A SUNDAY IN CHEYNE ROW. 223 



greatest, most deeply worn of all worn by hun- 

 dreds of famous feet, and many, many more not fa- 

 mous. 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 pa- 

 thetic 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- 

 complacency than Emerson, was much less stoical, 

 and felt himself much more alone in the world. Em- 

 erson was genial and benevolent from temperament 

 and habit; Carlyle was wrathful and vituperative, 

 while his heart was really bursting with sympathy 



