forward with Dreck,' he writes to his brother, 'sick enough, but not in bad heart. I think the world will nowise be enraptured with this (medicinal) Devil's Dung; that the critical republic will cackle vituperatively or perhaps maintain total silence. A la bonne heure! It was the best I had in me; what God had given me, what the Devil shall not take away.'
By the end of July 1831 Sartor Resartus, to adopt its ultimate name, was finished, and Mrs. Carlyle, least prejudiced of domestic critics, had pronounced it 'a work of genius.' With the manuscript in his bag Carlyle started for London to find a publisher. Trouble met him at every turn. Murray, with whom the book was first left, was worried by illness in his family, his literary advisers were out of town, and he at last returned the manuscript, with the confession that he had not been able to look at it. Carlyle turned to Fraser, who met him with the really monstrous offer to print the book if the author 'would give him a sum not exceeding £150 sterling.' Then Longmans were tried. 'They are honest, rugged, punctual-looking people, and will keep their word,' Carlyle writes to his wife—the 'dearest little comforter,' whose comfort he sorely needed—'but the chance of their declining seems to me a hundred to one.' The expected happened; but meanwhile Jeffrey's influence had been brought to bear on Murray, and on 4th September Carlyle received from him an offer to print an edition of 750 copies on the half-profit system. Carlyle needed ready money. Under the impression 'Murray wished me to try everywhere' he applied to Colburn and Bentley, was received by a 'muddy man' with a polite refusal, and returned to Murray to close with his offer. On 14th September he writes to his wife of this interview: 'The Dog was standing on the floor when I entered and could not escape me! He is the
