being to universal Saxondom what small Mycale was to the Tribes of Greece,—­a place to hold your [Greek] in?  A meeting of All the English ought to be as good as one of All the Ionians; —­and as Homeric “equal ships” are to Bristol steamers, so, or somewhat so, may New York and New Holland be to Ephesus and Crete, with their distances, relations, and etceteras!—­Few things on this Earth look to me greater than the Future of that Family of Men.

It is some two months since I got into this region; my Wife followed me with her maid and equipments some five weeks ago.  Newington Lodge, when I came to inspect it with eyes, proved to be too rough an undertaking:  upholsterers, expense and confusion,—­the Cynic snarled, “Give me a whole Tub rather!  I want nothing but shelter from the elements, and to be let alone of all men.”  After a little groping, this little furnished cottage, close by the beach of the Solway Frith, was got hold of:  here we have been, in absolute seclusion, for a month,—­no company but the corn-fields and the everlasting sands and brine; mountains, and thousand-voiced memories on all hands, sending their regards to one, from the distance.  Daily (sometimes even nightly!) I have swashed about in the sea; I have been perfectly idle, at least inarticulate; I fancy I feel myself considerably sounder of body and of mind.  Deeply do I agree with you in the great unfathomable meaning of a colloquy with the dumb Ocean, with the dumb Earth, and their eloquence!  A Legislator would prescribe some weeks of that annually as a religious duty for all mortals, if he could.  A Legislator will prescribe it for himself, since he can!  You too have been at Nantasket; my Friend, this great rough purple sea-flood that roars under my little garret-window here, this too comes from Nantasket and farther,—­swung hitherward by the Moon and the Sun.

It cannot be said that I feel “happy” here, which means joyful;—­ as far as possible from that.  The Cave of Trophonius could not be grimmer for one than this old Land of Graves.  But it is a sadness worth any hundred “happinesses.” N’en parlons plus. By the way, have you ever clearly remarked withal what a despicable function “view-hunting” is.  Analogous to “philanthropy,” “pleasures of virtue,” &c., &c.  I for my part, in these singular circumstances, often find an honestly ugly country the preferable one.  Black eternal peat-bog, or these waste-howling sands with mews and seagulls:  you meet at least no Cockney to exclaim, “How charming it is!”

One of the last things I did in London was to pocket Bookseller Brown’s L38:  a very honest-looking man, that Brown; whom I was sorry I could not manage to welcome better.  You asked in that Letter about some other item of business,—­Munroe’s or Brown’s account to acknowledge?—­something or other that I was to do: I only remember vaguely that it seemed to me I had as good as done it.  Your Letter is not here now, but at Chelsea.