I wish I had anything to send you besides these four poor Pamphlets; but I fear there is nothing going.  Our Ex-Chancellor has been promulgating triticalities (significant as novelties, when he with his wig and lordhood utters them) against the Aristocracy; whereat the upper circles are terribly scandalized.  In Literature, except a promised or obtained (but to me still unknown) volume of Wordsworth, nothing nameworthy doing.—­Did I tell you that I saw Wordsworth this winter?  Twice, at considerable length; with almost no disappointment.  He is a natural man (which means whole immensities here and now); flows like a natural well yielding mere wholesomeness,—­though, as it would not but seem to me, in small quantity, and astonishingly diluted. Franker utterance of mere garrulities and even platitudes I never heard from any man; at least never, whom I could honor for uttering them.  I am thankful for Wordsworth; as in great darkness and perpetual sky-rockets and coruscations, one were for the smallest clear-burning farthing candle.  Southey also I saw; a far cleverer man in speech, yet a considerably smaller man.  Shovel-hatted; the shovel-hat is grown to him:  one must take him as he is.

The second leaf is done; I must not venture on another.  God bless you, my worthy Friend; you and her who is to be yours!  My Wife bids me send heartiest wishes and regards from her too across the Sea.  Perhaps we shall all meet one another some day, —­if not Here, then Yonder!

Faithfully always,
                 T. Carlyle

VIII.  Carlyle to Emerson

Chelsea, London, 27 June, 1835

My Dear Friend,—­Your very kind Letter has been in my hand these four weeks,—­the subject of much meditation, which has not yet cleared itself into anything like a definite practical issue.  Indeed, the conditions of the case are still not wholly before me:  for if the American side of it, thanks to your perspicuous minuteness, is now tolerably plain, the European side continues dubious, too dim for a decision.  So much in my own position here is vague, not to be measured; then there is a Brother, coming home to me from Italy, almost daily expected now; whose ulterior resolutions cannot but be influential on mine; for we are Brothers in the old good sense, and have one heart and one interest and object, and even one purse; and Jack is a good man, for whom I daily thank Heaven, as for one of its principal mercies.  He is Traveling Physician to the Countess of Clare, well entreated by her and hers; but, I think, weary of that inane element of “the English Abroad,” and as good as determined to have done with it; to seek work (he sees not well how), if possible, with wages; but even almost without, or with the lowest endurable, if need be.  Work and wages:  the two prime necessities of man!