Fifteen years later, in his _Reminiscences of My Irish
Journey,_ he enters, under date of July 16, 1849: "Near eleven
o'clock [at night] announces himself 'Father O'Shea'! (who I
thought had been _dead_); to my astonishment enter a little
gray-haired, intelligent-and-bred-looking man, with much
gesticulation, boundless loyal welcome, red with dinner and some
wine, engages that we are to meet tomorrow,--and again with
explosions of welcomes goes his way. This Father O'Shea, some
fifteen years ago, had been, with Emerson of America, one of the
_two_ sons of Adam who encouraged poor bookseller Fraser, and
didn't discourage him, to go on with Teufelsdrockh. I had often
remembered him since; had not long before _re_-inquired his
name, but understood somehow that he was dead--and now."
---------------

But now quitting theoretics, let me explain what you long to
know, how it is that I date from London. Yes, my friend, it is
even so: Craigenputtock now stands solitary in the wilderness,
with none but an old woman and foolish grouse-destroyers in it;
and we for the last ten weeks, after a fierce universal
disruption, are here with our household gods. Censure not; I
came to London for the best of all reasons,--to seek bread and
work. So it literally stands; and so do I literally stand with
the hugest, gloomiest Future before me, which in all sane moments
I good-humoredly defy. A strange element this, and I as good as
an Alien in it. I care not for Radicalism, for Toryism, for
Church, Tithes, or the "Confusion" of useful Knowledge. Much
as I can speak and hear, I am alone, alone. My brave Father,
now victorious from his toil, was wont to pray in evening
worship: "Might we say, We are not alone, for God is with us!"