But no more printing for me at present.  I have just decided to go to Boston once more, with a course of lectures, which I will perhaps baptize “On the Times,” by way of making once again the experiment whether I cannot, not only speak the truth, but speak it truly, or in proportion.  I fancy I need more than another to speak, with such a formidable tendency to the lapidary style.  I build my house of boulders; somebody asked me “if I built of medals.”  Besides, I am always haunted with brave dreams of what might be accomplished in the lecture-room,—­so free and so unpretending a platform,—­a Delos not yet made fast.  I imagine an eloquence of infinite variety,—­rich as conversation can be, with anecdote, joke, tragedy, epics and pindarics, argument and confession.  I should love myself wonderfully better if I could arm myself to go, as you go, with the word in the heart and not in a paper.

When I was in Boston I saw the booksellers, the children of Tantalus,—­no, but they who trust in them are.  This time, Little and Brown render us their credit account to T.C. $366 (I think it was), payable in three months from 1 October.  They had sold all the London French Revolutions but fifteen copies.  May we all live until 1 January.  J. Munroe & Co. acknowledge about $180 due and now rightfully payable to T.C., but, unhappily, not yet paid.  By the help of brokers, I will send that sum more or less in some English Currency, by the next steamship, which sails in about a fortnight, and will address it, as you last bade me, to Chelsea.

What news, my dear friend, from your study? what designs ripened or executed? what thoughts? what hopes? you can say nothing of yourself that will not greatly interest us all.  Harriet Martineau, whose sicknesses may it please God to heal! wrote me a kind, cheerful letter, and the most agreeable notice of your health and spirit on a visit at her house.  My little boy is five years old today, and almost old enough to send you his love.

With kindest greetings to Jane Carlyle, I am her and your friend,

—­R.W.E.

LXX.  Emerson to Carlyle

Concord, 14 November, 1841

My Dear Carlyle,—­Above, you have a bill of exchange for forty pounds sterling, with which sum you must credit the Munroe account.  The bill, I must not fail to notice, is drawn by a lover of yours who expresses great satisfaction in doing us this courtesy; and courtesy I must think it when he gives me a bill at sight, whilst of all other merchants I have got only one payable at some remote day. ——­ is a beautiful and noble youth, of a most subtle and magnetic nature, made for an artist, a painter, and in his art has made admirable sketches, but his criticism, I fancy, was too keen for his poetry (shall I say?); he sacrificed to Despair, and threw away his pencil.  For the present, he buys and sells.  I wrote you some sort of letter a fortnight ago, promising