number of thinking English souls, who can recognize a Thinker and a Sayer, of perennially human type and welcome him as the rarest of miracles, in “such a spread of knowledge” as there now is:—­one English soul of that kind there indubitably is; and I certify hereby, notarially if you like, that such is emphatically his view of the matter.  You have grown older, more pungent, piercing;—­I never read from you before such lightning-gleams of meaning as are to be found here.  The finale of all, that of “Illusions” falling on us like snow-showers, but again of “the gods sitting steadfast on their thrones” all the while,—­what a Fiat Lux is there, into the deeps of a philosophy, which the vulgar has not, which hardly three men living have, yet dreamt of! Well done, I say; and so let that matter rest.

I am still twelve months or so from the end of my Task; very uncertain often whether I can, even at this snail’s pace, hold out so long.  In my life I was never worn nearly so low, and seem to get weaker monthly.  Courage!  If I do get through, you shall hear of me, again.

Yours forever,
         T. Carlyle

CLXVIII.  Emerson to Carlyle

Concord, 16 April, 1861

My Dear Carlyle,—...I have to thank you for the cordial note which brought me joy, many weeks ago.  It was noble and welcome in all but its boding account of yourself and your task.  But I have had experience of your labors, and these deplorations I have long since learned to distrust.  We have settled it in America, as I doubt not it is settled in England, that Frederick is a history which a beneficent Providence is not very likely to interrupt.  And may every kind and tender influence near you and over you keep the best head in England from all harm.

Affectionately,
         R.W.  Emerson

CLXIX.  Emerson to Carlyle*

Concord, 8 December, 1862

My Dear Friend,—­Long ago, as soon as swift steamers could bring the new book across the sea, I received the third volume of Friedrich, with your autograph inscription, and read it with joy.  Not a word went to the beloved author, for I do not write or think.  I would wait perhaps for happier days, as our President Lincoln will not even emancipate slaves, until on the heels of a victory, or the semblance of such.  But he waited in vain for his triumph, nor dare I in my heavy months expect bright days.  The book was heartily grateful, and square to the author’s imperial scale.  You have lighted the glooms, and engineered away the pits, whereof you poetically pleased yourself with complaining, in your sometime letter to me, clean out of it, according to the high Italian rule, and have let sunshine and pure air enfold the scene.  First, I read it honestly through for the history; then I pause and speculate