to cook mush rightly, at least without bitter? Long-continued boiling seems to help the bitterness, but does not cure it.  Let some oracle speak!  I tell all people, our staff of life is in the Mississippi Valley henceforth;—­and one of the truest benefactors were an American Minerva who could teach us to cook this meal; which our people at present (I included) are unanimous in finding nigh uneatable, and loudly exclaimable against!  Elihu Burritt had a string of recipes that went through all newspapers three years ago; but never sang there oracle of longer ears than that,—­totally destitute of practical significance to any creature here!

And now enough of questioning.  Alas, alas, I have a quite other batch of sad and saddest considerations,—­on which I must not so much as enter at present!  Death has been very busy in this little circle of ours within these few days.  You remember Charles Buller, to whom I brought you over that night at the Barings’ in Stanhope Street?  He died this day week, almost quite unexpectedly; a sore loss to all that knew him personally, and his gladdening sunny presence in many circles here; a sore loss to the political people too, for he was far the cleverest of all Whig men, and indeed the only genial soul one can remember in that department of things.* We buried him yesterday; and now see what new thing has come.  Lord Ashburton, who had left his mother well in Hampshire ten hours before, is summoned from poor Buller’s funeral by telegraph; hurries back, finds his mother, whom he loved much, already dead!  She was a Miss Bingham, I think, from Pennsylvania, perhaps from Philadelphia itself.  You saw her; but the first sight by no means told one all or the best worth that was in that good Lady.  We are quite bewildered by our own regrets, and by the far painfuler sorrow of those closely related to these sudden sorrows.  Of which let me be silent for the present;—­and indeed of all things else, for speech, inadequate mockery of one’s poor meaning, is quite a burden to me just now!

---------
* The reader of Carlyle’s Reminiscences, and of Froude’s
volumes of his biography, is familiar with the close relations
that had existed between Buller and Carlyle.
----------

Neuberg* comes hither sometimes; a welcome, wise kind of man.  Poor little Espinasse still toils cheerily at the oar, and various friends of yours are about us.  Brother John did send through Chapman all the Dante, which we calculate you have received long ago:  he is now come to Town; doing a Preface, &c., which also will be sent to you, and just about publishing.—­ Helps, who has been alarmingly ill, and touring on the Rhine since we were his guests, writes to me yesterday from Hampshire about sending you a new Book of his.  I instructed him How.

Adieu, dear Emerson; do not forget us, or forget to think as kindly as you can of us, while we continue in this world together.