them, or nobody one has ever seen before.  Out of La Trappe, which does not suit a Protestant man, there is perhaps no place where one can be so perfectly alone.  I might study even but, as I said, there are noises going on; a last desperate spasmodic effort of building,—­a new top-story to the house, out of which is to be made one “spacious room” (so they call it, though it is under twenty feet square) where there shall be air ad libitum, light from the sky, and no sound, not even that of the Cremorne Cannons, shall find access to me any more!  Such is the prophecy; may the gods grant it!  We shall see now in about a month;—­then adieu to mortar-tubs to all Eternity:—­I endure the thing, meanwhile, as well as I can; might run to a certain rural retreat near by, if I liked at any time; but do not yet:  the worst uproar here is but a trifle to that of German inns, and horrible squeaking, choking railway trains; and one does not go to seek this, this is here of its own will, and for a purpose!  Seriously, I had for twelve years had such a sound-proof inaccessible apartment schemed out in my head; and last year, under a poor, helpless builder, had finally given it up:  but Chelsea, as London generally, swelling out as if it were mad, grows every year noisier; a good builder turned up, and with a last paroxysm of enthusiasm I set him to.  My notion is, he will succeed; in which case, it will be a great possession to me for the rest of my life.  Alas, this is not the kind of silence I could have coveted, and could once get,—­with green fields and clear skies to accompany it!  But one must take such as can be had,—­and thank the gods.  Even so, my friend.  In the course of about a year of that garret sanctuary, I hope to have swept away much litter from my existence:  in fact I am already, by dint of mere obstinate quiescence in such circumstances as there are, intrinsically growing fairly sounder in nerves.  What a business a poor human being has with those nerves of his, with that crazy clay tabernacle of his!  Enough, enough; there will be all Eternity to rest in, as Arnauld said:  “Why in such a fuss, little sir?”

You “apologize” for sending people to me:  O you of little faith!  Never dream of such a thing nay, whom did you send?  The Cincinnati Lecturer* I had provided for with Owen; they would have been glad to hear him, on the Cedar forests, on the pigs making rattlesnakes into bacon, and the general adipocere question, under any form, at the Albemarle Street rooms;—­and he never came to hand.  As for Miss Bacon, we find her, with her modest shy dignity, with her solid character and strange enterprise, a real acquisition; and hope we shall now see more of her, now that she has come nearer to us to lodge.  I have not in my life seen anything so tragically quixotic as her Shakespeare enterprise:  alas, alas, there can be nothing but sorrow, toil, and utter disappointment