Concord, 30 September, 1844
My Dear Friend,--I enclose a bill of exchange for thirty pounds
sterling which I procured in town today at $5 each pound, or
$150; so high, it seems, is the rate at present, higher, they
said, than for years. It is good booksellers' money from Little
and Brown, and James Munroe & Co., in unequal proportions. If
you wish for more accurate information and have a great deal of
patience, there is still hope that you may obtain it before
death; for I this day met E.P. Clark in Washington Street, and
he reported some progress in auditing of accounts, and said that
when presently his family should return to town for the winter,
he would see to the end of them, i.e. the accounts.
I received with great satisfaction your letter of July, which
came by a later steamer than it was written for, but gave me
exact and solid information on what I most wished to know. May
you live forever, and may your reports of men and things be
accessible to me whilst I live! Even if, as now in Sterling's
case, the news are the worst, or nearly so, yet let whatever
comes for knowledge be precise, for the direst tragedy that is
accurately true must share the blessing of the Universe. I have
no later tidings from Sterling, and I must still look to you to
tell me what you can. I dread that the story should be short.
May you have much good to tell of him, and for many a day to
come! The sketch you drew of Tennyson was right welcome, for he
is an old favorite of mine,--I owned his book before I saw your
face;--though I love him with allowance. O cherish him with love
and praise, and draw from him whole books full of new verses yet.
The only point on which you never give precise intelligence is
your own book; but you shall have your will in that; so only
you arrive on the shores of light at last, with your mystic
freight fished partly out of the seas of time, and partly out of
the empyrean deeps.
I have much regretted a sudden note I wrote you just before the
steamer of 1 September sailed, entreating you to cumber yourself
about my proofsheets sent to the London bookseller. I heartily
absolve you from all such vexations. Nothing could be more
inconsiderate. Mr. Chapman is undoubtedly amply competent to
ordinary correction, and I much prefer to send you my little book
in decent trim than in rags and stains and deformities more than
its own. I have just corrected and sent to the steamer the last
sheets for Mr. Chapman, who is to find English readers if he can.
I shall ask Mr. Chapman to send you a copy, for his edition will
be more correct than mine. What can I tell you better? Why even
this, that this house rejoices in a brave boy, now near three
months old. Edward we call him, and my wife calls him Edward
Waldo. When shall I show him to you? And when shall I show you
a pretty pasture and wood-lot which I bought last week on the
borders of a lake which is the chief ornament of this town,
called Walden Pond? One of these days, if I should have any
money, I may build me a cabin or a turret there high as the tree-
tops, and spend my nights as well as days in the midst of a
beauty which never fades for me.
Yours with love,
R.W. Emerson