The Letters of Thomas Carlyle to His Brother Alexander, with Related Family Letters [Reprint 2013 ed.] 9780674333291, 9780674331709

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THE LETTERS OF THOMAS CARLYLE TO HIS BROTHER ALEXANDER

THOMAS

CABLYLE

ALEXANDER CABLYLE

The Letters of Thomas Carlyle to His Brother Alexander WITH RELATED FAMILY LETTERS

Edited by Edwin W. Marrs, Jr. THE BELKNAP PRESS OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY PRESS Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1968

© Copyright 1968 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College All rights reserved Distributed in Great Britain by Oxford University Press, London Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 68-21978 Printed in the United States of America

To Mrs. Ernest D. Clump, Mrs. John A. Carlyle and the Memory of My Father

PREFACE

of the letters in this collection in February 1819, when he was twenty-three and groping about in Edinburgh for the work suitable to his talent and temperament. Alexander was then twenty-one and still farming at Mainhill, their father's rented farm sixty miles south of Edinburgh in the border country of Scotland. Carlyle wrote his last letter to his brother in February 1876, two weeks before Alexander died at Bield, his own farm on the Niagara Peninsula in Canada. The merits of the letters individually and as a collection are clear. Almost every one of Carlyle's letters to Alexander is an example of what a fine letter should be — spontaneous, candid, full, and containing such vivid descriptions of person and place as to make the reader see with the writer. Carlyle's London carman, for example, who "with his huge slouch hat hanging halfway down his back, consumes his breakfast of bread and tallow or hog's lard, sometimes as he swags along the streets, always in a hurried and precarious fashion, and supplies the deficit by continual pipes and pots of beer," appears to swag by us. Our visions of the "miserable goggle-eyed scarecrow" figure of Bulwer-Lytton or of "Holborn in a fog! with the black vapour brooding over it, absolutely like fluid ink," approximate Carlyle's by the power of that vision and his word. Carlyle's ability to capture the whirl of the passing scene for Alexander with the force that he used to revivify the past for all men makes this collection of letters as remarkable as a chronicle in little of its epoch as The French Revolution or Oliver Cromwell's Letters and Speeches are in large of theirs. As such it contributes to our understanding of the period in which Carlyle lived. The collection is also remarkable for its frank disclosure of Carlyle's feelings and contributes to our understanding of Carlyle himself. In his preface to the New Letters of Thomas Carlyle, Carlyle's nephew C A R L Y L E WROTE THE FIRST

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Alexander explained that he had included a large number of the letters Carlyle wrote after his wife's death as evidence that Carlyle bore even his greatest loss with a reasonable share of equanimity. Considering that Carlyle's letters and not his gloomy Journal entries reflect his prevailing state of mind, we should, he concluded, judge that state of mind mainly by his letters and recognize it as at least more sanguine in its outlook than we customarily believe it was. The letters in this collection support the younger Alexander Carlyle's conclusions in spite of their abundant concern with the real and imaginary illnesses of their writer. They have additional value in their open and copious expression of feeling, and in this regard are distinguished from the letters Carlyle wrote to Goethe, Emerson, Mill, Sterling, and Browning. Only to his wife and to his brother John did Carlyle express himself in his letters as freely as he did to Alexander. The collection is uniquely remarkable for its conclusive statement of Carlyle's capacity for fraternal love. He showed his love for Alexander in many of the letters he wrote either to or about him, by the frequency with which he wrote and the moral and financial support he gave to him, by accepting support from him in return, and by graphically bringing to him the sophisticated worlds from which Alexander was isolated and their own rustic world of Annandale after hard necessity had forced Alexander to leave it. Carlyle declared what Alexander meant to him in a number of places in and out of these letters, but never more eloquently than in his last letter in this collection, written to Alexander's son Thomas shortly after Alexander's death: "There never was a kinder Brother than he from his earliest years, and without break through life was to me. True as steel he ever was, and with a fund of tenderness, strange in one of so fiery a temper; a man of infinite talent, too, had it been developed by friendly fortune; I never knew a more faithful, ingenious and valiant man. He was, withal, the first human being I ever came to friendship and familiarity with in this world; and our hearts were knit together by a thousand ties. Very beautiful, very sad and tender are the endless recollections I have of him, which must continue with me as companions while I live. No doubts similar thoughts dwelt in his mind about me, and it seems were even present with him." The collection is finally remarkable for its delineation of the faith-

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ful, ingenious, valiant Alexander, his character and his struggles, and many of the thousand ties that bound brother to brother all their lives. The history of the letters that Alexander received and saved, some for fifty-seven years, is reasonably clear. After his death they passed to his eldest son, Thomas. Probably soon after Carlyle's death Thomas sent them to London to his cousin Mary Aitken Carlyle, editor of Scottish Song: A Selection of the Choicest Lyrics of Scotland ( London and Glasgow, 1874), wife of Thomas' brother Alexander, and Carlyle's companion and amanuensis during his last years. At her request Charles Eliot Norton edited a selection of them and the other letters she had collected, and in 1886 he published part of her collection as the Early Letters of Thomas Carlyle, 1814-1826. He followed it in 1888 with the Letters of Thomas Carlyle, 1826-1836. Mary's husband, Alexander, carried on after Norton and in 1904 published the New Letters of Thomas Carlyle. Alexander then returned Thomas' letters to him in Canada, where with rare exception they have remained ever since, first in the care of Thomas, then his children, and most recently his grandchildren. Seven years ago Mrs. Ernest D. Clump, of Paris, Ontario, Thomas' only surviving daughter and the sole survivor of her generation of Carlyles, showed me the two hundred Carlyle and Carlyle family letters in her trust and gave me, with the kind approval of her relatives in Canada, permission to publish them. At the same time Mrs. John A. Carlyle, also of Paris, widow of Mrs. Clump's brother, arranged permission for me to publish the forty-five letters the younger Alexander had given to her husband, who had left them to his son, Hugh M. Carlyle. From the collections of Mrs. Clump and Mrs. Carlyle, I have taken all of Carlyle's letters and all except three of the letters written by other members of his family. Through the generosity of the trustees of the National Library of Scotland and the John Rylands Library I have been able to include five more letters from Carlyle to Alexander and a fragment of a sixth, to which I did not assign a number and which is not counted in my computations below; a postscript from Carlyle to his sister Jean that completes a letter from Alexander to Carlyle, which because of their dates and an intervening letter I had to count as two separate letters; and a selection of the letters from

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PREFACE

Alexander to Carlyle. Those, plus the fourteen published Carlyle letters to Alexander whose holographs I have not been able to recover, brought the total collection to 271 letters. It includes 243 from Carlyle, 9 from Alexander, 18 from other members of the family, and one from William Hone. Of the 243 from Carlyle, 222 are to Alexander and 21 to other members of the family. Of the 243 from Carlyle, 126 are published here for the first time and 97 of the remainder appear for the first time in their entirety. The 222 from Carlyle to Alexander are, so far as I am aware, every extant letter from the one brother to the other. In editing the letters, I have observed several principles: 1. I- have identified the writer of a letter only when he was not Carlyle and the addressee only when he was not Alexander. 2. I have given the location of a holograph letter only when the letter is not held by Mrs. Clump or her nephews and nieces in Canada or by Mrs. Carlyle or her two children. 3. In the cases where I have been unable to recover the holograph letter to a published text, I have noted that fact, the source of my text, and any instance where my treatment of the body of the letter departed from the previous editors. Any ellipses in such a letter are the former editor's. 4. In cases where an extant holograph letter has been published in the Early Letters, the Letters, or the New Letters, I have noted the fact, but not that it may appear elsewhere as well. If no publication information is given, it indicates that the letter is previously unpublished. 5. I have tried to provide a text that is faithful to the holograph letters. Thus, I have retained the misspellings and, within angled brackets, the cancellations that convey an original meaning that was altered. I have deleted canceled misspellings, words out of order, and portions of words. I have used ellipses to indicate where a word or passage is illegible or has been torn away, and placed square brackets around my insertions. 6. At the same time I have tried to provide a text that is readable. Thus, I have silently omitted the occasional word or two at the bottom of a sheet that the writer repeated at the top of his next one, lowered all superior characters and interlinear readings, expanded such

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awkward abbreviations as cd, wh, d°, &, EdinT, bror, tho*, added a few marks of punctuation to clarify confusing passages, and followed the American rules governing pointing about close-quotation marks. 7. For the sake of uniformity and a pleasing appearance, all letters have been standardized in the placement of heading, salutation, body, complimentary close, signature, and postscripts. The complimentary close has been run into the body of the letter after its final sentence to avoid diverting the reader's eye from the letter proper and because it was a practice Carlyle himself observed in over half of his letters. The postscripts have been placed at the ends of the letters, and in some instances of necessity in an arbitrary order, regardless of where they appear on the original. 8. To keep both the number and bulk of the notes to a minimum, I have identified only at their first instance unfamiliar persons, places, publications, events, and quotations, and with the exception of the quotations have noted what I could not identify. For the same reasons I have cited only H. D. Traill's edition of the Critical and Miscellaneous Essays and Collectanea Thomm Carlyle, 1821-1855, ed. Samuel Arthur Jones (Canton, Pa., 1903), as secondary sources for Carlyle's critical essays and established a glossary of selected Scotticisms and English dialectals. The short titles and abbreviations I have used in the notes are listed at the end of the book. It is my pleasure to acknowledge those who helped me. Clearly I owe an exceptional debt to Mrs. Clump and Mrs. Carlyle. Although they have my personal thanks, I hope that this book, on which they too worked to display accurately their magnificent family letters, more adequately expresses my gratitude. Cecil Y. Lang's presence and counsel have been vital. His enthusiasm and encouragement inspired me to begin, and his exemplary scholarship and patient instruction guided me to the end. Charles Richard Sanders opened to me his fund of knowledge of Carlyle and, to the extent that he could without violating in any way his many trusts, his monumental collection of the Carlyles' correspondence. I owe Professor Lang and Professor Sanders much more than thanks, but it is all I can give them here. I also thank Florence Blakely, Mary Canada, Mary Frances Morris,

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and Emerson Ford of the Duke University Library; Louise McG. Hall, Dorothy Daetsch, Eileen Mcllvaine, Pattie B. Mclntyre, and Joan Beaird of the University of North Carolina Library; Pauline L. Ralston and Marion L. Mullen of the Syracuse University Library; Eric von Brockdorff and Georgia O'Brien of the Colgate University Library; Jonathan Addelson of the Boston Athenaeum; the staffs of the Library of Congress, the Yale University Library, the Dartmouth College Library, and the Harvard College Library; and, for their expert clerical and editorial assistance, Janet Edwards and Linda Greene. In England I am indebted to F. N. L. Poynter and Sue Goldie of the Wellcome Historical Medical Library and Honorary Editor and Editor of Medical History; Thomas Ashworth, Chief Librarian, the Central Library, Bolton; the staffs of the British Museum, the Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst, and the Cambridge University Library; D. W. Kennedy of the British Linen Bank, London; M. Godfrey of the Public Records Office, London; the office of the Ministry of Defense, Whitehall; the Town Clerks' offices of Manchester and Workington; and Janetta Taylor of the University of Hull and assistant to Professor Sanders. To Carlyle's own countrymen I am under special obligation. There were no lengths to which they did not go to answer my many questions. Among those most helpful were Allan Cunningham, formerly Lord Provost, Ecclefechan, and kinsman of the Nithsdale poet whose name he bears; Mrs. S. M. McLean, Honorary Secretary of the Carlyle Society and County Librarian, the Ewart Public Library, Dumfries; George D. Grant, Town Clerk, and James A. Stewart, Town Clerk Deputy, Dumfries; A. E. Truckell, Curator, the Burgh Museum, Dumfries; and George Gilchrist, Registrar, Annan. I am heavily and pleasantly obliged to David D. Murison, Editor, the Scottish National Dictionary; James S. Ritchie, Assistant Keeper of Manuscripts, the National Library of Scotland; Charles W. Black, City Librarian, the Mitchell Library, Glasgow; Charles P. Finlayson, Keeper of Manuscripts, and S. M. Simpson, the Edinburgh University Library; W. S. Taylor, City Librarian, Dundee; the staffs of the Kirkcaldy Public Libraries; Walter J. Chinn of the Clydesdale Bank, Limited, Glasgow; C. M. Kerr of the British Linen Bank, Dumfries; Oliver and Boyd, Limited; Hugh D. L. Simpson, Town Clerk, Moffat; and H. Reynold

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Galbraith, Town Clerk, and the Reverend Mr. John Johnston of St. Peters Manse, Inverkeithing. I am grateful to Syracuse University, the Colgate University Research Council, and the University of Pittsburgh for their financial aid; Duke University for a fellowship and teaching appointment in 19631964, which afforded me the opportunity to work with Professor Sanders; and Gordon N. Ray, who helped to make that opportunity possible. For her years of assistance I am most grateful to my wife, Perthenia. E. W. M., Pittsburgh, Pa. November ig6y

JR.

CONTENTS

Introduction

ι

Letters I II

APPRENTICESHIPS, 1 8 1 9 - 1 8 2 5

21

UNIONS AND REUNIONS, 1 8 2 5 - 1 8 3 4

III

LETTERS ACROSS THE SOLWAY,

1834-1843

IV

LETTERS ACROSS THE ATLANTIC,

1843-1881

I97

337 549

Short Titles and Abbreviations

797

Glossary of Selected Scotticisms and English Dialectals

800

Index

806

ILLUSTRATIONS

Thomas Carlyle From a photograph by Elliott and Fry Studio, London, in the possession of Mrs. Ernest D. Clump

ii

Alexander Carlyle From a photograph by J. N. Edy & Co., in the possession of Miss Ethelwyn Carlyle

ii

Map of Dumfriesshire

17

Carlyle Genealogy

18

Welsh Genealogy

19

Facsimile of Letter No. 201

617

THE LETTERS OF THOMAS CARLYLE TO HIS BROTHER ALEXANDER

INTRODUCTION

the Carlyles were originally English, took their name from the Cumberland town of Carlisle, and crossed over into Annandale in the fourteenth century with David Bruce, David II, king of Scotland. Nicholas Carlisle, an antiquary and assistant librarian to King George III, traced Carlyle's descent back through Sir John Carlyle, first Baron Torthorwald, to William of Cairlyle, who married Margaret Bruce, sister of Robert de Bruce VIII, king and liberator of Scotland. The Torthorwald title lapsed, the estates were lost in lawsuits, and Sir John's descendants eventually settled and for three generations farmed a poor plot at Burrens (or Birrens), the site of the old Roman station in Middlebie parish, Dumfriesshire. Carlyle himself tells us tradition also has it that once "in times of Border robbery, some Cumberland cattle had been stolen and were chased; the trace of them disappeared at Burrens, and the angry Cumbrians demanded of the poor farmer what had become of them? It was vain for him to answer and aver (truly) that he knew nothing of them, had no concern with them: he was seized by the people, and despite his own desperate protestations, despite his wife's shriekings and his children's cries, was hanged on the spot! The case even in those days was thought piteous; and a perpetual gift of the little farm was made to the poor widow as some compensation. Her children and children's children continued to possess it; till their title was questioned by 'the Duke' (of Queensberry) and they (perhaps in my great-grandfather's time, about 1727) were ousted" (Reminiscences, 1,27). TRADITION HAS IT THAT

Thus, it was about the time of the death of Carlyle's great-grandfather John Carlyle (1687-1727), the remotest ancestor Carlyle would lay positive claim to, that his family moved into Middlebie village, where John Carlyle's widow, the former Isabella Bell (1687-1759), struggled tò raise their two sons. Francis (1726-1803), the younger, became a shoemaker and traveled for work deep into England. One

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INTRODUCTION

black morning, a story goes, he awoke perhaps in Bristol with his money gone and the taste of his indulgences of the night before on his tongue. He threw himself out of bed, broke his leg in the process, and then and there resolved to make a better life for himself. He enlisted on a man-of-war, helped to put down a mutiny, was rewarded with the command of a revenue cutter that worked the Solway, and in time married Sarah Bell ( 1 7 1 5 - 1 7 7 6 ) and retired a respected man in Middlebie. Thomas (1722-1806), the older brother, a tough, fiery, irascible man, became a carpenter and at first went down into Lancashire. But he was in Ecclefechan in 1745 when the Highlanders came through to fight the Pretender's forces along the border, and he was among them in Dumfries on their return. After that he worked at his trade in Middlebie, but eventually gave it up to farm Brownknowe, near Burnswark Hill. He married Mary Gillespie (1727-1797), who was from or near Dryfesdale, and by her had three daughters and four sons. James, Thomas' second son, was Carlyle's father. He was born at Brownknowe in August 1758 into the poverty his father had known as a boy and improvidently chosen not to correct as a man. So James and his brothers had to learn as their father before them how to knit and thatch and hunt to keep body and soul together. His education was the slightest. He may have spent three months in a school, perhaps not that. John Orr, at once a religious man and a drinker, a shoemaker and a schoolmaster at Hoddam (or Hoddom), used to visit Brownknowe and while there tutor James in arithmetic, writing, and other practical disciplines. Robert Brand, James's maternal uncle, filled him as he himself was filled with religion. But it was James's own natural intelligence and possibly the examples both good and bad his father set for him that instructed him finally in his conduct in this world. It was his nature to accept without question his religious teachings and be able to operate successfully under them throughout his life. It was his nature to be curious about life's significant elements and to pass by unheeded all its hateful trifles and the clamor of public opinion. And it was his nature to know his duty and do it. He believed passionately in the Calvinist doctrine of the divine propriety of work and passed his belief on to his sons. He also passed on to them his respect for intellectual force and, to one in particular, his natural eloquence.

Introduction 3 Carlyle's description of his father's style might well be a description of his own. It was, Carlyle wrote, a "bold glowing style . . . flowing free from the untutored Soul; full of metaphors (though he knew not what a metaphor was), with all manner of potent words (which he appropriated and applied with a surprising accuracy, you often could not guess whence); brief, energetic; and which I should say conveyed the most perfect picture, definite, clear not in ambitious colours but in full white sunlight, of all the dialects I have listened to. Nothing did I ever hear him undertake to render visible, which did not become almost ocularly so" ( Reminiscences, I, 5 ). It is strange that a man who cared as James did for the poetry of truth and could find it in all the disparities of life and articulate it with clarity could find no truth in poetry. But he found it idle and accordingly judged it criminal, even the poetry of Burns, his coeval. About 1773, after the family had left Brownknowe for Sibbaldbyside, a farm in the Dryfe valley near Lockerbie, William Brown came down into Annandale and met and married James's eldest sister, Fanny (1752-1834). Brown gathered his four brothers-in-law about him and taught them his masonry trade. They banded together, appointed James as their head, and as a kindred respected by both those who liked them and those who feared them became the most skillful, most trustworthy, best-rewarded masons in the district. The brothers plied their trade up and down the Annan valley, James and Brown once in Nithsdale, and in 1791 settled in the eastern Annandale village of Ecclefechan. Here James built his arched house and in the year of his settlement married his distant kinswoman Janet Carlyle. She bore him one son, John (1792-1872), before she died on September 11, 1792. James entrusted the raising of the boy to his father-in-law, called Old Sandbed after his farm above Dumfries and Kirkmahoe, and continued on alone in the two-room apartment on the second floor of the arched house. It was probably in the winter of 1794-1795 that he met Margaret Aitken, who was, in her son's words, "a woman of to me the fairest descent, that of the pious, the just and wise: . . . to us the best of all Mothers, to whom for body and soul I owe endless gratitude" ( Reminiscences, I, 42). She was born September 30, 1771, at Whitestanes, Kirkmahoe, Dumfriesshire. At the time James and Margaret met, John,

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INTRODUCTION

her father, was a widower, probably, and a bankrupt farmer out of Nithsdale, and Margaret was serving in the house of her aunt Mrs. John Bell (d. 1800) of Townfoot, Ecclefechan, to help out. James and Margaret were married March 5, 1795, and moved into the arched house. On December 4 of the same year she gave birth to Thomas. On August 4, 1797, the couple had their second child, Alexander. Within this or early in the next year the family moved across Pepper Field to the original of the "roomy painted Cottage" of Sartor Resartus, where they lived for the next seventeen years and where James and Margaret had seven more children: Janet, born September 2,1799; died February 8,1801. John Aitken, born July 7, 1801; died at his sister Jean s home in Durafries September 15, 1879. Margaret, born September 20, 1803; died of consumption at her father's farm, Scotsbrig, June 22, 1830. James, born November 12, 1805; died at Pingle Farm, Canonbie, May 5, 1890. Mary (Mrs. James Austin), born February 2, 1808; died at The Gill, Cummertrees, April 6, 1888. Jean (Mrs. James Aitken), born September 2, 1810; died at The Hill, Dumfries, July 27, 1888. Janet, called Jenny (Mrs. Robert Hanning), born July 18, 1813; died in Hamilton, Ontario, Canada, December 1897. James had his savings and work enough in those early years to provide comfortably for his growing family. In consequence, Carlyle's boyhood in Ecclefechan was distinctly unlike what his father's and forefathers' had been. He could run about the village at will, observe the artisans at work through their open doors, watch the passing wagons and the changing of horses on the coaches from London and Glasgow, attend the weekly markets and annual fairs. There were woods and streams and fields he could explore, and he could visit his grandfather Thomas. On occasion Old Sandbed would bring John to visit him. He could recall throwing his little brown stool at his half brother in a moment of rage one of those times, breaking it, and suffering for perhaps the first time "the united pangs of Loss and Re-

Introduction 5 morse" ( Reminiscences, I, 45 ). He could recall his father and mother returning from Dumfries and bringing for him and Alexander their first new halfpence. He could recall the death of his infant sister Janet and his mother's attendant grief, and his uncle John's funeral "and perhaps a day before it, how an ill-behaving servant-wench to some crony of hers, lifted up the coverlid from off his pale, ghastly-befilleted head to show it her: unheeding of me, who was alone with them there, and to whom the sight gave a new pang of horror" ( Rem-

iniscences, I, 33 ). Most vividly he could recall attending sermon at the Ecclefechan Meeting House. The seceders from the Established Kirk are essentially advocates of a stricter adherence to the original government of that Kirk, the Church of the Reformation. Carlyle explained that "A man who awoke to the belief that he actually had a soul to be saved or lost was apt to be found among the Dissenting people, and to have given up attendance on the Kirk" ( Reminiscences, II, 1 1 ) . One who bolted from the Establishment, from its officialities, stipends, and practice of forcing settlement of ministers on the people, was Adam Hope, English master at the Annan Academy and a Calvinist through and through. Before Carlyle's time he had collected others of a like mind about him and organized them into the Annan Burgher Congregation. They built a meeting house in Ecclefechan and chose for their minister John Johnstone (1761-1812), the most nearly perfect priest Carlyle ever knew. From a distance of sixty years or more Carlyle could remember seeing Adam and his followers, who had walked their six miles from Annan, and some pious Scots weavers, who had walked their sixteen from Carlisle, listening to the Reverend Mr. Johnstone while their coarse plaids dripped from the hooks in the rear of the little building. "Rude, rustic, bare," Carlyle called it, "no Temple in the world was more so; — but there were sacred lambencies, tongues of authentic flame from Heaven, which kindled what was best in one, what has not yet gone out" ( Reminiscences, II, 15 ). James Carlyle desired to raise a son worthy of a university education, and Thomas showed early promise of fulfilling that desire. By the time he was five his father had taught him how to figure and his mother had taught him how to read. Shortly after the turn of the century. they enrolled him in the Brickhouse School in Ecclefechan,

6

INTRODUCTION

where Tom Donaldson, a young Edinburgh man, instructed him. In 1802, when Donaldson transferred to a school in Manchester, James transferred his son to the Hoddam School about a mile away. By the summer of 1803 the boy had mastered the rudiments of English composition and, with the help of the Reverend Mr. Johnstone and his son, Latin as well. He learned to read Horace and Virgil with a facility exceptional for one his age and took delight in translating the inscriptions on the Roman remains at Burrens and Burnswark. Within two more years he had become aware of the song of poetry and was soon reciting from Campbell, Cowper, and Burns. When his instructors at the Hoddam School reported him prepared in arithmetic, English composition, and Latin, his parents decided he should go on to the Annan Academy for a course of study that would prepare him for Edinburgh University and the ministry. They made arrangements for his weekday board and room with his mother's aunt Barbara, the wife of Marion Waugh, bailie and cobbler of Annan. On May 26, 1806, his spirits at once cast down at parting with his mother and home and raised aloft at the prospect of the venture, he and his father set out. What they found upon their arrival, an event that in retrospect proved premonitory of the unrest Carlyle encountered in Annan, he later wove faithfully into the fabric of Sartor Resartus: "Well do I still remember the red sunny Whitsuntide morning, when, trotting full of hope by the side of Father Andreas, I entered the main street of the place, and saw its steeple-clock (then striking Eight) and Schuldthurm (Jail), and the aproned or disaproned Burghers moving-in to breakfast: a little dog, in mad terror, was rushing past; for some human imps had tied a tin-kettle to its tail; thus did the agonised creature, loud-jingling, career through the whole length of the Borough, and become notable enough. Fit emblem of many a Conquering Hero, to whom Fate (wedding Fantasy to Sense, as it often elsewhere does) has milignantly appended a tinkettle of Ambition, to chase him on; which the faster he runs, urges him the faster, the more loudly and more foolishly! Fit emblem also of much that awaited myself, in that mischievous Den; as in the World, whereof it was a portion and epitome!" (pp. 82-83). The mischievousness resided in the persecution the precocious boy suffered from his more common schoolfellows. It lasted until his second year, when

Introduction

η

one day, violating a promise he had made to his mother not to fight, he slipped off his clog and gave the biggest and most annoying of his tormentors a blow that sent the bully sprawling in a mudpuddle. From then on he was left alone. Of his teachers he wrote only of Adam Hope, whom he admired to the extent that he made him, in the Reminiscences, II, 6-7, the subject of one of his most memorable and sympathetic protraits, and one Morley from Cumberland, who taught him arithmetic, algebra, and geometry. He received from others some small instruction in geography and Greek and some considerable instruction in Latin and French. He taught himself a smattering of Hebrew. He read every book he could get his hands on, and he got them mainly from a circulating library operated by John Maconachie, an Annan cooper, whom Carlyle immortalized in Sartor Resartus (p. 84) as Hans Wachtel. Maconachie also boarded many of Adam's pupils in his home, and Carlyle used to attend the periodic discussions Maconachie conducted on all the important biographies, geographies, histories, and novels published by then. It was perhaps at this time that Carlyle became aware of the world of history through William Robertson's ( 1721-1793) The History of the Reign of the Emperor Charles V, 3 vols. ( 1769). It was at this time that he discovered the art of Smollett through Roderick Random and Humphry Clinker. Carlyle's gloomy academy life came to a close in 1809. For his father, who never earned more than £, 100 a year in his lifetime, the decision to send him on to Edinburgh was a serious one. There were no scholarships, fellowships, grants, or interest-free loans then that a boy could try for; no dormitories, fraternities, or clubs of any sort he could live at; no college dining hall where he could purchase a reasonably good meal for a reasonable price. Edinburgh University had been established only as a place where boys might come to learn. How they managed past that was not its concern. Each November the majority of its eleven hundred students, for the most part the most promising sons of Scots tradesmen and farmers, walked from their homes to the city, sought their cheap rooms, made their arrangements at the university, and girded themselves to subsist for the next six months largely on the oatmeal, eggs, butter, and potatoes the carriers would bring them from their parents. During the term they stud-

8

INTRODUCTION

ied, found amusement primarily among themselves, and, if they could, tutored to ease the burdens they had placed on their fathers. When the term ended in April they walked their various distances home to help out there for the next six months. But the reports from Annan were all favorable and James and Margaret had not for a moment failed to see their son's superior qualities. So on the dark, frosty morning of November 7, 1809, they walked him through Ecclefechan and set him on his way with Thomas Smail, who had attended the university the year before and was to become a Burgher minister in Galloway. The two trekked through Moffat and Ericstane, the wearisome Smail usually leaving the younger boy alone with his reflections in the silent countryside. They made twenty miles a day, arriving in Edinburgh on the afternoon of November 9. Carlyle found lodging in Simon Square, had a bite of dinner, and at Smail's insistence sallied out in the shortening day to see the city and observe the proceedings in Parliament's Outer House. The sights and sounds that met him then from within that immense candlelit hall thronged with spectators and lords of the law, with court criers screeching like birds from their nest-like stalls high up on the walls, with black-gowned advocates pleading their cases before red-robed judges, must have come back to him when he was briefly tempted to study the law nine years later. Within a day or two Carlyle entered his name in the university's matriculation album. In his first year we know he attended Professor Alexander Christison's Latin class and Professor George Dunbar's class in Greek. We also know he became disappointed with Christison and in time with most of his professors. But what he felt he was missing in the classroom he tried to acquire in the books he borrowed from the university and private suscription libraries and from discussions with the friends he made—students like himself who came from simple, rustic backgrounds. One was George Johnstone, who was graduated in medicine in 1822, was living in Marsden in 1825, and had established a medical practice in Liverpool by 1831. A second was Robert Mitchell (1795?-1836) from Hutton and Corrie parish, Dumfriesshire. He was graduated M.A., taught at Kirkmichael for a year, tutored the children of Mr. Napier of Linlithgow for another, and then for seven years those of the Reverend Dr. Henry Duncan ( 1774-1846), minister at Ruth-

Introduction

9

well, founder of the first savings bank, publisher of the Dumfriesshire Journal, and founder and publisher of the Dumfries and Galloway Courier. Mitchell was made rector of the Kirkcudbright Grammar School in 1821 and classics master of the New Edinburgh Academy in 1824, where he taught until his death. He is said to have written Outlines of Ancient and Modern Geography, which is listed in the catalogues, but anonymously and without a date. A third was James Johnstone (d. 1837) from Bogside, a small farm establishment near Ecclefechan. He was perhaps Carlyle's second cousin. By 1814 he was tutor to the children of the Churches of The Hitchill, a farm near Cummertrees, whose dwelling house Carlyle's father had built. Mr. Church was steward of the Queensberry estates; his wife was Ruskin's greataunt. In 1819 Johnstone sailed to Nova Scotia and returned in 1821. By 1823 he was tutor to the children of General M'Kenzie of Broughty Ferry, Dundee, and by October 1825 was a schoolmaster at the Haddington Parish School. Thomas Murray ( 1792-1872) from the parish of Girthon, Kirkcudbrightshire, whom Carlyle met on the road to Edinburgh in 1810, was a fourth friend. By his own early example he was one of the first to foster in Carlyle the possibility of living by literature. He contributed to David, later Sir David, Brewster's ( 1781-1868) Edinburgh Encyclopaedia, the Scots Magazine, the Dumfries and Galloway Courier, and in 1822 published The Literary History of Galloway: From the Earliest Period to the Present Time. In 1818 the presbytery of Wigtown licensed him to preach, but after a short period he gave it up, moved back to Edinburgh, for a while took in students, and in 1841 established the printing firm of Murray and Gibb. Carlyle made other friends, but these four have particular significance in these letters. In the session of 1810-1811 Carlyle enrolled for logic, Greek, and mathematics, the last under John Leslie ( 1766-1832), who was the one teacher able to inspire Carlyle and in whom Carlyle recognized and admitted as having an element of genius. Leslie for his part had noticed Carlyle's ability and secured for him an elderly gentleman to tutor this year and perhaps the next. By the end of this school year his earnings allowed him the luxury of coach fare as far as Moffat, where he found and henceforth would find Alexander waiting to escort him home. In 1811-1812 he enrolled for the third year in Greek, substituted

10

INTRODUCTION

Professor Thomas Brown's (1778-1820) course in moral philosophy for logic, and returned to mathematics under Leslie. Influenced by Leslie and at an age when the tangibility of fact and law would be more appealing than the elusiveness of the less demonstrable disciplines, geometry understandably rose before him "as the noblest of all sciences" (Froude, I, 26). He studied it fervently and in 1812 took the dux prize for his achievements. He continued with Leslie in 1812-1813. That year he also took chemistry, which he called the "most brilliant and fascinating of the physical sciences" (Espinasse, p. 207), and John Playfair's (1748-1819) course in natural philosophy. He completed his arts curriculum in April 1813, and over the summer must have considered his future. Although his parents from the beginning had set their hearts on his becoming a minister, Carlyle was never in the least enthusiastic about it. He was now seriously doubting he could ever find a fit place for himself in a church that as he saw it did not believe its own formalism. He had three choices open to him: he could try to put aside his doubts and return to Edinburgh as a divinity student for the four more years of study that would lead to orders and a church appointment; he could become a rural divinity student and as such have only to read an independently prepared discourse once a year for six years in Divinity Hall to achieve the same ends; or he could give up the idea of taking orders altogether. Wishing neither to disappoint his father and mother nor to rush toward a final resolution, he chose the middle course. He nevertheless returned to Edinburgh in the fall, hoping to pay his expenses by tutoring, and attended Professor Robert Jameson's (1774-1854) natural history course. Murray wrote in his Autobiographical Notes . . . , ed. John A. Fairley (Dumfries, 1 9 1 1 ) , that he was successful in finding employment as a private teacher and that he continued to read avidly — Shakespeare and the other English poets and Alexander Chalmers' fortyfive-volume edition of the British Essayists "without interruption" (p. 21). Of the living writers he preferred Byron and Scott and thought Waverley the best novel published in thirty years. In the late spring of 1814 Carlyle heard of an opening for a mathematics teacher at the Annan Academy and decided to compete for it. He appeared for an examination before Thomas White, a mathematician and rector of the Dumfries Academy, and was selected. He went

Introduction

11

to work immediately and performed his duties well. But before his two years there were over he grew to hate Annan and was well on his way to hating teaching. He felt uncomfortable, out of place, and excepting Mr. Church and the Reverend Dr. Duncan, into whose households Johnstone and Mitchell introduced him, made no new friends and out of shyness and pride sought none. His only attraction to Annan was the relief his £60 or £ 7 0 of yearly salary gave his generous father. In spite of his loneliness and his proximity to home he seems to have stuck to his work until near the end of the year. But shortly before Christmas he journeyed to Edinburgh with Mitchell to deliver his first discourse, a trial sermon on the uses of affliction from Psalm 119:67, stayed a week visiting friends, and spent the first few days of the new year in Ecclefechan with his family before returning to Annan. With Thomas now earning his own way and Alexander able to help out, with a yearning to return to the land particularly of late years when "universal Poverty and Vanity made show and cheapness . . . be preferred to Substance" ( Reminiscences, I, 49), James Carlyle laid down his mason s tools and moved his family to Mainhill, a high wind-swept farm two miles northwest of Ecclefechan. He took the lease of it at Whitsunday 1815 from General Matthew Sharpe (d. 1845), laird of the Hoddam estates, M.P. for Dumfries from 1832 to 1841, and the brother of Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe ( 1781?-1851), the life-long friend of Scott. The farmhouse was a low, one-story, whitewashed cottage, whose three ceilingless rooms all had to serve as bedrooms for its nine regular occupants and for Carlyle when he was home. The borders of the farmyard were marked by the house itself, a stable, a cowbyre, and a combined wash house and dairy. Mainhill would be the family's home for the next ten years, where James and Alexander especially would eke a hard living out of the wet clayey soil, where Mrs. Carlyle and her daughters would tend the poultry and cows and take their turns in the fields at harvest time, and where Carlyle would spend his vacations and study German and complete his translation of Wilhelm Meisters Apprenticeship. But for the present Carlyle attended to his duties in Annan and worked on his second exegesis, a discourse on the question of natural religion. He went to Edinburgh just before Christmas to read the paper, undoubtedly enjoyed the compliments he received on it, and with a free

12

INTRODUCTION

mind visited again his college friends for a week before returning to the routine of schoolmastering. Before he left Edinburgh he met the man who became his closest friend. Edward Irving, a brilliant student and teacher, the inspired minister of Hatton Garden Chapel and founder of the Holy Catholic Apostolic Church, who was excommunicated first by the London presbytery for his approval of the "tongues" and later by the Church of Scotland for heresy, was born August 4, 1792, to Gavin Irving, a prosperous Annan tanner, and Mary Lowther Irving. As a boy Irving attended a school managed by Margaret Paine, a relative of Thomas Paine, and from there went to the Annan Academy. He joined Adam Hope's band of seceders on their Sunday walks to the Ecclefechan Meeting House, where, Carlyle later conjectured, he must have often enough sat with him. In 1805 he entered Edinburgh University, and in April or May 1808, the year before he was graduated M.A., returned to Annan to pay his respects to his old teacher. Adam introduced him to Carlyle's Latin class: "We were all of us attentive with eye and ear, — or as attentive as we durst be, while, by theory, 'preparing our lessons.' Irving was scrupulously dressed, black coat, ditto tight pantaloons in the fashion of the day; clerical black his prevailing hue; and looked very neat, self-possessed, and enviable: a flourishing slip of a youth; with coal-black hair, swarthy clear complexion; very straight on his feet; and, except for the glaring squint alone, decidedly handsome. We didn't hear everything; indeed we heard nothing that was of the least moment or worth remembering. . . . Shortly after . . . he courteously (had been very courteous all the time, and unassuming in the main), made his bow; and the interview melted instantly away. For seven years I don't remember to have seen Irving's face again" ( Reminiscences, II, 17-18). Carlyle heard, however, how Irving distinguished himself as a student at Edinburgh and as a teacher from 1810 to 1812 at Haddington and afterwards at Kirkcaldy. By June 1815 Irving had completed his studies as a rural divinity student and was licensed to preach at Kirkcaldy, but for the time being he chose to remain a schoolmaster. That year he also chose to spend his Christmas holidays in Edinburgh. One evening Carlyle was sitting in the Rose Street rooms of

Introduction 13 John Waugh, the son of Marion and Barbara Waugh, his predecessor at the Annan Academy and now a medical student at the university, when Waugh's friend Nichol (or Nicol), a mathematics teacher in Edinburgh, and Irving stepped in. Carlyle and Waugh welcomed the party, but what started out to be a pleasant evening began to turn the other way when Irving started asking Carlyle a number of questions about certain events of Annan society. Carlyle grew uneasy from his inability to answer and annoyed by Irving's conscious air of superiority. Soon Irving became annoyed as well and gruffishly blurted out, "You seem to know nothing!" Carlyle, his dander well up, exploded, "Sir, by what right do you try my knowledge in this way? Are you grand inquisitor, or have you authority to question people, and cross-question, at discretion? I have had no interest to inform myself about the births in Annan; and care not if the process of birth and generation there should cease and determine altogether!" Nichol, who would be put out of business by such a phenomenon, added that that would never do for him, and the ensuing laughter relieved the tense atmosphere. Although Irving did not hide his wounded feelings from Carlyle for the short while the evening lasted, neither he nor Carlyle ever brought up afterwards this small unpleasantry of their first meeting. Nor was there, Carlyle concluded, ever "another like it between us in the world" ( Reminiscences, II, 23-24). In spite of Irving's success in Kirkcaldy, a number of his patrons resented his severe ways with their children. The upshot was they decided to buy off the headmaster of a second school, put Irving there, and apply to Professors Christison and Leslie, who had sent them Irving, for a replacement. Christison and Leslie recommended Carlyle and at the same time suggested he go over to Kirkcaldy on his vacation in August to take a personal view of things. Unexpectedly he had to go in July to express his condolences to Adam Hope on the death of Mrs. Hope. Irving was there on the same mission, and in his generous welcome and offer of future hospitality Carlyle found promise for a future friendship. He also found promise in Kirkcaldy and accepted the town council's proposal of a one-year conditional appointment at £80 annually. He gave Annan notice and left to spend a few weeks with his family. He left Mainhill November 13 for ten

14

INTRODUCTION

days in Edinburgh, then crossed over to Kirkcaldy, took up residence in the Kirkwynd near the house in which Adam Smith wrote his Wealth of Nations, and on November 25, 1816, opened his school. Carlyle spent most of his free time that winter either with Irving or using his library. One high point of the season was Alexander's coming to stay with him and attending his school. Another occurred in March, when while with Irving in Edinburgh he allowed his "last feeble tatter of connection with Divinity Hall affairs or Clerical outlooks . . . to snap itself, and fall definitely to the ground." Dr. William Ritchie (1747-1830), professor of divinity at Edinburgh from 1809 to 1828 and minister of the High Church of St. Giles from 1808 to his death, was not at home when Carlyle called to enroll again. "Good," he exclaimed, "let the omen be fulfilled!" (Reminiscences, II, 39). Spring and summer brought with them long walks with Irving along the Kirkcaldy beaches at twilight, rambles in the neighboring woods, strolls to Dysart and Wemyss, and a memorable Saturday pilgrimage to Dunfermline to hear the Reverend Dr. Thomas Chalmers (1780-1847) preach the next day. Once they struck out for Ben Lomond to see the military tents and equipment of a trigonometrical survey, another time to Inchkeith with Irving's assistant Donaldson, a nephew of Professor Christison. Over the August vacation, with one Pears, a schoolmaster at Abbotshall, and James Brown, Irving's successor at Haddington, they went on a walking tour to the Trossachs and Loch Katrine, Carlyle and Brown breaking off there for Loch Lomond, Tarbet, Roseneath, and Greenock. The two parties met up at Glasgow, where Irving and Pears had gone directly, and went by canal boat to Paisley. Pears left for Dunse and home; the other three went on to see Robert Owen's model school at New Lanark and descend into the mines at Lead-hills. Once in Annandale, Irving struck off for his father's house, Carlyle and Brown for Mainhill. Finding Mrs. Carlyle ill, Brown went immediately away. In September, after their mother had recovered, Alexander drove his brother as far as Moffat, and within two days Carlyle was back at his desk. Although the society of Kirkcaldy was more attractive to Carlyle than that of Annan had ever been, he and Irving preferred to enter into little of it. Some friendly households they did join, however. One was William Swan's (d. 1833), yarn merchant, shipowner,

Introduction 15 bank agent, and provost from 1814 to 1815, 1820 to 1821, 1830 to 1831, whose son Patrick Don (1808-1889) was Carlyle's student and later became provost himself and preserved his old classroom as a memorial to his teacher. Another was the Reverend Mr. John Martin's, whose daughter Isabella was engaged to Irving. A third was Mrs. Elizabeth Usher's (1759-1838), widow of the Reverend Mr. John Usher (d. 1799) and aunt and foster mother of Carlyle's first love. Margaret Gordon (1798-1878), perhaps one of the originals for Blumine of Sartor Resartus, was one of Irving's former pupils, and he introduced Carlyle to her in the fall of 1818. She was, Carlyle recalled, "of the fair-complexioned, softly elegant, softly grave, witty and comely type, and had a good deal of gracefulness, intelligence and other talent. Irving too, it was sometimes thought, found her very interesting, could the Miss-Martin bonds have allowed, which they never would. To me, who had only known her for a few months, and who within a twelve or fifteen months saw the last of her, she continued for perhaps some three years a figure hanging more or less in my fancy, on the usual romantic, or latterly quite elegiac and silent terms, and to this day there is in me a goodwill to her, a candid and gentle pity for her, if needed at all" (Reminiscences, II, 57-58). The relationship might have amounted to more than it did had it not been for her aunt's insistence that she dissociate herself from one with such limited outlooks. In March 1820, when Carlyle came up from Edinburgh to call, she reluctantly bade him goodbye. Mrs. Usher shortly took her to her mother in London, and four years later she married Alexander Bannerman (1788-1864) of Aberdeen, who became M.P. for Aberdeen and governor of Newfoundland. Also in the fall of 1818 the Kircaldy episode for both Carlyle and Irving came to a close. They were sick to death of teaching and resolved to give it up at all costs. Irving made plans to go to Edinburgh and try for an appointment in the church. Carlyle decided to return to the university, possibly to study law. In August they made a last walking tour together, this time through the Peebles-Moffat moor country to Mainhill. Carlyle apparently did not mention his plans to his parents while he was home, but in haste wrote his father of them when upon his return to Kirkcaldy September 2 he found that an incompetent had enticed away many of his pupils. As James Carlyle

l6

INTRODUCTION

had quietly respected his son's decision when he declined further study toward the ministry, so now he respected this step and at least did not voice his disapproval. Carlyle got away from Kirkcaldy sooner than he expected to and by November 27 was writing Mitchell from his small room in Davie's lodging, 3 South Richmond Street. Although the dyspepsia he suffered from for the rest of his life had now come upon him and he was otherwise beginning what he later called his "four or five most miserable, dark, sick, and heavy-laden years" (Reminiscences, II, 59), for the moment he was buoyant. He had his savings of £.70 and knew he could find a pupil or two to augment it if it came to that. He believed himself capable of literary hack work at least and to that end had secured from the Reverend Dr. Duncan letters of introduction to Brewster and Bailie Waugh of Edinburgh, who was making plans even then for his short-lived New Edinburgh Review. And he had Irving, who had taken rooms on Bristo Street, and other friends for company. Leslie advised him toward engineering, but he chose instead to enroll in Professor Jameson's course in mineralogy and consider the law a little further. He spent Christmas with Irving in Fifeshire, and about a month after his return wrote the first letter in this collection to Alexander at Mainhill.

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ä oí ^ # 1 7 6 4 . 2 6 3 ; November 1, 1823, from Belcat Hill, MS: N L S # 1764.267. 5. Auld Reekie has for long been the nickname of Edinburgh. 6. Boyd, who was to publish John Carlyle's Paul and Virginia, from

the French of St. Pierre, and Elizabeth, by Madame Cottin. New Trans-

lations. With Prefatory Remarks by }. McDiarmid (1824). See Edwin W. Marrs, Jr., "Carlyle, Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, and Madame Cottin," Victorian Newsletter (to be published).

• Carlyle amplified his way of life at Kinnaird during the months that followed in a fragment of reminiscences published in EL, p. 275: "I lodged and slept in the old mansion, a queer, old-fashioned, snug enough, entirely secluded edifice, sunk among trees, about a gunshot from the new big House; hither I came to smoke about twice or thrice in the daytime; had a good oak-wood fire at night, and sat in a seclusion, in a silence not to be surpassed above ground. I was writing Schiller, translating Meister; my health, in spite of my diligent riding, grew worse and worse; thoughts all wrapt in gloom, in weak dispiritment and discontent, wandering mournfully to my loved ones far away; letters to and from, it may well be supposed, were my most genial solacement. At times, too, there was something of noble in my sorrow, in the great solitude among the rocking winds; but not often." He asked the Bullers for a respite from that regimen and solitude, took his leave July 11, attended to some business in Edinburgh, and within the week was home and spreading freely among his family his earnings of £.300. He returned refreshed August 21 and went eagerly back to work. His only interruption occurred from October 17 to 19, when Irving and the former Isabella Martin, his bride of five days, visited him as they passed through the region on their wedding trip. By October 21 he had started the second part of the Schiller essay, and on November 24 completed it. As busy as he was he took the time to answer a letter from Alexander. ·

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44· Kinnaird House, 2d November 1823 My Dear Alick — Having an hour and a half at my disposal today, and an opportunity of conveyance, I hesitate not, though rather stupid, to sit down and send you some inkling of my news. This is the more necessary, as it seems possible enough that ere long some change may take place in my situation; of which I would not have you altogether unapprised. Your little fragment of a letter was gratifying by the news it brought me that you are busy in your speculations, lucky hitherto, and bent on persevering. I cannot but commend your purpose. There is not on the earth so horrible a malady as idleness, voluntary or constrained. Well said Byron: "Quiet to quick bosoms is a hell." 1 So long as you are conscious of adding to your stock of knowledge or other useful qualities, and feel that your faculties are fitly occupied, the mind is active and contented. As to the issue of these traffickings, I pray you, my good boy, not at all to mind it. Care not one rush about that silly cash, which to me has no value whatever, except for its use to you. Pride may say several things to you; but do you tell her she has nothing to meddle or make in the case: I am as proud in my own way as you; but what any brethren of our Father's house [may possess] I look on as a common stock, mine as much as theirs, from which all are entitled to draw, whenever their convenience requires it. Feelings far nobler than pride are my guides in such matters. Are we not all friends by habit and by nature? If it were not for Mainhill, I should still find myself in some degree ahne in this weary world. Jack's German "all goes well" 2 appeared on the newspaper last but one: I have vainly sought for it on the last. I suppose he is gone to Edinburgh, or just going; and I hope ere long to have that solacing announcement repeated more in detail. I understand the crop is now in the yard; I trust that it bids fair to produce as it ought; that you have now got in the potatoes also, and made your arrangements for passing the winter as snugly as honest hearts and active hands may enable you. Above all, I trust that our dear Mother and the rest are

1823, Kinnaird House

149

enjoying that first of blessings, bodily health, without which spiritual contentment is a thing not once to be dreamed of. As for us of Kinnaird, we are plodding forward in the old inconstant and not too comfortable style. The winter is setting in upon us; these old black ragged ridges to the west have put on their frozen caps, and the sharp breezes that come sweeping across them are loaded with cold. I cannot say that I delight in this. My "Bower" is the most polite of bowers, refusing admittance to no wind that blows from any quarter of the ship-man's card. It is scarcely larger than your room at Mainhill, yet has three windows and of course a door; all shrunk and crazy: the walls too are pierced with many crevices; for the mansion has been built by Highland masons, apparently in a remote century. Nevertheless I put on my gray duffle sitting jupe; I bullyrag the sluttish harlots of the place, and cause them make fires that would melt a stithy. Against this evil, therefore, I contrive to make a formidable front. . . . I believe I mentioned to Jack that they had printed a pitiful performance of mine, Schiller's "Life," Part I., in the London Magazine; and sent very pressingly for the continuation of it. In consequence, I threw by my translation, and betook me to preparing this notable piece of Biography. But such a humour as I write it in! . . .3 What my next movements may be, I am unable to say positively. I must have my Book (the translation) printed in Edinburgh, but first it must be ready. It is not impossible that I may come down to Mainhill for a couple of months till I finish it. Perhaps after all I may give up my resolution and continue where I am, though on the most solemn deliberation, I do not think such a determination can come to good. Next time I write you will hear more. Anyway you are likely to see me ere long: I must be in Edinburgh shortly, to arrange with Brewster and others. Whether I leave this place finally or not, I have settled that poor Bardolph4 must winter at Mainhill. A better pony never munched oats than that stubborn Galloway. But they are hungering him here; he gets no meat but musty hay and a mere memorial of corn every day; so he is very faint and chastened in spirit compared with what he was. Out upon it! the spendthrift is better than the miser; anything is better. . . . I meant to write to my Father; but this stomach has prevented me.

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Give my kindest love to him and our good Mother, and all the souls about home. Tell my Mother to take no anxiety on herself about me, lest anything serious happen to me: at present, two weeks of Annandale air would make me as well as she has seen me for many years. Good-night, my dear Alick! My candle is ht, yet I have not dined, the copper captain being out riding. Write to me the first moment you have, and advise Jack to do it if with you still. — I am, always your faithful Brother, T. Carlyle MS: unrecovered. Text: EL, pp. 290-293. 1. Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage III.370. 2. That is, "ganz wohl," written on the cover. This manner of letting the recipient of the paper know the condition of the sender the family normally accomplished by a system of strokes drawn under the address: two meant "all is well"; three, "got your letter." 3. Norton's omission here would seem to be the following, which is published in Froude, I, 203-204: "This blessed stomach I have lost all patience with. . . . The want of health threatens to be the downdraught of all my lofty schemes. My heart is burnt with fury and indignation when I think of being cramped and shackled and tormented as never man till me was. 'There is too much fire in my belly,' as Ram Dass said, to permit my dwindling into a paltry valetudinarian. I must and will be free of these despicable fetters, whatever may betide. . . . I could almost set my house in order, and go and hang myself like Judas. If I take any of their swine-meat porridge, I sleep; but a double portion of stupidity overwhelms me, and I awake very early in the morning with the sweet consciousness that another day of my precious, precious time is gone irrevocably, that I have been very miserable yesterday, and shall be very miserable to-day. It is clear to me that I can never recover or retain my health under the economy of Mrs. Buller. Nothing, therefore, remains for me but to leave it. This kind of life is next to absolute starvation, only slower in its agony. And if I had my health even moderately restored, I could earn as much by my own exertions." Ram Dass is unidentified. 4. Who was "bought for me at Lilliesleaf Fair by my dear Brother Alick" (Reminiscences, II, 109).

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45· Kinnaird House, 25th November, 1823 My dear Alick, I need not say with what pleasure I received your kind and spirited and affectionate letter. It is sweet to me to hear that you are all as you should be; sweet to know that you all truly sympathize with me in my afflictions, tho' it be little in your power or in human power to help them. You said you would come for the pony at a moment's warning: I am going to take you at your word. Before you can read this notice, I am on the road for Edinburgh, where I shall be waiting to receive you, and deliver up this faithful steed into your hands. Jack told me you had got another galloway; a circumstance that made me pause in my intention of sending this Bardolph down to winter with you; but I reflected that perhaps it might be easy for you to sell the present one, and reinstate Dolph in his rights and privileges of carrying [you] up and down the country in your trafficking expeditions, and so working for his oats and hay as he is in duty bound. If it is not so, you may let me know by letter while I am in Edinburgh; in which case I may perhaps take the beast with me again — that is if I return myself. There was a Notary Public at Broughty-ferry, when I was down seeing Johnstone — wanting to buy it, being struck by the freedom of its paces as he saw me riding it about. The Landlord of the Inn there, a hash if there is one, said it was a "virry fine beast Sir"; and as for the saddle — that could not be matched in Angus. The truth is, however, I want to see yourself in Edinburgh, that the whole three of us may hold solemn council on what is farther to be done not with the horse alone, but with his rider. The Bullers and I have had some farther conversation on the subject of my going or staying: they are to give me a letter to George Bell,1 the celebrated Surgeon in Edinburgh, who is maturely to investigate the state of my unfortunate carcass, and see if nothing can be done to aid me. By his advice I must in some degree be guided in my future movements. They are anxious of course that I should return; but fully prepared for my quitting them should that seem necessary; they have in full written by my advice to Dr Brewster about providing them a succès-

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sor, and it is one of my engagements to communicate with Brewster on this point. I do not think it likely that he will find any suitable person; in which case, should I retire from duty, the young men here must go to Cambridge or some other such seminary. They are all veiy kind to me here, and would do any thing to make me comfortable, and take me back on almost any terms. I confess I am greatly at a loss what to do; and for that cause if there were no other, I am ill at ease. That some change must be made in my arrangements is clear enough: at present, I am bowed down to the earth with such a load of woes as keeps me in continual darkness. I seem as it were dying by inches;2 if I have one good day, it is sure to be followed by three or four ill ones. For the last week, I have not had any one sufficient sleep; even porridge has lost its effect on me. I need not say that I am far from happy. — On the other hand, I have many comforts here; indeed I might live as snugly as possible, if it were not for this one solitary but all-sufficient cause. I know also and shudder at the miseries of living in Edinburgh, as I did before; this I will not do. "On the whole," as Jack says, it is become indispensible that I get back some shadow of health. My soul is crippled and smothered under a load of misery and disease, from which till I get partly relieved, life is burdensome and useless to me. We must all consult together, after I have heard the opinion of the "Cunning Leech," 3 who I suppose will put me upon mercury; and see what is to be done. If I were well, I fear nothing; if not, everything. You need not think from all this that I am dying; there does not seem to be the slightest danger of that: I am only suffering daily as much bodily pain as I can well suffer without running Wud. So having finished this "Life of Schiller Part. II." and sent it off to London yesterday, I determine to set off for Edinburgh on Thursday morning; I shall be there on Friday. It must be owned, My dear Brother, this is a confused enough piece of business, and described with equal perplexity. Nevertheless, you will not fail to make the best of my scrawl — which I write after dinner (when I am always sickest) and in hourly expectation of the Post. If you cannot well be spared at present, write to me in Edinburgh without loss of time, and I will either go back with the horse, or bring it down to you myself, or send it by Frank Dickson, who is

1823, Kinnaird House

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to meet me in the City. Jack's Lodgings you know are at 35. Bristostreet. If you come in person, you must travel by the Coach. Your best plan is to mount early on Saturday morning, and overtake the vehicle at Moffatt: you will get in by that means for twelve or thirteen shillings — for which I shall gladly be in your debt. Jamie may accompany you so far, or come up after you to take back the horse you ride on. You will find us at Bristo street waiting for you. If you cannot come till Monday or later, it makes no kind of matter; I shall not be gone at any rate till the end of the week: only by that means, I should get less of your company. — Tell our Father and Mother how it stands; but forbid them to concern their minds about me; for this is only a temporary misfortune, which I shall yet gloriously triumph over. I have been a wae sight to them, first and last; but it shall not always be so. Present my kindest affection to all. Write to me if you think it best not to come; if otherwise, come — with your great-coat and spurs. I am ever your faithful Brother, T. Carlyle I have a tremendous shag-greatcoat of Charlie's to ride in. — Tell my Mother. The ride will almost mend me, I know. I have written to Jack just now to expect [me]. On Thursday-night, I shall likely stay with Will. Bretton,4 who has a spare bed. Published in part: EL·, pp. 295-296. 1. ( 1 7 7 7 - 1 8 3 2 ) , who is mentioned in the DNB under the name of his more distinguished father, Dr. Benjamin Bell ( 1 7 4 9 - 1 8 0 6 ) , an authority on ulcers. 2. Matthew Henry, Commentaries, Psalm LIX. 3. Cf. Butler, Hudibras I.ii.245. 4. Unidentified, but there is a farm called W[est?] Bretton one and one-half miles southwest of Kirtlebridge.

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46.

From James Carlyle, Margaret Aitken Carlyle, and Alexander to Carlyle Mainhill, 28th December 1823 Dear Son — I have taken the pen in my hand to write a few lines to you to tell you how I come on, but indeed I, for some years, have written so little that I have almost forgotten it altogether, so I think you will scarce can read it, but some says that anything can be read at Edinburgh,1 so I will try you with a few lines as is, and if it is not readable I will try to do better next time. I begin then with telling you the state of my own health, which I am glad to say is just as good as I could wish for at my time of life, though frailty and weakness which goeth along with old age is clearly felt to increase; but what can I say? that is natural for all mankind. But I must not leave this subject that way, but tell you that I have not as yet taken the cold that I was troubled with in some former winters; and that I can sleep sound at night and eat my meat and go about the town,2 and go to the meeting house on the Sabbath Day, so that I have no reason for complaint. I go on next to tell you about our Crop, which doth not turn well out, but our Cattle is doing very well as yet, and we do not fear to meet the Landlord against the rent day. I was down at Ecclefechan this day, and was very glad to find a letter3 in the office from you, as we were beginning to look for one, and Sandy was preparing a letter for you, and we thought best to join our scrawls together. If there is any news, I leave that for Sandy to tell you all these things, and I will say no more at this time, but tell you that I remain, dear son, your loving Father, Jas. Carlyle Dear Tom — I need not tell you how glad I was to receive your kind letter, for I began to be uneasy. . . . O my dear Son, I have many mercies to be thankful for, and not the least of these is your affection. We are all longing for February, when we hope to see you here, if God will. Do

1823, MainhiU 155 spare us as much time as possible when you come down; in the meantime let us be hearing from you often. — Your affectionate Mother, Margaret Carlyle My dear Brother, As the great end of writting, namely the telling you of our welfare, is already attained by the mutual exertions of our Father and Mother the rest which remainith is of course of little importance and either may or may not be forthcomming as occassions serve. But I am unwilling that the sheet should go undarkened at least while I have the power of filling it; caring little in what manner so it be done at all. And first by way of endeavouring to gain this desirable end let me try to shape some sort of answer to your last letter which has been in our possession for nearly a fortnight now. I need hardly say how much we were pleased to hear of your safe arrival 4 at Kinnaird again in spite of all the little mishaps which ever and anone thwart the projects of the traveler. Your private idea of the fatal and fruitless passion of my old coach companion poor little Fyffe towards a nameless Damsel, is I can assure you perfectly in unison with my own. Scarcely had we passed only a few minits together when this very idea struck me, tho' I knew nothing of his history; and his interrogations and continual talking about "Miss Jane Welsh" served powerfully to confirm it. I had moreover shrewdness enough to gather that he regarded you as his deadlist rival, but with what propriety I could not say. And now as to this "wild scheme" of farming I realy know not well what to say, there is so much might be said on both sides of the question (as the old woman of the Howecleugh5 remarks when her child is hard beset in argument). In the first place we are all of us tired of living on this wild hill — our Father as much as any of us. And in the next place where shall we go to be better or rather have within ourselves the means of going, that is to say of taking a larger and far better farm. The answer is short and would to a vain man be painful to utter. We have not. But have not I as much? you would say to me I know well were you hearing this. You have and much more too thank Heaven; and also what is of more importance you have the goodness of heart or rather the wild and ex-

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travagant generosity to lend it to us were we requiering it. But on the other hand there is something even in the mere idea of borrowing which tends in my opinion to lesson a man in his own estimation: not to speak of the great and mortifying risk of being unable to pay the thing when it might be wanted. And at any rate borrowing to any great extent is I suspect incompatable with the rules of friendship and independence of character. And moreover how is it certain that we should become either better or happier from having a drier and warmer situation to live on with perhaps less to live upon. We might appear better men in the eyes of our neighbours indeed because they thought us richer and be better able also to give you that accomodation withal which we would so gladly render were it in our power. But at best it is only in these critical times like a leap in the dark. And the Carnival project is still more uncertain. It is like leaping in black darkness where pitfals and quagmires abound if I may be allowed to say so. You know well my dear Brother that I would gladly go anywhere between the farthest nook of the Orkney's land to the Lizard Point6 again were it to serve you. But your present engagements are of a fluctuating a nature, and at farthest only of short duration, that peradventure in a short time it might cost you more pain to leave me like an alien turning the clod to [fi] 11 the hungry maw of some voracious miner in Cornwal, than it gave you pleasure at first on making me a farmer there. Here is an uncommon "lash" of nonsense for you destitute almost of meaning or visible motive unless indeed it show you how willingly I would add to the comfort and respectability of this farming of which I am proud of being a member, and also how unequal to the task I am; a thing which you knew somewhat before. Peace! Peace! I had many things to tell you and have now you see little room to tell them in. Schiller's Life and Cobbet's Economy7 you shall hear about next time. Did you notice in the paper 8 what horrible work has been carrying on among the dead here. The ringleader of those villans is one Bazel or Basie Forsyth an ugle thief hash this day as ever the Blessed Sun rose upon. He is fled. We are thankful to learn that you are again begun to sleep at night — even with the aid of drugs. Dolph is getting into excellent heart and will carry you in spring like the wirlwind. Your trusty Brother Alexr Carlyle

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MS: Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle's portion of the letter, unrecovered. Text: EL, pp. 300-301. Alexander's portion of the letter, N L S # 1763.92-93. The last two lines of Mrs. Carlyle's note, from the word "possible" on, are on this MS. 1. "A neighbour's remark, after being unable to decipher what he himself had written, 'Let it go; they can read anything at Edinburgh' " (EL, p. 300). 2. See glossary. 3. See EL, pp. 299-300. 4. On December 10. See EL, p. 298. 5. A farm in St. Mungo parish, Dumfriesshire. 6. Carlyle apparently had mentioned the Bullers were considering going to Cornwall. 7. Cottage Economy; Containing Information Relative to the Brewing of Beer, Making of Bread, Keeping of Cows, Pigs, Bees, Ewes, Goats, Poultry . . . (London, 1822). 8. The Dumfries Weekly Journal of January 27, 1824, carries an account of the illegal disinterment of bodies in Ecclefechan. I was unable to locate the earlier report Alexander possibly referred to here.

47· Kinnaird House, 13th Jany, 1824 My dear Alick, I meant to have written sooner, but put it off till I should have more leisure, or something more interesting to communicate; and, as often happens in such cases, I am at last obliged to write when more hurried than ever, and considerably duller than I have been for a week. My silence I hope has given you no uneasiness; it ought not, if you kept in mind the maxim which I gave you some time ago, always to believe me well unless you heard the contrary. In fact there is or has been very little change in my health; I am better and worse just about as I used to be. I cannot say that I relish their mercury; and for the tobacco, which I have not touched for six weeks, there seems to be no great benefit attending this sort of abstinence.1 On the whole, however, one way or another, I think I have slept somewhat better and been less wretched for the last month than formerly. Here it is quite impossible that I should ever recover; but with better arrangements, I still have hopes.

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"Time and hours wear out the roughest day";2 this dreary period of pain and idleness and depression and discomfort is now near a close. The old people go down to Edinburgh this day week, and we younger ones follow, in about ten days. I am not to revisit Kinnaird. The printing of Meister commences immediately on my arrival, and is to be concluded in about two months. About three fourths of it are yet to translate; for the writing of this weary Schiller has occupied me to the exclusion of every thing beside. Nor is it finished yet! The third and last Part is not above half done, tho' it will be wanted in a few days. Till within the last week, I could not for my heart begin it handsomely and honestly. The mercury had made me weak as any sparrow; and besides I was very idly-inclined. So I am now obliged to write like a Turk, and vex myself day and night that the thing is not done faster and better. It certainly satisfies me very little. Yet the writing of it has done me good. It has yielded myself along with all the trouble considerable pleasure: it is also an improving task, and brings in money. The amount of the whole will be about sixty guineas. Oh! if I were well, I could soon make rich and bid defiance to fortune. The publication of this very mean performance has further raised me considerably in the estimation of these worthy people. About ten days ago the Introduction to Part II. which you have never seen, appeared quoted in the Times? newsaper; an honour, very slender in itself, but sufficient to astonish the natives in this Gothic district. They begin to look upon me as a youth of parts superior to what they had suspected. The glory of being approved by "Bloody old Walter" 4 as Cobbett calls the Editor of the Times is no doubt very very small: yet his approval was, so far as I can recollect, almost the first testimony to merit on my part which could not be warped by partiality, my very name and existence being totally unknown to "Bloody old." Therefore I read it with pleasure: it made me happy for ten minutes; cheerful for a whole afternoon: even yet I sometimes think of it. If I told all this to any other, I might justly be accused of weak and immeasurable vanity: but to you, I know it will give pleasure, as every pleasant thing that happens to me does. Jack and you are the only two to whom I should think of mentioning it. Let us not despise the day of small things! 5 Better times are coming. Have they sent you Irvings Orations? β And how are they relished

i8¿4> Kinnaird House 159 at Mainhill? I still think it was a very considerable pity that he had published them. It is not with books as with other things: quantity is nothing, quality is all in all. There is stuff in that book of Irvings to have made a first-rate work of the kind out of. But it is not dressed, it is not polished. We have not the bottle of heart-piercing "Mountaindew," but the tub of uncleanly mash, or at best of ill-fermented ale, yeasty, muddy, full of hops and sediment, so that no man can drink of it with comfort. There is a sturdy lashing of it in the last Quarterly Review7 (which makes me notice it), apparently by the pen of Southey. It will be well for Irving to attend to these advices of Southey's; for tho' excessively severe they are all to a certain extent grounded upon truth. Tell me about these "Arguments," and Cobbett etc. etc., when you next write. As to this project of the farm, which we were speaking of, I of course cannot more than you say any thing definite. I do not think my proper place is in the country but in London or amid some great collection of men. Did my state of health permit I think I should go Southward without delay. But unfortunately that in the present state of matters cannot once be thought of; and a year's residence in the country would if convenient be by far the most profitable speculation I could think of. Nor, for your part of it, am I surprised that you are wearied of Mainhill: it is a place of horrid drudgery and must always be so. Surely our father and you by laying heads together might manage to find out a better. And as to the want of money, I do not think it should be made an obstacle. I have at this time between 3 and 4 hundred pounds, for which I have not the smallest use; and certainly independently of all regard to you I should like (as well) better to see the whole or any part of that sum invested in a good farm under your superintendance than lying dormant in the bank. Of this I positively assure you. Except for the education of Jack this money is of no avail to me: to see it serving any Brother that I have is by far the most profitable use I can put it to. I would therefore wish that you would still keep this scheme in your eye; and be ready to give me some more precise account of it against my home-coming. The Bullers are to stay about three weeks in Edinburgh after which I partly purpose to come down to Mainhill, and print the Book in Edinburgh— correcting the Press by aid of the Post. If not comfortably

ΐ6θ

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lodged in Edinburgh, I surely shall. I wish I were there even now, riding upon the outside of Dolph, getting back my health and fearing nothing! I am glad to hear that the poor beast is getting up its heart again. Take it forth sometimes and give it a sharp race, observing to keep it at the "high trot." I learned the use of this pace while here: it trains the horse to lift up its feet freely and avoid stumbling. You should also make him carry my mother down to sermon on the sabbath-days. If postage were free I would surely answer at very great length the estimable epistles that accompanied your last. Tell my Father that when I get to Edinburgh I will shew him that I have "read" his letter. As for my Mother, she must write more frequently: there is nothing to hinder her from writing a sheet full whenever she pleases. No piece of penmanship that I have seen for many a day touched me as hers did: I will write to her next time, that is whenever I get to Edinburgh — about a fortnight hence or rather more. Do you mind to write within that period; my answer will not be long in following. Commend me to the love of all my loved Kinsmen and Kinswomen. — I think of them all, but have not room for names. Adieu my dear boy! I am ever — Your affectionate Brother — T. Carlyle The Newspaper came for the last two times; but not else since I saw you. I fear the covers sometimes break off, and so it has to lie. You should seal it not upon but between the plies of the cover — as you see this letter sealed. — Is there any news of that gallows-bird Baid[?] I perceive they are raising bodies in the south of England too.8 What a foolish thing Irving has made of that Poyáis business! I see it tried in London, and cost him and Gregor treated as cheats — damages 7 shillings! — Now you must not be long in writing. — Within the fortnight at any rate! Tell me all that you and the rest are doing. Was there ever such a winter seen for weather? The Celts are all ploughing here as busily as possible. Published in part: EL, pp. 301-304. 1. Dr. Bell's diagnosis of Carlyle's disorder had indicated a need for mercury and abstinence from tobacco. "Can you give it up?" asked Bell. "Give it up, sir?" replied Carlyle, "I can cut off my left hand with

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an axe, if that should be necessary" (Masson, Edinburgh Sketches, p. 320). 2. Macbeth I.iii.147. 3. Of January 1, 1824. 4. John Walter (1776-1847). 5. Zech. 4:10. 6. For the Oracles of God, Four Orations. For Judgment to Come, an Argument in Nine Parts (London, 1823). 7. "The Rev. Mr. Irving's Orations" appeared not in the Quarterly Review but in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, 14 (August 1823), 145-162. It is doubtful that Southey was its author. Irving's critic draws an analogy between Irving and George Whitefield and speaks of the latter's sermons as "the poorest stuff, the most uniform unredeemed trash, that ever disgraced the English press" and of the man as a "vain, frothy, loose-tongued declaimer." Southey, however, who according to the Universal Pronouncing Dictionary did write the review of Robert Philip's Life and Times of the Rev. George Whitefield (1838) for Fräsers Magazine, 1 2 (February 1838), esp. 148, speaks of Whitefield as "a man of great, but peculiar powers" and possessed of a soul that "burned with the love of whatsoever things are pure, and great, and lovely, and of good report." 8. Carlyle possibly had in mind the activities of resurrection men and possibly the hanging of the gambler and murderer John Thurtell (b. 1794) at Hertford January 9. Irving was Edward Irving of the Supplebank Irvings. See Letter 32.

48. 1. Moray-street, 10th Feby 1823 [1824] My dear Brother, I yesterday for the first time got a sight of your letter; and, you see, I am not slow in answering the friendly solicitude which it breathes, by the return most agreeable to you, a prompt account of my history since I wrote last. This will be no difficult task. My days and my nights were full of Schiller to the exclusion of almost every other subject, till near the end of last week, when after the most obstinate efforts on my part the third and last portion of it was concluded and sealed up, an event which gave more pleasure than any that had happened to me for a month. This third Part is a very long-

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winded story, nearly as long as both the other two: I am longing very much to get it sent off, and printed and completely despatched from my thoughts. It has cost me some labour: if I find nothing better to do, I will enlarge it, brush it up, and have it printed as a separate Book. After the completion of this notable undertaking, little remained for me but to make ready and go down to Edinburgh, whither the elder part of the Buller family had gone about ten days before. The younkers, and I lived in great harmony tho' rather in a hugger-mugger style of accommodation, our only servant being a boy of seventeen, as awkward as a cub, and who I think must have impoverished Mrs B. considerably by his breakages of china and glass-ware. It had been settled that I was to remain till Friday-night last; then to set out for Edinburgh, and have two months of my own to get Meister printed in. Accordingly on Friday-night, one of the wettest ever seen, I sallied forth about 8 o'clock in the gig beside Arthur, who had been preferred so far as to have the driving of me thro' the tempest down to Dunkeld. On arriving there, we found an ancient, bullet-headed, smoke-dried, sharp-tempered personage, the Perth Post[man], waiting with his gig to take me fifteen miles farther. I was muffled up in clothes like an Egyptian mummy, had on a thick great-coat and an umbrella; so did not greatly mind the wind and rain, but reached Perth between midnight and one in the morning, without much inconvenience. A coach or rather many coaches start from this place for Edinburgh, at seven in the morning. Of course, I got next to no repose: a rascal above me alarmed the whole establishment about four in the morning with a noise like the "taking of Sebastian";1 and I did not fall asleep again till near six, when my own turn came. We had no bad ride to Edinburgh, I myself having all the inside to lie and lounge in without interruption from any living thing. One of the first persons I met in Edinburgh was the broad substantial truthful Jack, coming down to inquire for letters from me. After dinner and much talk, we went out to look for rooms. O that it might please the Upper Powers never never more in this or any other world to set me out again on such an enterprise! My heart grows black as midnight when I think of all the mean torments I have undergone in that matter, since first I became a sickly, a captious and a discontented wanderer

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on the face of the earth. We met with royal specimens yesterday! Some were palpable bawdy-houses, some had landladies the very image of Martha Calvert,2 all were dreary, squalid, untenantable, the very look of them enough to make one take a passage in the mail that very night. At length by great good luck, we heard of the people here, and found a room in their house combining the unspeakable advantages of quietness and fresh air, and known neighbourhood. Martin of Kirkcaldy and others of our acquaintance lodged in it last year. I took it very readily, tho' the rent was 10/ a-week, and the room is not so good as Wilkie's which both Jack and I had the use of for 9/. But what is money to the unspeakable horrors of sluttishness and noise and vulgar base debauchery? Last night I had a sleep of eight hours; which I could not exchange for gold. To-day, I am still feckless and dispirited, but infinitely better than I was: another day will quite reinstate me. I have got leave of the Bullers for three months, two of which it was understood, I should devote to the printing3 and translating of the German Novel, and the third to seeing you all at Mainhill, instead of August; after which I was to join them in London, thenceforth proceeding to the burgh of Looe in Cornwall, and establishing myself permanently there as the Tutor of their eldest son. This plan I feel inclined to break thro' in some respects. With regard to the Book, I have not yet seen Oliver and Boyd; but I feel inclined to suppose that the printing of it might proceed without interruption, tho' I were at Mainhill, the sheets being sent me by the Post. In case therefore I find myself uncomfortable in this lodging or wearied of the city, it seems very likely that I may make some arrangement of that kind, and call upon you to "come up with your two able horses" 4 sooner than you anticipate. I long much to be home: I have known no approach to health since I left it. I think I could sit in the room with my fire and desk, and work with the greatest alacrity. I could also have Dolph to ride on, and all you kind souls to talk with: I should be very happy. In a week or two I shall be able to tell you more. With regard to our ulterior proceedings about this farm, it is needless to attempt discussing the subject minutely on paper, when we have the near prospect of discussing it so much better by word of mouth. The[re] seems to be little danger that we s[hall] be able to

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fall on some scheme of a suitable sort. The sole object which I need is a little modicum of health; with that I can undertake to earn my bread in the most independent manner. You have strength and experience, I have capital; we are true to one another: doubt not we shall be able to make it out. I declare I often wonder that you have not grown altogether tired of me, and my weak whimsical sufferings, as to you it is not unnatural that they should seem. You have stood faithful to me long: the worst is now past; let us not despair of the issue, or faint when the goal is in view. On the whole I am not averse to go to Cornwall, at least for a time, and if I had a suitable place of abode. T[he] people [here have] behaved well to me: they have all along treated me with the greatest [consideration; of late, they even seem to have some glimmer of affection for [me]. My small authorial labours have elevated me [in] their esteem; and it says not a [little] for people such as they are to value intellectual [w]orth at a higher rate than any other. [If] Mrs B. to her other gifts added the indispensible one of being a good housewife, one might live very happily beside her. Buller I have all a [long] esteemed a very unadulterated specimen of an English gentleman: he is truly honest to the very heart. If I have recovered, as I expect to do at Mainhill, I shall feel no objection to go forth and see them and London both at once. Tell my dear and over-anxious mother, that going to Cornwall is as easy as going to Waterbeck, 5 for any danger there is in it: the people also are good sober Christians, and will use me no way but well. To-morrow I am to see Buller, and he will tell me more distinctly what they are minded to do. Mrs Β. I saw to-day; she was very sickly, having wanted sleep etc. ever since she left Kinnaird: but she was very kind and pleasant. They return to Kinnaird in three or four days; and stay there till the beginning of April. I have been so busy telling you all these small but not to you indifferent matters that I have never had time to thank you for the very spirited and pleasing account you gave us of all that was going on about you. Jack and I were not a little amused, and I felt more than mere amusement at the operations of our little sisters and the sedate austere "Mr Carlyle" at the Post-office.6 Dear little things! I will see them all repaid yet. As for Mr C. I love him for his innate honesty, and vigour of mind, as well as no small promise of talent more strictly in-

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tellectual. Is he still at school? Tell him to improve the passing hour, and let me find him incalculably improved at my return. Tell the three small children to write to me by the carrier, and I will answer. Is Mag still in the old way? I never hear a whisper of her; tho she is often in my thoughts. — What on earth, as you say, can have tempted the infatuated Dominie 7 to wed in such a manner? I could not or cannot yet understand how any mortal should have thought of such a match. But it is he not us that has to pay the piper: so heaven speed him in this new voyage he is making. I would not stand in his shoes for infinite sums. I liked your criticism on Cobbett very well: so far as I have examined the work, you seemed to have formed a perfectly accurate view of it. He overdoes every thing: yet much may be learned from his shrewd practical experience. I long to get another letter from you, detailing all that you are doing or about to do. Never wait for Fames unless his time exactly suits your own. The post is always open, and your letters are never dear at three times the postage. But I must away to Jack who is waiting for me at the other side of the city. My kindest love to Father and Mother, both of whome I purpose writing to. How is my Mother? Tell me pointedly. Tell the "child of misfortune" 8 that I send him my compliments, and shall be happy to hear that he is settled. Adieu, My dear Alick! Ever your's — Thos Carlyle Published in part: EL,

p. 305.

1. A reference to Wellington's assault ( 1 8 1 3 ) on San Sebastian, but I cannot identify the source of the quotation. 2. Whom

Alexander described in his letter of February

15,

1824

( M S : N L S # 1763.98-99), as a neighbor with a "strongly marked image." 3. Carlyle put a "2" over this word, a " 1 " over "translating." 4. Alexander's offer in his letter of February 2 ( M S :

NLS#i763.g6-

97)· 5. A community four miles northeast of Ecclefechan. 6. In his February 2 letter Alexander wrote of how Mary, Jean, and Janet would one at a time during the day steal away from the other two and run to the post office to see if a letter had come down from Edinburgh or Kinnaird. Young James, the "sedate

austere 'Mr

Carlyle,' "

who was invariably at the post office ahead of them all, would b y his deportment

hope to save each of

teasing by amused witnesses.

his sisters

(and

himself)

from a

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7. Called "little Brown, the Preacher (afterwards teacher)," who was "to be married to Margaret Fames or what is much the same, [was] to be hen-pecked, shackled, and pinnoned down 'in an iron cage for life' " (Alexander's letter of February 2). 8. John Waugh, who was trying to establish a medical practice in Annan. The quotation is from Thomas Moore, Irish Melodies, "Has Sorrow Thy Young Days Shaded," line 7.

49· Edinburgh, Saturday-afternoon [21 February 1824] 1 My dear Alick, I write to you in the greatest haste; the Carrier's affair having been as usual mismanaged. His box I did not hear of till two o'clock: and after dining and unpacking my articles, I have come up to Jack's room, where I now sit writing. Jack is gone out (to dine, they said; tho' where I cannot guess) and is not to be in again till late. The Waffler or whoever it was that brought the box, charged 1/4 for it; so that I suppose he will need no farther pay. He hurries me extremely with his movements: so I must write to you most incoherently; but better so, than not at all. I need not tell you how glad I am to learn of your welfare: it is a blessing we have long enjoyed; but for which we can never be thankful enough. It often strikes me to the heart to think that one day this state of things must alter, and some of us be sent to "that undiscovered Country, from whose bourne no traveler returns";2 leaving for the rest a gap in the circle which can never more be filled! But it is very useless to vex one'self with the foretaste of evils which will be bitter enough when they arrive. Let us hope that the date may be distant, the blow soft, and the reunion speedy! I wonder what has put me on this serious sermonising vein. I must leave it. Your letter is full of rugged ingenuity: but there is only one point in it, which I can find any leisure to discuss — writing in this style, at full gallop, and in another's house. I allude to the question of my homecoming. Often, often does this come thro' my own head: I long

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to revisit Mainhill, as if healing lay there for my afflicted carcass, and of course afflicted mind. My lodgings in Moray-street are I think of the best description, quiet, cleanly and orderly. Yet I am not in health: I do not reckon myself better, some times almost worse, than I was in the highlands. "Sleep! Sleep! O gentle sleep!" 3 — I do not, I cannot get enough of it. I am in consequence obliged to take drugs almost every day, and the result of this is easy enough to discover. I ask myself often what I am doing in this accursed place, which for many years has been to me the scene of woes, greater than the heart of man has formed an image of. The answer is, I am printing a book, and must hold at it for a while: but that when it is done — quick, Marchi is the word. In truth, I believe, part of the secret is I am or rather was working too hard. Half the book is yet to translate: I set about doing sixteen pages of it per-day; did thus much for three days, and then felt unutterably sick and down cast. I have since been contented with nine. In fact I believe the best plan for me will be to go on with the business leisurely; and see if I can get home to work at it. Riding two hours per day on Bardolph would do more for me than all the drugs in nature. The Doctor Bell I called on one day, and found just going out. I promised to call again. He said he understood I was quite well!!! "Well!!!" I told him in our fathers tone. I believe him to be a consummate ass: the first morning I can get up in time, I design to go and setde with him and pay him off entirely. His mercury seems to have done me a considerable quantity of mischief; and as for the giving up of my dearest tobacco, I cannot find that it has produced in me the very smallest improvement. You will think me very miserable, when you read this letter. But no: I am not miserable at all; only to-day, I am rather worse than usual; and this is after dinner. If I had a little health, there is nothing I have reason to care for the want of. Even as it is, I contrive in general to get along very reasonably. Jack comes down to me every night: we have a talk and a walk: we correct the Printer's sheets together, and are very happy. He is a kind faithful slut of a fellow. I have twice or thrice been mentioning to him my purpose of going home; but he does not seem to approve it. On the whole, I can yet say nothing definite on the subject. Next week I have to see Brewster and settle ac-

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counts with him; I shall then make investigations about the possibility of printing and living at Mainhill. I know it is possible enough: but what the extent of sacrifice is I do not know. If I grow any worse, or even no better, I will write to you in about a week, appointing to meet you. N o w my dear Alick, y o u must pardon all this confusion and obscurity; for I write in the most extreme hurlyburly of mind and n o w it is grown dark to mend the matter. Write to m e b y the post if I delay writing home too long: it is far better than b y the Carrier, especially so uncertain a genius as Farries. Thank my dear kind Mother for the eggs and cakes: I know not how I shall consume them they are so many. T h e eggs here are on the point of rottenness, so I had given them up. I meant to write to my Mother. But alas! it is close dark before I have finished this: and I have not yet written one line of my translation! G i v e m y heart's love to Father and Mother and every soul about Mainhill. G o d bless y o u all forever! I am your true Brother T h : Carlyle T h e Marting[a]le is here, and shall be sent home, the first opportunity. ι . This letter is apparently an immediate reply to Alexander's of February 15. 2. Hamlet III.i.79-80. 3. King Henry TV Part Two III.i.5.

50. Edinburgh, 1 Moray Street, 2d March 1824 . . . W i t h regard to my home-coming, I have been of various minds. ...

I at last hit on this expedient. I am to translate and print the first

two volumes of the book; and whenever these are finished, I set off for home; there to translate the third, and not to trouble Edinburgh with m y presence till this is ready for the press. It can after that b e

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printed in ten days; and I get it managed as I pass through the place here, on my way to London. This at last has been agreed to by all parties. I am accordingly very busy getting my part of it done: I translate ten pages daily; at which rate, I shall be through my allotted task and ready to start for the country somewhat less than three weeks after the present date. Whether or not the Printers will be ready then is another question: but on the whole, you may count on seeing me come down before the beginning of April, to stay about a month. I am as anxious on the subject as any one of you; Mainhill is associated in my mind with ideas of peace and kindness and health of body and mind, such as I do not elsewhere enjoy. Beyond the circle of my books and papers, I have nothing to do with this heartless and conceited place: I have called on no man since I came within the walls of it; and I care no jot if on turning my back on it three weeks hence, I should never see the vain and hungry visage of it any more. I must call on Brewster to settle accounts; old Dr. Fleming I ought also to see, for the sake of some emblem of kindness I experienced from him; Dr. Gordon also, if I have time; and then my circle of visits will be concluded. There is one Pearse Gillies,1 an advocate here, who knows of me, and whom I am to see on the subject of this book; he being a great German Scholar, and having a fine library of books, one or two of which I wish to examine. . . . MS: unrecovered. Text: EL, pp. 305-306. 1. Robert Pearse Gillies ( 1 7 8 8 - 1 8 5 8 ) , an Edinburgh graduate, became an advocate in 1 8 1 3 . He was an early contributor to Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, figured as Kemperhausen in Wilson's "Nodes Ambrosianae," and was a special friend of Scott, a correspondent of Wordsworth, at least attracted the attention of Byron, and while residing in Germany had met Goethe and Tieck. He was instrumental in founding the Foreign Quarterly Review ( 1 8 2 7 ) and served as its first editor. His Memoirs of a Literary Veteran, 3 vols. ( 1 8 5 1 ) , contains a valuable selection of letters from Wordsworth.

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51· Edinburgh, 1 Moray Street, 16 March 1824 . . . Since I wrote last I have proceeded pretty regularly with my translation, at the rate of ten pages daily, correcting the proof-sheets as we go along. . . . One material part of the affair I have already satisfactorily concluded; I mean the bargain with the Bookseller. . . . He is to pay me down £,180 on the day of publication, and to make what hand he pleases of the 1000 copies he is printing. This is very handsome payment for my labour, however it may turn; and what I like best of all, it is dry hard cash, totally independent of risks. If the book sell the man will repay himself royally: and he deserves it for his risks. I too shall gain in that case, for after these 1000 copies are sold I am to have £.250 for every further 1000 he chances to print. So that it does not by any means seem improbable that within a year I may make £,500 more of it; but anyway I have the £180, fair recompense for my labour, and I am satisfied. . . . I will likely be with you some time next week. . . . Tell Mother that she must get the teapot overhauled and all the tackle put in order: I am going to stay a month, and mean to drink tea with her very diligently. . . . MS: unrecovered. Text: EL, p. 308.

• By April 15 Carlyle was at Mainhill, where about May 9 he had almost completed Wilhelm Meister. On the twenty-fifth he returned to Edinburgh and completed it altogether. Three days later he visited Miss Welsh in Haddington, left there on the morning of June 3 to spend two days in Edinburgh with James Johnstone, and then, heeding Mrs. Buller's plea to come at once, collected his £ 180 from Boyd for Wilhelm Meister and sailed from Leith to London. On his arrival he went directly to the Irvings' house in Myddleton Terrace (now Myddleton Square), Pentonville, where he stayed until the Bullers settled their arrangements for him. While Mrs. Buller was trying to make up her mind whether to remain in London or go to Cornwall

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or Boulogne, Irving introduced Carlyle to some of his friends, a few of whom Carlyle mentioned in the next letter. He also met Bryan Waller Procter (pseud. "Barry Cornwall," 1787-1874), the poet, playwright, and biographer of Lamb; Lamb himself on July 5; Thomas Campbell; and Coleridge. Carlyle paid several visits to Coleridge at Highgate this year, but saw him for the last time early in 1825, left his finished portrait of him in The Life of John Sterling, pp. 52-62, and an extraordinary sketch in a letter to John dated June 24, 1824, which is published in Froude, I, 222-223. Mrs. Buller and her plans remained up in the air. But having Carlyle's reluctant assurance that he would attend her whatever her decision, she at least determined that he and Charles take temporarily the Kew Green Lodgings from where Carlyle next addressed Alexander. ·

52· Kew Green, 25th June, 1824 My dear Alick, I have just got a frank that will carry any weight, and tho' my time for despatching it is limited, the messenger shall not depart till it holds a little flying notice to my faithful brother. Doubtless you have listened to the narrative of all my adventures communicated in other letters, and are therefore no stranger to my wanderings, to and fro, since I parted with you all that still morning at the end of the Mainhill house, when there was so little lightness of heart to spare in any of us. My history since then has been one restless movement; I have had no leisure to write — scarcely to speak or think. Often have I pictured with astonishment the still life of Mainhill, its quite scenes and peaceful simple labours, while pressing thro' the chaotic streets of this unspeakable place. It is with the hope of getting news from Mainhill that I now write. I will not try to describe London — the great desart of Brick. It may be said to extend seven or eight miles every way; there are clusters of streets and houses hanging round it with scarcely any interruption to that distance at least in all directions. The interior consists of streets not broad or very crooked, and not always very narrow, jammed together in such complex and perverse fashions that

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to pilot your way thro' them is a task of no small magnitude. I regularly lost my way for the first three or four days. In the newer parts of the town, you have roomy squares with trees and grass plots intermingled, which gives an air of freshness very pleasing to the eye. The unbuilt spaces are full of brick kilns; there are some villages in the neighbourhood, where the sulphurous smell of them is very offensive. You may conceive their magnitude and extent when I tell you that London requires to be rebuilt every fifty years. Around the north and west sides ( the fashionable quarters ) of the town are large parks with the usual ornaments; beyond these the never-ending houses begin again. But far eastward in what is called the City, the oldest part of London, are lanes and dingy alleys the chosen abodes of poverty and vice; where no kindly breeze or sunlight, or the step of any messenger of peace ever penetrates. I saw St Giles's Seven Dials, and Dyoss street: it is a city of Cuddy-lanes. There dwell 100 thousands Irishmen, in the lowest state of filth and poverty. Their children were puddling in the gutters, ragged, wild and careless: it made me sad to think that most of them were breeding for the hulks and the gallows! But such is London: you have the highest and the lowest, the happiest and most wretched, both internal and external, all huddled and simmering together in strange contiguity. Of the buildings I have said enough at present: when I see you I will tell you of Westminster Abbey; and St Pauls, the only edifice that every struck me with a proper sense of grandeur. I was hurrying along Cheapside into Newgate-street amid a thousand bustling pigmies, and the innumerable jinglings and rollings and crashings of many coloured labour, when all at once, on passing from the abode of John Gilpin,1 stunned by the tumult of his restless compeers, I looked up from the boiling throng, thro' a little opening at the corner of the street — and there stood Paul's — with its columns and friezes and massy wings of bleached yet unworn stone; with its statues and its graves around it; with its solemn dome four hundred feet above me, and its guilded ball and cross gleaming in the evening sun, piercing up into the heaven thro' the vapours of our earthly home! It was silent as Tadmor of the wilderness:2 gigantic, beautiful, enduring: it seemed to frown with a rebuking pity on the vain scramble which it overlooked: at its feet were tomb-stones, above it was the everlasting sky,

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within it priests perhaps were chanting hymns; it seemed to transmit with a stern voice the sounds of Death, Judgement and Eternity thro' all that frivolous and fluctuating city. I saw it oft and from various points and never without new admiration. Of the people whom I saw I have already said something, and have little space for saying more. Many of them were very kind to me, for Irvings sake; particularly two Hamiltons3 from Sanquhar — merchants here, who got my bank bill cashed; took me to tailors and watchmakers, and seemed vexed they could not get more done for me. Allan Cunningham4 and all the other literary people Jack will tell you of. I once or twice saw Thomas Dickson5 from Annan, a priest, decent Small: I got one Beddoms a giant (reputed) in chemistry and physic to prescribe for my health. He is to come and see me here one of these mornings. He is from Birmingham: the Montagus6 (of whom the father is mad and the mother very clever and I fear rather rigid and cold) introduced me to him. He says I want only to know how to eat, in order to be well. But the strangest person whom I heard of was—William Bogs7 of Ecclefechan! The scullion called on Irving one morning when I was out, with a young wife, and told him a thousand lies, about his fortune, his learning, his connexions; bragging that he learned French along with Brother Jack (who was quite wrong, he said, in the pronunciation), that he was a "professor of the belles lettres," etc. etc! The abandoned Knave! I told Irving to trust him no hairs breadth beyond his sight; that he was married already, and was the most worthless person in the country he came from. Irving "knew that he was lying and determined to see no more of him." I could not get the rascal from my thoughts. He has inveigled this silly young woman; who seemed to be some shop keeper's daughter, they said; most likely she has a hundred or two of pounds, and the heartless Bigamist is prowling about on the strength of it, seeking whom he may take in! O these scullions are the disgrace of old Scotland; they should be whipped to Botany Bay with the cat o' nine tails at their backs. Do not mind telling that I saw or spoke of this swindler: let him work out his wicked way unmarkfed by] us. There is another sprig of Annandale lying sick at Wapping in London — David Johnston,8 a Doctor once of Hawbank, then of Satur, then of Banks Hill, now of that ilk. He drove himself mad with drinking,

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and was turned out of Hannay's packet at Falmouth; he still seems to be cracked; he wrote the other day to Edward Irving, requesting in a very crazy style a loan of five pounds to carry him down to Scotland! Irving had no answer to send. Davie's Brother is a gambler here, I understand, who lives by his skill in Billiards and cards. What a dainty race of men we are, we men of Annandale! But I am wasting my time with talking about all this. I have little more than room to beg of you to write as speedily as may be, and send me all your thoughts and purposes. Is Bardolph sold or Fingal? Many a time I have remembered my brave gray steed. Would that I had him here even now! Tell me all that is going on among you and about you, and how it is with every one of you. Present my heart's love to every one by name — to Mag, to Jamie, Mary, Jean and Jenny. Poor things! they are often in my thoughts and always with the aspect of true affection. I doubt not we shall all do well: I solemnly believe that we shall all be honest men and women, and that is nine tenths of the whole matter. — Did you get Meister, and how do you dislike it? For really it is a most mixed performance, and tho' intellectually good, much of it is morally bad. It is making way here perhaps — but slowly: a second edition seems a dubious matter.9 No difference! I have the produce of the first lying here beside me in hard notes of the Bank of England, and fear no weather. I bought myself a suit of fine clothes — for six pounds; a good watch for six; and these were nearly all my purchases. I am going to London one of these days, to see what I can see; to get books etc. etc. Now let me hear of your farm-taking schemes: if you can fall in with any likely place, do not hesitate to snatch at it: I could still wish to have a place to come to in Scotland, in case my health did not stand this. Write to me largely: my paper is done; and my inward man warns me that I must go out and walk. God bless you, my dear Brother! We have stood together long, and will always stand together. — Ever faithfully your's, Thomas Carlyle Published in part: EL, pp. 311-312. 1. Unidentified. 2. I Kings 9:18; II Chron. 8:4. 3. One of them — William, "a very honest, shrewd and pious Niths-

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dale man, who wedded a Sister of Mrs. Irving's by and by, and whom I knew till his death" — Carlyle mentioned in the Reminiscences, II, 121. The other is unidentified. 4. (1784-1842), the miscellaneous writer and poet. He was a great favorite with Carlyle and, later, Carlyle's wife. "We admired always his shrewd sense for managing himself in strange London; his stalwart healthy figure and ways (bright hazel eyes, bald open brow, sonorous hearty tone of voice; a tall, perpendicular, quietly manfullooking figure); and were sorry sincerely to lose him, as we suddenly did" (Reminiscences, I, 176). 5. Irving's sister Janet (1794P-1849) married a Robert Dickson (b. 1783), who had served as provost of Annan from 1821 to 1823. His brother Thomas (b. 1794) may have been this priest. "Beddoms" was John Badams (d. 1833), "a most cheery, gifted, really amiable man, — with whom not long afterwards, I, more or less romantically, went to Birmingham; and, though not 'cured of dyspepsia' there (alas, not the least) had two or three singular and interesting months" (Reminiscences, II, 134). For an expanded account of Badams and the two months Carlyle spent with him in Birmingham in the fall of this year see Reminiscences, II, 144-155. 6. Basil Montagu (1770-1851), who ultimately gained eminence in the chancery and bankruptcy courts and as a legal writer and editor of The Works of Francis Racon . . . A New Edition, 16 vols. (18251836), was the acknowledged natural son of John Montagu, fourth Earl of Sandwich (1718-1792), and his mistress, the singer Martha Ray (d. 1799). He attended Christ's Church College, Cambridge, from 1786 to 1795 and there met Coleridge. In 1795, shortly after he left Cambridge, he met Wordsworth, who acted as guardian to his son, Basil C. (the original of the five-year-old "Edward" in "Anecdote for Fathers"), after the death of his first wife and while he was struggling to make a start in the law. Montagu married for the first time in 1791, but lost his wife in childbed in 1793. His second marriage, in Glasgow in 1801 to Laura Rush (1782-1806), the daughter of Sir William Rush, a wealthy landholder of Suffolk, also ended tragically. In 1808 he married the widow Mrs. Skepper, who introduced Carlyle to Coleridge. Her daughter, Ann Skepper (1799-1888), was at this time engaged to and later this year became the wife of Procter. 7. Unidentified past what Carlyle wrote of him here. 8. A David Johnston matriculated at Edinburgh University in sessions 1808-1809, 1 8 1 0 - 1 8 1 1 , but did not graduate. In 1808 he gave as his address simply Dumfriesshire. His brother is unidentified. I have not been able to locate Hawbank, but Satur is one mile northwest of Eaglesfield, and Bankshill is three miles east of Lockerbie. 9. Boyd never published one. The work, "with many little changes,"

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did, however, form a part of James Fraser's (d. 1841) publication of Wilhelm Meisters Apprenticeship and Travels. From the German of Goethe, 3 vols. (London, 1839).

