you "join the dim choir of the bards that have been," until you
have written the book I wish and wait for,--the sincerest
confessions of your best hours.

My wife prays to be remembered to you with sympathy and affection.

Ever yours faithfully,
R.W. Emerson




CLXXV. Carlyle to Emerson

Mentone, France, Alpes Maritimes
27 January, 1867

My Dear Emerson,--It is along time since I last wrote to you;
and a long distance in space and in fortune,--from the shores of
the Solway in summer 1865, to this niche of the Alps and
Mediterranean today, after what has befallen me in the interim.
A longer interval, I think, and surely by far a sadder, than ever
occurred between us before, since we first met in the Scotch
moors, some five and thirty years ago. You have written me
various Notes, too, and Letters, all good and cheering to me,--
almost the only truly human speech I have heard from anybody
living;--and still my stony silence could not be broken; not
till now, though often looking forward to it, could I resolve on
such a thing. You will think me far gone, and much bankrupt in
hope and heart;--and indeed I am; as good as without hope and