by applauding this review.  I have agreed with the bookseller publishing the Miscellanies that he is to guarantee to you one dollar on every copy he sells; and you are to have the total profit on every copy subscribed for.  The retail price [is] to be $2.50.  The cost of the work is not yet precisely ascertained.  The work will probably appear in six or seven weeks.  We print one thousand copies.  So whenever it is sold you shall have one thousand dollars.

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* Printed in the Athenaeum, July 8, 1882.
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The French Revolution continues to find friends and purchasers.  It has gone to New Orleans, to Nashville, to Vicksburg.  I have not been in Boston lately, but have determined that nearly or quite eight hundred copies should be gone.  On the 1st of July I shall make up accounts with the booksellers, and I hope to make you the most favorable returns.  I shall use the advice of Barnard, Adams, & Co. in regard to remittances.

When you publish your next book I think you must send it out to me in sheets, and let us print it here contemporaneously with the English edition.  The eclat of so new a book would help the sale very much.

But a better device would be, that you should embark in the “Victoria” steamer, and come in a fortnight to New York, and in twenty-four hours more to Concord.  Your study arm-chair, fireplace, and bed, long vacant, auguring expect you.  Then you shall revise your proofs and dictate wit and learning to the New World.  Think of it in good earnest.  In aid of your friendliest purpose, I will set down some of the facts.  I occupy, or improve, as we Yankees say, two acres only of God’s earth; on which is my house, my kitchen-garden, my orchard of thirty young trees, my empty barn.  My house is now a very good one for comfort, and abounding in room.  Besides my house, I have, I believe, $22,000, whose income in ordinary years is six percent.  I have no other tithe or glebe except the income of my winter lectures, which was last winter $800.  Well, with this income, here at home, I am a rich man.  I stay at home and go abroad at my own instance.  I have food, warmth, leisure, books, friends.  Go away from home, I am rich no longer.  I never have a dollar to spend on a fancy.  As no wise man, I suppose, ever was rich in the sense of freedom to spend, because of the inundation of claims, so neither am I, who am not wise.  But at home, I am rich,—­rich enough for ten brothers.  My wife Lidian is an incarnation of Christianity,—­I call her Asia,—­and keeps my philosophy from Antinomianism; my mother, whitest, mildest, most conservative of ladies, whose only exception to her universal preference for old things is her son; my boy, a piece of love and sunshine, well worth my watching from morning to night;—­these, and three domestic women, who cook and sew and run for us, make all my household.  Here I sit and read and write, with very little system, and, as far as regards composition, with the most fragmentary result:  paragraphs incompressible, each sentence an infinitely repellent particle.