• Mrs. Buller at last decided on Boulogne, but Carlyle now decided not to attend her. "The shifting and trotting about which she managed with so total a disregard to my feelings," he wrote his mother, "joined to the cold and selfish style of the lady's general proceedings, had a good deal disaffected me; and when, in addition to all this, I reflected that nothing permanent could result from my engagement with them, and considered the horrid weariness of being in seclusion from all sense and seriousness, in the midst of sickness on my own part, mingled with frivolous and heartless dissipation on theirs, I had well nigh silently determined not to go to Boulogne, or even to stay with the people though they remained in England" (Froude, I, 226-227). When they met in London the next day Mr. Buller generously offered Carlyle twenty pounds for the trouble they had put him to. He accepted ten, and shook hands with the old gentleman "with dry eyes." Charles, who would go on to Cambridge now, was greatly saddened by the parting. Mrs. Buller gave him a curt "good morning." So the arrangement came to a close, and Carlyle by the first week in July had moved back in with the Irvings. From there, free of all commitments, he went down to Birmingham on July 18 to avail himself of Badams' care and hospitality. β

53· Birmingham, 11th August, 1824 My dear Alick, I have just been writing Jack a letter;1 and lest our kind mother should be getting anxious about me, I have determined on sending you one also, while my hand is in. Jack's letter and your newspapers have found me here in due course of post, and comforted me with the intelligence that you are all in your usual way: I am happy to inform you in my turn that I also am as formerly, if little better, at least nothing worse. Jack gives me sundry articles of news; but he neglects to say whether ever that weighty packet of letters from Lon-

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don, directed to my Mother, reached you, with the two Examiners that followed it. The packet contained a little sheet for you, and one for Frank Dickson: I think there can be no doubt that it would arrive in safety, tho' it was put into the post-office in a somewhat irregular manner. Satisfy me, if you can recollect. Since coming hither I have followed Badams' prescription with as much regularity as I conveniently could; but I do not find that I have yet made any very marked improvement. Indeed I can hardly expect it: he has had me under physic for the last fortnight, and tho' in general a little easier than I used to be, I am just proportionally weaker. However, he predicts confidently an improvement or even a recovery, and I am content enough to abide the issue for a few weeks longer. My way of life has been a little irregular since my arrival, as my kind doctor has been trying a variety of experiments with me, to discover properly what it is that ails me. In general, I ride and read and talk, and pass the time with a sufficient allowance of comfort: all my views and hopes are directed towards the reestablishment of my health; without which I am but a lost man. Badams and I are sufficiently familiar: I feel entirely at home with him. Independently of his skill in medicine and other arts, I find him one of the most estimable men I have ever met with. In another month I shall know better what to say about his skill in stomach disorders: at present I have some faith, but not by any means complete. There are several other people here to whom he has introduced me; men of pleasing exterior, and not without a certain worth; but my taste is rather for private meditation and careless talk than for laborious conversation with such persons. Nevertheless I do stir out sometimes: to-day I am to go with one Crosbie2 (from Dumfries, a Scotch minister here) to dine at a Mr Lawrence's, to whom Irving sent a letter by me. I was one day thro the iron and coal works of this neighbourhood—a halffrightful scene! A space perhaps 30 square miles to the north of us, covered over with furnaces, rolling-mills, steam-engines and sooty men. A dense cloud of pestilential smoke hangs over it forever, blackening even the grain that grows upon it; and at night the whole region burns like a volcano spitting fire from a thousand tubes of brick. But oh the wretched hundred and fifty thousand mortals that grind out their destiny there! In the coal-mines they were lit-

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erally naked, many of them, all but trowsers; black as ravens; plashing about among dripping caverns, or scrambling amid heaps of broken mineral; and thirsting unquenchably for beer. In the ironmills it was little better: blast-furnaces were roaring like the voice of many whirlwinds all around; the fiery metal was hissing thro' its moulds, or sparkling and spitting under hammers of a monstrous size, which fell like so many little earthquakes. Here they were wheeling charred coals, breaking their iron-stone, and tumbling all into their fiery pit; there they were turning and boring cannon with a hideous shrieking noise such as the earth could hardly parallel; and thro' the whole, half-naked demons pouring with sweat and besmeared with soot were hurrying to and fro in their red night-caps and sheetiron breeches rolling or hammering or squeezing their glowing metal as if it had been wax or dough. They also· had a thirst for ale. Yet on the whole I am told they are very happy: they make forty shillings or more per week, and few of them will work on Mondays. It is in a spot like this that one sees the sources of British power. The skill of man combining these coals and that iron-ore (till forty years ago — iron was smelted with charcoal only ) has gathered three or four hundred thousand human beings round this spot, who send the products of their industry to all the ends of the Earth. But I must close my descriptions of these indifferent matters, and travel towards home. What is going on about Mainhill, my dear Boy? How do you fare, and what cheer are you of, since I went away? Do you ever think of farms, or hear of any? You must not give up your ideas on that point, tho' I am out of the Buller family. I shall make money enough, if I were fairly on my feet again; I do not fear it; and unless my health improve a good deal there will be nothing for it, but to come and stay beside you somewhere, and mind my writing for Edinburgh as before. Be upon the look-out, therefore; and if anything strike you let me know. Tell me also pointedly how our Mother is; and if she wants any thing. Thank her for her little letter, which I read with no usual feeling, and beg another from her. When were you at Dumfries, and how are Robie and our uncle John3 and Nancy and all the rest? Remember me kindly to them when you have opportunity. How does our worthy Father like the aspect of affairs at Mainhill this autumn? I trust he is as well and hearty as we wish him. Mis-

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ter Cairlil it appears has read Sandford and Merton: he may lend it to the rest if he sees good. I myself am going to be upon the Book adventure once more as I was hinting to you last t[ime.] This Life of Schiller, after many delays has at last, [as I] understand it, been consigned to the care of Taylor and Hessy, the Magazine Booksellers, for another fifty pounds; and is to come out in a separate volume about November. I expect to make somewhat not very far from £ 100 of it, altogether. It is to be enlarged with new translations etc. etc., and to have a portrait of Schiller at the beginning of it. I expect it will be a pretty enough volume. I am at present engaged in looking out for pieces to translate for it, and meditating improvements. You shall have copies of it forthwith—that is immediately on its publication. But Badams is calling me to go out and ride; so I must draw this confused scribble to a close. Now remember you must write to me without delay. Jack may not return from Kirkchrist for some time; but you must not wait for him. Tell me all the news, important and unimportant. Nothing that belongs to you however remotely can be indifferent to me. What is the child of Misfortune doing or about to do? Make my respects to him, and tell him to arise and saddle his ass,4 and set forth on his journey while the sun is shining; for the night is coming when none can travel.—I saw the Targer,5 as I told you —on his way to France; but yet I have heard no farther news of him. Send my compliments to the worthy goodwife of Bogside when you tell her this piece of news. Remember me in brotherly affection to Mag and Jamie, Mary, Jane and Jenny: tell all of them to write me a word of remembrance that can write a single stroke. May the Great Father be with you all! I am ever Your true Brother, Th: Carlyle Edward Irving has a son:6 he writes to me like a trusty fellow as of old. The fashionable tumult about him is subsiding, and he is going to be a right fellow after all. His Mother-in-law, the snell wife of Kirk[c]aldy whom you have seen, together with a very affected daughter, arrived just the night before I left London. The minister Martin, and the grandfather Martin are coming too. Irving projects that he and I and his wife and child shall go to bathing quarters for six weeks and live like recluse philosophers. He is a good man with all his vani-

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ties. — James Moyer,7 the soot-drop, asked for you in London where he is a clerk. — "Confound your writing!" Badams cries. Adieu my brother! A letter soon! T. C. Tell my dear and good Mother to send a line whenever she can; if possible when you write. Tell her I am surprised and pleased that she likes Meister; I suppose it was out of love to the Translator. Mrs Strachey was quite delighted with it: they are still reviewing it, some censuring, most praising. It must and will do. — Write soon. Published in part: EL, pp. 3 1 2 - 3 1 3 . 1. See Froude, I, 2 3 1 - 2 3 2 . 2. John Geddes Crosbie (d. 1 8 3 8 ) , eldest son of Andrew Crosbie of Dumfries. He was educated at Glasgow, on Irving's recommendation called to the Scots Church, Birmingham, November 1824, and ordained by the Glasgow presbytery in June of the following year. He was minister of Fenwick from 1 8 2 9 to 1836, when he resigned on conscientious grounds and left his profession. Lawrence is unidentified. 3. John Aitken of Dumfries, who would later assist in the repairs of Craigenputtock. There is a letter from Carlyle to him published in Conway, Thomas Carlyle, pp. 1 4 4 - 1 4 5 . Presumably Nancy (as well as Robie — see Letter 3 8 ) was also an Aitken. 4. II Sam. 1 9 : 2 6 ; I Kings 1 3 : 1 3 . For "night . . . travel" cf. John

9=45. James Johnstone. 6. Edward, bom July 22. The child died October 1 1 , 1825. 7. Unidentified.

• Carlyle left Birmingham for London on September 23 and a week later joined the Irvings at Dover, where they had gone to vacation and where a week after that they were joined by the Stracheys. Irving and his wife had brought with them Caroline, "Kitty," Aurora Kirkpatrick ( b. 1803? ), who with Margaret Gordon and Jane Welsh Carlyle was probably in Carlyle's mind when he drew Blumine. She was an heiress, the daughter of an Anglo-Indian official and his wealthy Mohammedan wife, and a second cousin of Charles Buller and cousin of Mrs. Strachey, with whom she was living. Carlyle described her as "a strangely-complexioned young lady, with soft brown eyes and floods of bronze-red hair, really a pretty-looking, smiling and amiable, though most foreign bit of magnificence and kindly splendor." She later wed one whom Carlyle called "some idle Ex-Captain of Sepoys" and whom

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Alexander Carlyle identified as James Phillips, and settled near Exeter. See the Reminiscences, II, 117-118, 125; NLM, I, 115, II, 355; and, for a miniature of her, Wilson, I, facing 336. While the party was at Dover someone suggested a trip to Paris, and on October 21 Miss Kirkpatrick, her maid, Mr. Strachey, and Carlyle set out. All that Carlyle saw and experienced, some of it to serve him valuably when he was writing The French Revolution, he recorded in the Reminiscences, II, 156-166. They returned to Dover on November 6 and went straight to London, where the Irvings and Mrs. Strachey had gone before them. Within a few days Carlyle was established in his own rooms conveniently near Irving. ·

54· 23. Southampton-street, Pentonville, 14th December, 1824 My dear Alick, The arrival of the "Courier" (it comes regularly on Monday about noon) puts me in mind of a duty, which I have neglected too long. I hope you have felt no anxiety on my account, I have been as well in health as usual, and much happier in spirits. You know the old rule, when I do not write, infer that nothing is the matter with me: I have pledged myself again and again to send you instant word if any thing should ail me. For my own sake I have inducement enough to write: to talk with you about our mutual doings and purposes is among my most delightful occupations; knowing and feeling as I do how honest and how warm an interest we take in every thing relating to each other. Your letter found me in due season; and a welcome visitant it was. I had not got the "Courier" that preceded it, and the intelligence of your proceedings and welfare was no small relief to me. You must thank our Mother in my name in the warmest terms for her kind note, which I have read again and again with an attention rarely given to more polished compositions. The sight of her rough truehearted writing is more to me than the finest penmanship and the choicest rhetoric. It takes me home to honest kindness, and affection that will never never fail me. You also I must thank for your graphic

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picture of Mainhill and its neighbourhood. How many changes happen in this restless roundabout of life within a little space! The poor Quack Miller1 forced from his dearly-beloved bags, and his simple sister heiress of thousands! How or what is she doing with it? Are sycophants gathering round the shallow "Gheen" to filch it from her? Has she changed her style of life, and how? Her inheritance seems stranger to me than a novel. In London, or rather in my own small sphere of it, there has nothing sinister occurred since I wrote last. After abundant scolding, what sometimes rose to the very borders of bullying, these unhappy people are proceeding pretty regularly with the Book; a fifth part of it is already printed; they are also getting a portrait of S chiller engraved for it; and I hope in about six weeks the thing will be off my hands. It will make a reasonable-looking book; somewhat larger than a volume of Meister, and done in somewhat of the same style. In the course of printing I have various matters to attend to; proofs to read; additions, alterations to make; which furnishes me with a very canny operation for the portion of the day I can devote to labour. I work some three or four hours; read, for amusement chiefly, about as long; walk about these dingy streets, and talk with originals for the rest of the day. On the whole I have not been happier for many a long month: I feel content to let things take their turn till I am free of my engagements; and then — for a stern and serious tuffle with my Fate, which I have vowed and determined to alter from the very bottom, health and all! This will not be impossible, or even I think extremely difficult. Far beyond a million of "weaker vessels" 2 than I are sailing very comfortably along the tide of life just here. What good is it to whine and whimper? Let every man that has an ounce of strength in him, get up and put it forth in Heaven's name, and labour that his "soul may live." 3 Of this enormous Babel of a place I can give you no account in writing: it is like the heart of all the universe; and the flood of human effort rolls out of it and into it with a violence that almost appals one's every sense. Paris scarcely occupies a quarter of the ground, and does not seem to have the twentieth part of the business. O that our father sa[w] Holbom in a fog! with the black vapour brooding over it, absolutely like fluid ink; and coaches and wains and sheep and

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oxen and wild people rushing on with bellowings and shrieks and thundering din as if the earth in general were gone distracted. To-day I chanced to pass thro' Smithfield, when the market was three fourths over: I mounted the steps of a door, and looked abroad upon the area, an irregular space of perhaps thirty acres in extent, encircled with old dingy brick-built houses, and intersected with wooden pens for the cattle. What a scene! Innumerable herds of fat oxen, tied in long rows, or passing at a trot to their several shambles; and thousands of graziers, drivers, butchers, cattle-brokers with their quilted frocks and long goads pushing on the hapless beasts; hurrying to and fro in confused parties, shouting, jostling, cursing, in the midst of rain and shairn and braying discord such as the imagination cannot figure. — Then there are stately streets and squares, and calm green recesses to which nothing of this abomination is permitted to enter. No wonder Cobbett4 calls the place a Wen! It is a monstrous Wen! The thick smoke of it beclouds a space of thirty square miles; and a million of vehicles, from the dog- or cuddy-barrow to the giant waggon, grind along its streets forever. I saw a six-horse wain the other day with, I think, Number 200,000 and odds upon it! There is an excitement in all this, which is pleasant as a transitory feeling, but much against my taste as a permanent one. I had much rather visit London from time to time, than Uve in it. There is in fact no right life in it that I can find: the people are situated here like plants in a hot house, to which the quiet influences of sky5 and earth are never in their unadulterated state admitted. It is the case with all ranks: the carman with his huge slouch hat hanging halfway down his back, consumes his breakfast of bread and tallow or hog's lard, sometimes as he swags along the streets, always in a hurried and precarious fashion, and supplies the deficit by continual pipes and pots of beer. The fashionable lady rises at three in the afternoon, and begins to live towards midnight. Between these two extremes, the same false and tumultuous manner of existence more or less infects all ranks. It seems as if you were forever in "an inn"; the feeling of home in our acceptation of the term is not known to one of a thousand. You are packed into paltry shells of brick-houses (calculated to endure for forty years, and then fall); every door that slams to in the street is audible in your most secret chamber; the necessaries of life are

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hawked about thro' multitudes of hands, and reach you, frequently adulterated, always at rather more than twice their cost elsewhere; people's friends must visit them by rule and measure; and when you issue from your door, you are assailed by vast shoals of quacks, and shewmen, and street-sweepers, and pickpockets, and mendicants of every degree and shape, all plying in noise or silent craft their several vocations, all in their hearts like "lions ravening for their prey." 6 The blackguard population of the place is the most consummately blackguard of any thing I ever saw. Yet the people are in general a frank, jolly, well-living, kindly people. You get a certain way in their good graces with great ease: they want a little more with you than now and then a piece of recreating conversation, and you are quickly on terms for giving and receiving it. Farther, I suspect, their nature or their habits seldom carry or admit them. I have found one or two strange mortals, whom I sometimes stare to see myself beside. There is Crabbe Robinson,7 an old Templer (Advocate dwelling in the Temple) who gives me coffee and Sally-Lunns (a sort of buttered roll), and German books, and talk by the gallon in a minute. His windows look into — Alsatia! With the Montagues I, once a week or so, step in and chat away a friendly hour: they are good clever people, tho' their goodness and cleverness are strangely mingled with absurdity in word and deed. They like me very well: I saw Badams ther[e l]ast night; I am to see him more at large to-morrow or soon after. Mrs [Strachey?] has tw[ice co]me to see me — in her carriage, a circumstance of strange omen to our worthy . . .8 I had a long long talk with her and Mrs Buller the other day. Poor Charlie likes Cambridge ill, and runs a risk of becoming a dandy and a dissipated person: I trust, not. Mrs Buller has settled at Shooter's Hill;9 after all her thousand schemes and counterschemes here she is where she began! Irving and I have promised to come out and visit them. Among the poets I see Procter and Allan Cunningham as often as I like: the other night I had a second and much longer talk with Campbell. I went over with one Macbeth,10 not the "Usurper," but a hapless Preacher from Scotland, whose gifts coupled with their drawbacks cannot earn him bread in London, tho' Campbell and Irving and many more are doing all they can for him. Thomas is a clever man, and we had a much more pleasant conversa-

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tìon than our first; but I do not think my view of him was materially altered. He is vain and dry in heart; the brilliancy of his mind ( which will not dazzle you to death after all) is like the glitter of an iceberg in the Greenland seas; parts of it are beautiful, but it is cold, cold, and you would rather look at it than touch it. I partly feel for Campbell: his early life was a tissue of wretchedness (here in London he has lived upon a penny-worth of milk and a penny-roll per day); and at length his soul has got encrusted as with a case of iron; and he has betaken himself to sneering and selfishness — a common issue! Irving I see as frequently and kindly as ever. His church and boy occupy him much. The madness of his popularity is altogether over; and he must content himself with playing a much lower game than he once anticipated; nevertheless I imagine he will do much good in London, where many men like him are greatly wanted. His wife and he are always good to me. Respecting my future movements I can predict nothing certain yet. It is not improbable, I think, that I may see you all in Scotland before many weeks are come and gone. Here at any rate, in my present circumstances I do not mean to stay: it is expensive beyond measure (two guineas a week or thereby for the mere items of bed and board); and I must have a permanent abode of some kind devised for myself, if I mean to do any good. Within reach of Edinburgh or London, it matters little which. You have not yet determined upon leaving or retaining Mainhill? I think it is a pity that you had not some more kindly spot: at all events a better house I would have. Is Mainholm let? By clubbing our capitals, together we might make something of it. A house in the country, and a horse to ride on, I must and will have if it be possible. Tell me all your views on these things, when you write. Meanwhile things go on with me as snugly as I could expect. My lodgings and landlady are greatly to my mind. Except in the article of cheapness, and now and then of sleep I have nothing to desire. Yet for six hours or more every night there is deep quiet, and in general I manage altogether well. The substantial tidy woman cooks me my eggs (fresh at 2d each, rotten 1 i/2d) and mutton chop and potatoes in unequalled style. On the whole I do well for the present; and the future is in my own hands to make and manage as I list. I have

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thoughts of undertaking a complete translation of Schiller's works; but nothing is yet settled: I have written to Brewster for advice. — Did you get a parcel thro' Jack from me? If not it will come soon. Does Jack send you the Examiner newspaper regularly? I mean to send it regularly to him; tho' in point of talent, it is much fallen off, and in point of principle it is as bad as ever. It will carry a ganz wohl between us, and that is enough. Now mind, Boy, you promised to write immediately! Do, write the very first vacant hour after this arrives: I will answer you instantly. Good night! my dear Alick! I am ever your affectionate Brother— T. Carlyle Neglect not to assure every mortal at Mainhill of my unaltered love, and to ask from them for me a like return. There was a note for Mag in the parcel, and four French needle-cases! Tell me about my Mother and her health, and all she says or does. My Father owes me a letter; I must put him to the horn if he does not pay it. My Mother must write her own postscript in your letter. Tell her to eat dozens of half-boiled eggs, and eggs-and-milk, also to take now and then a little wine. Tea, hot tea, is necessary for her every day. Did you lend Waugh the pony? And how is he propering? Do you ever hear of poor Bardolph? Does the Child11 ever visit you? Make my respects to him. Does he stir his fins yet — or merely his tongue? Soot-drop Moyer (your old crony) is here as a clerk: I saw him and George Beveridge 12 at Irvings chapel, yesterday. Soot-drop asked for you kindly. Published in part: EL, pp. 3x4-318. 1. "Old Laird Miller," wrote Alexander in his letter of

November

21, 1824 (MS: N L S # 1763.102-103), was "a man little beloved in life or lamented in death." He had somehow amassed a fortune, taken to drink, squandered money on transients and at the same time nearly starved to death a daughter and his sister, the "shallow Gheen." 2. I Pet. 3:7. 3. Isa. 55:3. 4. Throughout his Rural

Rides

5. C f . M e a s u r e for Measure 6. The

Book

7. Henry

of Common

Crabb

( 1821 ).

III.i.9. Prayer,

Robinson

Psalm 104.17.

(1775-1867),

diarist, correspondent for

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and foreign editor of the Times, and a founder of the Athenaeum Club and University College, London. He had met both Goethe and Schiller while traveling in Germany in 1 8 0 1 - 1 8 0 2 . 8. Word unclear. 9. A residential district of Woolwich, London. 10. One who "had failed of a Kirk, — as he deserved to do, though his talents were good; — and was now hanging very miscellaneously on London, with no outlooks that were not bog meteors, and a steadily increasing tendency to strong drink" ( Reminiscences, II, 1 3 7 ) . 1 1 . Waugh. 1 2 . Unidentified.

55· London, 8th January, 1825 My dear Alick, Your letter came to me the day before Christmas; it is time that it were answered. I am much obliged to you for your punctuality; a virtue which in my situation, I am called upon to rival or even to surpass. I have no news for you; only harmless chat, but that, and the assurance that there is no bad news will repay you for the charge of postage. The creature M'Diarmid 1 after frightening our Mother has almost begun to frighten me. His tidings of maladies and deaths in your quarter wear an alarming aspect: I long to be assured that those dear to me continue to be mercifully spared from such visitations. You will not fail to write the very first moment you can spare. Every thing goes on with me here very mudi as it was doing when I wrote last. My health is not worse, nor do my spirits fail. I feel determined to regain a sound state of body, at whatever cost; to remodel my whole manner of proceeding, and at length to begin living as a reasonable man in my circumstances ought. There is no want of resources in my fortune: it only behoves me to apply them wisely, and resolutely to abide by my determinations with regard to them. I think I have well nigh decided on returning to Scotland, when this Book is off my hands. This tumultuous capital is not the place for one like me. The very expense of it were almost enough to drive me out of it: I cannot live in the simplest style under about two guineas a

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week; a sum that would suffice to keep a decent roof of my own above me in my Fatherland. Besides I ought to settle somewhere, and get a home and neighbourhood among my fellow creatures. Now this London, to my mind, is not a flattering scene for such an enterprise. One hates, for one thing, to be a foreigner anywhere; and this after all that can be said about it, is the case with every Scotchman in this city. They live as aliens here, unrooted in the soil; without political, religious, or even much social, interest in the community; distinctly feeling every day that with them it is money only that can "make the man to go." Hence Cash! cash! is the everlasting cry of their souls. They are consequently very "hard characters"; they believe in nothing but their ledgers; their precept is like that of Iago, "Put money in your purse"; or as he of Burnfoot2 more emphatically expressed it, "Now Jock! get siller; honestly, if thou can; but ony way, get it!" I should like but indifferently to be ranked among them; for my sentiments and theirs are not at all germane. The first improvement they make upon themselves in the south is to acquire the habit of sneering at their honest old country; vending many stale jokes about its poverty, and the happiness of travelling with one's face towards the sun. This is a "damnable" heresy, as honest Allan Cunningham called it. I have no patience with the leaden-hearted dogs. Often when appealed to that I might confirm such shallow sarcasms, I have risen in my wrath, and branded them with my bitterest contempt. But here they are staple speculation[s] with our degenerate compatriots. Bull3 himself, again, tho' a frank, beef-loving, joyous kind of person, is excessively stupid: take him out of the sphere of the five senses, and he gazes with a vacant astonishment, wondering "what the devil the fellow can mean." This is comparatively the state of all ranks, so far as I have seen them, from the highest to the lowest; but especially of the latter. Of these it is unspeakably so! Yesterday I went to see Newgate, under the auspices of the benevolent Mrs Fry,4 a Quaker lady who every Friday goes on her errand of mercy to inspect the condition of the female prisoners. She, this good Quakeress, is as much like an angel of Peace as any person I ever saw: she read a chapter, and expounded it, to the most degraded audience of the universe, in a style of beautiful simplicity which I shall not soon forget. But oh! the male felons! The two hundred polluted wretches, thro'

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whose stalls and yards I was next carried! There were they of all climates and kinds, the Jew the Turk the 'Christian'; from the grey villain of sixty to the blackguard boy of eight! Nor was it their depravity that struck me, so much as their debasement. Most of them actually looked like animals; you could see no traces of a soul (not even of a bad one) in their gloating, callous, sensual countenances; they had never thought at all, they had only eaten and drunk and made merry. I have seen as wicked people in the north; but it was another and far less abominable sort of wickedness. A Scotch blackguard is very generally a thinking reasoning person; some theory and principle of life, a Satanic philosophy, beams from every feature of his rugged scowling countenance. Not so here! The sharpness of these people was the cunning of a fox, their stubbornness was the sullen gloom of a mastiff. Newgate holds, I believe, within its walls, more human baseness than any other spot in the Creation. But why do I write of it or aught connected with it, since in a few weeks I hope to tell you every thing by word of mouth? We are on the fifteenth sheet of Schiller; six more will set us thro' it. The moment it is finished, I purpose to decamp. I have given the creatures four weeks (they engage for three) to settle every thing: I should not be surprised if you met me at the Candlemas Fair on the plain stones of Dumfries! Soon after the beginning of February I do expect to see old, meagre, but true-hearted Annandale again. No doubt, you will have the wark-gear afoot, that is, the pony in riding order, and every thing in readiness for me. When arrived, my purposes are various, and inviting tho' unsettled. I have written to Edinburgh about a projected Translation of Schiller's Works; Brewster sends me word that Blackwood 5 ( the bookseller ) "has no doubt he will be able to engage with me, in Schiller (which, however, he does not seem to relish) or in some other literary object." Blackwood, I believe, is but a knave; and I put no faith in him. Nay since I began to write this sentence, I have a letter from the scoundrel Boyd "respectfully declining" to engage in that speculation of Schiller! So that I rather suppose it must be renounced. No matter! There are plenty more, where it came from! I am bent on farming, for the recovery of my health; nay 'Marriage' itself is sometimes not out of my ulterior contemplations! But I will explain all things when we meet.

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The Bullers are living at Shooters' Hill: their boys are not prospering u[nder their] present arrangement. Thro' Mrs Strachey, they made me a kind of offer about taking [Arth]ur under my management here, and letting him live with me, at the rate of £,200 a-year, till next October. This I respectfully declined'; the board alone of the boy would be £150; and £200 more were but a reasonable compensation for the trouble of him. If they choose to send him with me into Scotland at the rate of £300 per annum, I may listen to their proposal: but this I hardly expect; nor do I greatly care about it. But the day is breaking up into fair sunshine; and I must out to take the benefit of it. Let me have a letter from you, a long one, and a good one like the last, by the very earliest opportunity. Thank my kind true Mother for her note: tell her it will not be long till I answer all her queries by word of mouth. In the mean time, I have a message for her, which I know will please her well, because it is to do something for me. Badams prescribes warmth above all things: he made me wear close stocking (flannel or rather woolen) drawers even in summer. My Mother once offered to get Peter Little6 to work me such a pair: tell her that now if she has any wool, I will take them. If she has not, she need never mind in the least: we can setde it — when — we meet! — Do you regularly hear of Jack? He is a letter in my debt for ten days. But I hope the good soul is well. Does he send you the Examiner? Has he written you a translation of Goethe's letter7 to me? I was very glad to hear from the old blade, in so kind tho' so brief a fashion. I mean to send him a copy of Schiller's Life, so soon as it is ready. Now, my dear Boy, I must take my flight. I have purchased me a small seal 8 and the Carlyles' crest with Humilitate and all the rest of it are engraving on it. The thing lies at present in Oxford-street, and was to be ready about this time to-day. I am going thither: if I get it, I will seal this letter with it, for your edification. Write directly, and tell me all; the progress of the Gheen and every thing notable, in and about Mainhill. The smallest incident from that quarter recorded in your pithy style is valuable to me. Irving and I are as friendly as ever. He is toiling in the midst of many difficulties and tasks, internal and external, domestic and ecclesiastic. I wish him well thro' them! He is the best man I have met in England.

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But here as I told him lately he has no home; he is a missionary' rather than a pastor. — My Father has never written to me: I should like much to see his hand in London. Give my warmest love to him and Mother, and all the brethren and sisters, beginning with Mag and ending with Jenny. Write soon good Alick! I am ever your true Brother, T. Carlyle Published in part: EL, pp. 319-322. 1. In the Dumfries and Galloway Courier. 2. Perhaps one of the Irvings of Burnfoot, whom Carlyle mentioned in Letter 219. See that letter for John Irving. There are three Burnfoots: one a mile east of Eaglesfield, a second a mile east of Ecclefechan, and a third a mile northeast of Dalton. 3. Underscored twice. 4. Elizabeth Fry (1780-1845), prison reformer and Quaker minister. She was responsible for establishing the order of the nursing sisters. 5. William Blackwood (1776-1834), principal founder of the Edin-

burgh Encyclopaedia and founder of the Edinburgh Monthly Maga-

zine

( 1 8 1 7 ) , which with its seventh number became

Edinburgh Magazine.

Blackwoods

6. Apparently of or about Ecclefechan and who may have been a member of the locally well-known Little family of Cressfield. Also mentioned in these letters are Archy, James, and Frank Little, the latter the son of a Dumfries doctor and one of the earliest settlers of Australia. See Letters 169, 187, and 193. 7. Occasioned by Carlyle's own of June 24, 1824, and a gift copy of Wilhelm Meisters Apprenticeship. Both letters are published in G-CC, pp. 1-2, 3-5. 8. Two griffins' heads with "Humilitate" inscribed on a scroll arching over them. Carlyle also used this design, with his name set in a block beneath the griffins' heads, for his bookplate. See Ritchie, facing p. 192, for photographs of the seals that Carlyle and his wife used.

56. Pentonville, 14th Feby 1824 [1825] My dear Brother, I expected by this time almost to have been in Mainhill; and the date of my departure even from London is still in some degree uncertain. I am afraid our Mother will be getting anxious about me; so I

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sit down in the midst of bustle and hurry to assure you all that I am quite well, and prevented from coming home by no cause productive of any evil to me. I expect that this weary Life of Schiller would have been published a fortnight ago, and just when every thing was ready on my part, the Engraver1 discovered that the portrait was not right and would require at least two weeks! before it could be put properly in order! Of course I felt terribly enraged at this new delay; but what, alas, would rage do for me? I made them bind me up 10 copies of the Book to give away among my friends here; I got my money from the knaves, took their promise of proceeding with the utmost possible expedition in the matter tho' I were absent; and thus washed my hands of the affair entirely. Irving in the meantime got me at length persuaded to come over to his quarters, "to talk with him," and I have been here above a week "talking" with might and main. I have shipped my trunk for Leith; but reflecting that till after Schiller had been some time in Edinburgh, it was useless for me to go thither and have continued here, enjoying myself as the circumstances permitted, and waiting patiently till all things should be ready for my departure. One consideration that detains me is the wish to see a little more of Badams before my departure, and take his final views about the management of my health. He is here at this time; and counsels me strongly to stay with him a while before leaving England. He talks about leaving London about Saturday; and I have engaged to go with him to Birmingham, however long I may stay there; and carry with me his last precepts about the management of my outward man in Scotland. So that you perceive it is still a little uncertain when I may return to you: I can only promise to write to you from Birmingham, and tell you more particularly. Meanwhile, except perhaps for the loss of time, I feel perfectly comfortable here. Irving and I talk of all things under the sun, in the friendliest and most edifying manner; and all my friends vie with one another in kindness to the departing dyspeptic. Several of them would fain retain me; and had I not vowed inflexibly to recover health of body in preference to all things, I should be strongly tempted to listen to their solicitations. But I feel that I may grow completely well again; and seven years of perpetual pain have taught me sharply that

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to this consideration every thing should give way. I hope however not to leave England for good and all at present; I have got real friends here, whom I should be sorry to quit forever. Mrs Strachey and I are to correspond by letters; so also are Mrs Montague and I: the former has presented me with a beautiful gold pencil; the latter with a seal bearing Schiller's dying words "Calmer and Calmer" for an inscription; both of which pledges I design to keep with great fidelity as memorials of worthy and kind people. For my future occupation, I have yet settled nothing definitively. The Booksellers Taylor and Hessey have offered me £ 100 for a Life of Voltaire to be composed like this of Schiller; to be printed, if I like, in Edinburgh; the subsequent editions also to be theirs at the rate of £ 100 apiece. I have not agreed to it;2 for I expect better things from the Edinburgh Trade; but at the very worst this is in reserve. I think it fair enough to get £ 1 0 0 for the first edition only; but they boggle at this; and besides I like not the men, they are silly people, and "Turks in grain." We shall see by and by. In the first place however, I must settle some place of abode for myself, some scheme of existing in conformity to my medical prescriptions and also of proceeding with my literary employments. The farm is still my favourite or rather only steady project. A reasonable house is all that I want; with land that would pay you for working it. I feel assured that if we could get the matter righdy begun, we might manage it perfectly well. Do you know of any likely farm? Send me off a letter to Birmingham with your ideas on this point: I wish much to hear what you and all the rest think of it. We have fully £400 of money; and if I were once fairly settled, I could easily make more. Let us try it manfully, and see if we cannot prosper! I think in twelve months, I might almost be perfectly well. I long to hear what you think. I have said already that the period of my stay in Birmingham was unsettled: I am partly calculating on ten days or perhaps a fortnight. And as I shall have nothing to employ me with, beyond my riding and regimen, I have devised a plan of occupation, which may turn this leisure to account. There is a Spaniard here (one of the refugees) who from Catholic has become a Protestant, a very honest shrewd little fellow, between whom and Irving I have had occasion frequently of late to officiate as interpreter (the Spaniard speaking

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only French). I have bethought me of turning his skill to account; I have bought a Spanish grammar, and begun yesterday to take lessons from him in his language, which I may repay by giving him lessons in mine. I find it very easy; and design to continue it while in Warwickshire. Before leaving Birmingham, I calculate on being able to read Spanish pretty readily. This is better than entire idleness, into which at present I am too much tempted to fall. A copy of Schiller will reach you thro' Edinburgh ere long. It is a very reasonable looking book; and promises to act its part in society very fairly. If I can find nothing better to do, I will write a whole string of such books. Literary fame is a thing which I covet little; but I desire to be working honestly in my day and generation in this business, which has now become my trade. I make no grain of doubt that in time I shall penetrate the fence that keeps me back, and find the place which is due to me among my fellow men. Some hundreds of stupider people are at this very time doing duty with acceptance in the literature of the time. We shall see; I am not at all in a hurry; the time will come. Now, my dear Alick, I daresay you have not failed to discover that this is the most meagre of letters, and to wonder how I could have written it. The truth is I am sitting here perched up in a crowded parlour, with the worst pen in nature, and all is confusion about me. To write sense is simply impossible. Were it not to calm the affectionate anxieties of my Mother, no cause could have tempted me to write at all. Assure her that I am quite well, and will write better next time if I have occasion to write again. You will write instantly to Birmingham, or at least send the newspaper instantly, and write directly after! 'Care of J. Badams Esq.' I need not send my compliments to Father and Mother and every one at home: the best wishes of my heart are with them always. I will see the whole of them in a few days. Excuse this confusion and hurry: I am in the midst of tumult and distraction, and meant only to tell you that I was well, and ever your affectionate Brother — Thomas Carlyle I began this letter and wrote the first page of it on the fourteenth: I have [not] got the rest written till to-day, the 17th!

1825, London

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MS: Edwin W. Marrs, Jr. Published in part: EL, pp. 325-326. 1. One Bull (see EL, p. 327), the engraver of the portrait of Schiller. 2. Although he refused Taylor and Hessey he did do an essay on Voltaire for the Foreign Review in March 1829. See introduction to Letter 79.

UNIONS AND REUNIONS 1825-1834

II

• The search for a farm, where Carlyle might retire from the city, where Alexander might try his skills independently of his father, where the brothers on a basis economical to them both might be reunited, ended when Carlyle's father leased Hoddam Hill for him from General Sharpe at £100 annually. J. M. Sloan in The Carlyle Country: With a Study of Carlyle's Life (London, 1904), pp. 138-139, explained that the name of the Carlyle farm has been changed to Repentance Hill and that the farm itself has lost its separate identity and become a part of the larger farm of West Trailtrow. What was the farmhouse proper, which by Sloan's time had been divided into apartments for the ploughmen of West Trailtrow, is located three miles southwest of Mainhill, and though only slightly larger than Mainhill nevertheless relieved the crowded conditions there. After expressing in the next letter his pleasure at the prospect of living in his own house in the country, Carlyle on March 19 left Birmingham for Mainhill, and at Whitsunday (May 26) took occupancy of Hoddam Hill with Alexander, their mother, Jean, and Janet. Here Carlyle attained the calm of "The Everlasting Yea." He started and progressed regularly on German Romance: Specimms of Its Chief Authors: With Biographical and Critical Notices, 4 vols. (London and Edinburgh, 1827), which was published in two volumes in the Centenary Edition of his works, the essay on Goethe and Wilhelm Meisters Travels, or the Renunciants included as part of Wilhelm Meistens Apprenticeship and Travels. His family was busy all about him. John often came up from Edinburgh. Miss Welsh visited them for two weeks in September. But a misunderstanding with Sharpe first disturbed the establishment and then prompted James Carlyle to write the letter following the next, which announced its collapse. Yet with "all its manifold petty troubles," Carlyle wrote in 1866, "this year at Hoddam Hill has a rustic beauty and dignity to me; and lies now like a not ignoble russet-coated Idyll in my memory; one of the quietest on the whole, and perhaps the most triumphantly important of my life" (Reminiscences, II, 178-179). ·

57· Birmingham, 4th March, 1825 My dear Alick, No piece of news that I have heard for a long time has given me more satisfaction than the intelligence contained in your letter of yesterday. For several weeks I had lived in a total dearth of tidings from

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you; and both on account of your welfare and of our mutual projects in the farming line, I had begun to get into the fidgets, and was ready to hasten homewards with many unpleasant imaginations to damp the expected joy of again beholding friends so dear to me. It now appears that all is exactly as it should be: you are proceeding in your usual style at Mainhill; and a dwelling-place upon the summit of Repentance height has already been provided for me. This latter incident, I confess, was beyond my hopes. I feared we should be obliged, so soon as I arrived, to commence the weary task of farmhunting; in which, as the season was already far spent, it seemed likely enough that we should fail this year, as we had done last, and the date of my establishment might be postponed for another twelvemonth. Happily all this is obviated. I make no doubt that Blackadder's1 place will fit us perfectly: the house, I conjecture, and partly recollect, is one of the best of its kind in the district; and as for the management of the land, knowing your industry and our general resources, I am under no apprehension. Once fairly settled in that elevated position, we shall go on with the greatest birr. I want nothing but regularity and care in my diet, with gardening and riding and such like exercise in due proportion, to make an immense improvement in my health; and a few hours spent daily in literary labour will not fail to turn to some account in the way of money; so that between us both, with the true aid of our Mother and the rest, we shall be able to make a bold and steadfast front against the Evil Genius, and in due time, I hope, to lay him prostrate, or cripple him forever. We must try, at any rate; like the far-famed Waffler,2 we will make an affu' struggle, and I doubt not, we shall prosper. I expect to see you all in a few days; but in the mean time, let not my absence in the least impede your movements. It is only in the furnishing of two apartments in the house that I can give you any useful counsel. Proceed, therefore, in laying in your necessary stock and implements, as if you had my express and particular sanction. Get the tack or minute of tack drawn out in your own name; for I am but as a lodger, and should make no figure in the character of one of Hoddam's tenants. The entry, I suppose, will not take place till Whitsunday; but you will need to commence your ploughings and other preparations without delay. Let not my absence cause you to lose a moment.

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Take money from the Bank, and transact with it as you see proper. I think two such philosophers should show an ernmple to the rude boors of Annandale: without "farming by the book," I hope we shall make a different thing of it, than a routine clodhopper who thinks the world is bounded by "the five parishes" would make of it. My Mother need not be assured of the pleasure I feel in having this prospect of living once more under her superintendance. If she can but be taught to stint me sufficiently in my victuals, we shall do admirably. I calculate on suffering a week or two of extra pain, before I convince her of the great fact, that the less I eat, the better; the weaker my appetite, the stronger my health. I will put her too under regimen, and make her "as sound as gold"! — She speaks of knives being cheap in Birmingham; but I fear I am a bad merchant anywhere. The people seem to read in my face that I cannot higgle or beat down their prices; so they almost always overcharge me. Nevertheless I mean to try. But we shall need many things of that domestic sort; and our good Mother shall take a journey to Dumfries, and buy them according to her own sagacity by the lump. It is like a sort of marriage; at least, it is a house-heating. Let us be thankful that we are all to be together; all still spared to be a blessing to each other. At one time I counted on being home by the end of this week; but now I think it plain enough that it will be towards the end of next, at soonest. Badams detained me long in London; I have but been here since Monday;3 and he left me the day before yesterday, being forced by business to return to Town, which [means] he will not have it in his power to leave for a fortnight. He had no new precept of importance to give me; only additional recommendations of abstemiousness and exercise. He is a kind good fellow: I am here as much at home, as if I were at the fire side of Mainhill. Yesterday Badams wrote me (from amidst the "wild beasts of Ephesus," 4 as he calls the new Mining Companies, with whom he is in constant treaty about some important smelting schemes ) : he wishes me to stay till his return; but if I cannot, he entreats me to take Taffy ( a little fiery corn-fed indefatigable Welsh pony of his, on which I ride) with all its furniture, for the love of him; to ride home on the little red cantering nag, and use it in my own country for the recovery of my health! Such are the frank hearts I have found in England! I am actually meditating whether I

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shall not accept this friendly offer. The naggie can canter five and forty miles a day: I might stay and rest myself with Irving Carlyle5 at Oldham; then go thro' among the Lakes, or any way I chose. I have bought me a pair of monstrous buckskin mud-boots ( spatterdashes that cover the whole shoe and extend mid way up the thigh) which keep me as warm and clean, as if I were in a drawing room; and little Taffy and I go scouring over all the purlieus of this huge village. Perhaps after all I may decide in favour of the Manchester Coach, which ends the business sooner. At any rate, I shall not stir till Monday or after it. But if I am not home about a week after that, you may expect another letter from me. For a day or two I am the less anxious, now that I know you all well, and our future up-putting decided on. My weary Schiller was still "three days" from publication, when I left London! The useless Kipper of an Engraver has used me and himself very ill. But he could not help it well, I believe; in recommending him to the job, I meant to serve a worthy and needy man; and I am not sorry for the little injury it has cost me. The Book will be in Edinburgh in ten days; and I shall not be long in following it. I must there take measures for the executing of some one of my various literary schemes. Among them all, I shall not fail to hit on something that may do myself and others a little good. The Hesseys and Taylors are a pitiful squad: but if nothing better may be, I can close with their offer. If they vex me, I will write some thing of my own, and send the whole brotherhood to the right and left! It is not without regret that I leave England; and I cling to the hope of often seeing it again. I have found more kindness in it, than I ever found in any other district of the Earth, except the one that holds my Fathers house. If stony Edinburgh be no better to me than it was, I will shake the dust off my feet against it, and abide in it no more. My health will return, and then I shall be ready for any scene. There are warm hearts everywhere; but they seem to meet one with greater frankness here. Yesterday I had a letter from Mrs Strachey, which was soon followed by a box containing a new present of the most superb writing-desk6 I have ever seen! I should think, with its accompaniments, it cannot have cost much less than twenty guineas. I am writing on it at this moment, and design to keep it as a precious memorial all my days. These are things that make me wonder.

1825, Birmingham 203 I have heard no news from Jack for many days: I partly design to send him a letter to-morrow. He is a hurried off-putting Doilter; but one of the truest of brothers; and bids fair to be a man of note in his day and generation, one that will do discredit to none concerned with him. To-morrow I must write to Dr Brewster about my literary plans; next day, I go and hear Crosbie, a Scotch minister (from Dumfries) endeavouring to establish himself, among this gun-boring, buttonmaking people. He is a well-intentioned man, but runs no risk of being burnt for witchcraft. — The sheet is done. Adieu my dear Brother! I am always yours, Th: Carlyle I hope my Father approves of all these farming schemes, and will not think of burthening himself farther with Mainhill and its plashy soil, when the lease has expired. If I write again, it will be to him. Meanwhile give my warmest love to every mortal about home, beginning with my trusty Mag and ending with the youngest stay of the house, little Jenny. — Tell my Mother I have a book for her, a present from Irving, which he hopes she will like. The time is done: I must begone. Published in part: EL, pp. 328-331. 1. T h e former tenant and factor. 2. Cowthwaite. See Letter 2. 3. February 28. 4. T h e locale of the temple of Artemis, the Greek goddess of human birth, fertility, and virgin huntress of wild creatures. 5. A former schoolmate of Carlyle's, now curate at Oldham. See the Reminiscences,

II, 176.

6. A gift not, as Carlyle at this time believed, from Mrs. Strachey, but from Miss Kirkpatrick. See Sanders, The Strachey Family, pp. 132-133.

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58. James Carlyle to Matthew Sharpe Hoddam Hill, 7th November, 1825 Sir, I have received your answer to my Son's note; which note, I may be allowed to say, was written not of his own motion, but at the suggestion of Mr Blackadder, (and expressed our happiness at your agreeing) and in consequence of his denying that you had promised in his presence to let us have the Farm on any terms, and which expressed our happiness at your agreeing not with us but with him in thinking some farther arrangement necessary. To your two distinct questions1 I shall now endeavour to make answer as distinctly. 1. Of the First Statement I am sorry to say that any avowal I can make must not be altogether unqualified. I learned that the Hill Farm was (in the market) to be let, and did not think myself called on to inquire by what means it had come into the market, so it was there. On applying to you for it, I was told that it had been offerred to another person; and that if he refused it, I might have it. 2. Of the Second Statement I am sorry that my avowal can still less be unqualified. On the contrary I am ready to affirm on oath that till within three weeks of Whitsunday, I never heard from any man any notice or hint which conveyed to my mind the most distant suspicion that Mr Blackadder's claims2 were at all different from those universally existing between outgoing and incoming tenant: nor have I forgot that on your mentioning Two Arbiters and my proposing Mr Hunter3 as alone sufficient, it was stated in so many loords that the claims to be settled were "the ploughing, the lime-heaps, and the manure in the farm-yard"; claims to which Mr Hunter's single judgement seemed perfectly adequate. It would appear, then, that this Bargain has from the first been grounded on misconceptions. As it does not consist with your determination to make any new arrangement, or any farther effort for unravelling the perplexity; and as I have reluctantly determined not again to attempt unravelling it by settlement with Mr Blackadder, having by repeated and very unpleasant experiences convinced myself that this is a task beyond the utmost compass of my abilities, —

1825, Hoddam Hill

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nothing will remain but that the misunderstood Transaction be untransacted by the quickest and quietest method in our power. If you will have the goodness to signify to me in writing that I am at liberty on payment of my stipulated rent to quit these premises at Whitsunday, on the usual principles of an outgoing tenant, I shall readily engage to do so, and the business will be terminated and the discussion of it complete. With much respect, I have the honour to be, Sir, Your most obedient servant James Carlyle Copy of the Last Letter to General Sharp. A copy by Carlyle. 1. Carlyle wrote "requistions" above this word. He canceled neither. 2. £ 150 due Blackadder for the work and matters mentioned below. Sharpe thought the Carlyles should pay it; James Carlyle thought otherwise. See Wilson, I, 399-400. 3. See next letter.

• Resolved to be done with Sharpe once and for all, the Carlyles decided not only to terminate their lease of Hoddam Hill but that of Mainhill as well when it expired on Whitsunday 1827. Alexander heard that Shawbrae, a part of the Queensberry holdings in Nithsdale, had fallen vacant and tried for it. Miss Welsh knew the factor, a Major Crichton — Carlyle also spelled his name "Crighton" and "Creighton" — of Dabton, near Thornhill, perhaps the Major Thomas Crichton of the Dumfriesshire Volunteers listed in the War Office List of Officers of Militia and Volunteers, 1825, and she wrote in Alexander's behalf. While Carlyle was in Edinburgh going over the proofs completed to date on German Romance with one M'Cork, his printer, he received the disconcerting note from Miss Welsh, published in part in LL, II, 214-215, but without the Shawbrae business, that occasioned the following letter. ·

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59· Edinburgh 16th January 1826 My Dear Alick, I have just received a letter from Haddington, enclosing one from Mrs Crichton to Miss Welsh on the subject of Shawbrae, which has put me into no little astonishment and embarrassment. It runs as fol* lows: (13th January) "Last Sunday my Husband gave me your Letter with strict charges 'not to delay carrying a message to you, and to say that only very 'constant business had prevented his writing to you himself. The 'message is that to the last day of taking offers, he had been on the 'look-out for your Friend; but that no such person had appeared. Of 'course nothing could be done or said; but I am sure there was more 'than a chance of your letter having been a good introduction." Now what in all the wide world of art and nature are we to make of this? Did you not publickly give him in the offer in my Father's name? Has the man lost it, or does he mean to sham by this appearance of mistake? The latter I can hardly think; for it were a trick unworthy of a Bewcastle horse-couper. Jane Welsh is in despair at the business; and professes her entire readiness to do any thing that I shall bid her in this affair. To her I shall write1 to-morrow by the earliest post; instructing her to explain to Mrs Crichton (who as ill luck would have it is gone out of Town, neither I nor I fear Jane knows whither for a week) that an offer most certainly 1vas made and a good one too. The Major, she says, is not to be back for a month; in which case perhaps some good may still be done. I think I never was more irritated in my life than at this piece of misunderstanding. We must haste, haste to see if we can remedy it, while time still is. Can you by any manner of means learn Major Crichton or Lord Montagu's2 address in London? If not, it might almost be worth while to gallop off to Dabton and seek it, and send him off without delay some such letter as the following. Mainhill Ecclefechan etc. January 1826 Sir, I have just had a letter from Miss Welsh of Haddington on the sub-

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ject of the farm of Shawbrae containing an extract of one from Your Lady to the following effect: ( 13th January) "Last Sunday my Husband gave me your Letter with etc. etc. [copying all the rest of it to the word] 3 good introduction" — [and marking the sides of it as I have done]. There must be some unaccountable mistake in this matter; for to a certainty my Son did make offer to you in my name for this farm of Shawbrae at Dumfries on Wednesday the — th of December, the public day appointed for taking in offers. The rent proposed by me was £.230 (for the lands which you intended to constitute the future farm of Shawbrae together with the lands of Lower Bogside at present occupied by Mr Hunter); and you yourself had the goodness to specify on the margin of the paper which he signed, the particular pieces of ground which he had in view. If this document is lost, may I hope that you will be so obliging as to consider the present letter in the light of an equivalent for it, that so the recommendation of my kind friend and your kind attention to it may not be utterly lost. With much respect, I remain, Sir etc. James Carlyle — Some such letter as this would still have the force of an offer; and to me it seems quite possible that nothing whatever may have been determined about the matter yet. But I am appointed to dine with Brewster, and the last moment of my time is run. Heaven keep us all! and help us out of this and every difficulty! I am coming in a few days! I will write to you before then, and you will now get a paper regularly every Saturday. My Heart's Love to our Mother and all about the two Hills. Believe me ever My dear Alick Your affectionate Brother Thomas Carlyle P. S. 10 o'clock. I left this letter with Jack, for him to fill with an epistle to our Mother; which the judicious Jack has not done; but on the con[trary] has gone out, and left me to manage the affair as I think proper myself. Ρ [er] haps it is as well after all. — On maturely thinking of this matter, I cannot but believe that there is no sham

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in it, and that you will get the farm, provided your offer reach London in time. Unless the decision is arrived when you get this, I would therefore counsel you to write off to him (Crichton) at all hazards, without the loss of a moment. The Major may still have your offer for Shawbrae among his papers, but it has never struck him that you were the party recommended by Miss Welsh. Perhaps he may discover this at London; perhaps not. There is not an instant to be lost in setting the matter in a clear light. As I said, I will write to Haddington tomorrow; and do you write off to Crichton some such letter as I have composed for you; and if you are expeditious, the thing may still be well. I fear you will be able to make little sense of this, certainly the most confused and hurbled epistle that ever I wrote in this world. I have been hurried and perplexed in the writing of it as never man on Earth was, and have sent it off in the most pressing haste, that all we can do in this affair may be done. As to my own concerns, they go on well enough. The printing has commenced and proceeds apace: I am still at a loss for books; but they have sent off to Germany in quest of some, and I hope they will be here in time. I fixed my bargain4 in writing with Tait to-day: he is a Turk in grain this Tait; but I have him fettered by black and white. So soon as I have got books and other implements collected, I purpose to go home, and carry on the printing and writing as I did the other year. I will write to you when to expect me: it may be next week, perhaps even earlier; but things are in a state of uncertainty as yet. When is the Carrier coming out? Write by post, if he is not coming directly; but let me know the instant any thing definite occurs about this farm, at all events. Write soon, whether any thing occurs or not. — Ever yours. ( If Mr I.5 will have the goodness to send over a Boy with this, it will be reckoned a favour, and the Boy will be paid. T. C.) Leslie the Professor, whom I saw the other day was speaking of a German Nobleman that wanted some one like me to go to Munich and teach him English literature and science. I said I was ready to hear the Nobleman talk on the subject; but I expect to hear no farther tell of it, and at any rate have no mind to go.

1826, Edinburgh

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1. See LL, II, 216-217. But again the matter about Shawbrae is omitted. 2. Henry James Montagu Scott (1776-1845), who succeeded to the barony on the death of his grandfather George, Duke of Montagu. 3. Carlyle's brackets, here and below. 4. For the publication of German Romance. Tait was William Tait. 5. Unidentified.

• The Carlyles failed to obtain Shawbrae, but were successful with Scotsbrig. It was a superior farm with a two-story house and extensive outbuildings located on a wind-swept hillside two and a half miles northeast of Ecclefechan. James Carlyle bid for it in the face of many competitors and felt fortunate in getting it for £. 190. Carlyle wrote to John in March: "A solemn ploughing-day was held last week; and by the aid of ale and stingo, much work was effected. I rode over and saw them; a truly spirit-stirring sight. The people also are to repair the house effectually; to floor it anew, putfetm-doorson it, new windows, and so forth; and it seems 'it is an excellent shell of a house already.' Alick is ploughing at Mainhill, with two new horses; our Father is looking out for a sedate-minded Galloway to carry him 'between toon and toon,' and so all is running on cart-wheels with us here. Our Mother declares that there is 'plenty of both peats and water'; others think 'the farm is the best in Middlebie parishin'; our Father seems to have renewed his youth even as the eagle's age" ( EL, p. 345). For the first week after the removal Carlyle helped in the repairs, but then returned to his old routine at his translations for German Romance, "my stint of ten daily pages, steady as the town clock, no interruption dreaded or occurring" (Froude, I, 331). For the first few months the noises of the workmen did not bother him. And he delighted in his morning rides and his breakfasts in the airy old kitchen. But by early fall, with the noise and bustle increasing, he decided he could not long remain. And "then withal," he wrote, "my darling in noble silence getting so weary of dull Haddington. In brief, after much survey and consideration of the real interests and real feelings of both parties, I proposed, and it was gently acceded to, that German Romance once done . . . we should wed, settle at Edinburgh in some small suburban house . . . , and thenceforth front our chances in the world, not as two lots, but as one, for better for worse, till death us part!" (Froude, I, 332). He completed German Romance by the end

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of August (see Wilson, I, 429). On October 17,1826, he and Miss Welsh were married by the Reverend Mr. Anderson at Templand, the Queensberry farm home near Thornhill of Walter Welsh (d. 1832), Miss Welsh's maternal grandfather, and settled in the cottage at 21 Comley (now Comely) Bank, Edinburgh. ·

60. Edinburgh, 21 Comley Bank, ist January, 1827 My dear Alick, I stand indebted to you for two letters, to say nothing of the ample supply of kitchen ware which attended the last, and of which we have all this very day been enjoying portion. The tardy resolution of Mr Tait at length enables me to acknowledge your claims: our wavering Bookseller has determined on publishing on the 15th of January; the Books are all shipped for London, and I have brought over one today to send down for the amusement of your winter evenings at Scotsbrig. My sincere wish is that you may find in it twenty times the satisfaction its intrinsic worth can give you: of the writer, I know, you will not fail to think with all the favour he can desire. I have to give you many thanks for your letters, and to beg that you would not let me want for the like in future. Consider that I have now no news from home at all except thro' you, and that go whither I may the most interesting spot the sun shines on must be the one where you are all gathered. We have been united, more closely than is usual even with brothers; nor is it impossible (for who can tell what changes the flight of future days1 may bring?) that we may be so again; and however separated in place, I will always believe that while existing in the world together we can never be divided in interest and affection. Therefore mind your writing, my good fellow; and let me have no farther remonstrances to make on the score of remissness in that particular. You promised to tell me at large of your purposes and projects for an arrangement of your future life. As I anticipated, you have yet come to no final resolution; and herein I think you are wise; for truly this is a time, when it is not easy to resolve on any arrangement, and in your

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case, so far as I can understand, there is nothing spoiling by delay. This is an important consideration; especially as you seem yet free to select and reject. The state of your views, I believe, I had partly guessed already: your neighbour's "dark-haired daughter2 has all along been an especial favourite with me, and had I to choose between two such rivals, I should not long hesitate. Yet there are many, many other things to be considered, and allowed to have their full weight in the scale: and on the whole, I am inclined to think, true affection on the part of the wife is perhaps even more essential than on that of the husband; certainly far more important than any shewy allurements and external qualification, which (unlike Mrs Primrose's gown) 3 cast a fine dash at first, but after two or three on-puttings are forgotten or fade away. One thing I will advise: Do nothing unjustly, do nothing rashly! Decide not till your path is clear, that too-late repentance may not visit you. God send us all well and honestly settled, in due season! Meanwhile remember you have determined to do nothing without hearing my advice. Of my own proceedings here I have little that can be considered definite to tell you. I am not unwell, not worse than I used to be in health; and my good helpmate is all to me that I could wish. But as yet I have no occupation! There lies the rub: and truly if you heard the Bookselling tribe talk about the "badness of the times," you would think there was never more to be any occupation for literary men in this world. Poor Dr Brewster, when I saw him, was absolutely distraugh[t]; so balefully were "Black inquietudes" hunting him to and fro. The man committed an error at first, which I have avoided: he commenced on too liberal a scale; and has all along too faithfully observed Will Brand's4 maxim, To expect his comfort rather in living above his income than below it. An unwise arrangement, from whence flow many tears! Nevertheless, I am not a whit downcast in spirit: employment I firmly believe will come sometime; in the meanwhile I study not to be idle, and determine like a wise Christian man, to cut my coat according to the cloth; and hard it will go with us, if even from this scanty well sufficient covering for all real uses cannot be found. In a general way I am comparatively very much at my ease here; when Billusness allows me a respite I am even happy. For I have long learned to cease expecting what I once thought happiness on this

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earthly ball; long known that there is a root of bitterness in the bottom of our cup, which all the honey in the Earth cannot hide from the experienced palate. Happy he who learns to drink it without wincing! Happier and wiser who can see that in this very bitterness there is a medicine for his soul, far better than the bitterness of gentian or bark or any of Jacks many bitters for his body! There is much true philosophy in Dermot's5 remark to his unruly neighbour: "I say, Paddy Blane, will ye compose yourself to your pratees there!" Such is a sketch of my philosophy of life! But could you not come up hither some frosty week, and learn it all far better by word of mouth? I assure you, we could accommodate you very prettily, and depend on it, your new sister would give you the heartiest welcome. Positively there is a spare bed here! And you would see Edinburgh and Macwhirter® and all of us, and might stay at Hawick the first night, and walk hither so neatly before the next. Really if you are doing nothing for a week, what might hinder you? And I and all of us would find it so pleasant. Think of it, before the spring, and the busy seed time when you cannot come. Two days ago we had a visit from the Target. He is an exemplary character, the Targer, and bears the matrimonial yoke,7 as he has borne many other yokes in his time, with an edifying composure. From all hands we learn that he is doing well. Poor fellow! it is no hi[gh] happiness that he covets; and foul befall the man [who] would grudge him his innocent and humble one! His "Jenny" is doing extremely well: he was buying chairs and gowns and mustard, and reminded me much, as I looked upon him, of Richters Quintus Fixlein.8 All hands are for marriage this season, let the "times" be as bad as they will. Little Murray was married last week; and today Jane and I were up calling on the new couple in their hired house, where they propose keeping boarders if such are to be had, and if not, like the rest of us — trusting to Providence. The new wife is from Wigtonshire; was a Miss Murray, not the old one he was engaged to, but a younger sister. Fair exchange[ — ]no robbery. They speak of Mitchell next: but as Jack says, it may be strongly doubted. About four weeks ago, I had a call from our two unprosperous and not very deserving Cousins "Wullie and John." 9 I know not whether I acted right in never inviting them in; for this was one of those new

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scenes, in which one is not certain of the part he has to play. I regretted it afterwards. And yet what could I do? There was no harm whatever in the men being poor: but there was harm in their being skites; and dogbreakers are a class of creatures whom no accident of relationship can render me tolerant of. Since that day I have not seen them again: I did not speak unkindly to them, but I did not encourage them to return. I am in doubt whether to send this packet by the Mail, or along with the boxes by the Carrier. I shall have to inquire tomorrow about his probable arrival, and then decide. However it may be, you will not fail to write whenever this reaches you. I have many things to ask, far too many for the salvage of a sheet. Have you sold Larry yet? There is a horse I meet often here which recalls the wild beast10 to memory. And is Keevil still with you? I positively intended buying him some snuff, but feared lest it might interfere with the other wares in the parcel. Will you give him this half-crown, instead, secretly, as a new-years gift from me to the trusty marine; to buy him awls and darning-needles, and otherwise keep his pocket? His heart would rejoice in the prospect of war; but there is to be none. Do you get the newspaper regularly? It is meant to come to you on Monday morning. — Up to this night, I purposed to give you this Book, my Dear Alick; but recollecting that our Father had never got aught of the sort from me, I seemed to feel it my duty to give it to him. He will not read it, I know, but others of you will, and he will like better to see it. For a new-year's gift you, therefore, have nothing my dear Brother but a new assurance of my Love. But this, I know you will not reject. Be content with it; come and see us if you can; and believe me always, Your true Brother. T. Carlyle The Hem seems to be of the very best Dumfriesshire species, we have hung it up to dry. The meal also is excellent: many thanks for all! The hem really ornaments the pantry. Published in part: L, pp. 15-18.

1. Paradise Lost II. 221-222. 2. The "R " of succeeding letters, whom Carlyle identified in an unpublished portion of a letter to John of October 25, 1827 (MS: NLS#522.63), as Rachel of the neighboring farm of Purdhamston. Al-

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though Alexander became serious about her, became perhaps engaged, by at least April 1828 he had lost interest in her. See L, p. 107, and Letters 68 and 75. 3. See Oliver Goldsmith, The Vicar of Wakefield, chap. i. 4. Of Craighouse, which was apparently close by Scotsbrig. William and the other Brands — James and Peggy — were related to the Carlyles through Robert Brand. See L, p. 341, and Letters 190 and 205. 5. Unidentified, as is Paddy Blane. 6. Seemingly John, but I cannot explain the allusion. Their mother had cousins in Hawick. See Letter 188. 7. Six weeks before Carlyle's marriage James Johnstone had married Janet Carlyle of Grahamshall, Annandale. Wilson (I, 429) claims she was a cousin of Carlyle. See also LL, II, 316. 8. See Jean Paul Friedrich Richter, "Life of Quintus Fixlein," German Romance, II, esp. 282. 9. Almost certainly the sons of their uncle John (1754-1801) and the former Janet, "Jenny," Lockhart (d. 1840). Carlyle wrote of this uncle that he "was the Father of two sons and a daughter [see Letter 154], beside whom our boyhood was passed, none of whom have come to anything but insignificance" (Reminiscences, I, 33). William ("Wullie," "Wull") is mentioned again in Letter 154, John (d. 1850) in Letter 190. 10. The horse once threw him. See EL, p. 338. Richard Keevil was "a wandering, innocent creature from the Gloucester cloth countries latterly, who came to my father's in a starving state, and managed gently to stay five or six months — a favourite, and a study, with us younger ones" (LM, I, 73).

61. With postscripts from Jane Welsh Carlyle to Jean Carlyle and from John Aitken Carlyle 21. Comley Bank, 3d Feby 1827 My Dear Alick, My conscience had begun to reproach me for my long silence, and I was about to write this day, without regard to the commercial principle of Debtor and Creditor, well knowing your bustle about this season, when to quicken my resolve your gratifying letter came to hand. What a blessing that we are all still in the land of the living, to hope for good, when so many of our fellow mortals are pining in

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sickness, or struggling with the miseries of famine! It has been an unhealthy winter this in Edinburgh: there is an epidemic [of] typhus fever in the city; the Hospital has been found to[o] narrow to accommodate the poor people, and a temporary receptacle fitted up for them is also almost full. Poor Cron has caught the infection ( I suppose, at the Infirmary, for he is studying medicine); and yesterday when Jack called to see him, he was told that the poor fellow had been sent out to lodgings, and was lying among strangers, the shoulder-knotted lackey could not tell exactly where! O let us never murmur so long as we have bread to eat and raiment to put on, and can enjoy the blessed light of Heaven without any to make us afraid! The wealth of Rothschild the Jew can give him nothing more; and without contentment of mind, it cannot give so much. Jane said: "How cleverly that Alick writes; but I suppose he must have learned from you." Thus I get the credit to myself, which belongs to Nature. But do you never mind whether you write "cleverly" or not; but continue to tell me of all and sundry in the old style; remembering that it is not the cleverness but the copiousness of your intelligence that chiefly concerns me. Word that all is well in Annandale, tho' written with the end of a burnt stick, is better to me than all the wit of poets. I wish from my heart you were rid of that slender man His Honour of Hoddam, so that one might never have to mention his name, or bring the pitiful enough image of him before one's mind any more! Peace is better than kingdoms;1 but yet as Schiller says: "The peacefulest dwells not in peace if wicked neighbours hinder." I hope the Arbiters will settle their matter finally, and you will wash your hands of it, and bid His Honour and all His Honour's Whippers-in good b'ye forever and a day. One thing at least is comfortable: it does not seem that he can do you any great injury, however he may talk; so his snarling is of less moment, when biting is not to be dreaded. The very small individual! But surely the Devil is waiting for him, by and by to "show him another road to the well"; and to his tuition we may safely leave him. Next letter you must tell me what you are ploughing and sowing, building and pulling down, what you have bought and sold; in short give me a full-length picture of Scotsbrig as it is. My Mother cannot

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write currently [f]or I am sure she has. a hundred things to say. But tell her, there is a good time coming, and summer will give us all full tidings of each other. Are you sure she is as well and comfortable as of old? Does Mary still mind her with the same steadfast fidelity? Tell that kindest, glegest, and shortest-tempered of Nurses that I shall owe her a buckling-kame of the best quality, if she proves true till I come down. Poor thing! I know she needs no bribe to be so; for a truerhearted soul never breathed in this Earth; and to me her short temper was many times converted into singular patience and long-suffering. — I heard some talk of Jane's coming up hither, as was long since arranged: but the "sister" will write a postscript herself. Our situation here at Comley Bank continues to be unexceptionable, nay in many points truly enviable. Ill health is not harder on us than usual, and all other things are almost as one could wish them. It is strange too how one gets habituated to sickness: I bear my pain as Christian did his pack in the Pilgrims Progress strapped on too tightly for throwing off; but the straps do not gall me as they once did, and I wander on, enjoying in my walk the beauties of the road, like any other green-wallet. In fact I believe I am rather better, and certainly I have not been happier for many a year. Last week, too, I fairly began — a Book! 2 Heaven only knows what it will turn to; but I have sworn to finish it; and I hope it will be something praiseworthy at last, and tho' only a novel may be one of those that are read by "some in Middlebie Parishon." You shall hear about it, as it proceeds; but as yet we are only got thro' the first chapter. You would wonder how much happier steady occupation makes us, and how smoothly we all get along. Directly after breakfast, the "Goodwife" and the Doctor3 evacuate this apartment, and retire up stairs to the drawing-room, a little place all fitted up like a lady's work-box; where a "spunk of fire"4 is lit for the forenoon; and I meanwhile sit scribbling and meditating, and wrestling with the powers of Dulness, till one or two o'clock; when I rally forth into city, or towards the sea-shore, taking care only to be home for the important purpose of consuming my mutton-chop at four. After dinner, we all read learned languages till coffee ( which we now often take at night instead of tea), and so on till bed-time, only that Jane often sews; and the Doctor goes up to the celestial globe studying the fixed stars, thro' an upshoved window, and generally

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comes down to his porridge about ten, with a nose dropping at the extremity, and red as a bloody pudding. Thus pass our days, in our trim little cottage, far from all the uproar, and putrescence (material and spiritual) of the reeky town, the sound of which we hear not, and only see over the knowe the reflection of its gas-lights against the dusky sky, and bless ourselves that we have neither part nor lot in the matter. I assure you, many a time on a soft mild night, I smoke my pipe in our little flowergarden, and look upon all this, and think of all absent and present friends, and feel that I have good reason to "be thankful that I am not in Purgatory." 5 Of society we might have abundance. People come on foot, on horseback, and even in wheeled carriages to see us; most of whom Jane receives up stairs, and gladly despatches with assurances that the weather is good, bad or indifferent, and hints that their friendship passes the love of women. We receive invitations to dinner also; but Jane has a circular, or rather two circulars, one for those she values, and one for those she does not value; and one or other of these she sends in excuse. Thus we give no dinners and take none; and by the blessing of Heaven design to persist in this course so long as we shall see it to be best. Only to some three or four chosen people we give notice that on Wednesday nights, we shall always be at home, and glad if they will call and talk for two hours with no other entertainment but a coridal welcome and a cup of innocent tea. Few Wednesday-evenings, accordingly, when some decent soul or other does not step in, and take his place among us; and here we converse, and really I think enjoy ourselves far more than I have witnessed at any beefeating and wine-bibing convention which I have been trysted with attending. But I must restrict this gossip, tho' I know it will not be uninteresting to you, since its describes your Brother's way of life. Jack is in good health here, and no bad heart, keeping himself busy with various studies. He has assaulted both the Spanish and Italian languages since last Autumn, and made good progress in both. — I had almost forgot to tell you that I have in my pocket a letter of introduction to Jeffrey of the Edinburgh Review: it was sent to me from Procter of London; one of these days I design presenting it, and you shall hear the result. — Our German Romance is travelling thro' the Cuddy-lane of News-

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paper criticism, and most of these long-eared quadrupeds seem rather to smell at it with affection, tho' what manner of thing it is, they seem somewhat to wonder. If I see any criticism worthy of your notice, I will send it. — Doctor Waugh at Scotsbrig! By day and night, but this is wondrous strange! Poor buckless ill-less Waugh, I suppose no other shelter in the wide world remains to him. Will he not go back to Annan, like a wise man, and resume his practice? I declare, I see no other shed for him. Assure him of my best regards, and be as kind to him "as the nature of the circumstances will admit." 6 — But I must have done, or Jane will have no room: remember me in love to the whole household, name by name; beginning with our Father, ending with Jenny. Write soon, and largely, not forgetting news of R . Believe me ever ( My Dear Alick) your affectionate Brother— Thomas Carlyle — The postscript, you see, is for Jean — My dear Jane Within the last week or two our situation here has been assuming a more composed appearance; so that it seems as tho' your coming might now be happy both for yourself and us. You must beg of your good Mother, then, to make up her mind to send you away to us, which it will be hard for her to do, doubtless, but which she will do nevertheless in the hope of promoting your good. Y our mind I know is already made up, for you trust in our affection for you, and in that assuredly you will not be disappointed. — For the manner of your coming, perhaps the easiest and safest way were that your Mother or some other of the family should carry you to Dumfries, and see you fairly established in the Edinburgh coach, under the charge of the Guard or Driver. You would arrive at your journey's end about eight oclock and find some of us in waiting to bring you home. With respect to clothes which your Brother was talking about if your Mother provides you with shifts and flannel petticoats night gowns, night caps, a black stuff petticoat and some pairs of black-worsted stockings; the other articles of apparel that you will require will be better got here. Your Brother is sitting in great impatience to take this to the post office so I must add no more — only that some of you will be sure to write im-

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mediately what day we may expect you. — And in the mean time address me your affectionate Sister Jane Welsh Carlyle We 7 still owe you the boxes, but will send them certainly very soon. If not before, they will surely come when our good Mother's butter pot arrives. At present we are not out, having a stock from Templand. My8 dear Alick, There is barely room for me to tell you of my welfare and thank you for your kindness. Make my love to all. I shall probably see you this or next week if nothing come in the way, though one quack seems enough about any one house at a time. If 9 Jean thinks of coming before I write again, I wish you would advance this three pounds or so which she will need for her equipment; and I will honestly pay thee. I have no small notes at hand, or I would have sent them today. ( Jack will see none of you this week, or the next either. ) Published in part: L, pp. 18-22. 1. Cf. Richard the Second III.iii.153. Carlyle next quoted from Wilhelm Tell IV.iii.83-84. 2. Wotton Reinfred, that "wretched 'Didactic Novel'; which, in spite of all my obstinacy, declared itself desperate soon after this; and was shoved aside for other tasks, — and at last bodily into the fire" (NLM, I, 17-18). Carlyle did not burn it. He later incorporated some of its material into Sartor Resartus, then simply locked it away. In 1856 Frederick Martin, an exiled Berliner whom Carlyle befriended and hired as a copyist, stole it (and other MSS) and presumably sold it. It turned up after Carlyle's death, was first published in the New Review, 6 (January, February, March 1892), 1-30, 141-165, 285-313, and then republished in Last Words of Thomas Carlyle (London and New York, 1892), pp. 1-148. See Wilson, V, 249-251, and, for the parallelisms between Wotton Reinfred and Sartor Resartus, Dyer, p. 586, and Sartor Resartus, ed. Charles Frederick Harrold (New York, 1937), esp. p. 318. 3. John is listed in the Edinburgh Medical Graduates, 1705-1845, as having taken his degree in 1826. 4. Scott, Guy Mannering, chap. xi. 5. An expression used against a complaining man by Sandy Macleod, "a wandering pensioner invalided out of some Highland Regiment [who] . . . had strayed to Brownknowe with his old wife, and taken a Cottage of my Grandfather" (Reminiscences, I, 28).

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6. Cf. Edward Young, The Complaint, or Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and, Immortality, "Night the Second," line 91, and the printer's acknowledgment to his "learned and worthy Friends" in the eighth ( 1798) edition of Johnson's Dictionary. 7. From Carlyle. 8. From John. 9. From Carlyle.

• Craigenputtock (or och), a farm of 1200 acres about sixteen miles northwest of Dumfries in the parish of Dunscore, Nithsdale, was the Welshes' ancestral home. It was originally part of the larger farm of Collieston (or Collistoun), which the Welsh family still owned in 1661. By 1757 they had sold it all except Nether and Upper Craigenputtock. John Welsh, Mrs. Carlyle's grandfather, was later forced to sell first the lower and then the upper farm, the latter to his son, Dr. Welsh. Dr. Welsh left it to his daughter, who in turn made it over in life-rent to her mother. It reverted back to her after Mrs. Welsh's death in 1842. Mrs. Carlyle left it to her husband, and in 1867 Carlyle bequeathed it, in the form of John Welsh Bursaries, to Edinburgh University. The university eventually sold it, and today it belongs to its present occupant, Mr. John Armour. When planning their wedding and their future, Carlyle had suggested to Miss Welsh that they settle at Craigenputtock. Then she balked at the thought of living in such wild solitude. Now, with the book trade at an ebb, seeing farm life as economical if nothing more, and with her mother living only fifteen miles away at Templand, she agreed to Carlyle's second proposal. There remained for Carlyle to obtain Alexander's agreement to become once again his "practical farmer" to make the proposal practicably manageable. ·

62. With postscript from Jane Welsh

Carlyle 21. Comley Bank, 29th March, 1827

My Dear Alick, It is long that I have partly been owing you a letter; and last time when Fames was here with his eggs and hen, we had so short an allowance of time, that except two short little notes to my more immedi-

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ate creditors (which with one from Jane to Mag, and a small cubical junk of some less intellectual substance, I hope you properly received), I could not afford my valued husbandman a single word. It was the less necessary, as Jack was proceeding homewards, or rather had arrived at home, and so could communicate to you all our ordinary news, as well as some other schemes of ours, which required your more special deliberation. I am now to write to you farther on the same subject. We have had a letter from the Hunts1 in London since Jack left us; and this of a much less promising texture than its predecessor; for the people now talk of risks, and great sales that will be necessary to "cover their outlay," and seem to indicate that for six months at least they would not only not wish to "undertake," as they call it, but also not even to make a formal bargain of any sort. This, I have written to them, will by no means answer me, who desire to put pen to paper forthwith; and accordingly, I have stated that I would wait other ten days before coining to any conclusion; but that, if within this period, it was not settled at least that there was to be a bargain betwixt us, I should hold myself no longer bound to them, but at liberty to accept or reject any future offer of theirs, as they were at liberty to make or withhold it. Next week, about Friday or Saturday, I expect to hear from them again, or to infer by their silence that nothing, for the present at least, is to come of their speculation; which latter result I cannot but reckon as probable as any other. Thus then so far as aid could come from Covent-Garden, our notable project of deliverance from city imprisonment, into mountain freedom, were at a stand-still, or perhaps as good as overset; and the hope of cultivating the Craig O' Putto must be left to other hands. But there has come help from another quarter; and we are now at liberty to deliberate that scheme [on] more certain grounds. Jane's Mother whom Jack must have met journeying towards us at Noblehouse, not only warmly approves of our project, but has also offered to procure for us (which she can do without much difficulty) the funds necessary for starting it under fair auspices. The present Tenant,2 it appears, has paid no rent, and is like to pay little for some time; neither has there any Tack been signed in regard to the place; so that his hold on it is extremely slender. Let us now consider, therefore, what is to be done. For my own part and "the goodwife's," we are very strongly bent

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indeed upon the scheme. Town-life, tho' it is without many of its annoyances here, is still extremely little to my mind; and many a time do I regret the liberty and safe seclusion which the country affords one, and many attainable forms of it; nay which I had attained not so long ago on the top of Repentance Hill, tyrannical Squirelets, and unjust stewards to the contrary notwithstanding. Indeed it seems plain enough that I have very little chance of ever getting completely well here; and tho' I bear a hand, and try to stave off the Devil as I best may, and sometimes not without considerable success, my whole hopes and wishes point to a life in the country as the only scene where I might by and by get delivered from disease, and so have room for my strength, any little fraction of strength that I have. Craigenputtock is wild enough; but the house could be brushed up and rendered watertight, and elegantly furnished (with the ware we have here), and for the land itself much might be done. At all events, it is the country, and our own, which latter point in itself might overbalance twenty others. As for Jane, I think there is little fear that her tolerance would be less than mine: in good sooth, she is a true wife, and would murmur at no scene or fortune which she shared along with me. Now the next thing is for you, Alick, to ask yourself, whether you could think of pitching your tent there, and durst undertake the tenanting of that stern moor beside us? If you answered Yes, there were nothing to hinder us from beginning to calculate the details of our enterprize forthwith; nay, for aught I know, it might not be impossible for you to take possession of the place the very first Whitsunday, and so have it all ready for us the next! Of the terms we could live together on, I shall say nothing: you recollect the Hill, and how quietly and amicably all was managed there, without ever a jeering word; a result in which many times since, I have had reason to admire your prudence and tolerant conduct, often much wiser than we fully gave it credit for being. All the farm-produce that we would need, horse-keep and henkeep etc. etc. would be easy to manage. If you continued single, you might live with us, and the kitchen and back-parlour would be your own sphere and domain; or if you thought of wedding (in which, however, I need not tell you, it is good to look before you leap), you might have a house of your own, either the one at the road, or some other that we might contrive for you nearer the offices. Jane and R could

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live near each other, I do believe, on a very comfortable footing. And then we should so improve those bogs, and clear out those plantations, and form hedge-rows and cabbage-gardens, and live under the shadow of our own beech-trees, and none to put us in fear! I desire you to consider all this matter with your calmest judgement, and if you are inclined to engage with it, say: Done! Yet let not my eagerness sway you, for I can only estímate for myself; and on you would lie a responsibility, which I cannot pretend to direct you in. I confess, however, I am very fond of it; and not the smallest of my reasons is that in this manner the whole of us might still be kept together. From all that I have learned there seems to be a fair opening for our Body-curer in Dumfries; nay I think he has a good chance to succeed, if he tried it rightly; and then do but think how pleasant to be all planted down within sight of each other; our Father and Mother and all that we cared for in the world, within a half-day's journey! As I am only scheming this business afar off, I cannot propose to you any definite arrangement; not till I have first heard your general feeling, and whether you think it feasible or not. You might cast up in your mind what sum it would take to put you down there, in addition to the stock you have already (for repairing of the house, and settling our plenishing in it, I have reckoned about £100); what rent, deducting pony-grass etc. etc.; and above all, whether you would care to let the Lady-wells stand for this season, and take as a grass-farm, to "keep your stock together," those "excellent pasturages" at the Craig O' Putto. In the latter case, as perhaps in any case, it would be better for me to come down, and settle all by word of mouth. You will write to me frankly and at large, as soon as you possibly can. I think I must buy a Scotsman3 for our good Doctor tomorrow, and send it [to] him, fo[r I] am told there is a sort of criticism of the German Romance in it. Thank the honest soul for his handsome letter, which I received on demand on Sunday-night, and read with no little satisfaction. We often speak of him here; and his gawsy face is missed about the hearth, I really think, by both of us. Tell the Doctor not to despond; but to mind his books, and see above all that no stoppage in his mill take place, till things are once settled, and himself put upon his legs. Bid him also write to me: if you are too busy, he may also convey your sentiments.

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Of my Mother, I must not begin to talk: I am sure she will rejoice in this prospect of having me near her, and drinking tea and consuming tobacco-smoke beside me, as in times gone. Tell her that I am not ill at present, and shall certainly one way or other get completely well. I have not abandoned the Book, which has long ago been christened "Wotton Reinfred"; only these Hunt people have knocked me sadly ajar, ever since they started their scheme, and poor Reinfred has been living not growing for the last three weeks. Nevertheless, I spend my forenoon's, till two o'clock over him; and Jane reads my writing, when I have gone out to walk; and you will be happy to learn, always "approves of the Essay." If these Hunts do not give me their Translation, I expect to have Wotton in print before quitting Edinburgh; and that will be as well or better. Of news here I can tell you no word or whisper: indeed, it is very rarely that I see any news-gathering creature; many days I speak with no living thing, except those within my own four walls.4 The Atlas Newspaper, tell Jack, is not come yet; but I hope to have it to send you ere long. I suspect John Gordon's letter must have been misdirected. — The people are sowing here; this day they had some twenty sacks in the field before our door. Their wheat looks very blae; indeed the weather is tempestuous; and the west wind howls fiercely, and brings rain and hail. The Pentlands to-day are all powdered again. — How are you sowing or ploughing? What does your wheat look like? What is going on among you? How do things in general look? More especially I ask Jack; and expect his answer without undue delay, that is in three days or thereby. I have little fear of his loitering; for my Mother is at his elbow. Ask him if he sent back the Great-coat and umbrella? And then when you have frightened him (for not longer than a minute) say, it is likely, for I received them safe next night. — But I must end. Will you remember me to Mag, Jamie, Mary, Jane, Jenny by name; to my Father and the rest: consider these things I have talked of; write soon a free answer, and believe me ever My Dear Alick — Your affectionate Brother — Thomas Carlyle Poor Jane is very ill with toothache, which she got for the first time last week; nevertheless she sends you and all her love and best wishes.

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Except this, we are all (foreign and domestic) going on quite well. Mrs Welsh is sewing me night-shirts at my hand. I have got the newspaper I talked of, which indeed is not worth one doit, when I have it. However it will come tomorrow. — Tell my Mother not to send us any more eggs or hens till we write: the eggs are not scarce here at present, and in the meanwhile we have a large stock from Templand. Write as soon as possible. — Friday Evening — Meditate5 all this in the profoundest silence; if our scheme get wind before the time the man will be "guy ill to deal wi'." 6 Published in part: L, pp. 2 7 - 3 3 . 1. Norton (L, p. 2 7 ) identified them as "The London publishers who had made overtures to Carlyle." According to P. A. H. Brown's List of Publishers and Printers, 1800-1870, there was a firm of Hunt and Clarke, York Street, Covent Garden, "for which the earliest date so far found is 1 8 2 8 . " The coincidence of name and locale, however, suggests these were the publishers to whom Carlyle refers. 2. There were two, William and Jack Blacklock. 3. Of March 28. 4. In 1 8 2 9 Carlyle wrote a poem he called " M y Own Four Walls," which is published in LL, II, 3 5 5 - 3 5 6 . See also G. B. Tennyson, "Carlyle's Poetry to 1840: A Checklist and Discussion, a New Attribution, and Six Unpublished Poems," Victorian Poetry, χ ( 1 9 6 3 ) , ι 6 ι - ι 8 ι . 5. From Jane Welsh Carlyle. 6. ' " T h o u s gey' (pretty, pronounced gyei) 'ill to deal w i " — mother's allocution to me once, in some unreasonable moment of time" ( L M , I, 3 7 ) .

• Alexander agreed to the proposal, and by April 16 he and Carlyle had inspected the farm. Three days later Carlyle reported (see L, pp. 38-39) to Mrs. Welsh from Scotsbrig that they had met with William and Jack Blacklock and settled all negotiations for their removal at Whitsunday. On the twenty-third, with John as his companion, Carlyle rode to Templand to speak at further length with Mrs. Welsh. The next evening he was home. ·

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63· 21 Comley Bank, 10th May 1827 My Dear Alick — . . . The most important part of my present commission is to direct you to call at Annan on Thursday for Fifty Pounds which I this day paid into the Commercial Bank for your use, the further supplies not being ready yet for a few days. . . . I know not whether you immediately require a larger sum; but if you do you have only to speak; for after Monday £. 100 will be lying at our disposal here: Tait having paid me the residue of my debt, by a Bill convertible (at his expense) into Cash in the course of four days. I was not bound to take a Bill at all, but hard money, the sum being due on the 15th of April; but the poor man put on such a rueful countenance, that I could not in common charity refuse him. My assent to this harmless measure seemed to roll a millstone off his heart; and in the excess of his gratitude he even made me a present of another Copy of the German Romance, which I am about sending off to Mr. Robinson1 of London, who had right to expect one of me. I hope, with this, therefore, that for the present I have done with Tait, and that my next Bookseller may be not worse but better than he. . . . My pen is very bad; I am in a hurry too, and can write to no purpose, except as Dr. Ritchie2 said, "on the point — and the bare point." I have not told you of my journey, which was tedious but safe, and brought me to this "bit hadding ο my ain, fra that" before late night. Since then my days have flowed along as quietly as heretofore; after rather too large an allowance of idleness, I again betook me to my Book; in which though making but sorry progress, I am determined to persevere to a conclusion in spite (to use the words of Landalls) 3 "in spite of the Devil and all his Angels" (Bile included), who I cannot but suppose must naturally be rather anxious, for their own sake, to stop my progress. Of adventures with men or things I have had none worth mentioning: indeed often enough I visit not the town all day; but turn my steps in the opposite direction towards the Frith, where I have already bathed four times, with great brevity; and I hope more profit than pleasure. I wish to Heaven only, I were not such a

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blockhead, but could either write better at my task, or be satisfied with worse. In the meantime we must just do the best we can, boy. . . . Tell my Mother that we will certainly come and see her, whether the reek is cured or not, though surely it would be no worse if it were. Tell her also that she must be prepared to spin socks at the Craig, otherwise things will not do. Meanwhile I am going to ask her for a box from Scotsbrig the first time Farries travels hither. For she must know our oatmeal went done last night, and there is nothing here of that sort to be compared with yours. . . . Jane sends her best regards to one and all: tell my Mother that she had actually made me a waistcoat (I have it on even now) during my absence, and the prettiest in my possession. Good-night, my dear Alick! — I am ever your affectionate Brother, T. Carlyle MS: unrecovered. Text: L, pp. 42-45. 1. Heniy Crabb Robinson. 2. Professor William Ritchie. See Introduction and, for Carlyle's description of him, LM, I, 147. 3. Possibly the divinity student friend of Carlyle and Robert Mitchell mentioned in EL, pp. 26, 32.

64. Comely Bank: June 3 [1827] It gave us much pleasure to find that you had in very deed made a settlement in your new abode, and were actually boiling your pot at the Craig o' Putta under circumstances however unpropitious. Your tears for parting (from Scotsbrig) will scarcely be dried yet, but in a little while you will look upon this movement in its real light, not as a parting, but as a truly blessed reunion for us all, where, I hope and believe, many good days are in store for every one of us. It will not be long till you have scrubbed up the old Craig, put in the broken slates, and burnt or buried the rotten rags of the late housewife, who, I am

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told, is indeed a slattern, and not only so, but a drunkard, which is far worse. Mary's1 nimble fingers and an orderly head will have introduced new arrangements into the mansion; things will begin to go their usual course, and the mavis and tomtit will no longer sing to sad hearts. Poor Mary! Be good to her in this her first removal from home, and remember that you are not only a brother to her, but, as it were, a husband and father. As to the house, I think with you it were better if we all saw it before the plans were settled. Jane and I are both for coming down shortly. We shall not be long in seeing you. The only thing that absolutely detains me is a little article2 which I have to write before the end of this month for the 'Edinburgh Review' — a very brief one — which I begin to-morrow. MS: unrecovered. Text: Froude, I, 394. 1. Who had come with Alexander to serve as his housekeeper. 2. "Jean Paul Friedrich Richter," Edinburgh Review, 46 (June 1827), 176-195; republished in CME, I, 1-25.

65· To John Aitken Carlyle, with postscript from Jane Welsh Cartyle 21. Comely Bank, 4th June 1827 My Dear Jack, I am this day sending off a letter with a Hundred Pounds Bank bill in it for Alick at Craigenputtock; and had it been as of old, one sheet at a time would have sufficed. But by another of the many whims of Fortune, my Friends at home are now separated (I trust for the glad reunion of us all); so that if I would pay my too long standing debt to you, I must write again. Not that I yet know how to proceed; for your whereabout at this date is exceedingly dubious to me. However this letter will certainly find you in the long run; and its contents will not cool in the interim; the chief purpose of it being indeed to assure you of what you know well enough already, the unabated continuance

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of my brotherly love; and incite you, according to established wish and usage, to write more and more largely. Of my own history here since I wrote last I need mention only one or two particulars. Every thing goes its course; I fight with dulness and bile in the forenoons as of old; I still walk forth diligently; talk de omni scibili,1 when I can find fit or unfit audience; and so Uve on in the old light-and-shadow fashion, much as you knew me before, only rather with more comfort and hope than with less. Jane too is well and good as ever; and within these few days has set to studying German in earnest. Mrs Welsh is still with us; but about to depart, the pleasures of Edinburgh being indeed evidently exhausted for her at present. Our evening parties still continue their modest existence, tho' John Gordon (who often asks for you) is for the time overwhelmed with "Reports": last Wednesday we had Malcolm2 etc, and one Paterson, said to be the "hope of the Scottish Church"; a very feckless young man so far as externals go, for his voice is the shrillest treble, he wears spectacles, and would scarcely weigh six stone avoirdupois; but evidendy shrewd, vehement, modest, and on the whole well gifted and conditioned. Murray is beating up for boarders, Mitchell compiling school-book: I see very little of either. So much for this. Poor Wotton has prospered but indifferently since I saw you; tho' daily on the anvil; the metal is too unmalleable, often indeed quite cold, and the arm and the hammer have so little pith! At present his farther history is altogether stopped by a new enterprise. One day I resolutely buckled myself up, and set forth to the Parliament House, for the purpose of seeing our Reviewer.3 The little jewel of Advocates was at his post: I accosted him, and with a little explanation, was cheerfully recognized. "The Article? Where is the Article?" seemed to be the gist of his talk to me; for he was to all appearance anxious that I would undertake the task of Germanizing the public, and ready even to let me do it "con amore," as I did not treat the whole Earth not yet Germanized as a "parcel of blockheads"; which surely seemed a fair enough request. We walked on to his lodging together; discussing these matters. Two days after, having revolved the thing, I met him again, with notice that I would "undertake." The next No. of the Review, it appeared, was actually in the press, and to be printed off before the end

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of June; so that no large Article could find place there, till the succeeding quarter. However I engaged as it were for paving the way, to give him in this present publication some little short paper; I think, on the subject of Jean Paul, tho' that is not quite settled with myself yet: and thus, O Jack, thou seest me busily occupied with a new trade! On the whole, I am rather glad of this adventure; for I think it promises to be the means of a pleasant connexion: certainly Jeffrey is by much the most loveable of all the literary men I have seen; and he seemed ready nay desirous, if time would but permit, to cultivate a farther intimacy. We were to discourse together at large some day; he projected, at Craigcrook;4 and I was to call on him, as (depend upon it) I had more time than he. Es ist ein gutiges wesen. But enough of him for once. Today I had such a packet of letters all in a rush! A letter from Mrs Montagu (her son Charles had run away,5 been found again, and was still sulky); and inclosed in the same frank, a sublime note from Edward Irving, full of praise and thanks expressed in the most wondrous dialect; and last or rather first, for that was the paper we pounced on most eagerly, a dainty little letter from — Weimar! The good man has Knighted me too! Did you ever see so polite, truehearted, altogether graceful a note? At the same time there is a naive brevity in it which in admiring almost makes me laugh. Read and wonder: "To Sir Thomas Carlyle. "Dass die angenehme Sendung, begleitet von einem freundlichen Schreiben,6 abgesendet von Edinburg den i5[n] April über Hamburg, den 15η May bey mir angekommen und mich in guter Gesundheit, für meine Freunde beschäftigt, angetroffen hat, solches anmelde eiligst. Meinem aufrichtigsten Dank den beiden werthen Gatten füge nur noch hinzu die Versicherung dass nächstens ein Pacquet von hier, gleichfalls über Hamburg, abgehen werde, meine Theilnahme zu bezeugen und mein Andenken zu erneuern. "Mit den besten und treusten Wünschen mich empfehlend, W., d. 17. Mayi 1827 } /. W. [υ.] Goethe."

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And now we are all impatient to know what this pacquet that is coming "over Hamburg" will bring us. You shall know so soon as the new-made Knight or Baronet receives it. "With the truest wishes recommending myself!" This day I was in the Advocates' Library seeking German Books, and I found (directed by Dr Irving) 7 the first Article in the Monthly Review devoted to our "German Romance." The man is little better than an ass; but a well-disposed one; and never dreams that his ears are long. He calls me point-blank by the name of the city Carlisle, without apology or introduction; says my lives are much the best thing in the Book, indeed sticks fast by them; and advised me to cultivate the field of Biography as my great concern. Goethe is very pretty, indeed they are all "goody-good." Only the words Herr, Rittmeister etc. have been used here and there; and I write, tho' with spunk and ornately, yet in a devilish — careless style. In short, the man is an entire blockhead: seems to have read some few pages of German, perhaps only of a German Grammar; but otherfwise] rests in the pro[fo]undest ignorance of what he talks about. However I am [not vexed at] him (Heaven mend all our stupidities!); for he means well to me: but I will not t[urn to] Biography for all that. And now, my dear Doctor, it is surely time that we paid a word or two about your concerns after so fully discussing mine. Well can I sympathize with you in your present unrest, the like of which I myself have often experienced, and as I believe, it is necessary more or less for all men to experience. One thing only comforts me, tho' to you it is well nigh incredible at present: That all this will pass away, and you find yourself a man of sufficient substance to be confident of your success in almost any circumstances. O Jack! I know that you have great pride combined with great bashfulness; a vehement, resolute heart, under shew of the greatest irresolution; and the truest love under an atmosphere of incessant contradiction. Fear not: these outer weeds will pass away; and the true sufficient soil of your character will yet bear noble fruit. Jane and I were discussing you this very morning; when it was agreed on all hands, that you had stuff in you for a most substantial man and doctor, and could not fail in the long run to prosper for yourself and others. Fear nothing; "lie open to light"; seek light, search for it diligently, as for your chief treasure. I am still

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clear for Dumfries, as the best of all fields for you (and me) : do you also turn it over, not as a theoretical but a practical question, in your mind; and prepare in due time for putting it in execution. It will be hard if it beats us all! Meanwhile study, learn all and sundry as you were wont, that so your time be not lost but turned to best advantage, as by this means it will. — You see my space is full. O that I had whole sheets to write to one and all at Scotsbrig. Tell my Mother that she is still dear to me, forever dear. Mag will take the charge now that Mary is gone: tell her to stand to it faithfully, and have the "Kittle boailing" evening and morning. I will write my Mother a long letter when the box comes. But if it do not come soon, I will write by post; for we ourselves Jane and I are coming down to Craigenputtock about the end of June (when I have done my article), and surely we shall see Scotsbrig too! Tell our Mother this and bid her "stand to her arms." But whither am I running? Heaven bless you all! Your affectionate Brother — T. Carlyle Beloved Doctor. Sir Thomas has left me but little space for a postscript knowing that this was the second day of a nice plum-pudding, and my condition of course — such as to you I need not explain — very unfit for writing to any purpose. Why do you not keep your word with me? I have been long waiting the promised letter; but I suppose every time you take out your paper and pens, you bethink yourself of the furious quarrel about the roses etc. etc. and resolve anew that you will have nothing to say to so crop tempered a creature. But I am greatly improved in that item, and you will soon have an opportunity of convincing yourself — so soon as this article is off our hands. Poor Wotton! Dear Wotton! He was growing such an angel of a Hero. But Sir Thomas has given me his hand "it shall be done." You will observe we are all getting tittles now my dear Moon.8 Ever Ever Yours JWC Present^ my kindest affection to our Father, and all the rest, by name, down to little Jenny. Remember also to write minutely all man-

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ner of news. Jane bids me ask if there was a — cat taken to the Craig! She dreads rats "very much." — George Johnstone sends me a letter from Marsden, saying that he is almost ruined by being surety for his Brother John 1 0 who has failed. Poor George! I wrote to him as kindly as might be: he talks of going off to Africa; but this I strongly dissuaded. A letter from you, I think, would b e highly acceptable. W e have had a dreadful time with cutting11 and being cut: but it is mostly over now. Anne Welsh (one of our Aunts) has come forward gallantly: she, Robert Welsh and Mrs Robert Welsh were all here drinking coffee last night; and w e are all "as thick as dog-heads," to use a villainous simile. "There never was any thing the least like it." 1 2 But Jane and I being philosophic spouses take the matter lightly. I have not time to read this over; and I suppose it must b e melancholy stuff. But you know the fever of digestion, and must make allowances. Write soon. Again and again, I send my blessing to you all. Published in part: L, pp. 45-48. 1. Pico Della Mirandola, Count Giovanni (1463-1494), the philosopher and writer, published in i486 a list of nine hundred philosophical and theological theses he called De omni re scibili ("On everything that can be known"). Voltaire later wittily added Et de quibusdam alius ("And on some other points besides"). 2. John Malcolm, " 'Ex-Lieutenant of the Forty-second'; native of the Orkney Islands, only son of a Clergyman there; who, as a young ardent lad, had joined Wellington's Army at the Siege of St. Sebastian, and got badly wounded, lame for life, at the Battie of Thoulouse that same season. Peace coming, he was invalided on half-pay; and now lived with his widowed mother, in some clean upper-floor in Edinburgh, on frugal, kind and pretty terms, hanging loosely by Literature, for which he had some talent" (Reminiscences, II, 159-160). Carlyle met Malcolm on his trip to Paris. He is listed in the Great Britain Army Lists of 1823 as attaining his rank in the 42d or Royal Highland Regiment of Foot on December 14, 1809. There is an allusion to him and a quotation from his Reminiscences of a Campaign in 1814 (which I have been unable to locate) in Archibald Forbes' The Black Watch: The Record of an Historic Regiment (London, 1910). Paterson was possibly John Rrown Patterson (1804-1835) of Alnwick, Northumberland; Haddington; and Edinburgh. He was licensed to preach by the Kirkcudbright presbytery in 1828, presented to the parish of Falkirk in 1829, and ordained in 1830. 3. Jeffrey.

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4. Jeffrey's summer home, about three miles northwest of Edinburgh. The German translates, "He is a good creature." 5. From Cambridge. See Carlyle's letter to Mrs. Montagu in Conway, Thomas Carlyle, p. 239. 6. Published in G-CC, pp. 6-11. Goethe's letter, with slight changes, is on pp. 11-12. Norton's translation of it, on p. 12, reads, "Let me hastily announce that your welcome packet, accompanied by a kind letter, sent from Edinburgh on the 15th of April, by way of Hamburg, reached me on the 15th of May, and found me in good health, busily employed for my friends. To my most sincere thanks to the dear husband and wife, I add only the information that a packet will speedily be despatched hence, also by way of Hamburg, in testimony of my sympathetic interest in you, and to recall me to your remembrance. "Commending myself to you, with best and truest wishes, WEIMAR, ljth May 1827. J. W. v. Goethe." 7. Dr. David Irving (1778-1860), biographer and editor and from 1820 to 1848 librarian for the Faculty of Advocates. John Carlyle edited his History of Scottish Poetry. With a Memoir [by D. Laing] and Glossary (Edinburgh, 1861). The review of German Romance is published in the Monthly Review, 5, N.S. (June 1827), 157-166. The reviewer took great exception to Carlyle's flair for "The fracturing of our old language, and the propelling together of all sorts of compounds and novel phrases." 8. "The Lord Moon is brother John = the Lord Mohun of [William?] Hamilton's [1704-1754] tragic ballad, which is still sung in those parts. Epithet from brother Alick indicating breadth of face. — T. C." (Froude, I, 389). Charles Mohun, fourth Baron Mohun ( i 6 7 5 ? - i 7 i 2 ) , figures in Thackeray's The History of Henry Esmond. 9. From Carlyle. 10. Unidentified. 11. Miss Jeannie Welsh (i7g8?-i828) of Templand, daughter of Walter Welsh, had just been operated on for breast cancer. Miss Anne Welsh, of Edinburgh, was the daughter of John Welsh, Mrs. Carlyle's paternal grandfather. Robert Welsh was Anne's brother. 12. An expression of Mrs, Welsh's. See LM, I, 80-81.

