(O Paper!)
I trust there is now joy in place of pain in the House at
Concord, and a certain Mother grateful again to the Supreme
Powers! We are all in our customary health here, or nearly so;
my Wife has been in Lancashire, among her kindred there, for a
month lately: our swollen City is getting empty and still; we
think of trying an Autumn _here_ this time.--Get your Book ready;
there are readers ready for it! And be busy and victorious!
Ever Yours,
T. Carlyle
My _History_ is frightful! If I live, it is like to be
completed; but whether I shall live, and not rather be buried
alive, broken-hearted, in the Serbonian Quagmires of English
Stupidity, and so sleep beside Cromwell, often seems uncertain.
Erebus has no uglier, brutaler element. Let us say nothing of
it. Let us do it, or leave it to the Devils. _Ay de mi!_
XCIII. Emerson to Carlyle
Boston, 1 September, 1844
My Dear Carlyle,--I have just learned that in an hour Mr.
Wilmer's mail-bag for London, by the "Acadia," closes, and I will
not lose the occasion of sending you a hasty line: though I had
designed to write you from home on sundry matters, which now must
wait.
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