and convulsed Europe, are fallen foundly ignorant in these bad ages, and will plunge ever deeper till they rediscover the same.  Alas, alas, the Future for us is not to be made of butter, as the Platforms prophesy; I think it will be harder than steel for some ages!  No noble age was ever a soft one, nor ever will or can be.—­Your beautiful curious little discourse (report of a discourse) about the English was sent me by Neuberg; I thought it, in my private heart, one of the best words (for hidden genius lodged in it) I had ever heard; so sent it to the Examiner, from which it went to the Times and all the other Papers:  an excellent sly little word.

Clough has gone to Italy; I have seen him twice,—­could not manage his hexameters, though I like the man himself, and hope much of him.  “Infidelity” has broken out in Oxford itself,—­immense emotion in certain quarters in consequence, virulent outcries about a certain “Sterling Club,” altogether a secular society!

Adieu, dear Emerson; I had much more to say, but there is no room.  O, forgive me, forgive me all trespasses,—­and love me what you can!

Yours ever,
        T. Carlyle

CXLI.  Carlyle to Emerson

Scotsbrig, Ecclefechan, N.B., 13 August, 1849

Dear Emerson,—­By all laws of human computation, I owe you a letter, and have owed, any time these seven weeks:  let me now pay a little, and explain.  Your second Barrel of Indian Corn arrived also perfectly fresh, and of admirable taste and quality; the very bag of new-ground meal was perfect; and the “popped corn” ditto, when it came to be discovered:  with the whole of which admirable materials such order was taken as promised to secure “the greatest happiness to the greatest number”; and due silent thanks were tendered to the beneficence of the unwearied Sender:—­but all this, you shall observe, had to be done in the thick of a universal packing and household bustle; I just on the wing for a “Tour in Ireland,” my Wife too contemplating a run to Scotland shortly after, there to meet me on my return.  All this was seven good weeks ago:  I hoped somewhere in my Irish wayfarings to fling you off a Letter; but alas, I reckoned there quite without my host (strict “host,” called Time), finding nowhere half a minute left to me; and so now, having got home to my Mother, not to see my Wife yet for some days, it is my earliest leisure, after all, that I employ in this purpose.  I have been terribly knocked about too,—­jolted in Irish cars, bothered almost to madness with Irish balderdash, above all kept on dreadfully short allowance of sleep;—­so that now first, when fairly down to rest, all aches and bruises begin to be fairly sensible; and my clearest feeling at this present is the uncomfortable one, “that I am not Caliban, but a Cramp”:  terribly cramped indeed, if I could tell you everything!