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66. 2.1 Comley Bank, Tuesday [19th? 1 June 1827] My Dear Alick — Not without some difficulty I have contrived to raise the wind; and here you have a receipt for another Hundred Pounds, which as I understand it, you have only to present at the office of the British Linen Company Bank, and indorse (I suppose with your own name, but they will direct you at the Bank, for perhaps there is no indorsation needed), in order to get the cash paid down to you. . . . On the whole the place must before all things be stocked; so I think you ought to proceed forthwith to the outlay (in cattle, etc.) of this sum; at least so soon as you see any right opportunity at Bucklivie2 or elsewhere. . . . If you want a little more money for that purpose, I think I can still command it even on the spur of the instant: but unless these hills be a better bargain than I wot of, you will not need much more, I think, immediately. I grieve to think that the House must be standing untouched, and the season so rapidly hastening away. I am making what speed I can; and I think by the end of next week I shall be about ready for meeting you, perhaps shall have already met you. . . . I reckon myself about half done with this Jean Paul Friedrich Richter; which I regret to say, pleases me only indifferently the length it is gone. So soon as it is done I shall have nothing more to detain me; unless perhaps the correcting of the proofs, which however can be sent after me. This is not to be the great "Article";3 which does not follow till next Number of the Review. We had a call from Jeffrey the other day, in person; one of the daintiest little fellows in this country. I will describe him at large when we meet. . . . Will you write to me as soon as possible, and at full length: we shall want much to hear from you before setting out for the South; and much is to be considered which I have no time for considering. Employ your own head and hand, my good Alick, and get us nicely through these entanglements. I think there is no danger of our speculation [not] prospering. I often wish I were at the Craig even now; for living here, I do not think I shall ever be healthy. Perhaps I shall

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never be healthy anywhere; but at all events I will try all things; never cease "though I should go to Jerusalem seeking health, and die by the road!" 4 — Courage! Courage! — Present my best brotherly affection to Mary, of whom I hear so much good; write to me the first hour you have leisure "a broad letter." 5 — Believe me always, your true Brother, T. Carlyle MS: unrecovered. Text: L, pp. 48-50. 1. Norton dated this letter the twentieth, which fell on a Wednesday. Carlyle could have written it the twelfth, but its content suggests this later date. 2. Bucklyvie

(or

Buchlyvie),

a

village

in

Stirlingshire

eighteen

miles north of Glasgow, five miles west of Kippen. It held its fairs June 26 and November 18. 3. Which he would call "State of German Literature," Edinburgh view, 46 (October 1 8 2 7 ) , 304-351; republished in CME,

Re-

I, 26-86.

4. Cf. James Carlyle's reply to some unjust proposal of Sharpe's: "I will not do it . . .

; I will rather go to Jerusalem, seeking farms, and

die without finding one" ( Reminiscences,

I, 49-50).

5. "Sir Patrick Spens," line 9. Norton (L, p. 50) pointed out that the accent in "letter" falls on the last syllable in Border ballads.

67. 21 Comley Bank, Tuesday [26th June 1827] My Dear Alick — You must not quarrel with this shortest of letters, for I am in the heat of a hurry; and this writing is to let you know that, for some time at least, no more writing will be needed. I have got done with my Article, which is to be printed, I believe, this week; Jane and I are going out to Haddington, to arrange with Donaldson 1 about moneys (at least that is my errand); and on Monday morning first2 ( w e come from Haddington in a day) w e set out for Templand, and the Craig O' Putto. I know not what sort of a shop you keep there; but Jane as well as I must come and see. Did they send you a bed up from Templand? If

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not, never mind; our stay (or rather her stay) must only be the shorter. Do not discompose yourselves about this invasion: who cannot take such as you have, should apply elsewhere. But, indeed, I doubt not, as in most other cases, everything will be far better than it seemed through the medium of timorous imagination. Where you are with those that love you, if you cannot put up with all mere wants of comfort, you must be a very odd fellow. . . . But the cream of the matter is this. Can you send two horses ( of almost any kind) over to Templand on Tuesday first (this day week)? If not send me one on Monday night, and I will come over with it myself next day. I know not whether Larry is with you, or how to do in the arrangements of the thing. But you will see how it stands, and to your direction I will leave it. One horse to Templand on Monday night to bring me; or two on Tuesday night to bring us both. — Templand is within three bowshots of the Cample bridge (farther down it is) on the road between Thornhill and Dumfries, — some furlong or two from it. Dear Alick, excuse this incoherence, for you have no idea how I am beaten about at present by haste. My kindest love to Mary; who, I know, ariejoices3 at the thought of seeing me again. Tell the good soul that her Sister is no Lioness, and will not eat her, but likes her very well. Appoint our Uncle John to come up when you please, according to these "regulations." We go to Scotsbrig after leaving you; perhaps we may come and go for a time. My soul is longing for the Country and Larry. I have written to Jack that I am coming. Adieu, my dear Brother! — Ever yours, T. Carlyle M S : unrecovered. Text: L, pp. 50-52. 1. T h e Welshes' attorney. See L, p. 51. 2. July 1 was a Sunday. Carlyle was obviously confused about the day the first of the month fell on (see also the fourth paragraph). More dependable matters within and without this letter indicate Norton was correct in dating it as he did. 3. "A

Scotch preacher, in a sermon which

pronounced

rejoices.

— M . C . " (L, p. 52).

Carlyle had heard, so

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68.

With postscript from Jane Welsh Carlyle to Jean Carlyle 21. Comley Bank, Tuesday Evening [11 September 1827] 1 My Dear Aliek, Had it not been for the Docter's intimation of your imperative need to hear from me, I should surely not have written tonight; for never man was busier than I at present; worn to an entire scraping with sleeplessness and scribbling and a thousand half-vexations, half-welcome calls upon me. You will be satisfied with a word or two. With regard to the cunceiling of these two upper rooms, it is not to be done on all the four sides, for in that case the bedhead would not get close to the wall; nor on only one side, for that would be very ugly; but on two sides; the front, where it is natural, and the back which must be made to correspond with it. Our uncle described it well enough as meant to "die away into a kind of oval thing." This I hope you will understand sufficiently; and herewith ends the main purport and bearing of my letter. Within the last ten days I have received no fewer than three letters from the Doctor;2 so fierce and manifold are his resolutions at present that he is forced to fly to and fro with inconceivable rapidity. I wish I could commission you to bid him come along in Heaven's name, and the sooner the better; for College classes begin in Munich with the month of October; and I daresay the poor Doctor will be as nearly as possible deranged in mind till he get thither. But on your seeing him I must not depend; and so shall write to himself, one of these days, perhaps tomorrow. I cannot but anticipate great good to the Doctor from this journey, if the honest soul have luck: at all events, he may come back with his humour out, cured of his whim of foreign illumination, and set himself down to practice the cure of diseases like another honest Christian graduate. I suppose he has mentioned to you that I had thoughts of starting as Candidate for one of the London Professorships. This must be kept among ourselves as much as may be; for it seems nearly certain that I shall actually make a trial; tho' the thing as yet is full of perplex-

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ity. Rhetoric, the class I once thought of applying for, has (I now find) as yet no existence; and I hang for the present divided between English Literature and Moral Philosophy, with a considerable leaning towards the latter. I wait for advice from Edward Irving and Henry Duncan3 of Ruthwell, to both of whom I have written (Duncan's letter goes with yours ), and both of whom know much more of the details than I do. For one or other of these classes, it is almost certain that I shall become a competitor. Jeffrey whom I have talked with at large of the matter seems to augur rather favourably of my success in Moral Philosophy: both Jane and I dined with him at a country place of his called Craigcrook last night, and had a really pleasant five hours of it in such fine society. Jeffrey evidently has a high opinion of me, and even seems to like me well; tho' he thinks I am a little extravagant or so; or as he calls it "too German." We shall see what comes of this; it is all to be settled in November. If I go to London, the mansion of Craigenputtock and its silent moors are Likely to see much less of us; only at most, some two months yearly. On this, however, it were very rash to calculate at present; for that I shall not go is certainly by much the likelier issue of the business: indeed the good and evil are of the two are so very nearly balanced, that I really care very little whether I go or not: on healthier days, I am clear for going, and teaching all the Earth to be wise; but again on bilious days I care not one straw what becomes of it; for I think that in the wilderness of Craigenputtock I should be stronger in body, and I feel that the thing which lies in me will be spoken out, go wither I may. Surely, surely, it were good for a man to have some anchorage deeper than the quicksands of this world; for these drift to and fro so as to baffle all conjecture! We will leave the issue, as should ever be done, with the higher powers. Meanwhile you do well to get forward with that House of the Moor; and glad am I that the ticklish part of it has been got so softly over. It will be a home for us at least in all weathers, and a kind of grim stronghold betide what may. I long to hear how it is all going on; how your crop stands these rough winds, what hay you have collected, how your peats have proved, and all other etceteras. Jean, I suppose, is with you by this time, and as I suppose farther heartily satisfied with the Pleasures of Solitude, which thereabouts can be

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so plentifully commanded. My best love to her, and hopes of seeing her here ere long. Jack among his other mighty enterprizes has been writing to me of a probable change in your situation also. What state of forwardness the arrangements are in he does not state to me; but it would appear that things wear a promising aspect. On this point, my dear Brother, if your own views are clear, I have nothing to do but to wish you from the bottom of my heart all prosperity in your untried state, which with a woman whom I so much regard, I cannot but consider as in many points of view an encouraging and hopeful one. You cannot always live as you have done, a wayfarer, and half homeless man: there is a time, when a hearth of one's own becomes an indispensable necessary. Certainly it is a highly serious step, and an almost fearful thing to think that there is no return! But what can be thought is thought already, I daresay in your case. So be of steadfast resolve; mean honestly and there is no fear! Other arrangements between you and me will in some respects be easier than they were: I doubt not all will be well. God grant it may! Jack speaks of your coming in October by Langholm, and bringing Jean and our Mother with you. Do! Do! Our good Mother must see Edinburgh, and when can she do it so well? Of course you will warn us duly. Write if you have any leisure tho' there should be "nothing" to say. Good night, my dear Brother! I am Ever Yours — T. Carlyle My dear Jane. You must not think me a promise-breaker because I did not write in three weeks. — You know we had arranged the matter of purposed writing about the night before I left Scotsbrig; and so that promise seemed no longer to hold good. Are you still in as high heart about coming to Edinburgh? and are the poochies* all extirpated? and have you given over saying as gan? I should like to have an answer in the affirmative to all these questions. You are to come with Alick now, it seems, instead of with the Dr who indeed in his present fever of mind is scarcely to be entrusted with the charge of any thing so precious. See that you get ready in time then and [bring] your Mother with you and love me always J WC

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Published in part: L, pp. 56-58. 1. From postmark. 2. John had earlier met Baron D'Eichthal, uncle of the Saint-Simonians Gustave D'Eichthal ( 1 8 0 4 - 1 8 8 6 ) and his younger brother, Adolphe, and had been invited by him to come to Munich for study. Carlyle, who came into contact with Saint-Simonianism in 1 8 3 0 - 1 8 3 1 , met Adolphe on October 10, 1 8 3 1 , and Gustave on January 2 1 , 1 8 3 2 . See Two Note Books, pp. 2 0 1 , 248. See also Hill Shine, Carlyle and the SaintSimonians: The Concept of Historical Periodicity (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 1 9 4 1 ) . 3. Duncan was a friend of Henry Peter Brougham, later Baron Brougham and Vaux ( 1 7 7 8 - 1 8 6 8 ) , principal founder of London University. 4. The rats.

69. Jane Welsh Carlyle to John Aitken Carlyle, with postscript from Carlyle [21 Comley Bank, Edinburgh, 1 3 September 1827]

1

My dear John Sir Thomas is just excessively busy with his review, and so has commissioned me to write in his stead; cautioning me at the same time, to go to work in a business-like style, without any attempt at cleverness whatever. So you will understand how it is come to pass if my letter prove unusually dull. In the first place, then, you are to come away in Gods name; for the sooner you get to your wits end the better. Mr Sawers2 was here the other day and is still desirous you should go with him; while your Brother, and Mr Arthur, whom he was consulting, think the other plan the best. You may get from Leith to Munich, Mr A thinks, and see all that is worth seeing by the way for somewhere about ten pounds: and truly, from the account he gave us, there are many fine things to be seen, museums and collections of pictures etc. at which your heart will leap for Joy. But all this you will hear of when you come. N. B. there is no sowpox matter to be had here at Glouster: so the Physician of the Infirmary writes in answer to your Brother's letter.

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Your Mother and Jane we will expect along with Alick; who is perhaps as safe an escort for them as you could be, in your present fever of anticipation. Poor Jane! she is seeing the world all of a sudden. What will the creature make of herself at Craigenputtock? I hope the[y] took her garters from her and every thing in the shape of hemp or steel. Further, I am to thank you for your two letters, and inform you how it stands with the professorship. Well! he consulted Jeffrey on the prospect, who seemed willing to help him to all lengths; tho' he did not hold out any great likelihood of success. For this reason, he was a sectarian in taste, nay, might even be called a heretic; and this, not merely affectedly, "to excite a sensation' but with all his heart and soul: he doubted therefore whether the patrons of the University either would or ought to appoint such a person to such a charge. In reply, Sir Thomas used all manner of arguments to show him, that there really was no sectarianism or heresy in the case; that he was merely more open to light than others of his craft and that in short the Patrons of the University would do excellently well to make him Professor of Rhetoric. In his heart little Jeffrey seemed much of the same opinion; he gave him a letter to Leonard Horner,3 master of ceremonies to the University and repeated his offer of recommendation to all lengths. Away went our Knight, then, to the said Leonard Horner, for the purpose of getting from him such information as was required. But Mr Horner was dining out — the next day he dined out again — and the next he was only come at by the most fatiguing perseverance/ You will recollect that Sir Thomas was all the while head and ears in his review, and that Mr Leonard Horner has a fancy to live in Lauriston Place/ And what do you think was Mr. Horner's information after all this labour and waste of time? Why — that there was no professorship of Rhetoric thought of. Here was an unforseen impediment which there seemed little hope of overcoming! We should have been quite at a stand; if it had not happened oddily enough that he received your letter on the way, showing that Dr Chalmers appointment to the moral philosophy chair was at best no such sure matter as Edward Irving said.4 And then the mention of David Welsh! Who might not enter the lists with him? Certainly Thomas Carlyle might and will. — Accordingly he wrote again to Edward Irving, beg-

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ging him to bestir himself and investigate the business more narrowly; to Dr. Duncan he also wrote an explanation of his news, and requested his advice in the pursuance of them. And Jeffrey with whom we dined the same day, was made duly acquainted with this new aspect of the affair. He seems to augur fully better of the enterprise in this shape than in the other — ; so that we now only wait the answer to these two letters to set about storming the moral philosophy chair with all our forces. What will be the upshot of all this Heaven only knows. [I am] not very sanguine of success, indeed I am not sure that success is to be greatly wished. If he had health it would be the most desirable situation; but he has not health and would this be a way to recover it? God help us! — I need scarcely warn you to keep the whole prospect secret. — Edward Irvings book5 out of the Spanish came last night and also a copy for his father with a great bundle of preliminary discourses "to be distributed among his kindred and addressed to them with his own hand." 6 — These you may say to George if you see him will be sent by the Annan Carrier. The case of butter from Craigenputtock arrived on Tuesday; it would be very good if it were not for that never to-be-forgotten peat reek. Give my kind regards to Mary and best thanks. How did she like the lamb fair? Alison7 is in extacy at the prospect of seeing you partly out of disinterested love, and partly because she has a silent hope you may do her good. The poor girl has been very ill for several months, so ill that she has at last unwillingly resolved to leave us at the term. I will not soon find a servant that will suit me as well. I have hired Ellen8 in her place, whose eye is not quite well. — My Mother and Aunt are still occupying Miss Phesupps house — but the[y] purpose leaving the end of next week when my Aunt will be strong enough for the journey. — Remember me in most affectionate manner to all at Scotsbrig. I hope Mag is continuing better. — Your Mother will certainly come hither in October. You must make her promise as she is a christian woman before you part from her — hoping to see you forthwith I am always dear John your affectionate and persistent but penitent Sister Jane Welsh

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Sawers® says you need bring nothing but stockings and a hat; the rest being all procurable at Munich on fully cheaper terms. Shall we see you in a few days, or hear of you first? Aitken10 will give you all information about the journey; and some money also I may be able to afford you. Come therefore quickly. Is my father better? Assure him of my sympathy and best affection. Our Mother will come then? See it be so! Kind love to all! You are to bring Jane's haversak with you which is wanted here in these sunny days. The harvest is almost over; all got in in the first order. 1. From postmark. 2. Unidentified, as is Mr. Arthur. 3. (1785-1864), geologist, educator, and first warden of London University. 4. Chalmers, at this time professor of moral philosophy at St. Andrews, was not appointed to a chair at London. He turned to Edinburgh, and in December of this year accepted appointment there as professor of divinity. He remained until 1843, when he became professor of divinity and principal at the newly-formed Free Church College, Edinburgh. David Welsh (1793-1845), minister in Glasgow, also failed at London, also received appointment at Edinburgh, in 1831 as professor of church history in his case, and also went in 1843 to Free Church College. 5· A translation of the Spanish Jesuit Lacunza's (pseud. "Aben ν· Ezra") The Coming of the Messiah in Glory and Majesty ( 1827). 6. The last four words are underscored twice. George was Irving's brother. 7. Alison Greave. 8. Unidentified, but see Letter 134. Miss Phesupps is also unidentified. 9. From Carlyle. 10. The Reverend Mr. David Aitken, who had been presented by the Earl of Minto to the parish of Minto, Teviotdale, in April of this year. (Ritchie, p. viii, believed he was not related to the Dumfriesshire Aitkens. See also in Ritchie the letters from Carlyle and the one from Mrs. Carlyle to Aitken.) He was an acquaintance and in 1836 became the husband of Eliza Stodart. Carlyle had met him in November 1826 and came to admire him for his courteousness, sincerity, and intelligence. His knowledge of Germany and its literature, acquired through an extensive and varied residence in that country, now proved valuable to John.

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70. Edinburgh, 23d October 1827 My Dear Alick, I hope you got the Newspaper last Wednesday; and understood by it all that a long letter could have told you, namely that I had nothing to tell. This Tuesday again, according to promise I write, and with greater heart, as well as more at large; for I have now really something to say. Of myself indeed still very little; but something of our wayfaring Doctor; concerning whom, in these windy times, it is in truth rather satisfactory to know that he [is] off the German ocean with whole lungs, and fairly footing the hard Earth once more. We got a letter from Rotterdam on Saturday morning; written only the Tuesday before, and apparently in as great a hurry, as it had travelled in, round by London; where also some generous "Mr Bright" 1 or other, a Senator entirely unknown to me, had been at the trouble to frank it. The Doctor, it would seem, had rather a perverse passage; now windbound, now becalmed, now blown with a speed somewhat alarming: but in the end, he had reached the Dutch coast without accident, the day before he finished his letter (Monday week); and was on Tuesday purposing to set forth on foot, with his companion Laing,2 to Leyden and the Hague, at one of which places he expected steamboats, or trackboats, or trowse, or some river-craft or other, to take him on to Cologne. I calculate that by this time he must be about Bonn on the Rhine, where he had a parcel of letters to deliver, and was likely to wait for a day or two. Poor Doctor! I must write to him without delay, that a letter may be lying to welcome him at Munich, when he arrives. He seems, for the meantime, in good spirits, and like to enjoy his land journey better than his sea one. He sends kindest remembrances to you and every one. I daresay I have taken a millstone from my Mother's neck by the letter3 I wrote off to her instantly; and which, as I compute, she must have got yesterday morning. Heaven send the gawsie Doctor back to us, were it but to chop logic as in old days! Now as to myself, I believe I may say with Attila Schmelzle that "the

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Professorship is taking another turn";4 and that Brougham is for the present little more favourable to me than Schabacker was to that courageous Army-chaplain. Jeffrey did not write to me till the end of last week; and then in no very definite terms; complaining that he had still nothing decided to say. Brougham, it appears, was very shy on that matter; could not be brought to any open speech on it at all; and seemed determined till he had seen more of me to keep his mind to himself. He is gone to London two weeks ago; so that my notion of seeing him at Penrith is scattered to the winds. By Jeffrey's direction, I sent Brougham the other day a copy of the Paper I have just been writing for the Edinburgh Review; from which if he chooses to look he may gather some more light about me: but my own private opinion of this matter is, that for the present at least nothing more will come of it.5 Indeed Jeffrey says that Brougham's purpose seemed to be, not to appoint any Moral Philosophy Professor at all, at this time, but stick by other departments of a more practical description, till the Establishment should have settled into firmer union, and be able to stand metaphysical discussions. I think it likely myself that this may be the way of it; in which case, I may hear nothing more of the affair for many months. At all events, my name and character are now in some degree before these people, and if they want aught with me, they know my address; if they want nothing, then there is no harm done, for I am not so much as a candidate for any of their offices, having as yet only been talked of by private friends. On the whole I am still of my old mind: I really know not whether such a thing would do me good or the contrary. But Jeffrey I believe is now returned, and I am to go and see him the first dry day: if he have aught more to tell me, you shall hear of it forthwith; and in the mean time, you see, there is nothing more to be said. I believe the business is getting known here, and perhaps with you also: of course you need not spr[ead] it; but truly it could do me little ill, were it published at all t[he] market-crosses in Scotland, and at the Pier and Shore of Leith to boot. I know not [now?] that ever[y] weather-witch was more out than I that fatal morning,6 when I predicted that it "was not going to be 50 bad a day after all." A worse day, I think, has seldom appeared in this century. I hope it did not melt you altogether into water; but that you reached Scotsbrig and afterwards Craigenputtock not only in a

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solid but also in a safe state. Surely if you have not in your stooks, this weather will try you; for I think there was never worse for such a purpose. Today we have a perfect deluge, the Leith water "flowing like a vera sty";7 and the only hope, that now certainly it must have rained itself out. I long to hear that you are all going on rightly at the Craig; your stooks under thatch, your Highlander arrived in safety and liking their pasture; and all but the reek as it was when I left you. I rather think you will have to write to me soon: for I would fain know about our Father and his Rheumatism; and I hardly think there is any one at Scotsbrig that will write me a syllable, let matters go as they will. You will also have much to tell me of your own; at least if that visit8 to the Craig took place, which you were speaking of! — As to my visit thither, it must now be postponed into a distance of several weeks. I have a Paper9 (about the Germans again!) to write for that London Review; which I began only yesterday, and must as usual hurry to be done with; and then another long one, I expect, for the Edinburgh R. which I have yet to study as well as write. — However if you want me particularly to come sooner, say so, and I will come. Only I think it were better to be getting on as far as possible before I come; and afterwards moreover I shall have more time. Write to me as soon as you can find a spare hour; and tell me every thing that is going on, or like to go: the plastering, the roadmaking etc. etc. I am writing with the stump of an Eagle's quill, which is as hard as potmetal; so that I declare my thumb is aching as if it had the gout. Besides I am stupid as an owl. But I would not let the post go, knowing by experience the nature of much disappointment. Are you into the new kitchen yet; and in Heaven's name does it reekΡ How is Mary prospering; and dare the creature from [front?] the storms of winter up in these wild Dunscore moors? Be very good to her; and assure her of my true affection; and that I will drink tea repeatedly at the Craig before the winter solstice. But I have done. Write soon, and believe me always Your Brother — T. Carlyle Jane is not well yet, tho' not seriously ill: she is sitting reading here; and sends her best regards. I must off to the post-office now — so once more, dear Alick, I give you goodnight! We got a Firkin and a cheese

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from Scotsbrig, but no letter. I think it was your hand on the Firkin? The Butter is "highly superior." Tell Mary that we have not given hers up; being great eaters (at least I) of butter; but may readily enough make a run upon her (peat-reek notwithstanding) when this is done. Our potatoes are bad. Have you got any newspaper yet? Get one by all means for the long nights of winter, and plenty of Books. — When do you get servants, or have you already engaged them? 1. Unidentified. 2. Dr. William Laing, "an old class-fellow [of John's] on his way to France" ( L, p. 59 ). John gave his Christian name in an unpublished letter to Carlyle dated October 15, 1827 (MS: Pierpont Morgan Library #25-26). 3. See L, pp. 58-63. 4. Jean Paul Friedrich Richter, "Army-Chaplain Schmelzle's Journey to Flaetz," German Romance, II, 182. 5. Nothing did. The moral philosophy chair was offered to Thomas Campbell, who declined it, and it remained unfilled for some long time. See Wilson, II, 29-33. 6. When Alexander departed for home after accompanying John to Edinburgh and seeing him off for Germany. 7. Underscored twice. 8. By Alexander's lady friend, Rachel. 9. "Life and Writings of Werner," Foreign Review, 1 (January 1828), 95-141; republished in CME, I, 87-145. The "long" paper was to have been on Tasso and his Del Poema Eroico, but Carlyle never completed it. "As far as prose could go, he has gone,'" Carlyle remarked of him; "and we have fair outsides; but within all is rather hollow, nicht wahr? — Alas! I do not see into this, and must talk rather falsely of it, or 'altogether hold my peace,' which perhaps were better" (Two Note Rooks, p. 126). 71· 2 1 Comley Bank, 30th October 1827 My Dear Alick — I received your Letter this morning, and must not disappoint you of an answer, though it be a brief one. I am as usual in violent haste, being busied with that scribble for the London people, and in some danger of being belated.

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To proceed to business then. Jane and I are of opinion that if the floor of that little backroom,which is or was to be yours, be considered sufficient as it now stands flagged, you should let it stand so: but if, as we partly suppose, the flags of it are all broken, and it will require to be renewed at any rate, then we think, considering the small difference of price, a wooden floor will be decidedly preferable. With regard again to the mantel-piece of the room which is now kitchen and is to be dining-room, I recollect speaking once to our Uncle on the subject; and if I mistake not, he said that a mantel-piece of black marble might, in his opinion, if cunningly bought, be procured for some five pounds. If he can get such a thing anywhere about that price, by all means take it. If it cannot be got for six pounds, on the other hand, we think it would hardly be worth while. Tell our worthy Architect this; and do you and he exercise your best judgment on the matter. As to the width and other dimensions of the thing, our Uncle will just follow the common standard; for the grate to go there is yet to purchase (a sort of polished-bar grate, I expect, with hobs); the grates we have here being destined, the larger one for the drawing-room, and the smaller for the library. The larger is the one you saw with fire in it; the smaller at present stands upstairs. . . . This is all I can think of about that House in the Moor, at present; only further, with repetition and re-repetition, will you beg the Architect to look strictly on all hands against my two old enemies, Reek and Damp! I hope the new kitchen does not smoke: if it do, it must be cured, can man s wit do it. Are they putting up the spout this winter? I think the sooner the better. And trying, if possible, to regulate that foundation, which must somehow or other be prolonged a few inches deeper into the ground? But enough for once! What a hubbub and a hurlyburly you must all be in, and poor Mary lying ill of cold! I hope the poor lassie is better, or even well. Salts are the best recipe; and care against wet feet. She must not get sick over winter in that wilderness. — Have you got any new light on the road? By all means, make every effort: it is indeed an indispensable business. — In fine, let us hope that this Craig will repay us all for the trouble we are at with it; and be a sort of covert from the rude weather, let it blow from what point it will! Were we once there and settled! For change, of any sort, totally deranges one: be the place

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and the state what it may, if the wise man is once there and fixed, he will fit it to him or himself to it; but of this wayfaring work comes no good. I wish you could have written to me that our Father is recovered: I have my own doubts; and long for some word, which however, so stingy are the Scotsbrig penmen, I have little hope of getting except through you. Write to me the moment you can learn. — It was a relief to me to learn that your crop was under thatch: in my ignorance, I was pitying you and Scotsbrig in that spongy weather, which is now, however, as good as gone, I hope. We are glad to hear that R. saw the Craig, and think it a favourable circumstance. Jane thinks she must be a "bit of a flirt (coquette) that R."; and advises you, as the best remedy, to stand aloof rather, and let her be for a time. I rather believe this a wholesome advice; and worthy of attention, coming from so experienced a source. One way or other, I trust, all will be well. So be it! I have written an immense letter1 to the Doctor: by this time it is on the German Ocean I suppose; an answer may be back in three weeks or so, not sooner. — Not another syllable about London: I saw Jeffrey at large; and he thinks with me that it may stand over for a good while. — You will write soon? — Jane's best regards to you and Mary. — I am ever your Brother, T. Carlyle MS: unrecovered. Text: L, pp. 69-72. 1 See L, pp. 63-69.

72. 21 Comley Bank, 26th November 1827 My Dear Alick — . . . During the late frost, I very much regretted that you had not taken this Great-coat down with you. I have very seldom had it on since you were here; it being out of date for street wear: besides at present the tailor is making me a new one. I design shortly, if I have no

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other opportunity, to send this old servant down by the Carrier. I will direct it to our Uncle John's, probably in some sort of box or gray-paper parcel; and if I can manage adroitly enough, you may have it in this way about to-morrow week. It will serve you many a day as well as a better; and for me, at least in this city, it is well-nigh useless. — I have long forgotten to tell you to call at Johnstone1 the Bookseller's, and order, for my Mother, a certain Religious Magazine { called the "Monitor" or some such thing), which you will easily discriminate by this circumstance, that it is published monthly, and costs one shilling per Number. Jack and I tried to get it here, and could find no way of having it conveyed to Ecclefechan. Will you see after it; and pay six months of it in advance, and direct him to give it regularly to Nottman? 2 I think it may prove serviceable at Scotsbrig, and it costs but little. Do not forget; for I have aready forgotten too long. . . . Can you tell me precisely when is [the] rent-day? Now, or at Candlemas? For we wish to be particular; standing on so curious a footing as we do. Has Blacklock come for his money yet? If a loan of twenty or thirty pounds, or even of a far larger sum (for we have now money, like Schmelzle and his wife), 3 would be of benefit to you, it can be had without any trouble; so you can let me know. Of course I will pay this rent; for you will have other outlets for yours among Masons, etc. etc., and this perhaps before I see you. — On the whole it is a most comfortable fact for me to find that, sick as I am, and indisposed to insinuate myself anywhere, I can still live, independent of all persons whatsoever. At the Craig, if we stick together as we have done, we may fairly bid defiance to the Constable. Praised be Heaven! For of all curses, that of being baited for debt, or even frightened for falling into it, is surely the bitterest. — If you see the last Edinburgh Review you may read my Article in it, on the "State of German Literature," some time when you have opportunity. The people here seem to think abundantly well of it: I am in fact becoming a sort of Literary Man like my neighbours, and the people wonder at me more than enough. Jeffrey I saw two days ago; I fear the little fellow is losing his health. — Another long paper I sent away last night to London, where they seem waiting for it with anxiety: and already I am making preparations for a third (not on a German but on an Italian subject) for the next Edinburgh Review. By the blessing of Heaven two good things

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shall happen: I will get my mind spoken out, and have a trade to follow in this Earth like others! Never fear, my good Alick! Long it is since I have known that life for one man is just like what it is to another; and that neither height nor depth, nor principalities nor powers,4 nor what is more than all — the extremity of biliousness — shall part a wise man from his purposes of wisdom. — Ever your Brother T. Carlyle Remember me to the good little Missus;5 and tell her to keep good fires, and beware of sore throats on that wild wintry moor. You will write when the Great-coat comes? I have a thousand things to ask; but you will answer the best of them unasked. — Did you ever see Galloway,6 the logical Mathematician of Fife? He is here in bad health, poor fellow, and without a situation. A very raised man! — Jane's best love to you and Sister Marry.7 MS: unrecovered. Text: L, pp. 77-80. 1. Of Dumfries. The magazine Carlyle referred to was the Edinburgh Theological Magazine. See Letter 15. 2. The Dumfries-Ecclefechan carrier. See L, p. 78. 3. See German Romance, II, esp. 146-147. 4. Rom. 8:38-39. 5. Mary. 6. See Letter 31. 7. So Alexander repeatedly misspelled her name.

73· Comley Bank, 12th December 1827 . . . With a happy surprise, our Mother and Jane popped in here upon us last Wednesday night! They stood their journey well, and are doing well; only that the boisterous weather is against seeing sights, and my feebleness prevents me somewhat from officiating as Guide. Nevertheless to-day I had them in the Castle, etc.; and by degrees, I

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suppose we shall get the whole city mastered. They tell us that all is well at Scotsbrig, only our Father still a little weak. . . . All good wishes to you and your little Missus from all and sundry here assembled! The whole three are sitting sewing in the most peaceful manner at my hand: our Mother has been reading the Man of Feeling and my last Paper (with great estimation) in the Edinburgh Review. God bless you and poor wee Mary. — I am ever your affectionate Brother, Thomas Carlyle MS: unrecovered. Text: L, pp. 80-81.

74· Comley Bank, Tuesday — [29 January 1828]

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My Dear Alick, I half meant to write to you last Tuesday; but put it off till night, when the weather became so bad, or I myself became so oppressed with Jack's "fever of digestion," that I could not venture out. I now take time by the forelock; writing in the morning. Your letter relieved us from a world of anxieties about your goings on, and the fate of that "old garment," which I hope now defends you in some measure, on wet Wednesdays,2 from the "tempests of life"; at least from the far slighter and more tolerable portion of them that are material, and come down from Heaven only in the shape of bad weather. I think you should not cut off the skirts of that ancient watch-coat; for I now find that all such things are made fully as long as it (my own new one dangles on my heels); and truly, long skirts are a great comfort on horseback. — O that I too were on horseback, tho' it were but in Glen Esley,3 and the Dunscore moors! Day after day I long more and more for it. Grievous is it for a man of spirit to be so poor, as you are at this date: yet so long as the Constable is fairly excluded from us by solid smith-work, one ought in this world to be patient. I hope, another year, Craigenputtock will not be so hard run upon; for, this time, it has

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had more than its due produce to yield. Meanwhile I have paid the half-year's rent; and I must again repeat that when you need more money, for any purpose that you reckon essential, you have only to let us know. Strand's4 advice was doubtless a wise and highly virtuous counsel; yet at times even a wise and virtuous man may feel justified in departing from it. For the rest, our "whole fortune" is lying in the Bank; so that you can judge as well as I can, whether any proposed employment of it would be preferable or not. We were thunderstruck to hear of that terrific visitation of smoke! Gracious Powers, are we doomed then to the everlasting curse of a choking atmosphere, and sulphurous vapours, which, it is taught in Scripture, are the potion of Devils only, not of still-living men? I vow and swear that it is not so; that free air is the birthright of every free man. This kitchen-chimney must be cured, my dear Alick; I say, must be, come of it what will. Surely we will try every expedient that man's wit can devise: old-wires, boxes, canns, contractions; and if we cannot cure it, we will blow up the whole concern with gunpowder rather than leave it stewing there; for there, as our Father says, it cannot be. — I am much inclined to think with you that lengthening the chimney-head will be the only effectul cure: if so, do for Heaven's sake get it set about and tried: a cart-load or two of bricks will do the whole matter; and if it be still smouldering and fumigating when I come down to stay with you, it will quite depress my weak heart, I fear, with anticipation of coming woes. Speak to our Uncle on the subject, with the tongue of an eloquent orator: tell him that we are undone, undone, if that reek continue! Let all the soothsayers and astrologers and smoke-doctors and cunning-men of every sort, therefore, turn out with one accord; and, thro' the strength of Heaven, alley this pest, and finally sweep and garnish that fire-place, and let us live in peace! Of the road also I am sure you will not be unmindful; but on the contrary do all that the most active husbandman can to get it put in order. If you want money, tell us. I consulted Robert Welsh ( a shrewd lawyer) about that dog of a gate; and find that the man5 neither has nor can have any kind of right to stick it up there; but that, as I supposed, any man may "take his hammer," 6 and brash it when he pleases.

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I hope the man will take it away peaceably; if not, it must be taken away by war. On the whole, my dear Brother, I see you have a rough time of it: but what man, this side the moon, has a smooth one? Bear up a little; and surely we are justified in hoping that every month (which is the grand blessing of fixed quarters ) things will grow quieter and quieter. — You did not tell us what sort of servants you have got: we here are going to be ill off in that particular; for our present maid turns out unworthy of being transported to Dunscore, or indeed as Jane often thinks, any whither, except to Purgatory. Mrs Welsh is on the outlook for us; but as yet without success. — If you are busy at present, it is not so bad: but if tedium come over you, Craigenputtock would be a sad station. In the dark season, and for long "forenights," I hope you have a complete and sufficient stock of Books? They are a present help, and their company is profitable in the future too. Jack tells me he sent you a letter, for I also heard from him about ten days ago; and should have written back ere now, were it not that I am waiting over some commissions he gave me for his Baron. The Docter is perfectly well and prosperous; learning all things with alacrity of soul. — For myself I am sorry to say that I am still rather weak, and still rather idle, which is as bad. Neither of my two Papers has yet advanced half a line; in the manuscript way at least. I begin sternly, but something ever comes in the way and takes me off. At present, it is that St. Andrews Professorship; of which I must now tell you a word or two. I am actually a formal Candidate for the office;7 having declared myself to that effect a week ago! Ever since then I have been gathering Certificates from all quarters; and now I have got a goodly stock, which I am to send off tomorrow. Brewster, Leslie, Dr Irving, John Wilson, Jeffrey and Edward of Hatton Garden, all speak for me with emphasis; Edward, good man, gives me five full and fearless pages, and Jeffrey writes me a Testimonial which should get me the best Professorship of the Island in that kind. So you see I am doing all I can; tho' without fixed hope, or stranger still, without fixed anxiety or even desire, to succeed; but willing to try all points of my condition, and take the one which promises even a little better. If I miss St. Andrews, why then I could not get it; and to me, it ranks with the

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REUNIONS

viceroyship of India, or the post of British Prime Minister; a thing, as the Cumbrian said, "quite out of our district." — On the whole, I think there is a chance: at least if these testimonies of merit will not carry it, one need not ever more attempt to carry such a thing in that way. "But," says Brewster, "they are a corrupt race, and will not like you." But, say I, can they take the Craig O' Putta from us, or dare one of them shew his fat face there? Let this content us. — I have a thousand compliments for your dear little Missus: I do hope she is not getting melancholic in these moors; especially now that the spring is coming back. Little Jane8 is here and doing very well, as I think: she sends all kindest regards to you both; and good wishes to everything about the Craig. — You will write very soon, and with great minuteness? I am ever (my dear Alick) your affectionate Brother — T. Carlyle I have not talked about coming down; and yet the sooner all things can be got forward the better: for whitsunday will be here; and there are plasterers, and painters and bell-hangers, etc. etc.; all too likely to be late. Write to me, if I could do any good — and when. Published in part: L, pp. 86-87. 1. From postmark. 2. Market days in Dumfries. For "tempests of life" cf. Byron, Bride

The

II.881.

of Ahydos

3. Not listed in the gazetteers of Scotland, but probably in the vicinity of Glenessland Burn in Western Dunscore. 4. Unidentified. 5. Occupant

of the neighboring farm of Blackmark, according to

Alexander's letter of February 20, 1828 (MS:

NLS#i763.iio-m).

6. Cf. Judg. 4:21. 7. The moral philosophy chair Chalmers vacated. 8. Their sister.

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75· 21. Comley Bank, 19th Feby, 1828 My Dear Alick, We had some expectation of hearing from you; but were informed yesterday by a letter from Scotsbrig that you were not to write till after the Fair. When the Fair is I know not; but I hope it may be tomorrow, in which case you are like to get this without waiting, and to answer it in like manner. Not that there is anything of importance in the wind; but simply that we would fain hear of you, and of your welfare, and the prosperity of the Craig and Craig-people. I think when I have mentioned that we are well, and — in want of butter, at present, I shall have exhausted the whole pith of my commission. Such, I assure you, are the facts; a pleasant one, and a sad one, as joy and sorrow will often go together in this world; we are in fair health, and have no butter! The question now is, Can you send us any? If these tubs we heard of are still in existence, you have only to buy a Maryport pot; and little Missus will fill it, and the first trusty Dumfries Carrier will bring it hither, where all due honour will be done it. Fear not for the smoky qualities of the ware: the hard weather of winter takes away smoke; and at any rate I have a notion it would be found highly tolerable even as it was. By all means, let us try. At the same time, I need hardly add that if you have none, you are to give yourself no particle of disturbance about it. There is butter to be had here, of all sorts; and in a month or two, the fresh will be better than any other. Comfort your dear little Housewife, then, if her stock is done, and think no more of it. I have a whole legion of questions to ask you about Craigenputta had I room here, or any hope of getting answers. Meanwhile it is satisfactory to believe that all things are made to get along as diligently as they could be were I questioning about them every hour. Have you got that villain of a vent put into "any kind of moderation" yet? Or is there any hope of it? And how fares it with our Road? And how with your Cattle and the prices of them? I could like much to hear about all this; and have a picture to myself of your way of life in that wilderness thro' the storms of winter, now happily we may hope doing their last. But I am to get insight and tidings on all these things

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face to face ere long: and I believe the best way will be for you to consider when it will be fittest for me to come down, and tell me in your next letter; for in three weeks I shall be ready to come when I like and find-it suit you. I set to work stoutly a few days ago to a thing1 I had to write; and can now calculate with confidence on being done then, and for a time at complete liberty. So consider and tell me. I long to see you all and ascertain how you look. I hope you will not be so lonely another winter; for either you will have us with you, or a wife, which last I take to be an excellent preservative against weariness. Perhaps you may have both. Mag indeed tells of a dryness2 which she suspects may have sprung up in a certain quarter: but I hope it may not be irremediable, or at worst, if it cannot be cured, it may be made good some other way. Our Father spoke about coming up to see you, if he could ride so far: I pray you, encourage him by all means in your power. Alas! I meant to plant trees this very spring at the Craig O' Putta myself; and you see how it is: I am still here, and when I do arrive there will be nothing but plastering and pargetting, and all in a haste to be ready for whitsunday. For to the Craig at whitsunday we will come; and for aught I can see may abide there. The St Andrews Professorship, like Attila Schmelzle's,3 seems a thing not to be counted on. It is true, I have sent off my Certificates; and much Certificates as might do one's heart good to look upon: but what then? The probability is that they have other meal to grind than choose by certificates; and so all the proofs you can give them of your deservings will be but as music to the deaf adder which refuses to hear the voice of the charmer, charm he never so wisely. We this morning got a letter from a Friend of Mrs Welsh's, a person professedly intimate with the business and people of St Andrews: he gives it as his clear opinion that the project is up, the man being pitched upon long before I made any application.4 This to Jane seems decisive; not in the least so to me; tho' I must still think, as I before thought, that my chance is doubtful enough. The best part of it is that I am not conscious of carying three farthings which way it go. I think and believe that they ought to choose me, from the circumstances before them, if they do fairly; and if they do unfairly, why in Heaven's name let it be so, and each party will bear his own loss. Here

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therefore it rests, and may do for many months. If I had Goethe's Certificate6 I would send it also, and then leave them to make a kirk and a mill of the whole matter. The old Laureate did write6 me since I wrote; but not in answer to my letter which he had not then got: he merely warned me that another packet of Books etc., was on the way for me: owing to the bad weather, I do not look for it for several weeks. There are two medals in it which I am to present in his name to Sir Walter Scott! Jack, whom I heard from some three weeks ago, tells me that he had written to you. He seems to be doing well every way. I wrote back a while ago, and am to send a letter shortly by some Books for the Baron. — Jane, the lesser, still abides with us in good health and heart: she with her namesake sends her best regards to you and Mary. We heard that Mary was at Scotsbrig, but going back to you in a day. Tell her I owe her somewhat, and will try to pay her when I come down. I am sure she will make me tea of the very best. By the bye, do you or does she know of any sort of person who would be likely to suit us for a servant. The present house-maid is a sort of thick-headed handless and rather wasteful person, and not likely to do. I fear we shall have our own difficulties in arranging everything. But stout heart to stage brae is the word: what is Life itself that one should either sorrow over it or rejoice for it? — Write to us very soon, My dear Alick. I am ever [Your] true Brother — T. C. I know not whether you have heard that Jenny Graham7 ( of Myre) has got a prize of £ 5 from the Highland Society for her straw bonnet. I am to send her the money tomorrow, in a frank, and will write at the same time to Mother. At St Andrews I have Certificates from Jeffrey, Wilson, Brewster, Leslie, Irving etc. etc. all praising me, as in the style in these things, for one of the best men now extant. Published in part: L, pp. 93-95. 1. "Goethe's Helena," Foreign Review, 1 (April 1828), 429-468; republished in CME, I, 146-197. 2. In the Alexander-Rachel relationship. 3. See German Romance, II, 171.

26ο

UNIONS AND REUNIONS

4. So it would seem. See Wilson, II, 41-43, 47-48. The position went to the Reverend Dr. George Cook (1772-1845), a son of a St. Andrews professor. 5. Which Goethe did not write until March 14, too late to have any effect. For Carlyle's request for the testimonial, the testimonial itself, Carlyle's announcement of its arrival to John, and Carlyle's letter of appreciation to Goethe see G-CC, pp. 63-90. 6. For this letter and the contents of the packet see G-CC, pp. 4859. Carlyle and Scott never met. Carlyle made every attempt to fulfill Goethe's wish but could not, because of Scott's absence from Edinburgh and then Carlyle's own removal to Craigenputtock. Jeffrey made the presentation in Carlyle's stead. See Masson, Edinburgh Sketches, pp. 341-352· 7. "Mary Grahame, a worthy young woman living at Myer, not far from Scotsbrig, had made straw into bonnets in the way recommended by Cobbett in his Cottage Economy, — using rye instead of wheaten straw. A prize of £ 5 from the Highland Society enabled her to carry on this industry on which she subsists to this day (1887). — M. C." (L, p. 85).

76. With postscript from Jean Carlyle to Mary Carlyle 21. Comley Bank, Tuesday Morning [26 February 1828]1 My Dear Alick, I have sat down here, before breakfast, and cut away part of this sheet for the purpose, if possible, of defrauding his Majesty of eightpence-half-penny; believing it to be an overcharge on the part of his Majesty; and also that the single postage will suit you better. I fear still that we may not be able to manage this latter point. But in any case, you will receive the Twenty Pounds, 2 which I here inclose for you (part of earnings from the London Foreign Review); and I trust it may partly relieve you from your 'straitened circumstances,' 3 which indeed are a hard enough concern. I fear you would not get the Letter I sent last Tuesday, but that you may still find it waiting for you tomorrow, with all our news untold,

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and our cry for butter unappeased. Doubtless, however, the little Missus will lose no time in satisfying us, if it lie in her power. — I have nothing farther, under this state of matters, to tell you of ourselves; for nothing new has happened; I am still scribbling as diligently as I can; and growing more and more impatient, as is my wont, to be done with scribbling. The rest of us are all well; and in our usual state of occupation. I had a Letter yesterday from our Bavarian Doctor: it came to Dr Brewster, by a private hand, among some philosophical papers; and at first we knew not well what to make of the Melrose post-mark, and the reduced rate of post-charges; and supposed the Doctor might have taken leg-bail from Munich, and be lying squatted, somewhere in the East Country. But no: the beloved Mr Greatheart is still in his old quarters, dissecting, speculating, reading; in fair health and spirits, only very anxious to hear from us, my last letter not having yet come to hand. He longs especially for some message from you, and is 'afraid his letter may never have reached you.' It were well, if you had any time, to write to him: I here send you his address, which you will write on several Unes as I mark them: Doctor Carlyle/Bey dem Herrn R. R. Freyherrn von Eichthal/ in München/ Bayern/. You may also write 'Germany' on some part of the letter for the information of British postmasters. But what is more important is that you take the letter to the post-office, and pay some half-crown or so for it, without which it will not leave Britain, or even Dumfries. Choose a large sheet, and the thinnest you can get, for in Germany it pays by [weig]ht. And so send the worthy Greatheart all your news. I ought now to tell you when I am coming down. If you [have] anything to say against my coming down very soon, then write me next Wednesday, and appoint the time. If not then expect a Letter from me this day fortnight; and therein I will specify the day, when I am to arrive at Templand; and you can send over Larry, and I will canter on the back of the ill-conditioned brute over to you next morning. For the present, why should I attempt cramming into short space what I shall soon have an opportunity of discussing in all its breadth and length? — I rejoice to hear of that infatuated mortal's letting his ligget go down, and so saving one the trouble of brashing it. Have you done anything to the reek, or is it still raging as in Mount

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Vesuvius? I hope and pray that it may be subdued speedily and utterly.— There is no farther tidings of St. Andrews: indeed we expect to hear none, for a month or two. I am still in as good expectation, and still as indifferent about it as ever. For the rest, my Dear Alick, keep a good heart, and let neither this nor that in the warfare of existence too much depress you. It is a great truth that the thing which most cuts and grieves one at the present moment, will in twenty years most probably be matter of entire indifference. There is nothing really and permanently important, except a 'conscience void of offense.' 4 — I must leave the small remnant of this sheet to Jane and Mag. Write, as I have said, or expect me to write. I am ever, My dear Alick, Your true Brother — T. Carlyle My dear Mary. It is a long time since I heard of you and still longer since I saw you. I think we must establish a regular communication tho it were only on the small scale; for you must tell me all your preceedings at the Craig, good or bad. how do you like the moors in wintre? do you still retire into your little parlour with the goodman and spend your quieter evenings in friendly chat? You must also tell something about that chasm in a certain quarter which I have heard is none of the most factual, or hopeless, give my love to our brother; is he still as busy as ever: I daresay he is or perhaps busier as the servants seem to be indifferent but I hope he is well. But I see notwithstanding of my small type that my room is drawing to a close. I trust however I shall hear of you soon. Tom and Jane send their kindest to you. no more can be said here my dear Mary but that I love you still and am ever your affectionate sister Jane Carlyle By 5 the bye! I had all but forgot to tell you to send the Minister to Mrs Welsh, who is ready and willing to settle with him, or 'meet him in any court in Britain.' — Send word to Scotsbrig about Jack, if you have any opportunity: his letter is dated 6th Feby. Breakfast is here; so I must go. Adieu! 1. From postmark. 2. For a new plow horse.

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3. Cf. Juvenal Satires, iii.164. 4. Acts 24:16. 5. From Carlyle. The minister was the Reverend Mr. Robert Brydon (or Bryden, 1792-1860), son of William Brydon, a gunsmith of Edinburgh. He was raised at George Heriot's Hospital, from there won a bursary to Edinburgh University, was licensed by the presbytery of Stirling on October 4, 1820, presented there by George IV on September 17, 1821, and ordained at Dunscore on April 25, 1822. Because of the active part he played in the Disruption, he was on May 24, 1843, declared no longer a minister of the Church of Scotland. That same year he became minister of the Dunscore Free Church. In 1853 he was awarded an honorary Doctor of Divinity degree from Dartmouth College. (Their records also show that he made a monetary contribution to the college library from Scotland in i860.) Concerning his trouble with Mrs. Welsh, which Alexander clarified in his letter of February 20, 1828, there was a question whether she or the Carlyles were to pay the tithes due him from the inheritors of Craigenputtock, and while they were working it out the man had become impatient. Despite this altercation, the Carlyles and Brydon became friends during the Craigenputtock residency.

77· 21. Comley Bank, Monday Night. 15th April, 1828 My dear Alick, You must look for a most pitiful Letter at present; embracing only the needful; for I am much pressed for time. We are sending back the Dumfries Paper-specimens; seeing we can get the article a good deal better here: I am writing to our architect1 at any rate, to get us a proper workman to paste up the Paper and inspect it when it comes; so I throw you in a few words also, especially as they can go without cost. The most important thing I had to say, is that certainly we are2 coming down to the Craig at Whitsunday first! Our house had been let here in our absence; and that of itself was sufficient to decide us. So see, my good Boy, to have all in the best order you can get it in! We are still in great distress about a servant: but we have the prospect or offer of several; and surely among these we shall find some one to fit us better or worse for one half year. It is an awkward case; but nothing else than hubble is to be looked for throughout for a time.

264

UNIONS AND REUNIONS

Jane thinks that our proposed roofing-in of the pump may be postponed till after we arrive; especially as you have so much else to attend to. The most needful thing will be the inside of the house; and immediately next to that, the making of the road, and gravelling the front-door. As to the main turnpike, tho' I have great faith in your activity and ingenuity, I doubt much if we shall get any help in our enterprize from the Dunscore Public: however, you will leave no stone unturned; and at the worst, it is but the old story: "Man, help thyself!" I suppose something must be done before Whitsunday; or the Furniture carts will not be able to pass. We have been talking about the Garden; and it seems to be agreed upon that there shall be a walk all round, some five feet or so from the walls. If this can be of any service in your arrangement of the matter, well and good: but I rather incline to suppose there will be little done in that way. Meanwhile neglect not to plant us [a] store of early potatoes; to sow carrots, leeks, and all manner of greens, that there may be food for man and beast. I am in a great hurry at this moment; and generally of late days in a troublous enough humour; being bilious in addition to my other cares: nevertheless, I cannot regret this necessity of our determining on Country life; and feel much inclined to augur good of it, were we once all settled. Where nothing but honest wishes and purposes exist, a prosperous issue may surely be hoped for. We all intend well; we have all some inkling of sense to see what is well: certainly some right relation will not fail to spring up among us; and with all necessaries of existence, we shall contrive to exist in peace and some degree of earthly comfort together. It has ever been my wish to live among those dear to me by nature: I cannot but hope that now it will be happily realized. Besides Goethe's Letter which I received at Craigenputtock, there was the long-expected Box lying waiting for me when we returned hither at Leith. There are the Medals for Scott in it; Books, manuscript verses, trinkets for the wife and a long and somewhat garrulous letter; all which you sh[all see] in time. I have to answer the Poet without delay; I have to distribute his presents; I have a Letter to write Jack, and Letters to his Librarians; and in short so many odds and ends to gather

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up, that I bid fair to be utterly tired of epistles before all be over. And then two long Articles3 for Reviews; of which I see not how above one can be ready before Whitsunday. But courage! Hard work is nowise the hardest of evils; and there is a braw time coming for us to rest in. But enough for the present. Wish me well my dear Alick as I heartily do you. Best affection to Missus, whose present Jean received with high gratification. By the way, I should tell you that Jean conducted her housekeeping in the most masterly style while we were absent: she is a shrewd little creature, as ever had a head. Tell our dear Missus, that she must make arrangements for learning to sew, this summer; and I will see her thro' the expence. She must and shall learn it; shall, if I can help her. — But again good night! Ever Your Brother, T. Carlyle 1. Their uncle John Aitken. 2. Having found Craigenputtock not yet readied to his liking, Carlyle had considered postponing the removal for another year. 3. The first, the last he wrote at Comley Bank, was "Goethe," Foreign Review, 2 (July 1828), 80-127; republished in CME, I, 198-257. The second was "Life of Heyne," Foreign Review, 2 (October 1828), 437-464; republished in CME, I, 319-354.

78. 21. Comley Bank, 6th May, 1828 My Dear Alick, We are not without hopes of getting a Letter from you on Friday morning to tell us how matters progress at the Craig; but lest there should be any disappointment, indeed whether or not, I must write to you tonight, for the time is approaching, and our movements ought to be arranged. As I am excessively busy with my Reviewing (in which I prosper as badly as may be, being bilious) I shall restrict myself at present to the rigidly needful: we shall have time enough soon to discuss everything with far more freedom. You would get the Paper1 almost a fortnight ago, and a little Note

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AND

BEUNIONS

along with it. The parcel was directed to our Uncle; and as I have heard no word, I infer that the whole tale of Pieces was complete, and everything as it should be. The next point to be considered is that of the -flitting. Our term day falls a day earlier than yours, on Sunday come a fortnight; but of course there can be no entrance affected by our Successor till the Monday following. The process of packing, and stowing is to begin very soon; so that all may be in some degree of readiness for throwing on the carts when you arrive. But here a rather important consideration occurs: how the sufficient stock of carts is to be obtained? They promised two from Scotsbrig; we counted also on two from Templand, and the rest from the Craig. But now, it appears, neither two nor even one from Templand can be had: there is no such thing either as a roadworthy vehicle and horse there, or a roadworthy man! Yet somehow or other five carts, as we calculate, must be come at; nay we are still in doubt whether six may not be required. We judge thus: it took two carts and a half, and a waggon drawn by two strong horses, to bring the articles from Haddington; and we have got the grates etc. in addition, a sideboard on the other hand being wanting. You can judge from this, as well as I: but I should think five carts might do. To get us these five carts and appear with them on this ground, we trust of course to our general Provider, Alick of the Craig. Will you consult with Jamie ( I do not think I need write to him; for it will be necessary that you should see him), and adjust the business between yourselves? Have not you three horses? Surely some way or other, you will raise the required number. Sufficiency of straw should be brought in them for hading the articles (they will be packed in mats etc. before you come ) ; and that, I think, is all we want you to bring. The next thing to be considered is the time. As I mentioned already we can stay here till Monday the 26th: but it will create a dreadful hurry, and besides throws you under the necessity of staying over Sunday by the road. We reckon it would be better were you to come earlier, so that we might have "a' by" the previous week. If Jemmy2 and you were to arrive on the Wednesday night or so, you might load on Thursday, and be at the Craig on Saturday Night. This we can manage, and as it will save expense perhaps it may be better, but you and

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he can judge. The only thing is to let us know in time. The servant maid, we suppose, will have to go down with the other baggage: she has a pair of limbs, and seems to be a shifty sort of character. I know not if you are aware of the stages on the road but you will soon learn. You Craigenputtockers come by Elwanfoot,3 Crawford, Chesterhall (a solitary inn), Biggar, and then you have two roads, by Noblehouse or by Bridgehouse, of which both have been lately repaired and are very smooth, but perhaps the first is better and rather longer. If you take this first track, your road comes upon Jemmy's some five miles before you reach Noblehouse; and you and he by timing matters might contrive to meet [befo]re you came to Edinburgh, so that the stranger might not be apprehensive. Biggar is about thirty miles from Edinburgh, and a town such as Lockerby; Crawford is some twelve miles nearer you. The roads I believe are very good all the way after you cross the Nith. And now, my dear Alick, if you can unravel what I have here put down, I believe there is in it the most of what it concerns us that you should know in this business, which you will now be able to adjust of yourself. Write to us, as soon as possible, at farthest next Wednesday, to say how it is settled, and on what day we are to expect you; for you doubtless will require to be among the number to watch over such a cargo on such an expedition. Doubtless we shall get thro' this, as one gets thro' so much, and then we may look for quieter times. Write to us, then, the sooner the better. We are all well, as you may have guessed from my omitting to say the contrary: I am struggling only half thro' a long strong of a story for the London Review. We have not heard a word of Jack; but I am not very impatient yet, for I think he must be waiting for the Leith parcel,4 which would travel rather leisurely. How is your Dear little Missus? Has she arranged about her sewing? Best love to her from all of us. — We are thinking that if the Kitchen grate is still to set, it may be as well to put in an oven at once: suppose you bought that second-hand one we saw at Lonsdale's,5 as cheap as you could? But is the chimneyhead on, and the reek surmounted? We hope and pray that it may be so. And how fares it with the painting, the papering, the roadmaking etc. etc. etc.? Alas! poor Alick! There is no rest for the wicked, nor the

268

UNIONS

AND

righteous either, Brother —

REUNIONS

in

this

world. — I

am

ever

your

affectionate T. Carlyle

Will you have to ride down to Scotsbrig, and adjust the thing by speech with him? β In that case I need not write. Perhaps ( only perhaps) I shall be writing to our Mother at any rate. Fail not to let us hear from you. I think you had better get a bell hung in your room too; to divide you from the rabble. MS: N L S # 5 i i . i i . 1. The wallpaper. 2. James. 3. Or Elvanfoot, an inn and station in Crawford parish five and onehalf miles southeast of Abington, twelve miles northwest of Moffat. Chesterhall (or -hill), which by 1851 had joined with Sauchenside, was a village one mile southwest of Cranston. Bridgehouse is a village two and one-half miles northwest of Bathgate. 4. A box from home, which Carlyle mentioned in his last letter to John. See L, pp. 109-110. 5. In Dumfries. 6. Presumably James.

• On June 10 Carlyle wrote to John of their removal to Craigenputtock, the condition they found it in, and their hopes for the future: "My dear Jack, — W e received your much-longed-for letter two days ago before leaving Edinburgh in such a scene of chaotic uproar as I had never witnessed, and do earnestly hope I shall never witness again, for the house was full of mats and deal boxes and straw and packthread, and there was a wrapping and a stitching and a hammering and tumbling; and Alick and Jamie came with six carts to take away our goods; and all things were wrenched from their old fixtures, and dispersed and scattered asunder, or united only by a common element of dust and noise. What would the sack of a city be, when the dismantling of a house is^uch! From all packers and carpenters, and flittings by night or day, Good Lord deliver us" ( Froude, II, 25 ). "I have waited here, above two weeks, in the vain hope that some

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calmness would supervene: but painters and joiners still desecrate every corner of our dwelling; and I write in the middle of confusion worse confounded, as better than not writing at all. We have arrived at Craigenputtock, and found much done, but still much to do; we must still ride and run with carts and saddle-horses to Dumfries every second day, and rejoice when we return if the course of events have left us a bed to sleep on. However, by the strength of men's heads and arms, a mighty improvement is and will be accomplished; and one day as we calculate a quiet home must stand dry and clear for us amid this wilderness; and the Philosopher will hoe his potatoes, in peace, on his own soil, and none to make him afraid. Had we come hither out of whim, one might have sickened and grown melancholy over such an outlook: but we came in search only of health with food and raiment, at least of the latter two without it; and will not start at straws." He wrote of business matters and writing plans and then detailed the domestic scene. "Of the Craig o' Putto I cannot yet rightly speak till we have seen what adjustment matters will assume. Hitherto, to say truth, all prospers as well as we could have hoped: the house stands heightened and white with roughcast; a tight hewn porch in front, and cans on the chimney-heads; and within, it seems all firm and sound; during summer, as we calculate, it will dry, and the smoke we have reason to believe (though the grates are not yet all come) is now pretty well subdued: so that on this side, some satisfaction is to be looked for. We appear also to have been rather lucky in our servants. An active maid came with us from Edinburgh; a dairy-woman, also of good omen, comes to us to-morrow from Thornhill; and a thoroughgoing, out-of-doors, good-humoured slut of a byre-woman was retained after half a year's previous trial. Then we have two sufficient farming men; and a bonneted stripling, skilful in sheep, from this glen. Alick himself is an active little fellow, as ever bent him; and though careworn, is diligent, hearty and compliant: he lives in his little room, which is still but half-furnished like the rest of the house; yet peculiarly favoured in the blessing of a grate. Mary has been visiting at Scotsbrig, and is now learning to sew at Dumfries . . . Jane (the lesser) has taken her place here, and furnishes butter and afterings, (jibbings) for tea, though we are still in terrible want of a cheeseboard, and by the blessing of Heaven shall get one to-morrow afternoon. Jane (the greater) is surveying all things, proving all, that she may hold fast what is good: she watches over her joiners and painters with an eye like any hawk's, from which nothing crooked, unplumb, or otherwise irregular can hide itself a moment. And then to crown our felicity, we have — two fowls hatching in the wood — a

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duck with twelve eggs, and a hen with (if I mistake not) eleven; from which, for they are properly fed and cared for, great things are expected. Nay it was but three nights ago that we slew a Highland Stot, and salted him in barrel; and his puddings even now adorn the kitchenceiling!" (L. pp. 110-111, 113-114). In the midst of the confusion he managed to write "Life of Heyne." For a time after , he gave his days over to surveying the work and criticizing the workmen with his wife as the renovation went forward. When the din finally subsided he returned to his own affairs. In August he started and September 16 finished an essay on Burns. He sent it off to Jeffrey, who liked it but at the same time thought it too long. Jeffrey gained Carlyle's permission to cut, had proofs run off, and brought them with him when he and his family came to visit October 7. Carlyle looked the sheets over after the Jeffreys left on the tenth and found that Jeffrey had so mutilated the essay that it resembled "the body of a quadruped with the head of a bird; a man shortened by cutting out his thighs, and fixing the knee-pans on the hips!" ( L, pp. 123-124). He first thought to demand the manuscript back, but then he restored his composure and all he believed vital to the essay. He tried Jeffrey again, and Jeffrey published "Burns" in the Edinburgh Review, 48 (December 1828), 267-312. It is republished, with some changes, in CME, I, 258-318. Mrs. Carlyle's letter of November 21, 1828, to Eliza Stodart recounts especially her activities as her and her hubsand's first year in the house on the Dunscore moors drew to a close: "You would know what I am doing in these moors? Well, I am feeding poultry ( at long intervals, and merely for form's sake), and I am galloping over the country on a bay horse, and baking bread, and improving my mind, and eating, and sleeping, and making, and mending, and, in short, wringing whatever good I can from the ungrateful soil of the world. On the whole, I was never more contented in my life; one enjoys such freedom and quietude here. Nor have we purchased this at the expense of other accommodations; for we have a good house to live in, with all the necessaries of life, and even some touch of the superfluities. 'Do you attempt to raise any com?' the people ask us. Bless their hearts! we are planning strawberry-banks, and shrubberies, and beds of roses, with the most perfect assurance that they will grow. As to the corn, it grows to all lengths, without ever consulting the pubhe about the matter. Another question that is asked me, so often as I am abroad, is, how many cows I keep; which question, to my eternal shame as a housewife, I have never yet been enabled to answer, having never ascertained, up to this moment, whether there are seven cows or eleven. The fact is, I take no delight in cows, and have happily

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no concern with them. Carlyle and I are not playing farmers here, which were a rash and unnatural attempt. My brother-in-law is the fanner, and fights his own battle, in his own new house, which one of his sisters manages for him." She mentioned their several visitors and, besides her remembrances and the remark, innocent enough, that Carlyle was at Scotsbrig attending his sister Margaret, who was ill, concluded with reports on other members of her husband's family, her servant, her mother, and her husband's work. "John Carlyle is still in Germany. We looked for him home, but he has found that he could neither have peace in his lifetime, nor sleep quiet in his grave, had he missed studying six months in Vienna. Little Jane is gone back to Scotbrig, where she could not be well spared, another sister being here with Alick. So that Carlyle and I are quite by ourselves at present, moralizing together, and learning Spanish together, and in short, living in the most confidential manner imaginable. You never saw so still a house: we have just one servant (Grace Macdonald), and not even a cat in addition (for we find mousetraps answer much better). By the way, this Grace is just the cleverest servant I ever had occasion to know, and would be a perfect paragon in her line were it not for certain 'second table' airs about her, which without doubt she must have picked up at the Manners s. "My Mother dined here ten days ago, and stayed a night, her second and longest visit since we came. But she is of necessity much confined at home now, and also imagines the necessity to be greater than it is. You inquire if I will be in Edinburgh this winter. I think the chances are about two to one that I shall. We are pressingly invited to spend some time with the Jeffreys; and Carlyle has agreed to go, provided he gets three papers, promised to the Foreign Review, finished by then. Should he be belated with these, he would have me go without him; but that I shall not dream of doing. It would be poor entertainment for one in Edinburgh or anywhere else to think one's husband was here in the desert alone, his stockings get [ting] all into holes, and perhaps even his tea running down" (Ritchie, pp. 136-140). Carlyle completed "German Playwrights," the first of those three papers Mrs. Carlyle mentioned, by late November or early December, "Novalis" on New Year's Day, 1829, and "Voltaire" by the end of March. They are published in the Foreign Review, 3 (January 1829), 94-125; 4 (July 1829), 97-141; 3 (April 1829), 419-475, and in CME, I, 355395; II, 1-55; I, 396-468. In early June he and Mrs. Carlyle were invited to dine at the Dunscore manse with the Reverend Mr. Brydon and others of the neighboring clergy. The occasion was a reception for Irving, who had delivered sermons the day before at Dumfries and

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Holywood and before that at Annan to thousands of admirers. After the dinner the Carlyles took him to Craigenputtock for two days, and then Carlyle accompanied him to Auldgirth Bridge, where Irving caught the coach for Glasgow. Jeffrey had been wanting a political article, and after parting from Irving Carlyle set to work on "Signs of the Times," which is published in the Edinburgh Review, 49 (June 1829), 439-459, and also in CME, II, 56-82. It was the last of his writings to appear in the Edinburgh Review under Jeffrey's editorship, for Jeffrey had been elected Dean of the Advocates and thought it prudent to resign his post from the Whig review and remain free from all party alliances in the event a judgeship should follow. Macvey Napier (1776-1847), editor of the Encycbpaedia Britannica, succeeded him. Then Carlyle wrote "Jean Paul Friedrich Richter Again," which is published in the Foreign Review, 5 (January 1830), 1-52, and in CME, II, 96-159. Upon its completion in October he and his wife visited the Jeffreys. By the end of the month they were home, and by the end of November he had written "Schiller" for Fraser s Magazine, 3 (March 1831), 127-152; republished in CME, II, 165-215. It was about December 1829 that Carlyle received from James Fraser's brother William ( ca. 1805-1852), editor of the Foreign Review, a proposal on behalf of possibly the London publisher George Byrom Whittaker ( 1793-1847), a principal in the firm of G. and W. B. Whittaker, to write a "History of German Literature." While he waited for reference books, and before the year was out, he wrote "Thoughts on History," which is published in Fraser's Magazine, 2 (November 1830), 413-418, and in CME, II, 83-95. But he was soon under way on the projected "History" and by March 1830 had finished the first volume. By June he was well into the second, with the third and fourth appearing as easy goals. His life was brightened in March by an extended visit from his mother, and then struck dark toward midnight of June 21-22, when a messenger from Dumfries rapped on his window and told him Margaret was dying. He and Alexander rode through the night, but their sister had died hours before their arrival. "Poor Alick's face," he wrote thirty-six years later, "when I met him at the door with such news (for he had staid behind me, getting rid of the horses); the mute struggle, mute and vain, as of the rugged rock not to dissolve itself, — is still visible to me" (Reminiscences, II, 194). That evening, after a day of making painful arrangements, Carlyle stole off into the woods and cried. Bad luck followed terrible misfortune. With the overthrow of Charles X in Paris on July 27, William Fraser abandoned the "History" project. William Tait, when Carlyle approached him about taking it over, also feared to commit himself to any outlay of money in such

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unsettled times. Carlyle had to give up the hope he had nurtured for months of realizing enough from the "History" to visit Goethe and while at Weimar doing research for a life of Luther. The Carlyles' financial position even before this reversal was precarious. Now, with the loss of almost an entire year's work, it was perilous. Jeffrey offered Carlyle a SL100 annuity, but Carlyle gratefully declined and did what he could himself to keep their heads above water. He first sent James Fraser the old "Cruthers and Jonson" story, and then a new piece, the brief "Luther's Psalm," which appears in Fraser's Magazine, 2 (January 1831), 743-744, and in CME, II, 160-164. After that he cut the "History" into slips and sent one, "Early German Literature," to John George Cochrane (1781-1852), editor of the Foreign Quarterly Review, where it appears in 8 (October 1831), 347-391, and in CME, II, 274-332, as "German Literature of the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries." He sent another, "The Nibelungen Lied," to John (later Sir John) Bowring (1792-1872), editor of the Westminster Review, where it appears in 15 ( July 1831 ), 1-45, and in CME, II, 216-273. One portion of the essay on Burns that Jeffrey had deleted contained words to the effect that because clothes make the man, a tailor is therefore a creator. The thought had stuck with Carlyle. In the Reminiscences, II, 190-191, he wrote that he remembered the "first genesis of Sartor . . . and the very spot (at Templand) where the notion of astonishment at Clothes" first struck him. He recorded his astonishment at man reduced by the understanding to a "pitiful hungry biped that wears breeches" in his Two Note Books under the date of August 1830. The entry under September "(about the 28th)" dates his decision to expand the tailor-creator metaphor. The entry under October 28 dates his completion of what he at this time called "Thoughts on Clothes," what came to be substantially the first book of Sartor Resartus. He divided it into two pieces and sent both "and the germ of more" off to James Fraser. While he was waiting for Fraser to reply he reviewed "Taylor's Historic Survey of German Poetry" for the Edinburgh Review, 53 (March 1831), 151-180; republished in CME, II, 333-370. By the time he finished that piece he recognized that "Thoughts on Clothes" was wrong as it stood and wrong for Fraser's. On January 21, 1831, he wrote to John, who had returned from Germany the previous year and was trying to establish himself in London, to retrieve it for him. He now saw fully its potential: he could "devise some more biography for Teufelsdreck [which later this year he altered to Teufelsdröckh.]; give a second deeper part, in the same vein, leading through Religion and the nature of Society, and Lord knows what" ( L, p. 183 ). In that same letter is the first mention of Alexander's marriage to Janet, "Jenny," Clow ( 1809-1891 ). It was her cousin Robert, also called

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Clow of Land after his farm one-half mile south of Middlebie, who had been engaged to Margaret Carlyle. Clow and his family emigrated to New York in 1837, and it was with them that Alexander and his family lived during their one year, 1843-1844, in the United States. Mary, too, was married this year, to James Austin, probably a son of Peter Austin, both of whom were from the farm of Castramon near Craigenputtock. The couple settled at The Gill, a farm four and one-half miles northwest of Annan, and had two sons — William (1837-1838) and James (b. 1 8 4 8 ) — a n d five daughters — Margaret (d. 1875?), the eldest, who about 1859 married one Stewart of the neighboring farm of Hollybush; Kate, who married her cousin James, son of James; and three others, whose names I have not been able to determine. But once again good fortune was marred by bad. By February it had become clear that Alexander would have to leave Craigenputtock. Owing to the hard times and the high rent Mrs. Welsh was exacting from him, a matter Carlyle believed he should not meddle in, Alexander's four years of work had lost him £300. This year he could not meet the rent. In March Joseph M'Adam, "some repeatedly-bankrupt Drover of these parts" (L, p. 195), offered Mrs. Welsh £ 1 7 0 annually for the lease of the farm. She agreed even though it was £30 less than she had been asking from Alexander. Alexander sold his stoc^c and equipment at public auction and gained £400 from them for a new start somewhere. He and his bride remained on at Craigenputtock for a short while, but his rights were gone at Whitsunday and the search for a farm was on again. Feeling as always a heavy sense of financial responsibility toward Alexander and John, sensing the bleakness of the next winter on the moors without his brother, knowing that he and Mrs. Carlyle would have at best £ 5 0 to front it with if they exercised the most stringent economical measures, Carlyle dwelt on ways out of their deplorable circumstances. He blamed their difficulties on literature, resolved to give it up, and in July asked Jeffrey to help him find employment. Jeffrey suggested a government clerkship, a librarian's post in the British Museum, a position as secretary to a merchant. Carlyle first said he would take any one of them, but shortly decided to at least postpone such a move, continue on with Sartor, and try for a publisher. He worked furiously at it now, completed it before the end of July, and now accepted a £ 5 0 loan from Jeffrey for expenses. On August 4, 1831, he left for London with the manuscript of Sartor and the unpublished portions of the "History of German Literature" in his grip. He stayed the weekend in Liverpool with his wife's maternal uncle John Welsh of 3 (and after 1839 of 20) Maryland Street, a coppersmith with the firm of Leichman and Welsh. By Tuesday noon he was established in

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rooms alongside John's in George Irving's house in Tavistock Square. He carried a letter of introduction from Macvey Napier to Owen Rees (1770-1837) of Longmans, but Jeffrey gave him one to John Murray (1778-1843), publisher of the Quarterly Review, and suggested he try him first. Carlyle left the manuscript of Sartor with Murray at his Albemarle Street address on Wednesday, August 11, and shortly wrote back to Alexander. ·

79· 6. Woburn Buildings, Tavistock Square London, 18th August, 1831 My Dear Alick, I write you a syllable or two merely to say that I still think of you; for doubtless the body of my news is already known to you thro' Jane. I trust my Mother also knows all about me. Your Crop seems to have been very handsomely sold: so let us hope you may get all your Craigenputtock affairs cleared off better than once seemed probable. I have but a few moments, and must send you what little tidings I have about Jack. His position here is much as I fancied it: very questionable, yet not without possibilities of ultimate success even here. His worst fault, indeed almost only one, is procrastination. In general character, in appearance of medical skill he has considerably improved: my impression even is very distinctly that he might make a quite superior Practitioner. But he needs to be stirred up: daily there should be some one at his hand to say Arise! let the "work of the day" be carried on! — So long as I am here he can look for little rest. By my instigation he wrote off to Birmingham (where one of the chief Doctors is thought to be dying) : an answer has now come, not very inviting; and just as we are meditating what to do next, there arises a quite new prospect. Namely, a certain Dr Baron1 of Gloucester, of whom I know a very little, to whom the Advocate had been speaking of Jack, is applied to by the Countess of Clare2 ( an Irish lady of rank and wealth) for a Travelling Physician to go to Italy for a year.

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He mentions Jack, who is accordingly summoned to the West End of this "noble City";3 finds her Ladyship; talks to her (as he thinks, acceptably); and is then informed that "she has been speaking to another Medical gentleman, and will write if she do not engage with him in a day or two." I think we shall actually hear something of her: but as yet nothing new has come. For my own share I do not greatly covet this situation: except that it brings some money to a moneyless man, it is distinctly disadvantageous. I counsel him therefore to demand at lowest £.300 a year; and not to leave the country at all (even for a month) under £.100. What will come of it all I know not but you shall hear. Perhaps a week or so will decide it. I may mention also another advantage besides the money: one friend among the quality circles here is considered a very great point for a medical man settling in London, as I should like well to see Jack do, were it otherwise possible. — Irving is decided that he should continue here, and try it to the uttermost; never was surer of any man's success etc. etc. So talks W. Hamilton also: indeed I incline to that view myself, had the man any course open for him. You can tell my Mother that Irving further (who should be a judge) speaks highly of Jack's religious character; and appears everyway to think very well of him. — As I know not whether you are still at Craigenputtock and wished . . .4 female world. — My book is taking its own course if I look not to it: the 'trade' is said to be at the lowest ebb etc.; but all that does not discourage me a whit. — Enough now: farewell my dear Brother for the present, and God bless you! Ever Yours, T. Carlyle Write me a line by Jane: it is all one expense, when we have a frank. Published in part: L, pp. 223-224. 1. John Baron (1786-1851). He retired from his practice in Gloucester to Cheltenham in 1832. 2. Elizabeth Julia Georgiana Fitzgibbon (1793-1879), wife of John Fitzgibbon, second Earl of Clare (1792-1851). She had separated from her husband in 1829. 3. An expression of Basil Montagu's. See LM, I, 4. 4. About four lines torn away.

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• John's appointment as attendant doctor to the Countess of Clare and its consequent relief to Carlyle's pocketbook allowed Carlyle to write his wife to join him in London for the winter. The following letter, from Mrs. Carlyle to Alexander, was prompted by Carlyle's of September 8 (L, pp. 238-244). She arrived October 1, and the couple took up residence in Mecklenburg Square. ·

80. From Jane Welsh Carlyle Templand Friday [16 September 1831] My dear Alick I have got little new light either as to my own transportation or the transportation of my luggage, but am nevertheless still intent on being off on Thursday week. Carlyle writes to bring meal butter etc. at all rates and "whatever else I think will be required in a lodging house" — a most indefinite order which however I shall endeavour to comply with to the best of my ability. — He also writes that there are — bugs! in his present lodging and therefore it will most likely not suit — a revelation which has given my weak nerves a considerable shock — but doubtless we shall be enabled to prevail against the Devil even in this new shape. — For the rest he is tolerably well trying to push on poor Dreck with what power he has — but "fair haden doon with the Bushy Jock" 1 of a Bookseller. — Now I will expect you the end of the week. I should like to get to Scotsbrig on Tuesday at latest. — And there will be a large barrel to take — besides a box, trunk etc. — so that the cart will be indespensible. If you bring the butter I shall be all ready to pack my Mother having got meal made etc. etc. — And I will give you all my thanks and speeches about trouble at once. — We should have been home yesterday but the pony could not be had for Grace2 and my Mother would positively not suffer in to set out till today when she could send a cart with her and the meal etc. all at once. — Today it is a pour of rain — if it dries up we will go

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still and keep Charles3 all night. — I am quite distressed at the waste of time when so much is to be done. — Will you ascertain what time the boat from Annan sails — how it conducts itself, and when it reaches Liverpool? — My Cousin Alick4 is here but unfortunately he goes by the coach on Monday. — My kindest love to them all at Scotsbrig — and to yourself. On Saturday or Sunday or Monday at farthest I will look for you. — Your affectionate Sister Jane W Carlyle 1. "Sair haden doon with the bubbly-Jock" is from a popular story of a half-wit farm laborer who was treated kindly by humans and animals alike except for the turkey cock that set about him. 2. Macdonald. 3. Charles Wallace, the handy man at Templand. 4. Of xoo Chatham Street, Liverpool, son of John Welsh. He succeeded his father in the firm of Leichman and Welsh in 1845.

81. 4. Ampton Street, Mecklenburg Square London, 15th October 1831 My Dear Brother, Had our Lord Advocate been in a franking condition of late, or even had I certainly known where you were, that the charge of a Post-letter might with any profit be inflicted on you, I should have written to tell you of our welfare and inquire after yours. As it is, you must be content with this late notice: I am uncertain still whether the poor Advocate (who is very sick) can be personally applied to for a frank: however, one way or another, I will try to get it done. There is a Letter for M'Diarmid about our change of Address: he will put your Letter into the Post-office; and so I hope by your own or M'Knight's1 industry, this will get into your hands on Wednesday. To get thro' with what can be called business on this occasion, let me first discuss this barbarous Smith's2 Account which you find inclosed here. What you are to do with it will presently (if your own

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recollection be good) reveal itself. Did you not fully settle with the Smith, for yourself and for me, about a week before Martinmas last year? I remember the man's coming up (it was while our Father was there); I remember also paying you some money on his account (I think some £ 2 or so); and perfectly understanding myself to be free of the whole concern when I first rode down with Harry3 after Bretton left us. Jane says, my things and yours were all paid in a lump, and she does not think we ever got any receipt: but most probably (for I believe you keep such things ) you may still have one. This is my very strong presumption of the matter; and was, till I saw this strange Account, my quite clear Conviction. So, I think it will still turn out to stand. But on the other hand, consider whether it was not till Whitsunday merely that you settled at last Martinmas? I imagine, it could hardly be so: for you remember we paid him some £ 3 in the preceding spring, — that horrid wet Wednesday you and I drove down to Dumfries together. On the whole, dear Alick, this is all the light I can throw on the matter; and I must just request you to get at the bottom of it yourself, and see to get it settled; hoping it may be one of the last burbles we may ever have to unravel in that altogether burbly Dunscore concern. — I must also request you to pay the Dumfries Postmaster sixpence for me, and mark it against me: he I think it must have been that paid so much for a Letter which was forwarded hither; pray ask him and, settle with him. And now having done with business, I will talk or tattle with you to the end of the sheet. You are already aware that Jane arrived safe here; that we have got into new Lodgings, which I may now mention are very quiet and comfortable. My health continues much what it used to be at Craigenputtock, tolerable enough: the only real ground of complaint is, that I can yet get on with no work. My whole affairs are so scattered hither and thither, the whole environment is so strange: however, I must gird myself up resolutely, and begin "new bode new play." I have two or three Essays4 on the anvil for Napier's Review; and will be thro' them one way or another. My poor Book, as you have perhaps heard, cannot be printed at present;5 for this plain reason, all Bookselling is at an end, till once this Reform Bill of theirs be passed. So, after duly

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vexatious trial, I have locked up my Manuscript here beside me; and mean to let it lie at least till next month before making any farther attempt. So influential even on me are the follies of the noodle Legislators, with their prorogations and their stuff, — all which, it is to be hoped, will one day find their true place and value. Meanwhile we have plenty of people to see and study: the Montagues, the Irvings, Badamses, Jeffreys; as well as sundry new acquaintances, the number of which must considerably enlarge as the Town gets peopled again in November. A few evenings ago, I saw a Brother6 of Gustave's the French Saint Simonian: a very intelligent youth, no Saint Simonian, but a general seeker after Light; whom I forwarded with some introductions to Edinburgh, whither he was bound, with purpose to see us more at large when he returned. There a[re] various profitable persons here, of whom I shall tell you more, when I have seen into them better. — Of place or promotion, I think, there is little chance for me in London, or anywhere: however, I am still disposed to believe that I ought to lift up my voice among this benighted multitude, in the way of lecturing or otherwise; and may very probably do it, if no bettter may be, had I ascertained the ground a little better. — A Letter has come this moment inviting me to dine next week with the Editor7 of the Examiner, whom I am rather ambitious to know. I will tell you about him, if he be worth telling about. Jack went off on Tuesday gone a week, in rather high spirits; wrote me from Dover that he had met his Countess, found all right, and was to sail on Thursday Morning: he would get to Paris about Saturday Night last; so that I shall look for a Letter from him some time next week: he calculated on continuing there for a fortnight or better; I introduced him to the St. Simonians, and otherwise he would have enough to busy himself with. Thrift and fearless rigorous Truth, these were the two precepts I strove to inculcate on him: the latter he had already got pretty well (which so few do) into the way of practicing. We all augur good from his journey, and think it will be the beginning of permanent benefit to him. As a man he is much improved since he left home; and wants little to make him, as I imagine, a most promising Physician. A handsome middle-sized family Bible, a present for you, he left with us; having long kept it for an opportunity: it now graces our mantel-piece; we shall study to take care of it.

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Touching Politics I will not trouble you with a word. All is quiet here, but full of apprehension. If they do not get along quickly (which may be doubted) with their new creation of Peers, there will be tumult in the land; but perhaps not here first.8 It is said there is to be a Convention of Reform Delegates congregated here ere long: if it seem needful, very probably I think there may. Poor country! Millions in it nigh starving; and for help of them, Talk, Talk, and nothing but Talk! Now, however, I nestle down out of infinite Space, into one little corner there of; and try to picture for myself some image of your being at the solitary Craig. I hope you and Jenny and your little Jane Welsh9 are all thriving there; and doing whatsoever you feel to be worthy and best, wh[ich] is the only true blessedness. O my dear Brother, keep a watch [on] your footsteps: man walks on the very brink of unfathomable abysses always; if he swerve but a little to the right hand or left, he sinks and is swallowed forever! The good God has hitherto preserved us all in some measure: let us while we live front the world as honest men and as wise, be the rest how it may. I observe the Dairlaw Hills10 ad[v]ertised in this weeks Courier, Doubtless you are on the outlook after it; and will study to do what is proper. I cannot advise you, or I would. One thing I must long for: to see you once more fixed with a home and employment; now that you have a family, it is doubly important for you, and may be doubly profitable. I trust the little Daughter whom Heaven has sent you may form the beginning of a new epoch in your Life. There is much good in you, and about you: do you faithfully study to bring it out purer and purer. Be humble and meek; we are all too proud, and Pride truly is of the Devil. — I shall be very anxious to know what you do with Dairlaw Hills: the neighbourhood to Scotsbrig is a great recommendation: farming truly is a bad trade; but which trade is better? A man must fight thro' it. I know not well what to do about your Newspapers. Last week I sent them both to Scotsbrig, the Examiner directed to you; they had been charged strictly to forward them from Scotsbrig, as I thought they had the best opportunity. Or would you like to take charge of forwarding the Examiner every Sund[a]y? Tell me, and it shall be as you settle. For, observe, you must take a long (long) sheet, and de-

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liberately write us down all your comings and goings. Do this quickly, and consider that it is your duty, and a thing we look for. — If you have any communication with Scotsbrig, say that I will send them word when I get word of Jack. Now write, as I bid you. Jane, who is sewing beside me (it is candle light) sends her best love to you and all your household. Remember us to Betty, 11 and to Jane Welsh. Be good, and all good be with you! Farewell, dear Brother! — T. Carlyle Published in part: L, pp. 259-261. 1. John M'Knight, the Glenessland carrier. See L, p. 328. 2. A blacksmith, as Alexander's letter of October 30, 1831 (MS: NLS#665.34.70-7i), makes clear, who had done some work for them at Craigenputtock. 3. Mrs. Carlyle's bay pony. 4. A life of Dr. Johnson and an essay on Luther, both of which Napier rejected. Napier then suggested that Carlyle review Thomas Hope's (i77o?-i83i) An Essay on the Origin and Prospects of Man, 3 vols. (London, 1 8 3 1 ) , and Karl Wilhelm Friedrich von Schlegel's (17721829) Philosophische Vorlesungen, insbesondere über Philosophie der Sprache und des Wortes. Geschrieben und vorgetragen zu Dresden im December 1828, und in den ersten Tagen des Januars 1829 (Vienna, 1830). Carlyle responded with "Characteristics," which is published in the Edinburgh Review, 54 (December 1 8 3 1 ) , 351-383, and republished in CME, III, 1-43. Except for the previously arranged for "Corn-Law Rhymes" (see Letter 87), this is the last of Carlyle's essays to appear in the Edinburgh Review. 5. When Carlyle called at Murray's on the twentieth for the manuscript of Sartor, he discovered that Murray had not read it. Carlyle retrieved it and offered it to Rees of Longmans, who declined. James Fraser offered to publish it but wanted an advance of £.150, a sum beyond Carlyle's means. Jefifrey suggested Murray again, who this time read the manuscript and agreed to a first edition of 750 copies on the half-profits system, meaning that Carlyle would pay for the first printing and would receive the profits on every copy that sold over that. But by the beginning of October Murray broke the agreement and returned the manuscript to Carlyle. 6. Adolphe D'Eichthal. 7. Albany Fonblanque (1793-1872). 8. The pressure for parliamentary reform, the revolution of July 1830 in France, strikes, outbreaks, and arrests had brought about the drafting of the substance of the Reform Bill of 1832. Lord Grey and his

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Whig ministry introduced its second reading into the House of Commons on March 21, 1831, but it was defeated in committee. It was then appealed to the country, passed a general election by a majority of 136 votes in May, and carried by Commons in September. But on October 8 the House of Lords, mainly the Peers of recent Tory creation and the Bench of Bishops, defeated it by forty-one votes. The dangerous rioting that followed brought the Bill back into Commons on December 12, and it was passed in spite of the opposition of William IV. On April 14, 1832, the Bill was again read in Lords, and on May 7 again rejected. Lord Grey's government resigned, and Wellington at William's insistence tried but failed to form a ministry. Lord Grey returned to office on May 1 5 on the condition that William create a sufficient number of Peers to swamp the House of Lords. The king promised, but at the last minute hesitated and persuaded the Lords to pass the Bill in their own way. They did so on June 4, 1832, and spared England a revolution. 9. (1831-1884), Alexander and his wife's first child. See esp. Letter asolo. Darlawhill is located one mile north of Scotsbrig. 1 1 . Betty Smeal, who replaced Grace Macdonald as servant at Craigenputtock.

82. 4. Ampton-street — Mecklenburg Square, London; 24th November, 1831 My dear Alick, Your Letter arrived here duly, and was received and read with the heartiest welcome; as by persons long shut out from all tidings, and greatly in want of such. I would have written sooner in answer, had there been anything practical to tell that seemed worth postage: but the old Newspaper every Wednesday would indicate that we were "in the old way," which is the main business of a Letter; and I still waited for franks, for more time etc. etc. and did not put pen to paper this night.' It is an evil habit; do not you imitate me in it: the Letter of a Brother is always worth its postage, so long as one has money left. Today, however, there is an actual frank to Templand forthcoming (for Jeffrey who at present lives in the country, called this forenoon) : so you will get this even cheaper. I suspend my Review scribbling,

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for a far more pleasant kind; and send you a hasty word before going to sleep. The Dairlaw Hills matter must, I think, be long ago decided: this makes me the more impatient to hear from you how. Had I been at your hand, I should not have known what to advise: except this that if desirable on the score of rent, or rather if sufferable on that score, it was much to be desired for you on others. The neighbourhood to Scotsbrig, to all your friends connexions and acquaintances animate and inanimate: these are very great advantages, especially for a man of your turn; you would, in a word, be more in your home there than in almost any other region. I long much to hear how it has gone; yet simply in hearing the fact, shall not know whether to increase my anxieties for you or to diminish them. On the whole, I think I shall feel happy if you go thither: I can then fancy you settled; and in a scene where your whole power of management, industry and prudent behaviour will have the freest scope; where your friends can hope with reason that you will be victorious rather than defeated. To avoid defeat is indeed all that one can look for in these times: victory and triumph is hardly appointed for any mortal. But on the whole, my Dear Brother, whether at Dairlaw Hills or in some other (if possible Annandale) farm, I think it every way desirable that you should soon be settled. Your late way of life has been trying for you in many ways: but now were you once set agoing there is a much fairer chance; you will be altogether free; and as a Husband and Father feel new obligation to do your best and wisest. Let us be of good courage: this ever remains true; nothing but ourselves can finally beat us; it is not want of good Fortune, want of Happiness but want of wisdom that man has to dread. God keep us all, and guide us well! A toilsome stern life has been appointed the most of us; let us not falter or fall asleep by the way but struggle forward be the road thorny1 or smooth. You must have grown very still and even dead at Craigenputtock by this day of the year: often I fancy the sepulchral silence of the spot; it comes strangely into my thoughts in this soul-and-body-deafening tumult of the noble city.' News we hope you have none (for there good news seldom arise); but that little Jane Welsh is still brisk and noisy, her Mother in motion and well; and you working, or profitably resting, and like 'a constitutional King' nowise like a military despot,

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beneficently ruling over both. By the way, I could not but sympathize with the little creature, in her looking at you with recognition, but 'evidently with fear.'2 Poor little foreigner! this is a very strange country it has arrived in, and it knows not what devilry may be abroad, or who means kindly who unkindly. Be thankful for the mysterious little Present; and regard it as the message of God to you, and the pledge of new blessings and new duties. We were a little surprised to hear of Betty's having made a new arrangement for the winter; Jane, I think, a little vexed: but on the whole it was perhaps best; at all events, if it was her own volition and choice there was no whispering any objection to it. — We will doubtless find some sort of Servant, better or worse, tho' between terms, at our return. I wrote on the Newspaper a request that you would pay Betty her wages; which I daresay you have done or will do. I hope also you have settled with the Smith, in some way that satisfies your own convictions: Corrie's3 debt for the cart-shaft had been often in my head, and I am glad that you paid it. I remember also that I owed Hiddlestone some thrice shillings or so for raking the seed into the front green: if you have any opportunity, you might pay him: we will settle about all these matters when you produce your list of outlays in spring. Jane finally bids me mention that she directed Betty to raise the four beds of carrots, and send the produce of two of them over to Templand for Harry: if Betty have not done this, will you 'take the trouble' by your first convenience. This, I think, is all I have to remind you of about the Moorlands; from whose stern solitude I may now turn to more populous regions. Jack, as you have doubtless heard, continues to progress and prosper. I sent two Letters from him forward to Scotsbrig; the last dated from Turin in the North of Italy: about this very time I expect he may be reading a Letter4 from me in safety at Florence, where he expected to make some more considerable stay. All seemed to be going well with him: his Patient tractable and amiable; his own health and spirits good; everyway a fair outlook. Let us pray that it may continue with him. As for ourselves we are struggling on here without notable adventure of any kind. Our lodging and way of life continues quite passable; far better than one could hope; the only thing I complain of is want of room, I am sadly at a loss for a smoking place, having no resource

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for it but roasting myself over the fire in a close apartment, or retiring out of a window, and there standing like 'a sign of the times' on the top of a leaden cistern. After dark, I take the streets (which are very solitary, comparatively, in these quarters), or station myself on the balcony (a projection from the sill) of the front window, and there smoke contemplatively looking on the stars, which are the same Northern ones I used to see at Craigenputtock. Jane has had a cold and been rather unwell for these ten days, but seems now recovering; otherwise our health is not to be complained of; neither does the 'Cholera Pestilence' give us much terror: we will fly from it, if it come into our neighbourhood, and grow perilous; but otherwise, as I often say, "what is the good of Fear? The whole solar system were it to fall together about our ears could kill us only once." — People are all quiet as yet; in great anxieties about their Reform Bill; and not unlikely, as I calculate, to get into some convulsions, one day, before all be done: but for the present there are no symptoms of it, neither is it I chiefly that need apprehend such a thing: so long as they leave me the head standing on my shoulders, my main possessions in this world are left uninjured. God knows what will be the end of all this; the end will not be seen in our day. Nothing has been done yet about the Book; except speaking a little from afar. However, the publishing season is now begun, and I mean soon to make a new trial. I shall still be disappointed, if I do not bring it home to you printed: it will only be that I could not get a printer. Meanwhile, I am not altogether idle: we see plenty of people, and get some slight knowledge of their ways (tho' this is very difficult to come at); we have been out visiting the Badamses,5 whom we found very kind and agreeable, Badams himself apparently in the way of rallying again, at all events much healthier; of the Montagues we see enough; of the Jeffreys less ( for Jeffrey has been very unwell lately) ; Charles Buller is here sometimes; one Mill® (writer of those Papers on the "Spirit of the Age" in the Examiner) comes much about me; a youth named Glen (from Glasgow, a friend of Jack's): mostly young men; for the old Author-class are utterly given up to the Devil, and no good can be got of them, or is in them. I still think of opening my closed hps to the people here one day; but find it will require courage, they are used to nothing of the sort. Perhaps my best plan will be to spend

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the summer in writing out my 'Notes' at Puttock, and then come hither next winter, and speak aloud in defiance of all men and things. — For the present I am busy enough with a Paper7 (of no great length) for the Edinburgh Review; which straitens me greatly; my hand is quite out, and "this is not my ain house," where I can work as I was wont, in any sense. However, after struggling and floundering enough, I am at last getting on; and hope to be thro' in some three weeks. O that I were! — Grahame of Burnswark came popping in, the other night: he has come hither about his American Patent business, which he seems to reckon prosperous: he lives within a few doors of us, and we shall likely see him often. — Of Irving I have got little good for the last two months; have not had so much as a sight for these three weeks: he does not come hither, and to go to him, and find the "Holy Ghost" raging about him like Bedlam is no inviting journey. Poor Irving! I am in real anxiety about him: it is thought that he will soon lose his Church8 (the sane part of his people being quite shocked); and actually runs a risk himself of ending in the Madhouse! God prevent it! One is struck with a painful mixture of grief scorn and indignation to think of the end he seems hastening toward, and the company he has chosen. — But now, dear Alick, I must draw bridle, for obvious reasons. Indeed, it is far in the night: I could not afford to wait till tomorrow, having a daily task to do, which of itself will perhaps excel my ability. So good night, my dear Brother! May nothing worse than poor little Jane Welsh Carlyle ever wake your sleep. Also do not like Selkirk9 forget to Speak. Write to me soon, very soon. Jane sends her kindest wishes to both of you. All good be ever with you all! Your Brother, T. Carlyle I hope the Scotsbrig people send you up the old Examiner? I will continue to despatch you the Courier for Wednesdays: it goes first to Scotsbrig now. I hope they will be able to send it off on Thursdays; but even on Saturdays it will still do: I get it for a few hours, and can read enough of it. Published in part: L, pp. 269-273. 1. Cf. Hamlet I.iii.48. 2. Alexander's words in his letter of October 30.

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3. Alexander, "Sandy," Corrie, a joiner from Newfield farm two and one-half miles west of Scotsbrig. 4. See L, pp. 266-268. 5. In 1829 Badams had married Louisa Holcroft, a daughter of the dramatist and author Thomas Holcroft (1745-1809) and stepdaughter of the dramatist James Kenney (1780-1849), and with his wife had settled in Enfield. His health had been impaired by the apparently heavy drinking he had engaged in from worry over his speculations in various mining companies. It was during the Carlyles' three- or four-day visit with the Badamses that Carlyle saw Lamb again, and on his return home entered the notorious diatribe against him in his Journal under November 2. "How few people," he wrote, "speak for Truth's sake, even in its humblest modes! I return from Enfield, where I have seen Lamb, etc. etc. Not one of that class will tell you a straightforward story or even a credible one about any matter under the sun. All must be packed up into epigrammatic contrasts, startling exaggerations, claptraps that will get a plaudit from the galleries! I have heard a hundred anecdotes about William Hazlitt for example; yet cannot by never so much cross-questioning even form to myself the smallest notion of how it really stood with him. Wearisome, inexpressibly wearisome to me is that sort of clatter; it is not walking (to the end of time you would never advance, for these persons indeed have no W H I T H E R ) ; it is not bounding and frisking in graceful, natural joy; it is dancing — a St. Vitus's dance. Heigh ho! Charles Lamb I sincerely believe to be in some considerable degree insane. A more pitiful, ricketty, gasping, staggering, stammering Tomfool I do not know. He is witty by denying truisms and abjuring good manners. His speech wriggles hither and thither with an incessant painful fluctuation, not an opinion in it, or a fact, or a phrase that you can thank him for — more like a convulsion fit than a natural systole and diastole. Besides, he is now a confirmed, shameless drunkard; asks vehemently for gin and water in strangers' houses, tipples till he is utterly mad, and is only not thrown out of doors because he is too much despised for taking such trouble with him. Poor Lamb! Poor England, when such a despicable abortion is named genius! He said there are just two things I regret in England's history: first, that Guy Fawkes' plot did not take effect (there would have been so glorious an explosion)·, second, that the Royalists did not hang Milton (then we might have laughed at them), etc. etc. Armer Teufel! [Poor devil]" (Froude, II, 209-210). 6. Carlyle set down his first impressions of John Stuart Mill in a letter to his wife dated September 4, and published in Froude, II, 190. Mill's five essays, later collected and edited by F. A. Hayek as The Spirit of the Age (Chicago, 1942), appear in the Examiner: the first two on January 9 and 23; the third in two parts on February 6 and

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March 13; the fourth on April 3; and the last, also in two parts, on May 15 and 29, 1831. Glen was William Glen, who was born near Craigenputtock and recently graduated from Glasgow University. He was, Carlyle wrote, "now struggling forward here to be an Advocate. He has neither father nor mother, nor kith nor kin, but one young Brother [Archibald], a Clerk in Glasgow. He is almost distracted with the perplexities that have encumbered him; a man of really wonderful gifts, which he can no way turn to use" (L, p. 247). He later went insane and was taken to a farm near Craigenputtock, possibly Castramon (see Letters 96 and 110), where Carlyle out of kindness and thinking to help him taught him geometry and read to him from Homer. Carlyle wrote he died "in seven or eight years" (Froude, II, 200), and Norton concluded "after this [1831] time" (L, p. 247). But Francis E. Mineka in The Earlier Letters of John Stuart Mill, 1812-1848 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1963), XII, 103, established 1852 as the year of his death. 7. "Characteristics." 8. Which he did. Soon after the opening of Irving's new church in Regent Square in 1827 his great popularity began to subside. It is thought that this fact, which had been a serious blow to his self-esteem, had only confirmed his belief that the world was not to improve and turned him toward supernaturalism. Aben Ezra's Coming of the Messiah and all that is mystical in Coleridge both nourished and corroborated his long-held beliefs in prophecy and the impending approach of the second coming. His intercourse with Henry Drummond (17861860), politician and co-founder of the Irvingite church, strengthened his convictions. Irving was in consequence led to a close study of the prophetical books, especially the Apocalypse, and to sermonizing upon them. In 1830 he had experienced what he unshakably knew to be a confirmation of his own apostolic gifts of prophecy and healing. His excommunication by the London presbytery that same year for publishing his opinions concerning the humanity of Christ, and the ensuing condemnation of those opinions by the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland strengthened further his faith in his own powers and led him farther out of sympathy with the Establishment. He then estranged the greater part of his congregation by the irregularities attendant upon the revelation of his gifts and was on complaint of their representatives to the London presbytery declared unfit to remain as minister of the Regent Square church. He and those who remained as his followers established in 1832 the Holy Catholic Apostolic, or "Irvingite," Church in Newman Street. In 1833 the Annan presbytery charged Irving with heresy and deposed him from the Church of Scotland. 9. Unidentified.

