THERE;—­and ought not to lie there, if any use is ever to be had of him, or at least of writing about him; for as to him, he with his work is safe enough to us, far elsewhere.—­Pity me, pity me; I know not on what hand to turn; and have such a Chaos filling all my Earth and Heaven as was seldom seen in British or Foreign Literature!  Add to which, the Sacred Entity, Literature itself, is not growing more venerable to me, but less and ever less:  good Heavens, I feel often as if there were no madder set of bladders tumbling on the billows of the general Bedlam at this moment than even the Literary ones,—­dear at twopence a gross, I should say, unless one could annihilate them by purchase on those easy terms!  But do not tell this in Gath; let it be a sad family secret.

I smile, with a kind of grave joy, over your American speculations, and wild dashing portraitures of things as they are with you; and recognize well, under your light caricature, the outlines of a right true picture, which has often made me sad and grim in late years.  Yes, I consider that the “Battle of Freedom and Slavery” is very far from ended; and that the fate of poor “Freedom” in the quarrel is very questionable indeed!  Alas, there is but one Slavery, as I wrote somewhere; and that, I think, is mounting towards a height, which may bring strokes to bear upon it again!  Meanwhile, patience; for us there is nothing else appointed.—­Tell me, however, what has become of your Book on England?  We shall really be obliged to you for that.  A piece of it went through all the Newspapers, some years ago; which was really unique for its quaint kindly insight, humor, and other qualities; like an etching by Hollar or Durer, amid the continents of vile smearing which are called “pictures” at present.  Come on, Come on; give us the Book, and don’t loiter!—­

Miss Bacon has fled away to St. Alban’s (the Great Bacon’s place) five or six months ago; and is there working out her Shakespeare Problem, from the depths of her own mind, disdainful apparently, or desperate and careless, of all evidence from Museums or Archives; I have not had an answer from her since before Christmas, and have now lost her address.  Poor Lady:  I sometimes silently wish she were safe home again; for truly there can no madder enterprise than her present one be well figured.  Adieu, my Friend; I must stop short here.  Write soon, if you have any charity.  Good be with you ever.

—­T.  Carlyle

CLVI.  Emerson to Carlyle

Concord, 17 April, 1855

My Dear Friend,—­On this delicious spring day, I will obey the beautiful voices of the winds, long disobeyed, and address you; nor cloud the hour by looking at the letters in my drawer to know if a twelvemonth has been allowed to elapse since this tardy writing was due.  Mr. Everett sent me one day a letter he had received from you, containing a kind message to me, which gave me pleasure and pain.  I returned the letter with thanks, and with promises I would sin no more.  Instantly, I was whisked, by “the stormy wing of Fate,” out of my chain, and whirled, like a dry leaf, through the State of New York.