Carlyle
CLVI. Emerson to Carlyle
Concord, 17 April, 1855
My Dear Friend,--On this delicious spring day, I will obey the
beautiful voices of the winds, long disobeyed, and address you;
nor cloud the hour by looking at the letters in my drawer to know
if a twelvemonth has been allowed to elapse since this tardy
writing was due. Mr. Everett sent me one day a letter he had
received from you, containing a kind message to me, which gave me
pleasure and pain. I returned the letter with thanks, and with
promises I would sin no more. Instantly, I was whisked, by "the
stormy wing of Fate," out of my chain, and whirled, like a dry
leaf, through the State of New York.
Now at home again, I read English Newspapers, with all the world,
and claim an imaginary privilege over my compatriots, that I
revolve therein my friend's large part. Ward said to me
yesterday, that Carlyle's star was daily rising. For C. had said
years ago, when all men thought him mad, that which the rest of
mortals, including the Times Newspaper, have at last got near
enough to see with eyes, and therefore to believe.
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