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 my
journey. I have heard almost nothing of your late weeks,--but
that is my fault,--only I heard with sorrow that your wife had
been ill, and could not go with you on your Christmas holidays.
Now may her good days have come again! I say I have heard
nothing of your late days; of your early days, of your genius,
of your influence, I cease not to hear and to see continually,
yea, often am called upon to resist the same with might and main.
But I will not pester you with it now.--Miss Martineau, who is
most happily placed here, and a model of housekeeping, sends
kindest remembrances to you both.
Yours ever,
R. W. Emerson.
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* "Eastern Life, Past and Present."
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