [nature], and with my Horse (who is human
in comparison), and with my poor Wife (who is altogether human,
and heroically cheerful to me, in her poor weak state),--I must
use the five minutes, which have fallen to me today, in
acknowledgment, _du_e by all laws terrestrial and celestial, of
the last Book* that has come from you.
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* "The Conduct of Life."
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I read it a great while ago, mostly in sheets, and again read it
in the finely printed form,--I can tell you, if you do not
already guess, with a satisfaction given me by the Books of no
other living mortal. I predicted to your English Bookseller a
great sale even, reckoning it the best of all your Books. What
the sale was or is I nowhere learned; but the basis of my
prophecy remains like the rocks, and will remain. Indeed, except
from my Brother John, I have heard no criticism that had much
rationality,--some of them incredibly irrational (if that matter
had not altogether become a barking of dogs among us);--but I
always believe there are in the mute state a great number of
thinking English souls, who can recognize a Thinker and a Sayer,
of perennially human type and welcome him as the rarest of
miracles, in "such a spread of knowledge" as there now is:--one
English soul of that kind there indubitably is; and I certify
hereby, notarially if you like, that such is emphatically his
view of the matter. You have grown older, more pungent,
piercing;--I never read from you before such lightning-gleams of
meaning as are to be found here. The finale of all, that of
"Illusions" falling on us like snow-showers, but again of "the
gods sitting steadfast on their thrones" all the while,--what a
_Fiat Lux_ is there, into the deeps of a philosophy, which the
vulgar has not, which hardly three men living have, yet dreamt
of! _Well done,_ I say; and so let that matter rest.
I am still twelve months or so from the end of my Task; very
uncertain often whether I can, even at this snail's pace, hold
out so long. In my life I was never worn nearly so low, and seem
to get _weaker_ monthly. Courage! If I do get through, you
shall hear of me, again.
Yours forever,
T. Carlyle