To Thomas Carlyle

Denmark Hill, Camberwell,

Monday, 23rd January [1855].

Dear Mr. Carlyle,—I had some thoughts of making a true foray upon you this evening—having been rendered desperate by Woolner's telling me that it was three years since I had seen you—but this morning it looks so much as if, could I once get to Chelsea, you might have some difficulty in getting quit of me again till a thaw came, that I will not venture. Only I warn you that I really must come and see you one of these days—if you won't come and see us.

People are continually accusing me of borrowing other men's thoughts, and not confessing the obligation. I don't think there is anything of which I am more utterly incapable than of this meanness; but it is very difficult always to know how much one is indebted to other people, and it is always most difficult to explain to others the degree in which a stronger mind may guide you, without your having at least intentionally borrowed this or the other definite thought. The fact is, it is very possible for two people to hit sometimes on the same thought, and I have over and over again been somewhat vexed as well as surprised at finding that what I really had, and knew I had, worked out for myself, corresponded very closely to things that you had said much better.