Dear Emerson,--I am covered with confusion, astonishment, and
shame to think of my long silence. You wrote me two beautiful
letters; none friendlier, brighter, wiser could come to me from
any quarter of the world; and I have not answered even by a
sign. Promptly and punctually my poor heart did answer; but to
do it outwardly,--as if there had lain some enchantment on me,--
was beyond my power. The one thing I can say in excuse or
explanation is, that ever since Summer last, I have been in an
unusually dyspeptic, peaking, pining, and dispirited condition;
and have no right hand of my own for writing, nor, for several
months, had any other that was altogether agreeable to me. But
in fine I don't believe you lay any blame or anger on me at all;
and I will say no more about it, but only try to repent and do
better next time.
Your letter from the Far West was charmingly vivid and free; one
seemed to attend you personally, and see with one's own eyes the
_notabilia,_ human and other, of those huge regions, in your
swift flight through them to and from. I retain your little
etching of Brigham Young as a bit of real likeness; I have often
thought of your transit through Chicago since poor Chicago itself
vanished out of the world on wings of fire. There is something
huge, painful, and almost appalling to me in that wild Western
World of yours;--and especially I wonder at the gold-nuggeting
there, while plainly every gold-nuggeter is no other than a
criminal to Human Society, and has to _steal_ the exact value of
his gold nugget from the pockets of all the posterity of Adam,
now and for some time to come, in this world. I conclude it is a
bait used by All-wise Providence to attract your people out
thither, there to build towns, make roads, fell forests (or plant
forests), and make ready a Dwelling-place for new Nations, who
will find themselves called to quite other than nugget-hunting.
In the hideous stew of Anarchy, in which all English Populations
present themselves to my dismal contemplation at this day, it is
a solid consolation that there will verily, in another fifty
years, be above a hundred million men and women on this Planet
who can all read Shakespeare and the English Bible and the (also
for a long time biblical and noble) history of their Mother
Country,--and proceed again to do, unless the Devil be in them,
as their Forebears did, or better, if they have the heart!--
Except that you are a thousand times too kind to me, your second
Letter also was altogether charming....
Do you read Ruskin's _Fors Clavigera,_ which he cheerily tells me
gets itself reprinted in America? If you don't, _do,_ I advise
you. Also his _Munera Pulveris,_ Oxford-_Lectures_ on Art, and
whatever else he is now writing,--if you can manage to get them
(which is difficult here, owing to the ways he has towards the
bibliopolic world!). There is nothing going on among us as
notable to me as those fierce lightning-bolts Ruskin is copiously
and desperately pouring into the black world of Anarchy all
around him. No other man in England that I meet has in him the
divine rage against iniquity, falsity, and baseness that Ruskin
has, and that every man ought to have. Unhappily he is not a
strong man; one might say a weak man rather; and has not the
least prudence of management; though if he can hold out for
another fifteen years or so, he may produce, even in this way, a
great effect. God grant it, say I. Froude is coming to you in
October. You will find him a most clear, friendly, ingenious,
solid, and excellent man; and I am very glad to find you among
those who are to take care of him when he comes to your new
Country. Do your best and wisest towards him, for my sake,
withal. He is the valuablest Friend I now have in England,
nearly though not quite altogether the one man in talking with
whom I can get any real profit or comfort. Alas, alas, here is
the end of the paper, dear Emerson; and I had still a whole
wilderness of things to say. Write to me, or even do not write,
and I will surely write again.
I remain as ever Your Affectionate Friend,
T. Carlyle
In November, 1872, Emerson went to England, and the two friends
met again. After a short stay he proceeded to the Continent and
Egypt, returning to London in the spring of 1873. For the last
time Carlyle and he saw each other. In May, Emerson returned
home. After this time no letters passed between him and Carlyle.
They were both old men. Writing had become difficult to them;
and little was left to say.
Carlyle died, eighty-five years old, on the 5th of February,
1881. Emerson died, seventy-nine years old, on the 27th of
April, 1882.
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