A SUNDAY IN CHEYNE ROW 203 



not famous. Nearly every notable literary man of 

 the century, both of England and America, had 

 trod those steps. Emerson's foot had left its mark 

 there, if one could have seen it, once in his prime 

 and again in his old age, and it was perhaps of him 

 I thought, and of his new-made grave there under 

 the pines at Concord, that summer afternoon as I 

 mused to and fro, more than of any other visitor to 

 that house. " Here we are shoveled together again," 

 said Carlyle from behind his wife, with a lamp high 

 in his hand, that October night thirty-seven years 

 ago, as Jane opened the door to Emerson. The 

 friendship, the love of those two men for each 

 other, as revealed in their published correspondence, 

 is one of the most beautiful episodes in English 

 literary history. The correspondence was opened 

 and invited by Emerson, but as years went by it is 

 plain that it became more and more a need and a 

 solace to Carlyle. There is something quite pathetic 

 in the way he clung to Emerson and entreated him 

 for a fuller and more frequent evidence of his love. 

 The New Englander, in some ways, appears stinted 

 and narrow beside him; Carlyle was much the more 

 loving and emotional man. He had less self-com- 

 placency than Emerson, was much less stoical, and 

 felt himself much more alone in the world. Emer- 

 son was genial and benevolent from temperament 

 and habit; Carlyle was wrathful and vituperative, 

 while his heart was really bursting with sympathy 

 and love. The savagest man, probably, in the 

 world in his time, who had anything like his enor- 



