he is
near dead;--setting out a Poem withal. He came in to us on
Sunday evening last, and on the preceding Sunday: a truly
interesting Son of Earth, and Son of Heaven,--who has almost lost
his way, among the will-o'-wisps, I doubt; and may flounder ever
deeper, over neck and nose at last, among the quagmires that
abound! I like him well; but can do next to nothing for him.
Milnes, with general co-operation, got him a Pension; and he has
bread and tobacco: but that is a poor outfit for such a soul.
He wants a _task;_ and, alas, that of spinning rhymes, and
naming it "Art" and "high Art," in a Time like ours, will never
furnish him.

For myself I have been entirely _idle,_--I dare not even say, too
abstrusely _occupied;_ for I have merely been _looking_ at the
Chaos even, not by any means working in it. I have not even read
a Book,--that I liked. All "Literature" has grown inexpressibly
unsatisfactory to me. Better be silent than talk farther in
this mood.

We are going off, on Saturday come a week, into Hampshire, to
certain Friends you have heard me speak of. Our address, till
the beginning of February, is "Hon. W.B. Baring, Alverstoke,
Gosport, Hants." My Wife sends you many kind regards; remember
us across the Ocean too;--and be well and busy till we meet.

Yours ever,
T. Carlyle

Last night there arrived No. 1 of the _Massachusetts Review:_
beautiful paper and print; and very promising otherwise. In the
Introduction I well recognized the hand; in the first Article
too,--not in any of the others. _Faustum sit._

CXXXII. Emerson to Carlyle

Ambleside, 26 February, 1848

My Dear Carlyle,--I am here in Miss Martineau's house, and having
seen a good deal of England, and lately a good deal of Scotland
too, I am tomorrow to set forth again for Manchester, and
presently for London. Yesterday, I saw Wordsworth for a good
hour and a half, which he did not seem to grudge, for he talked
freely and fast, and--bating his cramping Toryism and what
belongs to it--wisely enough. He is in rude health, and, though
seventy-seven years old, says he does not feel his age in any
particular. Miss Martineau is in excellent health and spirits,
though just now annoyed by the hesitations of Murray to publish
her book;* but she confides infinitely in her book, which is the
best fortune. But I please myself not a little that I shall in a
few days see you again, and I will give you an account of m