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* The letter making the second announcement, being very similar
to the preceding, is omitted.
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About one hundred pages of the Manuscript Copy have proved superfluous, the text being there also in a printed shape; I had misestimated the Printer’s velocity; I was anxious too that there should be no failure as to time.  The Manuscript is very indifferent in that section of it; the damage therefore is smaller:  your press-corrector can acquaint himself with the hand, &c. by means of it.  A poor young governess, confined to a horizontal posture, and many sad thoughts, by a disease of the spine, was our artist in that part of the business:  her writing is none of the distinctest; but it was a work of Charity to give it her.  I hope the thing is all as correct as I could make it.  I do not bethink me of anything farther I have to add in the way of explanation.

In fact, my prophecy rather is at present that the gibbetless thief at New York, will beat us after all!  Never mind if be do.  To say truth, I myself shall almost be glad:  there has been a botheration in this anxious arrangement of parts correcting of scrawly manuscript copies of what you never wished to read more, and insane terror withal of having your own Manuscript burnt or lost,—­that has exceeded my computation.  Not to speak of this trouble in which I involve you, my Friend; which, I truly declare, makes me ashamed!  True one is bound to resist the Devil in all shapes; if a man come to steal from you, you will put on what locks and padlocks are at hand, and not on the whole say, “Steal, then!” But if the locks prove insufficient, and the thief do break through,—­that side of the alternative also will suit you very well; and, with perhaps a faint prayer for gibbets when they are necessary, you will say to him, next time, “Macte virtute, my man.”

All is in a whirl with me here today; no other topic but this very poor one can be entered upon.  I hope for a letter from your own hand soon, and some news about still more interesting matters.

Adieu, my Friend; I feel still as if, in several senses, you stood alone with me under the sky at present!*

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* The signature to this letter has been cut off.
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LXXXIII.  Emerson to Carlyle

Concord, 29 April, 1843

My Dear Carlyle,—­It is a pleasure to set your name once more at the head of a sheet.  It signifies how much gladness, how much wealth of being, that the good, wise, man-cheering, man-helping friend, though unseen, lives there yonder, just out of sight.  Your star burns there just below our eastern horizon, and fills the lower and upper air with splendid and splendescent auroras.  By some refraction which new lenses or else steamships shall operate, shall I not yet one day see again the disk of benign Phosphorus?  It is a solid joy to me, that whilst you work for all, you work for me and with me, even if I have little to write, and seldom write your name.