is very behoveful!  I read lately a small old brown French duodecimo, which I mean to send you by the first chance there is.  The writer is a Capitaine Bossu; the production, a Journal of his experiences in “La Louisiane,” “Oyo” (Ohio), and those regions, which looks very genuine, and has a strange interest to me, like some fractional Odyssey or letter.* Only a hundred years ago, and the Mississippi has changed as never valley did:  in 1751 older and stranger, looked at from its present date, than Balbec or Nineveh!  Say what we will, Jonathan is doing miracles (of a sort) under the sun in these times now passing.—­Do you know Bartram’s Travels? This is of the Seventies (1770) or so; treats of Florida chiefly, has a wondrous kind of floundering eloquence in it; and has also grown immeasurably old. All American libraries ought to provide themselves with that kind of book; and keep them as a kind of future biblical article.—­ Finally on this head, can you tell me of any good Book on California?  Good:  I have read several bad.  But that too is worthy of some wonder; that too, like the Old Bucaniers, hungers and thirsts (in ingenuous minds) to have some true record and description given of it.

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* Bossu wrote two books which are known to the student of the
history of the settlement of America;  one, “Nouveaux Voyages aux
Indes occidentales,” Paris, 1768;  the other, “Nouveaux Voyages
dans l’Amerique septentrionale,” Amsterdam (Paris), 1777.
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And poor Miss Fuller, was there any Life ever published of her? or is any competent hand engaged on it?  Poor Margaret, I often remember her; and think how she is asleep now under the surges of the sea.  Mazzini, as you perhaps know, is with us this summer; comes across once in the week or so, and tells me, or at least my Wife, all his news.  The Roman revolution has made a man of him,—­quite brightened up ever since;—­and the best friend he ever saw, I believe, was that same Quack-President of France, who relieved him while it was still time.

My Brother is in Annandale, working hard over Dante at last; talks of coming up hither shortly; I am myself very ill and miserable in the liver regions; very tough otherwise,—­though I have now got spectacles for small print in the twilight. Eheu fugaces,—­and yet why Eheu? In fact it is better to be silent.—­Adieu, dear Emerson; I expect to get a great deal brisker by and by,—­and in the first place to have a Missive from Boston again.  My Wife sends you many regards.  I am as ever,—­ affectionately Yours,

—­T.  Carlyle

CXLV.  Emerson to Carlyle

Concord, 28 July, 1851

My Dear Carlyle,—­You must always thank me for silence, be it never so long, and must put on it the most generous interpretations.  For I am too sure of your genius and goodness, and too glad that they shine steadily for all, to importune you to make assurance sure by a private beam very often.  There is very little in this village to be said to you, and, with all my love of your letters, I think it the kind part to defend you from our imbecilities,—­my own, and other men’s.  Besides, my eyes are bad, and prone to mutiny at any hint of white paper.