Waiting for me here, there was a Letter from Miss Fuller in Rome, written about a month ago; a dignified and interesting Letter; requesting help with Booksellers for some “History of the late Italian Revolution” she is about writing; and elegiacally recognizing the worth of Mazzini and other cognate persons and things.  I instantly set about doing what little seemed in my power towards this object,—­with what result is yet hidden, and have written to the heroic Margaret:  “More power to her elbow!” as the Irish say.  She has a beautiful enthusiasm; and is perhaps in the right stage of insight for doing that piece of business well.—­Of other persons or interests I will say nothing till a calmer opportunity; which surely cannot be very long in coming.

In four days I am to rejoin my wife; after which some bits of visits are to be paid in this North Country; necessary most of them, not likely to be profitable almost any.  In perhaps a month I expect to be back in Chelsea; whither direct a word if you are still beneficent enough to think of such a Castaway!

Yours ever,
        T. Carlyle

I got Thoreau’s Book; and meant well to read it, but have not yet succeeded, though it went with me through all Ireland:  tell him so, please.  Too Jean-Paulish, I found it hitherto.

CXLII.  Carlyle to Emerson Chelsea, 19 July, 1850

My Dear Emerson, My Friend, my Friend,—­You behold before you a remorseful man!  It is well-nigh a year now since I despatched some hurried rag of paper to you out of Scotland, indicating doubtless that I would speedily follow it with a longer letter; and here, when gray Autumn is at hand again, I have still written nothing to you, heard nothing from you!  It is miserable to think of:—­and yet it is a fact, and there is no denying of it; and so we must let it lie.  If it please Heaven, the like shall not occur again.  “Ohone Arooh!” as the Irish taught me to say, “Ohone Arooh!”

The fact is, my life has been black with care and toil,—­labor above board and far worse labor below;—­I have hardly had a heavier year (overloaded too with a kind of “health” which may be called frightful):  to “burn my own smoke” in some measure, has really been all I was up to; and except on sheer immediate compulsion I have not written a word to any creature.—­ Yesternight I finished the last of these extraordinary Pamphlets; am about running off somewhither into the deserts, of Wales or Scotland, Scandinavia or still remoter deserts;—­and my first signal of revived reminiscence is to you.