dness, of solemnity, not without
a kind of blessedness. I say it is right and fitting that one be
left entirely alone now and then, alone with one's own griefs and
sins, with the mysterious ancient Earth round one, the
everlasting Heaven over one, and what one can make of these.
Poor rustic businesses, subletting of Farms, disposal of houses,
household goods: these strangely intervene, like matter upon
spirit, every day;--wholesome this too perhaps. It is many years
since I have stood so in close contact face to face with the
reality of Earth, with its haggard ugliness, its divine beauty,
its depths of Death and of Life. Yesterday, one of, the stillest
Sundays, I sat long by the side of the swift river Nith; sauntered
among woods all vocal only with rooks and pairing birds.* The
hills are often white with snow-powder, black brief spring-tempests
rush fiercely down from them, and then again the sky looks forth
with a pale pure brightness,--like Eternity from behind Time.
The _Sky,_ when one thinks of it, is _always_ blue, pure changeless
azure; rains and tempests are only for the little dwellings where
men abide. Let us think of this too. Think of this, thou
sorrowing Mother! Thy Boy has escaped many showers.

---------
* "Templand has a very fine situation; old Walter's walk, at the
south end of the house, was one of the most picturesque and
pretty to be found in the world. Nith valley (river half a mile
off, winding through green holms, now in its border of clean
shingle, now lost in pleasant woods and rushes) lay patent to the
South. "Carlyle's Reminiscences," Vol. II. p. 137.
---------

In some three weeks I shall probably be back at Chelsea. Write
thitherward so soon as you have opportunity; I will write again
before long, even if I do not hear from you. The moneys, &c. are
all safe here as you describe: if Fraser's' Executors make any
demur, your Bookseller shall soon hear of it.

I had begun to write some Book on Cromwell: I have often begun,
but know not how to set about it; the most unutterable of all
subjects I ever felt much meaning to lie in. There is risk yet
that, with the loss of still farther labor, I may have to abandon
it;--and then the great dumb Oliver may lie unspoken forever;
gathered to the mighty _Silent_ of the Earth; for, I think,
there will hardly ever live another man that will believe in him
and his Puritanism as I do. To _him_ small matter.

Adieu, my good kind