ommon speech, which must needs gratify you. My wife sists that I shall tell you that she rejoices greatly that the an is in the world who wrote this poem. The Aphrodite very agreeable to me, and I was sorry to miss the Sappho om the Onyx Ring. I believe I do not set an equal value n all the pieces, yet I must count him happy who has this elirious music in his brain, who can strike the chords of hyme with a brave and true stroke; for thus only do words ount to their right greatness, and airy syllables initiate us to the harmonies and secrets of universal nature. I am aturally keenly susceptible of the pleasures of rhythm, and annot believe but that one day — I ask not where or when -I shall attain to the speech of this splendid dialect, so rdent is my wish; and these wishes, I suppose, are ever only he buds of power; but up to this hour I have never had a rue success in such attempts. My joy in any other man's uccess is unmixed. I wish you may proceed to bolder, to he best and grandest melodies whereof your heart has reamed. I hear with some anxiety of your ill health and epeated voyages. Yet Carlyle tells me that you are not in anger. We shall learn one day how to prevent these perils f disease, or to look at them with the serenity of insight. t seems to me that so great a task is imposed on the young nen of this generation that life and health have a new value. The problems of reform are losing their local and sectarian haracter, and becoming generous, profound, and poetic. f, as would seem, you are theoretically as well as actually omewhat a traveller, I wish America might attract you. The way is shorter every year, and the object more worthy. There are three or four persons in this country whom I could eartily wish to show to three or four persons in yours, and when I shall arrange any such interviews under my own oof I shall be proud and happy.

Your affectionate servant

R. WALDO EMERSON

2

CONCORD, 31st January, 1844 MY DEAR FRIEND, The mercury has been at zero at m door, with little variation, for more than a week. Bosto harbour is frozen up for six miles down to the forts, yet th newspapers tell me this morning that the merchants hav resolved to saw through these miles a passage for you royal steamer and other sea-going ships to-morrow, and must not wait another hour if I would speed my good wishe to the Isle of Wight.

By an unhappy chance, the January Dials did not sail a they ought in last month's steamer, and you should receiv by this, via London and Carlyle, a copy of No. XV., whic contains a critique, written by Margaret Fuller, on Strafford and other children of genius, both yours and other men's I heartily hope you will find something right and wise in my friend's judgments, if with something inadequate, and if her pen ramble a little. It was her own proposition to write the piece, led by her love of both you and of me. Afte she began it, she decided to spread her censure so wide, and comprise all dramas as well as Strafford. She was full of spirits in her undertaking, but, unhappily, the week devoted to its performance was exanimated, may I say, by crue aches and illness, and she wrote me word that she was very sorry, but the piece was ruined. However, as you are by temper and habit such a cosmopolitan, I hope one day you shall see with eyes my wise woman, hear her with ears, and see if you can escape the virtue of her enchantments. She has a sultry Southern nature, and Corinna never can write

I learned by your last letter that you had builded a house, and I glean from Russell all I can of your health and aspect and as James is gone to your island, I think to come still nearer to you through his friendly and intelligent eyes Send me a good gossiping letter, and prevent all my proxies What can I tell you to invite such retaliation? I dwell with my mother, my wife, and two little girls, the eldest

ve years old, in the midst of flowery fields. I wasted much me from graver work in the last two months in reading ectures to Lyceums far and near; for there is now a "lyeum," so called, in almost every town in New England, and, I would accept every invitation, I might read a lecture very night. My neighbors in this village of Concord are llery Channing, who sent his poems to you, a youth of enius; Thoreau, whose name you may have seen in the Dial; and Hawthorne, a writer of tales and historiettes, vhose name you may not have seen, though he too prints books. All these three persons are superior to their writings, nd therefore not obnoxious to Kant's observation, "Deestable is the company of literary men."

Good as these friends are, my habit is so solitary that we lo not often meet. My literary or other tasks accomplished re too little to tell. I do not know how it happens, but here are but seven hours, often but five, in an American scholar's day; the twelve, thirteen, fifteen, that we have heard of, in German libraries, are fabulous to us. Probably n England you find a mean between Massachusetts and Germany. The performances of Goethe, the performances of Scott, appear super-human to us in their quantity, let alone their quality. Sometimes I dream of writing the only historical thing I know, the influence of old Calvinism, now almost obsolete, upon the education of the existing generation in New England. I am quite sure, if it could be truly done, it would be new to your people, and a valuable memorandum to ours.

I have lately read George Sand's Consuelo, of which the first volume pleased me mightily, the others much less, and yet the whole book shows an extraordinary spirit. The writer apprehends the force of simplicity of behaviour, and enjoys, how greatly, the meeting of two strong natures. But I have gossiped to the end of my line, and so do commend myself affectionately to you.

R. W. EMERSON

MY DEAR FRIEND,

3

CONCORD, 5th July, 184

What news you send me,

how da and bitter, and how unlooked for, and so firmly and soldier told! I got your letter yesterday, and in it the first hint have had of this disaster. I dream of you and of Carly whenever steamers go or come, but easily omit to write; a this is the punishment of my luxury, that you should threatened, and I should know nothing of your danger a mine. I cling now to the hope you show me that the symptoms may not be so grave or of so instant sequel their first menace. Yesterday I thought I would go England, and see you alive; it seemed practicable and righ But the same hour showed inextricable engagements he at home, and I could not see your manly strength, which so dear to me, and I might easily make injurious demands a sick man. You are so brave you must be brave for bo of us, and suffer me to express the pain I feel at these fir tidings. I shall come soon enough to general consideration which will weigh with you, and with me, I suppose, to r duce this calamity within the sphere. I, who value nothin so much as character in literary works, have believed tha you would live to enjoy the slow, sure homage of your co temporaries to the valor and permanent merits of you Muse; and I have pleased myself how deeply with a certai noble emulation in which widely separated friends woul bear each other in constant regard, and with months an years augment the benefit each had to confer. This mus now be renounced, and the grand words I hear and some times use must be verified, and I must not think of tha which you represent, and not of the representative beloved Happy is it whilst the Blessed Power keeps unbroken th harmony of the inward and the outward, and yields us th perfect expression of good in a friend! But if it will dis unite the power and the form, the power is yet to be in finitely trusted, and we must try, unwilling, the hars

grandeurs of the spiritual nature. Each of us more readily faces the issue alone than on the account of his friend. We find something dishonest in learning to live without friends: whilst death wears a sublime aspect to each of us. God send you, my dear brother, the perfect mind of truth, and heart of love, however the event is to fall! Thousands of hearts have owed to you the finest mystic influences: I must and will believe in happy reactions which will render to you the most soothing music at unawares.

If you have strength, write me, if only your name. But I shall continue to hope to see your face. And so I love you and I thank you, dear Friend!

Yours

R. WALDO EMERSON

IV

MY DEAR SIR,

TO THOMAS CARLYLE

I

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS, 14 May, 1834

There are some purposes we delay long to execute simply because we have them more at heart than others, and such an one has been for many weeks, I may say months, my design of writing you an epistle.

Some chance wind of Fame blew your name to me, perhaps two years ago, as the author of papers which I had already distinguished (as indeed it was very easy to do) from the mass of English periodical criticism as by far the most original and profound essays of the day, the works of a man of Faith as well as Intellect, sportive as well as learned, and who, belonging to the despairing and deriding class of philosophers, was not ashamed to hope and to speak sincerely. Like somebody in Wilhelm Meister, I said: This person has come under obligations to me and to all whom he has enlightened. He knows not how deeply I should