There are “laws of the trade” which ought to be repealed; which I will take the liberty of contravening to all lengths by all opportunities—­if I had but the power!  But if this joint-stock American plan prosper, it will answer rarely.  Fraser’s first French Revolution, for instance, will be done, he calculates, about New-Year’s-day; and a second edition wanted; mine to do with what I like.  If you in America wanted more also—?  I leave you to think of this.—­And now enough, enough!

My Brother went from us last Tuesday; ought to be in Paris yesterday.  I am yet writing nothing; feel forsaken, sad, sick, —­not unhappy.  In general Death seems beautiful to me; sweet and great.  But Life also is beautiful, is great and divine, were it never to be joyful any more.  I read Books, my wife sewing by me, with the light of a sinumbra, in a little apartment made snug against the winter; and am happiest when all men leave me alone, or nearly all,—­though many men love me rather, ungrateful that I am.  My present book is Horace Walpole; I get endless stuff out of it; epic, tragic, lyrical, didactic:  all inarticulate indeed.  An old blind Schoolmaster in Annan used to ask with endless anxiety when a new scholar was offered him, “But are ye sure he’s not a Dunce?” It is really the one thing needful in a man; for indeed (if we will candidly understand it) all else is presupposed in that.  Horace Walpole is no dunce, not a fibre of him is duncish.

Your Friend Sumner was here yesterday, a good while, for the first time:  an ingenious, cultivated, courteous man; a little sensitive or so, and with no other fault that I discerned.  He borrowed my copy of your Dartmouth business, and bound himself over to return with it soon.  Some approve of that here, some condemn:  my Wife and another lady call it better even than the former, I not so good.  And now the Heterodox, the Heterodox, where is that?  Adieu, my dear Friend.  Commend me to the Concord Household; to the little Boy, to his Grandmother, and Mother, and Father; we must all meet some day,—­or some no-day then (as it shall please God)!  My Wife heartily greets you all.

Ever yours,
         T. Carlyle

I sent your book, message, and address to Sterling; he is in Florence or Rome.  Read the article Simonides by him in the London and Westminster—­brilliant prose, translations—­wooden?  His signature is L (Pounds Sterling!).—­Now you are to write soon? I always forgot to tell you, there came long since two packages evidently in your hand, marked “One printed sheet,” and “one Newspaper,” for which the Postman demanded about Fifteen shillings:  rejected. After considerable correspondence the Newspaper was again offered me at ten pence; the sheet unattainable altogether:  “No,” even at tenpence.  The fact is, it was wrong wrapped, that Newspaper.  Leave it open at the ends, and