My Dear Friend,—­It is all right; all your Letters with their inclosures have arrived in due succession:  the last, inquiring after the fate of the others, came this morning.  I was in Scotland, as you partly conjecture; I wrote to you already (though not without blamable delay), from my Mother’s house in Annandale, a confused scrawl, which I hope has already got to hand, and quieted your kind anxieties.  I am as well as usual in health, my Wife better than usual; nothing is amiss, except my negligence and indolence, which has put you to this superfluous solicitude on my account.  However, I have an additional Letter by it; you must pardon me, you must not grudge me that undeserved pleasure, the reward of evil-doing.  I may well say, you are a blessing to me on this Earth; no Letter comes from you with other than good tidings,—­or can come while you live there to love me.

The Bill was thrust duly into Baring’s brass slit “for acceptance,” on my return hither some three weeks ago; and will, no doubt, were the days of grace run, come out in the shape of Fifty Pounds Sterling; a very curious product indeed.  Do you know what I think of doing with it? Dyspepsia, my constant attendant in London, is incapable of help in my case by any medicine or appliance except one only, Riding on horseback.  With a good horse to whirl me over the world for two hours daily, I used to keep myself supportably well.  Here, the maintenance of a Horse far transcends my means; yet it seems hard I should not for a little while be in a kind of approximate health in this Babylon where I have my bread to seek it is like swimming with a millstone round your neck,—­ah me!  In brief, I am about half resolved to buy myself a sharp little nag with Twenty of these Transatlantic Pounds, and ride him till the other Thirty be eaten:  I will call the creature “Yankee,” and kind thoughts of those far away shall be with me every time I mount him.  Will not that do?  My Wife says it is the best plan I have had for years, and strongly urges it on.  My kind friends!

As to those copies of the Carlyle Miscellanies, I unfortunately still can say nothing, except what was said in the former (Scotch) letter, that you must proceed in the business with an eye to America and not to us.  My Booksellers, Saunders and Ottley, have no money for me, no definite offer in money to make for those Two Hundred copies, of which you seem likely to make money if we simply leave them alone.  I have asked these Booksellers, I have asked Fraser too:  What will you give me in ready money for Two Hundred and Fifty copies of that work, sell it afterwards as you can?  They answer always, We must see it first.  Now the copy long ago sent me has never come to hand; I have asked for it of Kennet, but without success; I have nothing for it but to wait the winds and chances.  Meanwhile Saunders and Ottley want forsooth a Sketches of German Literature in three volumes:  then