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83· 4. Ampton Street, Mecklenburg Square, 4th December, 1831 My Dear Brother, I received your Letter yesterday, with great pleasure to hear that all was well in Dumfriesshire. Let us not, in the midst of our crosses and losses,1 which we sometimes reckon vexatious enough, forget to be thankful for this great blessing. While so many kind friends are mercifully spared us, why should we think that the world is quite a stranger land to us, that we are homeless wayfarers there? If wayfarers and strangers, as all men are, we have at least fellow-pilgrims to cheer us by the road, such as all men have not. We hope also that we have a Guide in Heaven; to whom be all gratitude for His Goodness; to whose arrangements let us with all humility submit ourselves! Had not you specially desired it, I should scarcely have written at present: for I am much hurried, beaten about and everyway stinted of utterance; and as for advising, almost all the light I can give you has already been more than once emitted. However, I know you will expect this Letter on Wednesday; so I take time by the right side; and without prejudice to my tomorrow's task, will not wholly disappoint you. A word of encouragement, and brotherly Good-speed shall not be wanting. First then as to that farm of Catlinns,2 we are so far happy to hear that you have fixed upon something; and have now an outlook upon which you can considerately direct your efforts. I hope the place is taken at something like a reasonable rent, one at least that your best judgement considers promising: for that is all the length one can go, especially in a time like this. From the circumstance that the Clows are willing to embark with you, or altogether relieve you of the enterprise, I infer that such is actually the case. Of the situation of the Farm I have formed to myself some notion; it seems to be at a fit enough distance from our "Native," and in a desireable enough kind of country: pretty well therefore on that side. William Grahame knows the Farm by sight, and calls it a "coldish kind of farm"; but can give me no idea of the grand question whether at the rent it is cheap or dear. For the rest, I am assured that you will do your very utmost in it;

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and have insight enough to find out by rigorous consideration what is the best method of procedure, and energy enough to put it diligently in practice. To it, then, with heart and hand! "Lay aside every weight" 3 for the life-race you have got to run: this is properly the beginning of your separate life; resolve that wherein you have mistaken you will mistake no more, that wherein you have done right, you will do doubly so. Barren as the world is, my dear Brother, I do not think that you are specially the man to fail first in it. Nay, who knows but by and by the weary time may mend, and so your journey become a little easier. At all events, fear nothing; trust in the Higher Guidance, and walk so as to deserve it. And so God be with you, and prosper you in this and every honest enterprise; that, fortunate or not, you may grow to be a good man, and the pilgrimage thro' this shadowland of Time lead you well into the Country of Eternity: for it is to God that the one as well as the other belongs! — However, I am getting too serious; and must speak a little of matters temporal, tho' the night is sunday s. With regard to that Money, then, about which you so vex yourself, let me beg of you once for all to consider it, what it was from the first, as a thing finally settled, and on which nothing more is to be said. The half of the sum you have, or the whole of it, or twice as much, would do nothing permanent for me; and to you it is of importance, as a beginning of Life: therefore, my dear Brother, let me hear nothing more of it; but set yourself agoing with it, and suffer me to enjoy peaceably the small comfort that here for once I have contributed to do my Brother a little good. We will settle up all little matters in Spring; then mark the amount on some paper document, and so have finally done with it. This I must entreat you as a favour not to let me hear of again. — The second thing to be considered, that of your entering into Partnership with Robert Clow will therefore of itself fall to the ground. I hope, you have capital enough of your own to stock the Farm with, and begin it fairly; in which I am clear that an independent footing is the best. Robert Clow is a kind of man with whom it were good to have dealings, rather than with most others, a welldoing, prudent and honest man: nevertheless, all Partnerships I think are to be avoided, as the source of discrepancy, and things that seldom or never go smoothly on. Robert will answer excellently well, if

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he be so disposed, as your ploughman with fixed wages for his labour: but my advice is that in all respects you be your own master, and independent Manager, and walk forward on your own legs, or you will never walk comfortably at all. — The third point, that of giving up Catlinns, and taking a smaller farm, will also, I hope, now be of itself settled. That is to say, supposing you have capital enough for your present enterprise, and think it of tolerable promise, why should you look out for another? If indeed you have not capital enough, or otherwise see that you could get a more favourable spot, then of course try for it: but this I calculate will hardly be your case. For my own share, having nothing but the vaguest conjecture to go upon, it were absurd to offer any opinion here. I should somehow have figured you as more at home, had your lot been cast in Dairlaw Hills, or Stennybeck,4 or any of those innerly, known situations: but this is a mere sentimentalism of mine, and worthy of no regard. Let me hope therefore my dear Alick that you see your way a little now; and discover that you have got into no ill-starred plight, but are about to commence progress quite under natural and hopeful circumstances. Set a brave heart to it, enter upon it with a thoughtful serious confidence; and so as the Spaniards say, "go with God"! I think happier days are beginning for you: at all events, never quit that first of all faiths that if a man be true to himself, nothing can finally overpower him. There is properly no other loss in this world, but the loss of our wits; which indeed overtakes not a few: God grant that we be not of the number! All else shall be welcome. I have little to tell you of myself; but that little happily not evil. I am but in a dwamish, weakly way here (so far as spiritual health goes), quite out of sorts for writing; and have had a most miserable feckless kind of struggle to get under way with writing. People come in upon me, and all that; then I have no privacy, as I was wont at Puttock, there to lash myself into a heat: here I must even hobble along spavined as I am. However I persevere, thro' good weather and thro' bad. The thing I am writing is a sort of second Signs of the Times; I expect it will perhaps be in the next Number of the Edinburgh: and I hope to have done with it, this day two weeks, when one gladdish man there will be in this city. I shall meddle with nothing more till I have a better workshop. As to Lecturing, %the encouragement is

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small I find; and nothing could be prudently ventured in that way as yet: none but quacks have ever been known to lecture here; so the whole thing has an unpromising aspect to all I speak of it with. In other respects my outlooks are exactly what they were: into Vacuity, into Nothingness. However, I am not without some Faith; some Faith in myself ( be God ever thanked for it! ) ; neither does it seem as if this world could be quite dead for me, but I had a thing or two to do there. I believe I could speak too; and shall perhaps one day actually try it; but not till I see what the meaning of it is. — I am again among the Booksellers with my Manuscript: but have yet got nothing fixed; not even my first refusal. You shall hear about it when anything occurs. These are ungainly times; and must be worse, for the like of me, before they can be better. Forward! Forward! Not the quantity of Pleasure we have had, but the quantity of Victory we have gained, of Labour we have overcome: that is the happiness of Life. Let us on, then, in God's name! — I am close on the end of my sheet, dear Brother, and had innumerable things to say. Would I had a frank; but there is none within my reach. — Jane has not been very strong, with colds and what not; but is now better; and ever assiduous, clear and faithful, a very precious little Wifie; any other woman might have gone mad beside me. She likes London, and all my bits of friends, tho some of them are not of the greatest sort of characters; and this City, especially in these months, is damp, rawfrosty and reeky beyond measure. Your very nostrils are filled with soot. — Give our truest wishes to Jenny; be glad and thankful and cheerful towards the little Stranger; and all good and happy! Ever your affectionate Brother T. Carlyle Irving has not come near me this month, and I dare not visit his home which is more a Bedlam than a home. He is raging away, and not out of danger, as we evidently see, of landing in the strait waistcoat. God forbid it; turn it otherwise! You will see in the Newspaper by and by that his Congregation are splitting on the point; and it is calculated that in a short time he will be turned out of his Church: this is hardly doubtful. What next is to follow? Unless new light be given him: Field preaching etc. etc. will follow; and then —

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You did well to send word to Scotsbrig: do not neglect it on this occasion either. Say that we are looking for a Letter thence; anxious to hear; that nevertheless I will write again, if anything occur. Some wretches are "burking' poor stragglers here: three miscreants are to be hanged for that crime tomorrow-morning. This is my birth-night; my thirty-sixth! May the worst of our days be over;5 at all events the foolishest! The cholera begins to be disregarded here, at least the panic is subsiding. There is nothing from Jack; perhaps nothing to be expected for some ten days yet, or more. Write soon, and make the Scotsbrigers write — Monday-Afternoon. My Manuscript, as I expected, refused! I make other trials, and care not a rush. I saw by the last Courier that you had been in Lockerby; so did not send it. Published in part: L , pp. 2 7 3 - 2 7 6 . 1. Cf. Edmund Spenser, "Mother Hubbard's Tale," line 895. 2. Which Alexander, failing to obtain Darlawhill, had just leased. On Whitsunday 1 8 3 2 he took formal possession of it. Carlyle later described it to John as " a large mass of a rough farm, with some considerable space of good land in it; somewhat bare, and the houses, etc., in bad order: but is thought to be cheap, by judges" ( L , p. 3 1 6 ) . 3. Heb. 1 2 : 1 . 4. There is a Stoneybeck (stenny, stennie = stony) one-half mile northeast of Scotsbrig. 5. A toast of Irving's. See Reminiscences, I, 2 0 3 and Letter 220.

84. 4. Ampton Street Mecklenburg Square London 21st December 183t 1] My Dear Alick, Having an opportunity, as Jane is writing to Mrs Richardson1 under a frank, I will steal a minute or two, and send you my greeting. I have received a letter from Jane of Scotsbrig, wherein among other news I

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hear that you are busy with your Catlinns speculation; actually preparing to break ground there. To it with all might! Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, see thou do it quickly. — She told me also that you were all well; which I hope and trust still continues true. In return I will now tell you (what perhaps you have heard already) that a Letter has come from Jack, and must be a week ago at Scotsbrig. He is in the once Capital of the world, in Rome itself: quite well to appearance; and every way getting on well. Many inquiries he makes about you among others; all which I strove yesterday to answer in the longest and closest Letter2 my hurry would permit to write. For ourselves, I am sorry the accounts are not wholly so pleasant: in this one respect chiefly that my dear little wife does not seem to take with London; but continues still weakly, tho' not in bed, yet some days ( as this ) in her room. However, I reckon her now to be getting stouter again; and hope next Letter to tell you that all is well. Nay, at worst, I believe nothing else but a sickly turn could be expected after the toil and uproar she underwent in getting ready for her departure from Scotland. I myself am in my usual state of health and heart, or in the latter respect rather better than usual. The world's mad whirl does not confuse me; nor its midnight darkness blind me: daily and hourly I say to myself in respect to it: Go thou thy way, and I will go mine. — I have finished a strange Article for the Edinburgh Review; tho' whether Napier dare print it or not, is still uncertain to me. We shall soon see: I wish he may for several reasons; he shall then have more of the like, and both the world and I may be the better for them. — There is still not the faintest outlook for Teufelsdreck, more especially till the Reform Bill get out of the way: indeed Literature, like all earthly things seems to have got into a state in which it cannot continue; either it must improve, or altogether disappear from the world. Meanwhile, one had need to be wary, for the road is stony enough, dark enough. However, for the present I have quite a choice of work, quite a superabundance: no fewer than I think four new applications have been made me within the last ten days. They are mostly of the Dud sort, it is true; yet the offer made respectfully, the wages tolerable:

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on the whole, the best outlook one c[ould] count on in these circumstances. On the whole, let us fear nothing, so long as we are wise. Do thou [go on?] diligently, Boy; let me do the like; each in his [way, ho]w disheartening soever: above all let us think ever that God's eye is upon us, to pity, to help us. This is the everlasting Truth; tho' so many forget it and deny it. Wull Brown3 writes me a most confused Letter about 'Masterton Ure Esqr' and 'East Linbrigford' and his woes [and] cares: I have actually sent a Note over to Masterton Ure, and if I get any answer, will very speedily communicate it to poor Wull. My own idea is that the 'lease business' is not yet completed; and that Wull by his eating anxiety has eaten himself into an astonishment at ^hearing nothing,' — where there was no room for astonishment. Poor fellow! — If you have any opportunity send my kind thanks to Jean for her Letter, which both of us here thought excellent in itself and still more so to us; also tell her that I will not long delay answering it, and her. My Goody, who lies on the sofa [here] by me, sends her love to you and your household from her Namesake upwards. Take a sheet, and write me soon at large. Take care of yourself and of your goings, and fear nothing on Earth or under it. Finally I promise that we will smoke a peaceful pipe together again ere long; and that together or apart we shall always love each other. God bless you, Dear Brother! Ever your Affectionate T. Carlyle Remember us kindly to my Uncle John, if you see him. 1. Probably sayist,

novelist,

Mrs.

Caroline

writer

of

Richardson

tales,

and

(1777-1853),

poet —

a

the minor

reservation

es-

seemingly

borne out b y Mrs. Carlyle's comment to E l i z a Stodart N o v e m b e r 2 1 , 1828, that "Mrs. Richardson is getting out a n e w edition of that w e a r y book" (Ritchie, p.

138):

Mrs.

Richardson's

Poems

(1828)

reached

edition in 1829. Carlyle wrote of her in the Reminiscences,

a

third

II, 2 4 7 , as

"really a superior kind of w o m a n and m u c h a lady," w h o had

once

been a "flame" of Jeffrey's. 2. See Froude, II, 242-243. 3. Presumably their uncle. See Introduction. Masterton Ure is unidentified; E a s t Linbrigford is not in the gazetteers.

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85· 4. Ampton Street, Gray's Inn Road, London, Saturday 14th January 1832 My Dear Alick, There is a frank going to Templand, and tho' I am in doubt whether it will carry another sheet, I cannot but determine to try: we will weigh it before it go over to the Advocate's; if under weight, you will get this on Wednesday; if not, I will contrive some other way of transmitting it to you soon. In either case, my own feeling will be gratified; I shall have done what I could to afford you a pleasure. Several weeks ago I sent you a little Note1 for the Dumfries Post-Office: this I think you must have got, tho' no answer has yet reached me. The present will be the third Letter for which you are now in my debt. I am getting very desirous to hear from you; what you are doing, and forbearing; how you get on with the preparatives for Catlinns, what you think of it, and of your outlooks generally; how we are likely to find you when we return in Spring. Often does the picture of that lone mansion in the Dunscore wold come before me here; it has a strange almost unearthly character, as it comes before me standing in the lone Night in the wintry Moor, with the tumult of London raging around me, who was once your fellow hermit, and am soon to be a still more solitary hermit. I am wae to think that this, like all other earthly arrangements, is now drawing to its close; we shall wander no more along the Glaisters Hill: it is the ugliest of hills, and none of us saw cheerfulness on the face of it, or anything but toil and vexation: nevertheless now when it is all past, how can we be other than sad? Alas, we ourselves are quickly passing; a little while, and no place that now knows us shall know us any more at all forever! Let us strive to obtain a "continuing City";2 for such, by God's goodness, there yet is; appointed for the just man; who (in some to us wholly mysterious way, yet surely as aught is sure) "shall dwell forever with God." Were it not for some faith in this, I see not how one could endure the tossing and toils of the world: but with this, while it holds steady before us, the very sorrows of our present dream of life, for it is but a dream, are blessings for us. Let us

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never lament, then; let us stand to it, like brave men; expecting no reward in this world, wishing for none; feeling that to serve our heavenly Taskmaster is itself the richest of all rewards. On the whole, however, I cannot lament that the Puttock Establishment is broken up. It was one that could hardly ever have come to good; nay had there not been considerable goodness of behaviour on more than one side, it might easily have become a world's wonder. Thank God, none of us accuses the other that he made him miserable! We all did tolerably well; what we suffered has been suffered, and leave no sting behind it. Neither will I vex myself with the sour prospect which the Wilderness now holds out for me, all alone there: I shall have work to do; I shall try to work more steadily than I was wont, and run off more frequently to have a little talk with my Friends in the distance: Often I hope to surprise you at the Catlinns, and smoke a friendly pipe at your hearth. Be a wise man, dear Brother: there is no other want one has in this mad world. Moderate every unruly feeling, of what sort soever in you; quicken every honest faculty of order, of Diligence; this is what I call resisting the Devil; even in these days, if resisted he must and will flee from us. I can preach only in generals, for I know not what the specialties are: and so here, with a hope and prayer that all may be well, I will terminate my sermon for this time. Our plans here are getting a little more fixed: I can now give you some faint foreshadow of them. I pride myself that I have never gone half a foot out of my road in search of what are called "prospects": it is yet and has always been clear to me that I was one whom Promotion was least of all likely to visit. Thank Heaven I know my trade: it is to write truth while I can be kept alive by so doing, and to die writing it when I can no longer be kept alive. So feeling, I look upon all mortals with the friendliest humour; let Kings and Chancellors 3 fight their own battle and all speed to them: let the Devil go his way, and I will go mine. Therefore, after settling my Author-business in London, I will not stay an hour, "waiting at the pool," as some advise me. Now with the Author-business it stands better than we could have expected. My Book, I think, cannot be printed at this time: here is so much certain, and therefore beneficial. Nothing is like to be stirred in till after their Reform Bill; and that may be kept for months yet: too

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long for us to wait. On the other hand, strangely enough, a new outlook opens: I have well nigh made a bargain with one Dr. Lardner4 (a steady enough Editorial character) for publishing my old History of German Literature·, in which you know I was so sadly disappointed two years ago. He is to give me fair wages for it, considering all things £300 for two volumes); and I am to be ready with it about next November. Here is "a job of paving to serve me over the storm": I mean to collect Books for it, and come home and set to work. Nay on all hands more work than I can do streams in on me; Editors of Magazines are urgent enough: my Paper in the Edinburgh Review is printed, I believe, and will be out in a day or two: I am about fastening upon another on Samuel Johnson5 (to be given to the Editor that behaves himself best); then I have some other little trifles: the whole of which will keep me busy till March; by which time I calculate the Books (for the History) may be come to hand: so that we can start for Edinburgh; there see Napier etc., and settle what is to be settled, and so in a week or two more return to Puttock and our old friends! This is a sketch of our nearest future. The present is nowise very disagreeable to me: on the contrary, there is much in it to give me pleasure and encouragement. Except a little fit of cold, now gone, I have had no worse health than usual: neither, tho' I have found no man in London that could teach me, have I wanted instruction; the very sight of this huge city is instructive and impressive: my raike hither is perhaps far from lost. I have also great reason to be gratified with my reception here: I am no Lion, not at all; yet a select few seem to respect me very heartily, these are mostly persons who have got instruction from me, and heave learned to love me: no other way of it could please me so well. I also feel totally above the reptile world of Authors here; wholly careless what they do or leave undone, and conscious enough of a possibility to stand in the heaven, while they are crawling in the mud. Let me thank God for it; starvation were a cheap price for such a blessing! On the whole, the world stands related to me very much as I could wish it: I find myself respected by all whose judgement I respect; feared and wondered at by a much greater number; despised, at least openly, by no one. With incessant long-continued exertion, there is much possible for me; I may become a Preacher of the Truth, and so deliver my message in this Earth, the highest that

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can be entrusted to man. — I write all this; because I know well, you love me, and heartily, as a Brother and Scholar, wish me good speed. I should now send you some sort of news of what is going on hereabouts; but I have neither time nor space left: at all events there is nothing special astir. People are quite tired of talking about Reform: some 60 Peers are to be created, it is said, and the Bill will pass; and perhaps trade may permanently revive a little; for a time, it almost certainly will. I see great quantities of people here; about whom more when we meet. Do you remember the Schoolmaster Douglas6 of Inverkeithing? I am not certain whether ever he came about Kirkcaldy while you were there. I saw him yesterday, for the second time: he is quite white-headed; otherwise hale and hearty, a fierce radical; works for the Spectator Newspaper. The Bullers are here, and very kind: Charles is a promising lad; I gave him my Ms7 Book to read, of which he seemed very proud. Poor Mr Strachey died8 very suddenly, about two weeks ago: I have not yet seen his amiable widow, whom I sympathize with much. The Cholera seems spreading towards you, not us: let us hope it may not visit any of our walks: at all events, why whimper and tremble? We have but once to die. — Jack rather lingers in writing: I am getting a little impatient; but know that the Posts are very irregular in Italy, so keep myself in quiet. The Scotsbrig Newspaper came today with an "all well"; for which I am very thankful: Tell them to write; and do you also write; for I have been long without news. (Will you look in the Library (at Puttock) and in an upper shelf you will find a long row of little red volumes in German called Goethe's Werke.9 There are near 40 of them: but somewhere ( I think between the 20 and the 30) there are five volumes wanting: will you specially ascertain which five; that we may get them supplied while here. They are all numbered on the back, so you will have no difficulty. — Alas! Jane tells me they are all locked up: so nothing can be done! We must just have patience. ) — I must now have done, my dear Alick: send me all your news; be diligent in business, fervent in spirit. Be kind to little Jane Welsh and her Mother; let us find you all in order at our return. Jane who has long been weakly is now decidedly growing strong again: she sends you all her love. — Irving it is said is to lose his Church; but a certain Banker, Drummond one of

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his Disciples talks of buying it back again. Edward will not go quite mad, but is already very near it. — Adieu, Dear Brother! Be wise, and true and always love me — Your affectionate Brother — T. Carlyle Published in part: L, pp. 289-291. 1. The previous letter. 2. Heb. 1 3 : 1 4 . 3. Possibly a hit at Brougham. 4. Dionysius Lardner (1793-1859), scientific writer and professor of natural philosophy and astronomy at London University. Abraham Hayward (1801-1884), essayist, editor of Law Magazine, and translator of Faust ( 1 8 3 3 ) , who had recently met and immediately took to Carlyle, had urged Lardner to publish Carlyle's "History" either in Lardner's principal work, the Cabinet Cyclopaedia (completed in 1849), or in the work he was at this time also editing, the Edinburgh Cabinet Library (1830-1844). Although Lardner at first agreed, he later changed his mind. 5. "Boswell's Life of Johnson," Fraser's Magazine, 5 (May 1832), 379-413; republished in CME, III, 62-135. One of the other "trifles" was "Diderot," for the Foreign Quarterly Review, 1 1 (April 1833), 261-315; republished in CME, III, 177-248. 6. Robert Kelly Douglas, teacher in Haddington before his appointment in 1 8 1 3 as schoolmaster of Inverkeithing. In 1 8 1 9 he was appointed schoolmaster of Abbotshall, Kirkcaldy, and subsequently registrar to the Burgh Court, Birmingham. He left that post to join the staff of the Spectator. The records of the Town Clerk's Office, Inverkeithing, show that in 1 8 1 7 he had published "a concise version of the history of the Bible." The Library of Congress holds a copy of his Foems and Songs, Chiefly Scottish (Edinburgh, 1824). The British Museum holds a "Memorial of the Schoolmasters of Scotland . . ." dated Abbotshall, Kirkcaldy, 20th September 1824, signed for the committee by Douglas [Edinburgh, 1824], a "Letter to the Lord Advocate, on the Claims of the Parochial Schoolmasters" [Edinburgh? 1825], and a copy of his Brief Considerations on the Income Tax and Tariff Reform, in Connection with the Present State of the Currency (Birmingham, 1842). 7. Carlyle expanded the abbreviation above the line. 8. On December 27. See L, p. 284. 9. The edition he used in the essay "Goethe's Works" (see Letter 88) was Goethes Werke. Vollständige Ausgabe letzer Hand, 40 vols. (Stuttgard and Tübingen, 1827-1830). The edition he used when he wrote "Goethe's Helena" was Goethes Sämmtliche Werke. Vollständige Ausgabe letzer Hand, first portion, vols. I-V (Stuttgard and Tübingen,

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1827). The latter, the edition Goethe had sent him, bears the inscription, "Dem werthen Ehpaare Carlisle für freundliche Theilnahme Schönstens danckbar, Goethe. Weimar, May, 1827." Carlyle owned a prospectus, or Anzeige, to this latter edition, which has been dated Stuttgart, 1826. He signed and dated (1827) its first page. See G-CC, p. 31; CME, I, 146; II, 385; and Goethe's Works. With the Exception of Faust. A Catalogue Compiled by Members of the Yale University Library Staff, ed. Carl Frederick Schreiber (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1940), p. 7, items 28, 31a, and 31b.

• On Sunday, January 22, James Carlyle died. The news reached Carlyle on Tuesday. On Wednesday he excluded from him all except his wife and started to write the well-known tribute to his father that came to be the opening section of the Reminiscences. He concluded it Sunday night, January 29, and wrote to Alexander three weeks later. ·

86. 4. Ampton Street, London 19th Feby 1832 My Dear Alick, I know not accurately where you are at present; except conjecturing that you are not at Craigenputtock: but send you by way of Scotsbrig a little Note to tell you of my continued remembrance, and excite you to give me forthwith some more precise tidings. I am transmitting to our Mother a Letter from Rome; of which doubtless you also will by and by get sight: so for the present I mention only that poor Jack writes more and more like a sensible man; is well every way, and seems to be every way doing well. I sent him in answer to his questions, all the news1 I had about you; and hope I shall soon have more. Jane (of Scotsbrig) said you had promised to write to me: why do you not? I hope, it is only the pressure of Business that hinders you, and that no new evil has befallen. We must not get parted; tho' the one is to be in Nithsdale and the other in Annandale; least of all

i8ß2, London

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now when the Head of our Household has been taken from us, and each of those that are left ought to be dearer and closer to the rest. We are coming home, as was already said, as early as possible in the Month of March. We are busy, very busy; and in our usual health; Jane, tho still complaining, rather better than she has long been: I do not think she is to be strong again, till she have got into her home, and native air; which of course will quicken our motions the more. We have both of us determined to take better care of our health, were we once home again: I feel it to be a real point of duty; were it only for the greater quantity and better quality of work which good health enables you to do. We are also minded to try if we cannot be a little more domesticated among the moors at Puttock; to take a greater interest in the people there (who are all immortal creatures, however poor and defaced); and to feel as if the place were a home for us. Such as it is, I feel it a great blessing that we have it to go to. For the whole Summer and onwards to winter, I already see plenty of work before me: how we turn ourselves afterwards, need not yet be decided on. Under the "health" point of view, it sometimes strikes me as a pity that I had not a horse to ride on, one for myself (for Jane too I will make ride, as the wholesomest medicine I know); and one that would carry me more sharply than Harry can. Thro' the Summer, I could keep a creature of the kind without any expence: in winter again I should not like to be troubled with it. Thus it stands. As yet, however, I can see no clear light thro' it; and have no precise instructions or request to communicate on the matter. Merely, you can think of it, till we meet; and perhaps have some counsel for me then. I do not so much as know (till we see farther) whether I shall quite conveniently have money enough to spend in buying a Horse for the summer; neither indeed is the whole business of essential mom[ent.] I was very glad to learn that you had promised to my Mother to keep up Religion in your house: without religion constantly present in the heart, I see not how a man can live, otherwise than unreasonably, than desperately. I have another advice to give you, my dear Brother, which I shall enforce with brotherly earnestness when we meet. It is to cultivate, in all things, the virtue of Punctuality.2 There

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is far more in this than you suspect. To the want of Punctuality, I trace most part of all the evil I have seen in you. I think you do really in heart wish to be a good man, "as the one thing needful";3 also that you will more and more "lay aside every weight," and be found running the race faithfully, for the true and only prize of Manhood. This is my hope and trust of you, dear Brother: God turn it (for both of us) more and more into fulfilment! — Write soon, then: give our kindest wishes to Jenny, and little Jean: believe me ever your faithfully affectionate Brother.— T. Carlyle 1. Probably the letter dated February 16, which is published in part in Froude, II, 2 5 7 - 2 6 0 . 2. Underscored twice. 3. Cf. Luke 1 0 : 4 2 .

• On March 25, after he had finished the review of Boswell's life of Johnson and the brief "Baron von Goethe," which is published in Fraser's Magazine, 5 (March 1832), 206, and republished as "Goethe's Portrait" in CME, II, 371-373, Carlyle and his wife left London for two more years at Craigenputtock. They arrived April 14 after visiting Scotsbrig and Templand, from where Carlyle directed a letter back to Alexander, "By Charles Wallace, with a Horse and a Whip." ·

87. Templand, Saturday Night [7 April 1832]

1

My Dear Alick, Your little Mare carried us up very handsomely, and with wonderful spirit (especially the last half of the journey) considering how she has been worked of late. We gave ourselves and her rather a long rest at Dumfries; and got here, all safe and sound, about 8 o'clock. I have nothing but a miserable squirt of a crow-pen to write with; so must make the fewest words possible serve.

1832, Templand

3°5

We called at both Post-Offices, and found news at both: at Ecclefechan, that Carlisle Letter, the purport of which my Mother can explain to you: at Dumfries, among other things, a Letter from Jack, which you will read as I have done with satisfaction at the poor Doctor's welfare. Naples, where he probably now is, lies south of Rome, in the finest climate and situation of any city in Europe; Mount Vesuvius, a fine shew, but not dangerous, burns or smokes within sight of it: there will b e already summer there. In regard to the Carlisle Letter tell my Mother that I will write forthwith to the man to send up his five shillings to Postie at Ecclefechan; in whose hands she will probably find it about Wednesday first, and can get it, and buy tea with it. At Dumfries, besides Jack's, there was another Letter (from Fraser, the Magazine man) bringing the mournful tidings that Goethe was no more. 2 Alas! Alas! I feel as if I had a second time lost a Father: he was to me a kind of spiritual Father. The world holds not his like within it. But it is appointed for all 'once to die.' 3 We saw Shaw, and delivered him Jane's Letter; but there was no sort of answer, I think; none that I heard of. He looked rather wae to see us; and both sides had to confess not without emotion that much had come and gone since our former meeting. Time, 4 the all-devouring! But now to our small daily matters. We got a gardener (name forgotten), who is to b e upon the ground carrying a spade over his shoulder on Monday morning: a decent-looking man, brought to us by Shaw. Some messenger is in the interim to be despatched to Betty Smeal with warning and help, both of victual and cash. One or both of ourselves must go over as soon as possible to see with our own eyes. In regard to this garden matter also, say to my Mother that the Potatoes will not be needed: there is some seed for us here. Where I am to lodge or how to move for the next week, I cannot yet with any certainty predict; probably I shall b e here most part of it; possibly we may have taken up quarters by the end of it at our own fireside: at all events, it is not unlikely that I may contrive to see you there when you come up for the pigs: if the Sunday is good weather, it might perhaps b e permitted me to ride over on such an er-

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rand. But it is all, as you see, unfixed, fluctuating: one thing only you can look upon as certain; that after Monday morning I am to be figured sitting at my work. Either here or elsewhere I will have a private apartment, and set to: so have I decided it. In some two weeks, I shall be done with this little Job:5 then I am my own master again, and mean to make a sally into Annandale, and see you all with more deliberation. Perhaps in some three weeks; if Harry get any sort of mettle into him. There is much to be said and considered about the new state our whole Brotherhood is thrown into, now that our Head is gone. Meanwhile, let us all strive, by God's grace, to do our parts, each for himself, bearing and forbearing, they that are strong helping them that are weak. O let us all be gentle, obedient, lovifng] to our Mother; now that she is left wholly to our charge! 'Honour thy Father and [Mo]ther': doubly honour thy Mother when she alone remains. Tell Jane (for she is my only Scotsbrig writer) that she may send on [the] Dumfries Paper directed 'Craigenputtock' (for the Dumfries Postmaster has orders to forward it hither); and perhaps on Wednesday they will find one from me: or say, on Thursday, and then it will be certain. Bid our dear Mother take care of herself: if you have any time, write me a single line to say whether she is better again; for we left her complaining. T[ell her] that she is to hold fast her trust in the Great Father, and no evil will befal her [or] hers. I have now surely scribbled enough: but indeed my crow-pen grows strangely better by use. Our Post-office address even now, is, as I said: Craigenputtock. I will still hope to see you about the end of the week. At all events so soon as this little turn of work is turned off. — Jane bids me send one and all her kindest affection: her Mother is delighted with the swine-heads (she says), and finds one of them the express image of a Dr Russell 6 here. Jamie knows all that I could say about the Crowdieknow Pony: you and he can act accordingly. I trust your little Black will not take harm by this expedition: Charlie has been appointed to take it home, the Boy not having gumption enough: I charged him to use it with all gentleness. I noticed a little nip on the right shoulder, as we came up the mains brae; but hope our gig-collar did not make it worse. And so, dear Brother, and dear Friends all, take my affectionate

1832, Craigenputtock

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good-night. With special love to my Mother (who must finish Johnson) I remain always, Yours heartily T. Carlyle Put a wafer into that Carlisle Letter, and send it off from Ecclefechan (Charles, if none earlier, will put it in); then let my Mother call for the amount — say, on thursday. — I have sent it unsealed, because you might perhaps like to see how it turned out. Published in part: L, pp. 309-311. 1. Norton (L, p. 309) dated this letter April 14. Alexander Carlyle, however, in C-MSB, p. 4, determined April 14 as the date the Carlyles arrived at Craigenputtock. 2. Goethe died March 22. At Hayward's request (see Wilson, II, 284-285) Carlyle wrote, between April 22 and 26, the "Death of Goethe" for Edward Lytton Bulwer-Lytton's New Monthly Magazine, 34 (June 1832), 507-512; republished in CME, II, 374-384. 3. Heb. 9:27. 4. Underscored twice. 5. "Corn-Law Rhymes," Edinburgh Review, 55 (July 1832), 338361; republished in CME, III, 136-166. 6. Of Holm Hill near Thornhill. Russell was the physician attendant upon Mrs. Welsh's death and whose wife, the daughter of the Reverend Mr. Edward Dobbie of Thornhill, and Carlyle's wife became lasting friends and correspondents. Dr. Russell later retired from practice and became a banker in Thornhill. See esp. NLM, I, 96-97.

88. Craigenputtock, Friday 29th June, 1832 My Dear Brother, Peter1 volunteers to take anything down with him; and I will not let him go without a little Line for you. I had some thoughts of sending your money by him; but have forborne, as I hope to bring it in my own hand before we be much older: if you need it in the interim, it will be a pity; but I hope not. There was no Examiner this week; so I have written the Scotsbrig people that you will let them have the Courier when their visitors ar-

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rive there, which I suppose will be at least as soon as the usual time for the Newspaper. If my London man do not perform better, I must take some new course with it. Your Note with the Scotsbrig inclosure got hither that same night; greatly to our satisfaction, to learn that all was well with you. With us too, as Peter will explain, Craigenputtock 'stands where it did';2 with little change — except that there is a considerable Peat-stack now happily added to its other edifices. The fuel is good stuff, and was well got in. Jane is complaining still; yet undoubtedly in the way of mending. I myself, as you understand, have been the busiest man since we parted; writing what I could: am now in the very heart of it;3 and think other ten days will show me daylight on the farther side; at all events two weeks: so that, say in three weeks, you are most likely to see me in Annandale again. If Jane come with me, we will make for Catlinns first. — I have the old still existence, which you know so well here; am quite quiet with it, and happy enough while I am busy. If little good, neither does much evil come to ruffle our solitude: let us be thankful. This is my workshop, where there is room for my Toolbench to stand, and let me work a little: the Earth can yield no man any more than this same thing, better or worse in some small degree. — I have never got eye on M'Adam since I wrote; and know not, at this moment, whether he is within the four seas, or perhaps gone to the Continent 'with brass' — tho' that is not likely. Let him and his 'Plea' go their gate, in the meanwhile: they will not for long go to ruinous lengths. I find him a very harmless neighbour; the best I could expect, as often for whole weeks I can forget that he exists at all. — Th[e] grey mare gives complete satisfaction: a most ge[ntle] Beast; comes to be caught when you go for it; refuses no kind of work, will soon be a quite superior rider, agrees with its grass, and troubles no one. So that your journey for me to Longtown4 was not labour in vain; but will often come gratefully to remembrance. — There is no word from Jack; but such may come soon: I think he must be lying by till he have heard from me; in which case we may wait two weeks yet. — Send me up a 'scrape of a pen by Peter: how you are (little Jean included), what you are doing. I could have you a few

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larch-sticks ready directly, if you could come for them. God bless you, dear Brother! — Ever your affectionate. — T. Carlyle The Corn Law Rhymes Article has gone to Press, and a pithy thing it is. I will try what I can to get you specially a copy. This on Goethe, I fear, will be worth little. Published in part: L, pp. 317-319. 1. Norton (L, p. 318) identified him as Peter Austin of Castramon, but possibly the carrier Peter Walters. See Letter 92. 2. Cf. Macbeth IV.iii.164. 3. "Goethe's Works," Foreign Quarterly Review, 10 (August 1832), 1-44; republished in CME, II, 385-443. 4. In Cumberland.

89. Craigenputtock, 12th August 1832 My Dear Brother — I am just in the bustle of setting out to avoid the dirty "Gunnerbodies";1 and having many things to prepare and adjust, cannot write you more than a line. We had determined on a drive to Kirkchrist;2 Jane to go with me, if she could: I wrote the people to that effect; and now Jane not being able to go with me, I must go myself, — most reluctantly, now when it has come to the point! Indeed, I think I would willingly give a couple of guineas, had I liberty to stay quietly at home, and follow my affairs. These wretched Devil's-servants of Gunners! However, I shall try to get round them another year. Meanwhile, this journey, as in spite of all my reluctance I inwardly feel, will do me good. . . . I have not been idle, at least not at ease, since we parted; yet the quantity of work done is very small. I have packed off two little (mostly translated) pieces3 for Magazine Fraser; this is all I have yet got quit of. Another thing or two are on the anvil; but in a very rough

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state. I must not look Annandale in the face till I have done at least one of them. You will hear before then. I have now and then enough ado to keep myself stiffly at work: as you know well, however, there is no other course for one in this lone Desert; where if a man did not work, he might so easily run mad. When vapours of solitude, and longings after the cheerful face of my fellow-man are gathering round me, I dash them off, and the first lusty swing of In-4dustry scatters them away, as Cock-crowing does spectres of the Night. Let not a living man complain! His little Life is given him for the sake of an Eternity; let him stand to it honestly; all else is quite unimportant to him. This time fifty years, as I have often said to myself, the question will not be, wert thou joyful or sorrowful? but, wert thou true or wert thou false? was thy little task faithfully done, or faithlessly? So we will move along; and fear no man, and no devil — but the one within us, which also we will to the last war with. I believe myself to be getting yearly by some hardly perceptible degree stronger in health, both inward and outward: perhaps, one day, I may triumph over long disease, and be myself again! Still I know, healthy or sick, conquering or conquered, the son of Adam has no blessedness to look for but honest toil (which will never be joyous but grievous) : let him toil at the thing beside him, and bless Heaven that he has hands and a head! — I have written more than I purposed; and time presses: it is nine o'clock, and I have to be off in the morning about six (to breakfast with Skirving),5 and much is yet to arrange. — Jane has in general been very fast improving since you saw her, tho' she complains at present. — I had Peter Austin and son cutting trees one afternoon: they got some four score I suppose; out of which you may choose when you come. Peter says, they should be peeled: will you instruct the Boy about it, and tell him what sort of tool to get, and where to get it: I suppose some old chisel or the like; but there is nothing of the sort here. — I hope you have got the Bogs well cleared, and that we shall find you among innumerable corny stooks. Is the House settled about; is there anything to be done in it? — Tell our dear Mother that I will write6 to her, most probably on Wednesday week: they can ask then at least. Tell me when you saw them last. Our united best

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wishes to Jenny and little Janekin. I remain, My dear Aliek — Your affectionate — T. Carlyle MS: down to note 4, unrecovered. Text: L, pp. 322-323. The fragment MS, from note 4 to end, is published in part in L, pp. 323-324. 1. Grouse hunters, including Robert Welsh and a "tag-raggery of Dumfries Writers [i.e., lawyers], Dogs, etc. etc." (Reminiscences, I, 84). 2. To visit the Churches, late of Hitchill. 3. Goethe's "The Tale," 6 (October 1832), 257-278, and Goethe's "Novelle," 6 (November 1832), 383-393; both are republished in CME, II, 447-479, 480-496. One other "thing" was "Diderot." 4. The fragment MS of this letter starts at this point. 5. Mrs. Carlyle was a friend of a Haddington family named Skirving. See Ritchie, pp. 303-315. The "boy" was Robert of Craigenputtock. See esp. Letter 92. 6. See L, pp. 324-327.

90. From Jane Welsh Carlyle [Craigenputtock, August 1832]

1

. . . settling down on the whole party and threatened to end before night in permanent eclipse. — They had been told we "could not quarter them" the very maid being going away, and the house to be locked up — and however charming it might be "to shoot upon the moors" doubtless they thought with Gillet2 that "to sleep upon the moors" would be less pleasant. Moreover Providence in its Mercy had wetted them with repeated thunder showers — which I would have enjoyed with unmixed delight but for the recollection that these would also be wetting my husband. — And finally to fill the cup of disappointment to overflowing which gunners like other Mortals are doomed to dree — not a grouse had been obliging enough to let it-

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self be shot at! All these things were against them — and highly consolatory to me while actually imprisoned in my own chamber — the door locked — afraid to stir from my chair for fear of my foot tread being heard — and kept waiting an hour after my dinner time before any food could be administered to me. The idea of this lasting many days would have put me distracted. — I was already meditating a walk in the evening in the disguise of a servant girl. — But the two having drank a bottle of whisky between them — to say nothing of wine — laid their judicious heads together and adopted the sudden and glorious resolution of evacuating a spot where Gods and man and birds seemed all to have conspired against them. — Accordingly "the light cart" was yoked — the clothes and provisions reladen — and after many fruitless inquiries about the road to Knocksting3 — the cavalcade set forth. — Robert the boy met them at Sundy Well — from there questions about roads still uncertain, he thought, to what point of the compass to direct their flight. They told him it was such a place for game as they never saw. — I suggested they should go home and take a doze of physic and next day fall to some sort of work. Any way behold me happily delivered from this worse than the seven plagues of Egypt — the plague of a gunner. Surely I am now secure for Betty is just setting out for Dumfries (where she seems to have left her heart — a part of her head — and all her temper), and so soon as she is gone I shall lock both doors and he will be a clever fellow that persuades me to open to him! I send you a very worthless waistcoat which Mr C. wonderful to say has pronounced done, and advise you to wear it out (if you can wear it) as fast as possible in case he comes upon us for it again in the winter. You know his passion for old clothes. — Give my love to Jenny and thanks for the cocks which were the very best we have been privileged with this year. A kiss to the little curiosity — I shall surely see it before long — Macadam met with a Piattism two or three weeks ago. — A man that had bought Cattle from him for ready money, "when it came to the beet" proved to be five and twenty pounds short of the price — which was to be left at some house the following Wednesday, but has not yet been forthcoming — nor probably ever will. He is very peacable as a neighbour and his wife extremely obliging. — I believe Sam-

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uel4 and they have quarrelled — which has been luck for us. — We saw Samuel and wife come in a gig to Nether craigenputtock and staid a night. — Whereupon Joseph's wife remarked that he should have paid his debt to her husband before he passed his door. So you see the devil continues busy here as elsewhere — William Corson5 is holding forth at Workington. And the old 'Leddy' has a plan to send her accomplished daughter Eliza there ( among colliers ) "to befinished."— Mary brags that you sweethearted at an awful rate with her tho' you always "gibed" her afore folks faces. — And now you cannot say but I have written you a long letter — for which I shall be content to take a short one in return. — God bless you my dear Brother love me as long and as well as you can and believe me always sincerely and affectionately Your Jane W Carlyle 1. This fragment — an entire first page or folio is missing — is part of a letter Mrs. Carlyle wrote apparently while Carlyle was visiting the Churches. 2. Unidentified. 3. A farm and loch about six miles northwest of Craigenputtock. Sandywell is a farm three miles northeast. 4. Conjecturally a brother of Joseph M'Adam. See Letter 230. 5. The Reverend Mr. William Corson, brother of the farmer of Nether Craigenputtock and by September 1 8 4 0 possibly Craigenputtock as well. See L, p. 3 1 7 ; Wilson, II, 93-95; and Letter 1 5 2 .

91·

Craigenputtock, 9th September, 1832 My Dear Brother, I have got into a small perplexity here, in which I need your assistance. It relates to the grey Mare. Last Wednesday afternoon, Jane and I thought of having a little drive in the Gig, and got yoked and seated accordingly, with the Beast all brushed and corned, whose behaviour on the last occasion, as on all previous ones, had given us no reason for distrust; least of all

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on the score of temper. Nevertheless at the first crack of the whip what does the brute do but whirl round upon the Green, and attempt rearing; to the infinite terror of the Leddy, who forthwith dismounted, declaring she would venture no step farther. I reassured her; led and then drove, still with some uneasiness, to the outer gate; where, having discovered that the choke-band was tighter than it should be, and slackened it, Jane was persuaded to get in again, and away we drove without farther sign of obstruction. All went well as possible, till we got to M'Knight's, whose wife and children were busy disloading his Cart (about 5 in the afternoon) : the Beast made a kind of volunteer halt there, but easily enough went off again; and then about ten steps farther, we meet one of the Shoemaker's Children trailing a child'scart, at which our quadruped took offence, and shied considerably, yet got past without splutter, and then — simply set to work and kicked and plunged as if Satan were in her, till her harness is all in tatters, and as she still cannot get away, lies down; whereupon I ( who had sat doing or saying very little) step out, with my reins, seize the bridle, get Jane out, get the foolish brute free of her straps, — and our gigging has reached an untimely end! The suddenness and then the quietness and calm deliberation of the business were matter of astonishment: one minute we are driving prosperously along, in three minutes more we are gigless. M'Knight's wife kept disloading her cart all the while, as if it had been nothing out of the common run. The poor woman is very stupid, and indeed in the family way at present. John1 however arrived before all was over, and helped us what he could. We borrowed an old saddle from him, and walked off; leaving the Gig-wreck in his warehouse: at Sandy Wells I set the poor Leddy on this old saddle, and leading the Mare myself in all quietness arrived home in quite other equipment than we had departed. The Boy took Harry and a pair of Cart-ropes, and had the Clutch home at dusk: it was far less injured than you would have thought; nothing broken but the leather-mass and two leather straps that fasten on the splinterbar (s«JOTg-tree-bar) which the traces hook upon; and the under woodwork (I mean, the continuation of the shaft, nearly above the axletree, on the left side) rather bruised and twisted than broken. This the Vulcan has already mended, quite effectually, without difficulty. As for the harness, it is done utterly; flying in dozens of pieces: you

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never witnessed such a piece of work as I had to get it thrummed together in any way, so that it would drive as far as the Smithy; a Saddlecrupper fixed on it; one trace lengthened and a new eye cut, the other shortened to the utmost (to make both equal); spliced bridle etc. etc.: the most Irish-looking vehicle perhaps ever seen in these parts. The question now remains: What is to be done? As for the harness, all things considered, I ought not perhaps to be sorry that it is finished: we seldom went out without something in it breaking; and nobody knows how long one might have gone on cobbing and stitching, always throwing new money away. A quite fresh Harness can be got (a Saddler at Thornhill anxiously showed me one, nay two) for little more than five pounds; and it will be best that we are obliged to get a new one. I have no skill at all in these matters; and will not deal with the Thornhill man, till you and I have investigated Dumfries together, and found nothing better there. Harry will draw us at any rate thro' winter; with the present tackle, one may bring the vehicle down to get new tackle, and that is all we can expect of it. With regard to the Mare, I must now leave you to act for me, and judge for me. Jane has declared that she will drive with her no more; and indeed I think it were very unwise, unless with quite other security than any skill of mine. We must sell her then, I suppose, if anything like the value is to be had for her. The old money would please me sufficiently; or, indeed, any money you think her worth. I may mention, however, my own persuasion that the Beast after all is thoroughly what is called quiet; that it was my poor driving that mainly caused the accident: had I given her an effectual yerk with the whip when she first began kicking, or rather offering to kick, it had been all right. No shadow of vice in the creature have I ever seen before or since. — Unfortunately, as you see, she is in poorish condition for sale; one of the hind feet too has got the hair pulled, which perhaps could not grow in time. The Roodfair is in two weeks. I have no food here to fatten any quadruped; but Jamie, I think, has plenty of clover, and you must take him into counsel. Indeed, he was once talking about keeping her or some like her for her work till grass-time again: so here is another possibility for us. My persuasion is that any handy man could make this Mare still do anything he liked without difficulty; and per-

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haps had she got a winter of carting and ploughing and other sobering, she might be easier to deal with next summer. Manage as you see best. I think the horse a good one and very cheap: however, I have no reluctance to part with her. I do not think, she will ever ride very handsomely with me; she is flail-legged, skittish a little, and does not seem to thrive here (she has had oats and grass and very little work); she does nothing well but the jogtrot, and about forty yards of cantering: her synews are quite loose under you. Larry was quite another at her age. I believe I must renounce the thought of a riding-horse here; at all events, your little black Mare would ride as well as she yet does, and for all else would content me infinitely better. Again, I say, decide for me, and act for me. I think there never was such a long-winded deluge of a Narrative poured out of me, as this same, on so small occasion! I am excessively stupid, tonight, and in haste too. So, my dear Brother, you must just interpret what I mean, by your own acuteness of wit. — Send the Boy off early on Tuesday morning; he has things to get at Dumfries. Of course you can send no positive word what is to be done with the Mare, till you have seen Jamie and consulted with him, and considered with yourself: but tell me when you can meet me at Dumfries to buy new Harness; and whether the Roodfair is the only day shortly you could come on, and whether that would do for the purpose. I like such gatherings very ill. Moreover, do not by any means leave your harvesting for that errand: we are in no pressing haste. — And so I conclude this confused interminable story of The Gig Demolished or Pride gets a Fall. I am tolerably well (and so is Jane); my reading2 is done within two days, and then I have five stern weeks of writing. Wish me goodspeed! I must and will be thro' it. We shall meet before then, I hope. — I often think of you here, in these solitudes; and how the places that once knew you now know you no more, and I am left alone on the Moor. Courage! Let us stand to our tasks, and give the rest to the winds. We shall meet often yet, in spite of all; and often hear each that the other is behaving like a brave man. I know no other welfare in this Earth. — Jean writes us that your house is roofed again; we rejoice to fancy you free from raindrops; and fronting the winter with better shelter. Catlinns will have a new face when I come, — which

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will be, I trust, when this 'Article' is over. — You would see John's Letter; you would get the Review and the Printed Piece on Goethe. I can lend you other things of the Magazine kind: but suppose you to be far too busy for reading as yet. Tell me how goes your harvest; when you hope to be done. How you are all. — You will soon see our dear Mother; tell her of our welfare, and that she will before long hear of us again. Thank Jean for her two Letters; say the Hat does excellently: no news I can get is so valuable to me as that our Mother and all of you are well. Love one another. One day we shall not all be well any longer. — Our kindest wishes to little Janekin and her Mother. The new creature' 3 will be a great solace to you: receive her and retain her as 'sent from God.' — Remember me and my Leddy to our Mother and my good letter-writing Jean, and every other one of them, and say we shall both be down ere long. Were my Article but done. — God be with you, dear Brotherl — Ever your affectionate T. Carlyle Peter Austin dirties your Newspaper rather; but you can still read it; and he is very ready to oblige me in any way — Published: L, pp. 328-334. 1. M'Knight. 2. Mémoires, correspondance et ouvrages inédits de Diderot; publiés d'après les manuscrits confiés, en mourant, par l'auteur à Grimm, LibraireEditeur, 4 vols. (1831) and J. A. Naigeon, Œuvres de Denis Diderot; précédées de mémoires historiques et philosophiques sur sa vie et ses ouvrages, 22 vols. ( 1821 ). See CME, III, 177. 3. A son, who shortly died. See Letter 93. The quotation is from II Cor. 5:17 and Gal. 6:15.

92. Craigenputtock, Tuesday 18th Septr 1832 My Dear Alick, I hope you noticed on the Newspaper a small announcement that I "could not come" to meet you tomorrow; so that no portion of your

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inducement to be at Dumfries might rest on my shoulders. I am not without a sort of persuasion that Tomorrow after all, if it be fine, may tempt you to stay at home for harvest work. For which reason I despatch this forward by your carrier Walters,1 instead of directing it to be left for yourself with Shaw. — I have but a very little time at my disposal, and must be brief. The limbs of the Law summoned me down to Dumfries, on Saturday last, to 'serve as Juryman: I went; and answered to my name, about half past 10 o'clock: this was all the duty I had to do. The case was a SherrifFs one; of a wretched ragtail chimney-sweep, who had stolen an Ass value 20 shillings in the Parish of Ewes: they sentenced him to imprisonment; after which the fifty or sixty men who had been obliged to throw by their work and mount their horses on his account, were dismissed, and went their way. I contrived, however, to get all my little bits of business done; and so, being very much pressed by work here, was obliged to resolve on not losing another day, even tho' I had the prospect of meeting you there. The rather, as I now find that we can do a while without new Harness. I got an awl and threads up from Dumfries by the Boy, and have made the most surprising job of it; you would not know that anything had happened. Then, as we are to be away in winter, and so forth, it seemed to me the new Harness might spoil: besides, what is as true, there is no superfluity of money going just now. I have paid 2 the Advocate (last Saturday), and have still a few pounds over, and more due: but it will all be wanted, and more too that I have yet to earn for Edinburgh and its expenses. So will let the Harness lie: if you have any chance, pray inform yourself at the Saddler's what such a thing can be had for; it will be to purchase by and by, if we keep the Clatch running; which, while resident here, I see not how we can help doing. Jemmy and you, I daresay, will be at the Roodfair: can you not come up hither at night, and see what we are doing, and rest yourselves till Saturday? I fear, not; and yet it is perhaps possible, if you are thro' the Corn and the Potatoes not begun yet. We shall see. — I hope there is no fear of your getting rid of that Great Beast, on some sort of terms. I must just leave her in your charge; and since you have had so much trouble with her, let you finish her off. — Harry, I find by last Saturday's trial, runs like a rein-deer in the gig; one of the gleggest little

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fellows, if you remind him that there is such a thing as a whip. He is stout and thriving, but lazy, — unless where you have such a chance for quickening him. We know not yet when we go to Edinburgh; I have still much work to do: it cannot be till a month or so after Martinmas. We have hired the old Servant,3 whom you gave a ride to last whitsunday: she can ride, yoke etc.; so that we think of dismissing Robert, for whom there will be no work. Now on this latter point I had a message to you from Jane and partly from myself: it is to see whether Jamie needs a Boy of that kind thro' winter, for I think he had one last winter, and [Rob]ert might suit him. He is expert enough with horses, rather a good Co[w]er I think; willing to work, but totally unable to get thro' with almost any work, unless there be some commander near him, when he will stretch himself really handsomely enough. He performs pretty well (not exorbit[ant]ly) with the s[poon],4 is not [a bother, or] in the least troublesome. W[ha]t the thing th[at interests us above all things in him is the natural sense the poor creature manifests; his love of Knowledge in all sorts; and what is of infinitely greater moment even than this, his innocence and veracity. We have never detected him telling the small [ es ]t falsehood, or so much as prevaricating. I could like well to fancy the poor creature in good hands, where he would see and hear honest sensible things said and done; and be stirred up and sharpened, even by roughish usage to put himself forth into exertion. He is very desirous, it seems, to learn husbandry work; and could easily learn it, had he a tight stirring master. Tell the Scotsbrig people about all this; and see whether they say anything. We shall likely send him down to the Fair at any rate, and he will see some of you at Beck's.5 I have taken up all your sheet with the small charitable matter, which is of a sort one ought not to neglect. — There are four Numbers of Fraser's for you and a Life of Mary Wolstoncroft6 (once a famous woman) : I think they will serve you till we come down. — Alas, I have a long dour job before me first. But I am toiling at it, and it cannot last me long. Tell my dear Mother that I am as impatient to come as she can be to have me; that I will set off the very day I am at liberty; lastly that I think surely in four weeks from this date we may hope to see you.

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It was cleverly done to slate your house with your "own hand" (as Edward Irving used to sign his name), and get it over before the Tirl-trees season. You will have a very tolerable place of it, heartsome in summer, stormtight in winter; I hope and believe it will not disappoint your modest calculations in other respects. Courage, my dear Brother! The willing arm will yet find work, and wages for it: "there is ay life for a living body." We are all born to hard labour; and might easily have been born to worse. — I have filled up all your sheet with "mere nothing";7 and must now desist, and wrap up. God be with you always! Ever your affectionate, T. Carlyle Published in part: L, pp. 334-337. 1. Peter Walters, the Lockerbie carrier (from Alexander's letter of Thursday morning [September 1832?], MS: NLS #2883.288-289). 2. Probably the £ 50 Carlyle owed Jeffrey. 3. Apparently Nancy, whom Carlyle mentioned in Letter 95. See also Ritchie, pp. 207-208, 218. 4. Word supplied from L, p. 336. 5. "A coachmaker's, in whose stable the horse was lodged when at Dumfries. — M. C." (L, p. 336). 6. William Godwin's Memoirs of the Author of a Vindication of the Rights of Women (1798). Carlyle had met Godwin August 15, 1831. He saw Godwin's biography of his first wife as imprisoning "an Ariel . . . in a brickbat!" See Two Note Books, pp. 199, 204-205. 7. Frequently Alexander's apology for his own letters.

• On October 15, after Carlyle finished "Diderot," he and Mrs. Carlyle spent a day or two with Mrs. Welsh and her father at Templand, drove over to see Alexander and Janet at Catlinns, and then went to Scotsbrig. Although they brought Jean back with them to Craigenputtock and although Carlyle's mother joined them there shortly after, Carlyle and his wife continued to long "for the sound of human voices, were they only those of Edinburgh Dilettanti and Philosophes" ( C-MSB, p. 30), and at length decided to follow through on their plan to escape to Edinburgh from the wearing solitude of another winter on the moors. They had hoped to get away the beginning of December, but the unexpected death of Walter Welsh delayed them until the first of the year. Then they stopped at Scotsbrig on the

1833, Catlinns and Scotsbrig 321 way, arrived in Edinburgh on January 7, and engaged until April lodgings at 18 Carlton Street, Stockbridge, which was, Carlyle wrote John, "an excellent Floor of its sort; two really dashing Rooms, with three Bedrooms, Kitchen and all etceteras, for £ 4 a month" ( L , p. 342). Alexander wrote to his brother there of the death of his new son, and Jean subjoined her news, mainly about John. ·

93·

Alexander to Carlyle, with postscript from Jean Carlyle Catlinns 19th January 1833 My Dear Brother, I dare-say, when we parted at the Scotsbrig end little more than a fortnight ago, you scarcely expected to hear from me so soon but true is it that " w e know not what an hour is to bring forth." 1 Last saturdaynight Jeny and I went to bed with our two little children as usual, little knowing what was awaiting us, and before four o'clock in the morning our poor little son had breathed his last. He had for some few days before been ailing a little with the cold as we thought but seemed better on the friday and Saturday. My first impression was that he had been over-laid when Jeny shrieked out "Sandy I dinna hear this bairn breathing." I held the lifeless body of the little way-faring stranger in my arms and in desperation in the darkness not knowing to what hand to turn vainly enough tried to breath into the, alas, unbreathing body till Jeny lighted the candle when we soon saw that all was over. In the course of a few hours the lower part of the body and thighs were all covered with dark purple spots thereby proving as they told us that the child had died of what they called Hives. It yielded to us a sort of melancholy solace to be led to believe that our little infant had not died of suffocation but of some inward complaint that we neither knew the nature nor the name of. In stead however of sorrowing for what cannot be brought back again; ought we not rather to be listening reverently to the loud voice of our Creator "be ye also ready." 2 You are doomed my dear brother, to listín to another sorrowful occurence.

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Jean had agreed with me on tuesday, the day of the Funeral, to write to you next day little dreaming what she had to witness before bed time. In the evening Jamie and William Brand had gone over to Waterbeck on some business and were returning on this side of the Chapel when their horses took fright at some persons about the end of the Torbuck-hill and Jamie was thrown on the neck of Harry and it was some time before he could turn him again to look after his less fortunate companion whom he found lying on the side of the road motionless on his back with his hands extended and to all apperance killed on the spot. After raising him up however in a little while he in some measure came to himself again so that they were enabled with great difficulty to bring him to Scotsbrig in one of the carts where he has lain ever since, in a state as he appeared to me yesterday morning not without some degree of danger though we all hope the best. His wounds are all on the face and truely I have seldom seen any thing as smashed, one of his teeth is also broken out, He told me however that he felt no pain whatever inwardly and with quietness and good nursing, as I have already hinted, we all hope his recovery [speed]ily. His unlucky horse (your old mare) in sprinting across the road missed the . . . ,3 owing to the front . . . and also fell but was nothing the worse. Sunday morning In the confusion I have very stupidly neglected to take your adress, or Jean to give it me, and must away to Scotsbrig where the remainder of this sheet will be filled up either by Jean or my self; so for the present I take my leave wishing you both good morning and Gods blessing. Alexr. Carlyle Scotsbrig Sunday [20 January 1833] My dear Brother For a reason above mentioned this has not been sent away so I will have room to add a word also. — My best news to you will be that we have got a very long letter from the Dr lately Dated 20th Deer. I think, he says they purpose leaving for England about March unless they find that by this arrangement they cannot rea[ch] London be-

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fore July and in that case not till octr. the reason he give for this alternative is that Lady Clare's Friends would all be out in the Count[ry] in the end of June and later than october travelling would not be so pleasant. — they have now taken up their quarters in the London Hotell next door to where they were last year, the Lady he says is much better than ever she has been since he knew her. he seems also to be very concerned with his own lot which is a great blessing, he says he purposed writing soon but was waiting to hear from you. the letter you sent from here seems to have been the latest and he thinks that in the ordinary course of post he might have had an answer to his last but will write in less than a month in any case. — We received your letter this day week and were very happy to learn that you were so well accommodated in regard to a house and so little worse from your journey which Jamie however had allowed us to think was an inside one. — Our Mother thanks you many times for your punctuality bids me tell you that she is in her usual health. Alick and she are sitting beside off Brand down stairs, he is still very weak with loss of blood but is not we hope in any particular danger but it must be some time before he can be exposed to the air. — Hoping this will find you both in good health I bid you [fare]well. Your affectionate Sister Jane Carlyle MS: N L S # 2 8 8 3 . 6 3 - 6 4 . 1. Cf. Matt. 2 4 : 3 6 , Mark 1 3 : 3 2 . 2. Matt. 24:44. 3. Word here and after "front" illegible.

94· 18. Carlton street, Stockbridge, Edinburgh 27th Jany 1833 My Dear Brother, I sympathize truly with the painful incident that has befallen you. Your little Son has been lent you but a short while; has but as it were opened his eyes on this strange chaos of Time,1 and then as if affrighted, shrunk back into Eternity, hiding himself from the Sin and woe in

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which we that are left on Earth must still struggle. There is something infinitely touching in a history so brief and yet so tragic; something infinitely mysterious too: but indeed the longest life is scarcely longer than the shortest if we think of the Eternity that encircles both; and so it is all mysterious, all awful and likewise holy; and our sole wisdom is to bow down before our inscrutable Author, and say heartily in all things, God's will be done. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord! — I have many times pictured to myself that stern awakening you got: "I dinna hear the bairn breathing"! Yet surely as you observe it was a blessed mercy that you found the event to have happened, as it were by the will of Providence alone; and without mischance on your part, which would have rendered the affliction doubly severe. In all our griefs, it is truly said, there is something of mercy mingled. And so we will bid the little Wayfarer whose journey was so short, Farewell: he is but gone whither we too are hastening to follow. — This winter I can figure you out in your Country home, a little less lonely than the last: your household is more stirring, and you are in a neighbourhood where one likes better to fancy you. I trust firmly still that the change was for your good. Continue to be diligent and prudent, and you have nothing evil to apprehend. The times and the country we live in press heavy on us all: but a certain hope of improvement is still reasonable; nay far better than any hope, a perfect assurance that if our Task be well done (which is always in our own power) all else will be well with us. So let the evil of the day be sufficient for the day: what the future may offer we will try to be ready for. Time and Chance, as Solomon long since declared, happen unto all.2 It is pleasant for me to consider you as now once more in a Neighbourhood: I need not counsel to study "as much as in you lies" to live in peace, in good will and sympathy with all men, more especially with those nearest you, whom you have most to do with. It is this mainly of having persons one takes interest in around one's house that makes a House into the far more precious thing, a Home. In all mortals one finds flaws; nay in oneself more than in any other: therefore let us pity and pardon; even the poor creature that wrongs us was sore driven to his shifts, or he would not have wronged us; he too is pitiable and pardonable. By the way, I hope poor Brand has got

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home again, and feels himself recovering. Tell him from me that he ought to sell that great stalking animal; and let it run in some Opposition Coach, where it may do the world some service for its oats: in any other way, it looks as if no good would come of it. Next time you write I hope you will farther have to tell me that your financial reckonings have not disappointed you; but that the Rent is actually all ready, if not paid; and so the Catlinns speculation looking as we all wish it. We will prays always: May the worst of our toils be past! In fine I will ask only one thing: that you would mend that Bridge (down at the old mill) : assuredly some one will get a mischief by it, if you do not; at present I cannot think of it without a kind of horror. Mind this, now, and take warning in time. I have been living here in a curious unsatisfactory half-awake state: the trans [it] ion is so singular from bare solitary moors, with only myself for company, to crowded streets and the converse of men. Both Jane and I, moreover, have been in a feckless sort of state with a dirty sneaking sniftering sort of Cold (now nearly gone), which confuses one's ideas, were there nothing else to do it. I am carrying on a sort of occupation; but not with so much energy as I could desire; still only with the assurance that I shall grow energetic. The people (of whom we see [in] abundance ) are all kind and courteous as heart could reasonably wish: nevertheless I feel myself singularly a stranger among them: their notions are not mine; the things they afre] running the race for are no prizes to me. In politics, especially as here manifested, I take no pleasure at all: the Tories, now happily driven into holes and corners, are quite out of date; all the rest is Whiggery and ReformBill-for-ever, a most sandblind feeble sort of concern; a few Radicals of the Henry Hunt3 sort are a still more pitiable set. The men stare at me when I give voice; I listen when they have the word, "with a sigh or a smile." One great benefit I have, and can enjoy without drawback: abundance of Books. I am almost daily in the Advocates' Library, ransacking many things; my appetite sharpened by long abstinence. On the whole, we do well (for this dirty sniftering is about over); and one way or other, generally to profit, and the mind is kept full. Edinburgh affects me quite peculiarly after London: it looks all so orderly, so quiet, so little. I incline often to wish we had never left it: yet properly I cherish no regret for what is gone; that too had its worth, its influence

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on me for good, and lay among the things I had to do. I feel however more and more plainly that Craigenputtock will absolutely never prove a wholesome abode for me; that I must try to get away from it, the sooner the better: however, there is evidently no immediate prospect of such a thing, and in any case, we will do nothing rashly. I privately think sometimes we should not settle upon anything till Jack come home; of which I privately am very glad that there is now a prospect. Dr Irving, Keeper of the Advocates' Library, of whom you have heard me speak, has been talking lately very often about a Professorship at Glasgow,4 which will soon be vacant the present incumbent being very old: this as a thing that will be in the Lord Advocate's gift, our worthy Doctor thinks were the very thing for me. I bite at it with no eagerness: yet have hinted it to Jeffrey, and will not neglect it if it come in my way. We shall see. My own private impression is that I shall never get any promotion in this world; and happy shall I be if Providence enable me only to stand my own friend. That is (or should be) all the prayer I offer to Heaven. — In Literature all is as dull here as it could possibly be: my old Manuscript5 is lying by me quiet; there is no likelihood of its being printed this winter, for I have not the Cash just ready and it is a thing that can wait. I do not think of vexing my soul with Booksellers about it or any other thing again, — so long as I can help it. — But, alas, dear Alick, my sheet is done. Chu· Mother has a Letter® too, which she will read you; where will be found a little more news. By the way, may I trust that Jamie and you have come to some fixed measures about those Ecclefechan Houses7 and their management; and so relieving our good Mother from anxiety on that score. I know you will do what in you lies: it is well the trust of us all. — Jane sends our best wishes to her Namesake, and every one of you. Let us find you all well and thriving in the Month of April! — Write to me soon, and explain all your hopes and cares to me. Bless God that in a too unfriendly world we are not without Friends. Ever, My dear Brother, Yours heartily T. Carlyle I get the Newspaper here pretty late on Tuesday Night; and could send it off next day, if that were of much moment: it will be safer to appoint Friday (at any hour after the Mail has come down) as the

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day on which you will be sure of it. The Election Dinners are quite dreadfully tiresome. I have seen no more of the Times, nor heard nothing of it: I think it very questionable, whether they will get it to do: let them look to it! Published in part: L, pp. 350-355. 1. This word and "Eternity" Carlyle underscored twice. 2. Eccles. 9:11. 3. ( 1773-1835 ), at this time M.P. for Preston. 4. In astronomy, a chair that did not fall vacant for a year or two. Nothing ever came of Carlyle's half-hearted try for it. 5. Of Sartor. 6. See L, pp. 348-349. 7. Which James Carlyle had left to his wife. They provided her with some £28 yearly. James had also left about £600, which Carlyle and John, declining any share of it, decided should be divided among the other five children.

95· Edinburgh, 4. Great King street,126th March, 1833 My Dear Alick, I am making up a Parcel to go this day, by the Dumfries Bookseller, to Scotsbrig; and will not neglect, as the very first thing I set about, to answer your kind and acceptable Letter, which we have now had in hand since Saturday morning gone a week. You will not expect much sense of me; for I have many Letters to write, little time, and many interruptions. Mrs Welsh, and her Niece2 from Liverpool (a very pleasant young damsel) have been here for about a week; our servant Nancy has plotted the skin off her foot, and goes hirpling along in most lame style: so that, for the time, it is but a confused kind of house. We removed into it, out of the old one at Stockbridge, as our Mother has perhaps informed you, to get rid of the abominablest neighbourhood, which honest people could find themselves in. That great point happily has been attained, and so all the rest may be put up with. It gave us great satisfaction to hear from you so good an account of

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everything at Scotsbrig and Catlinns; and to see that for the present at least your labour does not prove in vain. It is saying much, as things now go in this distracted country. Millions (a frightful word, but a true one! ) millions of mortals are toiling this day, in our British Isles, without prospect of rest, save in speedy death, to whom for their utmost toiling food and shelter are too high a blessing. When one reads of the Lancashire Factories and little children labouring for sixteen hours a day, inhaling at every breath a quantity of cotton fuz, falling asleep over their wheels, and roused again by the lash of thongs over their backs, or the slap of "billy-rollers" over their little crowns; and then again of Irish whitefeet,3 driven out of their potatoe-patches and mudhovels, and obliged to take the hillside as broken men, — one pauses with a kind of amazed horror, to ask if this be Earth the place of Hope, or Tophet where hope never comes! A good practical inference too every one of us may draw from it: to be thankful that with him it is not yet so, to be content under many griefs, and patiently struggle on towards a better day, which even in this world cannot fail to dawn for the afflicted children of men. One grand remedy against the worst still lies partly open: America and its forests, where you have only the wild beasts to strive against! I understand there never was such emigration from these parts, at least from Edinburgh, as this year. People of all sorts are going: Labourers, shopkeepers, even writers to the Signet, and country Lairds. They are very right; they will be all the better, and the country all the better for the want of them. — But, in the meanwhile, do you, my dear Brother, go on tilling the Dryfesdale clod, while it will yield you anything: surely, it is probable, the Government, before matters come to the utmost pass, will apply itself in earnest to Emigration, as the sole remedy for all that most immediately presses on us. Let us "possess our souls in patience, and await what can betide." 4 Nothing in your Letter has given me more thought than what you say about Jean. I feel internally the utmost reluctance that she should, especially in this headlong manner, connect herself with James Aitken: he is a young man not without several qualifications, yet of whom I never could get any assurance; nay there is something in the very cast of his face that bids me doubt him. But on the other hand what a delicate matter to interfere in! Suppose you even threw aside anxieties

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about "reflexions on yourself," and cheerfully undertook to bear such in any quantity that you might do your Sister good, yet how are you to set about it with no better light than mine? A young woman has need to be married some time; if by a solemn monition you put her off this engagement (and even an advice her to delay may turn out to break it), who knows whether, among such a scandalous set as men are become, she may next time make a better? I know not well what to do: yet will, this day, write her an opinion of mine that she ought decidedly to delay. I do not like the man, at least considered as her husband; yet cannot prove even to myself how I ought to dislike him.5 May God turn all to good; for we ourselves are blind! Jack's Letter, which arrived on the same day with yours, is sent along with this; will inform you of his movements and prospects. It seems not improbable that we may see him this summer after all. What he will next do must then unfold itself: I really could hardly give him an advice. However, he seems grown very greatly wiser since his last retimi home; to the wise man wise conduct is always possible. Edinburgh continues one of the dullest and poorest and on the whole paltriest of places for me. I cannot remember that I have heard one sentence with true meaning in it uttered since I came hither! The very power of Thought seems to have forsaken this Athenian City; at least, a more entirely shallow, barren, unfruitful and trivial set of persons than those I meet with never that I remember came across my "bodily vision." One has no right to be angry with them: poor fellows, far from it! Yet does it remain evident that "Carlyle is wasting his considerable talent on impossibilities, and can never do any good." Time will show: for the present, poor man, he is quite fixed to try. At any rate there are some good Books here, that one can borrow and read; kindlydisposed human creatures too, who tho' they cannot without a shudder see one spit in the Devil's face so, yet wish one well, almost love one. The best is that I have been rather busy writing, and have finished a long sort of thing for Fraser's Magazine, to be called Cagliostro·,β it is very wild, but not untrue, so may do its part. Write away, my man! that is thy only chance; these poor persons, demean them as they may, "can do the' neither iU no' good." 7 We have liberty to stay here till near whitsunday; but shall not likely continue far beyond the end of April: in May we can hope to see you at Catlinns. Except house-

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rent it seems hardly more expensive here than at Puttock, so much have things fallen in price; or perhaps, mainly, so much has housewifecunning risen! We have not so comfortable a roomy life as there; but all else is far superior. — What we are to make of ourselves next winter, if we be spared so long, is not clear yet; but will become so. I wonder if we could not get ourselves established somewhere "under the immediate eye of some little Grier," 8 or other! A man of that kind to take care of one were a blessing indeed: Poor little Grier, "after all!" as the Doctor would say: one feels a kindly wish towards him, a thankful sentiment towards Providence, everytime one's eye is turned that way. — There will be time for another Letter before we return: you know the address now. —Jane does not seem to improve of late: however, she has far more entertainment here. She is out at this moment, or would send little Namesake and you her love. And so God bless you all! Your affectionate Brother, — T. Carlyle Published in part: L, pp. 355-358. χ. The Carlyles moved to Great King Street probably between March 14, the date of the last letter Alexander directed to 18 Carlton Street, and March 21, the date of Carlyle's first letter (to Mill) to carry this new address. 2. Miss Helen Welsh (d. 1853), daughter of Mrs. Carlyle's uncle John. 3. A secret society (fl. 1832-1834), whose members committed murders and other outrages in protest against their vile conditions. They were akin in deed and name to the whiteboys of 1761. 4. Cf. Luke 21:19. 5. Jean delayed her marriage only until November. In spite of Carlyle's apprehensions it was a good marriage, and Aitken, a painter and decorator of Dumfries, proved himself a far better man than Carlyle here gave him credit for being. But Carlyle characteristically feared for every one of his sisters' marriages, looked with suspicion on each of their future husbands, and was pleased to admit his errors, in time, in every instance. The couple had three daughters — Margaret (b. 1845), Mary, and Annie — and three sons — James (d. 1871), one whose name I have not been able to determine, and John, the youngest. 6. "Count Cagliostro: In Two Flights," Fraser's Magazine, 8 (July and August 1833), 19-28, 132-155; republished in CME, III, 249318. 7. "'Ill na gude' had become proverbial here," wrote Carlyle, "on

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the following account. Emeritus, very ancient Annandale cattle dealer, to topsman of an accidental cattle-drove on the highway (as reported by himself to William Graham and me): '"Beautiful cattle," cai (quoth I); "what might cattle o' that kind lie ye a head?" "I can d'ye naither ill na' (nor) guidi"' (by blabbing in your market)" (LM, I, 207-208). 8. See Letter 26.

• On May 7 the Carlyles left Edinburgh for Templand. From there they went on to Catlinns and Scotsbrig, and by May 21 were settled at Craigenputtock. On the twenty-seventh Carlyle wrote James Fraser that he proposed to cut the manuscript of Sartor "into strips, and send it forth in the Periodical way" ( L, p. 364 ). He offered it to Fraser, and Fraser published it as "Sartor Resartus. In Three Books," Frase/s Magazine, 8 (November and December 1833), 581-592, 669-684; 9 (February, March, April, June 1834), 177-195, 301-31^, 443"455> 66 4" 674; 10 (July and August 1834), 77-87,182-193. John came home in June and spent two months at Craigenputtock before leaving in August with Lady Clare for London, Milan, and Rome. Emerson, "the most amiable creature in the world," came on August 25 and "spent an apparently very happy four-and-twenty hours with us," Carlyle wrote John, "and then went his way to Wordsworth's Lakes, to Liverpool, and home to Massachusetts on Sunday next" (L, p. 371). William Graham paid a two-day call early in September, and later that month Archibald Glen came to discuss the care of his brother. Also in September Mr. Hunter Arundell, who lived about eight miles northeast of Craigenputtock at Barjarg, placed at Carlyle's disposal the resources of his fine library. On October 1 Carlyle wrote John that he planned to write two essays. The first, a history of "The Diamond Necklace," is published in Fraser's Magazine, 15 (January and February 1837), 1-19, 172-189, and republished in CME, III, 324-402. The second, "an Essay on the St. Simonians," he never executed. In January Thomas Holcroft, a son of the dramatist, notified him that Badams had died in September. He expressed his sorrow at the passing of his old friend in a letter to John (L, p. 381), and the following month wrote to Alexander. ·

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96.

Craigenputtock, 18th Feby, 1834 My Dear Alick, If you be at the Fair 1 tomorrow, you will get this Letter: if not, it will come upon you perhaps still more welcomely in the solitude of Catlinns. There is little in it save the assurance of my old brotherly regard; but that little I know is worth much. By my Mother's Letter, last week, you would hear of my purpose to write; also of my half-hope to hear from you tomorrow: if you have not written ( which I think the more probable case), let this be a new inducement to do it with as little delay as possible. Mary told me our Mother was well: but beyond this, all seems to remain uncertain; and I want much to hear your report on it, your advice about it. We should have spoken far more about the business when you were here: but we had not the very best opportunity, and I thought for a good while you would stay longer. Something must be resolved upon, and before long; lest whitsunday find us unprepared.2 Austin I fancy has now no chance for a farm this year; nor is it perhaps a thing to be regretted, considering how farms have usually gone. The project (failing this, which has now failed) that my Mother seemed most to hint at was occupying the two upper rooms at Scotsbrig, as her own and so living under the same roof with the new Couple. A scheme of which the many risks and certain disadvantages are very plain. But something must be done; and the question is, what were the least objectionable? One cannot fix on anything that were quite right; that were other than a temporary measure. If our Mother have any plan, any wish of her own, that would be the most advisable to help her in. But I doubt she cannot form a very decided plan at present; and it is very sad to have to ask her for one. Write me what you think about the whole matter: I am often thinking about it, but with very little effect. I could wish we had it in our power to fix it, next time I come down. — At rare times one is tempted for a moment to say: "If the swine would but run thro' this marriage!" Yet it were very cruel to poor James: he has a chance of "happiness" for one month in that way; and of great suffering if that month be denied him. There are men living that never in their life managed to get so much

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as a month. Yet as the Doctor says, "It comes all to the same ultimately." On the whole, I want to hear your voice about all that business. Poor Mrs Clow,3 it seems, has been called away. She was not long left a superfluity in the world; but has found a home, beside her old Partner, where there will be none to grudge her. O Time! Time! How it brings forth, and devours;4 and the roaring flood of Existence rushes on, forever similar, forever changing! Already of thou that we looked up to as grown men, as towers of defence and authority, in our boyhood, the most are clean gone; we ourselves have stept into their position, where also we cannot linger. Unhappy they that have no footing in Eternity; for here, in Time, all is but cloud and the baseless fabric of a vision! 5 But to turn back to the Earth; for in the Earth too lies the pledge of a Higher world, namely a Duty alloted us. Tell me, my dear Brother, how you fare on that wild Know-head, what kind of cheer you are of. The little children,6 I imagine, must be your chief blessing; and surely you are thankful for them, and will struggle with your whole strength to instruct them and protect them, and fit them for the long journey (long, for it is as long as Eternity) that lies before them. Little Jane will be beginning to have many notions of things now; train her to this, as the corner-stone of all morality: To stand by the Truth; to abhor a Lie as she does Hell-fire? Actually the longer I live I see the greater cause to look on Falsehood with detestation, with terror, as the beginning of all else that is of the Devil. — My poor little Namesake has no knowledge of good or evil yet: but I hope he will grow to be a strong fellow, and do his name credit. — For yourself I am very glad indeed to see you make so manful a struggle, on that uncomfortable clayfooting; which however you must not quite quarrel with: in the darkest weather I always predict better days. The world is God's world, and wide and fair: if they hamper us too far, we will try another side of it. Meanwhile I will tell you a fault you have to guard against; and is not that the truest friendship I can shew you? Every position of man has its temptation, its evil tendency; now yours and mine I suspect to be this: a tendency to Imperiousness; to indignant self-help, and if nowise theoretical yet practical Forgetfulness and tyrannical contempt of other men. This is wrong, this is Tyranny I say; and we ought to guard against it. Be merciful, repress much indignation; too much of it will

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get vent after all. Evil Destiny is nothing, let it labour us and impoverish us as it will; if it only do not lame us and distort us. Alas, I feel well, one cannot wholly help even this: but one ought unweariedly to endeavour. When I am coming down I cannot yet fix; it is most likely I will come by Catlinns: in any case you shall soon hear of me. Tell me your Lockerby Carrier's name for I have forgotten it. Glen goes on wonderfully well; and I certainly hope is improving. We read Greek every night; a great improvement to me: he goes on with his Mathematics too, tho' slowly; and seems perfectly satisfied at Peter's.8 — I have had another Letter from Jeffrey, full of friendly professions, excuses, regrets etc.; and have thoughts of letting the Correspondence lie there — for a good while.9 — My Diamond Necklace is not done: I get along so miserably slowly. — Farewell my dear Brother! I hope to see you soon; to hear of you sooner. With all good progress for you and yours, T. Carlyle

1. In Dumfries. 2. By Whitsunday Carlyle and Alexander hoped to determine their mother and Janet's residence. James, the farmer at Scotsbrig since their father's death, was about to marry Isabella Calvert (d. 1859), who, it was thought, had only a short while to live. This left all the family anxious to allow the couple their little time alone. James himself resolved the problem by requesting his mother and sister to stay on. James and Isabella had four children — James, the eldest son, who farmed Craigenputtock and then Newlands, near Kirtlebridge and Ecclefechan, and married his cousin Kate Austin; John, who took over Scotsbrig from their father; Thomas (ca. 1839-1840); and Jessie (ca. 18421874), who married a Birmingham merchant named Scott. 3. Alexander's mother-in-law. 4. Cf. Sartor Resartus, p. 103. 5. Cf. The Tempest IV. i.151. 6. The couple now had their son Thomas (1833-1921). See esp. Letter 254. 7. Cf. the Iliad, ix.312. 8. Possibly Peter Austin. 9. In December 1833 the astronomy chair at Edinburgh had fallen vacant. Carlyle, despondent over the rejection by the Foreign Quarterly

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Review of the proposed "Diamond Necklace" and the poor reception the serialized "Sartor" was receiving, had applied for the position through Jeffrey, but had neglected to list his qualifications. Jeffrey in consequence recommended a man he presumed better suited for the position. Further, in his letter to Carlyle apprising him of the new appointee, Jeffrey had criticized "Corn-Law Rhymes," "Diderot," and the most recent installment of "Sartor." Although Carlyle took the criticism in good humor, this and his disappointment at Jeffrey's not even recommending him for the Edinburgh post and a letter from Jeffrey in February, very likely the one Carlyle mentioned here, suggesting that he not apply for a recently vacated rhetoric and English chair also at Edinburgh, resulted in a cooling in the relationship.

LETTERS ACROSS THE SOLWAY 1834-1843

• The day after he wrote to Alexander, Carlyle and his wife decided, as he told Jean in a letter of February 2,5 (L, pp. 384-385), to advertise Craigenputtock as available for rent at Whitsunday and move into London. He waited out the winter months, made all his necessary arrangements in early spring, and on May 9 left in advance of Mrs. Carlyle to secure lodgings. He took breakfast with Mary at The Gill, boarded the Solway steamer at Annan for Liverpool, stayed the weekend there with John Welsh, and on Monday caught the Umpire Coach for London. He found available his old rooms at 4 Ampton Street and from there ranged out into the city searching for a house. He came upon two he liked, one in Edwardes Square, Kensington, the other in Glouster Terrace, Brompton. But Mrs. Carlyle, who arrived June 4, selected one Carlyle had not been particularly interested in, at 5 (now 24) Cheyne Row, Chelsea. They accepted the lease of it for £,35 a year, and on June 10, with their canary, Chico, and Bessie Barnett, who had served them during their last stay in London, moved into the house that became their home for the rest of their lives. About two weeks later Carlyle, in one of his best letters, told Alexander all about it. ·

97· 5. Cheyne Row, Chelsea, London, 27th June, 1834 My Dear Alick, The day has now arrived when I am to send you tidings about myself; our good Mother and you, as I guess, will be in waiting; and so as far as my part can go you shall not be disappointed. If Buller1 be not at hand with his frank, indeed, we shall go a little awry; but all precautions being taken, let us hope the best. I had Jean's Dumfries Letter yesterday, much to universal satisfaction; and can send back counternews with better heart. You have heard of our progress and fortunes from the time when you embarked the goods and goodwife at Annan; how after all risks and hardships they both arrived comparatively safe; how by searching we discovered a House exceedingly to our mind, and were with fair prospects struggling thro' the process of installation. If I add now that this same tumultuous process is at length all but terminated, and

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we in rather good health and spirits, and all doing well, are beginning more and more to feel ourselves at home in our new hadding, it is again good tidings, for which I surely know you will all be thankful. We have nothing to complain of, much to be piously grateful for; and thus with a kind of serious cheerfulness, far different from vague dreams of Hope or dark shadowings of dispiritment, may gird ourselves up for a new career. As it was entered into without dishonest purposes, the issue, unless we change for the worse, is not to be dreaded, prove as it may. It is to be met and welcomed, be it, as regards the present brief Time, for joy or for sorrow. One of the greatest moments of my life, I think, was that when I waved my hat to you and Jamie from on board the Steamboat: my two Brothers, the last of my kindred I had to leave, stood there; and I stood here, already fast flying from them! something like a tear trembled in my eyes, but did not fall from them, for I would not desecrate so solemn an hour by childish weakness. I turned my thoughts Heavenward; for it is in Heaven only that I find any basis for our poor Pilgrimage on this Earth. And so I could thank you all for your unwearied long-suffering love of me; could feel well that tho' parted in place we could never be parted in affection; and go forth to meet my destiny in no improper mood. That dewy May morning when you drove me down to Annan; the night before, when your figure rose on me in helpful waiting, at Strillahill Bridge: these are scenes that certainly will never quit my memory, but they do not dwell sad there; rather pure and beautiful and almost holy. Courage, my brave Brothers all! Let us be found faithful, and we shall not fail. Surely, as the blue dome of Heaven encircles us all, so does the Providence of the Lord of Heaven. "He will withhold no good thing from those that love Him." 2 This, as it was the ancient Psalmist's Faith, let it likewise be ours: it is the Alpha and Omega, I reckon, of all Possessions that can belong to man. Neither my Mother nor you will interpret these reflexions of mine as if they betokened gloom of temper; but indeed rather the reverse. I hope we have left great quantities of gloom safe behind us at Puttock; and indeed hitherto have given little harbour to such a guest here. It is strange often to myself with what a kind of not only fearlessness, but meek contempt and even indifference I can walk thro' the grinding press of these restless millions; listening, as "Teufelsdröckh" says, "to

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its loudest threatenings with a still smile." 3 1 mean to work among the poor people according to my strength; and I know well that what strength God has given me no man nor no Devil can take away. As to riches, fame, success, and so forth, I ask no questions. Were the work laid out for us but the kneading of a clay brick, let us in God's name do it faithfully, and look for our reward elsewhere; understanding from of old that here (if indeed we deserve any reward) it does not await us. So, on the whole, to end moralizing, let us sing: Come fingers five, come now be Uve, And stout heart fail me not, not! Or, what is far before singing, let us do it, and go on doing it. The House here continues to satisfy us amazingly: it is spacious, well-aired, quiet, clean, every way sufficient. The two under-rooms (which by folding-doors are one) have got the old Puttock drawingroom Carpet on them, with certain stripes of the dyed Blankets most judiciously fitted in to help; and now, with their two windows looking out into the quiet street where little but green leaves and branches is visible, and their one window into the garden, and clean flagged Court, — form, with their strong old-fashioned Scotch furniture, really one of the agreeablest apartments I ever sat in: unfashionable in the highest degree, but in the highest degree comfortable and serviceable. The green drawing-room Curtains are there; a pair of green Venetian blinds are to be there very soon, for the two front windows. The Piano, just about getting tuned, is in the front-room, with the round drawing-room table, and chairs and etceteras enough: the little Clock is on his bracket in the back-room, with the dining-room oval table; it is here where we sit in dewy morning sunshine, and breakfast — on hot coffee, and the best of bread and butter. I myself am up stairs (as now) in the front-room, at my old writing-table, with one of the dining-room chairs for personal use, and some eight other ornamental London ones, of cherry-wood and cane-bottoms, bought for some 8/6 apiece, really very handsome. The cheapness of all that sort of things here surprised us agreeably: we bought very tolerable new rush-bottomed chairs all painted etc. at 2/3 apiece (for kitchen and bedroom) : they were to be had of good stained hardwood for 4/; not

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above half the price they are at in Dumfries. Hardware too, of which we have again a right stock, is decidedly cheaper. I bought a large secondhand Press for my Books, fully larger than the Scotsbrig one now our Mother's, and all of the best workmanship and beautifullest dark "Onjuras May-ugany" (Honduras Mahogany), for £4: a most sturdy, sufficient thing, with not a whit of veneering ( for the very shelves, all moveable too, are of "May-ugany," only "Spanish"); a great bargain. And now in this, and in two other strange wall-presses ( with which the old House abounds), all my Books are safe stowed; and the red carpet and red curtains being fitted in, and every thing as dry as a bone, — I sit quite snug, and "far better than I deserve." We also find Chelsea exceedingly convenient for shops and the like, which is a thing nowise universal in the other suburbs: we have discovered a Scotch Baker equal to the Waterbeck one; can get a "halfpenny farthing's worth" of porter at any moment of the day, actually get a morsel of cream twice aday, and can even (which is the chief miracle) realise sour-milk! Our Annandale oatmeal makes us the nicest supper; for which only an ungrateful heart would not return thanks. Out of doors, the world wags on as yet without much interference of ours. The Magazine and Review people, seemingly in the last stage of straitenedness, have no work to offer; and for the present I have no employment bringing money in. Greatly to my glad surprise, however, I found that Books actually could be got published; to the writing of a Book4 therefore I will first of all again address myself, and am indeed already addressing myself in some measure. If all go well, you will see a Book with my name on it, before you see me: it shall be the best Book I can make it, and after that, the poor people can do with it and say of it and sing of it what is to themselves most comfortable. To the Magaziners I shall probably have little more to say: that, once for all, seems to me a finished trade for an honest man; so we will look about for something else. First get the Book done; that is the duty nearest thee! Mill's Review,5 after great despondencies, is I believe to go on after all; a certain Sir W. Molesworth (whom I see sometimes) having offered £,2,000 out of his own pocket to set it agoing. With this it is very probable I shall have some rather effectual concern: but of this too I hold myself independent. "Blastil wormers" enough are living here: shall not I too live? On the whole, my literary position, if it have noth-

1834, London 343 ing whatever in it to encourage vainglory, has much to strengthen me in welldoing, and indeed is perhaps almost just such as a wise friend might wish it for me. The mob of scribblers make no account of me, go yowling, like huge packs of famishing hounds, after quite other objects; but every now and then, often from remote corners, some earnest voice reaches me, by some indirect way or other, to say: well done, Brother; hold on thy course, and let the hounds'-i/otûïing hold its! This, I fancy, is almost precisely as it should be. In respect of society, we have what perfectly suffices us; having indeed here the best chance. Mill comes sometimes, the Bullers were all here paying us their first visit; Mrs Austin6 etc.: there is really enough, and might easily be to spare. Things go in the strangest course in that respect here. A man becomes (for some reason, or for no reason, discoverable by the unassisted faculties) in some way or other notable: straightway his door from dawn to dusk is beset with idlers and loungers and empty persons on foot and in carriages, who come to gather of his supposed fulness one five minutes of tolerable sensation; and so the poor man (most frequently it is a poor woman) sits, in studied attitude, all day, "doing what he can do"; — which alas is all-too little; for gradually or suddenly the carriage-and-foot empty persons start some other scent, and crowd elsewhither; and so the poor notable man, now fallen into midnight obscurity, sits, in his studied attitude, within forsaken walls, — either to rise and set about some work (which were the best), or mournfully chaunt Ichabodl according to his own convenience. I know people in various stages of this process at present; some nearly ruined by it; some beginning to be ruined: it is sad, but certain. A few persons, attached not to your repute but to yourself: there lies the only companionship. But on the whole as I often say, what is society; what is the help of others, in any shape? None but thyself can effectually help thee, can effectually hinder thee! — A man must have lived to little purpose six years in the wilderness of Puttock, if he have not made this clear to himself. Let us hold fast by this, my dear Brother; for it applies to you also, as to me and all men. Perhaps my chief favourite at present is Charles Buller. Really a fine sprightly friendly clear and genial young man; can tell you a most intelligible lively story about everything he mixes in; with the grace-

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fullest ease of manners, a very look that bespeaks confidence and respect from you. If his health were good, which unfortunately it is not, I should prophecy of Buller that he would do more good in Parliament than any other man in it. Both he and the whole family like me very much: they are but some two miles and a half from me; so I sometimes, in an evening, step up to tea (only once since we came here), and find the pleasantest welcome, and generally something profitable to talk of. Mrs Strachey is gone again, without my seeing much of her. Hunt and the Hunts, as you have heard, lives only in the next street from us.8 Hunt is always ready to go and walk with me, or sit and talk with me, to all lengths, if I want him: he comes in some once a week (when invited, for he is very modest), takes a cup of tea, and sits discoursing, in his brisk fanciful way, till supper-time, and then cheerfully eats a cup of porridge (to sugar only), which he praises to the skies, and vows he will make his supper of at home. He is a man of thoroughly London make, such as you could not find elsewhere, and I think about the best possible to be made of his sort. An airy, crotchetty, most copious, clever Talker, with an honest undercurrent of reason too, but unfortunately not the deepest, not the most practical; or rather it is the most unpractical ever man delt in. His hair is grizzled, eyes black-hazel, complexion of the clearest dusky-brown; a thin glimmer of smile plays over a face of cast-iron gravity; giving him a singular, discrepant air. He never laughs, can only titter; which I think indicates his worst deficiency. In figure and complexion he somewhat reminds me of our late Uncle Sandy:9 there is the same honest cheerful look, tho' so differently expressed. I reckon Hunt a thoroughly sincere man; and find him entertaining by a time. His House here excels all you have ever read of; a "poetical Tinkerdom" without parallel even in Literature. In his family-room, where are a sickly large wife and a whole shoal of well-conditioned wild children, you will find half a dozen old rickety chairs gathered from half a dozen different hucksters, and all seemingly engaged, and just pausing, in a violent hornpipe; on these, and around them, and over the dusty table and ragged carpet, lie all kinds of litter; books, papers, egg-shells, scissors, and, last night when I was there, the torn heart of a half

1834, London 345 quartern loaf! His own room above stairs, into which alone I strive to enter, he keeps cleaner; it has only two chairs, a book-case and a writing-table: yet the noble Hunt receives you in his Tinkerdom with the spirit of a King; apologizes for nothing; places you in the best seat; takes a window-sill himself, if there is no other, and then folding closer his loose-flowing "muslin-cloud" of a printed night-gown (in which he always writes), commences the liveliest dialogue on Philosophy and the Prospects of Man (who is to be beyond measure "happy"10 yet), which again he will courteously terminate the moment you are bound to go. A most interesting, pitiable, loveable man; to be used kindly, but with discretion. After all, it is perhaps rather a comfort to be near honest friendly people, at least an honest friendly man, of that sort: we stand "sharp but mannerly" for his sake and for ours, and endeavour to get and do what good we can, and avoid the evil. Allan Cunningham is hardly a mile from us in the way towards Town: I have meant to go up several evenings, but not made it out yet. There is a good deal of worth in Allan; but unfortunately no firm basis; he talks hither and thither, not without gumption; far from that; yet with too much nickering and guffawing, in the rustic Nithsdale style. His wife unfortunately has got puffed up (in all senses), and become a woman "altered by prosperity." Jeshurun waxed fat! 11 But now, my dear Brother, I must certainly draw bridle! It is already probably the longest Letter you ever read, and all about myself. Now that the foundation is laid, and you have an idea of our foundation here, I shall be able to make myself intelligible in briefer compass. Had it not been Jean's Letter yesterday, which satisfied me about many things, I meant to require of you with all vehemence an answer the moment this came to hand. As it is, you must not be long; take your largest sheet (even a ïong-shaped one), and in your smallest hand give me nothing but news, news! There have been great things at Scotsbrig, as I now authentically see: the Honey-moon is not yet exhausted; so that all will yet be rosecolour there. My hearty love to the new Pair; my wish (with Mr Croaker) "that we may be all as well this time twelvemonth!"12 Seriously, it is better the thing is over, and now we partly see what ground we are standing on. Our dear Mother will get on tolerably among you

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for this year; and then the next Whitsunday, if we be all spared, new light may rise. I need not entreat you all to be good to her; for I think that is a universal feeling in the family. Jean mentioned Jenny and you as at Dumfries shortly before she wrote, and that her accounts out of Annandale were quite fresh, and all satisfactory. Let us be thankful! — Tell me how you get on; as minutely as I here shew you the pattern. Are you still for giving up Catlinns? It is a project not to be objected to, in my opinion; yet doubtless requiring serious thought. Perhaps you have already decided it. Give my love to Jenny; to little Jane and my poor wee Namesake, who must be grown a big fellow by the time of my retimi. Bring up your family "in the nurture and admonition"13 prescribed by the Highest: I see daily mournful proofs how fatal is the want of that. Stand steadily to business, yet not over vehemently; it is "slow fire that makes sweet malt." Without haste yet without rest! 14 — Finally, my dear Brother, take heed to your goings! You are now the Eldest in some sense, and the Head and protector of the rest of our separated Household; may God give you strength and grace to do that and all other duties aright! I had much to say, but will add no more. God's Blessing be on you and yours! Ever your affectionate Brother, T. Carlyle Jane is gone out, but charged me to send her love to you and everyone. She is well, and thanks you all for help. You will get the Newspaper, if Jamie Aitkin is regular, generally on Sabbath; or at worst pretty certainly on Monday. It suffers no delay by Jamie; but profits much by the address in this hand. Püblished in part: Carlyle's House: Illustrated Descriptive Catalogue of Books, Manuscripts, Pictures, and Furniture Exhibited Therein (London, 1900), pp. 18-20; Froude, II, 437-440. 1. Charles, who was now M.P. for Liskeard. 2. Cf. Ps. 84:11. 3. Sartor Resartus, p. 86. 4. One he had for long been contemplating, The French Revolution: A History, 3 vols. (London, 1837), the work that established Carlyle in the front rank of living writers. 5. The London Review, founded by Sir William Molesworth, eighth baronet (1810-1855), politician and editor of The English Works of

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Thomas Hobbes, 1 1 vols. (1839-1845), who commissioned Mill to start the review. Mill at first refused and offered its editorship to Carlyle, who irrevokably refused. (Wilson, II, 358, sets the amount of subsidy at £4,000.) 6. Sarah Austin (1793-1867), wife of the jurist John Austin (17901859), mother of Lucie, Lady Duff-Gordon (1821-1869), and the close friend of Bentham, James Mill, and the Grotes. She was the translator of mainly historical French and German works, the most important of which are Victor Cousin's (1792-1867) Report on the State of Public Instruction in Prussia (1834) and Leopold von Ranke's (1795-1886) History of the Popes During the 16th and 17th Centuries (1840) and his History of the Reformation in Germany (1845-1847). She edited the Memoirs of Sydney Smith (1855), her husband's Province of Jurisprudence (1861), and her daughter's Letters from Egypt (1865). 7. Underscored twice. 8. At 4 Upper Cheyne Row. For the letters between Carlyle and Hunt and a thorough treatment of the relationship between the two men see Sanders, The Correspondence and Friendship of Thomas Carlyle and Leigh Hunt. 9. Possibly Francis (1761-1819), whom Carlyle described as "a quaint, social, cheerful man; of less earnestness, but more openness [than his uncle Thomas, 1776-1816]; fond of genealogies, old histories, poems, queer sayings and all curious and humane things he could come at" (Reminiscences, I, 34). Francis had two sons by the former Elizabeth Bell (1783-1842) — Thomas, a lawyer, and John. 10. "Jeffrey's occasional form of salutation was 'Are you happy?' — M. C." (L, p. 384). 11. Deut. 32:15. 12. See the opening (Act the First) and closing (Act the Fifth) speeches of Croaker in Goldsmith's The Good Natur'd Man. 13. Eph. 6:4. 14. Goethe's motto: "Ohne Hast aber ohne Rast."

