d is soaked,
sometimes even like the soft sponges, but the "man's a man for a'
that." Better, he is a great boy,--as wilful, as nonchalant and
good-humored. But you must hear him speak, not a show speech
which he never does well, but _with cause_ he can strike a stroke
like a smith. I owe to him a hundred fine hours and two or three
moments of Eloquence. His voice in a great house is admirable.
I am sorry if you decided not to visit him. He loves a _man,_
too. I do not know him, but my brother Edward read law with him,
and loved him, and afterwards in sick and unfortunate days
received the steadiest kindness from him.

Well, I am glad you are to think in earnest in Scotland of our
Cisatlantic claims. We shall have more rights over the wise and
brave, I believe before many years or months. We shall have more
men and a better cause than has yet moved on our stagnant waters.
I think our Church, so called, must presently vanish. There is a
universal timidity, conformity, and rage; and on the other hand
the most resolute realism in the young. The man Alcott bides his
time. I have a young poet in this village named Thoreau, who
writes the truest verses. I pine to show you my treasures; and
tell your wife, we have women who deserve to know her.

--R.W. Emerson

The Yankees read and study the new volumes of _Miscellanies_ even
more than the old. The "Sam Johnson" and "Scott" are great
favorites. Stearns Wheeler corrected proofs affectionately to
the last. Truth and Health be with you alway!

XLVI. Carlyle to Emerson

Scotsbrig, Ecclefechan, 4 September, 1839

Dear Emerson,--A cheerful and right welcome Letter of yours,
dated 4th July, reached me here, duly forwarded, some three
weeks ago; I delayed answering till there could some definite
statement, as to bales of literature shipped or landed, or other
matter of business forwarded a stage, be made. I am here, with
my Wife, rusticating again, these two months; amid diluvian
rains, Chartism, Teetotalism, deficient harvest, and general
complaint and confusion; which not being able to mend, all that
I can do is to heed them as little as possible. "What care I for
the house? I am only a lodger." On the whole, I have sat under
the wing of Saint Swithin; uncheery, sluggish, murky, as the
wettest of his Days;--hoping always, nevertheless, that blue sky,
figurative and real, does exist, and will demonstrate itself by