“Carlyle must write thus or nohow, like a drunken man who can run, but cannot walk.  What a man’s book is that! no prudences, no compromises, but a thorough independence.  A masterly criticism on the times.  Fault perhaps the excess of importance given to the circumstance of today.  The poet is here for this, to dwarf and destroy all merely temporary circumstance, and to glorify the perpetual circumstance of men, e.g. dwarf British Debt and raise Nature and social life.

“But everything must be done well once; even bulletins and almanacs must have one excellent and immortal bulletin and almanac.  So let Carlyle’s be the immortal newspaper.” ----------

LXXXIV.  Carlyle to Emerson

27 August, 1843

Dear Emerson,—­The bearer of this is Mr. Macready, our celebrated Actor, now on a journey to America, who wishes to know you.  In the pauses of a feverish occupation which he strives honestly to make a noble one, this Artist, become once more a man, would like well to meet here and there a true American man.  He loves Heroes as few do; and can recognize them, you will find, whether they have on the Cothurnus or not.  I recommend him to you; bid you forward him as you have opportunity, in this department of his pilgrimage.

Mr. Macready’s deserts to the English Drama are notable here to all the world; but his dignified, generous, and every-way honorable deportment in private life is known fully, I believe, only to a few friends.  I have often said, looking at him as a manager of great London theatres, “This Man, presiding over the unstablest, most chaotic province of English things, is the one public man among us who has dared to take his stand on what he understood to be the truth, and expect victory from that:  he puts to shame our Bishops and Archbishops.”  It is literally so.

With continued kind wishes, yours as of old. 
                                       T. Carlyle

LXXXV.  Emerson to Carlyle

Concord, 30 October, 1843

My Dear Friend,—­I seize the occasion of having this morsel of paper for twenty-five pounds sterling from the booksellers to send you, (and which fail not to find enclosed, as clerks say,) to inquire whether you still exist in Chelsea, London, and what is the reason that my generous correspondent has become dumb for weary months.  I must go far back to resume my thread.  I think in April last I received your Manuscript, &c. of the Book, which I forthwith proceeded to print, after some perplexing debate with the booksellers, as I fully informed you in my letter of April or beginning of May.  Since that time I have had no line or word from you.  I must think that my letter did not reach you, or that you have written what has never come to me.  I assure myself that no harm has befallen you, not only because you do not live in a corner, and what chances in your dwelling will come at least to my ears, but because I have read with great pleasure the story of Dr. Francia,* which gave the best report of your health and vivacity.