is soaked, sometimes even like the soft sponges, but the “man’s a man for a’ that.”  Better, he is a great boy,—­as wilful, as nonchalant and good-humored.  But you must hear him speak, not a show speech which he never does well, but with cause he can strike a stroke like a smith.  I owe to him a hundred fine hours and two or three moments of Eloquence.  His voice in a great house is admirable.  I am sorry if you decided not to visit him.  He loves a man, too.  I do not know him, but my brother Edward read law with him, and loved him, and afterwards in sick and unfortunate days received the steadiest kindness from him.

Well, I am glad you are to think in earnest in Scotland of our Cisatlantic claims.  We shall have more rights over the wise and brave, I believe before many years or months.  We shall have more men and a better cause than has yet moved on our stagnant waters.  I think our Church, so called, must presently vanish.  There is a universal timidity, conformity, and rage; and on the other hand the most resolute realism in the young.  The man Alcott bides his time.  I have a young poet in this village named Thoreau, who writes the truest verses.  I pine to show you my treasures; and tell your wife, we have women who deserve to know her.

—­R.W.  Emerson

The Yankees read and study the new volumes of Miscellanies even more than the old.  The “Sam Johnson” and “Scott” are great favorites.  Stearns Wheeler corrected proofs affectionately to the last.  Truth and Health be with you alway!

XLVI.  Carlyle to Emerson

Scotsbrig, Ecclefechan, 4 September, 1839

Dear Emerson,—­A cheerful and right welcome Letter of yours, dated 4th July, reached me here, duly forwarded, some three weeks ago; I delayed answering till there could some definite statement, as to bales of literature shipped or landed, or other matter of business forwarded a stage, be made.  I am here, with my Wife, rusticating again, these two months; amid diluvian rains, Chartism, Teetotalism, deficient harvest, and general complaint and confusion; which not being able to mend, all that I can do is to heed them as little as possible.  “What care I for the house?  I am only a lodger.”  On the whole, I have sat under the wing of Saint Swithin; uncheery, sluggish, murky, as the wettest of his Days;—­hoping always, nevertheless, that blue sky, figurative and real, does exist, and will demonstrate itself by and by.  I have been the stupidest and laziest of men.  I could not write even to you, till some palpable call told me I must.