inous water. Burns
might have added a better verse to his poem, importing that one
might write Iliads or Hamlets, and yet come short of Truth by
infinity, as every written word must; but "the man's the gowd
for a' that." And I heartily thank the Lady for her good-will.
Please God she may be already well. We all grieve to know of her
ill health. People who have seen her never stop with _Mr._
Carlyle, but count him thrice blest in her. My wife believes in
nothing for her but the American voyage. I shall never cease to
expect you both until you come.

My boy is five months old, he is called Waldo,--a lovely wonder
that made the Universe look friendlier to me.

My Wife, one of your best lovers, sends her affectionate regards
to Mrs. Carlyle, and says that she takes exception in your
letters only to that sentence that she would go to Scotland if
you came here. My Wife beseeches her to come and possess her
new-dressed chamber. Do not cease to write whenever you can
spare me an hour. A man named Bronson Alcott is great, and one
of the jewels we have to show you. Good bye.

--R.W. Emerson

The second edition of _Sartor_ is out and sells well. I
learned the other day that twenty-five copies of it were ordered
for England. It was very amiable of you, that word about it
in _Mirabeau._*

----------
* This refers to Carlyle's introducing, in his paper on
_Mirabeau,_ a citation from _Sartor,_ with the words, "We quote
from a New England Book."
----------

XVI. Carlyle to Emerson

5 Cheyne Row, Chelsea, London, 1 June, 1857

My Dear Friend,--A word must go to Concord in answer to your last
kind word. It reached me, that word of yours, on the morning of
a most unspeakable day; the day when I, half dead with fret,
agitation, and exasperation, was to address extempore an audience
of London quality people on the subject of German Literature!
The heart's wish of me was that I might be left in deepest
oblivion, wrapped in blankets and silence, not speaking, not
spoken to, for a twelvemonth to come. My Printers had only let
me go, out of their Treadmill, the day before. However, all that
is over now; and I am still here alive to write to you, and hope
for better days.

Almost a month ago there went a copy of a Book called _French
Revolution,_ with your address on it, over to Red-Lion Square,
and thence, as old Rich declared, himself now _emeritus,_ back to
one Kennet (I thin