My Dear Friend,--I have seen Furness of Philadelphia, who was,
last week, in Boston, and inquired of him what account I should
send you of the new Philadelphia edition. "Has not Mr. Carey
paid you?" he said.--No. "Then has he not paid Carlyle
directly?" No, as I believe, or I should have heard of it.--
Furness replied, that the promised fifty pounds were sure, and
that the debt would have been settled before this time, if Mr.
Carey had lived. So as this is no longer a Three Blind
Callenders' business of Arabian Nights, I shall rest secure. I
have doubted whether the bad name which Philadelphia has gotten
in these times would not have disquieted you in this long delay.
If you have ever heard directly from Carey and Hart, you will
inform me.
I am to read to a society in Boston presently some lectures,
--on Plato, or the Philosopher; Swedenborg, or the Mystic;
Montaigne, or the Sceptic; Shakespeare, or the Poet; Napoleon,
or the Man of the World;--if I dare, and much lecturing makes us
incorrigibly rash. Perhaps, before I end it, my list will be
longer, and the measure of presumption overflowed. I may take
names less reverend than some of these,--but six lectures I have
promised. I find this obligation usually a good spur to the
sides of that dull horse I have charge of. But many of its
advantages must be regarded at a long distance.
I have heard nothing from you for a long time,--so may your
writing prosper the more. I wish to hear, however, concerning
you, and your house, and your studies, when there is little to
tell. The steamers come so fast--to exchange cards would not be
nothing. My wife and children and my mother are well. Peace and
love to your household.
--R.W. Emerson