Manchester, September 3, 1849.
Dear Mr. Thoreau:
I have long intended to write to you, to thank you for that noble expression of yourself you were good enough to send me. I know not why I have not done so; except from a foolish sense that I should not write until I had thought of something to say that it would be worth your while to read.
What can I say to you except express the honour and the love I feel for you. An honour and a love which Emerson taught me long ago to feel, but which I feel now 'not on account of his word, but because I myself have read and know you.'
When I think of what you are—of what you have done as well as what you have written, I have the
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