Emerson was then a man of fifty-two. The first and second series of his lecture-essays had been published more than ten years, and the first volume of his poems in 1847; he was already famous in England as well as in America. But though he was in certain quarters the cynosure of admiration, in others he was the butt of ridicule. This same year the London _Athenæum_ praised Irving because, as it said, his fancies were ideal, and not like Emerson's merely typographical--because they did not consist, like the latter's, in the use of verbs for nouns, in erratic punctuation, tumid epithets, which were startling rather than apposite, or in foreign forms and idioms.[166] This though milder, is not unlike what many of the critics were soon to be saying with better reason of Whitman; and it is interesting to recall that in 1839, when he was Whitman's age, Emerson was struggling to escape from the limits of metre into a rhythm that should suggest the wildest freedom; that should be "firm as the tread of a horse,"[167] vindicate itself like the stroke of a bell, and knock at prose and dulness like a cannon ball; a rhythm which should be in itself a renewing of creation, because it was the form of a living spirit. In later years, Emerson seems to have harked back again to the more regular forms, believing them to correspond to essential pulse-beats, or organic rhythm. But his journal contains several little prose poems of the date of 1855 or 1856, notably the sketch of the "Two Rivers," outlined partly in loose irregular metres. This search of the Concord prophet after a new free rhythmical form, must have predisposed him to interest in such a book as _Leaves of Grass_, where the laws of metre are in force no longer. But beyond this, the older man felt a close kinship with the younger. Whitman had declared himself unequivocally for the faith in life which was Emerson's gospel; and he smacked of the soil and air of America in a way that Emerson could not but love. Here at last was an actual incarnation of the ideas he had so long been hurling at the heads of the American people. A beautiful and characteristic modesty is evident in the tone of the letter. Emerson might well have acknowledged the younger man as a pupil rather than as a benefactor; it was the same quality as had appeared in his reply to Frederika Bremer, when, five years earlier, she had been praising his own verses: "The Poet of America," he answered gravely, "is not yet come. When he comes he will sing quite differently."