altar with its sacred fire still burning when the outer walls are all slowly crumbling; material Fate saying, “They are mine!”—­I read some insignificant Books; smoked a great deal of tobacco; and went moping about among the hills and hollow water-courses, somewhat like a shade in Hades.  The Gospel which this World of Fact does preach to one differs considerably from the sugary twaddle one gets the offer of in Exeter-Hall and other Spouting-places!  Of which, in fact, I am getting more and more weary; sometimes really impatient.  It seems to me the reign of Cant and Spoonyism has about lasted long enough.  Alas, in many respects, in this England I too often feel myself sorrowfully in a “minority of one";—­if in the whole world, it amount to a minority of two, that is something!  These words of Goethe often come into my mind, "Verachtung ja Nicht-achtung." Lancashire, with its Titanic Industries, with its smoke and dirt, and brutal stupor to all but money and the five mechanical Powers, did not excite much admiration in me; considerably less, I think, than ever!  Patience, and shuffle the cards!

The Book on Cromwell is not to come out till the 22d of this month.  For many weeks it has been a real weariness to me; my hope, always disappointed, that now is the last time I shall have any trade with it.  Even since I began writing, there has been an Engraver here, requiring new indoctrination,—­poor fellow!  Nay, in about ten days it must be over:  let us not complain.  I feel it well to be worth nothing, except for the little fractions or intermittent fits of pious industry there really were in it; and my one wish is that the human species would be pleased to take it off my hands, and honestly let me hear no more about it!  If it please Heaven, I will rest awhile still, and then try something better.

In three days hence, my Wife and I are off to the Hampshire coast for a winter visit to kind friends there, if in such a place it will prosper long with us.  The climate there is greatly better than ours; they are excellent people, well affected to us; and can be lived with, though of high temper and ways!  They are the Lord Ashburtons, in fact; more properly the younger stratum of that house; partly a kind of American people,—­who know Waldo Emerson, among other fine things, very well!  I think we are to stay some three weeks:  the bustle of moving is already begun.

You promise us a new Book soon?  Let it be soon, then.  There are many persons here that will welcome it now.  To one man here it is ever as an articulate voice amid the infinite cackling and cawing.  That remains my best definition of the effect it has on me.  Adieu, my friend.  Good be with you and your Household always. Vale.

—­T.C.

CV.  Carlyle to Emerson

Chelsea, 3 January, 1846