98.

5. Great Cheyne Row, Chelsea, London, 28th August 1834 My Dear Brother, It is many a long week since I had a word with you; it seemed immeasurably long till you answered my last Letter; and now I daresay it is long again before I have got pen in hand to make another

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step in the Dialogue. You must not be so dilatory another time; neither will I, if you meet me fairly. I know how you are driven about frequently, and what a business it is to get your Desk all fettled: but you must ever make an effort, and do me that kindness: news from poor old Annandale, and the indisolubly united Friends I have there, the most precious to me of any I have in this world, are what I can in no wise do without. See if I have not taken my largest sheet, tho' a most uncomfortable one; and what a hand I am writing in!1 You were busy, when you wrote last, snatching your Hay from the roaring burn-floods; and now, as I often figure, you are all strips on the Harvest-rig, gathering in a still more essential crop. God speed your honest toil! How innocent and free it looks, there on the hill-side, with the yellow vales and knolls of this fair Earth all spread around you, and the everlasting heavenly Vault arched kindly overhead! Yet I know well, it is not free, nor a pleasure; a task rather and sorrowful trouble, as all Labour is; not (for the present) joyous but grievous. Nevertheless persevere, persevere. Among all the struggling Sons of Adam, who have arisen this day to struggle in their several battle-fields, there is simply none more sure that he is in a right cause, than you there on the stubble-field, binding up the indispensable sheaves. This is a great blessing, and indeed the greatest: that a man be in the right in what he fights for is all in all for him; his battle, his victory, taken by itself, if we weigh it in the true Eternal Balance, issues simply in "round O," name itself as proudly as it may. For the rest, I hear, you may judge how gladly, that your Fields have again been kind to you, that there is an "excellent crop on the ground": so testifies Grahame of Burnswark; who adds nevertheless that he detests Catlinns ( for private reasons: I believe he lost a Brother there from cruel hardships ) as he does the "Plains of Pandemonium." He mentioned, what you had already told me, that you were threatening to quit that arena; a thing he seemed rather to call in question, "provided you were making a little money in it." Alas, yes! With that proviso I also should decidedly vote for your continuing in it. As it is, however, who can censure the step you have taken?2 I long greatly to hear what the fruit of that proposal of yours has been; and really, so uncertain is everything, and so unthrifty are all even indispensable changes, I think if they will abate you the £.20, I shall rather rejoice in your continuance than otherwise. New fields

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of exertion, it is very true, are possible for you; wider fields, but then also more dangerous ones, with more influences that lead down to utter ruin, and where apart from danger of that kind, peace of mind may be still more difficult for you. Tell me, I pray you, the moment anything is decided about it. If they will leave you so that you can pay your rent with any comfort, I can look on you at Catlinns without misgivings: you can trim up your household establishment there more and more; you can get a few Books round you for long winter nights; you have your little children by you as a lasting interest, whom to train up in the way that they should go will be a duty and a b[l]essedness. Above all, my dear Brother, whatsoever thing you lose, O do not lose yourself! Were I assured against this, I should see no danger for you. You are too indignant against destiny: it is a fault of my own too, in which my example has perhaps harmed you; yet a sore fault it is, as I see more and more. Not Pride (from which that indignation, if we examine it, arises ) but Humility, the humbling and down-pulling of that same Pride, is the lesson we are to be taught. Happy for us if we can learn it; and so with wise submissiveness "bear our cross," whatever that may be, and skirt many an obstacle which we cannot mount over, which we would so fain hurl from us (were the arms strong enough) and utterly destroy! Finally, my dear Brother, call, from the depths of your heart, on God to help you, to guide you in the way, for it is not in man to guide himself; and so, with your eye on fixed heavenly loadstars, walk forward fearing nothing — for Time or for Eternity. Nothing! There is work on God's wide Earth for all men that He has made with hands and hearts; and we, by his blessing, will seek it, and find it, should we go to the Transatlantic grass-plains for it. And so here will I end. You do not object to my advisings and moralizings; you know that the feeling they spring from is of the deepest: I know you ponder what I say beyond what it deserves; and, in any case, are cheered to consider that you have an elder Brother who in no chance or change can cease to sympathize with your weal or woe, and help you if it be in his ability. Forward then! Steady and strong! The notices you give me about our Mother are what I especially desired, as I still desire more. She has at last written me part of a Letter with her own hand, in the cheerfullest serene spirit, even with a touch of jocoseness; which I think has been one of the gladdest tilings

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that has befallen me since I left you. I will write3 to her very soon, at Jean's; indeed, I had thoughts of writing to her today and not to you whose right it was; but I fancied you impatient, and so will do both ere long. That James has got his wedding over so greatly to his mind, and likes it still so well, is a thing I heartily rejoice at: tell him so, poor fellow; and that according as his wife and he are wise, so will their happiness be: in that proportion and no higher one; yet by God's blessing in that proportion. Give him my brotherly love, and best wishes that all may be well with him and what belongs to him. Jean confirms your report of the Austins at Annan; describes work as scarce, but Jamie as getting a share of it. She says they have still their eye on farms, and some kind of outlook towards Wull Brown's. In this you are infinitely fitter than I to give them counsel. My wishes that they may be well counselled are all I can give. Remember me specially to poor Mary, who I think is like to be a douce Wifie; tell her that I hope to find her well and doing well, and to eat another breakfast with her yet from time to time. I may as well finish off Scotch business before going farther. That Craigenputtock shooting as you have perhaps learnt, is let; the parties are in it, I believe, with all their retinue; doing the best they can beside old Nannie.4 They are East Lothian people, whom Jane knows ( one of them called Aitken, another Scott, both Indians); they will behave decently, and pay their £ 1 0 of rent. So the thing is settled tolerably enough. We have heard, by Mrs Welsh, of the Shower-bath; but fear it had been delayed too long for M'Diarmid and was not sold: in that case, they must just do the next best with it. No old Clatch you say is disposed of; and in a week or two (in October, I believe) you will learn what you have got for it: I hope it will be useful to Brand, while he is weak, and not a losing bargain to him. There is finally that Craigenputtock wood-cutter, whom you have to settle with. I believe him to be a decent man who will give you little trouble in it. He will meet you at Dumfries any day; and according to the Proverb, the nearest day you can get him and get yourself to fix will be the best. He borrowed £L xo, for which his acknowledgement is here; his own wages were to be 3/ a-day, and that of the other people strictly what they cost him: he was to have a written account of everything to show, and said "it would be the queerest wood he ever saw if it did not clear it-

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self and leave something over." I shall like to hear that you have settled, and what the amount is. That £10 receipt should have been sent while there were franks (and can still be, if essential); but it is only on simple paper; and you in your final discharge of him can take notice of it. As was said, I believe the man to be honest; and hope to hear that you could settle cheerfully with him. J[an]e (by way of "more last words") says there werfe mone]y you were to pay an Apothecary, and asks whether it be within the limits of possibility that you have forgotten it? And so that is the very last "last word" on this part of the subject. As for London and myself, tho' I think I could sit with you on some of your brae-sides for the length [of] a day, and talk to you about it, with comfort and profit, yet of news that can be written there is not more than this remnant may hold. Briefly, we are in the old way. Our household goes quickly on, all fairly fulfilling its promise. My word too does not stand still, tho' nothing can yet get so far as black-onwhite, but is toilsomely shaping itself in silence and secret. My day is spent in reading, in considering. I have had a pensive, sometimes a sad, yet a sweetly-tender summer; on the whole, a better one than I have known of late. Whatsoever be my destiny I feel in general that here is the place where I must work it out; that I am at my post here. Much exercise of spirit (as several people will name it) has gone thro' me; I hope, not to no purpose; for I have much to settle and alter in that quarter. Tho' I hardly learn anything from speech with any individual man here, yet in the long run the influences of the place are upon me, and I feel better what it is I am working, and how to work it, and have a much more natural position than in the wilderness. Puttock in particular who can regret? Many other places, all your Annandale regions, the windings about Milk Mill, the very Hags and Brownmoor, look softened and bright to me in the distance; but not so the Dimscore Desert; that is a place we never knew good in except what we gained as at the sword's point; a place doomed, even in my memory, to silence, obstruction, and the dispiritment of motionless desolation; a place I care not if I never see again! So far all is well. What London is to do for me remains with the Providence that guides us. A huge confused outlook, wherein, however, I think I am learning to look with more freedom, more profit. The intellect, the natural force of none of

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the people is such as to strike me with the smallest fear for myself: generally even the literary men seem the incontrovertiblest duds: yet do they not live? I too will live, and do much more than that! Meanwhile, as was said, my task lies on the work-board, and I have to work at it; which is dear enough guidance. I hope to make a reasonable production of it; and shall verily do my best. It will be sore, sore; I shudder to look at it; but know, from old experience, that it is possible for me, and as the Cockneys say "shall be done, Sir." Money for nearer wants I expect to earn some other way. Nay I had an offer the other day from Fraser to earn a £20 by a new "Article" for him; but he wished it of a lower, froth-price, and cared not ( as he seemed to tell me) tho' it were froth too: I, after consideration, declined, yet respectfully. He is a good creature, Fraser, tho' surrounded with Irish-blackguardism; and, as seems likely will be the man for publishing my Book: he is honest, punctual and cheerful to do business with; great qualities and not the commonest in his way. We have finished off Teufelsdröckh, last month; he paid me for it honestly what he bargained for;5 he made me up 50 complete copies, most of which I have dispersed far and wide: there was a set for Dumfriesshire, which I hope are now very near you: they were to come by Edinburgh and M'Kie,e and to be sent all to Jean: one for her, one for Catlinns, one for Scotsbrig, one for Annan; that is to say, one for every household of you, so that whoever will or dare may read in it. The thing is not worthless; you will get something out of it, in the winter time, and at all events, a remembrance erf your Brother and his old Life ( for it was written the last summer we were together), which will be dear to you. I put your name on it in the Bookseller's shop, but could say nothing more there. There is another little thing,7 which Mill is urging me to publish ( and will even print at his own expence that he "may write a review on it"!) but whether to set it out, or keep it a while ( and perhaps gain some pounds by it ) I do not yet know. This is all my Book news. We are particularly still at present, one might almost call it solitary, were it not that talk if you like to go out for it can at all times be had. But this is the season when "London goes out of Town"; innumerable mortals fly in every direction to sea-coasts and mineral wells, by way of varying their dulness. I cannot say that any friend we valued much is gone; indeed there is only one or two to whom that character at all be-

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longs; I myself too am very much isolated in my own thoughts, and find less pleasure in most persons than they seem to find in me; but I will leg about me by and by, and try to get among the practical people. If a man's opinion is worth never so little, his experience is always of value. Hunt is ever brisk, friendly and at hand; but has found me, I imagine, a most iron Presbyterian fellow, and hovers rather in the distance last fortnight. His talk is clever, among the cleverest; but far from the talk I want; unproductive, in earnest seasons worth nothing to me. Allan Cunningham has more stuff in him; he was here an evening lately: good scotch guffawing talk, almost like a country Scotch "foresupper"! He has presented me his Life of Burns;8 a good thing, which I wish I could get lent to you. We had Irving down: a touching, rather sad sight, yet with kind remembrances clinging to it: he is white in beard and whiskers, looks very weak, coughs, and seemed disposed to do what I pressingly wished and insisted on: go and rest himself in the country. I was to see him soon; but had not time yesterday, when near his place, and so have perhaps missed him. I trust he tvill recover; and if so, then seems certainly a likelihood that in mind too he will be himself again. May it be so! — ( Turn to the first page ) I will not write on this wretched paper, nor try to write so small again, for really you are a loser by it, so stiff do I get both in the fingers and the mind and nothing flows freely from me. — When will you write? Do not, I beg of you, be long. If you cannot get a sheet filled, send it off half-filled. The Newspaper will come to you every Monday, I hope, with the regularity of the sun. Aitken seems very punctual with it, and in me there is no shadow of irregularity — or should not be, for I like it ill. One day it was behind some weeks ago: but then it had not come. — Tell Grahame that I got his Letter and read it with joy. By the bye, could not you see a little more of Grahame? He seems fond of you, and is fond of rational speech with all men. — But alas! dear Boy, my sheet is done. I could take an acre more, were there time. We shall meet again, and have a talk! Give our love to Jenny; be kind to her, and she will repay you with interest: she has now none but you between her and the wind. Tell little Jean and my Namesake to be good till I come. God ever bless them and you! Your affectionate T. Ca[rlyle]

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I beg you will lose no time in letting my Mother hear of you after you get this; but indeed I will write soon to herself. — I end here; and will nev[er] write so small again! Our summer has been hot, hot; it seems now gone, very suddenly: there is harvest-moon, and clear coolness, almost cold. The stubble is all bare in these parts many weeks ago, and we have had rain enough after our drought: the grass is green and rank. Jane is angry that I have not more specially sent her love to you all. She was not at hand, and I had no orders. Here it is! She is well. Published in part: L, pp. 446-447. 1. The paper is extremely thin, Carlyle's hand cramped. 2. "I have some weeks ago," Alexander wrote July 27 (MS: N L S # 1763.123-124), "signified in a note to [the factor of Catlinns] my determination not to remain longer than the present year in this farm unless twenty pounds a year were taken from the rent . . . It seems . . . next to perfect folly for me in my present circumstances to think of struggling and puddling longer here without the slightest prospect of making a little money even." 3. See L, pp. 447-449. 4. Nanny McQueen. Carlyle wrote John that she "pays us . . . SL10 for the Park and right of living in the House, with charge of taking care of it, and admitting any decent 'gunner body' of that kind" (L, P· 445)· 5. £ 8 2 is. He wrote John (L, p. 442) that Fraser gave him fiftyeight copies. 6. A Dumfries bookseller. A letter Carlyle wrote to him, dated from Craigenputtock March 1 1 , 1834, is in the Dumfries Burgh Museum. 7. "The Diamond Necklace." 8. In The Works of Robert Burns; With His Life, 8 vols. (London, 1834)·

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99· To Margaret Aitken Carlyìe 5. Cheyne Row, Chelsea, London, 23d October, 1834 My Dear Mother, All is right here at last; I have time now to send you news of myself, and also a Letter from the Doctor, which was more than bargain. I am afraid, you think me a very bad boy for putting off so long, especially when you had encouraged me by a Letter of your own: but I was in the thick of a Chapter of that French Revolution,1 and wished particularly to finish it first; a result what proved unattainable for three or four days later than I expected. However, yesterday ( having got it off my hands ) I walked out eastward into the throng of the City, partly also to give myself the air; obtained the promise of a frank from Mill, which I hope to see today; then Jack's Letter, which arrived on Tuesday last, can go too, and tell you that he is still well. You will find that the Vesuvius Explosion was at a comfortable distance from him, and did not destroy any life, even of those that were nearest it: the Doctor and one of his ladies went up to see the ground after all danger was over, and looked at the lava "forty feet deep." The thunderbolt which struck their house, and almost miraculously, harmed no one, was a much more perilous matter, — to the like of which all of us are daily liable. How little thankful we are for escape, in comparison with what our sorrow would have been in the other case! We are car[e]less, thoughtless beings; and indeed as Jack says, it need not require a thunderbolt to make us consider how fearfully and wonderfully we hover in the midst of danger all our days, and are mercifully preserved nevertheless till our hour come. — The good Doctor is well, which is a great blessing to us; and we can hope to see him, were the summer come again; and to keep him nearer home for the future. One of the reasons why I did not write directly after Mary's Letter was my desire to ascertain first what was to be said about that Chelsea Provision-barrel, which you had set off to get ready for us. I wrote to Willm Hamilton (an old friend, from Sanquhar, who dwells near the shipping region here) asking what the circumstances, fare, time etc. of that Whitehaven Shipping Company were: he did not answer me for

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above a week; and then only answered that the people could answer him nothing. We had, indeed, already determined or next to it that it would be better to have nothing to do with them; but to trust to Liverpool, where we already knew the conveyance was sure: at the rate of some six shillings a hundredweight. Your plan therefore will be to give up the Potatoes altogether (for we can get them here, good enough, tho' dear), and get us fifteen stone of Oatmeal, and pack this, with the sixty pounds of Scotsbrig butter (in two pigs), into a moderate barrel, and send it off by the Steamboat. The oatmeal I need but bid Mr Carhill 2 procure at Satur Mill, and before all things exceedingly dry ( since it will have to stand so long), the butter, I fancy will stand very safe in it: Jane once spoke of bacon hams, but now despairs of there being any to be got at this season. I mention only farther that our house-doors (even the outer door) are not more than 3 feet wide, so the barrel must not be more; let the meal be well rammed into it, and we need not take it out except as we need it. Finally, direct it to us here: "to be forwarded from Liverpool by Messrs Pickford and Co, by Canal." If Jamie go down with it to Annan, Ben Nelson, or Nicholson,3 or any of them will write the direction as it ought to be written (plain, large, and on a Card); "Pickford and Co, and by Canal" is all that he has to remember. The Pickfords are the most extensive and the most punctual Carriers in the world: in less than a fortnight after you give it to the Steampeople, the barrel (if nothing happen it) will be sitting safe here. — It will seem absurd enough to tell you that we are in haste, now after waiting so long: but the truth is, our meal has been done for a fortnight, and we have had the strangest shifts for a supper ( among others, flour-porridge; exactly, Shoemakers paste, only clean); and at last have been obliged to take to some of the "Scotch oatmeal" sold in the shops here, — very dear ( 5d for a quart by measure ), very rough, and not always very sound. However, we have got a small stock now (7 pounds for 18 pence), which tho' rough is quite sound; which therefore we can thankfully use. So you need not suppose us starving. The Butter too is almost always excellent (churned, I believe, out of milk); at the easy rate of 16 pence a pound! In regard to provision, I shall only add that the Beef-ham daily plays its part at breakfast, and proves thoroughly genuine. The Butcher came here one day to saw the bone of it; and asked with amazement, whether it was pork or not? He had

1834, London 357 never heard of any ham, but a bacon one; and departed from us with a new idea. — N.B. We got coffee to breakfast (at 8 or nearly so), have very often mutton-chops to dinner (at 3 ) , then tea at 6; we have 4d worth of cream, 2d worth of milk daily: this is our diet; which I know you would rather know than not know. But now quitting the Pantry and Buttery, let me tell you a little of the upstairs work; which you have got too little of lately. In regard to health, we have every reason to be thankful: Jane is evidently better than she used to be; I no worse at least: I had a pitiful fraction of a Cold some fortnight ago, but it has now left me, and even better than it found me. I am making no money, but can do without any for a long time (for we live very cheap), and wait till I see which of the many courses of making a little will be the best for me, that of Literature being now so confused and even dishonest a way. In the mean time, I sit busy at my Book, which is the only thing I have any business to think of at present: it goes along not so badly; I have three little Chapters of it fairly done, and so the rusty wheel is in motion, and I ought to think that like "a begun turn," it is half ended. When once I get fairly afloat in work, I do not care a farthing for all the obstructions of this Devil's den of a world, were it twice as bad. Thou too as I say to myself, hast a small fraction of a gift: God has given it thee, the Devil shall not take it away! Unfortunately I cannot now run over to Scotsbrig, when I have got a little job done: but you see, I write; which is the next best; and by and by I shall run over too, and meet you again ( if the good Providence permit), and tell you a whole bag of news. There is plenty of work here for me; and hundred thousands of more feckless characters than I make a living of it too: so I whistle up Johnny O'Cox, and fear nothing. They may use my poor Revolution well or ill, or not notice it at all if they like that better: it is a very indubitable fact that no service God meant me to do can remain undone; and should one not "learn therewith to be content"?4 Jane rather fancies, however, that this will prove a more readable kind of Book: it shall be the best I, in these circumstances, can make it; and then if the people like to read it, we shall wish them great profit of it. — I am afraid, you make nothing or very little of Teufelsdröckh; which however I am very glad to know that you have got: I wrote to Tait at Edinburgh about it, and that, I suppose, had set it under way again. Do the best you can with it!

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Take it any way as a token of my love. By and by you shall get this "more readable" one. Our friends now are all coming back: we were at Mrs Austin's lately ( who has been in Jersey, France etc., and returns as affectionate as ever); we had Mill long last night; have seen the Cunninghams etc. etc. We spend the evenings very comfortably without company too; reading, for the morrow's writing; or even writing when the task is behind hand. The bield situation of Chelsea is in our favour now, the October gusts can get no painful hold of us; our weather too has been dry and pleasant (till these late days), better I fear than yours. We see comparatively little of the Hunts for some weeks; they have sickness in the house, and many sad cares: poor Hunt himself I think one of the most innocent men I ever saw in man's size; a very boy for clear innocence, tho' his hair is grey, and his face ploughed with many sorrows. I have met some new people too, not without worth; meet with nothing but regard and kindness from every one. — No other domestic news, except this, that our Servant Bessy is gone home to Birmingham again, after a month's warning, some days ago. She was a quiet useful creature in the house; but quite sorrow-stricken for Badams5 (and the strange questionable things she had suffered and witnessed with him), and felt that she could have "no comfort anywhere," for the present, but would be better with her mother than elsewhere. We were very sorry for the poor girl; but, on the whole, rather glad to see her go than otherwise. Her violence of feeling, her strange diseased state of mind, were quite foreign-looking things in our still (dark) bit of a household. By what seems great good fortune (for Servants here seem worse than even with you) we have got another very decentlooking innocent kind of creature6 (of whose character there can be no doubt) who had been brought lately from Lancaster by some of Mrs Montague's people: she keeps everything again as tight as need be, and looks out far too red-cheeked, and glad that she has got a shelter, to be unhappy. Lastly we have removed up-stairs this day; for I cannot write without fires any longer; and this is a larger room than either half of the groundfloor one, where we are obliged to shut the folding-doors in winter time: so Jane sits here sewing, and I before her (at one of the three windows), and all is as comfortable as it ought. I

1834, London 359 stick by my diminished quantity of Tobacco; or even diminish it still more (for my Edinburgh Pipes are done, and the Liverpool ones far smaller) : Mundell's7 man furnishes me with the right kind of weed (at 3 / 1 0 a pound), which is a great comfort to me. Finally (which is later than "lastly"!) I have got on my brown-grey socks, which are as they before were the best foot-clothing I ever had. — Is not this minute enough? Jean's Newspaper has just arrived; and has not the strokes on it: may I hope, it was only forgetfulness? I wish she had not forgotten! Tell Jamie (Aitken) I was much obliged by his Letter, and right glad of the news: my only fault to him was his brevity. I will write to them soon, when franks get rifer. Mary's Letter was as welcome as Letter could be: Jane said "none of them but poor Mary will write to me"! I believe the Dame means to add some kind of Answer to this frank. — Does not Alick think he should have written to me long ago? Tell him the harvest is now done; and he is standing greatly in his own light. If I have any time tomorrow, I will add a little scrap for him. But how are you yourself, my dear Mother? I only wished your Note had been a yard long: the other one is sent off verbatim to Rome, — but this is a secret between ourselves! I fancy you now in your two upper rooms, and beginning to get hefted. I beg of you to keep a rousing fire on; there is nothing else can withstand the weather and damp there. Is Jenny with you again? Tell her that she and you must make out a Letter hither without delay; at latest, when the Barrel goes off. Tell me what you have got to read? I mean some time to send you a few Books; but know not whether they were worth the direct carriage, 5d a pound. You should not be without Books. Tell me what you do: whether you have begun to spin that far-famed Dressinggown? I think, you had better give it out to be done. Keep withindoors, dear Mother, in the wild weather. The Spring will come; and the Summer, and, if it please God, your two Sons! In the dull winter, you shall not want for Letters. I wish I knew anything I could do for you! One thing I can always do is to love you, and pray from my heart of hearts that it may be well with you. — I will add a word on the Cover when it comes. Good day till then, dear Mother! Yours Wholly, T. Carlyle

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Published in part: L, pp. 450-452. 1. He wrote his mother earlier that "The best news I have is that this day (September 1) I mean to begin writing my book; nay, had it not been for the present sheet, would already have been at it! Wish me good speed; I have meditated the business as I could, and must surely strive to do my best" (Froude, II, 453). 2. Unidentified. 3. Unidentified. 4. Cf. Phil. 4:11. 5. Whom she once served. 6. Jane Ireland. See Thea Holme, p. 185. 7. Pigot and Company's National Commercial Directory for 18251826 lists Robert Mundell of Dumfries as a tobacconist and for 1837 lists William Mundell of Dumfries as a grocer and spirit merchant.

100. 5. Cheyne Row, Chelsea, London 24th October, 1834 My Dear Alick, It is many a long day since you sent me the scrape of a pen; you are in my debt too I believe for one very long Letter (or more?), and still persist in silence. This is not right; tho' I know writing is a great burden to you, and from day to day some new thing or other is turning up to frustrate the purpose you may form in my behalf that way. Well! I look for a Frank today; and will send you this thin memorial of me: whether you answer or not, I shall know that it gives you pleasure, and never doubt that you send me (in heart at least) your thanks and best brotherly wishes. We have a new winter at our door; all, as I fancy it, has been got under thatch and rope about Catlinns; not without an effort, as I often fancied when thinking of you on the wet harvest days. But the thing I have no means even of guessing here is what arrangement you have formed, or whether any yet, with your poor needy and greedy Landlords. Are you to leave the Knowe-head at Whitsunday; or have they lowered your rent so as to make it tolerable and payable? This last is perhaps the way I ought to wish it, so wasteful are all changes. However, I am very anxious to know. — In any case, be of good heart, my

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dear Brother: let no difficulties darken your mind, or beat down the rigorous energy that is in you. "To be weak is miserable," 1 says the Poet Milton: that is the only misery for a man. I am a poor comforter for I preach up nothing but toil, toil; yet such is the truth, if we saw it, for all men: and for all genuine men, is there not the sure hope of a reward? Persevere, then: "in due time ye shall reap if ye faint not." What passes with myself here I have mainly described in Letters to my Mother, and others of them, which most probably you have seen. The world looks rough on me, but not hostile; I feel that I shall have labour enough, and what payment I ask from the world: meat and clothes. There is nothing like the deep sulkiness of Craigenputtock troubles me here: I see always that I am in the right workshop, had I but got acquainted with the tools properly; here I must stand to it; here or nowhere! — My Mother will tell you that I am getting on with my new French Book: it is calculated that I ought to have it out about March next (that being what they call "a good time," the Parliament and Fashionables all on the spot) : but whether I can keep my day or not, will depend somewhat on fortune. I strive to be as diligent as possible in all senses and do my best. — You have got the old Puttock Teufelsdröckh (I hear), the last I wrote near you; and will prize it on that account, I believe: it is printed there you see, and cannot now be burnt or lost; and so if there be any good in it, the world has it; if none there is little harm done. I find strictly few to admire it, but then actually a few; and great multitudes to turn up their eyes in speechless amazement. I saw the fire of the two Parliament Houses;2 and, what was curious enough, Matthew Allan (of York, you remember) found me out in the crowd there, whom I had not seen before for years. The crowd was quiet, rather gratified than otherwise; whew'd and whistled when the breeze came as if to encourage it: "there's a fare-up" (what we call shine) "for the House O' Lords!" — "A judgement for the Poor-Law Bill!" — "There go their hacts" ( acts ) ! such exclamations seemed to be the prevailing ones. A man sorry I did not anywhere see. — They will have to build a new house; and it may produce consequences not generally forseen yet. Poor Edward Irving is at this moment I believe in Glasgow: the accounts I get of him (from Willm Hamilton) fill me with pain. He is in

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the worst state of health, and will not rest; threatened with Consumption; it now at last begins to seem too likely to me, that the conclusion of all that wild work, will be early death!3 Oh dear, what a tragedy is Life to most of us; often to those that seemed the luckiest! I know not what to do in this matter of poor Irving, and can for the present do nothing but grieve. Alas, my dear Boy, here is the en[d of my] Paper! There will be more franks going soon, and I shall afford you better measure. — Give our love to Jenny; lovingly guide and encourage her in all right ways, as is your duty and engagement. Little Jane I suppose is become a very "conversical" little Kimmer by this time: even Tom must be beginning to make his observations. Be thankful for them, and yet earnestly anxious: regard them as a gift and a solemn obligation. Write soon. May all good be with you and yours my dear Brother! I am ever Your affectionate, T. Carlyle Published: L, pp. 453-456. 1. Paradise Lost I. 157. 2. On October 16. 3. Irving died in Glasgow December 7. Carlyle expressed his grief in a letter to his mother on December 24 (Froude, II, 464-466) and paid tribute to him in the "Death of the Rev. Edward Irving," Fraser's Magazine, xi (January 1835), 101-103; republished in CME, III, 319323·

101. From John Aitken Carlyle Rome 9th January 1835 My Dear Alick, I have spoken so long about writing to you and put off so frequently that you must be beginning to suspect there is little meaning in what I say. Yet in spite of successive delays, in spite of the length of time that has elapsed since I first mentioned my purpose of writing, I can honestly assert that no purpose was ever more sincere. Often do I

1835, Rome 363 think of you on that bleak hill-side of yours fighting with the manyshaped difficulties that have fallen to your lot, and often I wish to send you my brotherly sympathy and encouragement. Had we been nearer one another, had any opportunity occurred of sending you a letter free of expense and circumstance, I could not have been silent so long; but it always seemed to me doubtful, when I was going to fulfil my purpose, whether I had any thing worth sending so far, and unluckily I determined in the negative and gave myself up anew to procrastination. I could go on filling your sheet, in short, with excuses, which you would not much thank me for. You hear of me regularly, it is true, by means of the letters which I send to Scotsbrig and to London, but I know that something direct from me will be more welcome to you, that you will think it more your own and feel it come more home to you. So without farther parley or prelude I mean to have some talk with you. It is less than a fortnight since I wrote last to my brother in London, and told him about all my affairs at great length. I have little to add to the account I sent him except that I continue in good health, and have some little practice in the way of my profession beyond what occurs in our own household. It is a pity that my not taking fees should stand so much in my way. The English are too proud to have attendance gratis, and so I am cut off from all practice except among Lady Clare's intimate friends, and such as have sufficient confidence in my skill to make them lay aside the repugnance they feel to employ me without paying me. However the practice I have keeps my hand in use at least and makes me some friends, so that I go on with it in the meantime contentedly enough. I read a great deal of one sort or other, think much in my own way about what comes before me; and am on the whole so occupied that the time from day to day is always too short for me. The life we lead is, as heretofore, the quietest imaginable, and in many respects suited to my tastes and oldest habits. Almost the sole fault I continue to find with it is that I cannot succeed in connecting it in any way distinctly with the future. I look upon my whole position for the present as a sort of landing place, where I may indeed make various repairs and take in various stores, but from which I must soon depart and launch once more upon the wide and rather trackless ocean of life. And then come thoughts about the blessedness of us poor

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mortals, how the future is all inscrutable to us seeing we know not what one moment may bring forth; and how we ought to care only for what is among our heads and try to use it rightly submitting all the rest to God's good providence. The world may seem crooked and perverse, the just may be nowhere to be found; yet everywhere and in all circumstances the faithful man has his duty, and will find occupation enough in examining and amending himself. With the perverseness of others I think he should occupy himself as little as possible except in so far as he can practically and, by his own example especially, amend it. No man's circumstances are too narrow for feeling that he stands before God, and for gaining strength and courage of the right sort by knowing that he is accountable to Him alone, and can never fail if he fears Him and none else. This is what our Bible teaches us in living words. In Rome here, I see how pomp and costly apparatus collected from all ends of the earth have twice crushed the greatest virtue that the world knew, and left nothing but ruins and hollow lifeless splendour; and then the thought comes over me that the "Son of man had [not] where to lay his head," 1 and that the truth he brought into the world and died to confirm, will forever live in the hearts of all good men. Thus I see through all outward circumstances, and feel free in the midst of slavery. I could preach you a long sermon on such matters, for they are almost constantly present with me. Rome is a place to make one think of them beyond all other places; its ruins and shadows meet you every where and teach you in a way you cannot help listening to. I told my brother last letter that I get on more lightly and cheerfully this year than formerly; and this I attribute to my seeing more clearly what I am about, to my knowing better what I have to expect and what to fear. Among the English I still find no one following any serious occupation, and as I cannot give myself up to the vanities they follow, I generally keep quite aloof from them, and find it wiser to remain at home than go to their parties. Most of the so-called "good people" that I see are timorous, hungry formalists, and I often think them more to be pitied than those who pretend to no such thing. Once for all, I believe it to be a down-right impossibility to make a sweet quiet mixture of Christianity and worldliness, and I never can feel attracted to people that can think it possible. One does not need to quarrel with

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the world; but wilful fellowship with its baseness is a thing one ought to pray against, knowing that no man can partake of it without casting God out of his heart. No noisy variance is required of us during our short earthly warfare; but woe be to us if we worship Satan in any shape, or love anything tha[t be]long[s to] him or his. Our Great Example has sho[wn us] what our opposition should be, and even when ready to suffer the most ignom[ini]ous of deaths he bade his followers "be of good cheer for he had overcome the world." 2 Think of these things too, my dear Alick, and think of them with honesty and without fear. They lie near every man, and every man must know them in one way or other before he can attain to any right manliness or freedom. I recollect how there was almost none of our employments that prevented us from thinking our own thoughts, which is almost peculiar to agricultural employment. One is in contact with Nature, and the poorest man that is so, may work out a higher destiny for himself than the king whose eyes are blinded, whose circumstances and apparatus are too complicated to permit him to see through them. You have the heart of the matter in you; it wants only to be developed and made active. I never knew a kinder, braver man in all my life; but the outward crust belies too much what is within. Be yourself and there is no fear of you in any situation. It is not by fits and starts that one can be wise or triumph; it is not by keeping up a running fight that one subdues the difficulties of life, but by calmly examining and steadily meeting them. You will find some better place yet than that untoward hill-side, and its low neighbourhood. Do not be disheartened or misl[ed astra] y [in] any base conduct of those you have to do with; and take no part in any of their follies. Above all beware of that most degrading and most unchristian vice of drunkenness which is so common at your markets and so enticing and deceptious especially for one that is social and frank-hearted. It is the strongest agent of the Devil that I know of, and does more to debase a man than any thing else can. It sometimes may gain one the applause of noisy fools that practice it; but notwithstanding it leads inevitably to destruction. I speak of all these things for I know you are unsettled at present, and cannot see clearly before you. No quantity of difficulties is too great for a right man with presence of mind. Do what you find among your hands in the meantime, and care little whether you go or remain. Your landlords

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are naturally greedy hungry people and wish to wring every farthing from you that they can; and they stand on their own bases. Do nothing in retaliation except what you feel to be right and are most distinctly entitled to do. If I understand rightly you are not to leave at any rate till the end of this year, and have the present crop. I hope to be home in summer and we shall consult together about our future plans. This is a time of transition with us all, and we have need of each other's help and counsel. The more I see of the world, the more I am thankful for the sympathy and true affection that we have among ourselves. As long as we remain true, I hope no earthly power will be able to separate us and make us cease to love and care for each other. I see something, in my present circumstances, of people of the highest rank; and I believe more firmly than ever that you may find more true manliness in the right peasant than in the peer; and the earthly burden of the peasant too is fighter than that of the peer. Satan gives work to all whom he finds idle. The man who works for his daily bread in honesty is above the kind who gains it by falsehood, by worshipping Satan. The rich know not whither to turn themselves for their preeminence is founded upon what is false and hollow, their foundation trembles under and is shaken in our days as it never before was shaken. Let us therefore be satisfied, if we can gain wherewith to live in the meantime without d[is]honesty. The poorer a man is the simpler is his path and duty. He is before the Almighty who is his Father, and he is not blinded [by] the apparatus or splendours which take the heart and manhood [out] of all who worship them. — Let us know these things, my dear Alick, and let their truth live in us and bring forth fruit. To know them is the "one thing needful." — Your affectionate brother J A Carlyle 13th January. I was kept from finishing my letter in time for Saturdays post, and thought it better to wait two days longer, then send off a hurried scrawl. I find on reading what is written that I have told you what is most essential, notwithstanding my sermonizing. I have little to add on my margins, except to send my love to them of Scotsbrig Annan and Dumfries, and the wishes of a good new year. Be kind to one another and help one another in all that you can. The time is

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short and is fast passing. — I will write soon to my mother, tho' I write very regularly to London. If Lady Clare's plans continue the same, it will not be many months till I see you, say May or June. Tom talks of our walking from London to Scotland, as would please me best of all. I have not told you any thing about what is going on in Rome except what concerns ourselves. I go very little to see the Catholic ceremonies this year, finding they do me no good. The country people are suffering much from drought; and nightfrosts and the Pope's prayers afford no remedy. I do not wonder that Sandy Ceorsie3 fails to comprehend Teufelsdrick. There is notwithstanding much meaning in him. I read my copy often and get more good eveiy new time I read it. — Would that I could have so full an account of what you are doing and thinking as it gives. Be steady and do the best you can and hope for clearer better times. By the time this reaches you, you will have begun your ploughing in earnest. 1. Luke 9:58. 2. John 16:33. 3. Presumably Corrie.

102. 5. Cheyne Row, Chelsea, London 28th Jany, 1835 My Dear Alick, It is long since I got you written to with any deliberation; I know not how long. I have been so busy; nothing but flying slips of paper, and blotting and scribbling all round me for week after week. However, now for the last eight days, I have been making a sort of pause; occupied only with reading and reflecting: so before falling-to again, I will send you a small word. You may well fancy, judging no doubt by yourself, that I am often, often thinking of you while no writing goes between us: indeed, whither should my mind turn, when it has leisure to meditate, if not towards Annandale, where so much of my possessions in this lower world lies? Believe it, my dear

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Brother, there is nothing that can banish you out of my thoughts; as I know there is nothing can banish me out of yours. However, a line of writing now and then is indispensable too; and if there is any request I have to make of you, it is that you would stir yourself up a little in that matter; for sometimes I feel myself rather scantily furnished, or at least have felt, for I think we are getting better on of late. You need not say at any time that you are not in the mood, that you have nothing to say etc. etc. : all these are devices of the Evil Principle; your plan is to seize the moment such as it may be; to sit down and say that same "nothing," which you will find on trial to be a very tolerable "Something." My Mother's last Letter came the very day I had sent off a hasty scrap to her. The various postscripts, and notices contained in that welcome sheet gave me a clear notion of Scotsbrig, with the winter work you were all busy in: I was particularly glad to hear you had been down shortly before, and that "singing" had been going on among you. Long be the like among us! You cannot imagine how quiet and cheery all that looks from amid the confused din of this Metropolitan Monstrosity! Here, least of all places on Earth's surface, quiet never is; a raging and a roaring; all men hunted or hunting; all things "made like unto a wheel"1 — that turns and turns. I have grown greatly used to it now; and for most part walk the London Streets as if they were peopled only with Images, and the noise were that of some Niagara waterfall, or distracted universal carding-mill. There is something animating in it too; so that in my walks I generally turn Townwards, and go up thro' a larger or shorter circuit of real London Tumult (hereabouts we are not much noisier than in the stiller parts of Edinburgh, and in our street at 10 at night and later there is no noise at all): for "man likes to see the face of man"; one's very dispiritment in these peopled spaces is nothing to the gloom of Puttock. My shortest turn (for I have various of various lengths) is to Hyde Park Corner; where I see Quality Carriages, six-horse waggons (horses all jingling with little bells), mail coaches etc. etc.; and the Duke of Wellington's House,2 the windows all barred with iron ( since the Reform-bill time), and huge iron railing twenty feet high between him and the street, which, as the railing is lined with wood too, he does not seem to like: there are carriages sometimes about his gate

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now; and I bless myself that I am not he. Let me mention also that there is a waggoner occasionally passes this door (of Cheyne Row), whose voice to his horses "Way-ho!" infallibly brings me in mind of one I have heard 300 miles off and more. — Alas this will never do; the sheet almost done! Has the Catlinns business got itself settled yet? I was very glad to learn that there was some prospect of its soon being settled; and, on the whole, not sorry that you expected they might make it eligible for you to stay there.3 Staying is always best, if one can stay; there is such waste every way in removing; waste of time, of money, of habit and connexions: "three Sittings are equal to a fire." But any way you seem to take it in the right mood: that of courage and patient faith. There is no fear in that case. The world is wide as you say; and there is a Heaven above us go where we will. — Make my respects to little Tom; and have him speaking a mouthful of Annandale Scotch when I come back: Jane I daresay is a strapping hizzy by this time, and able to bear her share of any dialogue. Be careful of them, poor creatures; and, above and before all things, study to train them in the way that they should go. My own history here may be summed up in very few words. I have finished my "First Part," which may possibly make a First Volume; and am about beginning [the] Second and then the Third. On the whole, I am about half done; for a great dea[l of] the stuff is laid in. I shall have a tough struggle however; all the way till the summer be come. Other work or thought I do not much occupy myself with: this is the day's task and is sufficient for the day. The hopes I have of it are not very high; tho' I firmly believe with old Johnson that "useful diligence will at last prevail";4 and in that spirit I work. We have money to go on with for some twelve months yet; and I calculate that several other shifts may open before then. Literature generally, I am sorry to see, continues as unproductive, distracted, as I fancied it would: my own private surmise is that no honest and reasonably comfortable living can henceforth be made of it: in which case, however, one must simply wish it good day, and try another thing. The poor people all round me are very silly people for most part, and do not work more stiffly than I: yet do not I see them all live? By God's blessing I calculate that the Spirit of Dishonesty shall not get dominion over me;

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nor the Spirit of Despondency, nor any other evil Spirit; in which case all will and must be well. There are many people kind to me, and many that seem to think far more of me than I merit; but it is not in them I trust. On the whole, I do often feel as if all that hindered one were in reality a blessed furtherance towards something better. Let a man toil diligently; cast his bread upon the waters, he shall find it after many days. — But, alas, my dear Boy, the sheet is done. I will hope for another chance soon; and in the meantime pray you to bear in mind that you are now clearly my debtor, and that before the ploughing get too hot, you are actually bound to write to me. Send all manner of news: about yourself and household, about my Mother, about every one dear to me. My Mother said you had got her a "cask of good ale." It was right well done: I thank you as if you had given myself a puncheon. I hope you go and see her often; and will get her in motion again now when the days are lengthening. This spring weather brings me in mind of many things. Jane is gone to bed; or she would expressly send her love. She had a baddish time of it with that foot but is better now. — We have not seen Leigh Hunt for almost 3 months! There was no quarrel either; but I believe the poor man is very miserable, and feels shocked at my rigorous Presbyterian principles; in short is afraid of me! I pity him much; but think too, he is perhaps as well where he is, and I where I am. Good night my dear Alick! Love to Jenny and the Bairns. Ever your affectionate Brother T. Carlyle You should by all means go and see Grahame: you will find [him] most kindly disposed towards you. If you meet him soon, say I got the Dumfries Courier (last week) which I knew to be from him. The beggarly Election is done; so be it! — Do you get your Paper regularly on Monday? It is there almost uniformly on Sabbath day; but on Monday I think you get it. — We have not broken into the ham yet; but will by and by — to Middlesex veal. — Now smoke; and then to bed! — Good Night again! — Published in part: L, pp. 480-484. 1. Ps. 83:13. 2·. Apsley House. Wellington's opposition to reform had made him unpopular to the extent that he had been jeered by mobs on the anniver-

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sary of Waterloo and thought it advisable to take the protective measures Carlyle mentioned here. 3. Alexander wrote his brother on November 20, 1834 (MS: NLS # 1 7 6 3 . 1 3 2 - 1 3 3 ) , that his prospects of staying on at Catlinns were slight. The answer to his request for a £.20 annual reduction in his rent was a warrant of hypothecation, served "without notice of any kind and even before the usual rent day." He wrote in consequence to his factor, "stating that I now ceased to hope for any reduction of rent and was ready to give up the farm." In his next letter to Carlyle, January 1 2 , 1 8 3 5 (MS: NLS# 1 7 6 3 . 1 3 7 V ) , Alexander expressed "reason to believe some settlement well within no lengthened date [will] be actually made out." But it was not. 4. Preface to the Dictionary.

103. [Chelsea, London, 1 9 ? 1 February 1835] My Dear Alick, I intended to write you a longish Letter; and behold I have literally only two minutes ( not three ) to write you in! During these last days I have been very frequently thinking of you: I saw Catlinns in the Newspaper; and think Yesterday you would probably be at Dumfries, and see now some new scene before you. Take a pen my brave fellow and tell me all how it is; what you are scheming now, what you think of it. I know you are not afraid. Stout heart to the steepest brae! For my own part I cannot say that I feel very sorry to consider you out of that bleak Mud Concern; or indeed out of farming altogether, if that be the way of it. No prosperity is to be looked for in that. Prices will continue cheap, I doubt; the cheapness comes from Irish corn, they say; and certainly also from the poverty of all people — obliged to eat potatoes. Do you think of going to Annan? You will need no servants there. I can fancy Jenny and you much snugger there; Jenny thrifty, you industrious. God direct you, my dear Brother! And so I must off. Jane is waiting for me at a half-way house she has; for we are going to dine with some people of Mill's: called Tay-

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lor,2 a rather goodish set of persons. How much happier should I be at this moment to step over to Catlinns; have two bowls of Jenny's tea-and-egg (the best tea I have tasted since last there) and spend the evening with you! But it is a bit too far. — We must be content. Write now, and may all good be with you! We are to see one another in summer I hope. Ever Your affectionate Brother, T. Carlyle ι. See Letter 105. 2. John Taylor (1796-1849), a wholesale druggist, and his wife, Harriet (d. 1858). Mill had met the Taylors in 1830. His friendship with Mrs. Taylor grew into love, which in 1833 resulted in a trial separation between Mr. and Mrs. Taylor. Although the marriage was not dissolved, Mill, with Mr. Taylor's consent, continued to see Mrs. Taylor for the next sixteen years. They were married in 1851.

104. Alexander to Carlyle Catlinns 21st February 1835 My Dear Brother, Now that our higgling about the farm is at last brought to an amicable and final conclusion — it will be my very agreeable duty to hasten with all speed to tell you how it fares with us all, well knowing your anxiety. The creatures in power utterly declined giving any kind of reduction or encouragement whatever, and in and when they perceived no kind of wavering in my dogged perseverance — no visible fixed property to lay hands on, reluctantly agreed to allow me to quit the farm; on the same principles I had entered it — and accordingly advertised and let the farm again by public roup on tuesday last, for £.12 of less rent than I paid for it, to a son of old Armstrongs of Paddock hole whose occupation is that of jobber or drover. Thus you see, my dear brother, am I through what is termed "badluck" again made the source of care and anxiety to my careing and kind friends, and also made somewhat sad myself with this and other

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bygone considerations of the like nature. Like the "wanderers" in Meister I may not remain long in one place. Would that these wanderings might more and more teach me the owful uncertainly of all human concerns. Four flittings, as you remart, are nearly the same as having one's goods and geer burnt. If we live to see Whitsunday, then eight times shall I have flitted since we went to the Hill; and according to the adage and Cocker 1 have had my goods twice burnt with fire. No wonder then that all good people feel interested in a wight so unfortunate. Had the Knaves let me alone with their hypothecating I might possibly have struggled on to the end of the four years, and to better times for changing in — as it is however I can hardly at any period of time regret quitting this bleak clarty ill arranged and every way uncomfortable situation. In the possession of a clear conscience and honest purposing it were no very easy matter, in my opinion, to find more uncomfortable up-putting. If the cattle are setting any way aftergate at all about Whitsunday I hope to have added a little to my "private capital" which is some sort of consolation. True! But to what hand art thou meaning to turn thee, you would ask me. It was only on tuesday, as said above, that the thing was finally settled, so that I have had little time yet for consideration. Peradventure I may retire to some cottage in the neighbourhood of Annan; after having if practicable ascertained the possibilities of earning any thing like a decent livelyhood by some sort of trading or other (a farm this year can hardly be expected. ) I must however first see Ben Nelson and also William Graham to whom I have already spoken on this progect — having gone to see him one day since giving-up the farm. He was exceedingly kind and full to overflowing of Teufelsdrockhism nay, in some sence turned a sort of Teufelsdrockh himself — boundless and cavish out of all measure in praising the little paragraph on poor Edward Irvings death which you had just before sent him. By the way if you have still beside you a spare Teufelsdrockh, it were to my mind a deed of kindness to send him to Clow of Land who yields not even to Graham in high admiration of that same.strange, misterious, unpretending personage. But to return and wind-up this part of my epistle. You will perceive my dear brother in what great need I am in of sound councel and how unlikely I am to fall in with such in this crisis. Let me

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however in this and in every other matter be found looking stedfastly to Heaven for guidence and direction — the just mans seed have at no time been left to beg their bread. 2

I had a long letter from the Dr. about a month ago, full of sound advices and brotherly affection, which I hope to profit by. I beg you will thank him kindly in my name. He talks of being home in June, and also of your proposal of walking hither — which were a notable feat indeed! James Aitken and Jean have bought Uncle John's house at the town-head,3 as you perhaps already know. I saw them on Wednesday — they seem struggling on right manfully. But here I must draw bridle, perposing as I do to see our kind mother before sending this off — maybe she will add a line in her own hand. But love to your kind wife, whose hand writting I have vainly longed to look at again. God bless you both A. Carlyle I saw Mary and her family on Saturday last — they were all in goodheart and seemed to be in the way of thriving. I get the paper almost regularly on the sabbeth day. Write as soon as possible. MS: N L S # 1 7 6 3 . 1 3 8 - 1 3 9 . 1. Unidentified. 2. I have omitted a paragraph here. The edge of the page has been torn away and with it the sense of that paragraph and a five-line postscript (on the recto half of the folio) from their mother. 3. In Dumfries. This house is not to be confused with The Hill, which James Aitken later built in Dumfries.

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105.

With postscript from Jane Welsh Carlyle Chelsea, 27th Feby, 1835 My dear Alick, I think my Annandale Correspondence seems fated to "clash together" in point of time: your Letter seems to have left Ecclefechan the very day mine must have got to hand ( for it would arrive there on Saturday); and on the prior occasion, it was the very same thing that happened. Having done my "bit task" tonight, and an hour being still left, I will try to rectify that. Our Mother will soon hear of it from Catlinns; will fulfil her kind promise to me, and all will be in the right train. Her precious little Postscript gave me great satisfaction; and proves (you may tell her) to demonstration that she needs only ruled paper and good will; which last I know she has by her. The Proverb says, Better a finger off than ay wagging. I will not regret that you are done with that glarry business of Catlinns; that now the world is all before you where to choose. There is a probability that farm-stock will not be much lower, at any rate, about Whitsunday; so your calculation, favourable for the present, may be found to hold good then: and thus with "private capital" rather increased, with health, and a free heart and conscience, you can take the bent again. I wish I knew what were really wisest for you. For a wisest thing there undubitably is; only we with our poor eyes cannot always discern it. I, in particular, so far off, so inexperienced in the whole matter, can give no counsel that has more to recommend it than best intention. You do well to ask counsel of the Heavens, and man's Great Guide there. New enterprises are always best entered on in that solemn feeling of dependence: in various senses that I can see, it is truly written, "He that seeketh findeth."1 — On the whole, however, you are not to take gloomy views, for there is nothing to mourn at, to despond at: a serious cheerfulness; that is the right mood in this as in all cases. It is my impression that you ought not to meddle again with farms, at least not this year; when the season is spent, and so much is discouraging in that direction. In fact, I rather still incline to conjecture

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that Farming is henceforth no good trade in Scotland or Britain; not a better trade than others; a worse than several. We have often talked over that matter; high rents, low prices; a hungry set of Landlords (for I believe they too are sunk in debt), a population which, whatever Newspaper "Prosperities of Trade" and so forth may say, is ( and even must be) struggling deeper and deeper into destitution, and inability to purchase anything but Potatoes; — these, with the enormous competition, are fatal circumstances for farming. Farming in America were something, — on your own land! For the Sky is bounteous there as here, and the Sky's bounty is not then whisked away, as by art magic, into hands that have not toiled for it. At the worst I always look to America. Perhaps, as to Scottish farming, it is well that you are rid of that. Nothing else suggests itself to me as so likely for you as going down to Annan. There is always, and must always be, a good deal of trading in grain and farm-produce; in the management of which, a man that can manage it with discretion, punctuality, energy, must find some sort of reward. What degree of reward it is at present, I know not at all, but you do or can learn; and as for your fitness to work in that way, I have always understood it to be very considerable, and that, if you would improve more and more in Punctuality (which is the Soul of all Commerce) it might decidedly become superior, and I know not how much so. But the danger all over Annandale (perhaps less in Annan than elsewhere) is that miserable habit of jaffling, in all senses of the word: you must guard sternly and continually against that. I have also noticed that you are too sanguine or vehement (which is also a fault of my own), and take in more work than you can accomplish: this is a great enemy to Punctuality (one so often fails, and gets into the habit of failing), an "enemy to verta" in general. Lastly the whole breed of us have "a dibble of a temper." 2 These, my dear Brother, are the things to be striven with, to be better and better subdued: it is really my opinion that you were then well qualified for that kind of industry, and might find yourself more at home thereby in Annan than anywhere you have yet been. There are really some trustworthy and regular-working substantial characters there; with whom by degrees you would get into the proper footing, and find it profitable every way. I think they are the best people I know about

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in our country. The loose, the vague, irregular that have no rule or plan of conducting themselves, (of whom also there are plenty), you will naturally shun: there may be profit away from such; with such it is not possible that profit can be. — Think therefore what you might earn by trading in (say) corn and meal, no farther than you already see and understand such trade. If it would suffice to support you, I think you might go with no hesitation; with alacrity. A house and park (cow's grass, at any rate) cannot cost very much; and with no servant, and a wife faithfully disposed to do the best, and who will learn better and better to do it, you can be far more comfortable than heretofore (with such a set of giUenyers); you may live there in a still but assiduously industrious way, putting your hand no farther than the sleeve will let: I think there is a fair prospect, that fitness for your employment would really bring recompense in it; better and better recompense as you grew fitter. — You see, I have it all cut and dry for you, as if I knew it all. But you will not forget that I properly know nothing of it, as it practically, at the moment, is: you will correct my theory where you find it and the reality part company. What says Ben Nelson? His advice is worth taking; tho' nobody at bottom can advise one. He will speak what he says with as much conviction as most men: he is one whom I should like extremely to find you got as much intercourse with as circumstances would allow; I have met with very few men in the world of a clearer mind whether as regards understanding or moral character: a well-made man, with more stuff in him than I have known famed men made of; nay not one famed man in five hundred is such as he. Give him my friendliest remembrances; say, if he were not the laziest of correspondents, he might write to me; but must not forget to think of me whether or not. — One other thing I have a kind of notion of: that a house in the town were better than one near it; you lie far readier both for things and for persons, and have advantages in that way greater than at first sight you would fancy. But doubtless you will lay all things together, and make the fittest choice you can. You spoke once of some little patch of a farm; at the Howes,3 for instance: but perhaps it were better if none such offered; I have observed, that two strings to our bow ( contrary to the Proverb, in one sense ), are apt to be both ill bent, to confuse one another, and prove worse than a single one. — Finally my dear Brother,

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set your heart bravely to it; with deliberate, cheerful energy: make no league with what is evil; cast out the fault, the sin that you feel to be encumbering you (and make solemn self-examination to that end); take God for your help, and, with humble trust in Him, fear nothing earthly. I send you my blessing and best prayers: and make litde doubt but I shall learn that you have resolved on something wise, and are deliberately and resolutely prosecuting it. "Without haste but without rest": that is the way. As I apprehend you will not get this at any rate at the Post-Office for a day or two (Newspaper-day being past), I will not seal tonight; but add a few words if I have leisure tomorrow night. There is still so much to say, for I have sent you no account of anything here. It is now past supper-time, Jane has left me, and I say: Good night! — There is a wild blustering wind; which I doubt is wilder at Catlinns. — Good night. 29th (at Night). — Dear Alick, — I was prevented putting pen to paper yesternight by a Radical Glasgow Editor, who came bouncing in; one Weir,4 Editor of the Glasgow Argus, among the noisest, halfdaftest, most boisterous (not ill-intentioned) characters I have met with in my life. He is from Dumfries originally; was an Advocate in Edinburgh, without employment, where I used to see a little of him. He is here looking into the "actual working" of the new Parliament: a most thankless job, I should think. The poor fellow has no kinsman on Earth; lost all his money too, by a bankruptcy: in spite of his rude Radicalism, I cannot but be kindly wae for him and wish him well. — I will finish you out however tonight: a frank may be got tomorrow. What a wretched hand your poor Laird has made of himself: it is among the most distracted things ever seen; but natural enough; for the poor man had no head (or brain but mere vanity and wind), and without head, one flies strange courses. I doubt it will go ill with him: if his Egyptian helpmate begin to waste his gear for him, the only principle he ever had will break down, and he in desperation may take to drinking for what I see. But perhaps she will not, being now leddy. You cannot help him, nor no man can; but only pity him from afar. I may say truly, Clow of Land's liking to Teufelsdröckh is a real

1835, London 379 satisfaction to me; among the more genuine I have had from that Book. That it comes home to an earnest mind, so far away from it in every sense, is proof that there is earnest stuff in it; and should and does please me much more than any flimsy Review-praise it could have got from any Critic now going. I unluckily have not one other copy, or the worthy neighbour should have it: perhaps it may be reprinted as a [B]ook one day, and then (if it be in our time) we may have another chance. I feel pret[ty] much inclined to believe that had it been published in that fashion at first, it might actually h [ave] done. Several persons do more than like it. My last copy was solicited from me (thro' the Bullers) very lat[ely] by a Sir W. Molesworth, a young Squire, of Radical-Utilitarian temper, but solid English material; much to my surprise; for of his whole Philosophy it is subversive. He is the man who has given (to Mill's charge) £2,000 (for he is rich enough) to set agoing that Review of theirs. The first No. of it is coming out soon.5 — As for the French Revolution, the worst fault of it is, it gets on so dreadfully slowly. I think otherwise it is better than anything I have done; for it rests upon a truth, upon truths; and if I had done my best with it, I will very cheerfully tumble it forth to let the world do its best or its worst. [Fr]aser has it advertised as "getting ready" in his next Magazine No.6 The party we had at the Taylors' was most brisk, and the cleverest (best-gifted) I have been at for years: Mill, Charles Buller (one of the gayest, highly-sparkling, loveable souls in the world), Repository Fox 7 (who hotches and laughs at least), Fonblanque the Examiner Editor, — were the main men. It does one good; tho' I buy it dear, dining so late: towards eight o'clock! — I have also seen Southey the Poet ( at another Taylor's,8 where is one of the finest old women ever discovered: a Miss Fenwick from Northumberland): Southey is lean as a harrow; dun as a tobacco-spluchan; no chin (I mean the smallest), snubbed Roman nose, vehement brown eyes, huge white head of hair; when he rises, — all legs together. We had considerable talk together: he is a man positive in his own Tory Church of England way; well informed, rational; a good man; but perhaps so striking for nothing, as for his excitability and irritability, which I should judge to be preeminent even among Poets. We parted kindly; and might be ready to meet again. He lives at Keswick (in Cumberland there); thinks

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the world is sinking to ruin, and writes diligently. There are few sensible mortals anywhere: I suppose the best stock of them might be looked for here. We do not see many people; yet enough for our purposses; and could see more. The Bullers are very agreeable; old Charles was down yesterday, and played a Game at Chess with Jane: I like him ever the better were he not so dear. But on the whole there is nothing I find more profitable than to be left alone with my F. Revolution. "They can do' tha naither ill na' good" ! You can fancy me sitting there in the old scribbling way, as you have seen me at Puttock; except that the outrake is so inexpressibly different and cheerfuller here: into the very throng of the Sons of Adam and the business they have. The noise long since has become indifferent to me: here at any rate we have no noise; but at night are so still as you. — One final fact I will mention: that we broke into the Catlinns Ham yesterday, and found it genuine, of first rate quality, and mean to eat a fraction of it daily at breakfast. — Jane will write a word of good-will tomorrow: I cannot afford you more than this other half-sheet; which, alas, is done! My "Counsels" seem all what they did to me yet: I shall wait very anxiously how you decide: but indeed you are not called to decide rashly. Good night, my dear Brother! May God guide you, and bless you! My love to little mute Tom, to talking Jean, and to the Mother who lovingly watches them, — and shall make tea for me yet. — I remain ever — Your affect[iona]te Brother — T. Carlyle My dear Brother I shall fill this corner with a communication which I know will be highly agreeable to you, and also to James of Scotsbrig, and which I cannot understand how we have both of us omitted to mention so long. Ever since I came to London I have totally declined from smoking nay am run to the opposite extreme in my sentiments toward tobacco. I perfecdy abominate the smell, the sight and every thing about it. In all which there is no affectation, and not even a resolution. A bitter puff that I got out of a little black pipe of yours at the Putta gave somehow a new turn to my taste. I never wished for another! How glad I shall be to see you all again. — You must impress on little Jane that I am her Aunt and Godmother — and a highly amiable woman in every respect that she may be prepared to be very

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fond of me when I come; perhaps it might not be ineffecacious to add that I shall also to a certainly haul "peppers" somewhere about me. — God Bless you dear Alick and your wife and all I love is yours — your affectionate Jane Published in part: L, pp. 491-497. 1. Matt. 7:8. 2. Mrs. Janet Edwards (see Preface) made a study of the Carlyles' coterie speech and determined this expression was especially directed to Alexander. 3. About one-half mile west of Annan, where Alexander and his family next lived. 4. William Weir (1802-1858). He had called to say that the position Carlyle sought as "organizer" of a Glasgow normal school was not for him, that the association that had placed the advertisement for such a man was a "miserable kirk-session affair." See Wilson, II, 375. 5. It came out in April. 6. Fraser s Magazine, 11 (March 1835), facing 247. 7. William Johnson Fox (1786-1864), Unitarian minister, contributor to the first number of the Westminster Review, co-editor and since 1830 owner of the Monthly Repository. It was Fox who had introduced Mill to Harriet Taylor. 8. Sir Henry Taylor (1800-1886), author of Philip van Artevelde (1834) and the acquaintance of Wordsworth and Southey. Carlyle described Taylor as a "solid, sound-headed, faithful, but not a well-read or wide-minded man, though of marked veracity" (Reminiscences, II, 278). Miss Fenwick was a cousin with whom Taylor occasionally resided.

• In the two months intervening between the previous letter and the one that follows there took place the infamous accidental burning of the first volume of The French Revolution. Wilson (II, 379380) has it that Mill, who was reading the manuscript as the work went forward, one weekend gave it to Mrs. Taylor for her opinion. After reading late into one night, probably Thursday, March 5, she laid it "carelessly upon the table" and retired. The next morning the maid in cleaning up mistook the papers for scrap and threw the lot into the fire. That the fault was Mrs. Taylor's and that Mill gallantly accepted all responsibility should, as Mineka pointed out, be weighed

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against two facts. First, Mill's subsequent request that Carlyle entrust to Mrs. Taylor the manuscript of the first book of the second volume for his perusal (for "in her custody no harm could come to it") rather than to himself as Carlyle had offered seems not to incriminate Mrs. Taylor but exculpate her. The blame then would rest squarely on Mill. Second, there is the evidence of a letter from Mill's sister Harriet to Carlyle that she was prompted to write by an allusion to the incident years later in an obituary notice of her brother. She wrote (May 15, 1873), "As far as my recollection goes, the misfortune arose from my brother's own inadvertence, in having given your papers amongst waste paper for kitchen use. I can, perfectly well, remember our search, and my dear brother's extreme distress, and I fancy, though of this I do not feel so sure, that some pages were found." Yet Carlyle replied to Miss Mill that he believed it was the fault of "Mrs. Taylor's house and some trifling neglect there" ( The Earlier Letters of John Stuart Mill, XII, 252). To add to the perplexity, in neither the Reminiscences nor Carlyle's Journal under March 7, the date he recorded his thoughts about the affair, nor anywhere else does Carlyle refute Mill's admission of guilt. Whoever was at fault, on Friday evening, March 6, Mill came to report the catastrophe. ' B o w well do I still remember that night when he came to tell us," wrote Carlyle in 1866, "pale as Hector's ghost, that my unfortunate First Volume was burnt! It was like half sentence of death to us both; and we had to pretend to take it lightly, so dismal and ghastly was his horror at it, and try to talk of other matters. He staid three mortal hours or so; his departure quite a relief to us. Oh the burst of sympathy my poor Darling then gave me; flinging her arms round my neck, and openly lamenting, condoling, and encouraging like a nobler second self! Under Heaven is nothing beautifuller. We sat talking till late; 'shall be written again,' my fixed word and resolution to her. Which proved to be such a task as I never tried before or since" (Reminiscences, I, 106-107). The night was full of pain and emotion. Carlyle dreamed of his father and sister Margaret, "alive, yet all defaced with the sleepy stagnancy, swollen hebetude of the Grave, — and again dying in some strange rude country: a horrid dream!" But he arose and acted on his resolution: "I wrote out Feast of Pikes (vol. ii), and then went at it, — found it fairly impossible for about a fortnight; passed three weeks (reading Marryat's novels), tried, cautious-cautiously, as on ice paper-thin, once more; and in short had a job more like breaking my heart than any other in my experience. Jeannie, alone of beings, burnt like a steady lamp beside me. I forget how much of money we still

1835, London 383 had: I think there was at first something like £300; perhaps £ 2 8 0 to front London with. Nor can I in the least remember where we had gathered such a sum; — except that it was our own, no part of it borrowed or given us by anybody. 'Fit to last till French Revolution is ready!' — and she had no misgivings at all. Mill was penitently liberal: sent me £ 2 0 0 (in a day or two), of which I kept £ 1 0 0 (actual cost of house while I had written burnt volume ) ; upon which he bought me Biographie Universelle, which I got bound, and still have." He added parenthetically: "Wish I could find a way of getting the now much macerated, changed, and fanaticised 'John Stuart Mill' to take that £ 100 back; but I fear there is no way!" ( Reminiscences, 1 , 1 0 7 ). ·

106. Chelsea, ist May, 1835 My Dear Alick, I have learned more or less distinctly that you are actually going towards Annan; that you have engaged a House at the Howes, probably the one you were thinking of a good while ago. I could like very much to hear from yourself more minutely about it: but I know the writing of a Letter takes up time; and you will have business in plenty before you. Only three weeks or so till Whitsunday; and all your goods and gear to get transported or disposed of: roups (perhaps), settlements, and confusions of all kinds. If you have any evening to yourself, pray write to me: a full free account of what you are in the midst of, of what you see before you. At any rate, I send you this little line, in testimony of my brotherly prayers for you; that I am thinking of you, tho' far enough from the scene of your difficulties and exertions. The Frank will carry the scrap of paper, and it will not be unwelcome. So far as I can estimate the circumstances, it seems to me you have acted wisely in that selection of an abode. Annan is of all the places in Scotland the one you appear to have the best chance at. Keep up your heart, my brave Brother; look patiently, clearly, coolly out in the business you will see going on round you; consider what thread of it you can clutch hold of, and begin winding. I believe you have abun-

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dant faculty in you for doing well; I will hope you are about beginning a more favourable course of endeavour than any you have yet engaged in. My Mother wrote to me that you had got a new Daughter, and that all was doing well with her and her Mother. She is to be called Margaret.1 May she resemble her namesake! May her life be happy; or say rather, wise, which is the only kind of happiness one is entitled to look for! As for us, Jack's Letter2 and my Mother will tell you this piece of glad news, that we can hope to be with you in Annandale all together (if God will) before these new Summer leaves grow brown! You shall then hear all our adventures, at full leisure; and we shall have much to question you about in return. Let us be thankful for such expected blessings: many a lot that looks fairer than ours is without such. Doubtless you have heard of my sorrowful misfortune of the lost Manuscript. It hands me sair down for the present; but I will be thro' it; and shall fly all the lighter were that once accomplished. There never in my life befel me any more "mischance" of a more provoking kind. I am in the Third Chapter again, and getting on slowly (for my head somehow is very stupid), yet as well as I can. — I have hope sometimes that it will really be a good Book, — in spite, literally, of the Devil. Will you when you go to Annan remember Jane and me to Mary and her household at the Battery. We heard her lassie was ill; but in the way of recovery. There is a new Dumfries Newspaper3 of which I sent her the first Number: if Mrs Welsh send it hither regularly, I can forward it to Mary regularly. Tell me how yours is to be directed after Whitsunday. — I have sent no special compliments to Scotsbrig: but you must give my remembrances to one and all. The good little Jenny has even some claim on me for a letter (clear claim for half a letter); which shall be attended to. I hope Jamie finds the farmer-year better than many a one finds it: there have been few worse it is everywhere said. And [when] is there to be any improvement that one can depen[d on? Al]as, it is a tough battle all men have, and hav[e alwjays had. Stand to it toughly, then! There is no Other help. Tell little Tom he has some new relations to see and welcome in the course of the season. Jane I suppose is grown quite a prudent young

1835, London 385 woman. Her namesake joins with me in affectionate salutation to you all. God be with you, dear Brotherl Your affectionate, T. Carlyle We have a cut of the Catlinns Ham generally every morning; and find it one of the best ever eaten. It does not disagree with me. 1. She died of the measles the following year. See Letter 1 1 1 . 2. Possibly the one published in part in Froude, III, 34; the one to his mother is published in part in L, pp. 520-522. 3. The Dumfriesshire and Galloway Herald, which was founded in April 1835 and which the poet Thomas Aird edited from then until 1863. It replaced the Dumfriesshire Journal (1777-1833) and in 1884 joined with the Dumfries and Galloway Courier (founded 1809) to become the Courier and Herald. World War II closed its doors. Carlyle and Aird first met at Edinburgh University. Aird came to admire Carlyle, always sent him copies of his paper, and saw him "as often as he came within reach" (Wilson, III, 162).

107. Chelsea, 4th June 1835 My Dear Alick, Your Letter came yesterday, with the good news at least that you were safe, and getting nestled in your new habitation; where, if prayers of mine could prevail, a cheerfuller course of exertion would wait you than late years have offered. What chopping and changing! Shifting from trouble to trouble, and from side to side! It is the lot that has been appointed us; with which it were no wisdom to get into bad humour; unwise even to think much of it at all. I remembered you here on Whitsunday, and wished you soft progress: it was a wettish day with us, but I hoped you might have it sunnier. And so Catlinns and all its g lar lies behind you; and a new scene opens before you, or rather, alas, lies shut as yet, and only promises to open. Come of it what may, I cannot regret that you have quitted that unthankful spot, where your labour had no joyfulness, no tolerable prospect of bringing fruit. You are settled there, and can, with no great expense, and in a fair position, survey what lies about you, and

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even if nothing offer, know at least that nothing offers. God's Creation does not end at the Solway Frith; neither can the man that will work wisely be always foiled. If our work yield no produce, it is the clearest sign that it was unwise; and we should descend into ourselves, and see whether the fault (perhaps cunningly hid as some kind of virtue) lay not there. My grand advice is, keep your mind calm, unexasperated, clear! Do faithfully whatsoever your hand findeth to do.1 This is always possible for us; in this there is always sure hope. For if it is written (and too often verified with us) that "the race is not to the swift nor the battle to the strong," it is likewise true that "time and chance happen unto all." Be sure therefore that opportunities will offer; that if you be wise to seize them, they will bear you along. I know not, my dear Brother, whether these reflexions are of any value to you, or indeed whether you are not of yourself too prone to indulge in the like: I can know only with entire clearness at this distance that my brotherly sympathy is strong with you; that my hope too is strong; that if all these disappointments teach us, they will have been well worth enduring. I remember your neighbourhood very clearly from of old: but cannot get up any clear recollection of the particular house you are in. This is of the less moment, since we can hope (before you are well settled) to see it with our eyes; and hear all your circumstances freely described by word of mouth. We shall have much to communicate, advices may circulate among us; and if not much mutual light, yet sympathy and wishes, which are mutai strength. You know that of Cattle-jobbing; and dislike it, I believe, as much as I. Yet it is hard for a man to be idle, to feel that he is doing nothing. My advice therefore were: Do this thing, if you feel that you should do it, with caution, with wisdom. Avoid, above all earthly things, the qualities that you know to be bad in jobbing. If I have ever had any fear for you, my good Brother, it was simply that your own mind might fail you, might slide down by the very course these men too generally follow. God of his great mercy forbid! But I have felt that such fears were but proof of my own dispiritment, were unworthy of you, of your Father's son. — I speak in the dark about all this, and give evidence only of my brotherly perennial regard for you.

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With myself here things go not the brightest course: that lost Manuscript cannot be finished for the present; I have worn out my spirits somewhat with long toil at it, and feel that before going much farther I should [at least h]ave a rest. There are some schemes in the wind (mentioned [in my] Mother's Letter): 2 one of them even connects itself with America. But, as I said, you will likely see me before anything is fixed on. I have yet heard no new word from Jack; but trust if all have gone well, that in a week or two we may hear. — Adieu dear Brother! Jane sends you her true sisterly wishes: our love to your litde bairns and their Mother. May God keep you always! Your affectionate Brother, — T. Carlyle Excuse this brevity my dear Alick; I feel as if it were of no use writing, when one has the hope of so soon meeting. I long much to see poor Jack safe here, and be off — say 6 weeks hence! As to Harry, our hope was that he might [have car]ried my Mother while he had any strength, and so his old days have been peaceable. Certainly do not sell the poor Beast; not at least till we come: his last strength was given to us; we are bound to provide that his end be not miserable. 1. Cf. Eccles. 9:10. The next two quotations are from Eccles. 9:11. 2. See L, pp. 525-52.7. One of his schemes was to try for employment on the National Education Commission, whose aims he had heard of through Sir William Molesworth. Buller recommended Carlyle to Lord John Russell. In the state Carlyle was in, Froude's conjecture seems warranted: "It was mere chance at this time that the 'French Revolution' and literature with it were not flung aside for good and all, and that the Carlyle whom the world knows had never been. If Charles Buller, or Molesworth, or any other leading Radical who had seen his worth, had told the Government that if they meant to begin in earnest on the education of the people, here was the man for them, Carlyle would have closed at once with the offer" (III, 47). The plan relating to America was a proposal from Emerson (Slater, pp. 122-127) that Carlyle lecture there. But Carlyle's determination to have another try at The French Revolution after a rest in Annandale and the expected return of John kept him where he was.

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108.

Chelsea, 31st June [1 July], 1835 My Dear Brother, The frank carries but indifferent news today; and may take this little scrap along with the rest, as proof at least that if I had good news I would willingly let you share in them. We are not to meet so soon as was expected; nay, as you will find by our Mother's Letter,1 there is even a possibility (which, however, we will disbelieve in, as long as possible) that poor Jack and we are not to meet this year at all. It is very mortifying; but as usual in such cases, we ought rather to feel thankful that it is not worse; that it is not loss of life or limb to any of us; but only a postponement (as we trust it will but be) of what we wished, whereby the fulfillment will be all the joyfuller to us. I wish I had any good word that I could write for you here, my Boy, to encourage you in your new struggle, which I often picture to myself with interest and anxiety. There is little good going, I think, for many an industrious man, as times are. It is a sore struggle, and poor wages; with little outlook of its mending in our thank. I said before, I did not like the craft you were driven into in these months; and yet I feel well, it is the only craft you have just now, and that idleness is the worst craft of all. Go on with it, then, my dear Brother, while you must, and hope and look diligently for something better. Go on with it wisely: there is a wise way and a foolish way of doing all things in the world. — I marked the Advertisement of Longdike Farm, in the Newspaper one week: but whether you might judge that a speculation of any promise I could not conjecture. It is in the district of country you would like, and I believe a tolerable Farm; but too likely not to be had at a tolerable rent. Doubtless you would hear about it, and judge; and make trial too, if there seemed any feasibility. To me, I confess, when looking at this country and the perverse state it is in, one of the best refuges, tho' somewhat of a stern one to take, is the one you alluded to in your Letter: America, and "over the water" to — food for one's toil! It is really a great blessing of Heaven that there is land under the sun, where the husbandman's hand will bring him corn for his ploughing; a country which God's sky stretches over, even as here, and where man s perversion has not stept in to say, "Thou

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that tillest, let another reap!" 2 You remember, in old years I used always to dissuade from America; neither am I yet any adviser of it, where extremity has not arrived: but the longer I look and live the less questionable does it seem, — I might say, the more inevitable for thousands and millions of European men. But in the mean time, you must play "hoolly"; be canny and patient till you see well what Annan will do for you. There must be many kinds of business going on there, at one season of the year or another; and strange will it be if you are the unfittest of all for all of them! Keep clear-headed clear-hearted; be as cheerful as is possible for you; meeting all men with the look of peace tolerance and even trust: whatsoever is to be seen will shew itself, and you will clutch at it deftly enough if it look suitable. And so God speed you, my dear Alick! Take a pen and write to me what you are about: the mere telling of it over to me will make it plainer to yourself. This hot day (for it is Wednesday) I fancy you toiling on the Dumfries Sands there: may you return well, and better than you went! today and all days! It is something that you have a Hearth to return to, and faces that will look brighter when yours shews itself. Poor little Tom! tell him to go on learning to talk rationality till I come; as for the lassie she must have grown quite into a "young woman" by this time; bid her keep growing, and be gleg and goodnatured, — or she will have a "dibble of a temper," and be a man's misery some day. — By the by, is "Jodad"3 [?] living? I saw Jock Forsyth, in the Strand, one day; at least I am f[ailin]g if it was not he: whiskers were all grey, the back bent, clothes verging towards the shabby-genteel; but he was striding along, and there still seemed a deal of life in him. — If you ever see Waugh, remember me to him; Jack also has often sent wishes that way. — I send Mary Newspapers sometimes tho' I do not well know her new address. Will you step over specially, and give her and James and the household our affectionate remembrances. Jane salutes you sisterlike, you and yours. Write. All good be with you dear Brother! — Ever your faithful — T. Carlyle By the way, as I am your old writing-master, will you let me tell you a thing; or if it was not you that was guilty of it, will you tell it to the Scotsbrig people: In directing (or backing) a Letter there is a

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certain side you ought begin at: look on this Note, and observe the rule. The "Carlyle" written where the "Annan" is were quite withershins. Look at the front, and you will see how it lies. Or if you cannot understand this (which is not very intelligible), and look at some old Letters, and find it out! (a "good advice Brethren" — not the Apostle Paul's) Published in part: L, pp. 5 3 3 - 5 3 4 . 1. Possibly that published in part in Froude, III, 5 1 . 2. Cf. Gal. 6:7, which Carlyle altered to suit his own purpose. 3. Unidentified. For Jock Forsyth, apparently another Annandale man, see Letter 1 1 9 .

• On July 19 Carlyle wrote his mother that he was back at work rewriting the first volume of The French Revolution. On September 23 he announced to John that he hadfinishedit "Monday last," the twentyfirst (see L, pp. 537, 548). Possibly four days later he left for Annandale, and on October 6 wrote back to his wife from Alexander's at Howes that he had made the rounds to each of the households dear to him, found all well within — "a rocking of cradles, a quackling and lullabying" (L, p. 560) — but hardship without. James had lost half his crop, Austin was barely making ends meet, and Alexander had so far lost £20 at his jobbing enterprise. So bad were the times that both Austin and Alexander were turning their eyes toward Canada. Carlyle did what he could by way of encouragement, galloped about on the back of Harry, visited Ben Nelson, chanced across the strange John Waugh, whom he feared had gone insane, and returned to London about November 1. ·

109. Cheyne Row, 4th Deer, 1835 My Dear Alick, This miserable scrap of paper is barely, if at all, better than nothing; but I cannot let another frank go without at least one word from me: a word to signify articulately in black on white the "farewell" I

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had not time to take of you by speech that morning. What you felt as I went whirling away from you, in that dumb hurried manner, I could well feel. By the blessing of the heavenly Powers, we will meet again, and have some speech yet. All my news are in the sheet1 already written to Jean, which you will see. The thing I had farther to say was a question, best put to yourself: How you are getting on with those farms, and other projects of yours? I will keep flattering myself that you have fallen in with some kind of prospect that way. America is a thing one scunners at terribly; surely poor Scotland is not quite desolate yet. Let us do our best, Boy! In the mean time, one counsel I have to give ( and indeed it is the one I have myself, in my own position, to take ) : that of being as quiet as were possible; considerably quieter than you are. Do not madden your heart with the thing, let it go which way it will; sit still, till you have more clearness; the clock-weights of the world are not rushing madly down, it is only one's own impatient temper that so paints it out to one. I really would like well to hear that you could, many a time, thro' these winter days, sit down quietly and do nothing: read, or, as John advises, take to improvement in spelling and arithmetic. Books I really would counsel: ask Ben Nelson, for instance, whether he cannot get you Stewart's work on America,2 and many other works on it, or on other subjects that may interest you? He will do it quite willingly; or you may procure Books elsewhere: and really cannot be better employed than reading them. Of course, neglecting no opportunity of trying for farms; in which I still hope you will find the modest success you seek. But if not, why then still we are not lost, we will not despair. There is a wide world still; and hearts, that will all help one another. No "brattling and brainging at ta weemsie" then! "Kit, what ta deevil ails ta?" 3 I hope at any rate my dear Brother you will write to me freely, very soon; and tell me what your speed is be it better, be it worse. — I am somewhat feckless and bilious, as you will see by Jean's Letter; but not ailing anything other than that. — Jack abides at Munich, so far as we can see, thro' the winter: perhaps he could not be better than there. The Paper is done: I durst not take a larger bit for overloading the frank. Ja[ne is rjather ailing too, unites with me in kind love to all your Ho[usehol]d and you. Do not forget the small Jane, the small

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Tom! — Sit composed thro' the winter my dear Alick; hopeful, trusting in Heaven and its goodness; and when intolerable misery overtakes you at any hour, seek within your own heart for the cause of it. God bless you! Believe me Ever your affectionate Brother, — T. Carlyle ι. See L, pp. 568-570. 2. Possibly James Steward's (pseud, of Henry Trumbell of Norwich) History of the Discovery of America . . . (1810). 3. "Part of a Canobie coalminer's speech to his Boy, 'Kit,' reported by Brother Alick, with true mimetic humour. — T . C." (NLM, I, 82).

110. Chelsea, Friday 5th Feby 1836 My Dear Alick, Tho' I really am extremely tired, having written and done little else for a long while; and have already told all my news to Jean, which you will see, — yet I will not let the Opportunity pass without a word for yourself, which you will prize the more on that account. I had indeed some words from your hand, which I am still indebted for, and was very thankful to see. You must take a sheet, and fill it yourself, however. It gave me much satisfaction to hear of your being at least comfortably busy. "The Devil," they say truly, "is always at the elbow of an idle man." Grahame, from whom I heard lately, tells me "it is a brisk trade": whether a profitable one or not, I suppose no man can yet predict. Stick to it, my brave Boy, with assiduity, with patience, with steadiness. Better times must and will come for us all; and shall, should we even cross the Water to seek them. A man that can till soil, can find soil yet in this Planet Earth, and it will give him bread if he till it! As for me, who can neither dig nor beg, I still do not a jot fear what is to come. "There is life for a living bodie": fear it not. I saw lately a Mr John Greig from the State of New-York, on his way northward to Edinburgh. He is a notable man. From Moffat about thirty years ago he set out, with an inkhom at his button, unknown

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to all people; and now, I understand, he is grown a very King in that region, manages all public business, the benefactor of many, and has wealth — "a hundred a year for his Cook alone" ! I really liked the good man (he is an old friend of Mrs Welsh's); and hope to see more of him as he returns this way. He seems to come over every three or four years; and thinks no more of a trip over the Atlantic and back, than many people would of one to Maryport or Bowness. — Grahame knows him well. 1 By the bye, tell Grahame when you see him that I received his Letter with real thankfulness; and will surely answer it: but you can explain to him how unspeakably busy I am, and excluded from all adventures, or things noteworthy, — except in my Inkbottle, at what it yields me or refuses. Jack you will see promises to come to us in April. May the winds blow fair for him! One will be very curious to see what he has grown into since we parted. Evidently the great heart of Doil is unchanged. Poor fellow, after all! You would hear how we got the Barrels. All was right at last: the Potatoes had been slightly frostbitten, but only about the ends of the Barrel; they are wonderfully good considering what a stew they had. The Meal is equal to any that we ever ate, or need wish to eat. I often enough make myself a glass of punch of your Whisky, and enjoy it after such risks as it ran. The liquor is decidedly good; I let none but favourites taste of it. Will you remember us in all kindness to Mary; explain to her why fewer or no Newspapers come, as Jean will explain to you. She can report that the woman Ann2 is strong and well; going on with energy, unweariedly. Take up that Cann to Scotsbrig, the first good day you have! Do, like a good fellow. The back-reek which this would cure was quite abominable. Jane sends her love to Jenny and Jane and you. Remember me affectionately to them, not forgetting fat Tom tho' he would not speak to me. — I[f you s]ee Ben Nelson, also remember me. Can James Austin tell me anything about Glen? I fear, Nothing, or nothing good. — Oh dear Alick how tired I am! Write to me soon. Ever your affectionate Brother, T. Carlyle

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1. Greig, a banker in and an extensive landholder about Canandaigua, New York, helped Alexander and apparently Robert Clow before him to their starts in America. See esp. Letter 178 and introduction to Letter 188. 2. Ann Cook, now the servant at Cheyne Row, whom Carlyle had brought back from Annan in November.

ill. 5. Cheyne Row Chelsea 18th Feby 1836 My Dear Brother, I was much shocked today on opening the Newspaper to find in it a brief announcement that your little Margaret had been taken from you last Saturday. Apparently the call had been very sudden; for Jean, writing to me the week before, said nothing of any illness. — I remember the gleg-looking little creature in its Mother's arms; and feel sorrow for you all. It was not to know the good and evil of Life, poor little child; but to be called hence and cut off, while yet but looking into the world! The course of human destiny is "fearful and wonderful" 1 ever as of old. Alas, one can say nothing, nothing; — except, if it so might be, what the wise have submissively said before us: "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord!" I trust neither you nor Jenny will give yourselves up to unavailing distress, or lament beyond measure. Some natural tears are due and unavoidable; the innocent ways of such a being, briefly lent us, will plead painfully in the parents' bosom: but what then? Is not all Human Life a Shadow; and whatever lives fast going down to Death? We shall all be gathered thither ere long: "we shall go to them, they will not return to us." 2 — My dear Brother, I feel how vain all words are; whatsoever I could write would fall useless, where the stroke has fallen. It will show only that I grieve in your grief, and feel as a Brother for what befáis you, which is the little all that man can do for man. I had thoughts of writing to you these several days; but this sad occurrence hastens me: tho' I have no time or composure to write

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anything, I send you this Note of Remembrance; with Jack's Letter, it will not be worthless to you. Jack as you will notice gives us hope of seeing him before many weeks. I sent him off last week's Examiner (which accordingly my Mother missed); I must write to him, the final Munich Letter,3 one of these days. What is to become of us all when he returns, and consults, does look uncertain: but that it will be blessed to meet again, and exchange counsel once more, that is not uncertain. I think in general we have "a wide world," 4 tho' full of impediments, and must set our face hand[somel]y to it. For myself I cannot be said to fear anything, or almost to hope anything from this old country of ours. Things have grown so utterly contradictory and impracticable round me that I have, as it were retired within my own citadel, and very quietly bid them welter their way, and do, in short whatsoever it is their pleasure to do. By the grace of Heaven, I mean to keep my own senses clear, my own heart free and ready; and innumerable cobwebs shall be nothing but cobweb to me. But on the whole surely my position here is a very strange one, — as indeed is usually appointed for the like of me. Many men honour me, some even seem to love me; and withal in a given space of time I shall have no bread left here. So we must go and seek it elsewhere then? Clearly; go, were it to Jerusalem ( as our brave Father used to say ) ;® and seek cheerfully — whatsoever is allotted us. All things are tolerable, all losses but the loss of oneself; which latter is not entailed on us. But after all there is a brighter side of possibilities; and much may be better than we think. For this also we shall hope to be ready, to be thankful; and to do wisely with this too. Lucky they who as poor Cowthwaite expressed himself can "do oivther way" ! Meanwhile, what forms always my best and indeed for the present my only news: the Book still progresses. I do hope you will all be amused reading it some day before very long. Were it once finished, I think I shall be one of the merriest men, — for a little season! I am in a new Chapter,6 the ground fairly broken; and do not take the thing too violently. I am getting on far better than I did. There are but two Chapters more, and then the Second Volume is done. One other tough spell for the Third; and then — ! I think the subject is good; and I

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study to handle it as well and faithfully as I can. Courage! Courage! Jean gratified me not a little by the news that your trade this winter had been profitable and favourable. It was surely time that you should find some encouragement somewhere; of late years, on all hands, you have had enough to struggle with. I long to hear the particulars, and what you aim at now, or whether that salting trade still goes on for a while. I suppose, farms, as usual, are . . . 7 contended, since it is so, to let them go their own way; and let another than you b e ruined [by t]hem. McDiarmid says the quartern loaf is sixpence, that wages are "very steady," and all as usual . . . wheels. I shall b e most particularly happy to hear it confirmed; and see anywhere in . . . evidence of it with my own eyes! The news I co[uld s]end you from this Babylon would b e . . . We have had two days of the fiercest blustering nort[h wind], and plenty of February dust; on th[e whole] weather that I do not dislike. Plenty of wind, and this flat region and huge smoke . . . : but O the summer, the hot burning stagnancy of Summer! Perhaps it will not b e so b a d either: they [say] last summer was the worst known for long. — John Mill is very sickly and weak; I am obliged to go to see him, he cannot come out at night: he lives two miles off, and I get a pleasant crack with the man in his own room, tho' he looks but very poorly, and I think will have a long traik of it, most irksome for him, as hitherto he has never known sickness. A certain Mr Hickson, 8 a famed Shoemaker and Farmer of these parts, invites me today (tho' I have never seen him) to come out [to] the Country, to his Farm, for a day or two, since Mill, whom it would profit, will not go without me. As this brave Hickson will take us in his own vehicle (for he is a man of much substance), I seem bound to go; it will do me good too: I want to see the man besides and his ways. So probably we shall go next week. — Buller is struggling away in Parliament; his Mother has the grandest Radical Parties; at none of which have I assisted this year; tho' I see the good people all, from time to time, with pleasure. Parties of all sorts, as they do but fret my nerves, and hinder not help my one task of Book-writing, are a thing I rather avoid. — We see Allan Cunningham sometimes; hardly any other Scotchman. Of Mrs Irving or that set of persons not a whisper comes our way, this long while; except lately some hint that they 9 had settled much cash on

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Mrs I., and were getting wilder otherwise than ever, — writing to the King and so forth. They are still heard sometimes loudly preaching on the streets hereabouts; but seemingly without effect. Jane is sitting by me, rather better than she has been of late. She has been plagued with colds etc. all thro' winter; never very ill, yet never well. She bids me send you and Jenny her affectionate remembrances and sympathies. I expect you will write soon. God bless you and yours, dear Brother! T. Carlyle Friday morning. — It seems possible that my Mother may be with you. There is no haste particularly about her Note or Jean's. — Will you give our united kind love to Mary an[d] her Household. In haste: Fare well to you all again! — T. C. MS: NLS#5ii.38. Published in part: L, pp. 575-577. 1. Cf. Ps. 139:14. 2. II Sam. 12:23. 3. See L, pp. 577"58°· 4. Shakespeare, Sonnet 107, line 2. 5. See Letter 66. 6. Book IV, "Varennes," of the second volume. 7. Undetermined number of words missing or illegible here and below. 8. Either William Hickson or, more likely, his son William Edward Hickson (1803-1870), boot and shoe manufacturer of Smithfield, London, educational writer, and friend and correspondent of Mill who had been brought up to his father's business. He retired from it in 1840 to edit until 1852 the Westminster Review, the name the London and Westminster Review (see Letter 113) was changed to after Mill relinquished his interests in the latter in 1840. 9. The remnants of Irving's apostolic followers.

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1X2.

John Aitken Carlyle to Margaret Aitken Carlyle, unth postscripts from Carlyle and Jean Carlyle Aitken 5 Cheyne Row, Chelsea April 14 [1836] My dear Mother, At length arrived safe and sound in London! We had a rough journey from Munich to Boulogne, nothing but wind, rain, cold and mud all the way; yet we came notwithstanding in the appointed number of days. On monday morning about half past six we left Boulogne with an excellent steam boat — the "Water Witch," and were in Dover by nine. Nothing could be more favourable than the passage was. I sheltered Lady Clare by means of a large carriage umbrella from the wind produced by the motion of the vessel which with tide and steam was going at the rate of 15 or 20 miles an hour. She was at least as well when we landed and in as good case every way as when she left England, and our engagement was concluded and wound up in a most satisfactory and comfortable way for all parties concerned. I felt glad and thankful for this. Nothing can give one so much pleasure as looking back on any thing that one has been enabled to do and finish however trifling it may have been. My relation to Lady Clare was altogether an extremely distinct one, and I knew what my duty to her demanded, and endeavoured all along to perform it faithfully. During the two years and a half that are past I had some melancholy days, many peaceful ones, and here and there as happy a one as this world can afford in sobriety. — Till I really got to London, I felt a strange uncertainty, a fear of something that might check me, or turn me back and send me away again on unknown err a n d s — all the effects of frequent disappointments that had previously occurred kept me from getting home. Let us be thankful that all has at length ended so well. — When I am to see you in Scotland is still undetermined. The weather looks cold and unpromising at present, and I have several little things to do in London which will detain me at least a week or two. I hear of your welfare notwithstanding the changes that have taken place since I left you. To one who has the right footing all that belongs to the earth is light. All that one ought

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to pray for is to be enabled to make the right use of whatever is sent upon one. We see by the newspaper that you are at present in Dumfries, and that Jean's little child is unwell. We hope it will prove nothing serious. Give my best love to her and her husband. If I had been out of the chaos of thoughts and recollections arising from my being here again, I should have begun a letter to Jean also as there are some hopes of getting a frank, but I am so muddy and so inclined for rest in every way that I can find no outlet for any thing. Whenever I feel more composed I shall write again, and tell you what I purpose doing. This scrawl will have done its duty when it has announced my safe arrival, and requested you to do a small piece of business for me, namely to get £ 190 added to my account with the Commercial Bank, which I paid yesterday to Messrs Jones and Co here for the purpose of being transmitted to Dumfries. Tell all the rest at Annan and elsewhere that I am safe here again and hope soon to see them. And may God bless you, my dear mother, and have us in his keeping till we meet again. Your affectionate Son J A Carlyle My Dear Mother, I marked in your Examiner yesterday that Jack was come, that there would be a Letter in 3 days: but now we hear of you in Dumfries, and as a Letter canfindyou instantly, no delay is to be made: Jack even will not hear of waiting "a minute for a frank," but will "pay it himself." He came, the day before yesterday, after being expected: a hackney Coach trundled up to the door just after dinner, with a Doctor and a great heap of luggage. He seems very glad; hearty, often-laughing; with a large broad face still, tho' the hair has a decided shade of gray. He speaks of being "detained at least a week or two." Read "a month or two": for all things are at sea yet with us; the man must claver immensely, and inquire and speculate before any result be arrived at. Lady Clare is going back to Italy, he thinks: but whether she will take a Doctor; or whether he will go, is completely uncertain. There let it hang uncertain. — Your Bank business will be done (on Wednesday first) exactly as the others were done: "Money from Doctor Carlyle for Margaret Carlyle" (never heading the "Jones and

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Company"); and James will put "right" on the Newspaper. — Poor Jean and he! I wish they could put "right" too about their little Boy. They will be full of anxiety, and nothing can be done to help. Some Doctor's advice should be taken, tho' I know not in the least whose; and know not much whether they can serve greatly. It rests with the Supreme Power, and we must keep hoping; you (that can strive) hoping and striving. We were largely contented with your good Letter, and thankful for it. But do not say now that you cannot write! That excuse will never pass again. — Jane is pretty well, and very glad about the Doctor. I also am got round to my old condition; and have done a task this day again, after idling yesterday. I shall very soon be thro' the Second Volume; then there is but one to do: and I mean to come and busy myself somewhere (say Dumfriesshire), in the profoundest rest, for three months after that. Courage! "Steady!" as the drill-serjeants say. — I have sent two Newspapers to Jenny, one yesterday with a mark for Jack on it: I had got one in return from her that very day, with "Thanks; all well; write soon." — Our affection to all and every one ( all are present to me, but there is no room for names ). — Your affectionate, T. Carlyle Dumfries1 Saturday Our little Child is no better. Almost no room for hope of that. He is much worse since you saw him. l. From Jean: the letter was sent to Mrs. Carlyle in care of James Aitken, and then readdressed to Alexander.

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113· To Margaret Aitken Carlyle 5 Cheyne Row, 15th May, 1836 My Dear Mother, I am afraid you begin to think us rather negligent: at all events you have good right to be impatient to get some news from us; for since Jack's Letter, announcing ha]stily nothing or little more than that he was arrived, you have not received the smallest scrape of a pen from us, — if it were not the two scrapes on the back of the Newspaper. It should not have been so. But the matter went as matters often go: I thought Jack would write, having less to do than I; Jack thought probably I would write: and thus as the old Proverb teaches, "between two stools, the unfortunate sitter came to the floor." Whether Jack will write today I cannot tell, tho' I have urged him: but one thing I can tell, that I will write. None of us are going to any Church, and it seems to me I [cou]Id not readily find better employment. The truth is, there was hitherto almost nothing definite to be written. Jack has been flying about here, as you can fancy him: entirely uncertain this day what he would do the next; speaking about doing all things under the Moon and above it, but with no means of forming any positive plan for the future. It is to a good degree the like case with us all. As to setting up as Doctor in London, the difficulties are evidently great; they are great as to setting up anywhere: till a man greatly, and even desperately set his face against them, there is no use in his pretending to determine. Now, however, I begin to conjecture that there is a [sma]ll fibre of certainty in our brave Doctor's schem[e:] he has written to Lady Clare, asking whether she would have him go back to Rome with her on the old footing (the Munich one, of living in his own room etc.) for a short time: with a view to his trying yet a while whether he could not manage to get into practice in Rome rather than London. He wished to know this before going farther; it was a kind of guidance to him to know even that she would not. Well, yesterday the Lady answers by a Letter (for she is in the country at present) that she will with great readiness make such an engagement; a six-months engagement, beginning from the first of

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September; so that after March next the Doctor shall find himself brought to Rome; and left ready to do all there that may then seem good to him. — My own private conjecture, tho' nothing yet has been seriously said even among ourselves about it, is that the man will accept; that we shall have him among us till September; and that, after that, he will off again to Italy, were it only as a kind of furlough, to save him yet another year or so from the necessity of making any final decision. All things considered, which I see in him and in his position here, I am not sure but it is the wisest; tho' I carefully abs[tain] from giving any positive counsel, where it were so easy for a third party to be mistaken. Another prediction I hazard in consequence: that you will before very long see him yourself in Scotland. He speaks often about it; about "going off next week" etc.: but I do think that had he this business settled in any way he will go; till it is settled, he naturally ought not to think of going. For the rest, the good Doyle is the same guileless affectionate soul he ever was; and very comfortable to us here: he himself too, flying at large hither and thither "over this large and populous city," 1 seems not to be unhappy at all; but to mend in flesh, and on the whole do very handsomely. It is long very long since I have seen him generally cheerfuller. — But on the whole, why do I fill my paper with his affairs? He is writing, or will write; and himself explain them. By way of farther excuse for our delays, I ought to add that for the last ten days especially we have [been] a good deal put about by the sickliness, natural to this season. Jane has been usually put feckless; tho', only one day very ill (with headache it was): then our Servant Anne fell ill and very ill; not even Jack and I but got our colds, and have gone about sniftering and barking; tho' all is better now. It was one of the ugliest springs I ever anywhere beheld; the worst within man's memory the people here say: Cold as charity, bitter, biting, barren; till within these five or six days, when it has all at once grown warm and delightful and put out our fires. That this sort of weather had a good deal to do with our sickness, I think very probable. At any rate that business of Anne Cook's threatened really for a day or two to prove very bad: she had some sort of Natural illness (I believe) which had been too long delayed; she was also said to be the greatest haoeril and foolishe[st] deceiving and self-deceiving gomeril in the world:

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so Jack had a heavy handful doctoring her, bleeding, physicking, starving from food, restraining from coming out of bed; but some days ago, it seems to be "all by," and the creature is stepping about again; looking indeed better than formerly, tho' much paler (her former complexion being that of the Northwest moon, tho' not so uniform). A more uncultivated human being has rarely or never come across my path than Anne Cook: however, she wants not for natural sagacity; is full of good nature, of robust contentment; take this along with you, and understand that she is swift of work, most ready and most rough in all things; means no harm, knows little difference between truth and untruth (except the mo[men]tary convenience, often not even momentary), — and you have certainly not the model of servants, yet a rump of a hizzy who gives you less annoyance than the most do with all their gifts. She talked once of going home (for she has some kind of permanent ailment in the back); and if her stout health go, there is really little left her; but whether now that she is likely to be well and even better than before, she will persist in that, I know not: Jane has taken means to do, if so; and Anne shall be sent honestly back — with our good wishes, the poor slut. I rather conjecture she will incline to stick where she is, however. — The first opportunity you have, it were good charity to inform her friends about this; they have probably heard something about her being ill, and do not yet know that she is quite well again. The rest of her attainments and grace you will not speak of to them (or to any one) except "in the general way," and with healing clauses. — There surely is enough about her. As to myself, for the last three weeks I have being going what you call bane-idle. I finished2 my second volume then, and determined to have a rest for one week, it was very grand; Jack and I went swashing far and near: but the second week, the bile declared itself (it had been lying hidden, as I knew, before that); and now this third week, I have had my Cold, and been dealing a little in Caster etc., tho' but a little. I meant to resume work last Monday; b[ut] not only the cold came in the way, there was also a fresh proposal (and entreaty) from Mill: write him an Article for his Review, and get a little ready money by it: which of the two to do I knew not, and yet know not; but rather think I shall stick by my old job till I be done with it?

