But now as to this edition of the Miscellanies (poor things), I really think my Wife is wisest, who says I ought to leave you altogether to your own resources with it, America having an art of making money out of my Books which England is unfortunately altogether without.  Besides, till I once see the Two Volumes now under way, and can let a Bookseller see them, there could no bargain be made on the subject.  We will let it rest there, therefore.  Go on with your second Two Volumes, as if there were no England extant, according to your own good judgment.  When I get to London, I will consult some of the blockheads with the Book in my hand:  if we do want Two Hundred copies, you can give us them with a trifling loss.  It is possible they may make some better proposal about an Edition here:  that depends on the fate of Sartor here, at present trying itself; which I have not in the least ascertained.  For the present, thank as is meet all friends in your world that have interested themselves for me.  Alas!  I have nothing to give them but thanks.  Henry McKean, Charles Wheeler, Convers Francis; these Names shall, if it please Heaven, become Persons for me, one day.  Well!—­But I will say nothing more.  That too is of the things on which all Words are poor to Silence.  Good to the Good and Kind!

A Letter from me must have crossed that descriptive Concord one, on the Ocean, I think.  Our correspondence is now standing on its feet.  I will write to you again, whether I hear from you or not, so soon as my hand finds its cunning again in London,—­so soon as I can see there what is to be done or said.  All goes decidedly better, I think.  My Wife was and is much healthier than last year, than in any late year.  I myself get visibly quieter my preternatural Meditations in Hades, apropos of this Annandale of mine, are calm compared with those of last year.  By another Course of Lectures I have a fair prospect of living for another season; nay, people call it a “new profession” I have devised for myself, and say I may live by it as many years as I like.  This too is partly the fruit of my poor Book; one should not say that it was worth nothing to me even in money.  Last year I fancied my Audience mainly the readers of it; drawn round me, in spite of many things, by force of it.  Let us be content.  I have Jesuits, Swedenborgians, old Quakeresses, omne cum Proteus, —­God help me, no man ever had so confused a public!—­I salute you, my dear Friend, and your hospitable circle.  May blessings be on your kind household, on your kind hearts!

—­T.  Carlyle

A copy of the English Teufelsdrockh has lain with your name on it these two months in Chelsea; waiting an opportunity.  It is worth nothing to you:  a dingy, ill-managed edition; but correct or nearly correct as to printing; it is right that such should be in your hands in case of need.  The New England Pamphlets will be greedily expected.  More than one inquires of me, Has that Emerson of yours written nothing else?  And I have lent them the little Book Nature, till it is nearly thumbed to pieces.  Sterling is gone to Italy for the winter since I left town; swift as a flash!  I cannot teach him the great art of sitting still; his fine qualities are really like to waste for want of that.