Florence, before I turn my face towards
Lincoln's-inn-fields; and come to England by Milan and Turin. But this
of course depends in a great measure on your reply." My reply, dwelling
on the fatigue and cost, had the reception I foresaw. "Notwithstanding
what you say, I am still in the same mind about coming to London. Not
because the proofs concern me at all (I should be an ass as well as a
thankless vagabond if they did), but because of that unspeakable
restless something which would render it almost as impossible for me to
remain here and not see the thing complete, as it would be for a full
balloon, left to itself, not to go up. I do not intend coming from
_here_, but by way of Milan and Turin (previously going to Venice), and
so, across the wildest pass of the Alps that may be open, to
Strasburg. . . . As you dislike the Young England gentleman I shall knock
him out, and replace him by a man (I can dash him in at your rooms in an
hour) who recognizes no virtue in anything but the good old times, and
talks of them, parrot-like, whatever the matter is. A real good old city
tory, in a blue coat and bright buttons and a white cravat, and with a
tendency of blood to the head. File away at Filer, as you please; but
bear in mind that the _Westminster Review_ considered Scrooge's
presentation of the turkey to Bob Cratchit as grossly incompatible with
political economy. I don't care at all for the skittle-playing." These
were among things I had objected to.

But the close of his letter revealed more than its opening of the
reason, not at once so frankly confessed, for the long winter-journey he
was about to make; and if it be thought that, in printing the passage, I
take a liberty with my friend, it will be found that equal liberty is
taken with myself, whom it goodnaturedly caricatures; so that the reader
can enjoy his laugh at either or both. "Shall I confess to you, I
particularly want Carlyle above all to see it before the rest of the
world, when it is done; and I should like to inflict the little story on
him and on dear old gallant Macready with my own lips, and to have
Stanny and the other Mac sitting by. Now, if you was a real gent, you'd
get up a little circle for me, one wet evening, when I come to town: and
would say, 'My boy (SIR, will you have the goodness to leave those books
alone and to go downstairs--WHAT the Devil are you doing! And mind, sir,
I can see nobody--do you hear? Nobody. I am particularly engaged