ore 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