. He died very
suddenly, though always an invalid and extremely crippled. His
death is very much regretted in the Philadelphia papers, where he
bore the reputation of a most liberal patron of good and fine
arts. I have not heard from Mr. Furness, and have thought I
should still expect a letter from him. I hope our correspondence
will stand as a contract which Mr. Carey's representatives will
feel bound to execute. They had sent me a little earlier a copy
of Mr. Sartain's engraving from their water-color copy of
Laurence's head of you. They were eager to have the engraving
pronounced a good likeness. I showed it to Sumner, and Russell,
and Theodore Parker, who have seen you long since I had, and they
shook their heads unanimously and declared that D'Orsay's profile
was much more like.

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** From the rough draft.
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I creep along the roads and fields of this town as I have done
from year to year. When my garden is shamefully overgrown with
weeds, I pull up some of them. I prune my apples and pears. I
have a few friends who gild many hours of the year. I sometimes
write verses. I tell you with some unwillingness, as knowing
your distaste for such things, that I have received so many
applications from readers and printers for a volume of poems that
I have seriously taken in hand the collection, transcription, or
scription of such a volume, and may do the enormity before New
Year's day. Fear not, dear friend, you shall not have to read
one line. Perhaps I shall send you an official copy, but I shall
appeal to the tenderness of Jane Carlyle, and excuse your
formidable self, for the benefit of us both. Where all writing
is such a caricature of the subject, what signifies whether the
form is a little more or less ornate and luxurious? Meantime, I
think to set a few heads before me, as good texts for winter
evening entertainments. I wrote a deal about Napoleon a few
months ago, after reading a library of memoirs. Now I have
Plato, Montaigne, and Swedenborg, and more in the clouds behind.
What news of Naseby and Worcester?

CI. Carlyle to Emerson

Chelsea, 29 August, 1845

Dear Emerson,--Your Letter, which had been very long expected,
has been in my hand above a month now; and still no answer sent
to it. I thought of answering straightway; but the day went
by, days went by;--and at length I decided to wait till my
insupportable Burden (the "Stupidity of Two Centuries" as I cal