Emerson's _English Traits;_ and read that, with increasing and
ever increasing satisfaction every evening; blessing Heaven that
there were still Books for grown-up people too! That truly is a
Book all full of thoughts like winged arrows (thanks to the
Bowyer from us both):--my Lady-friend's name is Miss Davenport
Bromley; it was at Wooton, in her Grandfather's House, in
Staffordshire, that Rousseau took shelter in 1760; and one
hundred and six years later she was reading Emerson to me with a
recognition that would have pleased the man, had he seen it.

About that same time my health and humors being evidently so, the
Dowager Lady Ashburton (not the high Lady you saw, but a
Successor of Mackenzie-Highland type), who wanders mostly about
the Continent since her widowhood, for the sake of a child's
health, began pressing and inviting me to spend the blade months
of Winter here in her Villa with her;--all friends warmly
seconding and urging; by one of whom I was at last snatched off,
as if by the hair of the head, (in spite of my violent No, no!)
on the eve of Christmas last, and have been here ever since,--
really with improved omens. The place is beautiful as a very
picture, the climate superlative (today a sun and sky like very
June); the _hospitality_ of usage beyond example. It is likely
I shall be here another six weeks, or longer. If you please to
write me, the address is on the margin; and I will answer. Adieu.

--T. Carlyle