I care less about it than I did; it is not agony and wretched trembling to the marrow of the bone, as it was the last two times.  I believe, in spite of all my perpetual indigestions and nervous woes, I am actually getting into better health; the weary heart of me is quieter; I wait in silence for the new chapter,—­feeling truly that we are at the end of one period here.  I count it two in my autobiography:  we shall see what the third is; [if] third there be.  But I am in small haste for a third.  How true is that of the old Prophets, “The word of the Lord came unto” such and such a one!  When it does not come, both Prophet and Prosaist ought to be thankful (after a sort), and rigorously hold their tongue.—­Lord Durham’s people have come over with golden reports of the Americans, and their brotherly feelings.  One Arthur Buller preaches to me, with emphasis, on a quite personal topic till one explodes in laughter to hear him, the good soul:  That I, namely, am the most esteemed, &c., and ought to go over and Lecture in all great towns of the Union, and make, &c., &c.!  I really do begin to think of it in this interregnum that I am in.  But then my Lectures must be written; but then I must become a hawker, —­ach Gott!

The people are beginning to quote you here:  tant pis pour eux! I have found you in two Cambridge books.  A certain Mr. Richard M. Milnes, M.P., a beautiful little Tory dilettante poet and politician whom I love much, applied to me for Nature (the others he has) that he might write upon it.  Somebody has stolen Nature from me, or many have thumbed it to pieces; I could not find a copy.  Send me one, the first chance you have.  And see Miss Martineau in the last Westminster Review:—­these things you are old enough to stand?  They are even of benefit?  Emerson is not without a select public, the root of a select public on this side of the water too.—­Popular Sumner is off to Italy, the most popular of men,—­inoffensive, like a worn sixpence that has no physiognomy left.  We preferred Coolidge to him in this circle; a square-cut iron man, yet with clear symptoms of a heart in him.  Your people will come more and more to their maternal Babylon, will they not, by the steamers?—­ Adieu, my dear friend.  My Wife joins me in all good prayers for you and yours.

—­Thomas Carlyle

XXXVII.  Carlyle to Emerson

Chelsea, London, 17 April, 1839

Dear Friend,—­Some four days ago I wrote you a long Letter, rather expressive of anxiety about you; it will probably come to hand along with this.  I had heard vaguely that you were unwell, and wondered why you did not write.  Happily, that point is as good as settled now, even by your silence about it.  I have, half an hour ago, received your Concord Letter of the 19th of March.  The Letter you speak of there as “written last Saturday” has not yet made its appearance, but may be looked for now shortly:  as there is no mention here of any mischance, except the shortcoming of Printers’ copy, I infer that all else is in a tolerably correct state; I wait patiently for the “last Saturday” tidings, and will answer as to the matters of copy, in good heart, without loss of a moment.