orner in your memory; I am
very lonely in these months and years,--sunk to the centre of the
Earth, like to be throttled by the Pythons and Mudgods in my old
days;--but shall get out again, too; and be a better boy! No
"hurry" equals mine, and it is in permanence.

Yours ever,
T. Carlyle

CLXII. Emerson to Carlyle

Concord, 17 May, 1858

My Dear Carlyle,--I see no way for you to avoid the Americans but
to come to America. For, first or last, we are all embarking,
and all steering straight to your door. Mr. and Mrs. Joseph
Longworth of Cincinnati are going abroad on their travels.
Possibly, the name is not quite unknown to you. Their father,
Nicholas Longworth, is one of the founders of the city of
Cincinnati, a bigger town than Boston, where he is a huge land
lord and planter, and patron of sculptors and painters. And his
family are most favorably known to all dwellers and strangers, in
the Ohio Valley, as people who have well used their great wealth.
His chief merit is to have introduced a systematic culture of the
wine-grape and wine manufacture, by the importing and settlement
of German planters in that region, and the trade is thriving to
the general benefit. His son Joseph is a well-bred gentleman of
literary tastes, whose position and good heart make him largely
hospitable. His wife is a very attractive and excellent woman,
and they are good friends of mine. It seems I have at some
former time told her that, when she went to England, she should
see you. And they are going abroad, soon, for the first time.
If you are in London, you must be seen of them.

But I hailed even this need of taxing once more your often taxed
courtesy, as a means to break up my long contumacy to-you-ward.
Please let not the wires be rusted out, so that we cannot weld
them again, and let me feel the subtle fluid streaming strong.
Tell me what is become of _Frederic,_ for whose appearance I have
watched every week for months? I am better ready for him, since
one or two books about Voltaire, Maupertuis, and company, fell in
my way.

Yet that book will not come which I most wish to read, namely,
the culled results, the quintessence of private conviction, a
_liber veritatis,_ a few sentences, hints of the final moral you
drew from so much penetrating inquest into past and present men.
All writing is necessitated to be exoteric, and written to a
human should instead of to the terrible is. And I say this to
y