omans left a camp behind them. At the foot of
it I was born, and there both father and mother still live to love me.
And so one must let time work."

The above letter was printed by Goethe himself, in his Preface to
a German transition of Carlyle's "Life of Schiller," published at
Frankfort in 1830. Other pleasant records of the intercourse between
them exist in the shape of sundry graceful copies of verses addressed
by Goethe to Mrs. Carlyle, which will be found in the collection of
his poems.

Carlyle had now fairly started as an original writer. From the lonely
farm of Craigenputtoch went forth the brilliant series of Essays
contributed to the Edinburgh, Westminster, and Foreign Reviews, and to
Fraser's Magazine, which were not long in gaining for him a literary
reputation in both hemispheres. To this lonely farm came one day in
August, 1833, armed with a letter of introduction, a visitor from the
other side of the Atlantic: a young American, then unknown to fame, by
name Ralph Waldo Emerson. The meeting of these two remarkable men was
thus described by the younger of them, many years afterwards:--

"I came from Glasgow to Dumfries, and being intent on delivering a
letter which I had brought from Rome, inquired for Craigenputtoch.
It was a farm in Nithsdale, in the parish of Dunscore, sixteen miles
distant. No public coach passed near it, so I took a private carriage
from the inn. I found the house amid desolate heathery hills, where
the lonely scholar nourished his mighty heart. Carlyle was a man from
his youth, an author who did not need to hide from his readers, and as
absolute a man of the world, unknown and exiled on that hill-farm, as
if holding on his own terms what is best in London. He was tall
and gaunt, with a cliff-like brow, self-possessed, and holding his
extraordinary powers of conversation in easy command; clinging to his
northern accent with evident relish; full of lively anecdote, and with
a streaming humour, which floated everything he looked upon. His talk
playfully exalting the familiar objects, put the companion at once
into an acquaintance with his Lars and Lemurs, and it was very
pleasant to learn what was predestined to be a pretty mythology. Few
were the objects and lonely the man, 'not a person to speak to
within sixteen miles except the minister of Dunscore; so that books
inevitably made his topics.

"He had names of his own for all the matters familiar to his
discourse. 'Blackwood's'