Another thing.  I am persuaded that, if a man speak well, he shall find this a well-rewarded work in New England.  I have written this year ten lectures; I had written as many last year.  And for reading both these and those at places whither I was invited, I have received this last winter about three hundred and fifty dollars.  Had I, in lieu of receiving a lecturer’s fee, myself advertised that I would deliver these in certain places, these receipts would have been greatly increased.  I insert all this because my prayers for you in this country are quite of a commercial spirit.  If you lose no dollar by us, I shall joyfully trust your genius and virtue for your satisfaction on all other points.

I cannot remember that there are any other mouthpieces that are specially vital at this time except Criticism and Parliamentary Debate.  I think this of ours would possess in the hands of a great genius great advantages over both.  But what avail any commendations of the form, until I know that the man is alive and well?  If you love them that love you, write me straightway of your welfare.  My wife desires to add to mine her friendliest greetings to Mrs. Carlyle and to yourself.

Yours affectionately,
                 R. Waldo Emerson

I ought to say that Le-Baron Russell, a worthy young man who studies Engineering, did cause the republication of Teufelsdrockh.* I trust you shall yet see a better American review of it than the North American.

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* This first edition of Sartor as an independent volume was
published by James Munroe and Company, Boston.   Emerson, at Mr.
(now Dr.) Russell’s request, wrote a Preface for the book.   He
told Dr. Russell that his brother Charles was not pleased
with the Preface, thinking it “too commonplace, too much like
all prefaces.”
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XI.  Carlyle to Emerson

5 Cheyne Row, Chelsea, London 29 April, 1836

My Dear Emerson,—­Barnard is returning across the water, and must not go back without a flying salutation for you.  These many weeks I have had your letter by me; these many weeks I have felt always that it deserved and demanded a grateful answer; and, alas! also that I could give it none.  It is impossible for you to figure what mood I am in.  One sole thought, That Book! that weary Book! occupies me continually:  wreck and confusion of all kinds go tumbling and falling around me, within me; but to wreck and growth, to confusion and order, to the world at large, I turn a deaf ear; and have life only for this one thing,—­which also in general I feel to be one of the pitifulest that ever man went about possessed with.  Have compassion for me!  It is really very miserable:  but it will end.  Some months more, and it is ended; and I am done with French Revolution, and with Revolution and Revolt in general; and look once more with free eyes over this Earth, where are other things than mean internecine work of that kind:  things fitter for me, under the bright Sun, on this green Mother’s-bosom (though the Devil does dwell in it)!  For the present, really, it is like a Nessus’ shirt, burning you into madness, this wretched Enterprise; nay, it is also like a kind of Panoply, rendering you invulnerable, insensible, to all other mischiefs.