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No rest for me in the world till it be off my hands! I often [thi]nk it is a great malady and madness this poor Book, which wear me so, and has been so unlucky: yet rather I should say, it is a great happiness, and gives me the completest indifference towards all fretting of fortune, towards much that has haunted me like pale spectres all my life long. With little in my purse, little in my hope, and no very fixed landmark in this Earth, I stand serene under the sky, and really have the peaceablest fearlessness towards all men and all things. Such blessing I owe to the poor Book; and therefore will not abuse it, but speak well of it. In some s[ix] months it will be printed and done, and the wo [rid] all round me once again, — much more homelike than it ever before was. The people are all exceedingly good and kind to me; the better and kinder, that I depend little on that, or not at all on it, and could do quite tolerably, with their badness and their indifference. And yet, poor brothers! I like them very well. — So fear nothing for me, dear Mother: I will work on: what the great Taskmaster has appointed me, doubt not that; neither is there any other thing properly that I desire. I have not "tint heart," not a jot; and so not "tint a." I have fancied you all this while at Dumfries with James and Jean; to whom doubtless you are useful in these circumstances. Poor Jean! She has early tasted one of the bitternesses of married life; blessing and bitternesses alternating like the balance! I was deeply sorry for the loss of the poor little cre[ature an]d for the sorrow it was sure to give them. To the poor child. . . . 4 Monday morning. — Jack, I believe, is writing you a short Letter today: he complains that I have represented him here in colours not without "hidden satire." I said, you would hear both sides of the matter, and then know. — Our Eclipse, yesterday, was very visible, thro' smoked glass; the dim faintness of the light, when at the lowest point, was rather singular. Jack and I had gone up to Hyde Park to see it better; there was hardly anybody there; all London we heard had run out to Greenwich where the Astronomical Observatory is. I remembered the last eclipse well, and where I saw it, or rather could not see it for clouds: at Mainhill. Ah me! — We are all going on well today: I am for a shower-bath to drive out the remnants of the Cold. Jack seems determined on Italy: but you will hear. I will not be so long in writing again. Take care of yourself, dear

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Mother. Jane sends her love to all as [surely] we all do. — Ever Y[our] affectionate, T. Carlyle Published in part: NL, I, 7-8. 1. Cf. Paradise Lost IX. 445. 2. Between April 26 and 29. See Slater, p. 145. 3. Carlyle's precarious financial condition caused him to change his mind. He wrote for Mill, who in 1836 became editor and in 1837 also proprietor of the London and Westminster Review (1836-1840), formed from an amalgamation of the London Review and the Westminster Review, "Memoirs of Mirabeau" and "Parliamentary History of the French Revolution." Mill published both in the London and Westminster Review, 26 and 27 (January and April 1837), 382-439, 233-247; both are republished in CME, III, 403-480, IV, 1-21. The money Carlyle received from these pieces and what he shortly received from Fraser for "The Diamond Necklace" allowed him to resume work on The French Revolution with an easy mind. 4. An entire leaf is missing.

114. With a few lines from Jane Welsh

Carlyle Cheyne Row, 16th May 1836

My Dear Alick, I do not know who it is that stands indebted to the other: but as this frank will carry a fraction more of paper, it may take my salutation along with it. What you are about specially at this time I cannot very accurately figure to myself: perhaps going to change your abode for one more convenient in regard to position and cheapness? Or do you stay where you are, now that you know it better? — I easily conceive that your Bacon-trade is all winded up before this; and doubtless I was heartily glad to hear that it had not proved altogether unsuccessful. There is a great stir in everything connected with manufacturers at present, and perhaps this ere long may be found to tell upon the Cattle-trade and other Farm-Commerce. But let no man put faith in its lasting! It will, to a surety, be down upon him·; and that with a

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huge crash in more or fewer months. There is just the same sort of thing going on that went on in the year 1825; and all but blind men may forsee that the issue is not doubtful, but inevitable. Only the day or the month when is uncertain. So if you are meditating any stroke of trade, I pray you keep this in your eye. On the whole, what wiser can you do than sit still quietly till it appear whether anything feasible will turn up; or even till it appear that nothing feasible will. I am doing, in one sense, the very same here: the only difference in my favour is that I have work to do (tho' no wages for it) in the interim. Keep yourself quiet, my dear Brother; or work cheerfully at whatsoever may offer itself from day to day. It is a long lane that has no turn. No: there is not such a lane in this world; but good and evil, success and failure, are offered in certain measures to all men. My brave Alick shall not fail, Heaven helpingl Set a stout face to it, Boy, and a smooth brow: we will see what it will come to. Your whiskey is never done yet, and prime stuff it proves — applauded even by Archibald Dunlop 1 (the great Haddington Distiller once, now a Manager of a Gin-factory here, such are the turns of fate) : Jack and I occasionally brew a glass of it into good toddy, and drink your health. O how beautiful Annandale seems to my mind this summer; but I must not come, I doubt much. There is rest for me nowhere till this Book end. I will tug it out therefore: thank Heaven, there is now but one volume to do. — I recollect few pleasanter things in my late Life than those arrivals at Catlinns, and the welcome and Jenny's tea. Courage! Who knows but we may drink tea yet, as cheerfully as ever, with water from the wells of the Missouri! One's kettle will boil anywhere; there is a sky over one's head anywhere; and kind nourishing Earth under one's feet. Jack I rather think will see you face to face soon. He is the old fellow throughout: the same childlike kindliness, brotherly frankness and love, the same fluistering, and winged incoherence of words; he has made me laugh more, one way and the other, than I had done for years in the same space. A good fellow, as ever broke this world's bread; whom we must just let alone to go his own way, and be what he cannot but be. My Mother has all my news; which she will impart to you without

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drawback. Give our kind love to Mary: she can tell Cook's people, that their daughter is well again. — I send my blessing to the little Children; J[ane,] I suppose, is a large hiz2y by this time: Tom a great talker. Here is my Jane, to whom I lend the pen. — To 2 add only kindest love and a kiss to my little namesake for I am full of business of one sort and another. This laying up of Ann has made a horrid puddle about us, and the chaos must be evolved into order again as fast as possible. W e have great reason to be thankful that she did not altogether traik on our hands, her people would never have been persuaded that the poor lump had not "died of neglect" like my Uncle Roberts died.3 God bless you all evermore affectionately yours Jack4 is up stairs, writing to our Mother. I dare not shew him this: you must take his remembrances for granted; which I can well warrant you in doing. Probably he will speak for himself soon. And so I terminate, for there is not a strawbreadth more of room. Remember me brotherlike to Jamie: I hope he sees better prospects this year. I guess, tho' I do not know, that the cann at Scotsbrig is up? — Good be with you dear Brother! T. Carlyle Give my kind remembrances to Burnswark: I am out of all heart for writing at present; — but — ! 1. The Town Clerk's Office, Haddington, has no information on him or his distillery. 2. From Jane Welsh Carlyle. 3. Apparendy a joke, for Robert Welsh was alive at this time. See

Letter 135 and Reminiscences, I, 134. 4. From Carlyle.

• No letters passed between Alexander and Carlyle this summer: both men were absorbed in their own affairs strangely to the exclusion of the other. But Carlyle did write to John in Scotland and after September 12 in Geneva, where John had traveled en route to Rome in his old capacity with Lady Clare. He wrote also to his wife at Templand, where she had gone in July to visit her mother, and to John Sterling (1806-1844), th e young clergyman and author of Ar-

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thur Coningsby (1833), whom Carlyle first met in February 1835 and whose life he recorded in 1851. He wrote of the development of his book, the comings and goings of those elements of London society that he believed would be of most interest to his correspondents, and his own sentiments toward those various scenes. Then the brothers caught themselves up almost simultaneously. Alexander was the first. He apparently wrote part of his letter from his own house, Hill-Top, the Howes, Annan, and part from Mary's house, The Gill, nearby. ·

115· Alexander to Carlyle Hill-Top 27th Nov 1836 My Dear Brother, At no period within the last twenty years has our correspondance slept so long as at the present time. As to debtor or creditor I know not or care not. — The reproaches of your friends here and my own silent upbraiding tell me but too plainly that I am not blameless in the matter. The truth is I had nothing new to tell you and you were hearing occassionaly of us through our friends. Now however that my summer speculations are wound up and the winter begun, it behoves me to tell you more particularly how it fare with us all. I know not whether it lies in my own missmanagement or in the will of the Fates, but hitherto one character has marked all my endeavours, namely signal want of success. I had earned somewhat, it is true last year by trading in pork; but what with the cold wet summer and change of markets, I calulate on having lost it all again — so that I am at present as poor and dependant as when I left Catlinns — as much without aim and much more without hope truely. Tom Graham of Moat has a small farm on Annan Moor called Restow halo to let (which John Ewart 1 has farmed, or rather abused I believe, for some few years but is now to have it no longer). I have not seen it yet but am told it is a poor beggarly spot of earth, scarcely perhaps worth looking at. Indeed I have now nearly ceased to harbour any hope in this particular — to look for reasonable remuneration for risk and

1836, Annan 409 labour in farming, is now nearly out of the question. Competition in this as well as in every other business of life has ruined the poor farmer. It is in this country alone where the people are employed in raising bread and forbidden to eat of it. — It is here where the "As[s] is muzzled when he treadeth out the coin."2 The poor husband mans substance is devoured "in riotous living" by his proud but beggarly master the aristocrat. But tush! tush! it is no use talking. Our kind Mother and some of our friends here imagin that a livelihood might be earned in Ecclefechan by some sort of shopkeeping. Peradventure there might, but I confess I feel within me a want of fitness for the occupation as dislike toward the situation. America is still open as a sort of refuge and really I now see little or nothing else for it but to bundle off in the spring. By the way I may here remark, that I was over at a fair at Cockermouth about two months ago and John our brother3 was fond of talking about nothing else — he seemed bent on going to the neighbourhood of New york in the spring of the year, where a number of his neighbours had gone before and were doing well. The times here at present seem critical and alarming in no ordinary degree. I believe such a summer and back-end for cold and wet has hardly been seen within these last forty years — a considerable quantity of stooks are still standing and the beggarly crop of potatoes are little more than half up yet. They are selling at more than three shillings per Cwt a[nd] the oat meal at 2d per pound and hardly to be had — that you perceive the poor mans prospects, with his large family, through winter, are black and dismal indeed. I have made a small beginning in the bacon trade this year but can hardly tell whether to proceed or not. The price in the first place is nearly as large again as it was this time last year. — There is no turnips ( say they) or food of any kind to feed cattle or sheep with, and all kinds of meat, therefore, will be very dear in the spring. True! But if the trade of the country give way as there is some appearance of it doing; very little butchers meat, believe me, will serve the country. Thus, my dear brother, I have nearly exhausted the sheet talking of myself and have told you little. It is high time to change the subject. I have been up frequently of late to see our kind Mother and really I think she looks better than she has done for some years. Let us be thankful and

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pray to Heaven for the long continuance of so precious at gift, we can never be enough thankful or know sufficiently how to value her company and conversation. The rest of them I think are all in their usual way. Austin here has had a most laborious summer carting stones for a Distillary at Warmanbie but whether a profetable or not I cannot tell, the job is not done yet his wife and little ones are feighting away bravely. I saw Jean and her husband last week and the little boy. They were all in good health and heart. Jamie has got all his stooks inn some time ago and has rather a good crop I believe which is fortunate this year when things are so very dear. Give our kindest love to your dear wife. Write soon. Ever your affectionate brother A Carlyle I understand you are at present very busy with your Book. When are you to commence printing? Is your article on Meraboo, or some such name, not printed yet. — the one you last wrote for the Magazine. A kind letter is come from Corrie4 the Bishop to our poor late friend Corrie. Full of proffessions of kindness and containing and order for £5. in the meantime you will hear of it through Mr Clyde I understand. Our little one5 is not baptised yet but will I hope through the course of time. We think of naming her after her mother honest woman. You may say to Ann that her people are all well and wondering much why she does not write. 27th Written at Mary's. J. Austin was at Scotsb[rig] on Saturday, says our Mother was preparing to write you. I fear you will hardly be able to make out this wretched scrawl. Should any thing feasable turn up I will let you know instantly. I have however little hope. I mean to look at Graham's Farm some of these days. MS: NLS# 1763.159-169. 1. Unidentified. 2. Cf. Deut. 25:4,1 Cor. 9:9,1 Tim. 5:18. 3. Their half-brother, who emigrated to Brantford, Ontario, in 1837. 4. From four unpublished letters — ( 1 ) Carlyle to Jean dated February 18, 1836, MS: NLS#5ii.39; (2) Carlyle to his mother dated

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March 22, MS: NLS#520.52; (3) Daniel Corrie to "a needy kinsman" dated from Madras June 20, MS: NLS#5ii.50; (4) Carlyle to Jean dated April 2, 1837, MS: N L S # 5 i i . 4 3 — it is clear that this is the Rt. Reverend Daniel Corrie (1777-1837), first bishop of Madras. Carlyle's connection with him originated from his friendship with Alexander Come of Newfield (see Letter 82), the bishop's "needy kinsman," his cousin. Mr. Clyde is unidentified. 5. Janet (1836-1916). She married William Apps of Ontario, "a miller on the Whiteman's Creek" ("Family History").

116. Chelsea, 29th November 1836 My dear Brother, It is a very long while since I have sent you the smallest direct notice of myself; for many years there has not been such a gap in our correspondence. As I can do nothing else for you, one would think I might at least write you a Letter now and then! It seems so very easy to do; and yet it is never done. Tomorrow night will suit better than this night: and so tomorrow after tomorrow1 passes away, and no line goes to paper. — The truth is, I am and have been in the greatest fry I ever in the world felt myself in: not strong of body; uncertain as to all things; my whole head filled with one toilsome enterprise, which alone has kept me swimming in the confused whirlpool that has been about me and within me. I had no heart to open my lips2 to anybody. You must all excuse me, till a quieter time come. Were I free of this Book, then will be, as it were, a conflagration quenched in the head of me: I shall see the blue skies again, and look round on men and things as one having a part and lot among them. Meanwhile, here has a Letter come from Jack, announcing his safe arrival at Rome. As I wrote only last week to our Mother,3 I resolve on addressing this4 to your care; and scrawl a few hasty words to go with it. Doubtless you will hasten to let our Mother know: very probably she is anxious about Jack's arrival; and brooding one knows not what in these dark winter months. I was extremely glad to get the Letter myself; I know not what had led me to fancy some mischance

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might have occurred. It came yesterday morning: I bespoke a Frank today; in hope of [receiving it] I scribble this for you over night. I mentioned to my Mother that I had had a cold; that it had come back on me, and again been driven away. I think it is gone in earnest now: nevertheless I have seen good to abstain altogether from writing these three days, in hopes that I should gain by it in the end. The head, from running water, had dried up; and there dwelt in it a dirty feverish headache, which always grew worse when I took to stooping or writing. So the day before yesterday, I flung down my tools; and struck out with long strides towards the rising-grounds on the Northwestward here, and walked for four good hours. I also foreswore senna and drugs; and instead of that, drew a bottle of liquor, and determined on taking a drop of it to do me good. Yesterday and today, the like. In consequence of which the headache is daily abating, and now all but off, and the feverish sickly feeling along with it: so that perhaps tomorrow I calculate on taking my pen again. It is but one bold rush now, and the thing is done.5 It has given two years of a struggling (bad luck to it!) which I shall not soon forget.— This Cold, which is very general among weak people at present, has been hanging about me for weeks; but now I hope I am rid of it. One cause, added to others in my case, is undoubtedly the miserable weather. We have had such a year as I do not remember to have seen before. Incessant changes, no two days alike; wet, wet; cold and dark. There come, as indeed is usual in this months, "November fogs" which surpass all that any mortal but a Londoner can form an idea of: mist, stagnation, darkness frost and soot can go no farther. Today on the other hand we have had a torrent of rain; and such a b[l]ast of wind as should clear us out a little! I waited in the house till it was over, but going out soon after, I found canns in abundance scattered along the streets, a huge Tree flung out of root in the Hospital Park here, three others in St James's Park their roots lying up to the Sun; and in the Strand ( our most crowded street ) a whole stack of chimneys ( that is, an entire chimney-head with all its canns etc.) blown into the street, or down thro' the roof: a dozen masons were busy sorting it, as I went by. So goes the weather. And who can mend it? One must jook and let the jaw go by. The worst feature of it, by far, is beginning to be felt here too: the defective harvest. Our fourpenny loaf has become

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a fivepenny already. The potatoes, we hear are sore ruined. The poor people have taken to begging with more zeal than usual. There is a class called "Sweepers of Crossings," persons, women, men and children, that establish themselves with a besom where two streets cross, and sweep a clean passage for the footpassengers from flag-pavement to flag-pavement again: these are more numerous and more assiduous dunning you for halfpence than I ever saw them. There is one in a street I go by, an old sailor, very like Rowantree6 whom you remember, except that one leg is wood and leather: he bothers in a half-daft manner, enough to make you first swear at him, and then griet for him. — "The living on Earth have much to bear." Trade also is in a very insecure state: I do not advise you to make large ventures in any way; but to be canny; canny and patient, — and wait till we see what it will turn to. Most of our friends are come back, and all stands about us here much as it did; but we do not as yet get much good of them; my sole care and occupation being to have done with the Book. That is a thing that friends cannot help me in. I find I shall have the offer of work enough in the writing way, when this is over: but I do not resolve to take them; I resolve on nothing till once I am rested, and myself again. It is in a melancholy state that affair of writing; and wearies the heart of me to consider it. We will, if we see good, let it go its way; we going ours. By the help of Heaven, there are other sections of the world with living in them for a man. We shall see. — Two Pieces7 that are both printed now, of my writing, will be out about Newyearsday: I mean to let you see them by some conveyance I shall contrive. The Book is to be printed forthwith after that; and published and off my hands in some two months or little more! March is the time for it. I shall be a happy man. Jane is but sickly at present too. She is lying on the sofa here with a headache where I am writing. It is but temporary; she is better today than yesterday; tomorrow we hope she may be on her feet again. She is on the whole much stronger than when you had her with you in Scotland: —so heavy a handful at Annan; of which she still speaks, with gratitude for the care you took of her. She returned with a huge deal-box, full of Hams etc., which the Omnibus Drivers could hardly lift: we eat of them daily to breakfast; esteeming it wholesome. Our

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oatmeal subsists; but now, I think, is not strong as to quantity. It has held out well; and always continues good to the last. Without doubt there has been a sad confusion of Harvest-work etc. in Scotland too and much hubbling you have all had. I begin to feel very dark about it; and desire you very much to take a long sheet and without preface send me accounts. Especially tell me what you yourself are doing. Have you begun pork-curing again? Or what are you after? Jenny said you spoke of being at Manchester 8 perhaps. Tell me very strictly whatever you attempt or do. Above all, be cheery and quiet. A man ought to button himself together, and step along without too much criticising of the way. Shakespeare says, "A merry heart goes all the day, a sad one tires in a Mile O"; 9 which is very true and applicable to all life. Many times I think of you on the Hilltop with the wild Atlantic winds piping round the little cottage. Shut them out, and put on a good fire! — I hear no word of Grahame, of Ben Nelson or of anybody. Pray write to me. — I recommend myself to my Mother and to the whole Kindred, wide-spread as it is now: I have every one of them in my eye at this moment. Special compliments to little Jean and Tom, and Jenny their Mother. Good be with you my dear Alick! — Ever Your affectionate Brother — T. Carlyle Give that little Picture to Mary as a remembrance of me. It is Lichfield the Birthplace of D r Johnson; the three Steeples are the Cathedral. — I think I will send the two Printed Things to Jean's care or rather her James's. It will be in about a month. I mean to write to Jack forthwith. I have sent him at least Two Newspapers, which probably he has got before this time. Good night, my Boy! the paper is done. 1. Cf. Macbeth V.v.19. 2. The Merchant of Venice I.i.94. 3. See NL, I, 39-44. 4. John's letter. 5. Carlyle completed The French Revolution on January 12, 1837. See NL, I, 50. 6. Unidentified. 7. "The Diamond Necklace" and "Mirabeau." 8. Janet on March 15, 1836, married Robert Harming (d. 1878), "an

1836, London 415 old friend of the Carlyles" (Copeland, p. 37). The couple was at this time living in Manchester, where Hanning was employed by a Mr. Craig. The birth certificate of a daughter, Margaret Aitken Carlyle Hanning (b. 1838), lists his occupation as "shopkeeper" and his residence as 83 Jersey Street. They had a second daughter, Mary (b. 1840), and two others, whose names I have not been able to determine, born to them in Canada. 9. The Winter's Tale IV.iii.134-135.

117. Chelsea, Wednesday [30 November 1836] My dear Alick, I shall begin to believe in our good luck: nothing could be luckier than this. I had written the inclosed1 last night; and the Frank was all ready for closing, when just in the nick of time this morning comes your good and welcome Letter, which I can still acknowledge. Many thanks to you for it; for all the news you send me. It is a sad, obstructed Picture you give me; but a sincere one, a true one; that I can see. We must pluck up a heart, Boy; it will never do, that sort of existence: we must say to it, Thou must and thou shalt alter! I do not like to give you any such weighty advice: but really, looking at the matter with all deliberateness, I should say our worthy Brother John's plan was the feasible one. It is a country this, where as you say the Maker of Bread cannot get Bread to eat. It is a country smitten with a curse; — which will not free itself therefrom without still worse pangs! Why not say: I leave thee, in the name of God? America is not a country of strangers; it is a country of our Brothers. I individually seem to have more Friends there than here. Besides they are, as it were, building a Bridge over: there is little doubt but there will be Steamboats ere long, and a passage of not many days. There is soil, at any rate: God will give you bread, if you plough there, and man shall not snatch it away. What if before you are yet forty, while your strength is at its best, you should actually with one brave effort cut yourself loose! I advise you to consider it, with calmness, with courage; long and well. — Have nothing to do with Tom Grahame,

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and his clout of moss; hunger, hunger, nothing but hunger and toil lies there. — If you think seriously of America, I will write to John Greig (I once spoke of him, he is from Moffat), a powerful man in New York State: he may be able to do you all a service. It seems to me I shall be there, one day, myself. God direct you! God go with us all, whithersoever our course lies. — I am better today, a little farther; and have done a bit of a Task, with headache much subdued: I am now for out; in spite of the g lar. Jane sends her kind remembrances and regards, especially to Jenny and the Bairns. God be with you, dear Brother. T. Carlyle That is my last letter2 out of America; that one from Emerson: one of the best people seemingly I have ever met with. You can read it, and give it to my Mother. His place is New England; you will find it in the Map. Jane's headache too is improving today. Farewell again one and all of you! This frank is not restricted as to weight: a "Government Frank"; blessings on it! ι. The previous letter. 2. Possibly that published in Slater, pp. 147-150.

118. Cheyne Row, Chelsea, 5th March 1837 My dear Brother, You can judge whether your last Letter produced an impression on me. I have thought of little else ever since I got it. From hour to hour the thought of what you tell me comes up, whenever there is any cessation of the huge bustle I am kept in: a thought sorrowful and stern, yet not without some kind of stern blessedness in it. You have not prospered in this our Home-land tho' making a manful long-continued effort to do it; you resolve that there are other lands where you may go and try anew. It is infinitely sad to me to remember how I was

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whirled away from your sight at Annan-foot last time we parted; and now — when we may meet next, God in His goodness only knows! But it beseems us to do what is needful to be done. Quietly, however painfully, we should do it. Nay in America itself I will still trust to see you; and what is more, under better circumstances than our wont was. Neither should our dear Mother grieve, nor will she, as those that have not hope. She knows that on this side of the Ocean as on that, nay in Death itself as well as in Life, we [are] all alike under God's eye: our kind thoughts too can follow one another, constant unimpeded, tho' our bodily footsteps cannot. My Mother too may perhaps go to America and the whole set of us root and branch! Far older Emigrants than she have gone. It is becoming a country this, which all quietly industrious poor and faithful men, ought, one would say, to be in haste to quit. No improvement in it, but the reverse and ever worse, down I doubt to mutual violence and killing, seems to be predictable. — Your resolution, painful to me as it may well be, is one that I dare not say Give up. I have written to Mr Greig; I have described accurately your situation, character, capabilities as to money, faculty, etc.; and asked him, as a "favour done to myself twice over," to give what furtherance he can. He lives in New York State; not far from the borders of Canada: the place is called Cana[n]daigua. I believe he owns much land, or did own and has settled it; and possesses great influence in that region. He seemed to me an especially good kind of man: of great sagacity, integrity; of a douce, solid, sagacious very wholesome and sufficient make of mind. Grahame of Burnswark knows him and can tell you about him. Grahame also, I think, has a Brother1 in New York. Do not Emigrants go thither in the first place? — Greig's Letter tho' written cannot go off, I understand, till the tenth of this month. His answer at the very shortest will take another month and more. That brings us into the middle of May before we can hear from him. He is nearly sure to write, unless the Letter miscarry, which there is small danger of; and also to send us some advice which will be worth listening to. But whether it will do for you to wait so long in expectation of it? We should have had it off two months ago. And yet, I remember, there were Emigrants in the Steamboat I went off to London in three years ago, near the Whitsunday time; nay Jane still later found

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such. You will determine what it is possible and fit to do; tell me in what thing soever now or while we live I have power to help you, and it shall be heartily attempted, done if in me it be. It is fair, and my part; never in any difficulty did I speak to you but your help was ready, as if it had belonged to me by nature. Courage, therefore, my brave Brother! Let us stand to it; let us front it, fasten on it, this "black imbroglio"; and wrestle with it for life: it shall not beat us while life, any fraction of life, is left. — You must write to me as soon as you can possibly make up your mind as to the course you will follow, or as to any part of the course; and on the whole, let me be in clear communication with you, and in possession of all your difficulties, resolutions and procedure. For me it is determined that I am not to get to Scotland till June at soonest. That scheme of Lecturing, that I have mentioned more than once, is to take effect here! 2 The people of the "Royal Institution" (a kind of sublim [e Me]chanics' Institute for the upper Classes) were "all filled up for this year," when my friends got the inquiry made: but I remarked there upon that there was nothing in that — "forty or fifty human beings wanting to hear about German Literature, and one human being to tell them somewhat about it: this is the soul and body of the business; we get house-room anywhere we want, and are independent of all the Institutions in the world!" They snatched at this saying; and have set about it with might and main; and a room is secured, and books are opened, and tickets printing, and the Marchionness of Landsdowne3 and great quantities of Ladyships volunteer to come; and it is fixed for the first week of May; and all going on like a house on fire! A kind of shudder runs thro' my whole heart when I think of it. However, it is a thing I have long wanted and meant to try; and so now I will try it: and doubtless get thro' it better or worse. On the first week of May, between 3 and 4 afternoon, two days each week, till my six lectures are completed, — there are to be happily only six: this is the arrangement. I am to speak my Lectures (that is the terror!) I have not a moment's time to write them. We must and will be thro' it; that is the short and the long! — In the mean time nothing can excel the confusion I am kept in with my two Printers; for they are both now at work, and most irregular workers they are. I sit sometimes, the whole day, up to the armpits as it were

ι8βγ, London

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amid papers printed and manuscript; books, papers and paper-clippings! They must however be done by and by, — perhaps by the middle of April. The first Volume is nearly all set up, I shall perhaps see the last of it forever in about a week. Then there is a Printer to each Volume; and gallop, "lick for lash thro' the Stanwix"; we have left "the Ricker-gate and Roan's" a while ago. The Book is going to be very considerably thicker than I expected; — as long to read as a Meister and a half, I will guess — Did you get the two little things ( pamphlets) I sent you (by Glasgow, Templand and Dumfries)? There was one of each sort for you. The Necklace was the last thing I wrote at Puttock, or ever shall write. — James Aitken ought also to have got an American Review of Teufelsdröckh,4 wh[ich] you will surely see, and like: they are extremely good to me these Yankees, and I am a great object there! As you say nothing about health, I infer that your household has escaped this sad Influenza. We have had a bout of it here: at least Jane has; six weeks of pining and coughing: it never fairly laid hold of me; but kept mining at the outworks, and has finally I hope gone its ways. The bitter bleak weather is not good for one. I wish I were stronger for my lecturing: but I must do as I can. — If I prosper in this trial, I think I will let the Yankees hear me some day! Then comes tea to be made by Jenny were it out of the Mississippi water. — Courage my brave Alick! All lands are homes to the brave man. I feel as if the leaf were going to turn with me perhaps for the better with sickness of body and one thing and another I have had since I was fifteen, a very grim existence of it too. Let us hope and endeavour, and silently trust! — Jane charges me to send you her most affectionate wishes. Do not forget me to to the young Janet; nor nor to the old. Tell our Mother those news of mine: I will write to her if I find a moment, but if I find none, she will easily understand and excuse. Many thanks for putting right the slates, for putting up the sway; and the little keg of ale! A thrawn body but a kind one! — God be with you, and guide you whither it is right to go, my dear Brother! I remain now and ever, Your faithful and affectionate, T. Carlyle We both congratulate poor Mary after her fight; and trust the new William5 will do nothing but well.

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Published in part: NL, I, 61-63. 1. See introduction to Letter 9. 2. Aware that Emerson had invited Carlyle to America to lecture and that he needed money and might have to go, Harriet Martineau (1802-1876), whom Carlyle met in November 1836, a Miss Wilson and her brother Thomas, Frederick Elliot (see Letter 131), Henry Taylor, and others convinced Carlyle he might lecture as successfully in London as Emerson believed he would in Boston. They engaged Willis' Rooms (known also as Almack's after their founder, William Almack, d. 1781) on King Street and beginning Monday, May 1, Carlyle delivered six lectures on German Literature. They were never published. The first lecture was, however, reported in the Spectator May 6 (republished in Richard Herne Shepherd, Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Thomas Carlyle, 2 vols., London, 1881, I, 170-176) and in the Times May 9. Archibald MacMechan thoroughly treats this series (pp. xiiiXX ) and Carlyle's three other lecture series in the introduction to his edition of On Heroes, Hero-Worship, and the Heroic in History (Boston, 1901). 3. Louisa (1785-1851), wife of Sir Henry Petty-Fitzmaurice, third Marquis of Lansdowne (1780-1863). 4. Through the efforts of Emerson, Sartor Resartus was first published as a book for public distribution by James Munroe and Company of Boston in 1836. See Dyer, esp. pp. 220-223, and Slater, pp. 17-18. The Reverend Mr. Nathaniel Langden Frothingham reviewed the book in the Christian Examiner, 21 (1836), 74-84. 5. Alexander, in his letter of April 15, 1838 (MS: N L S # 1 7 6 3 · 174175) ? remarked of the boy's death.

119. Cheyne Row, Chelsea, 23d April, 1837 M y dear Alick, Ben 1 brought your Letter on Tuesday or Monday last; and right welcome it was after so long a silence. T h e inclosed from Jack had come not many hours before. I was in such haste as I had long been in at the time; b u t had at last the sure prospect of getting that over. I now enclose you Jack's Letter, to whom I have already written 2 this day; and will send you a f e w words along with it. T h e Printing, after

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an awful struggle really, with bullying of drunken Printers, with scraping and scraffling and doing what was in one, is over, or as good as over, yesterday! The Book is all in type, my share of it finished, except some slight hour or two of work, which I shall be ready for when it is ready for me. I suppose it will be out as a Book, in not many days. You shall have a Copy of it by the earliest chance after that; and good appetite I shall wish you with it. It is I think the most radical Book that has been written in these late centuries; "cares not a rush for General Sharpe more than for any other man"; and will give pleasure and displeasure, one may expect, to almost all classes of persons. Let it take its fate: the great indisputable blessing is that I have done with it forever and a day. Jack's Letter, as you will find, treats a little about the American speculation. On the whole I think what he says about it is very rational. There is no reason why we should regard such a thing as a perpetual separation; none at all: nay it rather seems to me as if in reality more of us would have to see America yet; as if the more of us that wended thither it were the better. This Country of England seems to me clearly enough to have a destiny before it of unknown degrees of blackness. There is a curse of God written upon the arrangements men live by in it. The fruitful Land denies the toiling man food from it: that, I make bold to assert in the face of all man, is a thing that neither can nor ought to continue. And quackery and dishonesty is in high places and in low: the voice of the quack speaks loud and louder. Let us in God's name leave it to him; let us go out of it, and fasten somewhere, were it at the Earth's end, on not a quackery but a truth. In America there is this great truth which the all-nourishing Earth tells a man: "Till me, and thou shalt have sustenance from me." 3 — On the whole, therefore, my dear Brother I bid you be of courage, of good heart and hope, and do cheerfully and quietly what you find admonished and guided to do. That your trade this year has yielded you little or nothing is not surprising to me. Nay farther, I could like very well to know that you had got your money fairly out of it again, the sooner the better, without loss. There is one of the things they call "commercial crisis" coming on, or rather come on: one does not know to what width it

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may reach, or what wretchedness in all ranks it may occasion. Get your ware made money therefore I would say, with all speed; but indeed that I suppose is a thing you are at any rate doing. As to the payment or surety you speak of,4 or as to anything whatever in that strain, I beg you will speak of it no more at all. It is distressing to me to hear of it. The whole sum you had from me would be consumed rapidly; and not benefited, left how poor, poor! Nay the truth is, I have less need of money far than has been long usual with me. I rather think I am at last going to get into the way of gaining a little money here: it really does seem possible; the rather perhaps as I have got into the way, of late, of regarding either that or the reverse of that with an equanimity unusual formerly. There is a time I have silently said within myself since I came here, "Well then, O World, or Devil, reduce me to a diet of potatoes, to any diet, or even to no diet at all; do it; I will beat thee after all: it is not to thee that I will yield." 5 — But to quit all this speculating I wrote to John Greig that I thought you would perhaps have £300 or so to start with. A little money might save one great difficulties at starting. Jack has cash he is not using; nay who knows but I too may have a little cash: one way or other, poor Dillick shall and must be fitted out, if there be strength in us all to do it. As to the time of setting out, or as to Jack's plan which he is always insisting on that you should go by yourself first and look, I cannot give any kind of advice. It must be regulated by many considerations, a greater part of which is of course before your own mind than before any other man's. Grahame's advice about John Greig's being fond of selling his own land dear is a thing we can keep in mind; but need not, I fancy, pay any great regard to. I believe Greig to be a very honest and honourable kind of man, and of great practical good sense; and farther that he will be very glad to do you a service; for my sake were it for nothing else; indeed I understand I am grown a kind of one-and-somewhat in Yankee-land now, and Greig will reckon it ornamental to him rather than otherwise that he has a Brother of mine to advise and further. At all events we can listen to what he says, you can listen, but are not bound to believe more than your own eyes will verify. Nothing can be finally decided on I suppose till we hear from him. The instant his Letter comes I will send it you. Before very long it ought to be here: there is a Letter from

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him that somebody was shewing me other day; dated New York where he seems to be at present: but doubtless he communicates with his Canadaigua Letters; and there is little chance that my Letter to him should not arrive without delay, or that he should not answer it without delay. We will leave it lying in this state for the present. — Your news about my Mother were right welcome news. I suppose she was on her way to Dumfries about Jack's money ( £ 1 2 0 ) : I got a token on James Aitken's Newspaper that the thing was rightly settled; at least so I interpreted. It is a great blessing indeed, that our Mother has been so well this winter, while so many, whom one would have thought stronger, have suffered. You will tell her of this Letter from me by the first convenience, and give her Jack's too. Say farther that I will write to herself so soon as this Lecture hurlyburly is over; and will predict more accurately if I can what I myself am then to do. — Jane continues to go on very fairly: she has got out of doors some twice when there happened to be any Sun, which does not often happen; she is very feckless but has no cough or other distinct ailment, and may hope much from the warm weather. Mrs Welsh6 nurses her, and takes charge of household matters: how they two are going to arrange their summer is not yet fixed. Best wishes come to you all from them. Jane many a time says, "Alick has ten times the stuff in him of a common man; it is miserable to see such a one held down, hindered, and driven desperate as he is: he will burst out from it, and get free field for himself over the sea." A year or two of tough manful struggling, and that verily is possible! Courage, my Boy: there is land in this old Earth yet for the free Plougher to till. Jenny shall make me tea yet out of some American clear stream. We are under God's blue Sky whithersoever we go: the brave heart the cunning hand and clear head are in all places at home. — My Lectures begin on the first of May; the monday after you read this! How I am to do in it is still a mystery; but I have a kind of free week before me and will apply myself to consider. There will surely be the strangest set of people there that ever I talked to. The other night somebody told me of Brougham coming! I contemplate the withered kippered countenance of that Ex-Chancellor twitching and jerking there on me ( as its wont is ) with a strange mixture of a shudder and a laugh on my part. It is like swimming; one must dash in,

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strike out his limbs from him, then one does swim. Nay, as Goethe says, it is so with all that man undertakes in this world.7 [N]ext Letter to my brother will say: I hope, that some way [or] other better or worse, it is got finished. I was sorry to hear of poor Andrew Carruthers's8 death: I re[mem]ber he met you and me on Annan street last time I came from London; we shall now never more meet on Earth. — A week or two ago, there came a card to me thro' Fraser the Bookseller containing the address of, whom think you: Jock Forsyth! H[e n]ow calls himself "Surgeon and Man-midwife," and lives far away in the East her[e ab]out seven [mi]les from [u]s. I shall perhaps someti[mes when thi]ther in my travels go and take a look at the man, if it be suitable: I have no doubt he is still a drunken scamp, or nearly so, as he formerly was. — Jack now demands to have the Courier Newspaper instead of the Herald, which latter he finds too stupid. Stupid enough it is. Will you therefore tell James Aitken to discontinue it at the end of the nearest term. Till such term he may if you like send it on direct to you at Annan instead of your Courier: you having read it can forward it hither. I have not read three paragraphs of it for the last six weeks. I will also send forward the old Examiner to you, as regularly as Hunt gives it me, which is not very regular. This I think my dear Brother is the substance of what I can get said at present. I will write again, when I said; and then surely at more leisure. My affection to one and all; name by name. Good be with you ever! — I send as usual a printed leaf one of the last: the next sending one may hope will be the book itself. — Ever, dear Alick, Your faithful Brother T. Carlyle Published in part: NL, I, 72-73. 1. Nelson. He was on his way to Heidelberg to visit his son George, who was recovering from a recent illness. 2. See NL, I, 68-71. 3. Cf. Prov. 28:19. 4. Alexander in his letter of April 3 (MS: NLS#i775A.iog) had reminded his brother of the £,200 he owed him. Wanting but not able to pay it back in full before what he thought was his imminent emigration, he had offered to pay half in cash and assign his rights to some Ecclefechan property to Carlyle as surety for the balance.

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Cf. Sartor Resartus, pp. 134-135. Whom Carlyle had sent for at the height of his wife's influenza atWilhelm Meisters Apprenticeship and Travels, II, 321. See Letter 2.

120. To Margaret Aitken Carlyle Chelsea, Saturday 27th May 1837 My dear Mother, Your Letter 1 reached me yesterday an hour or two before I went off to deliver my last German Lecture. I had written the week before a Letter to you at Jean's at Dumfries, a short scrawl, which perhaps you might receive and be reading just about the same hour. It was calculated to be in Dumfries on the Wednesday; and doubtless Jean would find some way of forwarding it. In the interim this fresh epistle from Jack had come; testifying once more that all is well with him. I will now with such speed as is possible write you a line by way of winding up all these things. Your brief expressions about Alick and yourself are full of sorrow, and go into my very heart for both of you. What can be done? Courage, my dear Mother; let us all pluck up a heart equal to the difficulty: the whole difficulty then is as good as done. One must have courage, and in the strength of the Giver of Strength dare and do what is fit and appointed. Jane and I have had a good deal of talk together about your scheme of transplanting Jamie to Craigenputtock, that Alick might find room for himself in his own country. We both agree that it is quite needless to speak of it at all to Mrs Welsh at present; out of whom no practical result whatsoever could be got about it; at least none that we cannot quite as certainly foresee without speaking about it. We are clear enough, then, that there could be no sort of objection to Jamie as a Tenant to succeed M'Adam on such terms of rent as were going; that for us two it would of course be more agreeable to know our house etc. in the possession of a Brother than of a stranger. There can be no

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question about all that. But I have great doubt myself whether the arrangement would be for good still; or only for temporary solacement, and then evil to all parties. In the first place is Scotsbrig itself a desirable position at present? Jamie contrives hitherto to pay the rent; but I think it very unlikely that more will ever be made of it, or of any other Scotch farm in our day; and very readily less might be made if the country go on as it threatens to do. And consider what Alick would think if he, having succeeded Jamie, were to prove unable to go on! It would go nigh to break his heart. And then on the other hand what does Jamie privately think about Craigenputtock? Could he exist comfortably even if prosperous in those savage moors? I have preserved such a horror of the thing that I think I would fly to Newfoundland sooner than go back. Alas my dear Mother I fear it will not do. However as already said if the parties more immediately interested do resolve on venturing the Farm I have no doubt [it] can be had. — But in good sooth my notion is that farming and all other industry in honesty is ruined in this country till some great black sea of troubles and uproar have been crossed; that bad days are in store for peaceable men here. It is a land suffering as under a Curse at present; that greatest curse that a lying spirit has been put into the mouths and hearts of its people; a false lying spirit, not a true one, turn where you will! I question greatly whether the far wisest thing we could do were not to rise all as a family you still at the head of us, my dear Mother in spite of your years, and go out of it. Beyond all doubt or cavil the man that is willing to work in America is sure of fair recompense for it. All evidence, of this colour or the other, goes to prove that at least. For those that are to leave families behind them in this England, it is a sad outlook. But on the whole what is to be done then? Poor Alick would be flitting yesterday while I was lecturing! I doubt he is at any rate too late for this year: no news still from Greig. My notion is therefore that he should either restrict himself to the enterprise of going himself and looking out this year as Jack has always been advising, or else to put it out of his plans till another spring. It is a year lost; but one cannot help it. At any rate he had better not fix on anything permanent till I come home; unless there be some necessity more pressing than I see. If there arise such a necessity, let him warn me, and I will come all the

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faster. If there be any inquiries2 that I can make for him at Liverpool, as I think there must be, he must put them on paper for me, and I will try to get to the bottom of them. You did not tell me where he was to be after Friday: is it at Annan still or where? Jenny and the bairns must have some quiet up-putting at any rate till spring next: for I think, as above said, that emigrating for this season is gone by. On the whole, my dear Mother, you must not discourage poor Alick; he is sore laden, I know, with many things: let him gird himself together with a resolution equal to them; there is heart and head in him to triumph over them all yet. I never quit that hope for so brave a little fellow as I know him to be; shifty of hand and true of heart: but I do think America and not Scotland offers the far best chance for him. — I write in such a confused state that you will hardly make out what I mean. But this is it in brief: That nothing as to puttock nor as to final emigrating to America be fixed till I come, if my advice be thought essential to it; that Puttock be considered as attainable if desirable; that Alick write tó me if there be anything at all that I can ask about, here or at Liverpool: and on the whole that we all keep up our heart, and do not get dismal about it, or think it a thing of life and death; for it is not at all that but quite other. People have interrupted me, and my time is quite run without saying anything. My Lectures ended honourably; let us thank God for it! It is perhaps the beginning of better things for me. I have gained some £ 135 or so by it.3 There is a franker come in (Sterling, one that can get franks); so I profit by him and rapidly close. Ben Nelson got a Copy of the American Review for James Aitken: Alick can get it from him as it passes; or borrow it from James if it have already gone. Adieu, dear Mother: they are talking to me even while I write. I must positively end. Good be with you all every one. Your ever affectionate T. Carlyle Published in part: NL, I, 77-79. 1. See NL, I, 76-77. 2. As to the departure of ships. 3. His fuller report to John is published in Froude, III, 103-104.

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• After he finished revising and reading proof on The French Revolution, Carlyle for a little while amused himself at Chelsea reading and digging in his garden. On June 20, leaving his wife behind with her mother, he went off to Scotsbrig and its environs, where he idled away the rest of the summer. Alexander was also there, for he had given up his business in Annan as a losing proposition. Too late for any chance of emigration this year, he decided before the summer was out to open a shop in one of his mother's houses in Ecclefechan and try Scotland one last time. Carlyle, rested, relieved by at least a temporary solution to Alexander's difficulties, and pleased by the good reviews his book was receiving, returned to London in good spirits on September 16. A commission from Mill to write "Memoirs of the Life of Scott," published in the London and Westminster Review, 28 (January 1838), 293-345, and in CME, IV, 22-87, established him in his old routine, as did the resumption two months later of his correspondence with Alexander. ·

121. Chelsea, 26th Novr 1837 My dear Brother, Tonight I have a few minutes to myself; and feel that I ought certainly to write to some of you, tho' in no good trim for such an enterprise. I will do it before the time slip. A line as short as I like; for there are franks now. We had word from Jack something like a fortnight ago, that the cholera was over at Rome, and they all safe out of many perils and distresses. There had been a dreadful panic and confusion over all that region: I forget the number of deaths, which was great; but the cowardly selfishness and cruelty of men given up to terror, as nearly all but the poorer kind of Priests there were, seems to have [been] even more dreadful than the pestilence. No doubt Jack and the rest are right glad that is done. They were about removing into Rome for the winter just at the time I wrote;1 and since that, there has come a Roman Newspaper with the mark on it which Jack had appointed to signify that their removal was effectuated. I sent on this Newspaper to Jean at Dumfries; who I hope received [it] as a good token,

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and understood what it signified in some measure. The Letter itself I had previously despatched to Manchester, with strait injunctions that they should convey some extract of it over to the Scotch side; but whether this was done I have no means hitherto of knowing. At a still more early date, Mrs Welsh to whom Jane was writing, had some message entrusted to her for Jean: so that I hope, one way or other, you were pretty soon apprised of the good news. Jack writes this time with far greater composure, and seems quite in his old way again. He did not expect much from Roman practice this winter, but was minded to try. He thought it likely they might be returning to England about May next; that is to say, 'bating changes, which however seem to be very frequent with them. Since that message was sent off to Manchester, we have a Letter thence from Jenny and my Mother; which if there be room in this cover, I will inclose for you; perhaps your own tidings from that quarter are rather scanty. There was nothing but favourable news; all quiet and well; Mother not to return till Spring, and Jenny coming with her, as your Letter too had indicated. Hanning, it seems, had been over with you; helping you to set the shop in order! He reported favourable augury of everything; may it all turn out so! I long extremely to hear how you get on; how you like it, how you manage in it, what your own prognostics of it are. Do not feel discouraged at first, nor over-annoyed with the new kind of difficulties; in every new vocation there is a quite new set of difficulties, which we are apt to think worse than the old: but one gets to fit the harness better by and by; and also new capabilities rise up in the enterprise itself; all enterprises must have time to spring before they can grow. Go on and prosper, my dear Brother! You have had a long tract of dirtyish, road; but they say, it is a long lane that has no turn. As long as one does not lose heart and lose head, there is probably nothing lost. In the Manchester Letter, it was farther mentioned that the Scotsbrig Barrel had been sent off "a fortnight before"; so that our expectations of it directly mounted high. In some three days more they were gratified, the Barrel actually came groaning along in the big Pickford2 Waggon, and was safely carried in! All safe; seemingly not the smallest thing damaged: the cost of carriage in all, 4/6. I recognised your handwriting on the address; with my joiner tools (a very poor stick now)

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I got off the girds, out the end: 10 Parcels not a few from the new shop! We opened them with smiles, very glad and serious: many thanks to little Jane from her Aunt, to Jenny, and all of you! Jane takes of her "peppers" from time to time, and has determined to make the eminent piece of flannel into a "bed-gown," whatever that may be: I have tried my tobacco, and locked it by safe till what I otherwise have be done; with intent to "smoke" it then, and "think" of many things. — If I have no time tonight to write to Jamie ( as I ought to do ) pray tell him and Isabella of this. The meal is equal to any I have ever tasted; unsurpassable meal. The Butter on the very top where we yet are has a meaty taste; but we make no doubt it will be excellent were we down a little. This I think is almost all the indispensable announcements I had to make. How many more are the things I would speak of, ask and tell, if I had you here! Poor Annandale, birthland, and home of my loved ones, is an inexhaustible topic. My Mother tells me, poor John Minto3 is dead. Last week but one I read with a great shock the death of James Johnston at Haddington! I had not heard a whisper that he was unwell; I have sent him several Newspapers since I came here first, but never got any return; I always meant to write, but now it is too late. Ah me, I feel very much often as if I myself were not alive but become a kind of half-ghost! No one of you can know what a strange half-dead humour that long struggle had left me in; what a stupid piece of rubbish I used to feel myself; nor is it nearly over yet, tho' on the way towards being over. But you were all very good to me, while I went hunching about there: God knows I had need of rest somewhere or other. As to procedure and fortune here I have still cause to report favourable things. Jane's health, by virtue of great precaution, continues much better than I once anticipated: in fact she is as well as I have seen her for several years: this too is reckoned one of the trying months. My own poor carcase again is not in good order at all; a degree or so below average order. "The steam is not yet up," that is it; I am not struggling, like one quenching fire this winter, but suffering for having done that so long: a dirty kind of general cold works about me (the weather frost-foggy etc. ) ; and for the present has settled mainly in one of my ears; producing not absolute deafness in it, but a queer disagreeable obstruction of hearing on that side. I study to be quiet; in fact, I am

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far quieter, I hope, than I ever before was. At bottom probably I am distinctly better than last year: nay for that matter, I could soon "get up the steam" again, and feel as well and happy as I then was: but I shudder at such "happiness," knowing what will follow it. — Meanwhile, for one thing, I am busy over head and ears again, writing an Article! It is on Walter Scott, for the London Review; you will see it by and by. I study really to write it with as little care as possible; yet it bothers me in my present stupid state. It will be worth nothing or next to that, — except indeed to me so many pounds as there are pages in it. — For all the rest, Book, people etc., it goes well with me. I rejoice very considerably in the Book; and think very often, among other considerations, well, that cannot plague me any more. I am not a galleyslave now but free. People come about me, fully as much as I want; a little more, and one would be obliged to take his bolt and bar! But indeed they are quite a superior kind of people hitherto for most part; and gather round me not [as] a Hon but as a man worthy of some regard from them. Some say I must deliver Lectures this year on the French Revolution; that would be a subject! They really do talk of it. We shall see, when this Article is done; that is, in a fortnight hence or so; it is more than half-way already. Something I must lecture on, and struggle for a little money; — and then cower away some whither, and lie quiet and rest for a long time! I must end, dear Alick, for here is the porridge; and writing after takes away sleep. Tell all of them my news, give all of them my love. I finish out tomorrow morning. Good night, dear Brother! — 27th (Monday) near two o'clock. — My task is about done for this day; I will add a word before going out. Give my affection to all. Were this article once done, I will write again to some of you; probably to Dumfries. There was a talk of Austin being got into Stenniebeck's4 farm. I pray you do not neglect this. I said something to my Mother about it which she will mention at the right time. I should like much to see it done: Jamie of Scotsbrig regarded it as very possible. — No more at present. Jane [sends h]er love to you all, great and little. Bear a hand my brave brother; write to me; and m [ay] God bless you all! — Your affectionate T. Carlyle

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I enclose a Portrait of Queen Victoria poor little thing, whom I have never seen yet; they say it is as like her as another. It will need pasting together at the edges (the edging will); it was too big to go into the letter, — or lo, Jane has done it with no need of pasting! ι. Probably the letter of November 7, published in part in NL, I, 96-100. 2. Of London. 3. Carlyle elaborated somewhat in his letter to John of December 12: "J°hn Minto is dead, Mother tells me; his wife Kate was lying dead when I left that country; it was a tragical house with poverty and sorrow: how could one live if it were not for Death? Der ernste Freund! [The stern companion] — " (NL, I, 103). 4. Carlyle mentioned a Jock of Stennybeck in Letter 252.

122. Chelsea, 10th January, 1838 My dear Brother, We received very thankfully your kind, quaint and cheery Letter, recording your establishment in the new way of life at Ecclefechan. It was doubly welcome, as we had got no news of you, of any distinctness, till it came. You seem to be doing as well as one could expect for the time. "There is a dub at the end of every town," says the Proverb, "and a loch at the end of this." In fact one great doctrine everywhere inculcated among men is this, The necessity of cheerful perseverence. The brawest new coat we get from the tailor sits not easy at first. We must wear it a while, and then it begins to be easy. I like very well the humour you seem to be in. Joyfulness of hope cannot well be looked for at our time of life, and after so many bitter mistakes; it is enough if one can compose himself, and with quiet diligence endeavour to make his task do for him. — Well; you must just persevere there, studying in all ways what will really advance your undertaking, not much disappointed if you see little fruit for a while; by and by you will begin to see fruit. Nay, it seems, your profits already do about suffice to meet

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your household outlay: this, I think, is great work. It is few trades that will do as much for a man in these days. I have seen many men's trades, including those of statesmen, orators and high-famed persons; and it seems to me the longer I live, the trades of all men look more and more alike: the happiest of all men I think is he who can keep himself the quietest. Be of good cheer then, my dear Brother; and go heartily along then, thinking your task as good as any task, so it be followed faithfully. I will hope to find you quietly progressive when I come back to Annandale; not making any shine, for that is not necessary to the son of Adam, nor good for him; but jogging along, in more and more tranquility of mind, making day and way somewhat alike, among your bairns and other blessings; growing always the quieter the older you grow. One of the chief things I look towards in increasing age is that of getting quieter. Allan Cunningham tells me "a man never gets healthy till he is five-and-forty"! That surely is rare news. Jack, twice over, in his Letters, has insisted much on the necessity of your applying youself to penmanship in your leisure hours. I report his counsel; and really think it will be worth your while. The main thing you have to aim at is getting to write fast, and with ease. You have the elements already of a very sufficient hand: throw it out, I would say; you will find yourself get along better and better. There is nothing else in the world but practice, continued practice, that will teach any one to write. Jamie Aitken has got himself a capital hand, you see. Rob Hanning even is pointing that way. Go and do likewise! One of the usefullest helps, I may add, is to have a good pen. Can you make a pen to your mind? Try that withal. — Why man, if you had a free flowing hand, and were perfectly sicker in the spelling, who knows what all you might write! I have seen a man with less natural wit, do — I will not say what. The only other thing I will say about Ecclefechan at present, is to hope that the poor little Bairn whom I remember well is not coughing any more. Get flannel for her and the rest, poor little objects; keep them warm, and be kind to them; they will be a blessing to you yet. Jane I find is a speller; that is right: she is a cleverish lass, or I am mistaken. Tom also must arouse his somewhat sleepy faculty; — or on the whole, he is perhaps just as wise to keep himself quiet for the present.

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To them and their Mother and all of you, we send our best new-year; and pray, as poor Irving used to do, "May the worst of our years be past." As to London and me, there is little stirring since I wrote last. I persist in my old determination to be at rest. I will be a quieter man, tho' all the Devils should tempt me otherwise. This I fancy is the main conquest I have made after all; and a great conquest I do find it to be. For the rest, things all go successfully enough. I hear some inklings of a second edition of the Book;1 a thing which I suppose will come, tho' one cannot well say when, for our Fraser will now have money to pay. Before this time twelvemonth, we will say. Did I mention to you last time how Fraser and I were on terms about reprinting my Review Articles etc. in a collected form? Well: after some meditation, I demanded £50 a volume from him; he, poor soul, one of the cowardliest of men, durst not say Yes, durst hardly say No; looked very miserable; he has since then fallen sick, and so the matter hangs. My own fixed resolution is that I will either be paid, or have the blessedness of lying idle at least. Of that alternative no man can hinder me. But observe, with regard to those same "Articles," an American just now applies to me, thro' Miss Martineau, for a List of them that he may get them published there! It will be "profitable," he says; which, Miss M. assures me, means 500 dollars: "he is a wealthy young Lawyer, of great worth," who makes the proposal. Be this as it may, I have sent the man a List of my writings ( with a correction or two ) ; and think the chance is I shall really have the satisfaction of sending you a Copy by and by — from Yankeeland first.2 It is all right and more; I used to think they might print these things perhaps after my death; but this is a better proposal than that. — By the bye, a man in the Times Newspaper, for the last ten days, is writing diligently a series of Papers called "Old England" extravagantly in my manner; so that several friends actually thought it was I! I did not see them till last night; and had a loud laugh over them then. It is that dog Thackeray (my Reviewer in the Times ) ; you remember the Potter Knowe;3 he, I am persuaded, and no other: I take it as a help and compliment in these circumstances; and bid it welcome so far as it will go. — There are to be Lectures; but Heaven as yet knows on what.4 But see the bottom of the sheet! We have the sternest frost since

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three days ago, after weather of a brightness and mildness equal to Italy. W e must take it as it comes. Jane keeps wonderfully well, does not cough at all; she is writing here to Mary, and bids me send her kind love by this conveyance too. I inclose you my last letter from Manchester; which gives all the news I have of Jack yet: I have had a Newspaper with strokes from him since, nothing more. He is well seemingly. I end here. Published in part: NL, I, 104-107. 1. Fraser published a second edition of The French Revolution in 1839, but not until Emerson had persuaded Charles C. Little and James Brown of Boston to publish the first American edition in 1838 at his risk. Although the Little-Brown edition bears the 1838 date, it was actually published in December 1837. See Slater, esp. pp. 18-21, and Dyer, p. 86. 2. Before Fraser could make up his mind and before Ellis Gray Loring (1803-1858), the "wealthy young Lawyer" of Boston, could act on his proposal, Emerson wrote Carlyle on February 9 that he and the house of James Munroe "are beforehand of you and we are already selecting a couple of volumes from . . . [the miscellaneous essays] and shall print them on the same plan as the History, and hope so to turn a penny for our friend again" (Slater, p. 178; see also pp. 21-24, and Dyer, pp. 187-188). James Munroe and Company published the first American edition of the Critical and Miscellaneous Essays, 4 vols., in 1838. Fraser purchased 250 copies of this edition and brought them out under his imprint in 1839. He published a second edition, in five volumes, in 1840. 3. It was on the top of this height, located immediately behind Middlebie, that Carlyle, James, and Alexander were stopped in their walk from Scotsbrig to Ecclefechan the previous fall by Betty Smeal with the mail. One of the newspapers for them was the Times of August 3, which contained Thackeray's review of The French Revolution. "They made me take place under the shade of the hedge and beech-trees," Carlyle wrote his wife, "and read it all over to them, amid considerable laughter and applause" (NL, I, 83-84). Disraeli, not Thackeray, wrote the series of "Old England" articles, which are published in the Times of January 4-6, 8-11, 13, 15, 1838, and pseudononymously signed, "Coeur de Lion." See William Flavelle Monypenny and George Earle Buckle, The Life of Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of Beaconsfield (New York and London, 1911-1920), II, 17. 4. "On the History of Literature," a series of twelve lectures he delivered at 17 Edward Street, Portman Square. Thomas Chisholm Anstey

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(1816-1873), a lawyer and later an active supporter of O'Connell and M.P. for Youghal, took the notes on all except one of Carlyle's lectures in this series on which Greene largely and Karkaria entirely based their editions of the printed lectures. Anstey dated Carlyle's first lecture April 27. But Carlyle's letter (NL, I, 121) to his sister Jean and the report (republished in Shepherd, I, esp. 176) in the Examiner of May 6 date it April 30. Carlyle concluded the series June 11. The series was published as Carlyle's Unpublished Lectures. Lectures on the History of Literature or the Successive Periods of European Culture . . . , ed. R. P. Karkaria (London and Bombay, 1892), and Lectures on the History of Literature . . . , ed. J. Reay Greene (London, 1892). See also On Heroes, Hero-Worship, and the Heroic in History, ed. MacMechan, pp. xx-xxvi.

123. 5. Cheyne Row, Chelsea 10th May, 1838 My dear Brother, I must send you a short line rather than none at all. At present in the heat and press of Lecturing and tumult, I can afford no writing; it is not so much that I want time, as that I altogether want composure and spirits. You will take what I can send; if you saw completely how I am situated you would not think me stingy, I imagine, but wonderfully liberal "considering." Your Letter came, and one from Jean not very far off it, which last I have answered, with a request that the purport of news in said answer should be transmitted over to you. I was right glad to learn, both from yourself and still more pointedly from Jean, that all was going on quite handsomely at Ecclefechan; that you found your traffick answer the end, and stood faithfully to it; that there was every hope of its turning out as well as the hopefullest of us expected. What a blessing it must be to an industrious man to see, not, as you have long been forced to do, his substance gradually wasting away from him, but an increase were it even a slow one granted to his toil, and the certainty that at least day and way are alike long! There is nothing that I know of more harrassing to a man than the kind of lot you have had to strug-

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gle with for long years past. With all the faults there were, I can assure you dear Alick, I have many times admired the constancy, the quietude you displayed, and on the whole how well you behaved. Thank God, the worst seems now to be over, and better days are dawning for you. "Better a wee bush than nae bield," they say. Be well content with poor Ecclefechan, in that it will do for you what prouder places have refused to do: yield you meat and clothes for your labour. A man can get no more that I know of in this world. And as for past toils and sufferings, we will say that surely we needed them; that if we need more of them, we should hope to get more of them. Folly is bound up in the heart of a man; pride, anger, intolerance, — self-conceit, in a word, the root of all sin. One must be beaten with many stripes till that be beaten out of him. Courage, my brave brother, I say; be steady and teachable, diligent and patient; live and learn! — As for your success in your business I surely think the worst is past now, and that you have a free chance to hold on prospering still better henceforth. Be in no haste to prosper, desire not much prosperity. A man saving five pounds in the year is, I believe, nearly always a luckier man than one that is spending five hundred thousand. I do believe this, and know it more and more from what I see daily here under my eyes. O the tumult, the mad uproar as of a Bedlam; and all the cut-glass and upholstery of the world will not satiate one soul of Adam's many sons; not the poorest cobler will be filled with it all, but desires something greater than it all. — If I had any practical precept to enforce again upon you in regard to your shop, it would be this one, To have faith in the honesty of human nature;1 I mean, to believe in spite of all appearances to the contrary that honesty will prevail against dishonesty, even in Ecclefechan, and anywhere under the Sun. It is a great truth. Have nothing to do therefore with bad articles at all at any price. All men do at heart desire to deal with a man of that sort; a man of that sort is sure to be acknowledged too, were it even slowly, and to draw round him all the worthy people in the district he lives in. I have no conviction clearer than this. Moderate profits, genuine goods, faithful punctuality; the conduct, in one word, of an honest man: that is the rule. And so I leave you; adding only Jack's precept, To cultivate your hand writing. Write often, and choose your pen; by degrees you will find your writ-

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ing improve into a swift free-flowing hand, and this will be a great convenience to you. God prosper you, my dear Brother! We shall all perhaps get better on, a little, than we have done for years past. I sent your Letter forward to our Mother with some old books. There came a Newspaper from Rob2 the other day; indicating, as I suppose, that all was well. I must write again thither, tho' I hardly know how to address; for I suppose now our Mother must be thinking of Annandale and green fields. My notion is that she has been pretty well in the Cotton Country, with company and plenty of coals; thro' the wild winter; happier than she could have been at Scotsbrig in that dead season. — I have seen nothing of any brother-in-law3 of Jamie's yet; nor until he come can I know anything about his notions. He should be very welcome to me if he came. But probably he is in "the City" as they call it; that is, the Eastern trading part of London, and some four of five miles off this region. London is like a whole set of towns; I might say, a set of Nations. The people even speak differently rather, on different sides of it; I can know their dialects now, and say, "You are a Chelsea man," "You are of the Whitechapel region" etc. etc. Jack has written to me, as you would probably learn thro' Jean: all well; and ought to be setting off from Rome about this time. As to that indeed there is no precise light; but yesterday I had a Newspaper with three strokes: whether that indicates that he has received some parcel or other ( of which he has three or perhaps four wandering about this long while ), or that he is about to set out from Rome homewards, I do not know. In any case we may infer that he was well; we are to hope that the broad face will become visible among us once more, and the poor Doctor get back to those he loves best after this other set of wanderings. "Poor fellow, after all!" — Did my Mother send you a Times Newspaper, as I hoped she would? In that case you would see I had got to sailing-depth once more, and was out on the ocean-waters; lecturing, lecturing! I believe there have been other Newspaper Critics,4 and that they have all been laudatory; tho' I have seen none more except the Examiner (Hunt writes that in it), which also my Mother got from me. I think she said once they sent it on to you regularly. — I was in a dreadful state of tremor and misery the first day; also a certain Doctor here had recommended a kind of hartshorn preparation which I was to take for "quieting my nerves,"

1838, London 439 — a cure far worse than the disease: however, I weltered thro' that first time, and always since it has been simpler and simpler. I have three Lectures (fully the worst three) behind me now, a fourth tomorrow, and hope to go on in some reasonable way till I do once again get done! My audience rather increases daily as yet, and is very kind and respectful to me; they seem quite a different set of people, three fourths of them, from what last year's were; more men, among them, and men with an air of law and business. Our new Lecture room ( the only tolerable place for speaking that one could get, last year's being a diningroom and fiddling-room utterly detestable to me) lies quite out of the beat of my Fashionable friends, not a fourth part of whom seem to have followed me to the new shop. Nay I believe the whole arrangement was mismanaged, and that with good skill I might have pocketed very considerably more money than I shall get.5 But what then? One cannot learn except by experience dear-bought. If I lecture again next year I will now manage it myself; I have learn [ed] it now. But on the whole, I am what they call "successful," and may perhaps do myself good in the long run beyond what can be counted up in money at present. The people shall hear a little more of my mind this year, for I stand in less and less terror of them; and feel much "more like a teacher and less like a showman" than I did. And so, Boy, I must toil on for a calendar month yet; ah me! — and if you hear nothing more of me, fancy that all goes smoothly, and nothing is wrong. Jane continues weakly, yet is always able to go out at Lecture time; she says "any harl of health she has is always then." 6 The weather is against her: bitter northwind and burning sun. My own poor carcase suffers a little from the shatterment of nerves etc.; I do not sleep altogether as I could wish: but I shall hold on, I think, and perhaps grow quieter even before "June 10th." — Enough now: I must end. — I hope the little creature has got done with its bits of ailments; that Jane is a[s] stout as ever. She is a clever lassie it seems with her book too. And Tom, what of him, the stubborn-minded individual? Give them all, a snap each, poor little creatures, in my name. — Remember us well at Scotsbrig, at Annan, to all our loved ones. Adieu, dear Brother. Your affectionate T. Carlyle

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Published in part: NL, I, 122-126. 1. Alexander, in his letter of April 15, 1838 (MS: NLS#1763.174175), had expressed his disgust at those who refused to pay their bills and his discouragement at finding he was dealing with so many of that ilk. 2. Hanning. Mrs. Carlyle was still with the Hannings in Manchester. 3. Unidentified. 4. Thackeray in the Times April 30, May 1, 2 (a note only), and 22; Hunt in the Examiner May 6, 13, 20, 27, June 3, 10, and 17; and an anonymous reviewer in the Spectator April 9 and 16. Shepherd republished the Examiner reviews in his Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Thomas Carlyle, I, 176-196. 5. He netted about £260. See NL, I, 130. 6. Cf. " 'And ony harl . . . o' health she has is aye aboot mealtime,' as a country fellow, in Dr. Thorn's surgery at Ecclefechan, said when enumerating his poor mother's ailments" (NL, I, 126).

124. Chelsea, 13th June, 1838 My dear Alick, There is a bundle of Letters going off to my Mother; in which, tho' doubtless you will all share in them, I may as well insert specially a single line for you. Our Lectures are over, as you will learn abundantly from our Mother; over, and well over: ί suppose they will yield us some scrap of "private capital," on which we may be able by dint of thrift to struggle on again till the season come round, next year, if we live to see it. A very great blessing to one who like me has not for many years, you may say never at all, seen any fixed prospect of livelihood before him, but been at all times baited and haunted by the haggard fear of actual destitution! "Better a wee bush than nae bield," the Proverb says: we will be thankful for these Lectures, for these changes of luck, that have yielded us even this little deliverance: "these little things are great to little man." 1 Our Lecture-room this year was in a baddish part of the town; but it was a real Lecture-room adapted for a man speaking in, not a rascally fashionable shew-room (like last year's) adapted for fiddlers fire eaters and playactors: I got my "tinkler jaw" loosed considerably better in it, and told the people much more

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of my mind. They welcomed it too, as handsomely as people could: there is fair play for a man here, if he can get play at all; people ask not, who or what he is, so much as simply, whether he can say or do anything that has any substance in it for them. — Since I wrote my Mother's sheet,2 the first Proof of Teufelsdröckh has actually come to hand and been corrected: it will make a nice enough Book, which I hope to shew you soon. "I am glad he is going to get published, poor beast," said Jane. And so am I too, "poor beast": he has had a sore fight for it, these seven years and more, since you and I drove down to Glencaple that August morning3 ( and lost the beer-barrel from behind us ) ; so many years struggling to get his head above ground, up out of the mire; — almost like the Author of him, we may say! And now he is actually getting up; and will breathe, and live as long as is appointed him; a day, or a year and day, that is of no moment; simply as long as it is given him, which is just the right longness. I cannot tell you yet what I am going to do or when or how I shall get to Annandale ( if possible ) ; but it will clear itself up before long, and then you shall soon hear. I am and shall be in a heated sort of state, for some while; a state I do nowise like; but it will not last: I shall get quiet again with the smallest possible delay. I hear still that there are people meaning to "give me a dinner," I heard so again yesterday: but I will not have it, unless the contrary be impossible; a "dinner" will do little for me, except fret my poor nerves : but really the friends here that I have are worthy of all gratitude from me. My health is not bad, were I rested again; indeed I think I am considerably better in body and mind than I was this time last year; but I am still far from rested, and want quiet! quiet! — Jane seems to grow distinctly a little better as the summer gets in, thro' all these fierce east-winds: she is a little under par today, and cannot go out with me to the place we were to dine at. Had Jack got home about this time, and carried us off with him "O'er the Border and away," how blithe had it been for us all! But that was not the way of it, I fear; we must be content with another way of it. I supped on one of the Ecclefechan eggs last night; fresh as wine; the greater part of them are now gone for breakfast: a large indentation too has been made in the bacon-ham, which is one of the best of its kind. The beef we durst not cut upon so freely; finding it good,

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savoury to the taste and fierce on the weak stomach, Jane gave it away to Mrs Sterling4 to whom it was jolly acknowledgement of many many favours we have had from that house. They boil it, rasp it down into powder, eat it with joviality to breakfast, — happy are they in their stomachie department. Many thanks to poor Dillick; God be thanked that he too is to be able to live; that after a ten-years battle, and work without wages, is now to work with wages of some sort, and have a little composure in his lot! — Remember us both, in all affection, to Jenny and the Bairns. Good be with you, dear Brother, and with yours! — T. Carlyle Published in part: NL, I, 128-129. 1. Oliver Goldsmith, The Traveller, line 42. 2. See NL, I, 127-128. Fraser had finally decided to publish Sartor, but Carlyle declined his "half-profits" terms and contracted instead with Saunders and Otley. 3. On starting for London in 1 8 3 1 . 4. Susannah (d. 1843), eldest daughter of Lieutenant-General Barton of the life-guards. She and John Sterling were married in 1830.

125· Kirkcaldy, Friday 25th Augt, 1838 My dear Alick, It will be a most hasty Note you get from me today; but I will rather write you such than none at all, or wait another day to do it, having already waited too long. Your Letter to Chelsea came duly; and just about along with it, one from the Doctor still in Italy: no doubt you are greatly surprised that I should answer you from Kirkcaldy of all places; but be of good heart, my brave boy; nothing wrong has happened, it is all right and in the course of Nature that I date to you here and not elsewhere, nay I have the hope of seeing you face to face before many days. The way of it I will now explain. Jack's Letter which came along with yours indicated that in all likelihood he would get home to London, tho' not till "the first week in Sep-

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tember" or later: it appeared farther that he was as good as done with Italy, Lady Clare hardly meaning to go back again. I sent his Letter off to Manchester to our Mother; and before they could well have received it, there came a Letter from them, indicating the same expectation as you had announced, namely, of Jack and me going in by Manchester and bringing our Mother home. A part of the Letter was written by Jenny, the rest by my Mother: so far all was well. But now I, for my own part, had become altogether bilious, sleepless etc. owing to the London dust; and after long scheming and grumbling had made up my mind to get out of London, at all rates and risks, so long as any good weather remained. To go by Manchester, it struck me, would only confuse matters there, and Scotsbrig itself would be quite solitary without my Mother. On the other hand I had an invitation of long standing to the Ferguses of Kirkcaldy, one of whom Miss Fergus1 a very good and kind person staid some two weeks with us in coronation time this summer. They are all good kind people: You remember Provost Fergus, the Father of them, now deceased? I had other pressing invitations here in the North. So after abundance of hesitation (for really I was in a poor feckless way, bodily and spiritually) I did last Saturday night fairly stow myself into a Leith Steamer below London Bridge; arrived at Leith on Monday at midnight, and on Tuesday morning landed here, in a pour of "even-down rain," and was welcomed by the people with all imaginable cordiality. Our party is but one man ( John Fergus, late Member for these Burghs, a most jovial social goodnatured man), one man besides myself, and two dames his Sisters, one of whom is our old guest. We are very quiet. They let me alone; they have got me a bold swift horse to canter about upon, which I do daily for two hours; I also bathe daily in the blue sea-water which you know of old: in short I do already feel very considerably amended, and could not for the time be better off. I expect Jack in the meantime will be home at his day; will rest himself a little beside Jane at Chelsea; then off for Manchester, and home to Scotsbrig with my Mother, where perhaps the whole of us almost may meet ere long. As for me, my plan is to stay here a day or two yet; indeed so long as I find it not uncomfortable to stay, where could I be better? I will then go across to Edinburgh, stay there for perhaps a day, with John Gordon most probably; then forward to [a] place called Minto near Hawick, where a certain

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"Reverend Mr Aitken" (who was in London lately) will earnestly welcome me; with whom and his Gi[g] and Scenery and Books I can surely put off a day or two without wearing: he finally will set me on my way to Langholm, and then I have but some twelve miles, which will not beat me we may suppose! I think I have heard there is a coach from Langholm past Scotsbrig on certain days. I will write either to you or Jemmy again, if I want to be met at Langholm, and name the day. Or if I do not want to be met, I will send you a Newspaper with one stroke, the sense of which is to be for you that I am coming soon. Probably the Coach will be the easiest way for us. If there had been an attainable Gig indeed — but I believe there is none. — In short, my dear Brother, you are to learn from this scrawl that all the strangers are on their way homewards; that I for one am here, and likely to be with you in few days hence. How many days I cannot yet say; it may be in a week, it may not be for ten days; we will wait for the Newspaper with one stroke. This for the present is all the news : our Post is setting off in very few minutes; I have had to write at the top of my speed. The rest we will reserve for speech. Jack had kind messages to you all; he was well, and ought to be over the Alps ten days ago, and perhaps about Paris by this time. Jane was in her usual state of health, certainly not worse, when I left home: a lady had lent her a very neat little carriage to drive about in daily, said lady being absent on her travels for a few weeks! — Did you get the package of Books addressed to James Aitken Dumfries? Pray secure me a "quarter" of Mundell's Tobacco, and some right pipes, for I shall be in instant want of them. And keep up your heart, my brave Alick; there are better days coming yet. I send affectionate greetings to all the households. God bless you one and all, and let us meet soon. — Your faithful T. Carlyle The weather is sadly wet ever since I came hither; the crops said to be tolerably good, but so backward that in bad latitudes they will never be got gathered. Not a sheaff seemed to be cut, even in Norfolk. They are calling "to Post." — Adieu! — ι. Elizabeth Fergus, who in 1840, when "elderly, moneyed, and fallen in love with the romantic in distress," married Count Carlo Pe-

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poli (1796-1881), former professor of philosophy at the University of Bologna but by 1835 "exile and dilettante" (LM, I, 25) in England. Elizabeth's sister was "Miss Jessie, a most jocose, blithe-smiling, gooddoing blond-insipid young lady" (NL, I, 136). Their brother John (d. 1865), "one of the jolliest, healthiest, best-conditioned of men" (NL, I, 135), was a Kirkcaldy farmer and flax manufacturer, M.P. for Kirkcaldy 1835-1837 and for Fifeshire 1847-1859. Their father, Walter, was a ticking-maker and provost of Kirkcaldy.

126. 5. Cheyne Row, Chelsea, 15th Octr, 1838 My dear Alick, I write to you rather than to Jack, 1 not knowing whether Jack may not have already left you, as things have turned out. Nay, I am not without expectation of seeing Jack today yet before the Post go off. And this is one of the reasons why I did not write sooner. At any rate I send you my history; understanding that with you it will be most convenient for inspection by all parties, by Jack if he is still with you, among others. You will without delay convey it to my Mother too; and so all will be put on a clear footing, and settled for the next chapter in continuation. Your gig remained in my sight, that day, till it got to the white house again, or nearly so: I saw Ben Nelson take leave of you from the rearward, and the Doctor and Alick roll off, till they died away into a point for me, and all was over on that side for one other time. It is a great mercy that we were privileged to meet; one should think of that, and not of the pain of parting. I had been gratified as of old with the true brotherly love of one and all; gratified to see you struggling along under better auspices than of late; I had much to gratify me. Struggle on, my brave ones! All good be with you till we meet again! — Our voyage to Liverpool was prosperous enough; a calm chill evening; the sheep sore afflicted, the men all tolerably off: I myself spoke no word, or hardly any; looked at the broad Milepath face of Porteous,2 saw once or twice [the] half-roasted half-distracted visage of Butcher Douglas from the deck side-hutches (where he seemed to be drinking,

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smoking, and not well to live); your brandy was of excellent service, my pipe went well; and so about midnight we discerned the Rock of Liverpool, and all its multifarious lights rising round us, — one great blaze among the rest which we ascertained afterwards to be a huge Fire, still going on tho' in a subdued state; and finally, amid immense yoho-ing, bullyragging and other tumult, we saw ourselves, about one in the morning, all run safely into moorings in the Dock, and at liberty to land if we liked. To the last moment it was uncertain with me what I would do: however, a porter offering himself "for eighteen pence, Sir," to the Angel Hôtel, I set off with him, several others following on the same quest of a bed to sleep in. The Angel, or Wellington, or whatever it was, would not take us in; but some Royal Hôtel, close by, did: there, after kicking our heels for a good while, in the empty lobby, in the dead of night, and relying mainly on Patience and the goodwill of "Boots" (for he had our fate in his hands), the wearied individuals did, I suppose, get into some kind of sleeping-cribs; I at least did, and could bolt the door upon myself about two in the morning, and say: Here I will be private till the morrow if it please Heaven. I supped on your brandy and one of Mary's crackers; indeed, you may tell her and yourself that nothing of the sort could have been usefuller than your kind gifts proved: thanks to your kind hearts for them! Your pocket-comb was right serviceable too; I found I had forgot the other. Tell my Mother not to fret herself in the smallest about it, as I know she has been doing; I got an excellent one since I came hither. In fine all was right enough. The sooty smell of Liverpool awoke me in the morning about eight; I dressed and walked off to Maryland Street3 for breakfast: too early still by an hour. There was no train for Manchester till five in the evening, so have they arranged it on Sundays. I sat with George Johnston, sat with poor Mrs Welsh, or with the others when they returned from church. Poor Mrs Welsh seemed to me to be evidently in the worst state: I think she feels herself to be departing fast, and has very nobly taken up her attitude as to that. She used to be a restless noisy bustling housemother; she is now a courageous devout woman, silently gathered together to die. Ah me! I have seen nothing that affected me more, for years. — But at length, five came, and half-past six; and I saw Hanning waiting on the outlook for me, and was soon settled in a coach by

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him, and on the way to Jersey street, across dark streets, with here and there the flare of a Methodist Chapel starting out on them. In one dark street, a drunken Coachman drove against us; fairly drove our hind wheels and axle out from beneath us! Our coach jolted amazingly, as if crossing a ditch of a yard deep, and then hung wrecked; but to us there was no damage done at all, not even to my trunk, tho' it had jumped down to the pavement, and was lying there. In two minutes the drunken coachman had been seized, his number taken, and witnesses bespoken; and we were mounted in a new coach whch took us home without accident. Jenny was well, and the little child; they have a decent shifty-looking little maid-servant, and all seemed to be going well with them. A bed had been provided for the Doctor, not in the inn, but in the house itself; I slept in my Mother's bed, which I remembered in the old house: I was just closing my senses in sweet oblivion when the Watchman, with a voice like the deepest bass of the Highland bagpipe, or what an Ostrich-Corncraik might utter, groaned out, "groo-o-oo," close under me, and set all a-gallop again. "Groo-o-oo!" for there was no articulate announcement at all in it that I could gather, "Groo-o-oo," repeated again and again, at various distances, dying out and then growing loud again, for an hour or more: this seemed to be the employment the worthy functionary had chalked out for himself to pass the night in: I grew impatient; bolted out of bed, flung up the window: "Groo-o-oo" there he was, advancing, lantern in hand, a few yards off me! "Can't you give up that noise?" I hastily addressed him: "You are keeping a person awake. What good is it to go howling and groaning there all night, and deprive people of their sleep!" He ceased from that time; at least I heard no more of him. No watchman, I think, has been more astonished for some time back. At five in the morning, all was still as sleep and darkness; at half-past five, all went off like an enormous mill-race, or ocean-tide, "Boom-m-m!" far and wide: it was the mills that were all starting then, and creeshy drudges by the million taking post there; I have heard few sounds more impressive to me, — in the mood I was in. Jenny and Rob were as kind to me as kind could be. They seemed to be doing well; plenty of rough business, and st[ou]t hearts for it: I was glad I had not grieved them by passing by without a visit, tho' my visit was [too] hurried for being satisfactory. Newspapers both from Liverpool and Manchester were duly

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despatched to my Mother; you ought to have got the first of them on Monday morning. I went off by the Railway at a quarter past nine that morning. I will not detain you with my Railway journey: it was one of the strangest in character that I ever made; so lonely, for our road has no houses near it yet; so new, so enchanted-looking! We went at all rates, from thirty miles an hour, to a mile and half, — the rate at which, according to Jamie, "cuddies can long hold out after they are done." One whole hour, shortly after sunset, we remained stagnant, perhaps some 200 of us, in the belly of a chalk-hill, the bottom by a ditch sixty or seventy feet deep, with two men and candles waiting by us, and a little stripe of sky overhead, — till they ran off with our steam-horse, and brought back another stronger, able to draw us out. Much of the road is unfinished yet, nothing but the mere iron laid down, and the arrangements of all kinds incomplete. I had little or no dinner but Mary's two remaining crackers: however, I felt no hunger; there was no danger, there was room enough, warmth enough, no discomfort to complain of, tho' we were some three hours beyond our time. Near midnight I got safe and comfortably home; Jane, with tea and eggs, sitting gleg in expectation of me. She is better than I have seen her for a long time; I myself too am quite rested now, and decidedly in better cure than I have too often been in of late years. I have been gathering my gear about me, making my arrangements; I have even settled with the Review Editor,4 so pressing was he, to begin a little "Article" for him without loss of a moment: I have settled the subject (a German Book of small moment), and shall be underway tomorrow. This is all the news about me, in London. — But about the Doctor — Lady Clare's servants had been here every day for some days inquiring, When? When? For her Ladyship had fallen ill, and none but her Doctor could give help. She seems to me to be rather well served; she should have kept him in her pay I think, not turned him out to grass, in the hope of getting him when she pleased to whistle! However, I went up to her Hôtel directly on the morrow morning; sent in my card with a corteous message; her Courier came down: How could one get to Scotsbrig, and in how long? I said, "by railway, in about four-and-twenty hours; but they had better write!' My calculation accordingly is that a Letter would arrive with "speed" on it, probably on Thursday morning. Now

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I discern from Newspapers that the Doctor was up at Templand then, that he came thro' Dumfries on Friday, that Saturday was the soonest he could think of starting. So perhaps he will be here today? Or perhaps he still will not think of setting off till his own time come? I have heard nothing of her since Tuesday morning. The Doctor will have decided for himself. People here seem to think that Rome, this winter, might be a better place than we thought it, so many English are gone thitherward. They also seem to say he ought to demand four hundred pounds from her Ladyship if he wait for her. I cannot advise in it. His room is ready here, and his welcome; let him write to me instantly if he be not already on the road. There is even a room for him down stairs all winter if he will have it, and cover enough, — poor Tongleg, truest-hearted, fashourest of men! We shall do very well, once all settled together. — Or perhaps Lady Clare has not written at all? The [Turn back to the beginning; then margin after margin; what a scrawl!] 5 Thrifty poor woman, she calculated that I would write, that he would come of his own accord, and cost her no money? In that case, I would have him reckon that I had not written at all, and take his own time in coming. Thrift of that sort seems to me despicable beyond most thrifts; I thank Heaven, I have no poor brother, poor sister, so poor as that. Alick's honey-jar is on the table every morning, right good; the currents put into a crystal case. You are to thank Mary also for her gifts; Heaven has given her too a generous heart. Good brothers, good sisters, best of Mothers, you were all kind to me, each of you kinder than the other: my heart's thanks are with you all! And so good b'ye, dear Alick; I will write again soon, to my Mother I think. I must terminate this scrawl with a P.S. on the other page. Your ever affectionate T. Carlyle Jamie's harvest, I hope, is prospering still. His kindness, in the trouble he was in, is deeply present with me. Tell him, ten stone of meal, I think will do; Jane seems to have given up porridge: that will serve me for a long time. As for butter, we are eating the Scotsbrig butter daily: it seems the price here is 13d per pound, and the stuff pretty fair; Jane thinks, as poor Isabella is not there herself to manage it, we will fash none — this year. Neither is there any violent haste

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about the meal, only moderate speed. O my whiskey how easily could I have carried it, but I had not the heart! — I will write again before long; tell my dear Mother so; and to her. God bless you all always! — ι. Who had arrived home about early September. 2. He and Butcher Douglas are unidentified. 3. At the home of John Welsh. His wife died before July 1839. See Letter 134. 4. John Robertson (d. 1875) from Aberdeen, who had been called to the bar at Lincoln's Inn Fields and had most recently been working for the Morning Chronicle. He was now acting as nominal editor of the London and Westminster Review while Mill was abroad and continued as such until Mill relinquished control of the Review in 1840. See The Earlier Letters of John Stuart Mill, ed. Mineka, XII, 332. Robertson and Carlyle shortly had a falling out over an article on Cromwell, and Carlyle thereafter refused to contribute to the Review. See Froude, III, 150. The article Carlyle referred to in this letter is "Varnhagen von Ense's Memoirs," London and Westminster Review, 32 (December 1838), 60-84; republished in CME, IV, 88-117. Carlyle did not meet the historian and biographer Karl August Ludwig Phillipp Varnhagen von Ense (1785-1858) until his first trip to Berlin, in 1852, to research Frederick the Great. The "Letters Written by Thomas Carlyle to Varnhagen von Ense in the Years 1837-57," ed. Richard Preuss, are published in Last Words of Thomas Carlyle, pp. 193-283. 5. Carlyle's brackets.

127. Chelsea, Friday (2% p.m.) [19? October 1838] Dear Alick, Take a word from me today, of the briefest kind, to tell you that after due announcement etc. of which you see evidence inclosed, the Box of Brandy arrived here, safe (to all appearance), the day before yesterday. I say "to all appearance," and indeed have no doubt that it is "in reality": but the Box is convenient for keeping the liquor in, and we have set it by unopened. I am much obliged to you for the trouble you have taken; and glad for both our sakes that it has succeeded. "18 bottles" must mean I think three gallons, the prime cost of which,

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if I mistake not, is some £ 4 . . 1 0 . I here inclose you a five-pound Note. If you will not have any profit, pray send over a bottle of the same Brandy to my Mother; and divide any residue of cash there may be, equally between Rob Scott 1 and old Jamie Morison. That will make all square. — And pray write to me directly (or re-address that Courier to me, if you cannot get written) to announce that the Cash has come safe. — Of Course, make yourself right out of the £ 5 first, if I have calculated wrong! — We are in our usual way of health here; I beginning rather to get into something like a working habit: that is the great blessing for me! The Doctor has got back to Brighton safe; he wrote to me yesterday about sending off a certain Book (one D'Aubiguy's2

on the Reforma-

tion), by the November Magazine Parcel; — which I have attended to. Jean's Letter was very welcome. Tell my dear Mother that I will try to have a bit word for her lying ready next sabbath-day too, when she comes over to the Preaching! And so adieu, dear Brother; a blessing on you all! T. Carlyle χ. An Ecclefechan blacksmith, whom Carlyle mentioned in the Reminiscences, I, 13. Jamie "Plate" Morison (or Morrison — see Letter 1 7 3 ) is unidentified. 2. Probably Théodore Agrippa D'Aubignes (1552-1630) Histoire universelle depuis 1550 jusqu'à l'an 1601, 3 vols. (1616-1619).

128. From, John Aitken Carlyle Dover 30th Novr 1838 My dear Alick, Your letter which reached us some ten days ago at Chelsea was most welcome for we had been entirely destitute of news from Annandale ever since I left it. I was hindered from answering the letter before leaving London, first by being kept in uncertainty as to the time of our departure and then by the suddenness of it. The Duke 1 and Duchess did not arrive from Scotland till last week, and I saw them for the first

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time on thursday. It was not however till the monday following that they had completed their arrangements for the children, and next day I left London with them and their governess and tutor with three carriages. The Earl of Home 2 who is also of our party and uncle of the Duke came down to Dover next morning, and the Duke and Duchess followed in the evening. When all assembled we make a rather magnificent appearance, with five large carriages, each with four horses except the last which has three. It will be necessary for us to separate into two parties as soon as we get across the Channel in order to get horses and house-room. I am to have charge of the children's party with three carriages. At first I daresay I shall find the task a little difficult but as everybody seems willing to do what he can and my powers are quite ample, I have little doubt but I shall be able to perform it creditably. I am very much pleased with what I have seen of the Duke and Duchess. I dined with them at their house in London two days before we left, and was introduced to their nearest relations. The children are very well trained — four little boys, the eldest seven years of age — obedient when authority is exercised, and full of life and mettle when let loose from it. They are delicate rather than positively unwell, and perhaps I shall not have much trouble with any of them. The Duchess seems a very wise amiable, motherly person without any aristocratic haughtiness or stiffness, perfectly simple and natural in her manners and apparently at home in the station she occupies. I anticipate that I shall be much more comfortable with them and more at my ease than with Lady Clare; and I hope too that I shall run no risk of falling into the state of stagnation I used to dread so much last time I was in Italy. All is life and motion about me, and I shall not find it so easy as formerly to establish the monotony that leads to Stagnation. The only visible drawback, as I often say, in my situation is that I am seperated from all my friends and relations and set a-wandering again; but one has to submit to seperations in this world, and they have at least the advantage of making meetings more precious when they do take place. You ask me to tell you more particularly how I got my appointment. I think I mentioned to my mother that I had tried to do all in my power for Lady Clare, and at length ascertained that I could not help her in such circumstances. The same day I heard that the Duke of Bue-

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cleuch was in quest of a physician and that several had been already recommended to him. I went instantly to Sir James Clark3 physician to the Queen who gave me a letter to Dr Hume physician to the Duke of Wellington and an old friend and fellow soldier of Dr Arnott's. Hume received me frankly and kindly, and recommended me on the strength of Sir James Clark's letter. I wrote also to the Duke's physician in Edinburgh, who did not help me much I believe but the matter was soon settled without him. And now enough of it. I must ask you to write me from time to time during the winter. Adopt a smaller and closer hand and tell me fully about all your affairs, and those of the rest of us. Every li:tle thing is interesting at such a dista[nce] as Naples. Go on steadily, do not undertake too much, and perform whatever your hand finds to do with diligence and steadiness and I am persuaded there is no danger of your ultimately succeeding, and at any rate the faithful performance of ones duty is better than any success. All situations that human beings can be placed in have verily the same quantity of grievances, and the only thing one would be entitled to lament over would be want of food and raiment. None of our family have ever been threatened with that. Both Tom and I used sometimes to be afraid about you, seeing you so unsettled and so tossed about from one thing to another; but we were much pleased to find you working so heartily and so much more steadily and cheerfully last visit to Annandale. Go on in the same way and there is no fear of you. — We are detained here at present by boistrous winds, and for the children's sake shall not go till the weather become quite favourable. If we are detained another day I shall get a frank and write to my [mother.] If not she will hear from Paris — some ten days or a fortnight after this date. I have a frank for William Grahame in which this will be enclosed. I write in a great hurry having five other letters to scribble this morning. You will hear of all my movements regularly, and of my address so that you may know where to write to me. I have a frank for Jean too this morning and shall write to her. Give my love to all at Scotsbrig. I will write to Mary likewise to-day; so that I shall have enough to do in that way and must conclude. — Believe me Ever your affectionate brother J A Carlyie

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1. Walter Francis Scott, fifth Duke of Buccleuch, seventh Duke of Queensberry (1806-1884), whose employ John was now in. His wife was the former Lady Charlotte Anne Thynne (d. 1895), youngest daughter of Thomas, fourth Viscount Weymouth, second Marquis of Bath (1765-1837). Their sons, mentioned below, were William Henry Walter (1831-1914), who succeeded to the titles; Henry John Montagu Douglas-Scott-Montagu, first Baron Montagu (1832-1905); Walter Charles (1834-1895); and Charles Thomas (1839-1911). The couple later had three daughters — Victoria Alexandrina, Margaret Elizabeth, and Mary Charlotte. The Duke of Buccleuch owned Templand. 2. Cospatrick Alexander Home, eleventh Earl of Home (1799-1881). 3. (1788-1870). He had been appointed court physician in 1837. Dr. Hume was Thomas Hume (i76g?-i85o), who had served as physician to the army under Wellesley in Portugal in 1808. Dr. Arnott was Archibald Arnott (1771-1855) of Kirkconnell Hall, Ecclefechan, who had served as Napoleon's physician and was attendant upon his death at St. Helena. His An Account of the Last lUness, Disease, and Post-Mortem Appearance of Napoleon Bonaparte was published in 1822. Carlyle and John perhaps first met him in 1827. See L, p. 42.

129. Chelsea, Saturday [29 December 1838] My dear Alick, You will doubtless call on Monday, and get this frank into your possession; and I suppose open it if my Mother be at Annan. There ought to be the scrape of a pen in it specially for yourself. All was right in regard to the barrel, as you hear; the Tobacco, which I am now using, is as good as could be got; and what more would anybody have? Many thanks for the travelling and trouble you had with it. Compared with the London kind it does look amazingly like; and, if your Excise man speak true, may actually be of the same stock: — and yet the taste was and is decidedly milder and altogether distinguishable: perhaps it is only its being 1 2 months older or so? No matter; the tobacco that tastes right in the pipe, that is the tobacco for me! Your news of Ecclefechan and the Paterson riot 1 are very characteristic of the place; very mournful and almost frightful. The distress is great here too. They must get a Poor-rate at Ecclefechan too: what

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can they do? God knows where it will all end: not well, I doubt, for our generation or the next. I should not like to advise you about Jack's cash and the buying of corn. It seems to be generally considered that corn will rise; I should say it would, most likely, almost certainly, rise for sometime yet; but whether it continue up will depend on the calculation people make being correct as to the actual deficiency, or exaggerated. Perhaps short adventures, small bargains an[d w]i[se] sale were the safest. I cannot ad[vise you.] Jane sends her love to you and Jenny and the th[ree sm] all-ones, to begin with the Namesake. Remember me specially to Tom, and advise him to apply for breeches by and by. Ever your affectionate T. Carlyle χ. Alexander in his letter of December 23, 1 8 3 8 (MS: N L S # 1763. 1 8 3 - 1 8 4 ) , wrote of Patterson of Townfoot, who offered the poor of Ecclefechan "turnips at the easy rate of 1 0 / per load and potatoes one half penny each. He was bumed in effigy by the rabble the other night with a turnip hanging round his neck; on the wooden bridge before his own door."

130. Chelsea, Saturday 2nd Feby, 1839 My dear Brother, * This is a mere scrape of a pen sent to provoke an answer from you. You will read in my Mother's letter1 "a full and particular account" of all that we are doing here: but from Annandale to me ward there is a great dearth of news; which I am very anxious you should put an end to as soon as possible. We have not heard a word since before that great wind-storm, which has laid Woodcockair2 all flat, it seems, and covered the whole country with havock: I can only infer by your silence that no very material damage was done any of you by it. But one would like to know by special statement. Pray write to me as soon as you can gather yourself. Our last Letters, I think, crossed on the road, or nearly so. Your ac-

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count of poor Ecclefechan was very dismal; nor, I fear, can there much improvement have taken place since then: it is a dismal winter for the poor everywhere. One hopes there may be this single good in the scarcity: it may produce a determined universal onslaught on those iniquitous Corn-Laws, and abolish or modify them. There is like to be great disturbance otherwise, and great distress any way. Meanwhile "ply away" there, my man, and do the best possible. "Better a wee bush than no bield." Times must mend: and it is, in all cases, the quietly industrious and prudent-minded man that profits by the time. I long to hear how your meal speculation promises to answer: for I conclude you have started it, and are doing more or less in it. My light on the matter is as good as none; yet one would think such a thing were likely at present. Tell me about this, and about all things; especally things of your own household, and how all prospers with great and small there. Jane I suppose is a clever lassie, able to do up a parcel by this time, in case of need. As for Tom he is a great hearted fellow, according to my judgement, and must continue growing in all senses, in stature, in talent of reading, and every other way. Good be with them, poor little things. They are got into a troublesome toilsome world, and will have to fight thro' it as we are doing. I have had for some time a small set of books and pamphlets for you, with some old raiment which perhaps would suit Mary best; but am always waiting for some opportunity. The railway people cannot frank it farther than Birmingham; and I doubt whether the carriage after that might not cost you more tha[n] it is all worth. I think I shall send it by steam to Edinburgh, or off at any rate in some way before long, if no free conveyance occur. We have snow on the ground three inches deep at present, and the chief frost of the winter. The poor people beg, sell spunks, struggle on. I do not think they are so ill off as in Lancashire: but indeed the miserable part of London is some miles out of our quarter. — My paper is done, even if my time were not. You will take charge of getting the news I now send conveyed to Dumfries and Annan? The fault found with you last time [on] that head, seems to have been totally unjust; my Author, I suppose, was Jean. I meant to write her a word too this time, but it will not do. I am also bound to write to Manchester; and will before long. — The general conclusion, dear Alick, is that you must

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write. Jane affectionately salutes you all. Luck be about the house, and about all your houses! Tell Grahame I mean him a letter too, before long. — Ever Your affectionate — T. Carlyle 1. He there wrote (January 13) that he had his "face turned partly towards Oliver Cromwell and the Covenant time" and was to "attempt to see whether a Public Library [see Letter 148] cannot be got instituted here in London" ( NL, I, 147). 2. A copse two miles southwest of Ecclefechan.

