book was received from London and for sale in New York and Boston before my last sheets arrived by the “Columbia.”  Appleton in New York braved us and printed it, and furthermore told us that he intends to print in future everything of yours that shall be printed in London,—­complaining in rude terms of the monopoly your publishers here exercise, and the small commissions they allow to the trade, &c., &c.  Munroe showed me the letter, which certainly was not an amiable one.  In this distress, then, I beg you, when you have more histories and lectures to print, to have the manuscript copied by a scrivener before you print at home, and send it out to me, and I will keep all Appletons and Corsairs whatsoever out of the lists.  Not only these men made a book (of which, by the by, Munroe sends you by this steamer a copy, which you will find at John Green’s, Newgate Street), but the New York newspapers print the book in chapters, and you circulate for six cents per newspaper at the corners of all streets in New York and Boston; gaining in fame what you lose in coin.—­The book is a good book, and goes to make men brave and happy.  I bear glad witness to its cheering and arming quality.

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* “Heroes and Hero-Worship.”
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I have put into Munroe’s box which goes to Green a Dial No. 4 also, which I could heartily wish were a better book.  But Margaret Fuller, who is a noble woman, is not in sufficiently vigorous health to do this editing work as she would and should, and there is no other who can and will.

Yours affectionately,
                   R.W.  Emerson

LXIII.  Carlyle to Emerson

Chelsea, London, 8 May, 1841

My Dear Emerson,—­Your last letter found me on the southern border of Yorkshire, whither Richard Milnes had persuaded me with him, for the time they call “Easter Holidays” here.  I was to shake off the remnants of an ugly Influenza which still hung about me; my little portmanteau, unexpectedly driven in again by perverse accidents, had stood packed, its cowardly owner, the worst of all travelers, standing dubious the while, for two weeks or more; Milnes offering to take me as under his cloak, I went with Milnes.  The mild, cordial, though something dilettante nature of the man distinguishes him for me among men, as men go.  For ten days I rode or sauntered among Yorkshire fields and knolls; the sight of the young Spring, new to me these seven years, was beautiful, or better than beauty.  Solitude itself, the great Silence of the Earth, was as balm to this weary, sick heart of mine; not Dragons of Wantley (so they call Lord Wharncliffe, the wooden Tory man), not babbling itinerant Barrister people, fox-hunting Aristocracy, nor Yeomanry Captains cultivating milk-white mustachios, nor the perpetual racket, and “dinner at eight o’clock,” could altogether countervail the fact that green Earth was