which otherwise I cannot but be sorry, poor Fraser within the Cockney limits being really a worthy, accurate, and rather friendly creature.  So you see me here provided with bread and water for a season,—­it is but for a season one needs either water or bread, —­and rejoice with me accordingly.  It is the one useful, nay, I will say the one innoxious, result of all this trumpeting, reviewing, and dinner-invitationing; from which I feel it indispensable to withdraw myself more and more resolutely, and altogether count it as a thing not there.  Solitude is what I long and pray for.  In the babble of men my own soul goes all to babble:  like soil you were forever screening, tumbling over with shovels and riddles; in which soil no fruit can grow!  My trust in Heaven is, I shall yet get away “to some cottage by the sea-shore”; far enough from all the mad and mad making things that dance round me here, which I shall then look on only as a theatrical phantasmagory, with an eye only to the meaning that lies hidden in it.  You, friend Emerson, are to be a Farmer, you say, and dig Earth for your living?  Well; I envy you that as much as any other of your blessednesses.  Meanwhile, I sit shrunk together here in a small dressing-closet, aloft in the back part of the house, excluding all cackle and cockneys; and, looking out over the similitude of a May grove (with little brick in it, and only the minarets of Westminster and gilt cross of St. Paul’s visible in the distance, and the enormous roar of London softened into an enormous hum), endeavor to await what will betide.  I am busy with Luther in one Marheinecke’s very long-winded Book.  I think of innumerable things; steal out westward at sunset among the Kensington lanes; would this May weather last, I might be as well here as in any attainable place.  But June comes; the rabid dogs get muzzles; all is brown-parched, dusty, suffocating, desperate, and I shall have to run!  Enough of all that.  On my paper there comes, or promises to come, as yet simply nothing at all.  Patience;—­and yet who can be patient?

Had you the happiness to see yourself not long ago, in Fraser’s Magazine, classed nominatim by an emphatic earnest man, not without a kind of splay-footed strength and sincerity,—­among the chief Heresiarchs of the—­world?  Perfectly right.  Fraser was very anxious to know what I thought of the Paper,—­“by an entirely unknown man in the country.”  I counseled “that there was something in him, which he ought to improve by holding his peace for the next five years.”

Adieu, dear Emerson; there is not a scrap more of Paper.  All copies of your Essays are out at use; with what result we shall perhaps see.  As for me I love the Book and man, and their noble rustic herohood and manhood:—­one voice as of a living man amid such jabberings of galvanized corpses:  Ach Gott!

Yours evermore,
          T. Carlyle