131· Chelsea, 14th March, 1839 My dear Alick, The Letter from Jack was out of my hand to be franked, but not gone out of London, when yours and our Mother's arrived here greatly to my satisfaction by the evening Mail, — for we have two Mails daily from the North now, thanks to the railway. I hope my Mother's cold is not aggravated by this frightful weather we have had; I am sorry she had such a thing for such a time. Encourage her to be careful; thanks for getting the ale; I hope you will not let her want for that, so long as she likes it at all. I must also bid you congratulate Jenny, and offer my respects to the young John A. Carlyle! 1 Good speed to them all, poor creatures. — You do not tell me anything about your meal speculations, or whether you have had any such this winter. I desire to know all that you are busy with, and your outlooks whatsoever they are. In consequence of what you said, I have applied to Mr Elliot 2 ( that is his name) the Government Agent, on the Australia business for the Eaglesfield Emigrant. That small Note for George Elliott with the Printed Paper will show him what the answer was. For your own perusal I send you the original itself; which you need not shew to Geordie except need be: but it will enable you to instruct him if he is still dark about anything. A Letter will be written to him, from Grennock probably ( if "Eaglesfield" is not his address still, he must mention it to the

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Postmaster); he will likely get a free passage (which is a very desirable advantage every way), but must not make himself sure of one till he see. — I think Austrialia will do very well for Elliott and that he has every chance to better his situation by going thither. It seems a good scheme for him. But it is of no service to incur the responsibility of advising him to go; let him take his own judgement as the adventure is his own. I have accordingly written to him in a cautious strain; as the "Agent General" prescribes to me. Your task in it is merely to convey the Note and the Printed Paper to Geordie without delay, and give him afterwards any interpretation and explanation you can which he may need, if he need any. This Mr Frederick Elliot is a relation of the Earl of Minto's,3 a very clever and friendly young man, whom I have known something of for a good many years. He is one of my Lecture people, and likes me very well. The "creation" he talks of in his postscript is a grand musical performance, which I am to be at on Friday night; the Wilsons had got tickets for Jane and me both, but Jane declines, on account of the hot crowd and the cold weather. I was there once already: above 3,000 people, and some 500 musical performers! You never heard anywhere such a tempest of music. I do not count on going a third time. Tonight I am to be at Leigh Hunt's hearing him read a new Play4 to certain private friends. He has read it often, poor fellow; but could never get it acted yet, and has had endless trouble with it. He is in a very poor way; living, I believe, on some allowance weekly which certain benevolent persons have subscribed to afford him. He has only been once here, these ten months; he has a kind of mixed affection and terror for me, and keeps rather out of my way; a plan I too think good. Nothing can exceed the improvident wastefulness of his poor household and self, except their misery. I can do them no good, and get no good of them. I wrote to Jack on Monday; he must have got your Letter a fortnight ago, very soon after he wrote to me. He speaks of writing again soon by some Ambassador's conveyance; I will endeavour to forward the Letter without losing time. We have great cause to be thankful for Jack's sake, I think: he seems to be in a good position; comfortable, successful, and with the best outlook he could expect in that department.

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— My good Mother asks me whether I am not coming to Annandale this summer. I cannot answer yet; I only feel that I will not spend the hot weather here; that I do design to have my fill of green country and fresh air somewhere: but all is indeterminate beyond that; and till the Lectures etc. are over, nothing can be determined. I sometimes think I ought to run over to Switzerland for a while; and indeed Jack and I had a kind of project for meeting there: but that again depends, even on his side, on his Duke's motions: on the whole nothing can be settled about it. I still have thoughts of getting a horse; the rather now as the weather seems to promise mending. Nothing can yet be decided as to the arrangement of the Lectures,5 or what subject they are to be on; tho' I am studying at that most of all in these days. You will hear by and by, I trust, that it is all going right. — Cavaignac6 tells me they are for translating our Revolution Book into French: it will make strange French, I trow! Yesterday a little acquaintance7 of mine called to deliver the thanks etc. for writing such a w[ork o]n the part of one Count d'Orsay (a kind of French-Englishman[, or] English-Frenchman, whose name you sometimes see in Newspapers), the handsomest m[an] and chief Dandy of London or Europe; who has read me with great etc. etc.! Certainly no mortal ever had such a set of admirers as I have: the whole Nondescripts of the civilized world; Jesuits, Swedinborgians, Quakeresses, Dandies; — to which if we could only add that Bookseller Fraser had come down handsomely with ready-cash! I must end my dear Brother, as I began; with thanks for your Letter, with prayer for another soon. You must not be discouraged in your business, you must not lose temper! Try it out to the uttermost, and see what it will do. This seems a terrible year, especially in that quarter of the world: other years will not be altogether so bad; and a man of quiet understanding always finds that something can be done, and made out, in all places. Tell me more minutely how you manage; what profits the last year seems to have yielded clear; how you spend your odd time (if you have any), what the bairns are doing; and all about it. And keep up your heart, my Boy; and always remember me. Your affectionate Brother T. Carlyle

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1. (1839-1924). John left his father's farm as a young man, learned the carpentering trade, and married Helen MacVicar (d. 1927), sister of his brother Thomas' wife and of his brother Alexander's second wife. 2. Frederick Elliot (see below). George Elliott of Eaglesfield is unidentified. 3. Gilbert Elliot, second Earl of Minto (1782-1859), at this time first lord of the admiralty. 4. A Legend of Florence, which was produced at Covent Garden on February 7, 1840. 5. This third series, six lectures on "The Revolutions in Modern Europe," Carlyle delivered at Edward Street, Portman Square, May 1 to 18. To John he announced he concluded them "with tolerable éclat, with a clear gain of very nearly £200" (NL, I, 161). They were never published. Leigh Hunt reported the series in part in the Examiner May 5 (a vague sentence on the first lecture), 12 (on the second and third), 19 (an apology for not noticing the fourth and fifth), and 26 (on the fourth, fifth, and sixth). The reports are republished in Shepherd, Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Thomas Carlyle, I, 197-214. See also On Heroes, Hero-Worship, and the Heroic in History, ed. MacMechan, pp. xxvi-xxxv. 6. Godefroi Cavaignac (1801-1845), popular leader of the French Republican party and brother of General, later President, Louis Eugène Cavaignac (1802-1857). He had been imprisoned for political reasons in 1834, had escaped, and was at this time in exile in London. Carlyle described him as "a man full of seriousness and of genial gaiety withal; of really fine faculties, and of a politeness (especially toward women) which was curiously elaborated into punctiliousness, yet sprang everywhere from frank nature" (Reminiscences, I, 1 1 1 ) . He returned to France in 1841 to help edit La Réforme. The French Revolution was not translated into French until 1865-1867. 7. Apparently (see NL, I, 158) Henry Fothergill Chorley (18081872), at this time critic on the staff of the Athenaeum. He spoke to Carlyle for Count Alfred Guillaume Gabriel d'Orsay (1798-1852), artist and leader of fashion, whom Carlyle met about April 2.

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132. With postscript from Jane Welsh Carlyle Chelsea, 22nd May, 1839 My dear Alick, Your Letter came yesterday, a day after I had despatched the frank to our Mother: I will answer you today, and send the sheet off at once without waiting for franks. I have very little time; so you will put up with the merely needful. Jack's draft of £ 3 0 / which I have now the cash for here, which he said he would "tell me afterwards how to dispose of," becomes a plain matter from what you write. The good Doctor! It was one of the charitablest outlays ever made, and a thing worthy of his kind heart to purpose. I shall surely remember him for it, what use soever may turn out to lie in it. Had I possessed such a horse last year and the year before; still better, could I have had the nag sent up to me by post prior to beginning these Lectures, — it might have been of eminent service to me! There is no greater possession for one in the world than a kind Brother, than kind Brothers. As to the practical advice to be given you at present, I really have got no new light yet, and know not what to say. The very horse, which it seems you already possess, what has become of it, how is it to be supported in the interim? Is it turned loose upon Scotsbrig, and can it in any way work for its victuals there? I am altogether at sea as to my own plans; and see only that such a convenience waiting me will be an additional inducement and incitement towards Scotland, always till I come thither. Mrs Welsh it seems is not got to Templand, 2 as we thought, having been suddenly taken rather unwell at Liverpool on the day she was to have gone. When she will go now has become uncertain again. It is true, that need not operate as any bar upon us, for we could take possession of the premises, with full good will from her, in her absence; yet it does introduce or seem to introduce a kind of additional confusion when all already was confused enough. — I have two or three schemes on the anvil, none of which is consistent with my leaving London for a few weeks yet; and indeed while the weather is no hotter

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than it has yet been, London is as good as any place for me. In truth, I begin to feel as if I had gone idle long enough now, and discern more or less that I must take to some graver occupation than any I have been concerned in, these two last years. It is a feeling of duty that urges me, happily no longer a feeling of such urgent necessity; — and the whole is a proof, I daresay, that with all my bitter biliousness I am really in a sounder state of body and mind than I was in. For the immediate moment I have a kind of Review Article or Pamphlet 3 on my mind, which might occupy me well some weeks, and which I must if not write here, yet get arranged about here, and then set to writing in the country. I have applied accordingly two days ago to Lockhart Editor of the Quarterly Review, to ascertain if he can throw any light on it; I have not yet received any answer. With this, and with a horse and green fields somewhere I could contrive (I calculate) to brush myself up during summer, and get into tolerable condition before autumn. And then, — I think some times I must do one of two things: either buckle to another Book, as I might do under better auspices outwardly than ever heretofore; or else steam myself over to America, in September or so, and set to Lecturing there "like a roaring lion" 4 all over the Union, where it seems possible I should both learn the art of extempore speaking in public, and also in few months realize a canny purse of money to come home with again! One or other of these two things I feel inclined towards at present; and really have it not any less confusedly before my mind that I here fling it down on paper for you. Some summer months in the country, you see, stand as a fixed preliminary to both plans of procedure. As to what part of the country, the schemes and offers are fourfold or fivefold; but Dumfrieshire seems the likeliest of all (tho' there are drawbacks against that too), as the place where my Mother and kindred wait to receive me, a place like no other under the sun in that particular! As for Jane she professes her willingness to go with me whithersoever I list; but would not stir out of London (I think) if it were not I that took her. In short, dear Alick, you see it is altogether [ confus ]ing in the vague state, and nothing definite can well be predicted out of it yet. "But what am I to do about the gig?" that is your practical question; and I am greatly at a loss what to answer about it, and wish I had not

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to answer at all. I think however you might look, and ascertain what a good stout, and not altogether ugly second-hand gig would cost, and if you found one anywhere decidedly cheap, you might buy it; but if not decidedly cheap, than not to be in haste in buying it. Such a vehicle I suppose could get standing-room where it would take no hurt; and it might be rather useful to our Mother thro' the whole year, to whose custody and possession I think it ought to be rigorously consigned. These things cost no tax now; our Mother is not able to move about as of old; and surely it would be a great comfort if by our means she could be provided with a convenience of that sort. For the rest, if you buy a gig, let it not be a bad one: it need not be shewy, indeed it should not be so; but decent and substantial and smoothgoing, these are the qualities. I must leave it with you, dear Alick, in this vague state; for I feel that whatever I say will be like a precept, and at the same time that I have no knowledge adequate to giving precepts. You must exercise your own genius, and do the wisest you can. — By the bye, is the horse a smart rider? That will be more important than even running in gigs. For I have decided that not only in the country all summer, but here too when I come back, I ought to have continual riding, as the one condition of a supportable state of health, the basis of whatever else is to be done by me. The frank will have told you all our news. The lecture accounts are not quite settled yet; but I understand the net-produce will be somewhere just about £.200, as I anticipated. — People have taken to ask me to "8 o'clock dinners" now, — two in these four days, which I could not well refuse, which (for one of them was last night) have made me "a wreck" today. It is very useless to me that kind of civility, or worse than useless; I mean therefore not to go into it, but always to be entirely shy of it. Indeed the poor nervous-system, both before, during and after such a business, sufficiently admonishes me to be shy. — I shall hear from Lockhart in a day or two; and even if I do not hear from him, I will arrange that matter of the "article" before long. Good be with you; and many thanks to you, my dear Brother, for all the pains you take with me. We shall surely meet this summer too! — I am ever Your affectionate T. Carlyle

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It has been a great comfort to me for my Mother's sake, and for all your sakes, that the unfortunate Harkness6 has left the meeting-house; that there is a prospect of some rational sermon on the Sabbath-days, without which they are difficult to spend altogether well. The people ought to come forward now, and ascertain whether there is no hope of taking the business into hands fit to manage it a little better. — — W e send our affection to Jenny, our welcome back again to Scottish ground: she will be well out of that huge dust-whirlpool in the bright summer weather. — I will write soon again. Farewell for this day — My 6 kind love to you and all of them missed out — but extant — 1. From which, Carlyle learned, John had instructed Alexander the previous year to purchase a horse and gig for Carlyle "to render my stay in the country profitabler" ( N L , I, 160). 2. Where Carlyle and his wife planned to visit. 3. Chartism, which John Gibson Lockhart refused. Mill, too, refused it at first for the London and Westminster Review, but later "expressed himself eager to have it, and publish it in his final Number, as a kind of final shout" (NL, I, 1 7 6 ) . But Carlyle, his wife, and John agreed the piece was too good for such a purpose. Fraser published it in December 1839, but dated it 1840. See Dyer, p. 52. It is republished in CME, IV, 118-204. 4. Cf. I Pet. 5:8. 5. The Reverend Mr. James Harkness (1803-1878) was ordained August 15, 1832, and served as minister of the United Presbyterian Church, Ecclefechan, until March 5, 1839. Upon his resignation he emigrated to New York and became pastor of a congregation there. He later practiced as a "doctor" and officiated as a minister in New Jersey. 6. From Jane Welsh Carlyle.

133· Chelsea, Monday, 27th May, 1839 My dear Alick, I do not find that I have a single word to say to you today: but the frank will carry another bit of paper, and that may as well go with a salutation to you as not.

1839, London 465 The Letter I wrote the other day was, I daresay, one of the most confused; but it was only the better emblem of my own state on that account: you would be able to spell out of it some reasonable scheme for your own procedure if you went to Carlisle on Saturday. I have written a Letter1 to Jack, which is still lying here; unfolding the condition of the matter. If you actually get a Gig, it will be interesting news to me; especially I want to know if the new Horse be a smart trotter? Nothing in all the Physician's pharmacopeia is worth naming beside that for me. You will find by Jean's Letter that I have in view to write an Article on the Poor People. I have long felt a kind of obligation to do it. I offered last year to Mill, but he refused unless I would come to the conclusion that their situation was gradually improving! I did not think him wise in that refusal, but I said nothing. This present Article I partly intend for Lockhart and the Quarterly Review, the organ of the Tories. Lockhart I have seen and talked with about it; he is a man of sense and breeding, very anxious to have me write the thing if it can at all be made to suit; which I think it may really be; for it is a plain truth to me that I have found among the Tories, the best kind of Tories, far more fellow-feeling [for the] Poor, than among that rubbish of Radicalism, which in general has sympathy with nothing but its own self-conceit. — The Article will cost me a good deal of reading and trouble; but I can take plenty of time for it; there will be no printing till some time in Autumn. It will be a matter well off my hand at any rate; for I have really had a kind of conscience about it for a good while, and felt as if I ought to write it. My Mother has got little from me but Newspapers of late; I hope to write to her again before very long. — We rejoice much in the account you give of your business, of your prospering in it. That is a very tolerable income, it seems to me; far beyond what one could have expected; and a kind of life, not indeed without its vexations, but perhaps freer from them than most. — Good be with you my dear Brother. Our kind affection to one and all, — beginning with Tom and Jane. — Ever Your faithful T. Carlyle 1. See NL, I, 160-162.

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I34· 3. Maryland street, Liverpool, Thursday, 4th july, 1839 My dear Brother, After making a great bustle to get out of London in time, we arrived here by the railway, safe and well, on Tuesday evening; calculating that we should find a steamer for Annan, or at worst for Dumfries, probably on Wednesday or Thursday. Yesterday morning we ascertained, on inquiry, as Macdiarmid's Courier on its coming in like wise indicated, that the Steamers for this week had all sailed, that there was no way of getting across the Frith till Monday! After some vain murmuring, we found that it could not be helped; that we must simply reconcile ourselves to stay here, and make the best of it, till the time did come. I sent our Mother a Liverpool Newspaper yesterday; which I suppose will this day have signified to her that we are here. So far good. I now write you a hasty word, one word is enough, to say that, if all go right, we may be expected at the Annan Jetty by Hudson's Steamship, seemingly at a pretty early hour, on Tuesday morning next. Both Sewell and Hudson seem to sail from this at the same hour that night; but we will aim for Hudson; he if I remember is reckoned the best: —however, even failing him (which is altogether unlikely) we are not entirely desperate for you till Sewell too have arrived without us. The hour of sailing from Liverpool is 7 o'clock ( Monday night) : I suppose that indicates 7 in the morning of Tuesday? But you will know that better than I. By Hudson, at whatever his hour is, we may be looked for. The "Gig," I dare say, under some trustworthy person's guidance (do not you, my dear Brother, leave your work inconveniently on that account), will be waiting at the shore; and Mary will have breakfast for us: we shall be happy to have a cup of her tea once again. None but Jane and I will be there; the Servant Ellen 1 is sent to Kirkcaldy, in place of coming with us; things suddenly assumed a new face on that side, and we judged it better that she should go home than come with us. She is to join us at our return. Jane and I, then, with a quantity of luggage that may go mostly direct off to Dumfries: that will be the cargo. We must go up to Scotsbrig directly; and see how our dear Mother is, how you all are. Next day I

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have appointed to take Jane forward to Templand, — not knowing how they may be situated for accommodation at Scotsbrig; Jane, besides, being very impatient to get to sleep beside her Mother. I calculate on returning by myself, if not with her, down to Middlebie, in a day or two. This is our arrangement for the present. — I expect there will be a big frank with Proofsheets2 in it for me at Ecclefechan on Monday morning: will you look after it, and take it out if it be there. My story, dear Alick, has spun itself out far beyond the due length; "I have not time to make it shorter," — as I once said. You will contrive to gather from it what I mean. No other word need be added on the subject; for words would but darken counsel. This is not a place for resting in, as you have often heard; but it is quieter at present than it used to be. I got a fine bathe in the sea yesterday; today I am to have a ride. The weather is cool enough, indeed today almost cold; however, it was very beautiful yesterday, and my swatter in the Solway brine (tho' on the wrong coast) did me considerable good. I hope, in spite of the late horn- and difficulty of sleeping here, we shall not come to you in an enfeebled state, but fully fresher than when we started. — The Master of the House is but in poor health here, — he has lost both his Wife and his Partner in trade since we were here last, and is in great fret just now shifting his warehouse t]o a new quarter of the town etc.: I never saw him in worse spirits; gets little sleep he says; and indeed is not well. An honest true hearted man as I have ever known. The Good wife is greatly missed. Nothing here or elsewhere on this Earth will continue, but all is in perpetual restless movement; and Change, and Mortality, and Eternity, waits for us all! These things, old as the world, have still a kind of novelty for us, a kind of surprise for us, — so unfathomable, fearful and wonderful, is their significance. I will add no more words today. God grant us all a happy meeting, such as we hope for now, before many hours. We shall get all one another's news by a better method than writing, ere long. Our united love and blessings to you all. I am ever, Your affectionate Brother T. Carlyle 1. "Kirkcaldy" Helen Mitchell, who, Carlyle recollected, "must have come about the end of 1837" (LM, I, 90). She served the Carlyles

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through November 1846 and then again from the autumn of 1848 to February 1849. There was an Ellen, who served in July 1837. See Thea Holme, esp. pp. 186-187. 2. For the second English edition of The French Revolution (London, 1839). Carlyle added a paragraph to the end of Vol. III, Bk. V, Chap. 6 to "contradict" the false account of the sinking of the Vengeur he had used in the first edition. He published his findings beforehand as "Epistles to the Literati, No. XI. Thomas Carlyle, Esq., to Oliver Yorke, Esq., on the Sinking of the Vengeur," Fraser's Magazine, 20 (July 1839), 76-84; republished in CME, IV, 208-225.

• After more than two months in the country the Carlyles left for Chelsea September 17 and were home by noon the next day. Two weeks later Carlyle wrote the following letter to John, who in late July had returned from Italy to London with the Duke of Buccleuch and had been at Scotsbrig since at least August 24. ·

135·

To John Aitken Carlyle Chelsea, 2nd October, 1839 My dear Brother, Your pleasant and welcome Letter came, along with one of Stewart's,1 not many nights ago. Stewart reported progress about Puttock; he had had an "Inquirer," he did not know whom; thought the thing might sell for about £-6,500 or so; requested instructions from me; above all things, requested to have the title deeds forwarded to Adamson2 of Dumfries. I answered by return of post, that it was all right, that we would wait till he had to his own satisfaction ascertained the impossibility or due unlikelihood of getting £6,500 (as there was no haste, as his estimate was deliberate), and then we would cheerfully take 6000 guineas, which he seemed to have some notion might be a fair price too if we could get it at once. On the whole I endeavoured, as before, to lay it altogether under his management; conceiv-

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ing that it was safer so than in any other way I could appoint for it. I also wrote by the same post to Robert Welsh; having mentioned to Stewart that I would; the title-deeds, or something to the same effect if they be not written out yet, will as I hope get into Adamson's hands straightway, or perhaps are already there. Finally I sent a copy of the F. Revolution to Stewart, by Edinburgh and Lockerby. I sent another to Grahame of Burnswark, — poor Grahame: it was to be forwarded by Coach to Ecclefechan, where I hope in these days it has arrived. Stewart said, rather in the lamenting way, you had never looked near him more. Ben and you might take a bright day, and drive thither. He is a good little fellow, Stewart, I think; and decidedly clever in his way. Your sketches of Puttock, of Glen etc. were very interesting. What a change there too; nothing but changes; one's life is change! Glen I doubt will never get better; however, all things ought to be tried with him. Your notions about him seem to agree with his Brother's on that side. What a cub is Menzies! 3 Wrapt so joyfully in his Hoddam stipend, in a coat of oily health, glad pepticity, potatoeculture and limited self-sufficement: there let him rest, and bless Heaven. I rejoice not a little that you have got a settlement effected with Alick for my Mother, and have it now all clear for a fresh score. "Short accounts, long friends," the Proverb says. She is a methodic person, and does not like entanglements. Alick does not like such either; but he has "an off putting way"! I think it would answer well if they made an arrangement, that is if he made a determination, to settle regularly at some appointed day twice a year: to start next whitsunday, as Martinmas for this year is so close at hand? You should also settle with Alick, I think, and put the matter down in some clear shape in black-on-white. Or have you already done that? Keeping a tangled account is like wearing a tattered coat; unpleasant for the moment, and has an ill effect for the future: better mend your coat, and go about with a reputable feeling. I rejoice to hear that the shop prospers. It is one of my most earnest prayers that poor Alick's heart too could get into a state of clearness, of manful patience, quiet endeavour; this I should reckon prosperity, be the money result what it might. Ah me, poor fellow, he has had a tough fight, many, many a vexation; and feels as if he had not conquered, as if he were himself conquered after all! But it is not so; no, I will never cease hoping that so

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brave a man will take the attitude of a brave man; that when affliction press upon him he will learn to shut his lips, and think what is wrong in himself, what is curable in himself; — in a word, that he will renounce that "refuge of lies" 4 altogether, and fly far from it as from the clearest revelation of the Infernal Pit manifested to men in these days of ours! — My own history since I wrote to you has not been momentous. I have worked daily at Meister;5 only got the Apprenticeship finished the day before yesterday. The printers go briskly on and comfortably. The Travels will cost me no trouble at all; the translation is as good as I can make it: a plan I had, to intercalate from the Letzter-Hand edition of that work as much as would make a volume equal to the half of the Apprenticeship, proves, now when I look at it practically, impracticable without enormous waste of labour for no certain result: so I shall intercalate nothing, change nothing; the final edition seems to me better only as there is more of it; longer, not completer, nay hardly so complete. The Miscellanies, Fraser says, sell very beautifully; nearly the half of them is already gone: à la bonne heure!6 I have given away all my copies now; several friends I silently bid wait for a copy of the British edition, which cannot, one would think, fail to be set forth some time or other. The two volumes making up my Mother's set were despatched by M'Kie's Parcel to Dumfries and James Aitken's care on Saturday last; pray look after them: there was a Fräsers Magazine too with the Article on the vengeur; that had not my Mother's name, but was intended for her. By the same conveyance too I despatched a copy of Sterling's article7 on me; that is to say by Simpkin and Marshall's monthly parcel to M'Kie; for it was not tied up along with the others, but separ[ate,] not having come to hand till after Fraser had sent the others off. It was not a No. of the Review, but a separate Copy of the Article, which Mill gave me; the review was not to be out till next day, too late, I feared, for Simpkin and M'Kie. It far excels all articles ever written on me that of Sterling's; for half a day or more it flung my nerves abreed more than I wanted or wished, — a most enormous laudation and exaggeration; then I thought: Was thut's?8 If it make the things sell, and bring cash, it will be good; not otherwise; the rest is not good, but a mixture of

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good and evil, Mother! — Sterling is translating Dichtung u. Wahrheit for Blackwood,;9 flying away now high now low, as his way is. Mill, whom I called for when in the City seeking my Dumfries money, did not look any better, felt little or no better (he said), but was able to go on without much impediment. His Review, he hinted, was to cease probably, before long: not paying, no prospect etc. The Butlers have left their fine town-house; taken some residence about Leatherhead: a bad symptom for Radicalism, as Mrs Buller reads it! Anthony Sterling10 sailed by the last Steamer from Liverpool: the old Stimabile comes whirling down here, takes Jane often, Jane and me sometimes, out to dine; one day to Greenwich and the Park there pretty enough. Jane bids me salute you all with her best affection, and say that she is wonderfully stout ever since her return, and wishes every one of you had made as much improvement. By the bye, what is becoming of Austin and his business? How is Jamie with his harvest? The weather had been decidedly drier for above a week now; I trust Annandale and Scotsbrig share in it. Yesterday I went to seek home my horse:11 the people were making a fine second-crop of hay; I saw a man and woman sowing wheat, he with two long dibbles, she with a small wooden box and her fingers, hitching after him! I had four miles to walk af[ter getting off] the railway at Watford; part of it thro' an oak wood with hazel bushes where the people were busy shutting. It, and the ride home generally were very interesting to me. My horse is in good order; I was obliged to go and get her, partly out of mense, partly that I really did want riding again. You shall have a trot if you like when you come. But when are you coming? London gets fuller and fuller now, tho' the quality are still all far from us. Your room in the front here with French bed and gay hangings, if you will have that room, or your old room if you will not, is standing ready for you here. Lady Clare's Parcel is come from Fraser's: a rather bulky square shallow thing; probably a writing apparatus of Russian leather. I heard no more of her; I got your Letter franked by a man whom I met on the Strand; Sterling having pleaded total inability, the Carlton12 all empty. No franks today; — and surely this scrawl is as little worth paying for at the most! My dear Mother wanted to hear of me again, I myself wanted to write. How is

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she? Ah me, I have nothing to say that will express the tenth of what I feel: I shall say nothing: God be ever with her! I thought I had told you all my feats, and one of the greatest, getting that tooth wrenched out of me, is still to tell! Marshall 13 did for it three days ago; it went on, gnaw-gnawing, so we rooted it out,— one of the ugliest sensations I ever had! It is not a sharp cleanly agony, like lightning, as I had fancied it; no, it is rather the transcendency of the Brutal, the Savage. My gum does well enough, and I can drink my tea hot again. — I should have said also that a man wrote to Mill from Glasgow, one Professor Nichol 14 an astronomical character, 'an admirer of mine,' counseling me to become a candidate for the Moral Philosophy Professorship now fallen vacant there, worth £.700 a year. I answered, if they were to offer it me, with all reasonable immunities, I would take 24 hours to consider of it; but as a contingent thing it was already decided, and I no candidate. £700 a year is good, but God be thanked I have lived till I am growing old without all that, and have made out for myself a result worth all the Professorships in Scotland — independent of them all. Grumph! as Cavaignac would say. — Our Garden is cleared up, many things rooted up, walks sanded, the greater part of the space laid out in grass. Do not forget the reap-hook, tell them! Jamie will send us the oatmeal, the first he has that pleases him: eight stone, Jane says. The butter will not be forgotten; nor the saddle. The sooner all were here, the better. — Did you ever say more to Jean about the ailment in her arm? Pray attend to it; she is very anxious about it. I said one day I would buy my Mother a Nail-brush! You will do me a real favour by laying out a shilling for that end; I never again was near where they were sold, or forgot when I was. Herchliffs at Dumfries; if you are ever there, do think of it. I said, and did not perform. Write soon; say when you are coming: come with a plan, if possible, and we will help you faithfully to execute it. — Finis! By the bye, if you had any room you might bring all the remaining Tobacco that Sandy15 has too; I shall want it all: but do not put yourself about. I have room for no more. My blessings with you all now and ever! T. C.

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1. James Stewart of Gillenbie, which is located about three miles northeast of Lockerbie. Stewart was perhaps the factor of Scotsbrig (Alexander's letter of "Thursday Morning" [September 1832?]—MS: NLS #2883.288-289 — does not make it wholly clear) and was at least acting as factor for the Carlyles and Mrs. Welsh in their (unsuccessful) attempt to sell Craigenputtock. 2. Robert Adamson, manager from 1833 to his retirement in 1861 of the Dumfries branch (located until 1933 on Irish Street — see Letter 183) of what is now the British Linen Bank. The present officials of the bank still hold in their Dumfries office Carlyle's pass book for 1873?1879, which bears in a clerk's hand the superscription "Thomas Carlyle Esquire, of Craigenputtock, Chelsea." 3. The Reverend Dr. Robert Menzies, minister of Hoddam Church from 1834 to 1877. Contrary to Carlyle's comments, Menzies was apparently most respected by his congregation, a conjecture supported by their raising £ 9 7 to purchase for him a horse and gig and by a stained glass window they installed in the church to commemorate his long service to the parish. Mr. Cunningham of Ecclefechan holds from him two letters, dated February 5 and 12, 1865, thanking his congregation for the horse and gig. 4. Cf. Isa. 28:15. Carlyle also used the quotation in his essay on Burns (CME, I, 296). 5. A new and revised edition, which Fraser had asked Carlyle for and which he published this year. Carlyle did his original translation of the Wanderjahre (see the introduction to Letter 57) from Goethe's incomplete first (1821) edition, which does not contain chapters 10-18 of Book III or the "multifarious intercalations" of the final (1829) edition. See Goethe's Works. With the Exception of Faust, ed. Schreiber, p. 173; Olga Marx, Carlyle's Translation of Wilhelm Meister (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 1925), esp. p. 1 1 ; and the 1827 edition of German Romance, IV, 29. 6. "Well done!" 7. "On the Writings of Thomas Carlyle," London and Westminster Review, 30 (1839), 1-68; republished in Sterling's Essays and Tales . . . , ed. Julius Charles Hare (London, 1848), I, 252-381. 8. "What does it signify?" (Wilhelm Meisters Apprenticeship and Travels, I, 272). 9. "Goethe's Life and Works: From My Life; Poetry and Truth," Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, 46 (October and November 1839), 475-493» 597" 6l 3; 47 (January and May 1840), 31-45, 607-620. 10. Sir Anthony Coningham Sterling (1805-1871), brother of John. He became brigade-major and assistant-adjutant-general to the Highland division in the Crimea in 1854-1855, was promoted to colonel in 1857, and made military secretary to Sir Colin Campbell, Baron Clyde ( 1792-

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1863), in India in 1858-1859. He wrote the Story of the Highland Brigade in the Crimea (1895). The "old Stimabile" was Edward Sterling (1773-1847), father of John and Sir Anthony, member of the Times staff from 1 8 1 5 to 1840 and its chief editorial writer during the thirties. "Stimabile Signor" was the way Mrs. Carlyle once addressed him in a pattern letter she wrote for her instructress in Italian. See LM, I, 27. 1 1 . Citoyenne, the gift of John Marshall, flax and linen manufacturer, "millionaire of Leeds, and an excellent man, who much esteemed me" (Reminiscences, I, 1 1 7 ; see also 181-184). The Carlyles were sometimes guests at the Marshalls' London house on Grosvenor Street. 12. A famous Conservative club, founded in 1832 and built close to where the Carlton House, the residence of George IV when he was Prince of Wales, once stood. Carlyle used the club as a metaphor for stupidity and cant in Past and Present, p. 229. 13. Unidentified. 14. John Pringle Nichol (1804-1859), at this time regius professor of astronomy at Glasgow. Mill spoke of the letter from Nichol in a postscript to one of his own to Sterling. See The Earlier Letters of John Stuart Mill, ed. Mineka, XIII, 409. 15. Alexander.

136. Chelsea, ist Feby, 1840 — Saturday Dear Alick, Take a single word from me today, to signify that Jack is actually off.1 He went this morning at 8 o'clock; was to breakfast with his man up in town, and then go by the railway at 1 / 2 past 9. They are, if they have prospered as was natural, about Birmingham at this hour. They are in the Mail-train. It was uncertain whether they would not go right on with the mail-bags over to Dublin this very night: a first-rate steamer is always waiting for the mail; leaves you just an hour to get into her; and then dashes off. It would depend upon their own humour on arriving at Liverpool. They might wait if they liked till tomorrow morning, and then go with the other mail steamer: in that latter case they would arrive at Dublin tomorrow evening; in the former (which Jack seemed to prefer for his part, and think not unlikely) they would be there tomorrow morning. Tell our good Mother not to be in the least uneasy about the sea passage over to Dublin:

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they are the best steamers and the best navigated in the Port of Liverpool, immense strong ships, these Post-office Dublin steamers; the voyage I suppose is not farther than to Annan, and certainly attended with less risk. — Jack was to write to her from Dublin, so soon as he could find paper and ink; on Wednesday or perhaps Tuesday, you may hope to hear from him at Ecclefechan that all is right. They were to stay some three days in Dublin; to which place Jack had procured numerous introductions. He was, on the whole, in good spirits this morning, and for the last day or two. He was to have his expenses borne; to look at the thing for a month; and have £50, if he did not like to concern himself with it farther; £500 with every accommodation if he chose to engage with it for a year. Better wages need not be desired. True it is not possible for a man with his hair so grey to be comfortable when he has no fixed home, or constant work: but this is a thing our Doctor, as I often told him, can alter now whenever he likes. If the situation please him ill; it will possibly be no disadvantage; for it may set him more decisively on seeking some permanent up-putting. He talked of Ryde in the Isle of Wight as a place to settle at; he and I talked of many places — but nothing whatever could get beyond the length of theory with us. Poor Doil, he has left me very dull; as dull as anybody in London need be. I think how I could give him no shelter, but a most imperfect one; how he could find no home with me either; no home anywhere now, but must go and seek one for himself, as is the lot of man! Good go with him, the true Brother, — whose very faults are parts of his guileless innocent character; a man whom I scold often, but whom I love well! No farther word from me today. We hope your household has got round again to health. Be thankful in these sad times for a small shelter; do not discourage yourself if your trade do fall off a little: how can it do otherwise in the saddest year this country has seen for long? — Thank my dear Mother for her kind word. Tell Jamie I had his Letter and, will answer it. — That Note came from Jean this morning; perhaps even round by London news from Dumfries may now be new! I want you to get me a Stone more of Tobacco. Pray set about it without delay. I will say afterwards how it is to be sent etc.

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God bless you all. Jane's love with mine. Ever your affectionate T. Carlyle 1. To Dublin as medical attendant to William Ogilvie, a wealthy Irishman. John had been staying at Chelsea since December.

137·

With postscript from Jane Welsh Carlyle 5. Cheyne Row, Chelsea, 15 feby 1840 My dear Alick, Many thanks for your Letter which came to me a few minutes ago. Many thanks also for the Tobacco, which I am right glad to hear you have got safely to hand. I have written this day to Alick Welsh asking what address I must have put upon it, that it may get into his hands immediately; he will then, by railway, be able to let me have it in another day. So soon as he answers, I will write you notice: meanwhile have you the due Permit etc. all in order? If so you can wrap up the Tobacco in any solid way; and have it standing ready for being addressed and sent off. I suppose grey paper in sufficient quantity [will] be the readiest wrappage? I have often wished I had some kind of monstrous old cannister, with a good tight lid, to keep the weed in here; it is so apt to get too dry otherwise. Do not forget the Permit! Your news from Scotsbrig, from your own hearth, and from Gill are very welcome to us. I wish the sickness would leave your poor little ones altogether; you have had rather a bad winter that way. Jamie was to settle what cash would still be needed for the Gill business, once for all; and then it will be sent. I am very glad indeed to hear you talk so of the Farm; they will surely be much better in it than as they were. How is Hanning prospering at Kirtlebridge? 1 I sent a line to Jenny; — no answer yet. This is the last news from Jack; probably identical with what our Mother has got for herself: I send it nevertheless. One can make little out from it. I dare say the situation is wearisome; that is just the labour attached to it. I could almost wish it might prove too wearisome,

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if that would drive our Doctor into settling somewhere! Till then, he will never feel himself so comfortable as he ought to be. It must be admitted however that the wages are good! The whole set of us put together will hardly earn as much money otherwise! — Money is something; but, alas, it is not all. — Jane suffers always from such wretched weather as we now have. Nothing can excel it for unconstancy. She keeps free of coughing however; never goes deeper than the old business of headache, — which is bad enough, but nothing like the worst! I deal greatly in Proofsheets:2 we are not yet third-part thro it, or much more. I sometimes, indeed almost daily, ask with a kind of shudder: Shall I lecture: and on what shall I lecture? No answer yet! — I will write again in a day or two. — Good be with you, and with all, my dear Brother! T. Carlyle He has forgot my kind regards the oblivious individual. God prosper you all 1. Where the Hannings had been living since shortly before February 7. See Copeland, pp. 96-98. 2. For the second edition of the Critical and Miscellaneous Essays.

138. Chelsea, 17 Feby, 1840 My dear Brother, Alick Welsh's answer, about his address for the Tobacco, is come this morning. Their office, he says, is within not many yards of the place where the Steamers moor: he will with all readiness take charge of the Tobacco, and forward it straightway by the railroad. Will you therefore get the thing despatched to Annan, with due Permit, and address ( which I will give here ) as soon as possible. As I have no means of paying Alick Welsh, I wish also you would pay it to Liverpool. I suppose a piece of white paper well wafered upon the gray, will be the best way of giving the address: the parcel will require a new address when despatched from Liverpool. I write you

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an address, and inclose it here:—unless you have some better way of managing it? As this Note will come on Wednesday, perhaps you will have a chance to get the thing sent off without delay on Thursday! Failing Thursday there is no such dreadful hurry; I think I can hold out yet two weeks good, or even more. — On the whole, my dear Brother, I will leave the matter with you; not doubting but you will manage it right kindly and well. I shall owe you many thanks when we settle accounts, — at our next meeting! Ah me! — Jane is gone out today, in a sort of half-desperate determination, fog tho' it be; she will not stay prisoner of Mud Rain and Fog any more! This is the wettest spring hitherto I ever saw here; a very ugly spring indeed. Queen Victory has got her bit wedding over; 1 the people are all accusing her, poor little dear, how she has quarrelled with her mother, openly insulted her; how she has done this and that! I am heartily sorry for her, poor little fool; but for the poor little fool's Twenty Millions of people I am infinitely sorrier. Bad days are coming, as I often spae. I wrote to the Doctor on Saturday; for indeed directly after finishing your Note, it began to rain, and I could not get out. I send him the Examiner today; does he send it forward to Scotsbrig, it and the Courier. These three nights I have had three longer sleeps than have been allotted me together these six months: great stupidity, a sort of fixed icy sadness, has been the immediate result; but it will undoubtedly do me good. Where is our good Mother now? Was she staying with Jenny for a day or two? Thank Heaven for the news you send me about her health. We have nearly 2 volumes of printing done; there are still 3 to do. I wish often enough it were done! Not that it is great work, — far from it; but it keeps me in a kind of continual puddle. — Good b'ye dear Brother! — Your affectionate T. Carlyle 1. Queen Victoria and Prince Albert were married February 10, 1840.

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139· To Margaret Aitken Carlyle 5. Cheyne Row, Chelsea, 24 feby, 1840 My dear Mother, Tho' there is nothing new going on here, I will write you a word even to say nothing, except that I am specially thinking of you. I have written a Letter to Jean at Dumfries with all the tidings I could be said to have; this she will perhaps send out to you, — tho' indeed it is not worth even that trouble: it contained at bottom nothing except that all things move along in their old course; proof-sheets etc., etc.; and that, in spite of the fierce weather, both the wife and I are holding out in the usual state of health. This is the season when the Town grows more than usually full; many thousands of Quality and their dependents crowding into this western quarter of it: one would think I had not much to do with all that; yet it does introduce a considerable agitation into our little quiet district too; and, strive against it as I will, interrupts me far more than I like. They ask me to dinner; I refuse and refuse; then not to cause absolute offence I consent, and the consequence is, a dinner somewhere between six and nine at night, and confused ferment of nervous discomfort for a week after! It requires a much thicker skin than I have, to stand that sort of thing. It is rather amusing: one sees the ways of these people; "how they a[r]e in the various parts": the "lions" of the time ( those whom the world runs after, to see, as if they were lions in a show) all turn up here or there, — individuals worth a look, and generally worth little more. I saw very lately the chief literary lion of this generation, a certain Sir Lytton Bulwer, for example; he makes by far the most money of his books, has the most popularity etc. of all living book-writers, and is pretty generally by men of sense admitted to be a very silly fellow and bad bookwriter notwithstanding: a rather discordant state of matters for him! He is a miserable goggle-eyed scarecrow to look upon, tho' dressed in the extremest style of dandyism; and uneasy incoherent-looking man:—poor fellow, he has parted with his wife, 1 who is writing books against him; he hopes he is a great character, and yet dreads always that

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men may take him for what he is, a small one: one fancies it no desirable existence that! — For my own share, I confess, there is no lionism nor looking at lions, nor late dining, nor trade of that kind at all, that suits me tenth-part as well as being left alone to try whether I can do any work or not. At bottom, I find, that is all this world can do for me. If I can do any work, it is a happiness to me; if I can do no work, all is an insignificance, an unhappiness, and I had better be asleep than awake in such a world. We have not Miss Martineau this winter: did I ever tell you she had gone to Newcastle to be under the care of a Brother-in-law2 who is a Doctor there? She writes to Jane sometimes; pretends to be "very happy," poor Harriet; but cannot be happy, having some grievous disorder about her, for which I believe a surgical operation will be needed. — Mrs Buller too is removed out of town; lives now at a place called Leatherhead some sixteen miles off; in disgust, I believe, at the course of politics, which has not brought her son Charles into any office! 3 She got another offence: about a year and half ago she thought good to "adopt" a young female child, of whose parentage she either gave no account, or else admitted in all privacy that it was an irregular production of her son Arthur's! This proved a little too strong; and most of her lady-friends began to look shy upon her; a thing that made the country still more desirable. I used to see the little snaffle of a child; but, suspecting what it was, never would take any notice of it, or so much as understand that it was running about and making a noise there. To me the Bullers were always kind and good; that is what I am bound to feel, in respect of her especially. I think, if I had my horse again, of riding out to see them some time. It is considered not to be impossible, after all, that Charles may get into some place before long. Arthur, whom I saw about a week ago, is talking about going out to New Zealand (near New Holland, nearly on the other side of the world), along with a Colony they are trying to establish there. — Enough of all this. I enclose you our last Missive from the Doctor. All seems to be well with him, tho' nothing yet settled: it is impossible to get hitherto any very distinct notion of what he does, or how he is situated from such letters as he writes. The truth is, we may infer, he does not well know about it himself.

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I think I shall lecture4 this year too, to my old audience! I seem to have a kind of hold of a subject; but it is not yet got into any shape. I am considerably plagued with Proofsheets; but we are half thro' the whole thing now, and shall see the end of it, I hope, in another month or little more. In the course of this week I expect to settle with Fraser; we shall then see what he has got to give us. — Pray let Jamie remember to write me about the Austins's money; it shall be sent when wanted. Dear Mother, did you ever read from me a greater nothing? I am at the bottom of my sheet too: ah me! Do, I entreat you, take care of yourself in this fierce frosty weather. Tell me again how you are; I like your Letters well. Jenny wrote to me, a bit canty Letter, for which I request you in the meanwhile to thank her; I will answer by and by. How is the little Tom down stairs? Alick, I suppose, is about sending me off my Tobacco. The Pipes arrived last week; alas, all smashed to a few! I have written by Dumfries to the Potters about them. Farewell, my dear Mother, I must write to you soon again. Ever Your T. Carlyle I enclose you also the last private criticism on Chartism. It is by the Mr Spedding who once with his brother came to seek me at Scotsbrig: a letter from the one brother to the other,5 who shewed it me. 1. Rosina Bulwer-Lytton, Lady Lytton (1802-1882), was legally separated from her husband in 1836. Her attacks against him began with Cheveley, or the Man of Honour (1839), where she caricatured him as the villain. 2. Miss Martineau identified him in her Autobiography, ed. Marie Weston (Boston, 1897), I, 9, 74, only as the husband of her eldest sister, Elizabeth. 3. In 1838, while serving as M.P. for Liskeard (a post he held until his death), Charles had been appointed secretary to John George Lambton, first Earl of Durham (1792-1840), accompanied him to Canada, and took some part, perhaps a principal part, in writing Lord Durham's Report on the Affairs of British North America (1839). In 1841 he was appointed secretary to the board of control, in 1846 judge-advocategeneral, in 1848 president of the poor law commission. Arthur, on October 19, 1840, accepted appointment as the Queen's advocate in Ceylon. He resigned his position in 1848 to accept a judgeship in Calcutta,

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returned to England in 1858, represented Devonport from 1 8 5 9 to 1865, and Liskeard from 1 8 6 5 to his death. 4. "On Heroes, Hero-Worship, and the Heroic in Human History," which Carlyle gave at 1 7 Edward Street, Portman Square, on May 5, 8, 12, 1 5 , 19, and 22. On Heroes, Hero-Worship, and the Heroic in History. Six Lectures. Reported, with Emendations and Additions was first published by James Fraser in 1 8 4 1 . In his edition MacMechan (pp. xxxv-lxxxviii and text) treated the lectures, the book, the relation between the lectures and the book, and collated the People's Edition ( 1 8 7 3 ) with the editions of 1 8 4 1 , 1842, and 1846. 5. The letter probably from Thomas (d. 1 8 7 0 ) to James Spedding ( 1 8 0 8 - 1 8 8 1 ) , editor of Bacon's Works, 7 vols. ( 1 8 5 7 - 1 8 5 9 ) , and author and editor of Bacon's Life and Letters, 7 vols. ( 1 8 6 1 - 1 8 7 4 ) , is missing. But see "Thomas Carlyle and Thomas Spedding: Their Friendship and Correspondence," ed. Alexander Carlyle, Cornhill Magazine, 50 (May and June 1 8 2 1 ) , 5 1 3 - 5 3 7 . 742-768.

140. Chelsea, 28 Feby, 1840— (Friday) My dear Brother, Your Letter, inclosing my Mother's, came yesterday; I was heartily glad to see my dear Mother's hand again; — pray tell her this, and that she must not let me want for Letters now that they are so cheap.1 I get few Letters better worth reading than hers. It is one of my chief reasons of thankfulness in this world that I had such a Mother! — I think she would receive a Letter2 from me with one of Jack's wrapt in it, about the same time. It contained nothing at all, either Jack's or mine; from him there are yet no farther news. Her Letter from him, indeed, seemed to be later than mine; and to indicate that they had returned from the Giant's Causeway, and found it not to agree very well with them. We shall hear probably before long what comes of that business: Jack is not likely to be content anywhere till he get himself settled and see a roof of his own over his head in some manner or other. Perhaps one ought to wish that his present and all such situations might prove so uncomfortable to him that he were obliged to set about getting some permanent arrangement made.

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You are very land and punctual, my dear Brother; many thanks to you for the trouble you take with me. The news of the Potatoes would have been hailed with great joy only a week before; for we have been somewhat annoyed all winter with bad London Potatoes: but it so happened, Elizabeth Fergus (Elizabeth Countess Pepoli that now is ) sent us down a basket of Fife potatoes out of a barrel they had just received from Kirkcaldy; and these proved so excellent that we forthwith commissioned a competent stock for ourselves; and we have just learned that these are now shipped for us at Edinburgh, for which ship-cargo we accordingly wait, living in the meanwhile on borrowed Pepoli potatoes, which we mean to pay when our own come. So that the Annandale roots, which are probably of a similar quality, cannot come into play this year! Another year if I live, I will actually take order for Scotch potatoes at the very starting; the kind they sell here ( unless you know where to go and buy Perth or Fife potatoes, which are for sale too, if one knew where!) are postively offensive to me. The Newcastle Steamer, I learned yesterday, does sail; but we need not meddle with it this season. Great delays take place always about the wharfs and custom houses: nay, I find, the railway people, in some kind of thing they call "the waggon-train," undertake to carry goods too at "six shillings the hundredweight." That is far the shorter and preferable method. Especially as we have Alick Welsh to guard against delays at Liverpool. The Potatoes being out of the fight, we come to the munificent prospect of the Bacon-flitch! Jane says the bacon here is 9 1/2d per pound, sometimes good, sometimes indifferent. The prospect of a good baconflitch, she declares, is highly agreeable; if you judge, by the price there and here, and the other circumstances, that it can be conveniently stuck into a Box along with the Tobacco, and sent hither, then surely send it; — use your own consideration and insight. As for the Ham my dear Mother has got us, I incline greatly to think she will get more good of it herself, and that she ought to suspend it at Scotsbrig, and cut frequently from it! Nothing can satisfy us here with fatness in hams; and you Annandale people, I think, like the lean principally. This is all I can specify about the bacon or other victual proviant. As for the Tobacco, so soon as a Permit is got, let it be sent at any rate; if with the flitch then in a box; if by itself, paper I suppose will do:

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but in either case, Liverpool and A. Welsh is the course for it, — according to the directions sent last time. Pray do not neglect the Permit; lest the harpies seize upon the whole and confiscate it! — What trouble and troubles you have with me; never-ending, still beginning! The Pipes, as I mentioned in my Mother's Letter, were all broken but a mere fraction; sorrow take them! Even this fraction is mainly spoiled; choked up with sawdust, so that no wire will clear them. I shall struggle on for a good many weeks with them (some seven weeks, I think), and then if the Glasgow blockheads will not attempt to partially make good their blockheadism, I will send to Edinburgh. What cares the sublimest philosopher, amid all his philosophies, is still bound to, while on this earth! Yesternight, after considerable urging, I got Fraser's Account: three enormous expanses of Paper, full of items, strokes, crotchets, Debtors and Creditors; — the immediately tangible result of which seems to be that he considers himself as at present owing me little more than £200, at least £50 lower than I had calculated! He or his, the miserable mortal, has got over his counter above £450 of money for selling my Miscellanies; and above half of the whole it seems is due to the sellers! However, I see several palpable blunders; I will consult an experienced friend here; I determine on seeing the matter to the bottom, now that I am in for it, and will till then keep as quiet as a lamb! I expect to do some good, but not much; I shall see at least that I get fair use and wont in that most distracted of all distracted trades. On the whole I reflect that I ought to be thankful even for this: putting one thing with another, is it not a kind of blessed miracle that one finds himself still allowed to live, and to have the prospect of living — out of the workhouse or jail. — The new F. Revolution, Meister, Chartism are not included in this same settlement, I ought to say. Poor Fraser! Poor Booksellers all! For grasp as they like, and take as they do above a half for mere selling, are they not all at the verge of bankruptcy; not one in ten of them able to eixst? I will accept their "Common rate," since it is established: "A common rate," as good old Peden said, "is a common rule." 3 There has arisen farther, in these days, new question of the Library you heard [me] speak about last year. I think it will perhaps go on now. I could wish I had nothing to do in it; but it will not float off

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without me. I fancy we shall have a public meeting in a week or two. The Proofsheets go on; above half-done now. My Lectures get [sa]dly elbowed into the corner by all these claims on me; I must positively fasten on them. — I will have my horse back too. I will also go out to no more eight o'clock dinners, except on double and treble compulsion! It is now the fifth or sixth day since that last, and I am still suffering from it. Why not say, No one time for all times! You would get the Glasgow Argus4 with the Criticism in it? It came along with your Letter yesterday; and I despatched it to you, not being able to write till I had made inquiries at the railway office, and considered myself. I rejoice to hear your house and little Doil too are recovering again, all but well now. I wish Jamie's little Tom5 were well again! Tell Jamie [to] instruct me about Austin's money. — Adieu, dear Brother. Jane (very [qu]iet not otherwise ailing) salutes you all. God keep you! Your affectionate T. Carlyle 1. Since the institution of the Penny Post. 2. See NL, I, 185-186. 3. The Life and Prophecies of Mr. Alexander Peden, Late Minister of the Gospel at New Glenluce, in Galloway . . . (Falkirk, 1810), p. 14. 4. Of February 24, which contains a review of Chartism. 5. The child died probably soon after Carlyle's letter of June 26 (Letter 148), where he is mentioned for the last time.

141. Chelsea, Thursday, 26 March, 1840 My dear Alick, I am really sorry you have such a quantity of trouble with that Tobacco business. In this remoteness from all Excise affairs, I am not able to throw any light on the course of procedure; tho' I believe that Lockerby Gauger must be wrong, and that a regular Permit indicating the Tobacco to have regularly paid its duties anywhere in Britain

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will carry it safe over the whole British Empire. Probably there would be no danger of the thing, were it once fairly in anybody's hands at Liverpool: but decidedly we will not risk it; if the Excise vermin will not grant us a due permit, we will leave the article safe where it is, to be consumed in detail where it has already arrived. — For the rest, pray do not fret yourself too much about it. I have discovered a shop hard by this street, where the Tobacco is very tolerable; indeed considerably like that that I was expecting, — the main difference indeed recognisable enough, that it is a 1/4 per quarter lb.: but this on the whole is endurable, compared with dearth and badness both in one. There, in a Box from Mrs Welsh, there has already come a junk of very effectual bacon, which, as there is at present none to use it but occasionally I, will last a good while. So the hurry is considerably stilled, you see; and I will prescribe, as the first rule, that you do not flutter yourself, or on the whole take too much trouble about the affair at all. If the vexatious Excise interpose, and say "No," we can answer, "Well, No be it then, thou vexatious Ineptitude, we can do also with No!" — Next Letter you write, put me in a. pipe of the weed there as you have it, and I will try its quality! You can actually do this: half a sheet of paper will carry a good pipe of tobacco, and still be under half an ounce. Nay one might almost send it up in ounces by post, and have it but little dearer than I buy it here! — Another thing is, do not detain any Letter of my Mother's again: clap in half a word of your own, and send it off, swift; I was occasionally in anxieties about her during this wild weather of ours. Your weather, it seems indeed, has been much milder; I do not remember to have seen a more poisonous March than is [this] of ours, with bitter east-wind and cold. Today and yesternight we had a fair sprinkling of hail and snow, which perhaps will sweeten things a little. — Poor Jane gave in, in consequence of all this, about two weeks ago; and is still very weakly with a kind of cold, or influenza, such as many have here; tho' she never yet actually keeps her bed all day. Indeed as she does not grow worse, I calculate that with the arrival of westerly weather, she will spring up again, little worse. On me too this bitter wind produces other than a good effect: without being precisely] unwell I feel myself rather more bilious than usual, — and this altho' I have been riding now with great diligence for above

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two weeks now. The doctors say, indeed, that riding does always at first make people more bilious, independently of weather! I will try to believe them; and certainly go cantering on. It is of great moment to me at this season to be in good cure: my Lectures I often say will depend more on the black mare than on me; if I be not in clear condition of body, I cannot lecture on this subject at all! It is a subject, which I shall perhaps call "Heroes" (or Great Men, six of them); and if I had a fair chance I could give them a mouthful about it. But in my old humour, I durst not say a word of what it were essential to say. You shall hear more before long. It comes on in May. Alas, here is two o'clock close at hand, and the morn will be here! — Good bye dear Brother for this day! — Yours ever affectionately T. Carlyle

142. Chelsea, Wednesday 8 April, 1840 My dear Alick, The Tobacco came duly, in its little pasted Bag, the inside of which also (tho' with some difficulty) I contrived to read; — setting then to fill my pipe and raise reek from the contents! It is a precious invention this of the Penny Post. In quality the Tobacco is altogether of the right sort; if you can get a Permit, I wish you would send it off without a minute's delay. But I understood you to signify that no right Permit could be got? In that case, alas, we cannot stir in the business; but must just be doing as we otherwise can: and I said already, you were not to trouble yourself too much about it. — My stock of Pipes is running low too; the Glasgow people make no movement towards supplying me anew; so that I suppose I shall have to send to Edinburgh shortly. You never saw such a smash as the Glasgow box had become; — all by their careless packing; which they were bound to make good again, but will not, — the scrubs! My horse has been in action these four weeks and more; I make her work, when she is at it, galloping many a mile every day. My chief

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delight is to get out of the confused whirlpool with its noises, smoke and confusions, altogether; to see quiet cottages and fields; the clear green of Earth intersecting sharply the clear blue of Heaven. It does me real good. I study never to grudge the great expense; to think indeed that it is a profitable needful commercial outlay, which will come in again in the way of trade. For my Lectures are decidedly to go on. Next letter I hope to send you a printed Prospectus. The subject is "Great Men"; or as I have named it, "On Heroes, Hero-worship and the Heroic in human History"; — a great, deep and wide subject, if I were in heart to do it justice. Feeling clearly how indispensible health is towards that, I say always, "It depends more on my horse than on me," and so ride along with unabated alacrity! The country round here is green, fertile, bright and pretty beyond what you could fancy. Not an inch of what we call wet or otherwise bad land in it; all broken into smooth leafy knolls with trim painted houses on them; or stretching in great fertile flats, of black rich mould and dead level, laid out as kitchen-gardens for the monstrous city, as flower-nurseries for the quality who drive out thither. The faults are: There is no clear running water; there is no possibility of getting an extensive view. The very Thames with its boats and ships is like a drab-coloured long lake. The best view you have is that of London in the distance ( if you be to windward, as I always ride to be ) ; monstrous London, filling half your horizon, like an infinite ocean of smoke, with steeples, domes, and the ghosts of steeples and domes confusedly hanging in it, — dim-black under the infinite deep of Blue. My Lectures begin on Tuesday the 5th of May, and last on Tuesdays and Fridays for three weeks. I am not quite so terrified this year; but I sometimes calculate, it will be better not to try it any more in future years; but to write rather, now that I can get something for my books. We shall see. — The last sheet of my Printing is just out of my hands, a few minutes ago. The Books will perhaps be ready for the ist of May to go with the Magazine Parcels to Edinburgh: in that case I mean to send you all copies. It will be a pretty Book in five volumes. Nothing came of the Corn-law; but it seems the people have determined on bringing it on again this season. They mean also, in the interim and subsequently, to agitate and stir up all corners of the

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country by means of Lectures etc. I fancy there is no doubt at all but they will carry it; when or how, nevertheless, is but dubious as yet. One would say, it could not be very long. One would say also, it could not fail to give a great briskness to trade, and make the general population of Britain much better off for some ten years or so; but i f , in these ten years or so, no steps were taken for improving and regulating the lower classes, why then, it seems to me, there would just be more Millions of them, as miserable as ever, and no Corn-Bill Abrogation to fall back upon! The very delay in abrogating, nefarious, mad and self-destructive as it seems on the part of the Landlords, is perhaps useful in this respect; appointed by Providence to continue till the socalled Reformers do learn what Reform really means. Jack has written little, almost nothing but half-words, of late; we gather only that he is busy, that he is well, and gets immense wages. After all, it may perhaps be a question whether this of the wages is so lucky for him. He has no home of his own, poor fellow; and these great sums, earned in that way, are not the thing to stir him up towards resolving to conquer some home for himself. I sent him, the other day, a strange printed quiz of a thing, — the cream of my Chartism done up into Classical verse1 ( the same verse as Homer's ) by a certain Cambridge Professor of eminence; a thing one could laugh at for moments. Jamie wrote to me by the same post as you. Say I will answer before long. Our Mother, I conclude, is still at Dumfries. The rest of you, let us be thankful, seem to be all well. Poor John Aitken! a solitary man; solitary a second time in his old days! I cannot say but I feel a real sympathy with him: he has had a hard life, and gained little by it. Jane still complains a little; but ventures out now, hopes to be herself again before long. Her kind love to you all. Is the little Jane learning her lessons well? And Tom, my respectable representative in the village? Good be with them all, poor things! To one and all of you, Good and that only! Adieu, dear Brother Your affectionate T. Carlyle Published in part: NL, I, 189-192. 1. I have not been able to locate the piece or identify its author.

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143· William Hone1 to Carlyle 5 Bolt Court, Fleet Street 16 May 184ο2 My dear Sir I am a Cripple, but I purpose to return, or rather acknowledge, your kindness, by attending your lectures. How you came to send a Ticket to me, without power, I can only conjecture. Perhaps my friend Robert Fletcher 3 mentioned me to you as being a Hero-worshipper, whether of a poor old woman or of Thomas Carlyle Let me laugh, under the influence of a bright sun, and your enclosure in an envelope addressed to me Esqr — ! Laugh with me, and be still a friend to the helpless. I had abandoned all thoughts of your lectures — all wishes to hear them — for after a solemn review of my few Books I could not spare enough to realize a guinea for a Ticket, — and this morning I find myself an Esquire worth a guinea! Thanks, thanks, My dear Sir, Thrice thanks W Hone 1. (1780-1842), the bookseller and political satirist. Daniel Macmillan (1813-1857) in a letter to James MacLehose, a Glasgow friend, mentioned Carlyle's act of kindness and Hone's introduction to him after the lecture, when Carlyle told him that he used to see his books "in his father's house twenty years ago, and so had known him long, though he never had the pleasure of speaking to him before" (Thomas Hughes, Memoir of Daniel Macmillan, London, 1882, pp. 93-94). Carlyle had enclosed this letter, which I have included for its own terse humor, with Letter 146. 2. Postmarked 16 April 1840. 3. Unidentified.

1840, London 491 144. Chelsea, Tuesday 21 April 1840 My dear Alick, Why not send you one of my Prospectuses, and word that we are well, — even tho' I can do nothing more? These four days I have meant to do it; but I am busy every minute of my morning till 2 o'clock when the horse comes; and then after dinner I am so sluggish, worn out, unable to do anything. Take this, in good part! You perhaps even do not hear of Jack, for our Mother I suppose is still at Dumfries. I send two Letter[s] of his, — as short as Letters can be. (No. I exclude one of the letters; too weighty, meaning "all well" ( patient recovered again from fall ).) My own task at present consists in writing as fast as my pen will go, all day from breakfast (about 8 or 9) till 2 o'clock. I write down what I might say in my Lectures; it will assist me in what I shall get to say; for all seem agreed that I must speak my Discourses, that reading will entirely ruin the charm and meaning of them. So I clash away and write; "lick for lash thro' the Rickergate"! Perhaps we may print some of them by and by! In a month I shall have done with the thing any way; and I hope very much (and indeed almost resolve) I may never meddle with it again. Jane is quite well again; the weather is sunny and good, — terribly dry; but clouds are gathering this day, and we hope. — I have sent for pipes from Edinburgh; I expect them this week. The tobacco continues tolerable here; if the wretched Exciseman will not act, do not disturb yourself much: poor dud, I suppose it is a kind of pleasure to him perhaps that he can stand in anybody's way; act upon anybody even in that poor style. — Good luck to you, dear Brother, and good b'ye! Send my news to Scotsbrig; say there was seldom man so busy. I bid good be with you one and all; — shall have more time soon. Yours ever T. Carlyle

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145· Chelsea, Wednesday 22 April 1840 My dear Alick, I sent you off a scrawl of a line or two yesterday, and stuck it in at the Battersea Post-Office as I went out to ride. Tho' almost still more hurried today, I must needs write were it but half a word. The Tobacco is come, my boy! All safe and sound; bottled up in your canister, in my old jug, and set into presses, it stands here, and will keep me smoking for long! The cost I think was just 4 shillings here. Alick Welsh seemed to have addressed it. How it got across to him I do not know; but here it is — all right; and the Lockerby Gauger, and all manner of functionaries like him, may go fiddle! — I had gone out last night to consult with Fraser; and at my return, Jane had opened the Box and there it was. But another curious thing happened yesterday. When I came home from riding, the Edinburgh Pipes were standing in the lobby! Could anything be more seasonable, — since the weed itself was so near arriving? I broke open the box; found the packing excellent, almost no breakages at all; 3 gross as I judge of the same kind of Pipes I used to have at Puttock (you remember), a ay good kind. — One "Sam Aitken" 1 a very kind Edinburgh man had taken the trouble to get them: I wrote him enclosing a half sovereign, and here they were. — We shall surely be at rest now for a while on the smoke side! Thanks to you, many thanks; — and congratulations now too, that your friendly pains have not been disappointed of their purpose. I scribble away at my Lectures; refuse all invitations whatsoever, till the Lectures be done. One can manage without offence in that way. I ride too; I will ride and write: what can I do more? This day five weeks it will all be over, one way or other; and I shall try never to do the like again. Fraser has got the Book out; a very pretty green Book, in five volumes ("Carlyle's Miscellanies").2 He had been subscribing it (offering it to the Booksellers, to see how many they would take in the first place); he had begun that process yesterday; — and was all in the clouds, poor Fraser, at the great speed he had come: "above twice as many as he expected," etc., etc. Poor James is easily elevated, easily

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depressed. — I hope to send you all copies of this Book (if I can); probably by the Magazine: next month. Jean sent me a Letter today from Dumfries; our Mother it seems is back again; still well. My continual love to her, — to all of you! She is to write soon herself, as I hear with pleasure. Two o'clock struck! I have still to dress myself. Not another word! Yours ever truly T. Carlyle Jane is gone out; very well now, in the warm weather. Published in part: NL, I, 192-193. 1. (d. 1847), of the Edinburgh bookselling firm of Bell and Bradfute. Ritchie claimed he was "a cousin (more or less) of the Rev. David Aitken," but probably "not related to the Dumfriesshire Aitkens, with whom the Carlyles were and are connected" (p. viii). 2. The half-title.

146. Chelsea, 27 April, 1840 My dear Alick, Your Letter of Saturday night rather alarmed me; I have been looking for the Postman this morning with unusual anxiety. He has now called, — with nothing but a harmless Newspaper; I take courage to believe that our dear Mother is better again, getting round at least, and not in a state that gives you uneasiness. You did well to write: it is good to have at all times the assurance that when we hear nothing there has nothing very specially gone wrong. But you must write now, were it only one word more, to assure me by affirmation as well as silence that our M[oth]er is better again. Or she will perhaps write to me herself? One way or other, [I] expect a word by return of post, if no conclusive word have arrived before that. The Newspaper I got (five minutes ago) was a Bolton Free Press,1 containing some thing about W. Meister, me, my Leçtures and so forth. I sent it round by James Aitken, addressed to you. I suppose he will

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know to forward it. — I marked in Fraser's on Saturday a copy of the Miscellanies for each one of your households, you, Jamie, Mary, Jenny, Jean (my dear Mother had one, I think); they are all directed to Aitken, Dumfries, and will reach you thence (arriving there by Edinburgh and Steam ) early in May. I wish you all luck of them! It is a very pretty book; five green ornamented volumes. — I enclose today a Letter of poor old Hone's ( you remember Hone? ) — to whom I had sent a ticket, knowing he was poor and an admirer of mine. He writes not like a happy man. The weather has suddenly become burning hot. All my riding refuses to bring me into very eminent health: I agree ill with the heat, with the anxiety etc. etc.; however, I have floundered thro' such a thing in worse cure before now. Jane says, I shall never lecture again.2 A good part of the thing is lying confusedly on paper; perhaps we shall print it. No word from Jack last week, that I remember of. My last account of him was in a Note which Jean forwarded hither, in which he spoke of having written to you. — Jane has a headache today; but this weather generally quite sets her up. — Ever your affectionate T. Carlyle ι . Of April 25. 2. She was right. Carlyle made two addresses, however: one to promote the establishment of the London Library and one on the occasion of his inaugural, April 2, 1866, as lord rector of Edinburgh University.

147. Chelsea, 12 May 1840 My dear Brother, I write you a word this evening to say that my third Lecture is also tolerably over; a thing I feel extremely thankful for. You will tell my dear Mother about it, whose anxieties after what I wrote to her last time are not likely to be wanting. I was upon Poets today; and got thro' not in an extraordinary way, but fully as well as I could expect.

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My audience had considerably increased; they sat very attentive, and seemed well enough content with me. I can assure you, I was right glad to get thro' on any terms! My former Lecture, which they call the best I ever delivered, was far too good; it shivered my nerves all in pieces; and I have lost about the fourth part of my sleep ever since. Nobody but one that had tried would fancy what a misery that is: Last night I seemed as if I were not going to sleep at all; I do not remember a more anxious feeling, about any such thing, that I had all this morning. And now it is over; and the half of the business, the far worst half of it, is over. I calculate, and Jane too is of that mind, I shall not try the thing at all again, unless I see myself in greater want than I was in this year. No reports appear in the Newspapers;1 you would notice the vacancy in the Examiner, with a small sentence to account for it. I understand, reports are coming; but the far best part of the business is we get along now excellently well without them. My audience is about a third more numerous this year than it ever was. The second day it has increased 40; this day it has increased 20: deducting all expenses, we shall net a good sum, — fairly round above 200 guineas, I think. — I ought also to add that there is a reporter2 there for me; I have seen his Sketch of the First Lecture, — a very poor affair: I think more and more, I shall make the thing up by myself, and promulgate it as a Book. We shall see what strength is left me. — I wish you would get some express word sent to Jean and the rest of them: you can enclose Jean this Letter for that matter; I have no heart or leisure to write in these weeks. I cut a small hole in a card, and send one of the half-sovereigns the man gave me today as a present to my Namesake Tom: let him buy a hat with it, or what he likes, and wonder how London Lectures put a hat upon his head! I have had out my tobacco to dry it; it was all begun moulding, — you had packed it so fiercely down into that canister! I gave it above twice as much room. It is excellent stuff when I get it to the right pitch of dryness; which now is not difficult to do. Remember my Mother! You are to send her word directly. Be all well, and thankful with me. — Your affectionate Brother T. Carlyle

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MS: N L S # 5 1 1 . 6 4 · Published in part: NL, I, 194-195. 1. The papers were taken up with the more popular matter of the May 5 murder of Lord William Russell by his Swiss valet, Antoine Courvoisier. The Times of May 13, however, reported the lecture on poets. 2. For Fraser. See NL,

I, 194.

148. Chelsea, 25 [26] June, 1840 My dear Alick, I will snatch up this little half hour I have, and send you a word, in discharge of my long debt to you. In these days I am so busy, and so lame for any kind of work not forced upon me, especially for any writing work! I am within about a day of ending1 my Second Lecture; then we had a Public Meeting about our London Library2 this week; and people come in and take me up: very busy indeed! But I ought to fling you a word too, at short intervals, to say how it stands with me. What will become of these Lectures I do not yet know; nor whether in the written state they are worth much: however, I write them, you see. It is a kind of ungainly job, and I am not very fit for it; yet it ought to be done, I think, some way or other. I will have a day or two of play again, were this Second Lecture done; we shall then consider farther. Our Public Meeting, at which I had to make a speech, was considered to have gone off beautifully. I did not speak long; but kept the people all in first-rate spirits while I did speak. I am told there is a good report of the business in the Morning Chronicle of yesterday: I sent out this morning to get it; but the unfortunate Newsvender had it not, and in this huge whirlpool if you do not take a paper on the day of its coming out, nobody has it afterwards; it is gone, and only by mere chance can you get it at all! If I do find a copy, I will send it to you. We had "noble lords," 3 and what not, a very fair turn out of people; it is thought our Library will actually get itself established by and by: a thing pressingly wanted here. Jack now dates from Oban; I had another line from him today; it

1840, London 497 contains little except an address I am to put on some Books for him; I will keep it, and send you the prior one. All is well with him; but he still talks of quitting the business in August. How are Jenny and the little Newcomer? 4 Jean, from whom I had a Note the other day, mentions that our Mother is "somewhat out of sorts": I wish I heard something more about that! She was expected to write to Jean, and Jean was to send the Letter; but nothing as yet comes. I hope she is getting round again; I will not let myself get into fear. — Jamie's cattle were mislucking, Jean said; her own little child was not thriving: many things were more or less out of joint. I know Jean always tells me the worst, the truth whatever it may be. That is a comfort. Our weather is far from too warm here; these two days we have a Northwind, which has driven Jane to light her fire again. Frequent rains fall; it is in general a delightful London June for me. I still ride daily almost, in the country far oftenest: my unfortunate liver ought to be better than it is! In my Mother's Letter I mentioned that the tobacco was all spoiling on me. In truth, it seemed all spoiled, when I broke into the jars the other day: I had taken out the whole mouldy part some weeks before, dried the remainder, packed it quite loose and set it by; I had smoked diligently to get thro' the damaged portion, and now went to rejoice in the sound, — when, lo, this too was become mouldy, and had a taste and smell altogether wretched! I thought I should have to send it back, not knowing what to do with it here. But after being spread out for a week and thoroughly dried, it has improved not a little, and can be smoked now without difficulty; indeed it is better yet than any I know how to buy here. I have spread it loose in a broad open box, and hope to keep it without farther damage. — I was very much vexed, and wae, not for the loss of the weed, but to think how my poor brother had done all he could, and taken such pains to serve me in this; and it was all to be a failure! Yet I liked you better, it made it sadder and kindlier, even because it had failed, and gone all for nothing. — Happily it turns out not so bad, however, I believe the Tobacco to have been perfectly good at first; but very wet, and we did not know how to keep it in hot weather. It should have been left loose, loose,· and not excluded from the air. We will ken again! I find also

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that all tobacco ought to be of a certain age. None I ever get, even of the best sort, is like that I used to get from your shop, — when it could gain nothing except increase of age. — Jack in that Letter speaks of travelling! He has always schemes of locomotion. I know not what I shall do: I am at work here; must work; and the weather does not as yet obstruct me. There is no good raiking if one can help it. Will you tell Jamie that I consider myself a Letter in his debt: I deeply sympathize about poor Tom, which I suppose is the misfortune he cares about beyond all: but the child will perhaps get round again; one must have patience, have hope. — Jean, I think, ought to go to Mary's with her child, for a little sea air. — Let my Mother write half a word with her own hand! Take my best blessing one and all of you. Your affectionate Brother T. Carlyle 1. Carlyle was referring to the writing of the lecture. 2. Carlyle delivered his speech for the establishment of the London Library at the Freemasons' Tavern June 24. It is published in the Morning Chronicle of June 25, the Examiner of June 28, NL, I, 198-200,

and Carlyle and the London Library. Account of Its Foundation: Together with Unpublished Letters of Thomas Carlyle to W. D. Christie, C. B., arranged by Mary Christie, ed. Frederic Harrison (London, 1907). See also Simon Nowell-Smith, "Carlyle and the London Library,"

C. B. Oldman et al., English Libraries 1800-1850: Three Lectures Delivered at University College London (London, 1958), pp. 59-78. William Dougal Christie (1816-1874), barrister, diplomatist, editor of

the Memoirs, Letters, and Speeches of Anthony Ashley Cooper . . . (1859) and The Poetical Works of John Dryden (1870), and author of

A Life of Anthony Ashley Cooper, First Earl of Shaftesbury, 1621-1683, 2 vols. ( 1 8 7 1 ) , was the acting secretary for the committee for the establishment of the library. 3. "Noble lady" was living's epithet for Mrs. Montagu. "Noble lords" may have been his expression as well. 4. James, who died in infancy.

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149· Chelsea, 20 [23] july, 1840 My dear Alick, Considering the cheapness of Postage now, I think it seems a pity not to write, even a word were it no more, when one can snatch a moment! This morning I received the inclosed Letter from Oban; reporting all well there. I will send it forward to you: on the Sabbath morning, it may be a cheerful little message for our dear Mother when she comes over to the Sermon: or failing her, you may walk along to Scotsbrig with it yourself. I received my Mother's Letter; I am right glad to hear she is well; glad that she has a new "peat-shed put up in the garden"; that all is going on in some sort of tolerable way. — I do not write half as often to you as I could wish, — tho' I write very often too! I am very busy; I think daily of you, daily wish all good to all of you. I am now busy at my Fourth Lecture; and shall have it done in about a week. By and by, I suppose, I shall get all the six put down and most probably have them printed, for the whole world's benefit, that of Annandale not forgotten! This Fourth is on Luther and Knox. My "rural ride," 1 prior to putting away my horse, is never taken yet. A certain French friend, named Cavaignac, a man whom I like well, had agreed to go with me, and we were actually to have set out "on Thursday" (that is, this day) for a week's riding over Cambridgeshire and that neighbourhood, — where Oliver Cromwell first came into being and action; which scene I wanted and still want to see with my eyes: it was all settled so; but some delay occured on Cavaignac's side, wherefore I struck into work again; and now when Cavaignac is ready, I refuse to move till this Fourth Lecture be got done. I am like an old spavined horse, — "Gude guide us to, Sandy, rather stiff t' ye reise!" 2 — and once set in motion, I must keep moving. What will become of C's ride and mine I know not now. But I still mean to have a ride. I am also still of mind to part with my horse, as too expensive for any good it does me. Yet it does do me some good; I feel distinctly better at times (at present, for instance):—then I fall back into indigestion again, into pain and chargrin: I am a poor fluctuating soul!

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The review3 by Macaulay which Jack speaks about has come out; and I read it with considerable satisfaction. The man does not like me; yet is forced to praise me. I too most heartily dislike his whole way of thought, or even I might say detest it: no wonder he dislikes me. But the man is clever; and one of Her Majesty's Minister's4 at present. His notion of Freedom and Radicalism seems to be that starvation and misery among the poorer classes is perpetual and eternal; that all good government consists in uniting of the monied classes to keep down that one miserable class, and make the pigs die without squealing. No wonder he and I are mutually abhorrent. — But the review gratifies Fraser highly, and will quicken the Book's sale, he thinks. Be it so. Here is a caller waiting for me again, down stairs! I must off, dear Brother. Commend me to one and all. — I never in the least give up my notion of Annandale this year yet: but I fancy the summer is pleasanter really where I am. We have cool grey weather; you I suppose very frequent rain. We shall see what comes of it when this Lecture is done. — I wish you would write me a long detail of yourself, your shop, interests and business. Welcome to poor "little Jamie!" — Your affectionate T. Carlyle ι. From William Cobbett's Rural Rides

( 1830).

2. Someone familiar with this saying wrote on the back of Letter 232 the presumably proverbial circumstances of its origin: "The man who had a horse to sell, and when going to it, in its stable, it struggled vainly to get up, he exclaimed 'Gude guide us, etc.' "

3. Of The French view,

Revolution, which appears in the Edinburgh

Re-

7 1 (1840), 411-445. Not Macaulay but Herman Merivale (1806-

1874),

at

this time professor of political economy at Oxford, wrote the

review. See Edwin Paxton Hood, Thomas Carlyle, Philosophic Thinker, Theologian, Historian and Poet (London, 1875), p. 449, and NL, I, 213. 4. Macaulay was secretary of war from 1839 to 1841.

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150. Chelsea, 1 Augt, 1840 My dear Brother, As I find this Case will yet carry a word, I may as well return my thanks now for your very pleasant Letter as afterwards. I like the tone that prevails in this; it gives me comfort to read it. Never mind what uncomfortable people you have to deal with; what small work it may seem you are engaged in! No work is small, that an immortal soul has to transact: all work is alike great, if we go to that. Do the work well; deal with the degraded people wisely, not foolishly: it will all be right then. O my dear Brother, you do me great wrong to suppose that I can "forget" you, that any chance or change could make me do that! I have thought, and am never done thinking about your situation there! To hear that you had completely escaped that black danger; that your heart had quieted itself into silent manly composure,— not angrily proud, but patient, humble and strong: no news in this world could give me greater pleasure. This news too, if it please God, I shall hear and see, one day. You have had great troubles, enough to exasperate a very proud heart. But they will be for good; they will! — I should think of you in your little shop, with your household round you, in quiet industry, and God's blessing over you, — with true pleasure. Let me not speak any more of this. My Mother's Letter explains all th[at I] am about, and how I hope to see you by and by. People are begun reaping hereabouts; crops not bad, I think, but thin. The distress of the working people over this Island I believe to be extreme. All men dread some mischief before long. It makes one sick to look at it. Poor foolish hapless is all Moffat! — I have no room left. Adieu, dear Brother — T. C.

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151· Chelsea, Saturday 15 Augt, 1840 My dear Alick, This morning there has arrived a Letter from the Doctor, which I may as well along with half a word from myself send forward to you. It contains nothing; but you will see by it that he is well, and that there was nothing to send. I got a Letter from Jean also, two days ago, with an American Letter which is yours from our Half-Brother in America: this I have safe by me, and will not neglect to send back to you. I despatched the last Dumfries Newspaper to poor John in Canada, according to this address: I hope you will write to him soon all the news out of Annandale; which are naturally the most interesting of all things to him. He seems to be doing very tolerably well, after all his tumblings. The only distracted thing I hear him talk of is that scheme of his wife's for coming back again. Alas, there is nothing here but hunger and hardship, growing ever fuller for the poor working man: he should in no wise, for his children's sake, decide on coming hither again. I suppose, it is his wife mainly, who was an impatient kind of woman. My Letter this week to Jamie would give you all manner of intelligence about my wayfaring, about my safe return from that "rural ride." 1 I went off with my horse on Tuesday last about twenty miles, to the residence of Mr W.2 Marshall, son of the Giver of this animal, and left her there for him to sell or do as he liked with. I had before that, offered him the gift of her; not being willing to sell a creature I had got in that way: but I could not get him to accept; he had no use for the beast; said he would sell it for me, if I liked. I took it accordingly (came home by railway again), and there for the last five days it goes at grass or I know not how; — I at least have done with it. The expense contrasted with the benefit was decidedly too high. I feel it a great ease to be rid of such a daily outlay, and shall so feel it for some time! My Lecture3 does not get on nearly so fast as I wished. My whole wish, this week, has been to sleep, or sit like a man asleep doing nothing! Hardly till today could I get myself roused up again, — into a right fuss for doing any work! There is not the fourth part of my Lec-

1840, London 503 ture on paper yet; but perhaps better than half of the real work is done. I design to write the following Lecture too without stopping at all. Our warm weather is entirely gone these three days; nothing but wet and wind again! It suits me, but suits no other mortal. There will be a bad harvest this year again; and none knows what result from it. I have always forgotten to tell you what good I have got of the axe and sickle you sent me long since! The axe operates successfully in splitting timber and all such jobs. The hook hangs, by right, on a branch of our old scrag of a cherry-tree (which grows large quantities of cherries, mostly eaten by the sparrows); I mow the grass with it, hew down the superfluous vine-branches with it; and many a time thank poor Alick's brotherliness. Many thanks, to you, Boy, for this and for many things! I have not another word today. My Mother must have the next Letter. I hope the Lecture will prosper better next week. My love to my dear Mother, and to all the rest of you young and old! — Ever your affectionate Brother, T. Carlyle 1. For its details see NL, I, 205-206. 2. William, son of John. 3. Thefifth,"The Hero as Man of Letters." See NL, I, 207.

152· Chelsea, 10 Sfeptember 184] o My dear Brother, It was "the toss of a halfpenny" whether I had not been with you at this point of time, instead of only writing still from my old place that I am not now to come! On Monday and Tuesday, all my bits of business being now either done or cast aside, I meditated strongly whether I should not take some Steamer or Railway and be off. But the weather is fallen rainy, little more good weather to be looked for now, so far as travelling goes; I count how I shall be hrashed and smashed,

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getting or giving so much sorrow among my pleasure: — in brief, with a very woe heart, I resolve that I shall recruit myself better here than I have a chance to do elsewhere at such a season, and so ought to renounce the hope of seeing you this year. It is very sad to me: but what can I do? The miserable irritation of health that I live in renders me the worst of travellers. I think it will be better really to content myself here; and save all the cash I can fo[r a] wh[ole sum]mer of country life next year,— somewhere within reach of you, I hope. I mean this, if I live, if I can get a house; nay I almost think I will go to Puttock itself, and live like a Moss cheeper, rather than want silence and free air for another summer of my life! I decidedly do mean to be off, in this way or some way [ere] another June sun were here. However, it is needless talking of that y[et] I must do it myself, for the necessity is my o[wn.] I surely can also do it! If I could get some cheap house or cottage by the sea shore, it would be all right. I will take timely measures to get one. Puttock at any rate could be cleared of Corson:1 one can get fresh air; — and one will! My plan, at present, however, leads to the reading of all manner of Books; I have got that to do, with an eye to another Book I am going to write.2 It is a great blessing to me that some kind of Book does begin to dawn as a possibility again in my head. There is no other use in living that I can find except working wisely; and that is my work. It will require a great deal of reading first: then I think, next summer if we live to see it, I shall get away into the country to write. My Book is to be about — But indeed I had better not yet tell anybody, lest the whole pla[n as it l]ies go! You will hear duly by and by. My [Lectur]es,3 [I su]ppose, will have to be printed very soon. I [nee]d not keep them here now that they are written. If Fraser were not out of Town for a fortnight, perhaps we should have made a bargain before now, and have had the thing at press: indeed this was one of my reasons for staying here at present and not travelling. But to say truth, travelling into t[he] countfry a]t this brown dim failing season seems to me, tho' universally p[ursu]ed in this London, to be of all absurdities among the absurdest. London is decidedly pleasant enough at present as to weather; in rain, it is far beyond any kind of country; in sunshine it is never disagreeable for heat. A hot dry June again in these streets strikes me as the nearest approach, so

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far as weather does, to — a place we will not name! Well, the people quietly continue to be baked all June, and now when the country is growing unpleasant and the town the reverse, they rush all out into the country! Wise that they are! But indeed it all comes of the partridges; they never reflect on this. The gentry need partridges to shoot; their wives etc. have to go with them; all lawyers, traders, men of business can now best follow. Therefore from August till March is the season for the country. The partridges rule them all. They shall not rule me. Dear Brother, I am writing in the most confused manner. I have sat all morning reading one of my B[ook]s; I am not well either, — I have been out of order all week, [but d]aily getting better as I keep quiet. But I determined not to let this day go again without a word from me. You must tell my dear good Mother. It will make her wae: but tell her we will Uve in hope; we will count that a better day is coming. [I wi]ll [wrjite to her myself one of these days. Ah me, [if] I had a long prospect-glass, one of the places I would peep at were Scotsbrig and that region, to see how all is going on there! I fancy the harvest to be going forward: Jamie, I hope, is not getting drowned and wasted this season again. — I know not how you yourself go on, my dear Brother: do you ever yet "take stock" as the Merchants call it, and see decisively what progress you have? It seems impertinent to be advising you so often on this matter; but I ha[ve] the greatest faith in good order as the beginning of all good and prosperity in all things whatsoever. I wish you would write to me minutely how you manage and are. Do not repine, my dear Brother, do not waste yourself away with regrets and discontents more than are unavoidable. Alas, we have all our heavy burden to bear: it is a fact also, true as the God of Truth, that if we hear it well, it shall be well with us! Courage! — I commend myself heartily, in unchang[abl]e affection, to all of you. My blessings on the youngest-born, [its] Name4 you never told me, — tho' I did once know [it;] now [I] do not. I will write to my Mother in a few days. Jack still at Oban without news. Jane is out driving; very well. Ever Your affectionate T. Carlyle

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ι. See Letter 90. 2. Since at least January 1839 (see Letter 130) Carlyle had continued to read for what came to be Oliver CromweWs Letters and

Speeches: With Elucidations, 2 vols. (London, 1845).

3. Which he finished writing September 3. See NL, I, 208. 4. James.

153· 5. Cheyne Row, Chelsea, Wednesday 18 Novr 1840 My dear Brother, Your Note, some considerable while ago, taught us to expect the Provision Cargo; I delayed answering till it should arrive. Last night, in the middle of rain and wind, very frequent at present, the longlooked-for came: returning from a desperate piece of walking after dark, which the day's continual storm had reduced me to, I found Pickford's waggon drawn up at the door; and the Annandale Barrel getting itself lodged in a place they call the "china closet." We were right glad to see it. I take the first post to certify you that it has come; your kindness will not consider itself as complete till you know that. The arrow shot never so rightly out of the bow, one wants to ascertain that it has hit. I speedily burst up the Barrel; found the interior, as we may say, all right. Poor Jenny's Pot of Honey was indeed all gone to squelch, — alas and woe's me! But that was the only thing that had run wrong. We found, they had had the Barrel lying on its side (for they turn these things in all ways, and indeed this Cask was set down here bottom uppermost, and I almost began opening it from that end); now, lying on its side, in the bouncing and shaking of the Ship, our oatmeal had more or less given way, till the two pigs came in contact, and the small honey one was squelched to atoms under the big butter one. Jane lamented much, for she could still taste that the honey had been excellent. It was all run out now; most of it into the side of the sack; the rest of it had formed a kind of honey-paste about the fragments of the crockery, on the cheese, even on the little ragstone: itself lost, and a handful or two of meal with it; no other mischief whatever

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done! Jane thought it altogether lucky that no drop had got into the straw of the bonnet; but had all been arrested by the paper, and done no ill there either. The white stockings she thinks are the prettiest she ever saw. My stockings too are a superb lot and of the right kind; I only grieve that they must have cost my good Mother so much money. We had right porridge last night; the meal, you can tell Jamie, is unsurpassable. The Peppers, tell Jane, were safe! The Bacon too was disclosed this morning, and is said to promise to be admirable; I will tell you when I write next. In short, it is all safe and right; and we shall think often of the kind souls in Annandale to whom we owe it all, who grudge no trouble for us at any time. It is not long, not above three days I think, since I wrote to my Mother, with the current of my news. Nothing but wet blustery weather since out of doors; within doors hardly any novelty whatever. I sit steadily reading. I fancy myself perceptibly better in health than I used to be in the last and former winters. It is the effect of my summer's riding perhaps. By the bye, these good Marshall's have sold my horse for me; I wrote requesting them to give the price away to the Anti Corn-law Union, — not thinking it perfectly genteel to pocket any of it, under all the circumstances: but they would not; they mean to "retain it for getting me some more riding next spring"; — to which what can one do but answer vaguely with many true thanks! Old Mr Marshall is a kind, wise-headed, just old man; silent, almost blate as a young lad; and rich, I believe, with some £80,000 a year. I enclose the Son's last Note about that business; and have left it as you see it there. — My reading is not sore work; it is the easiest kind of life, indeed, that one can have; easier than very idleness. I do not yet see what sort of result will come of it; but some result will perhaps come. Since the Letter to my Mother there has arrived a Letter from the Doctor at Linton. He is roaming about on that southwest coast; riding on "grass-fed ponies" etc.: it is very solitary, he says, and muddy, but his Patient has relations there: I fancy they will get to Wight by and by, and then I may hope to meet poor Jack again. He has had a most wandering year since he rolled off from this door! He makes a great deal of money; and having himself such an appetite for travel, and an incapability as yet of fixing anywhere, we ought to esteem him very lucky.

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Jean sent me a short Note this morning, about some cash accounts etc. She complains that she has heard nothing from our Mother or any of you for a long while. I too begin to be impatient. I wonder what is becoming of you all in these dismal tempest[s]. It is the roughest, wettest weather I have yet seen in any winter here. It nearly equals Puttock in all its glory, — with the addition of an unparallelled g lar, which we had mostly got the better of there. Poor Puttock; how far off is it now, are those old years now! They will forever be memorable to us all. This is a far longer Letter than you have written to me, my dear Brother, for many a month. You should take pen, and write largely! I know you are like to be sadly interrupted; but you would learn to write in spite of that. I long to hear what aspect your business offers to you; what comfort you yourself are able to adjust out of it, that is the main question of all. "Better a wee bush than no bield," in these times! I believe the distress of the lower classes is great and pitiable; small hope of remedy soon. Did you notice that of the people at Stockport murdering their own children to swindle some club out of the burial-fees! 1 It is like what we read of in the uttermost misery prophecied against the Jews: "the hands of the pitiful women have sodden their own children," — boiled them for food, in the extremity of siege and famine! Granting these Stockport people to be the perfection of blackguards and wretches, that helps the matter but little. It remains every way among the frightfullest things ever written of a country or a time. I must end here. I will write to my Mother, or some other of you, before many days. We have not tried any of the wares yet except the oatmeal; this is not to be omitted in making the report: tonight the butter will be tried, tomorrow the bacon. — Jane is not here; but with some company or other (as I think, but care not to verify lest they seize me too) up stairs: she ought to answer about her stockings etc. herself. Ask Tom what progress he is making in the elementary parts of learning? What he expects to have to say for himself when I see him next year? The idle dog that he is! — I bid good be with you all, dear Alick, for this time. I am always Your affectionate T. Carlyle

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1. An account of the crime appears in the Times of October 20. In the trial, which the Times reported August 4-6, 1841, a coroner's jury found Robert and Ann Sandys guilty of poisoning two daughters and Robert Sandys' brother George and his wife of poisoning one and abetting the murder of another of their own children. The assizes convicted Robert of poisoning one of his daughters in order to gain the burial fee of £ 3 8s. 6d. Carlyle referred to this case again, which continued to be raised in Parliament through 1842 and which the House of Commons finally directed the Poor Law Commission to investigate and report on, in Past and Present, p. 4. He also used there the quotation from Lamentations 4:10, above. See Past and Present, ed. A. M. D. Hughes (Oxford, 1921), p. 270.

154· 5. Cheyne Row, Chelsea 16 Deer 1840 My dear Brother, I am far from having time or composure today for answering your last Letter as it merits. But I have a small piece of charitable business for you, which ought not to wait: you will put up with a small word for the present, expecting better some other day. Your news of the death of poor old Jenny Lockhart 1 has opened all manner of thoughts in me; — or rather has given a form and direction to thoughts that, in one form or another, hardly ever quit me night or day. Poor old Jenny! I can remember dimly the time when we were running about as children; when she used to bake us small rolls in her back-house, — things that she called "nods"! It must be not far from forty years ago. Ah me! One has no word to utter what all this means for us, — this strange whirlpool of a world, this everflowing stream of Life and of Death. — At present, however, I remember that Jenny's Daughter Mary is living near you, probably in very great distress; I want you to give her that inclosed sovereign in the quietest way you have, and say anything that is sympathetic to the poor creature. She was a merry kind of child once; and she too is grown sad enough. One can do nothing for her. — On the whole, it was a praise worthy act in Wull to make that exertion for his poor old Mother. It ought to cover, in him, a considerable quantity of sins, the slut. —

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All my news were written to Jamie almost the day after I received your Letter. We have since heard from Jack more than once; I inclose you his last Letter. It seems to me as if he were likely to stay where he is (I mean, in his situation) for a considerable while yet. It has this great charm, That he feels he can be off at any time; he is not obliged to resolve for more than a month or two ahead of him! The wages too are supereminent; and he begins, I imagine, to like to see his purse gather. —Yesternight (Jack's Letter had arrived in the morning) there came a beautiful little Note from my Mother. Tell Her I will not fail to answer it. Tell her I am deeply interested with her little Letter; they give me a glimpse into the very fireside yonder where she is sitting and thinking of me. What you say of the Ecclefechan Libra[ry] seems worth notice. The poor fellows will have to lay 45/ before they can get my Book of Miscellanies; and then perhaps a good many of them will not understand much of it! Another piece of business, therefore, that I had with you today, was to stop that enterprise of theirs if still possible, — with tidings that I will make them a present of a Copy, if it be still time. I suppose I may direct it to you? Or to whom? It can be sent cost-free to Edinburgh; after which I do not well know the history of it. It will arrive some way without much cost. The only point is if they have not yet irrevocably bought it elsewhere. Pray inquire into that, and write me one word immediately about it; if you write immediately there will still be time to send it by the Magazines of this month, and it will arrive in the early days of January. I know not whether you yourself are in the Library? The like of that is good to encourage. Poor fellows! they shall have a Copy of the Book, and my blessings along with it. Dear Alick, it is a great while since I got a Letter that I liked so well from you as the last. But I will not enter into that. You are getting calmer, and clearer; all else is with me a most secondary matter in comparison. That you find yourself actually "making a livelihood" is to be accounted great success, I think, in these times. Persevere without misgiving. I see very well how true it all is that you say about the habits of successful Merchants, and how different it all is from your nature: yet I say, never mind; have a faith that as, old Samuel Johnson said, "useful industry will be rewarded." 2 If a man does keep hon-

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est ware, and deal like a faithful man, — however crabbed he may be people in the long run will actually grow to like him better than any other. It is a faith all kinds of men have need of in these days. Tell Tom his carreer will require deep studies; and if he means to preach with any birr at all, it will behove him to study like a lion! Let him consider this, the obstinate dog, and set to work accordingly. — My Lectures are never yet gone to Press. I am swier about publishing them; expecting a great quantity of useless cackle if I do; and not being either tempted by money, or necessitated by the want of it, to set them forth till my own time, — which latter is a great blessing. I begin to find it probable that they will be printed now, some time in the course of the winter. We shall see. Jane continues pretty well; but cannot go out these four days: we have a fierce frost, which is like to last for a while, it began so gradually, prefaced by three days of dry cold wind from the N. East. — I walk largely, and am warmly clad. Adieu, dear Alick. I have written far more than I meant; than I had any time for! Our affectionate regards to one and all. — I eat bacon every Morning, and find it capital! Your affectionate T. Carlyle Has anybody sent Jean at Dumfries any word lately? I hear nothing from her — John's Letter, I find, is too weighty! MS: N L S # 5 i i . 7 6 . Published in part: NL, I, 223-225. 1. See Letter 60. Her daughter, Mary (d. 1847), married one Harkness, a weaver of or about Ecclefechan. See esp. Letter 219. For Jenny's son "Wull" see Letter 60. 2. Cf. the opening sentence of the Preface to the Dictionary.

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155·

Chelsea, 7th Jany, 1841 My dear Alick, Many thanks for your prompt Letter; I shall impatiently expect another tomorrow to hear how it goes with poor Jenny.1 She ought to take great care of the cold: I will hope, it is nothing else for the present, and that the danger of it for this time may be over. Poor little thing, she is very weak, and of an irritable constitution at any rate. — Our Mother happily is well again; — unless she too get mischief by this job. I have settled about the Book of Miscellanies; and will today send word to Aitken about having it prepared ( a new inscription cunningly put upon it), and sent to Grahame. It were of course as well if nothing were said about this till Grahame see it. I have got a new yellow leaf2 from Fraser; and the Bookbinder at Dumfries must do the rest. — I begin now to decide upon actually printing my volume of Lectures: the poor Ecclefechan people will stand fair for a copy. It does seem very strange what they can get to read in these things. Fraser offers me £.75 in hand for this volume (the munificent man!)3 — I fancy I had better take it than go out among the gross asses that deal in the Book-trade, and have my soul vexed: it is not for money that I have ever made a good job of writing; and at present, thank Heaven, I do not fail for want of money. Often it strikes me as if I had no need of more money; as if money could really do no more good to me at all: having clothes to wear and a house and food convenient in it, is one not a free man, freer than most Dukes and Kings are? Jane has not forgotten you; but is sore confined and stagnated by the continuous cold. She has not been out above once these three weeks. She does not cough yet, but always hovers too near it. Our beautiful thaw went off again: Sunday brought a sharp Northwest wind; a hard frost next day; then snows etc.; and today we have the streets all glass, a detestable frost-fog which bites you to the bone; and the sun after looking out for an hour, like a great red warmingpan unable to act, has taken his leave! I pray you all put on thick clothing; and especially keep my Mother in from such weather. Jack is still here; amusing himself largely; his Patient well pleased

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with London, giving little trouble; and all going well. I meet him every day. Nay here, at this moment are the Patient and he, come hither in a thing they call a Cab ( cabriolet, or one horse chaise ) ! — Adieu till they go. — Ogilvie the Patient is off into the City; Jack prefers remaining to walk with me. So I must end. Let me hear good news from you tomorrow, dear Alick; and be a good bairn yourself. Yours ever affectionately T. Carlyle 1. Mrs. Harming, who had given birth to her second child, Mary, on December 24. 2. Presumably for a gilt inscription. 3. On the twenty-sixth Carlyle wrote John, who by then had returned to Ryde, that Fraser "also gives a £ 7 5 for a thousand Sartors, the edition of that being run out too" (NL, I, 227).

156. Chelsea, Friday 15 jany [1841] Dear Alick, Thanks again for your Letter: who knows but you will grow an altogether punctual copious Correspondent by and by! We hope poor Jenny is now out of danger; we shall count on you for writing if there is anything more that creates anxiety. Be a good Boy and look to it. What I want of you today is to get that Bit of Paper changed at Postie's into a gold half-sovereign, and give it to Jenny at Kirtlebridge along with the note. One can now send money for three-pence! You have to take the thing to the Post-Office, and sign your name to it. — Gold rather than shillings: that will be handsomer! I enclose you Jack's last Note; which you need not publish any farther than you see useful; perhaps not farther than yourself. — He is well; and tumbles along amid his coil of fasheries with considerable cheerfulness. Fashery, I think indeed, is most of the work he has to do; and gets about as good as £.1,300 a-year for doing! — My printing is not yet started; I scunner somewhat at it: I can get for four months

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close labour the handsome sum of £-75! On the whole if a man have bread to eat, why should he complain? That is a sore tragedy which I read last night in the Courier,1 of John Bell, his Wife, Mother and Aunt Jean; all known to me, all dead, probably in great misery! I came upon it late at night, sitting quite alone amid my own reflexions. — The weather appears to be even worse with you than here. A wretched mortal that was wont to leap from top masts, bridges etc., and dive and do feats of that kind, perished in a shocking manner (as you will see by that Newspaper) here this week. One of his tricks was to act hanging; the noose slipt; he was found hanged in earnest! When I think of the mob looking at him, brutal animals, the still more brutal 'gentlemen' of the Bridge Committee encouraging such a scene, — few things I have ever heard of seem more detestable, Adieu, dear Alick; I am too long here. Your ever affectionate T. Carlyle 1. Neither the Dumfries and Galloway Courier nor the London Courier carries an account that mentions by name John Bell and his family, who were possibly members of the John Bell family of Townfoot. (Mary Aitken Carlyle identified a James Bell as a son of the elder John Bell and his wife. See Introduction and L, p. 154.) It would seem, then, that Carlyle was aware of their involvement in a public tragedy, the report of which does not carry the names of at least all of the deceased. The account of the death of the high diver appears in the London Courier of January 12.

