My Dear Carlyle,--I have just been shown a private letter from
Moncure Conway to one of his friends here, giving some tidings of
your sad return to an empty home. We had the first news last
week. And so it is. The stroke long threatened has fallen at
last, in the mildest form to its victim, and relieved to you by
long and repeated reprieves. I must think her fortunate also in
this gentle departure, as she had been in her serene and honored
career. We would not for ourselves count covetously the
descending steps after we have passed the top of the mount, or
grudge to spare some of the days of decay. And you will have the
peace of knowing her safe, and no longer a victim. I have found
myself recalling an old verse which one utters to the parting
soul,--
"For thou hast passed all chance of human life,
And not again to thee shall beauty die."
It is thirty-three years in July, I believe, since I first saw
her, and her conversation and faultless manners gave assurance of
a good and happy future. As I have not witnessed any decline, I
can hardly believe in any, and still recall vividly the youthful
wife, and her blithe account of her letters and homages from
Goethe, and the details she gave of her intended visit to Weimar,
and its disappointment. Her goodness to me and to my friends was
ever perfect, and all Americans have agreed in her praise.
Elizabeth Hoar remembers her with entire sympathy and regard.
I could heartily wish to see you for an hour in these lonely
days. Your friends, I know, will approach you as tenderly as
friends can; and I can believe that labor--all whose precious
secrets you know--will prove a consoler,--though it cannot quite
avail, for she was the rest that rewarded labor. It is good that
you are strong, and built for endurance. Nor will you shun to
consult the awful oracles which in these hours of tenderness are
sometimes vouchsafed. If to any, to you.
I rejoice that she stayed to enjoy the knowledge of your good day
at Edinburgh, which is a leaf we would not spare from your book
of life. It was a right manly speech to be so made, and is a
voucher of unbroken strength,--and the surroundings, as I learn,
were all the happiest,--with no hint of change.
I pray you bear in mind your own counsels. Long years you must
still achieve, and, I hope, neither grief nor weariness will let
you "join the dim choir of the bards that have been," until you
have written the book I wish and wait for,--the sincerest
confessions of your best hours.
My wife prays to be remembered to you with sympathy and affection.
Ever yours faithfully,
R.W. Emerson