Dear Emerson,--Yesterday morning, setting out to breakfast with
Richard Milnes (Milnes's breakfast is a thing you will yet have
to experience) I met, by the sunny shore of the Thames, a
benevolent Son of Adam in blue coat and red collar, who thrust
into my hand a Letter from you. A truly miraculous Son of Adam
in red collar, in the Sunny Spring Morning!--The Bill of
Seventeen Pounds is already far on its way to Dumfries, there to
be kneaded into gold by the due artists: today is American Post-
day; and already in huge hurry about many things, I am
scribbling you some word of answer.... The night _before_
Milnes's morning, I had furthermore seen your Manchester
Correspondent, Ireland,--an old Edinborough acquaintance too, as
I found. A solid, dark, broad, rather heavy man; full of
energy, and broad sagacity and practicality;--infinitely well
affected to the man Emerson too. It was our clear opinion that
you might come at any time with ample assurance of "succeeding,"
so far as wages went, and otherwise; that you ought to come, and
must, and would,--as he, Ireland, would farther write to you.
There is only one thing I have to add of my own, and beg you to
bear in mind,--a date merely. _Videlicet,_ That the time for
lecturing to the London West-End, I was given everywhere to
understand, is _from the latter end of April_ (or say April
altogether) _to the end of May:_ this is a fixed Statistic fact,
all men told me: of this you are in all arrangements to keep
mind. For it will actually do your heart good to look into the
faces, and speak into minds, of really Aristocratic Persons,--
being one yourself, you Sinner,--and perhaps indeed this will be
the greatest of all the _novelties_ that await you in your
voyage. Not to be seen, I believe, at least never seen by me in
any perfection, except in London only. From April to the end of
May; during those weeks you must be _here,_ and free: remember
that date. Will you come in Winter then, next Winter,--or when?
Ireland professed to know you by the Photograph too; which I
never yet can.--I wrote by last Packet: enough here. Your
friend Cunningham has not presented himself; shall be right
welcome when he does,--as all that in the least belong to you may
well hope to be. Adieu. Our love to you all.
Ever Yours,
T. Carlyle