The Correspondence of Thomas Carlyle and Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1834-1872, Vol. I | Page 6

of his first books after Robinson Crusoe and Robertson's America, an early favorite.
Rousseau's Confessions had discovered to him that he was not a dunce; and it was now
ten years since he had learned German, by the advice of a man who told him he would
find in that language what he wanted.
"He took despairing or satirical views of literature at this moment; recounted the
incredible sums paid in one year by the great booksellers for puffing. Hence it comes that
no newspaper is trusted now, no books are bought, and the booksellers are on the eve of
bankruptcy.
"He still returned to English pauperism, the crowded country, the selfish abdication by
public men of all that public persons should perform. 'Government should direct poor

men what to do. Poor Irish folk come wandering over these moors; my dame makes it a
rule to give to every son of Adam bread to eat, and supplies his wants to the next house.
But here are thousands of acres which might give them all meat, and nobody to bid these
poor Irish go to the moor and till it. They burned the stacks, and so found a way to force
the rich people to attend to them.'
"We went out to walk over long hills, and looked at Criffel, then without his cap, and
down into Wordsworth's country. There we sat down and talked of the immortality of the
soul. It was not Carlyle's fault that we talked on that topic, for he has the natural
disinclination of every nimble spirit to bruise itself against walls, and did not like to place
himself where no step can be taken. But he was honest and true, and cognizant of the
subtile links that bind ages together, and saw how every event affects all the future.
'Christ died on the tree that built Dunscore kirk yonder: that brought you and me together.
Time has only a relative existence.'
"He was already turning his eyes towards London with a scholar's appreciation. London
is the heart of the world, he said, wonderful only from the mass of human beings. He
liked the huge machine. Each keeps its own round. The baker's boy brings muffins to the
window at a fixed hour every day, and that is all the Londoner knows or wishes to know
on the subject. But it turned out good men. He named certain individuals, especially one
man of letters, his friend, the best mind he knew, whom London had well served."
Such is the record of the beginnings of the friendship between Carlyle and Emerson.
What place this friendship held in the lives of both, the following Correspondence shows.
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I. Emerson to Carlyle
Boston, Massachusetts, 14 May, 1884
My Dear Sir,--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 grieve at his fall, if, in that exposed England where genius always hears
the Devil's whisper, "All these kingdoms will I give thee," his virtue also should be an
initial growth put off with age. When therefore I found myself in Europe, I went to your
house only to say, "Faint not,--the word you utter is heard, though in the ends of the earth
and by humblest men; it works, prevails." Drawn by strong regard to one of my teachers I
went to see his person, and as he might say his environment at Craigenputtock. Yet it was
to fulfil my duty, finish my mission, not with much hope of gratifying him,--in the spirit
of "If I love you, what is that to you?" Well, it happened to me that I was delighted with
my visit, justified to myself in my respect, and many a time upon the sea in my
homeward voyage I remembered with joy the favored condition of my lonely philosopher,
his happiest wedlock, his fortunate temper, his steadfast simplicity, his all means of
happiness;--not that I had the remotest hope that he should