ithout_ making your will. It is one of my
calculations that all Englishmen from all zones and hemispheres
will, for a good while yet, resort occasionally to the Mother-
Babel, and see a thing or two there. Come if you dare; I said
there was a room, house-room and heart-room, constantly waiting
you here, and you shall see blockheads by the million.
_Pickwick_ himself shall be visible; innocent young Dickens
reserved for a questionable fate. The great Wordsworth shall
talk till you yourself pronounce him to be a bore. Southey's
complexion is still healthy mahogany-brown, with a fleece of
white hair, and eyes that seem running at full gallop. Leigh
Hunt, "man of genius in the shape of a Cockney," is my near
neighbor, full of quips and cranks, with good humor and no common
sense. Old Rogers with his pale head, white, bare, and cold as
snow, will work on you with those large blue eyes, cruel,
sorrowful, and that sardonic shelf-chin:--This is the Man, O
Rogers, that wrote the German Poetry in American Prose; consider
him well!--But whither am I running? My sheet is done! My
Brother John returns again almost immediately to Italy. He has
got appointed Traveling Doctor to a certain Duke of Buccleuch,
the chief of our Scotch Dukes: an excellent position for him as
far as externals go. His departure will leave me lonelier; but
I must reckon it for the best: especially I must begin working.
Harriet Martineau is coming hither this evening; with beautiful
enthusiasm for the Blacks and others. She is writing a Novel.
The first American book proved generally rather wearisome, the
second not so; we have since been taught (not I) "How to
observe." Suppose you and I promulgate a treatise next, "How to
see"? The old plan was, to have a pair of _eyes _first of all,
and then to open them: and endeavor with your whole strength to
_look._ The good Harriet! But "God," as the Arabs say, "has
given to every people a Prophet (or Poet) in its own speech":
and behold now Unitarian mechanical Formalism was to have its
Poetess too; and stragglings of genius were to spring up even
through that like grass through a Macadam highway!--Adieu, my
Friend, I wait still for your heterodox Speech; and love
you always.

--T. Carlyle

An English _Sartor_ goes off to you this day; through Kennet, to
C.C. Little and J. Brown of Boston; the likeliest conveyance.
It is correctly printed, and that is all. It