"The Sexton's Daughter" is
a beautiful poem: and I recognize in them all _the_ Soul, with
joy and love. Tell me of the author's health and welfare; or,
will not he love me so much as to write me a letter with his own
hand? And tell me of yourself, what task of love and wisdom the
Muses impose; and what happiness the good God sends to you and
yours. I hope your wife has not forgotten me.

Yours affectionately,
R.W. Emerson

The _Miscellanies,_ Vols. I. and II., are a popular book. About
five hundred copies have been sold. The second article on Jean
Paul works with might on the inner man of young men. I hate to
write you letters on business and facts like this. There are so
few Friends that I think some time I shall meet you nearer, for
I love you more than is fit to say. W.H. Channing has written
a critique on you, which I suppose he has sent you, in the
_Boston Review._

XXIX. Carlyle to Emerson

5 Cheyne Row, Chelsea, London
7 November, 1838

My Dear Friend,--It is all right; all your Letters with their
inclosures have arrived in due succession: the last, inquiring
after the fate of the others, came this morning. I was in
Scotland, as you partly conjecture; I wrote to you already
(though not without blamable delay), from my Mother's house in
Annandale, a confused scrawl, which I hope has already got to
hand, and quieted your kind anxieties. I am as well as usual in
health, my Wife better than usual; nothing is amiss, except my
negligence and indolence, which has put you to this superfluous
solicitude on my account. However, I have an additional Letter
by it; you must pardon me, you must not grudge me that
undeserved pleasure, the reward of evil-doing. I may well say,
you are a blessing to me on this Earth; no Letter comes from you
with other than good tidings,--or can come while you live there
to love me.

The Bill was thrust duly into Baring's brass slit "for
acceptance," on my return hither some three weeks ago; and will,
no doubt, were the days of grace run, come out in the shape of
Fifty Pounds Sterling; a very curious product indeed. Do you
know what I think of doing with it? _Dyspepsia,_ my constant
attendant in London, is incapable of help in my case by any
medicine or appliance except one only, Riding on horseback. With
a good horse to whirl me over the world for two hours daily, I
used to keep myself supportably well. Here, the maintenance of