corner, with the sense that music has come out of it or will come. I am
grateful to the man who has written a good book, and I recognise
reverently that the roots of it are in him. And, do you know, I was not
disappointed at all in what I saw of writers of books in London; no, not
at all. Carlyle, for instance, I liked infinitely more in his
personality than I expected to like him, and I saw a great deal of him,
for he travelled with us to Paris and spent several evenings with us, we
three together. He is one of the most interesting men I could imagine
even, deeply interesting to me; and you come to understand perfectly,
when you know him, that his bitterness is only melancholy, and his scorn
sensibility. Highly picturesque too he is in conversation. The talk of
writing men is very seldom as good.

And, do you know, I was much taken, in London, with a young authoress,
Geraldine Jewsbury. You have read her books. There's a French sort of
daring, half-audacious power in them, but she herself is quiet and
simple, and drew my heart out of me a good deal. I felt inclined to love
her in our half-hour's intercourse. And I liked Lady Eastlake too in
another way, the 'lady' of the 'Letters from the Baltic,' nay, I liked
her better than the 'lady'....

Do write to me and tell me of your house, whether you are settling down
in it comfortably[4]. In every new house there's a good deal of bird's
work in treading and shuffling down the loose sticks and straws, before
one can feel it is to be a nest. Robert laughs at me sometimes for
pushing about the chairs and tables in a sort of distracted way, but
it's the very instinct of making a sympathetical home, that works in me.
We were miserably off in London. I couldn't tuck myself in anyhow. And
we enjoy in proportion these luxurious armchairs, so good for the
Lollards.