I send you two
pieces writ by one of them, Frederic Henry Hedge, the article on
Swedenborg and that on Phrenology. And as you like Sampson Reed,
here are one or two more of his papers. Do read them. And since
you study French history do not fail to look at our Yankee
portrait of Lafayette. Present my best remembrances to Mrs.
Carlyle, whom that stern and blessed solitude has armed and
sublimed out of all reach of the littleness and unreason of
London. If I thought we could win her to the American shore, I
would send her the story of those godly women, the contemporaries
of John Knox's daughter, who came out hither to enjoy the worship
of God amidst wild men and wild beasts.

Your friend and servant,
R. Waldo Emerson

IV. Carlyle to Emerson

5 Cheyne Row, Chelsea, London
3 February, 1835

My Dear Sir,--I owe you a speedy answer as well as a grateful
one; for, in spite of the swift ships of the Americans, our
communings pass too slowly. Your letter, written in November,
did not reach me till a few days ago; your Books or Papers have
not yet come,--though the ever-punctual Rich, I can hope, will
now soon get them for me. He showed me his _way-bill_ or
invoice, and the consignment of these friendly effects "to
another gentleman," and undertook with an air of great fidelity
to bring all to a right bearing. On the whole, as the Atlantic
is so broad and deep, ought we not rather to esteem it a
beneficent miracle that messages can arrive at all; that a
little slip of paper will skim over all these weltering floods,
and other inextricable confusions, and come at last, in the hand
of the Twopenny Postman, safe to your lurking-place, like green
leaf in the bill of Noah's Dove? Let us be grateful for mercies;
let us use them while they are granted us. Time was when "they
that feared the Lord spake _often_ one to another." A friendly
thought is the purest gift that man can afford to man. "Speech"
also, they say, "is cheerfuler than light itself."

The date of your letter gives me unhappily no idea but that of
Space and Time. As you know my whereabout, will you throw a
little light on your own? I can imagine Boston, and have often
seen the musket volleys on Bunker Hill; but in this new spot
there is nothing for me save sky and earth, the chance of
retirement, peace, and winter seclusion. Alas! I can too well
fancy one other thing: the bereavement you allude to, the sorrow
tha