say, is that you cannot utter yourself. The poor soul sits
struggling, impatient, longing vehemently out towards all corners
of the Universe, and cannot get its hest delivered, not even so
far as the voice might do it. Imprisoned, enchanted, like the
Arabian Prince with half his body marble: it is really bad work.
Then comes bodily sickness; to act and react, and double the
imbroglio. Till at last, I suppose, one does rise, like Eliphaz
the Temanite; states that his inner man is bursting (as if
filled with carbonic acid and new wine), that by the favor of
Heaven he will speak a word or two. Would it were come so far,--
if it be ever to come!

On the whole I think the odds are that I shall some time or other
get over to you; but that for this winter I ought not to go. My
London expedition is not decided hitherto; I have begun various
relations and arrangements, which it were questionable to cut
short so soon. That beggarly Book, were there nothing else,
hampers me every way. To fling it once for all into the fire
were perhaps the best; yet I grudge to do that. To finish it,
on the other hand, is denied me for the present, or even so much
as to work at it. What am I to do? When my Brother arrives, we
go all back to Scotland for some weeks: there, in seclusion,
with such calmness as I can find or create, the plan for the
winter must be settled. You shall hear from me then; let us
hope something more reasonable than I can write at present. For
about a month I have gone to and fro utterly _idle:_ understand
that, and I need explain no more. The wearied machine refused to
be urged any farther; after long spasmodic struggling comes
collapse. The burning of that wretched Manuscript has really
been a sore business for me. Nevertheless that too shall clear