both all torn to pieces, set in order a little again!  After much vain reluctance therefore; disregarding many considerations,—­ disregarding finance in the front of these,—­I am off; and calculate on staying till I am heartily sated with country, till at least the last gleam of summer weather has departed.  My way of life has all along hitherto been a resolute staying at home: I find now, however, that I must alter my habits, cost what it may; that I cannot live all the year round in London, under pain of dying or going rabid;—­that I must, in fact, learn to travel, as others do, and be hanged to me!  Wherefore, in brief, my Friend, our address for the next two or three months is “Newington Lodge, Annan, Scotland,”—­where a letter from Emerson will be a right pleasant visitor! Faustum sit.

My second piece of news, not less interesting I hope, is that Emerson’s Essays, the Book so called, is to be reprinted here; nay, I think, is even now at press,—­in the hands of that invaluable Printer, Robson, who did the Miscellanies. Fraser undertakes it, “on half-profits";—­T.  Carlyle writing a Preface,*—­which accordingly he did (in rather sullen humor,—­not with you!) last night and the foregoing days.  Robson will stand by the text to the very utmost; and I also am to read the Proof sheets.  The edition is of Seven Hundred and Fifty; which Fraser thinks he will sell.  With what joy shall I then sack up the small Ten Pounds Sterling perhaps of “Half-Profits,” and remit them to the man Emerson; saying:  There, Man!  Tit for tat, the reciprocity not all on one side!—­I ought to say, moreover, that this was a volunteer scheme of Fraser’s; the risk is all his, the origin of it was with him:  I advised him to have it reviewed, as being a really noteworthy Book; “Write you a Preface,” said he, “and I will reprint it";—­to which, after due delay and meditation; I consented.  Let me add only, on this subject, the story of a certain Rio,** a French Breton, with long, distracted, black hair.  He found your Book at Richard Milnes’s, a borrowed copy, and could not borrow it; whereupon he appeals passionately to me; carries off my Wife’s copy, this distracted Rio; and is to “read it four times” during this current autumn, at Quimperle, in his native Celtdom!  The man withal is a Catholic, eats fish on Friday;—­a great lion here when he visits us; one of the naivest men in the world:  concerning whom nevertheless, among fashionables, there is a controversy, “Whether he is an Angel, or partially a Windbag and Humbug?” Such is the lot of loveliness in the World!  A truer man I never saw; how windless, how windy, I will not compute at present.  Me he likes greatly (in spite of my unspeakable contempt for his fish on Friday); likes,—­but withal is apt to bore.