Without
Friendship, without Ralph Waldo Emerson, there had been no
sixpence of that money here. Thanks, and again thanks. This
earth is not an unmingled ball of Mud, after all. Sunbeams
visit it;--mud _and_ sunbeams are the stuff it has from of old
consisted of.--I hasten away from the Ledger, with the mere good-
news that James is altogether content with the "progress" of all
these Books, including even the well-abused _Chartism_ Book. We
are just on the point of finishing our English reprint of the
_Miscellanies;_ of which I hope to send you a copy before long.

And now why do not _you_ write to me? Your Lectures must be done
long ago. Or are you perhaps writing a Book? I shall be right
glad to hear of that; and withal to hear that you do not hurry
yourself, but strive with deliberate energy to produce what in
you is best. Certainly, I think, a right Book does lie in the
man! It is to be remembered also always that the true value is
determined by what we _do not_ write! There is nothing truer
than that now all but forgotten truth; it is eternally true. He
whom it concerns can consider it.--You have doubtless seen
Milnes's review of you. I know not that you will find it to
strike direct upon the secret of _Emerson,_ to hit the nail on
the head, anywhere at all; I rather think not. But it is
gently, not unlovingly done;--and lays the first plank of a kind
of pulpit for you here and throughout all Saxondom: a thing
rather to be thankful for. It on the whole surpassed my
expectations. Milnes tells me he is sending you a copy and a
Note, by Sumner. He is really a pretty little robin-redbreast of
a man.

You asked me about Landor and Heraud. Before my paper entirely
vanish, let me put down a word about them. Heraud is a
loquacious scribacious little man, of middle age, of parboiled
greasy aspect, whom Leigh Hunt describes as "wavering in the most
astonishing manner between being Something and Nothing." To me
he is chiefly remarkable as being still--with his entirely
enormous vanity and very small stock of faculty--out of Bedlam.
He picked up a notion or two from Coleridge many years ago; and
has ever since been rattling them in his head, like peas in an
empty bladder, and calling on the world to "List the Music of the
spheres." He escapes _assassination,_ as I calculate, chiefly by
being the cheerfulest best-natured little creature extant.--You
cannot kill him he laughs so softly, even when he