meet no living creature; and have endless thoughts as loving and as sad and sombre as I like.  My youngest Brother (whom on the whole I like best, a rustic man, the express image of my Father in his ways of living and thinking) is within ten miles of me; Brother John “the Doctor” has come down to Dumfries to a sister (twelve miles off), and runs over to me by rail now and then in few minutes.  I have Books; but can hardly be troubled with them.  Pitiful temporary babble and balderdash, in comparison to what the Silences can say to one.  Enough of all that:  you perceive me sufficiently at this point of my Pilgrimage, as withdrawn to Hades for the time being; intending a month’s walk there, till the muddy semi-solutions settle into sediment according to what laws they have, and there be perhaps a partial restoration of clearness.  I have to go deeper into Scotland by and by, perhaps to try sailing, which generally agrees with me; but till the end of September I hope there will be no London farther.  My poor Wife, who is again poorly since I left (and has had frightful sufferings, last year especially) will probably join me in this region before I leave it.  And see here, This is authentically the way we figure in the eye of the Sun; and something like what your spectacles, could they reach across the Ocean into these nooks, would teach you of us.  There are three Photographs which I reckon fairly like; these are properly what I had to send you today,—­little thinking that so much surplusage would accumulate about them; to which I now at once put an end.  Your friend Conway,* who is a boundless admirer of yours, used to come our way regularly now and then; and we always liked him well.  A man of most gentlemanly, ingenious ways; turn of thought always loyal and manly, though tending to be rather winged than solidly ambulatory.  He talked of coming to Scotland too; but it seems uncertain whether we shall meet.  He is clearly rather a favorite among the London people,—­and tries to explain America to them; I know not if with any success.  As for me, I have entirely lost count and reckoning of your enormous element, and its enormous affairs and procedures for some time past; and can only wish (which no man more heartily does) that all may issue in as blessed a way as you hope.  Fat—­(if you know and his fat commonplace at all) amused me much by a thing he had heard of yours in some lecture a year or two ago.  “The American Eagle is a mighty bird; but what is he to the American Peacock.”  At which all the audience had exploded into laughter.  Very good.  Adieu, old Friend.

Yours ever,
       T. Carlyle

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* Mr. Moncure D. Conway.
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CLXXIII.  Emerson to Carlyle

Concord, 7 January, 1866