in the City, one evening,—­upon Universal Peace, or some other field of balderdash; which the poor people seemed very patient of.  In a word, I do not see what is to hinder you to come whenever you can resolve upon it.  The adventure is perfectly promising:  an adventure familiar to you withal; for Lecturing is with us fundamentally just what it is with you:  Much prurient curiosity, with some ingenuous love of wisdom, an element of real reverence for the same:  everywhere a perfect openness to any man speaking in any measure things manful.  Come, therefore; gird yourself together, and come.  With little or no peradventure, you will realize what your modest hope is, and more;—­and I, for my share of it, shall see you once again under this Sun!  O Heavens, there might be some good in that!  Nay, if you will travel like a private quiet person, who knows but I, the most unlocomotive of mortals, might be able to escort you up and down a little; to look at many a thing along with you, and even to open my long-closed heart and speak about the same?—­There is a spare-room always in this House for you,—­in this heart, in these two hearts, the like:  bid me hope in this enterprise, in all manner of ways where I can; and on the whole, get it rightly put together, and embark on it, and arrive!

The good Miss Fuller has painted us all en beau, and your smiling imagination has added new colors.  We have not a triumphant life here; very far indeed from that, ach Gott!—­as you shall see.  But Margaret is an excellent soul:  in real regard with both of us here.  Since she went, I have been reading some of her Papers in a new Book we have got:  greatly superior to all I knew before; in fact the undeniable utterances (now first undeniable to me) of a true heroic mind;—­altogether unique, so far as I know, among the Writing Women of this generation; rare enough too, God knows, among the writing Men.  She is very narrow, sometimes; but she is truly high:  honor to Margaret, and more and more good-speed to her.—­Adieu dear Emerson.  I am ever yours,

—­T.C.

CXIX.  Carlyle to Emerson

Chelsea, 18 March, 1847

Dear Emerson,—­Yesterday morning, setting out to breakfast with Richard Milnes (Milnes’s breakfast is a thing you will yet have to experience) I met, by the sunny shore of the Thames, a benevolent Son of Adam in blue coat and red collar, who thrust into my hand a Letter from you.  A truly miraculous Son of Adam in red collar, in the Sunny Spring Morning!—­The Bill of Seventeen Pounds is already far on its way to Dumfries, there to be kneaded into gold by the due artists:  today is American Post-day; and already in huge hurry about many things, I am scribbling you some word of answer....  The night before Milnes’s morning, I had furthermore seen your Manchester Correspondent, Ireland,—­an old Edinborough acquaintance too, as I found.  A