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* The greater part of this interesting Preface is reprinted in
Mr. George Willis Cooke’s excellent book on the Life, Writings,
and Philosophy of Emerson, Boston, 1881, p. 109.

** The author of a book once much admired, De ’l’Art Chretien. In a later work entitled Epilogue a l’Art Chretien, but actually a sort of autobiography, written in the naivest spirit of personal conceit and pious sentimentalism, M. Rio gives an exceedingly entertaining account of his intercourse with Carlyle. ----------

Enough, dear Emerson; and more than enough for a day so hurried.  Our Island is all in a ferment electioneering:  Tories to come in;—­perhaps not to come in; at all events not to stay long, without altering their figure much!  I sometimes ask myself rather earnestly, What is the duty of a citizen?  To be as I have been hitherto, a pacific Alien? That is the easiest, with my humor!—­Our brave Dame here, just rallying for the remove, sends loving salutations.  Good be with you all always.  Adieu, dear Emerson.

—­T.  Carlyle

Appleton’s Book of Hero-Worship has come; for which pray thank Mr. Munroe for me:  it is smart on the surface; but printed altogether scandalously!

LXVII.  Emerson to Carlyle

Concord, 31 July, 1841

My Dear Carlyle,—­Eight days ago—­when I had gone to Nantasket Beach, to sit by the sea and inhale its air and refresh this puny body of mine—­came to me your letter, all bounteous as all your letters are, generous to a fault, generous to the shaming of me, cold, fastidious, ebbing person that I am.  Already in a former letter you had said too much good of my poor little arid book,—­ which is as sand to my eyes,—­and now in this you tell me it shall be printed in London, and graced with a preface from the man of men.  I can only say that I heartily wish the book were better, and I must try and deserve so much favor from the kind gods by a bolder and truer living in the months to come; such as may perchance one day relax and invigorate this cramp hand of mine, and teach it to draw some grand and adequate strokes, which other men may find their own account and not their good-nature in repeating.  Yet I think I shall never be killed by my ambition.  I behold my failures and shortcomings there in writing, wherein it would give me much joy to thrive, with an equanimity which my worst enemy might be glad to see.  And yet it is not that I am occupied with better things.  One could well leave to others the record, who was absorbed in the life.  But I have done nothing.  I think the branch of the “tree of life” which headed to a bud in me, curtailed me somehow of a drop or two of sap, and so dwarfed all my florets and drupes.  Yet as I tell you I am very easy in my mind, and never dream of suicide.  My whole philosophy—­which is very real—­teaches acquiescence and optimism.