ity of shot rubbish on that field, and
still continue. Not with much decisive approach to Frederick's
_self,_ I am still afraid! The man looks brilliant and noble to
me; but how _love_ him, or the sad wreck he lived and worked in?
I do not even yet _see_ him clearly; and to try making others
see him--?--Yet Voltaire and he _are_ the celestial element of
the poor Eighteenth Century; poor souls. I confess also to a
real love for Frederick's dumb followers: the Prussian
_Soldiery._--I often say to myself, "Were not _here_ the real
priests and virtuous martyrs of that loud-babbling rotten
generation!" And so it goes on; when to end, or in what to end,
God knows.

Adieu, dear Emerson. A blockhead (by mistake) has been let in,
and has consumed all my time. Good be ever with you and yours.

--T. Carlyle

CLI. Emerson to Carlyle

Concord, 19 April, 1853

My Dear Friend,--As I find I never write a letter except at the
dunning of the Penny Post,--which is the pest of the century,--I
have thought lately of crossing to England to excuse to you my
negligence of your injunction, which so flattered me by its
affectionateness a year ago. I was to write once a month. My
own disobedience is wonderful, and explains to me all the sins of
omission of the whole world. The levity with which we can let
fall into disuse such a sacrament as the exchange of greeting at
short periods, is a kind of magnanimity, and should be an
astonishing argument of the "Immortality"; and I wonder how it
has escaped the notice of philosophers. But what had I, dear
wise man, to tell you? What, but that life was still tolerable;
still absurdly sweet; still promising, promising, to credulous
idleness;--but step of mine taken in a true direction, or clear
solution of any the least secret,--none whatever. I scribble
always a little,--much less than formerly,--and I did within a
year or eighteen months write a chapter on Fate, which--if we all
live long enough, that is, you, and I, and the chapter--I hope to
send you in fair print. Comfort yourself--as you will--you will
survive the reading, and will be a sure proof that the nut is not
cracked. For when we find out what Fate is, I suppose, the
Sphinx and we are done for; and Sphinx, Oedipus, and world
ought, by good rights, to roll down the steep into the sea.

But I was going to say, my neglect of your request will show you
how little saliency