outlines for me in Falkland, Hampden, and the rest, without defiance or sky-vaulting.  I wish I could talk with you face to face for one day, and know what your uttermost frankness would say concerning the book.  I feel assured of its good reception in this country.  I learned last Saturday that in all eleven hundred and sixty-six copies of Sartor have been sold.  I have told the publisher of that book that he must not print the History until some space has been given to people to import British copies.  I have ordered Hilliard, Gray, & Co. to import twenty copies as an experiment.  At the present very high rate of exchange, which makes a shilling worth thirty cents, they think, with freight and duties, the book would be too costly here for sale, but we confide in a speedy fall of Exchange; then my books shall come.  I am ashamed that you should educate our young men, and that we should pirate your books.  One day we will have a better law, or perhaps you will make our law yours.

I had your letter long before your book.  Very good work you have done in your lifetime, and very generously you adorn and cheer this pilgrimage of mine by your love.  I find my highest prayer granted in calling a just and wise man my friend.  Your profuse benefaction of genius in so few years makes me feel very poor and useless.  I see that I must go on trust to you and to all the brave for some longer time, hoping yet to prove one day my truth and love.  There are in this country so few scholars, that the services of each studious person are needed to do what he can for the circulation of thoughts, to the end of making some counterweight to the money force, and to give such food as he may to the nigh starving youth.  So I religiously read lectures every winter, and at other times whenever summoned.  Last year, “the Philosophy of History,” twelve lectures; and now I meditate a course on what I call “Ethics.”  I peddle out all the wit I can gather from Time or from Nature, and am pained at heart to see how thankfully that little is received.

Write to me, good friend, tell me if you went to Scotland,—­what you do, and will do,—­tell me that your wife is strong and well again as when I saw her at Craigenputtock.  I desire to be affectionately remembered to her.  Tell me when you will come hither.  I called together a little club a week ago, who spent a day with me,—­counting fifteen souls,—­each one of whom warmly loves you.  So if the French Revolution does not convert the “dull public” of your native Nineveh, I see not but you must shake their dust from your shoes and cross the Atlantic to a New England.  Yours in love and honor.

—­R.  Waldo Emerson

May I trouble you with a commission when you are in the City?  You mention being at the shop of Rich in Red-Lion Square.  Will you say to him that he sent me some books two or three years ago without any account of prices annexed?  I wrote him once myself, once through S. Burdett, bookseller, and since through C.P.  Curtis, Esq., who professes to be his attorney in Boston,—­three times,—­to ask for this account.  No answer has ever come.  I wish he would send me the account, that I may settle it.  If he persist in his self-denying contumacy, I think you may immortalize him as a bookseller of the gods.