In about seven days hence we go to Scotland till the July heats be over.  That is our resolution after all.  Our address there, probably till the end of August, is “Templand, Thornhill, Dumfries, N. B.,”—­the residence of my Mother-in-law, within a day’s drive of my Mother’s.  Any Letter of yours sent by the old constant address (Cheyne Row, Chelsea) will still find me there; but the other, for that time, will be a day or two shorter.  We all go, servant and all.  I am bent on writing something; but have no faith that I shall be able.  I must try.  There is a thing of mine in Fraser for July, of no account, about the “sinking of the Vengeur” as you will see.  The French Revolution printing is not to stop; two thirds of it are done; at this present rate, it ought to finish, and the whole be ready, within three weeks hence.  A Letter will be here from you about that time, I think:  I will print no title-page for the Five Hundred till it do come.  “Published by Fraser and Little” would, I suppose, be unobjectionable, though Fraser is the most nervous of creatures:  but why put him in at all, since these Five hundred copies are wholly Little’s and yours?  Adieu, my Friend.  Our blessings are with you and your house.  My wife grows better with the hot weather; I, always worse.

Yours ever,
      T. Carlyle

I say not a word about America or Lecturing at present; because I mean to consider it intently in Scotland, and there to decide.  My Brother is to be at Ischl (not far from Salzburg) during Summer:  he was anxious to have me there, and I to have gone; but—­but—­Adieu.

Fraser’s Shop. Books not yet come, but known to be safe, and expected soon.  Nay, the dexterous Fraser has argued away L15 of the duty, he says!  All is right therefore.  N.B. he says you are to send the second Portion in sheets, the weight will be less.  This if it be still time.—­Basta.

—­T.C.

XLIV.  Emerson to Carlyle

Concord, 4 July, 1839

I hear tonight, O excellent man! that, unless I send a letter to Boston tomorrow with the peep of day, it will miss the Liverpool steamer, which sails earlier than I dreamed of.  O foolish Steamer!  I am not ready to write.  The facts are not yet ripe, though on the turn of the blush.  Couldst not wait a little?  Hurry is for slaves;—­and Aristotle, if I rightly remember only that little from my college lesson, affirmed that the high-minded man never walked fast.  O foolish Steamer! wait but a week, and we will style thee Megalopsyche, and hang thee by the Argo in the stars.  Meantime I will not deny the dear and admirable man the fragments of intelligence I have.  Be it known unto you then, Thomas Carlyle, that I received yesterday morning your letter by the “Liverpool” with great contentment of heart and mind, in all respects, saving