altogether hold my peace to this, as I do to much. Coleridge is
the Father of all these. _Ay de mi!_

But to look across the "divine salt-sea." A letter reached me,
some two months ago, from Mobile, Alabama; the writer, a kind
friend of mine, signs himself James Freeman Clarke.* I have
mislaid, not lost his Letter; and do not at present know his
permanent address (for he seemed to be only on a visit at
Mobile); but you, doubtless, do know it. Will you therefore
take or even find an opportunity to tell this good Friend that it
is not the wreckage of the Liverpool ship he wrote by, nor
insensibility on my part, that prevents his hearing direct from
me; that I see him, and love him in this Letter; and hope we
shall meet one day under the Sun, shall live under it, at any
rate, with many a kind thought towards one another.

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* Now the Rev. Dr. Clarke, of Boston.
----------

The _North American Review_ you spoke of never came (I mean that
copy of it with the Note in it); but another copy became rather
public here, to the amusement of some. I read the article
myself: surely this Reviewer, who does not want in [sense]*
otherwise, is an original: either a _thrice_-plied quiz
(_Sartor's_ "Editor" a twice-plied one); or else opening on you
a grandeur of still Dulness, rarely to be met with on earth.

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* The words supplied here were lost under the seal of the letter.