But to look across the “divine salt-sea.”  A letter reached me, some two months ago, from Mobile, Alabama; the writer, a kind friend of mine, signs himself James Freeman Clarke.* I have mislaid, not lost his Letter; and do not at present know his permanent address (for he seemed to be only on a visit at Mobile); but you, doubtless, do know it.  Will you therefore take or even find an opportunity to tell this good Friend that it is not the wreckage of the Liverpool ship he wrote by, nor insensibility on my part, that prevents his hearing direct from me; that I see him, and love him in this Letter; and hope we shall meet one day under the Sun, shall live under it, at any rate, with many a kind thought towards one another.

----------
* Now the Rev. Dr. Clarke, of Boston.
----------

The North American Review you spoke of never came (I mean that copy of it with the Note in it); but another copy became rather public here, to the amusement of some.  I read the article myself:  surely this Reviewer, who does not want in [sense]* otherwise, is an original:  either a thrice-plied quiz (Sartor’s “Editor” a twice-plied one); or else opening on you a grandeur of still Dulness, rarely to be met with on earth.

-------------
* The words supplied here were lost under the seal of the letter.
-------------

My friend!  I must end here.  Forgive me till I get done with this Book.  Can you have the generosity to write, without an answer?  Well, if you can_not,_ I will answer.  Do not forget me.  My love and my Wife’s to your good Lady, to your Brother, and all friends.  Tell me what you do; what your world does.  As for my world, take this (which I rendered from the German Voss, a tough old-Teutonic fellow) for the best I can say of it:—­

“As journeys this Earth, her eye on a Sun, through the
heavenly spaces,
And, radiant in azure, or Sunless, swallowed in tempests,
Falters not, alters not; journeying equal, sunlit or
stormgirt
So thou, Son of Earth, who hast Force,
Goal, and Time, go still onwards.”

Adieu, my dear friend!  Believe me ever Yours,
                                     Thomas Carlyle

XII.  Emerson to Carlyle

Concord, Massachusetts, 17 September, 1836

My Dear Friend,—­I hope you do not measure my love by the tardiness of my messages.  I have few pleasures like that of receiving your kind and eloquent letters.  I should be most impatient of the long interval between one and another, but that they savor always of Eternity, and promise me a friendship and friendly inspiration not reckoned or ended by days or years.  Your last letter, dated in April, found me a mourner, as did your first.  I have lost out of this world my brother Charles,* of whom I have spoken to you,—­the friend and companion of many years, the inmate of my house, a man of a