My Dear Friend,--I fear there is no pardon from you, none from
myself, for this immense new gap in our correspondence. Yet no
hour came from month to month to write a letter, since whatever
deliverance I got from one web in the last year served only to
throw me into another web as pitiless. Yet what gossamer these
tasks of mine must appear to your might! Believe that the
American climate is unmanning, or that one American whom you know
is severely taxed by Lilliput labors. The last hot summer
enfeebled me till my young people coaxed me to go with Edward to
the White Hills, and we climbed or were dragged up Agiocochook,
in August, and its sleet and snowy air nerved me again for the
time. But the booksellers, whom I had long ago urged to reprint
Plutarch's _Morals,_ claimed some forgotten promise, and set me
on reading the old patriarch again, and writing a few pages about
him, which no doubt cost me as much time and pottering as it
would cost you to write a History. Then an "Oration" was due to
the New England Society in New York, on the 250th anniversary of
the Plymouth Landing,--as I thought myself familiar with the
story, and holding also some opinions thereupon. But in the
Libraries I found alcoves full of books and documents reckoned
essential; and, at New York, after reading for an hour to the
great assembly out of my massy manuscript, I refused to print a
line until I could revise and complete my papers;--risking, of
course, the nonsense of their newspaper reporters. This pill
swallowed and forgotten, it was already time for my Second
"Course on Philosophy" at Cambridge,--which I had accepted again
that I might repair the faults of the last year. But here were
eighteen lectures, each to be read sixteen miles away from my
house, to go and come,--and the same work and journey twice in
each week,--and I have just got through the doleful ordeal.
I have abundance of good readings and some honest writing on the
leading topics,--but in haste and confusion they are misplaced
and spoiled. I hope the ruin of no young man's soul will here or
hereafter be charged to me as having wasted his time or
confounded his reason.
Now I come to the raid of a London bookseller, Hotten, (of whom I
believe I never told you,) on my forgotten papers in the old
_Dials,_ and other pamphlets here. Conway wrote me that he could
not be resisted,--would certainly steal good and bad,--but might
be guided in the selection. I replied that the act was odious to
me, and I promised to denounce the man and his theft to any
friends I might have in England; but if, instead of printing
then, he would wait a year, I would make my own selection, with
the addition of some later critical papers, and permit the book.
Mr. Ireland in Manchester, and Conway in London, took the affair
kindly in hand, and Hotten acceded to my change. And that is the
next task that threatens my imbecility. But now, ten days ago or
less, my friend John M. Forbes has come to me with a proposition
to carry me off to California, the Yosemite, the Mammoth trees,
and the Pacific, and, after much resistance, I have surrendered
for six weeks, and we set out tomorrow. And hence this sheet of
confession,--that I may not drag a lengthening chain. Meantime,
you have been monthly loading me with good for evil. I have just
counted twenty-three volumes of Carlyle's Library Edition, in
order on my shelves, besides two, or perhaps three, which Ellery
Channing has borrowed. Add, that the precious Chapman's _Homer_
came safely, though not till months after you had told me of its
departure, and shall be guarded henceforward with joy.
_Wednesday, 13, Chicago._--Arrived here and can bring this little
sheet to the post-office here. My daughter Edith Forbes, and
her husband William H. Forbes, and three other friends, accompany me,
and we shall overtake Mr. Forbes senior tomorrow at Burlington, Iowa.
The widow of one of the noblest of our young martyrs in the War,
Col. Lowell,* cousin [nephew] of James Russell Lowell, sends me
word that she wishes me to give her a note of introduction to
you, confiding to me that she has once written a letter to you
which procured her the happiest reply from you, and I shall obey
her, and you will see her and own her rights. Still continue to
be magnanimous to your friend,
--R.W. Emerson
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* Charles Russell Lowell, to be remembered always with honor in
company with his brother James Jackson Lowell and his cousin
William Lowell Putnam,--a shining group among the youths who have
died for their country.
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