s--both to look at and to go. I roared
out this morning, as soon as I was awake, "Next month," which we have
been longing to be able to say ever since we have been here. I really do
not know how we shall ever knock at the door, when that slowest of all
impossibly slow hackney-coaches shall pull up--at home.

I am glad you exult in the fight I have had about the copyright. If you
knew how they tried to stop me, you would have a still greater interest
in it. The greatest men in England have sent me out, through Forster, a
very manly, and becoming, and spirited memorial and address, backing me
in all I have done. I have despatched it to Boston for publication, and
am coolly prepared for the storm it will raise. But my best rod is in
pickle.

Is it not a horrible thing that scoundrel booksellers should grow rich
here from publishing books, the authors of which do not reap one
farthing from their issue by scores of thousands; and that every vile,
blackguard, and detestable newspaper, so filthy and bestial that no
honest man would admit one into his house for a scullery door-mat,
should be able to publish those same writings side by side, cheek by
jowl, with the coarsest and most obscene companions with which they must
become connected, in course of time, in people's minds? Is it tolerable
that besides being robbed and rifled an author should be forced to
appear in any form, in any vulgar dress, in any atrocious company; that
he should have no choice of his audience, no control over his own
distorted text, and that he should be compelled to jostle out of the
course the best men in this country who only ask to live by writing? I
vow before high heaven that my blood so boils at these enormities, that
when I speak about them I seem to grow twenty feet high, and to swell
out in proportion. "Robbers that ye are," I think to myself when I get
upon my legs, "here goes!"

The places we have lodged in, the roads we have gone over, the company
we have been among, the tobacco-spittle we have wallowed in, the strange
customs we have complied with, the packing-cases in which we have
travelled, the woods, swamps, rivers, prairies, lakes, and mountains we
have crossed, are all subjects for legends and tales at home; quires,
reams, wouldn't hold them. I don't think Anne has so much as seen an
American tree. She never looks at a prospect by any chance, or displays
the smallest emotion at any sight whatever. She objects to Niagara that
"it'