t three essays nearly done, and who knows but in the autumn I
shall have a book? Meantime my little boy and maid, my mother
and wife, are well, and the two ladies send to you and yours
affectionate regards,--they would fain say urgent invitations.
My mother sends tonight, my wife always.

I shall send you presently a copy of a translation published here
of Eckermann, by Margaret Fuller, a friend of mine and of yours,
for the sake of its preface mainly. She is a most accomplished
lady, and her culture belongs rather to Europe than to America.
Good bye.

--R.W. Emerson

XLV. Emerson to Carlyle

Concord, 8 August, 1839

Dear Friend,--This day came the letter dated 24 June, with "steam
packet" written by you on the outside, but no paddles wheeled it
through the sea. It is forty-five days old, and too old to do
its errand even had it come twenty days sooner--so far as printer
and bookbinder are concerned. I am truly grieved for the
mischance of the _John_ Fraser, and will duly lecture the sinning
bookseller. I noticed the misnomer in a letter of his New York
correspondent, and, I believe, mentioned to you in a letter my
fear of such a mischance. I am more sorry for the costliness
of this adventure to you, though in a gracious note to me you
cut down the fine one half. The new books, tardily printed,
were tardily bound and tardily put to sea on the packet ship
"Ontario," which left New York for London on the 1st of August.
At least this was the promise of Munroe & Co. I stood over the
boxes in which they were packing them in the latter days of July.
I hope they have not gone to John again, but you must keep an eye
to both names....

I cannot tell you how glad I am that you have seen my brave
Senator, and seen him as I see him. All my days I have wished
that he should go to England, and never more than when I listened
two or three times to debates in the House of Commons. We send
out usually mean persons as public agents, mere partisans, for
whom I can only hope that no man with eyes will meet them; and
now those thirsty eyes, those portrait-eating, portrait-painting
eyes of thine, those fatal perceptions, have fallen full on the
great forehead which I followed about all my young days, from
court-house to senate-chamber, from caucus to street. He has his
own sins no doubt, is no saint, is a prodigal. He has drunk this
rum of Party too so long, that his strong hea