157· Chelsea, 21 March, 1841 My dear Brother, Your good Letter and little package of Tobacco came in safe, two nights ago, and gave me great pleasure. I smoked the Tobacco, in three successive pipes, before bedtime. My taste is none of the truest at present; something of influenza still hanging about me in that if in few other respects: but I thought the Weed a very genuine sort of

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thing, so far as I could judge; and indeed the history of it would have given it a good taste independently of all else. I think however that we will not venture on importing any of it at present. The Tobacco I have here is tolerable: a large stock, in the summer time especially, is very difficult to keep, as I have found. The last stone-weight threatened at one time to spoil upon me altogether. We will let this lie, therefore; I will live in the hope of finding some of it ready at Ecclefechan, when I get thither! There will be several other things and persons that will be glad sights for me there! I have never got to Wight yet; Jack1 still continues here; has set day after day for going, but does not go. — Nay I find here he is at this moment, down stairs; wanting me to go somewhither with him! Perhaps I shall not get my Letter finished in that case. He is well, and never rests long; keeps his arm still in a sling, but does not mind it at all, — has reduced the evil now to one "black spot" somewhere. He has a mo[s]t enviable situation so far as the best wages, and apparently only an imaginary employment can make any situation desirable. Whatever thing he wants done, to whatever place he wants to be carried, — he persuades his Patient that he (his Patient) wants it, and straightway chaises are ordered, machinery is got, and the rich Ogilvie does it, and is the better for doing it! Jack needs prudence, of course, and dexterity of management in his place; but he seems to have all that. I should not wonder if he continued in this occupation, always at liberty to quit every month, and yet not quitting for perhaps a long while. I in these days do very little; read somewhat etc. I am sitting for my Picture2 too: a little Painter, of great talent, whom I like much, has been prying about me, peering at me and watching me these three years and more, to get the real figure of my face: I say to him now, Take it, and let me have done with you! Till Thursday he keeps me sitting two hours every alternate day. It is a frightful demon-countenance hitherto, full of energy and ugliness; but Jane who has more skill than I declares that it will be an "admirable picture." At all events I shall have done with it; let it be what it likes to be. We are very sorry to hear of the poor child's sickliness. Cold is above all to be guarded against; cold, and indigestible or otherwise unwhole-

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some food. There is good hope however, as you say, in the weather, in the ever-growing power of the Sun. Encourage Jenny to be as careful of the poor little fellow as she can, till the Summer relieve her of him. As for us here, we get our Influenza more and more cast behind us; I mean the effects of the Influenza, for the disorder itself is properly gone long since. I have not the same almost frantic passion for the country that I had ten days ago; yet I still think I shall go for a short time, — most probably to Wight, were John gone. We have strong West winds now; not so bright a sky; a grey one indeed with occasional rains, which have stilled all our March dust again; but upon the whole it is beautiful weather. If you could chance upon any suitable "lodging" for us in Annandale, it would be a right useful thing to let me hear of it! I continue bent on spending this summer, under the free air, out of London; — in what quarter of the Earth is still vague enough for me! If Jane did not hate Craigenputtock even more than I do (which Heaven knows is enough), I almost think I would put Corson out, and go thither! But at bottom it is perhaps best that one do not go thither; the Earth has other places in it; and of places as ugly, as inconvenient, and for all things but the quietude of it, as unsuitable, the Earth has not many! Annandale is terribly far off; but our dear Mother is there, you are all there. If Puttock stood in some cultivated spot of Annandale, I believe I should try to furnish out a room or two of the house again, and keep it as a City of refuge. We must do nothing rashly. By and by I shall see better what to do. The relief from lecturing, this year, will be an immense point for me. The Printed Lectures were sent off as you heard in my Mother's Letter. Was it last Wednesday they ought to have arrived at Ecclefechan, — or not till this Wednesday that is coming? When they do arrive safely I shall be glad to hear. There was a copy for you; the "Library of Ecclefechan" too was not forgotten. My Mother's kind little Letter came to hand, tell her, and was welcomed as all hers are. She shall hear from me again before long. — Jack sits still down stairs; but I conjecture his patience must be at the last ebb. No more today, dear Alick. — Commend me to every one of the kindred. Bid Jamie prosper with his sowing, but Jenny of Kirtlebrig take

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care of colds. M y blessing with one and all of you. Your affectionate Brother T. Carlyle Enclosed is a Note of John Mill's, just received, which you can read, and give to my Mother. Mill likes the Book very greatly better than I myself do at present. W e shall see who is right by and by. Jack can find no railway train at this hour; which I am very thankful for! Jane and he send you their remembrance of love; to you and to all. I will write again before long to some one. 1. Who had returned to London from Ryde sometime after February 24. 2. The crayon sketch by Samuel Laurence ( 1 8 1 2 - 1 8 8 4 ) , who had done three portraits — a crayon, an oil, a chalk, all ca. 1838 — before this one. It is reproduced in color in NLM, II, Frontispiece, and in black

and white in Carlyle's Birthplace, the Arched House, Ecclefechan. Il-

lustrated Catalogue with a History of the House (London, 1927). See Dyer, pp. 537-538.

158. Fryston, Ferrybridge, Tuesday [ 1 3 April 1 8 4 1 ] M y dear Brother, Since a penny will carry a Letter anywhither, it seems a pity that I should not tell you I am here, which perhaps you do not otherwise know. I have written 1 to my Mother at Dumfries; but there is no saying whether they would send you any word about it. A Doncaster Newspaper, sent to Jamie, would be enigmatic

rather than other-

wise if you knew no more. Take one word from me therefore; a word of brotherly affection and remembrance if of nothing other. Poor old Ecclefechan! It is so strange to think of all your simple doings there, in such a whirl of things as this! Poor old Ecclefechan; dear to me, with the kind souls that are there and thereabouts; ever dear to me, go whither I may! This place is in Yorkshire, in the region of Leeds, Hull and Wakefield; somewhat nearer you than it is to London. It is the Mansion of

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a young man of fortune, and of Literature withal, an M.P. etc., by name Richard Milnes,2 whom I have known since we came to Uve in London, a man whom I greatly like, and who likes me. These people fly all out of Town for some three weeks about this time, to what they call the "Easter holiday." Being disappointed of Wight in the way you heard, and having still a boundless appetite for the country, Milnes also asking me, and offering as it were to take me, I found I ought to go; and so we bundled off on Monday gone a week by railway, and here I am for the seventh day now. We are a great family, with endless troops of flunkies, large dinners of Lords dames and squires, a most restless whirlpool of a concern: but I have a room of my own, a horse to ride, books to read; the fields are beautiful, the country almost like old Scotland; on the whole, it does me good, in spite of the lords and dinners. I am likely to be here or hereabouts for a week more yet: whither I shall go next is not made out yet: sometimes I think of Annandale, being already half-way or more, but the weather I fear is too cold yet. One thing only is made out: that I do not mean to pass the summer in London; that, with all probability I can hope to see you all before long somehow or other. Jack was to remove to Richmond, almost close on London and Chelsea, on Saturday last; I have written thither to him, but got no answer yet. A lame arm he had which rather hindered him in writing. He will likely hang about the region he is now in, off and on, for some time yet. Jamie's Letter about the Farm came just before I left London. Tell him how anxious I am to hear of his success. It must be decided soon. Pray write, one of you, the moment anything is settled. If within a week of this date, send the Letter hither; after that, or indeed at any time, "Chelsea." I add not a word, but blessings to one and all of you. Good be ever in you and about you, dear Alick, and all you dear ones! — T. Carlyle I will contrive to indicate by some Newspaper or the like, which way I go. — "Care of R. M. Milnes Esqr M.P. etc./Fryston/ Ferrybridge" ι. See NL, I, 227-229. 2. Richard Monckton Milnes, later first Baron Houghton (1809-1885),

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Cambridge "Apostle," intimate of Tennyson, Hallam, Thackeray, and since 1837 M.P. for Pontefract.

• Carlyle did manage a trip to Annandale, after a three-day visit to the Marshalls of Leeds with Milnes. He left Fryston for Scotsbrig on April 19, and was back in Chelsea May 6. It is apparent from the letters that immediately follow, which are all taken up with finding a suitable summer retreat, that he acted on his resolve not to spend the summer in London even while he was with Alexander. He first decided on Newington Lodge, Annan, but finding it not satisfactory after all took a bathing cottage at Newby ( or Newbie Mains ), two miles south of Annan, for the month of August. ·

159· Chelsea, 20 june, 1841 Dear Alick, Your Letter came on the evening of Saturday, an hour after all our posts, or I would have written without loss of a moment. Nothing had been fixed here, except the giving up of the Glen House; but things were on the point of being fixed; the long uncertainty had become insupportable to us. Ben Nelson even had never written, I knew not for what reason; and I had set about resolving without any news from him. Tomorrow morning I was to go to Brighton; and failing there, I meant to hold straight towards Wales. We have had an altogether deplorable dubitation about this matter, and are both of us extremely glad to see a prospect of ending it. If what Jamie says about the rent of Newington be correct, that it can be had for "a half less rent" (that is to say for the half of £,25), it will be a cheap house indeed, and I will commission him or you to go straightway and secure it for us. Pray set off without delay, and make the bargain with Carruthers.1 I put this Letter in a certain office this night, and you will get it I think on Tuesday morning thereby. Send somebody over with it to Jamie; and let him or you lose no time in act-

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ing; and then directly let us know that you have acted. — We shall gather ourselves together in not many days after that, and see old Annandale once again! This house will do much better than the Marquis's, where I felt I could never have been at ease. We can make up any kind of gypsey establishment within four walls of our own (for that is quite a different matter) and live there, "free and independent," in such sort as our means will allow. But now if the house should not be procurable for £ 13? That is the question for you! — Well; I can only say I should rather give a pound or two more, than miss it at present: you must endeavour to deal with Carruthers, and do the best you can. Above all things, do not let us fail for want of writing, — in these penny-post times! Write to us, half a word, the instant anything is fixed with C., — perhaps on Tuesday itself; at all events on Wednesday: we got your last on Saturday evening about 6 o'clock; you will know what length of time that takes: our other Country post is about 11 in the morning. — I go upon the hypothesis already that you get the house; and will be partly arranging on that basis. Yet still we are not tied (if things unexpectedly grow perverse) : we have a habitation here; and all England and Europe to choose upon! If Nelson's invoice were complete, we should rejoice to see it! Perhaps it may come tomorrow morning. If we then knew what rooms there are, we could begin scheming and projecting. Our dear Mother will rejoice that we have a likelihood of getting near her, — as you all will. Jack is here at this moment ( smoking a cigar in the garden) : all right. They call on me "for Tea"; there is not a moment's time for more. Do swiftly what you find written here, and then let us hear. Adieu dear Brother. — Ever your affectionate T. Carlyle 1. William. See Letter 161. The marquis is unidentified.

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160. Chelsea, Friday 25 june, 1841 Dear Alick, Your Letter came punctually last night: thanks for your punctuality; for all the trouble you are taking about me. You and Jamie would be wearied enough before 1 1 at night that Tuesday, — and the business not to be finished after all! It seems, however, already certain that we are to undertake this same Newington adventure, prove as it may; I infer from your Letter that you would take the house, last night, from Carruther's, even at his own rent; that the only question undecided was as to certain additional pounds of expense. That was right; and according to the spirit of the directions I gave you. The expense indeed is greater than I anticipated; for, foolishly, I had supposed that as the first rent of the place, park and all, seemed to be £26, the half of it all would be some £ 1 3 ! — However, we must rush forward now, I fancy; and go thro' with it, not counting costs too strictly. If I can get a little clear health and composure back again, it will be a cheap purchase at any price I have money to pay. Nelson's neglect to write is a thing I cannot complain of, for the whole office was one of charity on his part; but it does really seem astonishing. One word would have been so easily written, any time these three weeks! — Well, we do not yet know Ewart's 1 furniture; we must go forward, without knowing it then. The shape of the House, number of rooms, whether there are stables etc. etc.: all this is unfortunately quite dark to me. I can accordingly give you no advice about the little Park: probably it is not necessary to decide that, all at once, or till I myself am there; you in the meanwhile can consider how a horse can best be kept, whether on hard old hay (and what the price of that is), — and do what undelayable thing may arise in the wisest way you can. I should like right well to have riding too: but that along with gigging, I suppose, is impossible. I wish I had my sleek black mare2 back again; which I sold, last year, saddle and all, for £17! We expect to hear from you again tomorrow evening, as to the result of Thursday. Meanwhile we both take for almost as good as certain

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that we are to come; and so shall begin to bestir ourselves without delay. Do not fail to write! One word can be written; and a single penny will carry it as on the wings of the wind. On the whole, it seems agreed between us here, that we shall get no sense of the real figure of affairs till one of us be on the spot. Jane and her maid,3 accordingly, are to remain here, ready for all sorts of packing and sorting; while I forthwith depart for Annandale, and tell them what to pack and sort. Your Letter of tomorrow evening can, of course, still give me pause; but I do not think it will. I have some small things to settle; and then — off! It is likeliest, if the weather grow hot, especially, — that I may come by Sea and Newcastle: I want to lose no time now, and shall try to be off next week. — Ah me, my dear Brother, it is a terrible confusion for me, all this; but I cannot help it; I must do it. May it answer well! Jack has not been here since Sunday. Jane was sickly for a week; but brightens up again. She is hearty for Newington; nay heartier than I, now that it comes to the actual push. Not a word more. My dear Mother hears what we are doing; with pleasure, I doubt not. Good be with you all! Your affectionate T. Carlyle ι. James Ewart, a shopkeeper of Annan. See esp. Letter 209. 2. Citoyenne. 3. Helen Mitchell.

161. Chelsea, 28 june, 1841 My dear Alick, Again I have to thank you for your punctuality, both in despatch of business, and in apprising me about it. A short Letter in such cases is well worth writing; and what a stupidity were it to neglect such a thing, — which nevertheless many are so apt to do! My plan is still to set off by the Newcastle Steamer, which leaves this on Wednesday evening at 8 o'clock. The weather is grown very

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wet: but I have a mackintosh; we must take the weather as it comes. The Steamer should arrive at Newcastle, I think, on Friday morning. I must see Miss Martineau as I pass; perhaps, since nothing is concluded at Newington, I may as well take a view withal of the lodgings about Tynemouth, and what kind of country that is. We once had it in our eye: Scotsbrig is within reach of it, and the sea at least I believe is greatly preferable to your Solway, — as is the communication with London. Of course I should settle nothing till you are spoken with; nor indeed is there anything likely to turn up so good as Newington: however, we can look. The Newcastle Railway-iimes have gone out of my head, and I have no paper of them here. My freest plan will be to regulate myself by the time of your Carlisle evening mail; which I do remember must leave Carlisle sometime between 4 and 6 o'clock. On Friday evening, it is possible that I may come; but considerably likelier next evening. If you hear nothing more of me, Jamie might be over with the gig at Ecclefechan on Saturday evening, and look whether I am not in the coach! On Monday we could go down to Annan, and start business. Things standing so, I will write this day to Wull Carruthers to have all his answers ready, at a word, on Monday; and also that he need not conclude anything whatever till then, as I am coming so soon. You will not need to take any farther trouble with him, or see him at all on Thursday next, unless you chance to be down to Annan at any rate. This seems the reasonablest arrangement. Your account of Ewart's furniture is precise enough for practical purposes: why did not Nelson, in three words, send it long ago! Your own contributions to our projected stock are very kind, friendly as ever from you all: we must not strip you naked; we must see what can be done. Jack was here last night; is coming tonight again. All is well with him; his Patient improving if anything: one would say, very decidedly improving; but the constitutional blateness of the poor fellow will never be completely cured. Jack is now likely, I should guess, to stay with him, here or in this neighbourhood, one knows not how long, — possibly indeed till he have amassed a good purse of money, and be his own master altogether afterwards! It is dullish work; not otherwise

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heavy; and £1000 a-year with keep is not gained for nothing. Adieu, dear Brother, in hope of soon meeting Your affectionate T. Carlyle Jane is pretty well again; I hope your Jenny will not suffer long. My Mother and Isabella1 will be glad at the prospect of making tea for me on Saturday! — I am very busy, and like to be till I get off. 1. James's wife.

162. Newby, Saturday Noon [7? August 1841] Dear Alick, I bethink me that you may as well send for at least ten yards of that fine plaid cloth: I shall need a waistcoat at any rate as well as breeches, and perhaps a dressing-gown. You may also send us five yards of your diaper towelling ( on Monday), 2 lbs of your mould-candles, and for me 2 quarter-pounds of tobacco. Have them all ready wrapt in the morning. Farther, as our tide is about noon, and we are very slow here, I think it will be better if Jamie undertake to bring down Isabella and our Mother; trusting to me they would be in danger of missing their bathe for Monday, which would be a pity. I can drive my Mother home again if she do not consent to stay. Pray be punctual about this, punctual, Boy! We got nicely home last night; I have had a good sleep and am yet but half dressed from my bathe. Jane's wound1 is better; she complains a little of headache, but will soon be better I hope. Adieu. There is not a moment to spare. I must walk with this to Annan myself. Yours ever truly T. Carlyle 1. Caused when she scraped her ankle on a beach stone.

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163. Newby, Sunday Night [8? August 1841] My dear Alick, This is the second Letter you get from me today; perhaps they will be both delivered at once tomorrow, tho' the first is at Ecclefechan already. Before going to bed, whither all the rest have already gone, I will send you a small message about a small plan of mine for Tuesday; the weather is so fine that I have formed a small plan today. The Nag being again in order, our time here short, and the tides good, it seems to me I might be up at Scotsbrig on Tuesday morning about half past nine, to take breakfast with my Mother and Jenny, and then bring my Mother down with me still in time to have a bathe here; for the tide will not be till about one. If my Mother would consent to stay here, there is plenty of room for her; and perhaps Jenny would not dislike at all to be left alone altogether to her own reflexions just now.1 Or even if my Mother would go back, reason or none, we could contrive to humour that too: for instance you could come riding down on the Poney, and manage it. — In short, if my Mother will consent, and the weather prove fair, I think I will come up that morning. Will you accordingly go over on Monday night, and ask her. If she say Yes, I will take your silence for assent. If No, you can write me a half-word in time for Postie — ? — No, hang it! You cannot possibly write to catch me on Tuesday morning: I bethink me of this even now! Well, I will come at any rate on those terms, if the morning be fair. You can tell my Mother that, and do what you can to have her ready. Furthermore I will bring up my new erroneous trowsers, and if I could contrive that I should see Garthwaite2 at your house, I would try to instruct him what to do. The trowsers will not suit as they are, and it is a pity if they be spoiled for me. Try if you can bring Garthwaite to bear. If he be working in his own house that day ( say, at the waistcoat etc.), it will be very easy. Enough, I will come, — on the above condition of the weather; which I hope will not be bad, tho' as good as today we can hardly expect it to be. This has been one of the beautifullest of days; a blessing to feel the air visit one, the sun shine on one.

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And so good night, dear Brother. Ah me, what tragedies and miseries one has to witness, and in one's turn to suffer! Endeavour to comfort poor Jenny, and to be useful to her. We will all assist her as we can: perhaps this affliction may in the end prove good and not evil. Your affectionate T. Carlyle 1. It was about this time that Mrs. Hanning's husband left for America. This passage perhaps marks it, and intimates the domestic difficulty that, though not lasting, later in these letters becomes evident. 2. See Letter 25.

• Leaving Newby Carlyle first escorted his wife up to Templand and then went down to Scotsbrig. He also crossed over into Cumberland to visit Thomas Spedding at Keswick. He rejoined Mrs. Carlyle presumably at Templand, they turned back toward England, passed a few days in lodgings beside Harriet Martineau at Tynemouth, and journeyed by rail to Chelsea. Carlyle's Journal entry for October 3 is a record of his impressions of the past, his resolves for the present, and his speculations about his future: "Returned nearly three weeks ago after a long sojourn in Annandale, etc., a life of transcendent Do-Nothingism, not FeeZ-Nothingism, an entirely eclipsed, almost as if enchanted, life . . . The adventure was full of confused pain, partly degrading, disgraceful; cost me in all, seemingly, some 701. We shall not all go back to Annandale for rustication in a hurry. My poor old mother! What unutterable thoughts are there for me! How the light of her little upper room used to shine for me in dark nights when I was coming home! The thought of her! Ah me! There is yet no thought of all I feel in regard to that . . . "I lazily, and alas! also sullenly, at times refused to see simply any person in Annandale except my own kindred. I do fear I gave offence to right and left, but really could not well help it. Much French rubbish of novels read, a German book on Norse and Celtic Paganism, little other than trash either. Nothing read, Nothing thought, Nothing done. Shame! "Ought I to write now of Oliver Cromwell? Gott weiss [God knows]; I cannot yet see clearly. I have been scrawling somewhat during the past week, but entirely without effect. Go on, go on. Do I not see so much clearly? Why complain of wanting light? It is courage, energy,

1841, London 527 perseverance, that I want. How many things of mine have already passed into public action? I can see them with small exultation; really almost with a kind of sorrow. So little light! How enormous is the darkness that renders it noticeable! Last week a manufacturer at Leeds compared our Corn-law nobles to the French in 1789; curious to me. It is a strange incoherency this position of mine, of the like of me — among the meanest of men and yet withal among the high and highest. But what is life, except the knitting up of incoherences into coherence? Courage! What a need of some speaker to the practical world at present! They would hear me if, alas! I had anything to say. Again and again of late I ask myself in whispers, Is it the duty of a citizen to be silent, to paint mere Heroisms, Cromwells, etc.? There is a mass as of chaotic rubbish continents lying on me, crushing me into silence. Forward! Struggle! 'Live to make others happy!' Yes, surely at all times, so far as you can. But at bottom that is not the aim of any life. At bottom it is mere hypocrisy to call it such, as is continually done now-a-days. Every life strives towards a goal, and ever should and must so strive. What you have to do with others is not to tread on their toes as you run — this ever and always — and to help such of them out of the gutter — this of course, too — as your means will suffice you. But avoid Cant. Do not think that your life means a mere searching in gutters for fallen figures to wipe and set up. Ten thousand and odd to one it does not mean and should not mean that. In our life there is really no meaning at all that one can lay hold of, no results at all to sum up, except the work we have done. Is there any other? I see it not at present. "Ye voices of the past! Oh, ye cut my heart asunder with your mournful music out of discord; your prophetic prose grown poetry. Ay de mi! But what can I do with you? This day I actually ought to try if I could get to work. Let us try." B y the next day he had, "and without results. Da hab' ich keinen Tag [This is not my day]. M y thoughts lie around me all inarticulate, sour, fermenting, bottomless, like a hideous, enormous bog of Allan — a thing ugly, painful, of use to no one. W e must force and tear and dig some kind of main ditch through it. All would be well then: growth, fertility, greenness, and running water — a business that will not do itself, that must be done. Oh, what a lazy lump I am!" ( Froude, III, 222-224 ). While Carlyle struggled for expression, Alexander received the following letter from their half brother in Canada. ·

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164. From, John Carlyle Brantford sepr 28 1841 Dear brother this day is wet and I am not verry busey it came into my mind the lenth of time since I heard from you or any of my friends in Scotland I considered we had not been brotherly I have been here four years and has only secured one letter from Scotland I wrote to you about twelve months ago and I believe you received it because I got two newspapers in return one from you and one from my Brother Thos: and I was in hopes to get letters likewise but disapointed however I begin to give you some account of the blessings that I have been favoured with the first and greatest earthy blessings we have of has granearly [generally] enjoyed good health and we have got plenty of every thing around here a good stock of cattle plenty of swine and pultry and plenty of produce for the suport of both man and beast althou the summer has been verry dry crops genearly light but the wheat is the best in quality that I have seen since I came here and brings a better price than it has for the last twoo years past wheat 5/" rye 2/" oats 1/6 Barly 2/6 potatos 1/6 sterling money and winchester measure beef and muton 2d 1/2 butter 6d pr pound hay is £-1-16 pr ton cattle is verry low at present because it is thought that foder will be scarce this winter the lease of my farm expires at Newersday I have not taken it again nor no other place yet there is farms that I can rent but I have not made up my mind yet whether I rent or buy a place it is just as I get a chance there is a great track of land here that has still been in the possession of the Indians but the[y] have surendered it up to the British go vent the[y] are now surveying it and when don if [it] will be for sale there is a great many of the lots has got smal improvements on them and the white people has to buy the improvement of the Indian then the[y] have the first offer of the land from goverment any man that wants land he has a good chance at present a fine country on each side of the grand revere where thire is Navagation and a good market not like the disconvenince of buying land back in the wild wood where there is no improvement no road to convey your product to market

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when you get it I think if you were here in the Spring of the year you might ly your money out to some advantage I think you might get a sutuation where you could make a comfortable living but I leave that to your own opinion because when people comes here the change is great and if the[y] are not fortunate to get along well the[y] imediatedly lay the whole of the blame on the individual that encuraged them this is a good country for an industrus man but a rich man is better at home any person that is living comfortable at home the[y] had better content themselves because if the[y] come here the[y] may get landed property but if the[y] are not content it so hard to make all into money agan to return home Dear brother you will have the goodness to give my kind love to Mother brothers and sisters nephews and nieces and all inquiring frinds say that I am well and all my family and I hope these few scribled lines will find you all in the same way and let us not forget to return thanks and praise to the giver of al good gifts for the manyfold mercies and Blessings that he has been pleased in his great goodness to confer upon poor unworthey mortals as we are Dear brother you will certainly write to me again and let me know how you are and all my friends both of my father and mothers side and all the particlars of the place of my birth tell my brother Thos that I will be verry hapy to get a letter from him I truly expected one when he sent me the newspaper you can scarcely conceive what pleasure it gives to hear from my friends and native country when placed here at such a great distance from them I have almost seen no people from Dumfshire since I came here there is a great many from Roxburghshire and farther Northward I almost forgot to mention that the Governor Generali 1 for this Province Died last week he was a good reformer and proposed good measures if he had been spared to get them into oparation Dear brother my sheet [is] most done I shal conclude with a desire that you will fullfil the requests that I have made here your affect Brother John Carlyle 1. Charles Edward Poulett, first Baron Sydenham (b. 1799). His death, September 19 at Kingston, resulted from a fall from his horse.

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i65. Chelsea, 19 Octr, 1841 My dear Alick, Thanks for your good little Letter; which was very welcome here. I had one from John the same day; I sent yours on to him, for we had yet neither of us got any word; I have this morning had a second line from the Doctor: both these, as an apology for this scrap of my own, I will now inclose to you. There has a Letter also just come from Jean at Dumfries, reporting all well; and yesterday I had a very short Note from Jenny herself, whom my Mother and Jamie had that same day been over to see. Nothing, it seems, is far wrong among you; for which I am very thankful. Jamie's harvest must be a heavy handful to him at present; I wish he were handsomely thro' it, poor fellow! Today and yesterday the wind is brisk from the North, and I have got a fire lighted here: there was wet, however, in the night; and it continues still the worst weather I have ever seen here. — Wheat, it seems, after all the 'grand harvest' reported in the Newspapers, is 'threshing very light': no doubt of it; how can wheat prove "heavy'! It is a dismal-looking season for innumerable poor people in our country, this that we are now entering on. We find by a Letter lately that poor Lord Jeffrey has been dangerously ill, and still continues very weak; not likely to be in order again, I conjecture, all winter. He is in this country, with his Daughter 1 and Son-in-law; some twenty miles north of London. I wrote something to Jamie about Alison's Carlisle Tobacco. Do not mind it; it will but confuse you, — unless there be a clear opportunity. In which case truly I suppose the real man to apply to were not Alison but the Whitehaven Tobacconist: his Tobacco as I used to get it fresh from you was better than Ewart's, — stronger and as genuine. We are well enough; I still struggling to get ground broken in my work, — or as Tom Garthwaite when lame, 'to work out the stress,' and get along like a real worker! May all go well with you, my dear Brother, for this world and for the next! Ah me! — But there is not another scrap of room or time. Yours ever affectionately, T. Carlyle

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1. Charlotte, only daughter of Jeffrey and Jeffrey's second wife, the former Charlotte Wilkes, daughter of Charles Wilkes of New York. In 1838 Miss Jeffrey had married William Empson (1791-1852), contributor to the Edinburgh Review and professor of "polity and the laws of England" at East India College, Haileybury. He became editor of the Edinburgh Review upon the death of Napier in 1847. Alison is unidentified.

166. Chelsea, 27 Deer, 1841 My dear Brother, Inclosed along with this you will find an order on the Ecclefechan Post-Office for two sovereigns; which I want you to dispose of as follows. The first sovereign you are to break into two halves; and present a half-sovereign each to your little Tom and little Jane as a newyear's gift from their Uncle at London, with the strict injunction that they are "to be good bairns." So much for the first. The second sovereign I want you [to] take and distribute among the neediest objects in Ecclefechan, at this bitter season of the year, in this bitter time of general want, which I doubt not is felt as keenly with you as in almost any other part of the Kingdom. Poor unfortunate bodies, shivering with cold and hunger! I wish I had a hundred sovereigns to send them; but alas I have not. You are to follow your own judgement in regard to this poor unit of a coin; and distribute it in shillings, or how you like, so as to relieve the most misery with it that you can. Every mortal who is not himself starving ought, in this time, to do what is in him for alleviating the fierce distress of his fellow creatures. Today I find a very melancholy Note from Jamie. Tell him I sympathize deeply with what he and all of them are suffering; that I wait with anxiety for farther tidings about poor little suffering Tom! — Jack, who was as usual with us last night, and was speaking about the matter, shall see the Note today. I am trying to be busy writing; and shall get forward, I dare say, by and by. Meanwhile it is but confused puddling work; — a terrible cairn of stones and rubbish to sort, and see what building you can make of

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it! I must persist, in spite of discouragements, disappointments, difficulties never so many. Here as elsewhere a man is set down to conquer difficulties; to shovel rubbish out of his way, and pick what stones will suit him for building, and build with them! — We know not whether you persist in your emigration scheme; — or perhaps you keep it lying silent, not speaking of it to anybody till it come to more ripeness either for Yes or No. My dear Brother, may a good Guidance assist and direct you! That is all I can say. A man's life, more especially in such days as ours, is beset with impediments, confusions, sins and miseries: it behooves him now if ever to stand up to it like a man. Not with mad violence, which will profit nothing, but with sober valour and determination, — with patience, humility, in which alone will true light arise for him. — It is thought the Government have a scheme of emigration: but without removal of the CornLaws it will not be supported well. — Adieu, dear Brother. Jane is well, and salutes you all. Yours ever T. Carlyle

167. Chelsea, 5 Feby, 1842 Dear Alick, Thanks for your little Letter; which was well worth writing. It is a pity not to take a little snip of paper and lay out a penny in such cases! I had come to understand in some vague way that the unfortunate Hanning had sent tidings of himself, tho' I knew not of what kind. There came one day this week a huge Newspaper from New York, price 2 pence; the meaning of which was at first a mystery: but on looking more intently at the address (especially at a wrong spelling in it) I began to recognise the hand of poor Rob, and the truth dawned on me into conviction! Two days afterwards there came (I think, addressed by Jean from Dumfries — contrary to all laws of Postage!) a second American Newspaper called Netvburgh Gazette: Jean, I suppose, had received that Note of Existence for her share. — There was a Letter from Jenny at Gill, last night along with yours; but at that time

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she had not received the Letter: indeed as I find on computing, she had not then had time. The "head-ostlership," tho' certainly none of the most brilliant appointments, will perhaps do as well as a better one for such a luckless Gomeral. He has proved himself unfit to be a master in any sort, master even of himself: it will literally be good for him that he be a servant, and kept safe in subjection, till he learn a variety of essential things. His appointment to that servile condition, if he execute it well, may really be the beginning of good to him. Jenny, I hope, has no idea of venturing so far away on that basis, till she see farther! — You are right in supposing that I am and have been very busy. I have begun a kind of Book on Oliver Cromwell, and know not how in the world I shall get it written. Nay it is not properly begun yet ( for I burn all that I write ) ; but I must begin it, and must end it. I shall have a terrible fight, for I know not how long; — and be a poor correspondent, I doubt, but will get your excuses as before. I wrote to my Mother this day week; — or rather she got my Note this day week. I here enclose you the answer above spoken of. In a most small note of Jenny's addressed to the Doctor, which I retain for tomorrow, Jenny says our Mother "has been poorly": what is this? Jenny adds that she is "now better." I wish I heard more especially, more minutely. Jane stands the wild weather we have had better than I have often seen her do. I too go grumbling along, take large walks into the country, keep myself silent, do the best I can to get work out of myself! — On Saturday last, as you will perhaps hear otherwise, Jack and I were, among a crowd of people, presented to His Majesty of Prussia!1 Did you ever hear the like? — When you write to Leith you had better bid those Wine-merchants send us a dozen of port and a dozen of sherry, of a kind they can call genuine: it might, as I now find, be no bad wine at the price you mentioned; our merchants here are enormously over-dear. These people seem very respectable; their brandy, which we have now fairly tested, is excellent. — Dear Alick, not a word more. It is past three, and I must out. Affectionate salutations to your own household, to Scotsbrig and the rest. Ever yours T. Carlyle

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l. Christian Karl Josias, Baron von Bunsen (1791-1860), philologist, theologian, and since 1841 Prussian ambassador at the court of St. James, presented, besides Carlyle and John, Archdeacon Julius Charles Hare (1795-1855), Thomas Arnold of Rugby, and a host of London Germans to Frederick William IV on January 29. Milnes had introduced Carlyle to Baron von Bunsen in 1839. See Froude, III, 155, and Frances von Bunsen, A Memoir of Baron Bunsen (London, 1868), I, 520-525.

168. Chelsea, Monday, 7 feby 1842 Dear Alick, — Here is a much smaller piece of paper than even the last! But I have a pair of stamps to send you; — and will add my salutations with the new week. Last Saturday being in great haste, and no stamps here, I took your Letter in my pocket, hastily flung it in as I passed an office; and reflected about a quarter of an hour after, with a kind of "shock," that I had forgotten

to frank it; nay that I had come out with a new pair of

trowsers on, and no purse in them, and so could not have franked it! The consequence is, I do in all law and reason owe you twopence; and so here are the two stamps; which I beg you will accept, as they are sent, with a kind of solemn smile! Jack dined with us yesterday, as usual; in good health and heart, tho' grumbling about the "absurdity" of his Patient, of his wearisome task, etc. A new edition of the last Book ( on Heroes ) is required; and I have a much better offer for it than ever Fraser gave or would have given. 1 Fraser gave me a poor £.75 for the first edition, which is far the best usually, and a new man now offers me £ 1 0 0 for the second. Of course nobody shall get it for less. I am even thinking to try if I cannot get all my Books taken out of the drivelling hands in which they now lie, forcing their own sale, not in the least assisted by their salesman, who nevertheless swallows some three-fourths of the whole produce for his trouble! W e shall see about it. — I find myself, one

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way and another, several hundred pounds poorer than I expected to be at this date; so that the new £ 100 is a welcome enough supply just now. Independent of it I was not in any strait or anxiety about money ( thank Heaven for that! ) — but Mall must be kept in shaft too, and that is a business of perpetual cost here. Peel, it is thought, will make an effectual operation on the Corn Laws; whereby some improvement of trade seems possible before long. He is not going to work in Emigration just at present; and I suppose [that] is right, — for the radicals are all set against it, and say always, "Why banish us to seek food? Let us seek food freely where we are, and try that!" They will try it accordingly; and not prosper in it, as I guess; and then Emigration will be welcomer. — The distress of the people of Britain this winter, I believe, excels all that they have ever known before. One does not see so much of it immediately in this quarter, or indeed in this City at all; but I believe it is deep and desperate enough here too. The Spital-Fields Weavers2 live far on the opposite side of [the] City, seven miles from us and more; of them we hear only thro' the Newspapers, like you. But here at Chelsea, for the first time, I notice the garden palings torn up this winter and stolen for fuel, — a bitter symptom, for the people in general are very honest. Poor creatures! — Jean at a Dumfries had a Letter giving some account of what our Prussian Majesty was like, that day. If you have any curiosity, you will see it I doubt not. Our Mother, it seems, is coming home soon. I wish I heard she were home, and well. — Perhaps you have seen that Letter of Johnstone3 the School-master; it is a curious document! I am told his Book is by no means without worth. Our Dame here salutes you all. Remember me to Jenny, to Jane and Tom, — the smaller branches are somewhat indistinct to me. I have written four times as much as I meant. Adieu, dear Brother. — Your affectionate — T. Carlyle Published in part: NL, I, 256-257. 1. James Fraser had died October 2, 1841. Chapman and Hall published the second English edition of Heroes in 1842. D. Appleton and

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Company of New York, publishers of the first ( 1 8 4 1 ) American edition, also published a second, but unauthorized, edition this year. See Dyer, p. 105, and Slater, p. 303. 2. Among the most severely impoverished of the London working classes. 3. Unidentified.

169. Chelsea, Thursday [10 February 1842] 1 Dear Alick, I suppose it will really be best to get some of that of 32/ "Old Crusted" article you speak of, with some sherry which also your Hutcheson2 can recommend: and as our hand is in, and we can get a closet here with lock and key, he may as well send us two dozen of each sort, according to your advice. You [will] therefore communicate with him to that effect, any time you like, — without delay, [i]f you like; and also without haste, if you like. He must pack with amazing accuracy, lest there be breakage! Tell him farther, this worthy Hutcheson, that we depend on his fidelity and judgement altogether in this instance; — he will probably send us a genuine article. You will pay him, and I you; — is not that the best way? Here are two covers with the franks still unexhausted, which came by mistake. Lay them by till the time for use; then seal well! — Our good Mother! I wish to Heaven I knew she were home, and in a good way again! Tell her not to fret herself about me; I am going cannily to work: I do hope to get a Book written by and by, and that is consolation for all sorrows whatsoever. — Good be with you dear Brother; blessings with you all! Your affectionate T. Carlyle If you see Archy Little3 you can give him my address too, and say I should like well to shake hands with him once more. The Dr's address is, as probably you know, 3. Chester Terrace, Regent's Park. — We are well enough all of us still; I keep myself apart, as much as possible, from all company, and leave them all to Jane down stairs. I sup-

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pose I get the reputation of a terribly surly fellow; but cannot help it! — 1. From postmark. 2. A Leith wine and whiskey merchant. See Letter 175. 3. See Letter 55.

• On March 1 the Carlyles were notified that on February 25 Mrs. Welsh had been seized with an apoplectic stroke. Although sick herself, Mrs. Carlyle insisted on leaving for Templand at noon the next day. She got as far as her uncle John's in Liverpool and then learned she need go no farther. Her mother had died the same day she had been stricken. Mrs. Welsh was buried, almost immediately, beside her father at Crawford. Illness prevented Mrs. Carlyle from attending the services, distance her husband, but James was thoughtfully there as his brother's representative. Mrs. Carlyle returned to Chelsea in about a week. Carlyle, who had come to Liverpool as soon as he could, went on to Templand as the executor of Mrs. Welsh's estate. Mrs. Welsh had left Craigenputtock and the rest of her possessions to her daughter, who in her turn settled a lifetime pension on Margaret Hiddlestone, her mother's servant. Carlyle entertained the notion of retaining Templand, the lease of which still had several years to run, for a summer home, but his wife would not hear of it. In accord with her wishes, then, he and Helen Welsh sorted out the few heirlooms Mrs. Carlyle wished to retain and arranged to sell the rest of the effects at a public auction held April 12. Carlyle took his final leave of Templand three days later, went down to Scotsbrig to conduct from there what business remained for his attention, and left for Chelsea May 4. On the way, on May 6 and 7, he paid the visit to Dr. Arnold that Arthur Penrhyn Stanley ( 18151881), later dean of Westminster, mentioned in The Life and Correspondence of Thomas Arnold, D.D., 2 vols. (London, 1844), II, 308, and surveyed Naseby Field with him and members of his family, an experience he described shortly after in a letter to Jean ( see Froude, III, 254-255). He arrived home the evening of May 7, and in the weeks that followed tried to console his wife and bring Cromwell forward. ·

538 LETTERS ACHOSS THE SOLWAY 170. Chelsea 1 july, 1842 My dear Brother, Matters go on very lazily with me today, and I am very far from having accomplished anything like a day's work yet: nevertheless I will not omit, before going farther, to send a line of answer to your Annandale news of this week. There was a Letter from you, one from Jamie, and a beautiful little drop of utterance and intelligence from our Mother. A blessed spirit reigns in what she says; it is touching and beautiful, that way she has of looking at the world. I like to hear her, to think of her far away in the little room at Scotsbrig yonder. You shall have this little Note to read to her when she comes to the Preaching next. Nothing new occurs with us here. Jane is still altogether weakly, but she grows better; Time alone can alleviate that kind of sorrows. She is left very lonely in this world now; her kindred mostly gone; very few of the people vaguely called "friends" worth much to her! It would be better for her, also, if she had more imperative employment to follow: a small part of the day suffices for all her obligating work; and the rest, when she cannot seek work for herself, is apt to be spent in sorrowful reflexions. Her good cheerful little Cousin1 is still here. We must hope for gladder days. I know not if I ever mentioned to you that the Wine from Leith was all found right; and the two bottles of it we have tried were of satisfactory quality; — wanting nothing but time to make it excellent; which want it is likely to get supplied, for we use very little of it, or of any drink whatever. The carriage of the Templand things, I ought to have told you too, amounted in all to something above £10; Jane thought it cheap; I knew not whether cheap or dear, for the accurate weight never was specified to me. Let me add that I yet hear no farther word from His Grace;2 and am determined to let him have his time: I regret only that I had not flung the whole matter at his feet straightway, and thereby saved myself an infinitude of vain clatter and fash: — but that would not have been right either. All will be right by and by! Jack comes to us, as usual, once a week; he seems altogether well

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and in good spirits: he is growing fast rich in money, but has little other possesion, poor fellow. He does not kick against the pricks too much. Perhaps for him too better things are in store. As for me I keep within doors very much; in the warm blazing days I do not stir out at all till nightfall, and then make a long solitary excursion. I have never suffered much from the heat yet; tho' this summer is called one of the warmest, — and I hope will bring a good crop for one thing! However, for the last three weeks we have veiled weather, and sometimes (last night, for example) pretty free showers of rain. — The distress of the country appears to mount higher and higher; London I believe is freer of it than most towns: what the issue or the remedy is to be no mortal knows. Alas, it is needless accusing Peel; we are all to blame; we have forgotten what was right and reasonable, seeking after Mammon, vanity, and our own lusts; we have travelled long on that path, and it leads us towards ruin, as the like has ever led all men, and ever will lead! My work makes no appearance at all on paper yet; but perhaps it will some day. I do not give it up, I wriggle and struggle along after it, endeavouring the best I can: it is not a pleasant stage of labour, to see nothing above ground: but the pleasant stage will perhaps come yet! Let us try. I have got into the way of always sending off the Dumfries Courier to poor John Carlyle in Canada; I suppose it may be a kind of benefit there. I myself hardly ever spend 15 minutes over it, — mere froth and clatter not worth reading. Tell my dear Mother I will write soon to herself. Remember me to your own Jenny, to little Jane and my faithful Postman Tom. Good be with you all; I wish and pray for your good! Adieu, dear Brother; God keep you and assist you in all things. Your affectionate T. Carlyle Published in part: N L , I, 265-266. 1. Jeannie, daughter of John. 2. The Duke of Buccleuch, perhaps in reference to £ 100 he owed to the estate of Mrs. Welsh. See Wilson, III, 163.

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• On August 5 Carlyle received and accepted an invitation from Stephen Spring-Rice, commissioner of the board of customs, to accompany him and his younger brother Charles on an official cruise to Belgium. The brothers were sons of Thomas Spring-Rice, first Baron Monteagle of Brandon (1790-1866), chancellor of the exchequer during Lord Melbourne's second administration and at this time chairman of the board of customs. Their sister was the wife of James Marshall, a son of Carlyle's friend John of Leeds. The party left on August 6 by a Thames steamer for Margate Roads, sailed with the morning tide on the admiralty revenue cutter Vigilant, and landed at Ostend before noon. After an afternoon of sightseeing they caught the train for Bruges and Ghent. At five the following evening they left Ghent for Ostend and England, and at about one in the morning sailed back out into the North Sea. Although they should have arrived at Margate easily by eleven that same morning, they were becalmed and did not see even her lights until nightfall. The wind rose finally on the day after, the tenth, and carried them in a rush up the river to Deptford, from where the ship's gig took them on up to London. The day after her husband's return Mrs. Carlyle was able to act on a prior invitation she had received from Mr. and Mrs. Buller to join them at their son Reginald's parsonage at Troston for a change of scene. Carlyle remained behind to record his "Notes of a Three-Days' Tour to the Netherlands. August, 1842," which the younger Alexander Carlyle later edited for the Cornhill Magazine, 53, N.S. (October and November 1922), 493-512, 626-640, and to resume his reading for his work on Cromwell. At the end of the month he followed his wife into Suffolk, from Troston ranged out to Ely, St. Ives, Cambridge, and Bury St. Edmunds, and with Mrs. Carlyle returned to Chelsea to try to express what had come to seem inexpressible. On October 25 he wrote in his Journal, "I have not got one word to stand upon paper in regard to Oliver." Nothing in the past had caused him this kind of difficulty and he had grown desperate: "I seem to myself at present, and for a long while past, to be sunk deep, fifty miles deep, below the region of articulation, and, if I ever rise to speak again, must raise whole continents with me. Some hundreds of times I have felt, and scores of times I have said and written, that Oliver is an impossibility; yet I am still found at it, without any visible results at all. Remorse, too, for my sinful, disgraceful sloth accompanies me, as it well may. I am, as it were, without a language. Tons of dull books have I read on this matter, and it is still only looming as through thick mists on my eye. There looming, or flaming visible — did it ever flame, which it has never yet been made to do — in what terms am I to set it forth? I wish often I could write rhyme. A new form from

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centre to surface, unlike what I find anywhere in myself or others, would alone be appropriate for the indescribable chiaroscuro and waste bewilderment of this subject" ( Froude, III, 279-280 ). It was the condition of England that stood in his way. He could not bury himself in the past when the present urgently needed his voice. Throughout the land men willing to work had no work to do. There was famine in the North. There were "two millions of men sitting in Poor-Law Bastilles," he later wrote Sterling, who "seem to ask of every English soul, 'Hast thou no word to say for us?' " ( NL, I, 281 ). Carlyle had seen not only Cromwell's house and the fields he had tilled and reaped at St. Ives, but also a sampling of those two millions at the workhouse there. He had spoken with the old Mildenhall man who told him that the farm laborers for want of milk took "a little hot water with salt and pepper mixed to soak their bit of bread in, and breakfast on that!" ( NL, I, 271 ). He had noticed his own garden palings at Chelsea torn up and stolen for fuel. Before him daily was the news of local rioting, and the Manchester Insurrection, and a legislative body seemingly more intent on fox and grouse hunting than repealing the hated corn laws, which Carlyle considered largely behind it all. Now, in Jocelyn de Brakelond's Chronica and Eadmer's Historia Novorum in Anglia, to which he had turned after seeing the ruins of the Benedictine monastery at Bury St. Edmunds, he found the texts he needed to expose the evils of his own age and from them formulated the context for his word for the poor, Past and Present ( London, 1843). ·

171. Chelsea, 13 Novr, 1842 My dear Brother, You heard by the Letter sent to Scotsbrig that all your good things arrived safe here, and were welcomed with affection and gratitude as proofs of your continued affection for us. I have never yet answered your Letter, but this too gave me great pleasure: alas, we cannot speak much to one another; but I know you never cease to feel all that is brotherly for me; I can know that by what I feel within myself. Thanks for all these kind gifts; and as the old Proverb says, "May ne'er waur be amang us!" Jane praises her peppers as excellent; and every morning I hear the

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celebration of the Ham, — and indeed practically join in the same. We are getting steadily thro' it by instalments; one junk boiled after another: it is a piece of good stuff, and very wholesome for poor dyspeptic people. I would all that need it had but the like. — You never told me what the price of the Tobacco was; nor perhaps will you ever, if I were to ask! But that was a thing ordered in the regular commercial way; and therefore I must guess some price, that I may be able freely to apply again. It is the best tobacco I have smoked for a year past; — and very busy I am with it in these very days. Always when the writing gets "stiff t' ye rise," the pipe is sure to go rapidly! — The cheapest price for tobacco here at present is 5/ a pound: they have raised it, the dogs, on account of some new Excise regulations that prevent them from adulterating it with sugar. At this rate, the 4 lbs will just be a sovereign; for which sum I accordingly insert a Post-office order here. If there be any overplus (which I do not think likely), you can give it to Tom to buy bowls with. My invincible Postman; of the most illustrious punctuality! I hope he is daily growing a better scholar, and means to be a credit to the name. Yesterday there came a Letter from my good Mother and Jamie, which I was very thankful for: pray tell them that I will answer without much loss of time. My dear good Mother: her little bits of Letters are always precious to me! She1 hangs,up here on the wall now, over the Mantel-piece, on my right hand, while I write; she seems always to be looking down, wishing me good speed! — My writing, after a terrible haggle, does begin to move a little, tho' a very little: I have to be thankful for the day of small things;2 I must beat lustily while the metal is redhot; — I have very little time to write anything else. The Dr said he had heard from you. Two little Notes from him have come since he left you: he is now at a place called Cheltenham, some 80 miles off this, and speaks of perhaps being back here "about the end of the month." I believe he has much weariness to front where he is; he keeps all his thoughts in a kind of abeyance, and merely clatters: that is the reason too why his Notes are so brief and barren. If he should ever chance to take a notion of marrying, he might still start practice, and become a physician and householder; but this, I suppose, grows more and more unlikely. We have all much reason to

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love him; and to be glad for his sake, that so many things have gone well with him. I had a small scrap of a Note too from Jenny, who seemed to [be] going off to Dumfries for a few days. Once, a while ago, there came an American Newspaper; which, with great effort, I conjectured at last to have come from the poor Luckless Rob. I am sorry for the wretched slut of a creature; but he has the enemy within his own self: what can, in that case, be done for him! — Jenny, I take it, is not very happy at Gill; but she seems diligent, thrifty and peaceable. Perhaps she will be able by and by to chalk out for herself some freer path: she is coming over to our Mother for a while, which I am very glad of; you will then have more opportunity of ascertaining how matters stand with her. Your business, there is little doubt, must have been greatly obstructed by the miserable slate of business generally for many months back. There never was such a time, by all accounts, since England was a country. There have been frightful dearths and natural scarcities in old times: but all is abundant at present, and nobody can get it! Things are getting to such a frightful pass, most people begin to perceive that there must be a change before long. It would not surprise me to see the Com Laws off, before we be very much older! That will probably give a great excitement to every kind of business: but, alas, it will be very far from settling the sad account of matters. We are all gone far astray; we have forgotten (which of us has not forgotten?) what his real course as a man and Immortal Soul was; have run after money, money, and one folly and another; — till the general sum of our errors has become great indeed! — I hold my peace in general about all that; there is small use in talking. Let us all repent, and amend. Let each of us for himself do it: — that is the grand secret! — You would notice the death of poor Allan Cunningham3 in the Newspapers. It was and is a real sorrow to us. Of late years I did not see very much of him; but always when we did meet, he was blithe to me like an elder Brother: a right truehearted brave man! He had a steep and rugged enough pilgrimage, and might have run to wreck often enough, had he been other than a wise true-seeing man. Poor Allan! I saw him on the street about three weeks ago, and spoke a word

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or two with him; I shall never see him more now. He died of apoplexy, quite suddenly; it was the second shock he had had, and ever since the first he had been "numb and weak," as he would sometimes tell me. He meant always to get back to green native Nithsdale; but it was not to be! Adieu, dear Brother; I must not scribble any more at present. Jane sends her kind wishes and regards to all of you. Good ever be with you all! Your affectionate T. Carlyle ι. The oil painting by Maxwell of Dumfries, completed in October. A black and white reproduction of it is in NL, II, facing 274. 2. Cf. Zech. 4:10. The word "redhot" in the following clause suggests, because of its repeated association with Past and Present in Carlyle's letters, that Carlyle took time out from his writing of that work, not Cromwell, to write this letter to Alexander. Other matters, which I have cited in "Dating the Writing of Past and Present," Notes and Queries, 14 (October 1967), 370-371, support this reservation. The date of this letter, then, suggests a date earlier than scholars have given as to when Carlyle began Past and Present. 3. On October 30. "I never heard of it till yesterday afternoon," he wrote John November 2, "and then, as you may fancy, with a painful shock. I went up directly to leave a card for the poor Widow. It was then after dark: in an upper window behind white curtains glowed a light, very visible from the street: there, I said to myself, lies the mortal hull of my poor brave Allan!" (NL, I, 277).

172. Chelsea, 28 deer, 1842 My dear Brother, Here is a Paper which I hope you will get exchanged for a couple of Sovereigns before Saturday, and give them to our two Namesakes, Jane and Tom, — from their Aunt and Uncle "at London." You may safely add as many heartiest good wishes, for the New year's season, and for all seasons, as your own heart can dictate! Good be ever with these Two, and with all that belong to you, is and must remain while

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life remains, your Brother's prayer. — We will say also, and wish, as poor Edward Irving used to do, "May the worst of our years be past." We have had some rather rough years, but we must not complain. — I here am in a terrible hurry; writing daily: I hope before long to have something ready for printing, — tho' not the thing I was chiefly meaning. I live in almost perfect solitude; avoiding all people, or almost all: it is the only way to get forward with work. A small Letter arrived from Jenny and Scotsbrig the other night; which I was very glad of. Our good Mother is reported as tolerably well; Jenny's presence with her is comfortable for me to think of in these winter days. I will write to my dear good Mother too before much time go. — Jack was here last night; we had a Poet here, a very clever man called Alfred Tennyson;1 and Jack, and a friend named Darwin, both admirer's of Alfred's, "came to see." We had a pleasant little evening. Alfred is a right hearty talker; — and one of the powerfullest smokers I have ever worked along with in that department! Our Welsh Attorney2 had sent a leg of Welsh Mutton, unsurpassable in quality, and a magnificent but to us uneatable Goose: there was a dinner for the party, — a party needed for the dinner. — Jack is in perfect order; as lively and brisk as I have seen him for a long while. James Stewart of Gillenbie was here about three weeks ago: he had come mainly to see one Jardine,3 an enormous Laird from Applegarth Parish and China, and a very good man; who is understood to be dangerously ill at present. I have heard nothing special about Ecclefechan or its business; but I fear in general that things cannot be going well there. Perhaps some temporary improvement is not at a great distance now. People here calculate on it as possible that Peel may abrogate the Corn-Law this very year. The next year is the latest date almost anybody assigns it. Very evidently it is fast going now; rushing down like an undermined house! — Yesterday, the Member ViUiers,4 a very pitiful little person, whose name you may see in Corn-Law debates, — had called here, and left his address, while I was out. My notion is he means to engage me too in the service "of the League"; to "lecture" for him, or the like. I am already engaged for a far bigger League (that of the oppressed

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Poor against the idle Rich; that of God against the Devil); and will answer No to Villiers. Dear Brother, I have not another inch of room, minute of time. May God's blessing be ever with you: that is my heart's prayer. Ever your affectionate T. Carlyle Published in part: NL, I, 279-280. χ. Whom Carlyle had most likely met in 1839. See Charles Tennyson, Alfred Tennyson (London: Macmillan and Company, 1950), p. 176, and Charles Richard Sanders, "Carlyle and Tennyson," PMLA, 76 (March 1961), esp. 82. Darwin was the naturalist's brother, Dr. Erasmus Alvey Darwin (1804-1881), whom Carlyle respected for his "quiet intelligence, retirement of manners, and purity of life" (Espinasse, p. 231). Carlyle saw Charles on occasion at Erasmus' house. See, besides Froude, Wilson, and NL, Sir Francis Darwin, The Life and Letters of Charles Darwin . . . (London, 1887), I, 77-78. 2. Charles Redwood of Llandough, an admirer. He had earlier this year invited Carlyle to his home, but Carlyle was not able to accept until July 1843. See Letters 185 and 188. 3. William Jardine, head of Jardine, Matheson and Company, a London firm of East India merchants, and uncle to Sir Robert Jardine, first baronet (1825-1905). Sir Robert traveled with his uncle to China, succeeded him as head of his company, and inherited his extensive property holdings in Perthshire and Dumfriesshire. 4. Charles Pelham Villiers (1802-1898), since 1835 M.P. for Wolverhampton. He was highly instrumental in effecting repeal of the corn laws.

173· Chelsea, Wednesday [22 February?1 1843] My dear Brother, Here is an Order for Two pounds on Postie; which cash when you have got into your hands, I wish you to dispose of it for me as follows: One pound to Mary Carlyle, our poor Cousin, whose Weaver husband and household must be, I fear, in a state of unusual wreck at present. She comes into my head sometimes; and I say, Why dost thou not

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assist her according to thy poor means? — I would have you give her the money without mentioning much of me, — without mentioning me at all, if you could help it; — simply as a gift that comes to her from Providence by your hands. Poor creature: one cannot assist her or hers: nobody can. The other pound I wish you to cut into two halves: give five shillings each to poor Rob Scott and the poor old Plate Morrison, if they are still alive; — the remainder, in such proportions as you like, to such wretched objects as you think may be most benefited by it. My heart is sore for them. I send this to buy myself some ease from pain; I cannot call it charity at all. Be you my Almoner, — as I think you once before were. And may a blessing be in the poor mite, far beyond its own value! This morning I sent the first portion of my Book off to the Printer. There are still two good weeks or more of right hard labour before the last portion be got written: but the Printer will not overtake me; and I want to be out as soon as possible, that I may have quite done with it. Great things are announced in it, more or less clearly; I hope it may tend to the stirring up of here and there a human soul! My soul, at any rate, is very anxious to have done with it. — I deal with my old Booksellers2 (present ones, I mean); they are to give me £200 for an Edition of 2,000 Copies; — which is no great shakes of a bargain; but I cannot go hawking about for a better. Yesterday there came a Note from Jenny; for which, and the news it brought, I am very thankful. Tell our good Mother to keep out of the cold! We have had rigid grim weather even here, tho' it is now gone again in mud and thaw. Jane keeps pretty well; the young lady from Manchester3 is still here. Jack was well and brisk on Sunday. I am in good heart for my Book; and able for the rest of it yet. Adieu dear Brother. God keep you all. Your affectionate T. Carlyle 1. March 1 is a possibility, but in view of the remarks in the fourth paragraph about the anticipated completion of Past and Present, which Carlyle completed on March 8 (see C-MSB, p. 2 6 6 ) , this earlier date seems the more probable one. 2. Chapman and Hall. 3. Geraldine Jewsbury.

LETTERS ACROSS THE ATLANTIC 1843-1881

IV

• Early in 1843 it had become clear that Alexander's shop in Ecclefechan had also failed. Again he had to face starting anew. John, who along with the rest of the family sought to counsel him, was particularly candid in his letter to him of March 22, which Alexander's grandson John transcribed in part in his "Family History": "From the first I never had strong hopes of your succeeding at Ecclefechan and for years past I have felt convinced that you would never be able to do any good there. Your occupation and circum[s]tances have obviously been as ill-adapted for you and as ungenial as one could well conceive, and also totally unsuited for your family. I am therefore glad that you persist in the resolution of quitting at Whitsunday next and seeking some other better way of gaining a livelihood. What you are to do is a question you must, of course, mainly decide for yourself. Canada has many drawbacks, especially at present, and perhaps it might be better to seek some farm work at home. . . . In your former trials at Craigenputtock and Catlinns the times were against you and partly hindered your success, but I think there also was considerable mismanagement in various respects on your part that had a share in your failure, and that you yourself would be ready to acknowledge, and anxious to avoid in future. . . . Look at things actually as they are and fearlessly, for if a man is not true to himself in that respect it is impossible to give him any effectual help. He will not fail in all his undertakings." Alexander decided to quit Scotland and try America. Carlyle expressed his thoughts on Alexander's decision in the letters that follow. His anxiety is manifest in their number as well as their content. ·

174. Chelsea, 4 May, 1843 My dear Brother, Yesternight the Parcel which your Letter had announced came safe to hand: all right, and the charge only 5/6. We found the fowls still uninjured; we were at the ham this morning, and you are to tell our dear kind Mother, till she be better thanked, that it is of first-rate quality, as good a ham as we ever ate, — and sent, we are sure, with a blessing too. The second, of course, will be like it. Jane has been among

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the Peppers too and sweeties; and the Tobacco is excellent. All is right therefore. Many kind thanks to you all. We rejoice to hear of Jenny's happy proceedings, and hope she and the little Newcomer1 will both continue to do well. The poor little Stranger comes into the world in a time of distress and disaster to many, when the Father and Mother themselves are at a loss to what hand to betake them; may it be a blessing nevertheless, and a token that better days are coming! There is not a moment's time for writing today; but I must mention, as our chief piece of news, that Jack did actually set off this morning (Thursday) with a bright sun, and we hope will be safe in Liverpool before this leaves London. He will write to you when to look for him: it will probably be about Tuesday or Monday, according as the Steamer suits. He is full of desire to advise and further you in your procedure at present. We have often talked together about what was possible for you: the fruit of all is, that the resolution, whatever it is, must be your own, and that it beseems good brothers to forward you with all heartiness therein. May Wisdom guide your counsels, my dear Brother, and may Good come of it and not Evil, if God will! — Not a word more today. — Ever your affectionate T. Carlyle l . Alexander ( 1 8 4 3 - 1 9 3 1 ) , w h o was graduated in science w i t h honors from the University of Toronto and taught in several of the Ontario secondary schools. H e afterwards sailed to E n g l a n d , in the summer of 1 8 7 9 married his cousin M a r y Aitken, and w i t h her devoted himself to serving Carlyle in his old age and his memory after his death. A f t e r Mary died Alexander returned to Ontario and married Lillias M a c V i c a r

(d.

1 9 2 9 ) . A bibliography of his writings on Carlyle is in D y e r , pp. 308310.

175· Chelsea, 19 May, 1843 My dear Brother, I have waited this good while for some leisure moment, wherein I could write to you deliberately; but there seems none such to lie near me yet: so I must write in haste, rather than not at all. I must at least

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pay you the Tobacco Merchant's account; that is a plain matter! Here is an order for two sovereigns which I procured yesterday: what residue there is over, after satisfying the Tobacconist, you are to divide equally between Tom and Jane, as a gift from their "Uncle in London." And so, many thanks for your care in this matter, dear Brother. The tobacco is excellent; and came in good stead to me here, the old supplies being out or nearly so. I have begun heartily smoking it now. I forget your Leith Wine and Spirit Merchant's name.1 We are nearly thro' our Brandy here; and can take a little more Wine from him too. We will say two dozen and a half of Port, two dozen of Sherry, and three gallons of Brandy; that will make six dozen bottles in all, and will perhaps be sufficient for one Box. Let the account come along with the articles, and it shall be paid when they arrive. There is no special immediate haste, if the people have not a set of articles they can recommend at the moment: the last were found to be satisfactory, and if they stand at the old price and quality we may deal satisfactorily again. I daresay you will give the necessary orders for all this, and set it in motion for me, with great readiness. And so no more of it at present. Many a time, in these days, do I think of Whitsunday, and the important resolutions and inquiries my Brother must have in his mind at present! You are certainly wise to have done with Ecclefechan at any rate. What is to follow next may be obscure and doubtful enough; but it cannot easily be worse than the certainty was there. Alas, dear Brother, I can do nothing for you at this stage of the business; but be very sorry, very anxious for you, — yet still with good hope. If it please God, a better day shall yet come! Let us press on, nothing daunted: if we can grow wiser by our past errors, they too will not have been in vain! Of the son of Adam there cannot in this world be more required, on the whole, than that he do grow wiser by past mistakes; and be always learning while in this School of Life. It is not in one of us to direct his steps; but in all things we fail and err continually. You will have a roup I fancy in about a week; all will be bustle round you already. The Dr, I suppose, has given you all his ideas: do not adopt them, if they seem unwise to you; the great thing is that your own inner heart went along with the undertaking whatever that

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were. His reports about you are more cheering than I expected. May God turn it all to good, my dear Brother; may God direct you towards what is wisest, best, and strengthen you to do that however difficult it be! I will not continue farther, — even if I had more paper and time. I send my heart's blessing to all of you; and wait with anxiety to hear the result. Ever your affectionate Brother T. Carlyle ι. Hutcheson.

176. Chelsea, Friday Evening 26 May, 1843 My dear Brother, Yesterday I had a Letter from the Doctor, who had seen you as he passed thro' Ecclefechan; you need not doubt but the news he gave me was interesting! You have now finished the sale of your effects in Ecclefechan, this very day you must have been removing from your house, into some other temporary abode; and in a short time, it appears, you are to make a much farther removal, and try the new country over the Sea. My dear Brother, it is a great and painful enterprise; but, I trust in Heaven, it may be a blessed one. My thoughts have been with you constantly in these days; ever and anon the image of poor Ecclefechan, and my good Brother closing his sorrowful battle there, has risen on me strangely thro' whatever I might be looking at here. Courage, my Brother! You will get thro' all these pains and confusions; you will cut your way, like a brave man, into new battleground, and rise into victory yet, if it please God! Few sights I have looked on have been painfuller to me than that of a man with your energies and qualities struggling in such a scene, under such galling impediments, as yours have long been. I have a clear hope that better times, and a more generous fight, are appointed for you in that new home. You will have no miserable Laird or other Fellow-mortal whatever, to ask leave of there; you will, at least, appeal direct to the Great Powers, and ask them whether you deserve to prosper or not. It seems to me a most blessed change; worthy of being purchased at a very great cost of pain.

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The report John gives us of your present mood of mind is very satisfactory. He rather complains that you have not yielded to his scheme of going out to Canada first, and looking at it: this surely was kindly intended on his part; but on the whole both Jane and I are of opinion that your own resolution, for your own behoof, is the wise one. It will be a confused forbidding aspect that the new country offers you; but under that first look, which you will not let dishearten you, there will lie a second look, there will lie all manner of possibilities, which to the brave man will become more and more productive. On the whole, is it not better that you buckle to it, as you mean to do, resolutely, with your whole heart, at once? "There is a puddle at every town-end," says the Proverb: it is better to get thro' that, perhaps, without looking at it farther. I anticipate great things for you in that new way of life; — first of all far better health than you have had lately; healthy honest field-work, far better for the body; and then still more, the awakening of a generous manful hope in your heart and mind, such as has long been absent in these late sorrowful times. Your parting with us all will be painful; yes, dear Brother, it will be a cruel sorrow; but on the whole this too must be borne. Nay you are not to think it a final leave you are taking of any of us: Canada, by Steam and other means, is coming daily closer to Britain; for my share, I see not but it is likelier the whole of them may have to go out to you if times do not mend. There is positively no existence for an industrious tiller of the soil in this country in our day; and the view I have of the days that are coming often makes me shudder! To struggle out one's own life in such a country is dreary; but to leave a quantity of children in such a scene, which grows yearly more unmanageable, is frightful. No; rather consider yourself as the harbinger and pioneer of the others, than as one cut off from them: the blessing of God does rest upon the brave man, who with a sincere wise heart goes forth in the name of God. I remember well, at this moment, the last look I got of Jamie and you, as I went off in the Steamer towards this place some eight years ago. I felt that I was gone from you; but that I had been bound and compelled to go; — that, in the name of Heaven, I must now do and struggle! In the midst of pain, a better feeling rises: it is good for a

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man that he be cast, from time to time, forth from his old refuges, and made to try what his relation with the great seen and unseen Realities is! — I hope yet to see you in Canada some day; and sit by your hearth on ground that belongs to yourself and the Maker alone! — Jack talks of £300 as a sum that you would have a fair chance with, were it lying ready for you on your landing on the other side. I can only say that I will right heartily go halves with him in any such sum that may be considered fittest; and it will be a true tho' small relief to my mind to do so. I know [not] whether I should have spoken to you about this at all; for perhaps he has not yet mentioned it to you, and the consultation may be still incomplete: but I could not help signifying my readiness even before the time. Our poor dear Mother will suffer sore; but you, of course, will do all that is in you to spare her true heart any sorrow that is not inevitable. The good old heart of a Mother! She is the saddest and the tenderest sight we have in this world; one could weep floods of tears, were there not something in it of a sacredness that led one beyond tears. It was the Most High God that made Mothers and the sacred affection of children's hearts: yes, it was He; — and shall it not, in the end, be all well, under His management? It shall be all well; on this side of death, or beyond death. We will pray once more, from our inmost hearts if we can, "Our Father which art in Heaven, thy will be done!" — My dear Brother, I am scribbling here to give some utterance to myself on this occasion; and yet I feel that I have no utterance; that all I can say is but dumb half-utterance; — that in fact I ought to end and hold my peace, and leave you to conceive what it is that I am meaning. You know well enough what I mean! I pray with my whole soul all blessings to be upon you. I bid you be of courage, and quit yourself like a man; I prophesy all good, spiritual and temporal, to you if you do. And so let me not speak another word. You need not answer this at present; you will have enough to do otherwise in these days. — Last week you would receive a Post-office order (or was it the beginning of this week) for two pounds. I think it was not specifically mentioned that one of the pounds was a gift to the poor little Lassie [Laddie] who has just arrived, and is lying asleep on its Mother's knee, little conscious of all this bustle! I hope there will be something for

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snaps to Jane and Tom besides. — I expect to hear very soon from the Doctor again. I send my blessing to you all; and am ever Your affectionate Brother T. Carlyle Published: NL, I, 288-292.

177· Chelsea, 3 1 May, 1843

•

My dear Brother, Your Letter which arrived yesterday (Tuesday) is very sorrowful; yet at the same time resolute, sincere, and on the whole ought to be of good omen to us. A new Note from me can do nothing more than express anew my deep fellow-feeling with you; my exhortation and encouragement to go on bravely, and in this your difficult position to quit you like a man! We have often sore afflictions laid on us, which turn out to be the highest blessings when the results of them are summed up. You have had a dreary time of it for many years; and things without and things within have gone far awry: you are now called as it were to make a revolution, a radical reform; and that is no easy business! But by Heaven's favour it may be a most blessed one. I say often I have known no man so wasted, fettered, and sunk in deep imprisonments as my poor Brother Alick; one of the bravest of men too; — but deficient in patience, in candor of self-examination; too violent, on the whole, for making his way thro' quagmires, and rough boggy ground! My dear Brother, it will be the joyfullest thing that can befal me to hear that you have gained new life and virtue, in these sore trials; that you have risen into victory at last, after all this fighting. It is a change not to be effected without pain, without agony of heart; but it is cheap at any price of pain; it is great and blessed, if it happened in the lowest cottage in Earth; it is a thing wellpleasing in the sight of God and man, and is sure of its exceeding great reward! I forbear to speak farther; for I have often felt that my silence was more eloquent than anything I could say.

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Canada is very vague to you; and unluckily I can throw no practical light on it. If John do not write, did it never strike you to look in by Clow, who I think is in New-York State, — perhaps not far from the road to Hamilton? 1 1 could give you a good Letter to Greig, tho' I think the last failed of an answer. It is represented as a pleasant region ( one ought to see also, whether wholesome or not), and more cultivated and settled than upper Canada. But a man that can till the Earth, what has he to dread when there is free Earth offered him to cultivate, and God's sky and blessing spread over his head? There is something manful and heroic in taking one's stand on that ground; saying, "I will appeal to nobody, but to the Maker over me; He will prosper me, if I do follow His appointments!" I flatter myself with thinking that all your qualities and talents will come out in this new employment far better than they have ever hitherto done. Your children, your little Jane, will be a great treasure to you, yearly growing more valuable in every sense of the word; — how different from the case of children here, in this country which seems doomed. Courage, my dear Brother; stand up to the task, and you will find it doable: "all tasks are like swimming"; 2 the water threatens to drown one; yet dash fearlessly abroad in it, it does not drown you! I augur much good, as the fruit of all these sufferings. Men are not made anew, and reformed into health and life of soul again, without terrible sufferings! Your Brother's affection, his remembrance of your affection to him, remains to you (know this always) while he continues on this Earth. — And so I will say no more, — if I have not even already said too much. The Tobacco, I begin to imagine, was half a stone, not a quarter? In that case, I owe the little Baby a sovereign still for a frock to her. God's blessing be on you all. Your affectionate, T. Carlyle 1. Ontario. 2. Wilhelm Meisters Apprenticeship and Travels, II, 321.

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178. With postscript from Jane Welsh Carlyle Copy of the Letter to Mr Grieg — 1 7 june, 1843 1 The first paragraph is about Mr Colman etc. I write at present to request a very special favour. A Brother of mine, Alexander by name, whom I love much, and am very sad indeed to part with, is about emigrating to America. He is a farmer, of the race of farmers; a man in no wise destitute of due specialties for farming; who nevertheless, like so many others, finds it a too improsperous enterprise in this heavy-laden country; and so, after many years of hesitation, decides at length that he must go and try the business under new conditions, on your side of the Sea. He has a wife and family of young children; he is still in the vigour of life (two years younger than myself); a man of short stature, but of robust force of muscle, impetuous energy of character, exceedingly expert, shifty and adroit in all kinds of rural and miscellanious labour; he will have I understand, some £.500 clear money when he reaches your coasts: with these capabilities and the impartial sky over him, and the impartial earth under him, he must do the best he can! I believe I may venture to add that he is a man of real integrity and veracity; of deep affections, true-hearted honourable spirit; — intrinsically a bit of good Annandale stuff, with perhaps far more of faculty in him than has ever been developed, or in this world is ever likely to be developed now. But your neighbour Mr Clow knows him well, and can give a more impartial account, tho' he also is related to him, being cousin of his wife. My Brothers first aim was towards Upper Canada, but I have advised him to take Cana[n]da[i]gua by the way, and pause till he have examined there. Mr Colman, whom I have consulted on the subject, votes emphatically to the same effect: my Brother determines to do so. He hopes to sail by the Ashburton line ship in a few days, and may reach New York probably within a month after this letter. In three days more I suppose he may be in Canadagua. He is writing by this Steamer to Mr Clow; will hope to find a letter from him

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lying in the Post office at New York. I will give him a Note of your address with my signature to it, in his pocket. If there be any furtherance, guidance, or honest help you can yield this Brother of mine in the present trying state of his affairs — I only say it will be about as true a service done to me as one man can do another. There are few wishes more ardent in me than for a blessing on this Pilgrim and his wayfaring! — Mr Colman fancies he might find some temporary occupation, lease of a farm, charge of a farm, or other convenient means of duly investigating Canadagua for a year or so till he saw where to settle. This also seems to be my Brothers own notion. But I have already said enough. If there be any opportunity of helping, you on the spot will know best what opportunity, — and on various grounds I persuade myself, you will not be slow to use it. And so etc. My 2 dear Alick I pray heaven that the above letter will make your difficult way somewhat smoother for you. — I am sure that Mr Greig is a most kind-hearted man, and for old affections sake will feel strongly disposed to serve you. Nevertheless, in this world one's best help must lie always in oneself — as you and I and every one of our standing, with any grain of sense in his head, cannot have missed to perceive. — — God go with you, and bless you wheresome you go. I might say many things, — sad and encouraging both, — but all that I might say is best summed up in those three words God bless you. I will always think of you with affection and hope that you will do the same by me. Jane Carlyle Published in part: NL, I, 292-294. 1. This notation and the one below it are by Carlyle; the copy of the text of the letter is by Jane Welsh Carlyle. Colman was Henry Colman ( 1 7 8 5 - 1 8 4 9 ) , Unitarian minister, agricultural writer, and late agricultural commissioner of Massachusetts. He was at this time studying the agriculture of Great Britain and in November 1846 went to the continent to make similar studies in France, Holland, Switzerland, and Italy. He published a part of his total report as European Agriculture and Rural

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Economy from Personal Observation (1844), which reached a sixth, and expanded, edition in 1857. z. From Jane Welsh Carlyle.

179· Chelsea, Saturday, 17 june, 1843 My dear Brother, We saw Mr Colman, the Canadaigua American, last night, and had a great deal of talk with him. He is a highly sensible, good-natured, wellbred man; and likely to understand this business specially well, being direct from the spot, and sent hither I believe to inquire about farm matters as a Secretary of some Agricultural society; that being his business when at home. He is clear that the Canadaigua region greatly excels the Hamilton or Upper Canada one: it is a pleasant, fertile and settled country in a higher degree than the other; it is peopled generally with farmers of a much better character (the Hamilton men being given to drink etc.); it has plenty of schools, of mills, markets, is crossed both by a canal and a railway, — has plenty of cross roads too, which are hard and firm with ice in winter, with drought in summer, and "only in a slushy state for about a fortnight in autumn and some four weeks in the thaw of spring." Many of the settlers are Scotch. Farms that touch on the railway or canal have a free market for their butter, poultry etc.; and all farms are within reach of a mill and miller, who buys the grain (not without competition) at a fair price. The main whitecrop grown is wheat. The land generally is fertile; some of it very fertile. It seems to be in the hands partly of small farmer-proprietors; and then there are, besides Mr Grieg and a "Mr Wadsworth" 1 whom he spoke of, some who have large spaces of land, which they subdivide into farms, and let in various ways, or cultivate by agents of their own. Farms, he says, are let usually from year to year; and they are to be had at all times of the year, — some of these large proprietors having always farms on hand, which they are very willing to dispose

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of to a tenant, rather than keep cultivating by themselves or servants. A common way (I think he said, the general way) of letting, is that the landlord furnishes his tenant with all manner of stock etc. ( which is valued in money, by judges appointed, at the entrance on the business); the tenant binds himself to give his landlord a certain proportion of the produce; half of the produce, he seemed to say, was very common; but on worse soils, it is as low as a third: the tenant cultivates in this way for one or more years; and then at the end has to return an equal value of stock, or make it up according to the finding of judges. The farms have, almost all, a portion left in wood; that being the only fuel, — I suppose, the only building material too, that lies convenient: the rest of the ground is all arable, and takes its due rotation: wheat, potatoes etc. You can hire the ploughing of your land, if you have not horses of your own; Farmers' sons and such like are willing to make a little money by doing it for you. It is very common also that a man skilled in farming and with a good character gets a place as manager ( what I called "agent" above ) : the proprietor, living at a distance, gives him a house and provision for himself and family: I think he said, a man and wife with perhaps only one young child would get 300 dollars (£60) a-year beside their keep, — or perhaps it was "with five young children"? I am not clear; but think it is as stated. On the whole, he represented it as decidedly easy for a skilful farming man to find some one or other of these positions for himself; and so to wait for a while, and look about him before purchasing land. My brother and his family, he said, might at any rate, failing all else, board very comfortably for about a guinea a week the whole of them, — I suppose, in some public boarding-house, as the Americans often do: that was the way he himself with his wife had lived while there. The climate he persisted in describing as (steady and) good and wholesome, — no ague known, except perhaps in some "indiscreet reckless person": a wholesome good climate he again and again called it, — tho' children take something of a rush fevever (no, that was not exactly the name!), and other kinds of fever for grown people were by no means unknown. But it is a pleasant airy, green country, he says; with "swift streams" (whether they are all swift or not?); and broken into knolls and moderate hills. Fifty years ago, it was all a wood; and belonged to the State of Connecticut.2 There was never

1843, London 563 much, or perhaps any, pine on it; hickory and hard wood. — This is nearly all I can recollect, dear Alick; and I have tried to state it faithfully, — but it rather seemed to me, as if my informant, tho' evidently a most truthful man, was a little sanguine of temper; so you must make abatement and allowance! The price of land to purchase is not a thing I can state now, tho' he did try to make a guess: my impression rather is that it seemed unexpectedly high for America. The way to get to Canadaigua was altogether simple: directly on landing at New York, either at itìorning or at evening, you would find a Steamer up the Hudson River to Albany, some 10 hours, — the fare, I think, a dollar and a half (6 shillings) per head, children half price: from Albany there was a railway; in 18 hours more (including very frequent stoppages of 15 minutes ) you were at Canadaigua, and the fare not very high. Or you might go by canal, — or by a few stages of railway (which carry you over a hilly country where there are many lochs) and then by canal in three days, — still cheaper. The railway he thought would be best; for it also was not dear. I write you down all this, my dear Brother, because naturally you will like to know even the vague figure of it: but our good Colman undertook to write it all down on paper himself very shortly, and in that shape so soon as I have read it, you shall have it to keep and study. Colman undertakes farther to answer pointedly any questions you may put; he will write you Letters of Introduction to this person and to that (over many parts of the Union), if they were necessary: but he kept repeating that "Mr Greig could do it all"; that you should certainly stop at Canadaigua, and examine it well. As to remitting of money; he supposed it would naturally be by Draft on some Bank at New York, — and you need not take the real money with you even from New York ( if you got your Draft accepted and indorsed there, it might save time), but Greig, who did bank-business too, could manage it all at Canadaigua. We were to take care that the Draft were on a good Bank at New York: but that, I suppose, the Scotch Bankers take care of, and are themselves responsible for. — You were by no means, on your passage to Canadaigua or the like, to bargain with any private party "to take you all the way for a certain sum"; they would weary you out with waiting. — This is all I will say of Colman. This morning also I have written to Greig; and Jane has added a

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Post-script. She is making a Copy of the thing for you. — Tell me, or bid Jack tell me whether you have a right map of New York State, and especially of that part of it; that if not, I may send you one. — Dear Brother, I did not sleep at all last night ( what has not happened with me for years), and now it is about ten o'clock, and I am going to try it again. The Letters are all ready now, let me be asleep or not. You may judge that I have a million of things to say, which this is not the good time for saying! In fact I am very stupid; and in hopes that I shall get some sleep. May God's blessing go with you, my dear Brother! Amen. — T. Carlyle 1. Possibly James Wadsworth (1768-1844) or his brother William, who were owners of and agents for large tracts of land in the townships of Geneseo and Avon. In 1790 they settled south of the town of Geneseo and prospered as agriculturists and land agents. Ultimately they were among the largest of land owners of cultivated ground in the area and the most influential developers of the Genesee country. Outside of his property and agricultural interests, James encouraged and gave financial support to the establishment of county normal academies and the school district library sytem, the preparation of suitable textbooks, and scholarship in public education. He built and endowed the Geneseo public library and reputedly influenced his friend John Jacob Astor to provide for the Astor Library, New York City. James's son James Samuel Wads worth (1807-1864), to whom Greig could have also had reference, fell heir to his father's properties. He managed them until the outbreak of the Civil War, then gave himself over to the Union. He was commissioned brigadier-general of volunteers and saw service at Chancellorsville and Gettysburg, where he was killed. 2. Carlyle was misinformed. These regions belonged to the Massachusetts Colony until 1785, when she ceded to the United States all her territorial holdings beyond her present western boundary. Connecticut held only a narrow strip of land on the New York-Pennsylvania border.

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180. Chelsea, Monday Morning 19 june [1843] No. 2, read the other papers before this. My dear Brother, At going to sleep, as specified in the foregoing paper, I left the Letters for America (Mr Greig's Letter, and another of small consequence) in charge to Jane to put into the Post-Office; all sealed and ready: the Letter for yourself was left also all ready only not sealed. Jane omitted to take your Letter; so here it still lies, — and I now today add this little Postscript before sealing. I went to bed, as stated, about 1 1 o'clock; by degrees fell sound asleep, and awoke in great astonishment about seven in the evening! Your Letter still lay here unsealed; but the American Letters had been most punctually put into the Post-Office in good time. Well, I thought it was all right; I went out and walked in the twilight etc. : but just at going to bed I incidentally learned that poor Jane had put in the American Letters indeed, but never dreamed of paying the shilling apiece for them! There they were therefore, lying hard and fast in the Dead Letter Office, the Post-Office sealed till Monday morning, and the Mail Steamer sure to sail from Liverpool without them! I hardly remember a more provoking circumstance; poor Jane was in despair: we knew not what to do. I got a reasonable sleep in the night, however; and next morning early sallied forth, in one direction after another, to see whether something could not still be done. After several fruitless attempts, I went at last to one Mr Baring1 one of Peel's Ministry (whom John knows about); he undertook, if I would write another Letter, to get it still sent off that night by the Government Bag, which was to depart in the evening and still be in time for the Steamer. I directly wrote another Letter to Mr Greig, explaining the mischance, referring him to Clow for the particulars of your situation, promising the Letter itself by the next Steamer (4th of july), and in the meanwhile recommending you to his furtherance with all emphasis. This I have good reason to hope is already in the Steamer at Liverpool, and travelling on by the side of a Letter of your own to Clow. The other I will today recover from the Dead Letter Office and get forwarded by the swiftest route, — at latest by the 4th july Steamer;

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whereby even it, I suppose, may arrive before the Ashburton:2 and so again, we hope, it is all right; at least much better than we once expected! I have slept both nights since that bad adventure; and am now for a heavy day's work at my article3 ( a most beggarly piece of work, which I repent a thousand times having engaged in! ) — I will write very shortly to some of you again; probably I shall hear from some of you today; and so, with my blessings and heart-affectionate regards, I conclude. Ever your Brother T. Carlyle 1. William Bingham Baring, later second Baron Ashburton (17991864), at this time secretary to the Board of Control. Carlyle had known Baring; his father, Alexander Baring, first Baron Ashburton (1774-1848); and Baring's wife, Lady Harriet Baring, later second Lady Ashburton (1805-1857), since 1839 and had often spoken of them enthusiastically, especially of Lady Harriet, to Mrs. Carlyle. Mrs. Carlyle and Lady Harriet first met probably in September 1845. Although they at first found each other at least tolerable, by the summer of 1846 the brilliant, witty, attractive Lady Harriet became too much for the brilliant, witty, attractive Mrs. Carlyle and a temporary misunderstanding arose between them and between Carlyle and his wife. Froude (III, 371-373, 379396) first wrote of these troubles; Alexander Carlyle (NLM, I, 184, 186-189) later corrected and clarified Froude's account. See also Iris Origo, A Measure of Love (New York, n.d.),pp. 117-185. 2. The Lord Ashburton, the ship on which Alexander and his family crossed to America. 3. "Dr. Francia," Foreign Quarterly Review, 3 1 (July 1843), 544-589; republished in CME, IV, 261-321.

181. W. Hamilton's 127. Cheapside Monday 2 1 / 2 o'clock [19 June 1843] No 3, to be read last of all. My dear Brother, The instant John's Letter came to hand, I set about fulfilling what it ordered. I have written the Letter he spoke of to our half-brother's old address in Canada (Brantford, Hamilton, Upper Canada), and put it

1843, London 567 into the Post-Office; I have recovered the Letter to Greig from the Dead Letter Office, paid it and sent it off. — Still in time they tell me! All which is well. As to remitting of money, I find I shall be at any rate too late, — yet I come hither to Hamilton's to ask about it: Hamilton is not in London; nothing but Laurie 1 here (the Doctor knows all these people), — and from Laurie is no light at all to be got. — The Dr will indeed have already decided: so it is no matter, at bottom. Colman did not seem to know much of it. I should have considered a Letter or Bill or something of that sort on John Greig himself the safest of all ways. But I suppose the Bank people know several ways safe enough. — You are going far sooner than I expected! My head is in a whirl, and I am writing with the noise as of Babel rolling by me. — I will write again certainly, — and have it left for you at "Mr Welsh's 20. Maryland street," — unless you write from Ecclefechan (or Jack do), and appoint me another address. I have several things to send you, I have so many thousand things to say, dear Brother! Adieu. Courage, Courage! God's blessing on you forevermore. Your affectionate Brother T. Carlyle 1. Sir Peter Laurie (1779?-1861), former lord mayor of London and master of the Saddlers' Company, and from 1839 until his death chairman of the Union Bank. "Sir Peter rather took to me," Carlyle wrote, "but not I much to him; a long-sighted satirical Ex-Saddler I found him to be, and nothing better, — nay something of an Ex-Scotchman too, which I could still less forgive" (Reminiscences, II, 1 2 1 ) .

182. Chelsea, Monday Evening ( 19 june) [1843] My dear Brother, Here, by the last Post of the day, has come a packet of letters from Mr Colman: if despatched directly they will still reach you in Ecclefechan on Monday morning. Colman's directions about your journey seem very precise, and may

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be of use as you go along. His Letters of Introduction were not expressly solicited by me, and are the kinder on his part; they may do you some good, — at lowest they can do you no harm. When you are to deliver any of them, you enclose it in a sealed cover, address it, and go with it. I believe they are honest well-disposed people in those parts, many of them; and of course they have fashions of their own, — which you will gradually learn. If the Dr have not yet got the Bill of Exchange, I should think it would be very safe to have it drawn upon that New-York House, for which Colman gives you a Letter, and which is the owner of the Ashburton. But if the Bankers have already given you a Bill on some House which they can vouch for, — probably that too is perfectly good. I suppose Liverpool would be the place to get a choice of Bills;—but I have as you may perceive next to no experience in that sort of affairs. The Dr does not say whether he means to go with you to Liverpool, but I hope he does. He will have it in his power to help you there, I should think, in many little ways. As to me I have been thinking daily whether I should not run up to Liverpool, and see you all before you went: Do you wish it, my dear Brother? I have got into the ugliest evil of hurry here, about a piece of insignificant writing, which I needed not have bound myself to; and I am yet but quite in the middle of it; — b u t I will fling it away if you express any wish to see me: on the whole, I will be guided by that, and by the time you have to stay in Liverpool. My dear Brother, it does seem to me, looking at the state and prospects of this country, that the whole farming kindred of us, our good Mother at our head, might all yet have to follow you, if you did well in that new country! Consider yourself as a pioneer sent out before the rest; to make the way smoother for the rest. It is clearly the voice of Providence, one would say, that bids you go. In the midst of my sorrow, something whispers to me that my brave Brother will become a new man, and find a new and worthier career open for him there. It is the sweetest consolation that could come into my heart. — I will talk of these things no more. God is near us all, if we wish faithfulness draw near to Him, follow His eternal Laws. — I wrote to John in Canada today, as I told you. There are now prob-

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ably two Letters on the way to Canadaigua. Write to me whether you find a good map of New York State in Liverpool; that I may send you one, if not. Buy that Book, mentioned by Colman, when you get to New York. Probably I shall hear from John tomorrow or next day. The daylight is gone for the present. Adieu for this night. — Yours ever, T. Carlyle

183. Chelsea, Wednesday Evening [21? June 1843] Dear Brother, I have written to you at the "Post-Office, Liverpool," today; but I find, on computing, that the Money Order must go off tonight also, or you will not get it in time for Friday, — perhaps. I will take it up into the region of the General Post tonight. — As £500 is the sum agreed on, I here send you my full half of it ( £.250) according to original intention. May it be a blessing where it is going! Unless there be some great haste, you had better let me speak to Colman before you dispose of it thro' any Bank. Colman is the American from Canadaigua. I have written to Mr Adamson of the Irish Street Bank, that he is not to pay the money to any but yourself, to avoid mistakes. — I will lose no time in seeing Colman. Probably on Friday Evening. You will in that case hear the result by Saturdays Post. I ought also to take care of not missing the Post for America! I will buy that "shilling book" you talked of, this very night at the Post-Office, if they have it. My affectionate regards to Jean and her Household; my blessings to all. Ever your affectionate T. Carlyle

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184. From, John Aitken Carlyle Scotsbrig, 22nd June [1843] My dear Alick, Our mother and I got over to Scotsbrig yesterday quite easily walking. The fearful bustle of sorting and packing was of use to us all in keeping up our spirits for the actual parting. Our mother shed tears as she spoke how manfully and bravely you had done every thing both on the morning of your departure and the previous evening. You seemed to me also to have all the energy and despatch of your best days again. What can we do now but pray that you may be under the almighty's guidance, and that you may find your way clearly out of all the miserable obstructions you have had to deal with for so many years past? What one has to seek in this world is not wealth but a wholesome frame of mind and full scope for all ones faculties. — We had a sad looking for the steamer yesterday afternoon and then for Jamie's return 1 in the evening. He got back between eleven and twelve. Our mother bore the whole yesterday in the spirit of a true christian, though she had cried bitterly before we left Scotsbrig in the morning. She has had a good night's sleep and is bustling about to-day. She desires me to send her best blessings to you all great and little. We hope you have got a comfortable lodging and arranged for your passage. We were glad to hear that you had decided for the ashburton. Your taking any other vessel would give rise to endless anxieties on the part of our mother. — But I must break off. Jamie is waiting impatiently to get off to Ecclefechan. If you could make up your mind to visit Mr Welsh again he would be very glad to see you but I suppose you will be too much worn and depressed for calling on any one. Here is a note which came last night but which will not be of much use to you. Write however briefly. My best love and blessings with you all In g[rea]test haste Ever Yours affectionately J A Carlyle Meet Jamie at the Clarener Docks on Saturday evening a little before seven. He will probably go with the Victoria, but the Newcastle 2 sails too.

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1. From Annan, where he had seen Alexander and his family oS to Liverpool. 2. The Annan-Liverpool steamers.

Chelsea, Friday Afternoon (about the 20th [23rd] june 1843) This Letter went to the PostOffice Liverpool; but my Brother Alexander, just on his way to America, did not get it; and it came back to me at Leandough july 12! My dear Brother, John's Letter came to me this morning; I had been looking every night and morning for it: the news of it fell on my heart like a heavy stone. My dear Brother, — it is very touching what John says, that you went thro' the business "like a right brave man"; that "all your old energy, alacrity and clearness of mind shewed itself again in you in these hours!" Yes, my dear Alick, — when I think and hope that perhaps it is God's merciful ordering, this very sore trial, to bring you back again out of fatal declivities, into a true path; and make you yet even yet the victorious man you were meant to be — that is the only thing that sweetens this bitter sorrow to me. — But why do I talk in that dialect? The truth is, I am worn down with writing day and night, and in a very weak sorrowful humour; I never in all my life was so busy. But it will end on Sunday; — it must end, for the thing has then to be printed. — It is most absurd that this too should have intervened to aggravate us. Tell me truly if you would wish to see me; if it would not be rather a sorrow for you? I promise and assure myself that I will come yet, and see you in that new Home, — to which may God Himself give a blessing! There has no solicitation yet from all America that had any strength at all upon me like this. — In God's name, let us look up then; and take Hope and Courage for a loadstar. I will engage not to write another weak word to you, — not even in such a whirl of haste as I write in at present.

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Tell me exactly on what day you expect to sail. I will not bid you call at Maryland street; but call again at the Post-Office, if there be again any chance. Your Letter to the Owners of the Ashburton will perhaps do you good with the Captain. You carry a Letter to one Mr M'Connel,1 John says, at Canadaigua. We knew his Wife; an excellent kind creature, Jane thinks her. My American Coiman in describing the population of Canadaigua spoke of one "M'Connel" or O'Connel," as a kind of questionable man, — you will keep this in your mind, but of course entirely secret; and look at your man with your own eyes, when there. Greig will be able to do you your Money-bill; he if there were even no other. — Jamie is coming over,2 they tell me; which is a great comfort. Adieu dear Brother. Fear nothing; my brave brother's courage once roused, there is nothing in the Earth or under it that shall daunt him. God be with you. I will surely hope to write again. Write you a word, — one word if you can! T. C. ι. Unidentified. z. To Liverpool.

186. Alexander to Carlyle Liverpool 24 June 1843 My Dear Brother, We have now been here for two whole days and have succeeded at last in bargaining with the agent of the Ashburton for a state room, as they call it, in the mid-cabin, for the sum of sixteen Pounds Sterling, and I may say that a parcel of greater vagabonds, seemingly, I have not before fallen in with. The George Stevens I also looked at but finally discovered that it was filled almost wholly with Irish, which I like less than any other people I have seen. To day, it being now only between four and five in the morning, I shall be engaged in

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getting our luggage on board and arranging about some additional stores cooking utensils etc. etc. I have not been able to sleep more than a couple of hour's any night for more than a week past and consequently find myself very much confused. Jenny and the little ones are sleeping above me, dreaming I fancy of their new toyes which the poor thoughtless creatures are intent about, above all things. — We are lodging with a man of the name of Grierson1 from Thornhill, obscurely, tho' not very uncomfortably, in a Small street called Thornton contigous to the harbour, at the not very extravagant rate of 1/6 per day, and expect to sail to morrow or Monday morning at farthest. — We will know to day.2 We also expect Jamie about eight o'clock in the evening by one of the Steamers, but not the good Dr. who will find himself better employed consoling our dear kind old mother. — There was no tears on either side at Ecclefechan, but a sorrow deeper than any years. — I will remember it to my latest hour. Ah me! I can never thank you all for your unbounded kindness, sufficiently or, prove myself worthy of the half of it. Pray God to assist me, as I attempt to do to Him to bless you all abundently. Ever your affectionate Brother Alexr Carlyle P.S. If we are to sail to morrow morning I will tell you so in the evening and if not I will inform you tomorrow. A.C. MS: NLS#665.55.iii-ii2. 1. Unidentified. 2. They sailed the next day, Sunday, June 25.

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187. Alexander to Margaret Aitken Carlyle Alton, Ν. Y., 10th August, 1843 My dear Mother, Now that I have obtained some sort of temporary composure, I most willingly turn to give you some brief account of our journey hitherward. You are already acquainted respecting the time and manner of our departure from Liverpool. — By the way I regretted exceedingly that Jamie had taken so much trouble upon him to so little purpose. Our short stay after his arrival; the large concourse of idle people gazing heedlessly on our departure; the wild "Ye-ho," cursing, blaspheming, and indescribable tumult of the sailors (and all this on the Sabbath morning), filled me with a feeling of sadness I had never felt before. It seemed also as if Jamie, whom I still recognized on shore by his Scotch plaid, long after he had lost sight of me, was the last honest person I should perhaps ever again meet with in this Earth, — so much disgusted did I feel with the villany I had met with in Liverpool. — But I am running along, my dear Mother, as if I had an unlimited command of paper, when, lo! one poor sheet is my whole allowance. Let it suffice to say in respect to our voyage, that we found it upon the whole as bearable as we had anticipated. — The difficulty of getting anything, even a shanky-iull of potatoes cooked, was extreme. The English portion of our fellow-voyagers was the class most deserving of our pity in this respect; but, instead of which, did oftenest receive only our scorn and laughter. The Irish again, were vastly more at home, and rejoiced exceedingly in a boiled potful of potatoes, — jackets, chuns and clay, all mixed together. A rather scanty supply of fresh water, to our appetites at least, was another small discomfort. But another more formidable grievance remains to be added: I mean the unfathomable torrent of clatter daily poured upon us, and threatening ever and anon to weary the very soul out of every mortal claiming to be ranked among the same on God's Earth! I must not omit to mention also, that on our second Sabbath-day, we experienced what the Sailors called a slight sea-storm; and truly a more awful and sublime scene I never witnessed. The might and majesty of Heaven

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and the weakness and worthlessness of the poor worm, brought into close contact as it were. The Newspapers which I despatched from New York, not feeling it possible to write, will have indicated to you, I hope, long before the arrival of this scrawl, our safe arrival at that City. Of course all our packages had to be opened for the convenience of the Customhouse Officers; and well did I remember the good kind Doctor's urging the necessity of hinges for the boxes. The whole operation, however, was performed on board a small vessel we had to be stowed into some nine miles below the City, according to Yankee regulations, by my own hand; and no custom was exacted on any of our goods. We were landed on the 26th, and left about 7 o'clock on the evening of the 27th, in a Steamboat for Albany, sailing at the fearful rate of 25 or 30 miles an hour.—Had there some breakfast and brief stoppage (for rest I must not name it), and in the afternoon again mounted one of the Emigrant Accommodation cars, as they call the wood coaches on the Buffalo Railway, having paid our fare as far as Syracuse; but had not proceeded more than 20 miles, when we were overtaken by a thunderstorm accompanied by heavy rain, and met with the following ever-memorable occurrence which took place as follows: One of our passengers, quick as lightning, sprang out by the window, and was instantly followed by another by the door, without uttering a single syllable. I naturally looked after them to ascertain the cause of their precipitations, and saw people lying on the road-side and flying over the fences and fields, in all directions. At this instant, amidst a loud peal of thunder, we felt our car struck with tremendous force, and sent rapidly back in the opposite direction. Jenny and the little ones springing up screaming with terror, I hurriedly pointed out the impossibility of escaping out of the car, and earnestly advised them to address themselves to the care and keeping of God Almighty, as in another instant we might probably be in eternity. My own vague impression was that the thunder had struck the train; and you may judge my surprise when I learned some minutes after all was over, that the catastrophe had been occasioned by our meeting another train coming in the opposite direction. Thus you see, my dear Mother, but for the kindness and great mercy of our Heavenly Father, the warfare of your poor wandering child and Family would have terminated far

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from all who cared for him. We were taken back some five miles, and lodged all night at the expence of the company. When we started again next morning, and arrived here on the following afternoon without farther accident. I have forgot to mention that both the engines and some of the cars were literally smashed to pieces. A few people were also injured, but not very seriously. I found three Letters in the Post-office at New York; one from Clow, one from John, and the kind Doctor's: —the two former offering to afford me with house accommodation, etc., etc. Which accordingly I have accepted from Clow, for the present. He behaves as kindly as mortal can, and we are living in our own wood-house, at hack and manger, as we used to say. The weather is hot but not terribly oppressive: mosquitos somewhat troublesome in the evenings and nighttime, tho' not more so than were the midges, on the whole, at Craigenputtock. John writes me from Canada not by any means to be in the smallest hurry about settling till once I have made myself in some measure acquainted with both this Country and Canada, — an advice I mean to follow. I know not what Mr. Darling1 may have written in reply to poor Jenny's Letter respecting Rob; but Clow's people to whom he applied for information, told him everything they knew. I have neither room here nor time to tell you of his villany, having to travel three miles tonight to the Post-office, for fear of missing the Boston Steamer which sails on the 16th of every month, and thereby keeping you in a state of anxiety for another fortnight. — Tell the good kind Doctor that I am much indebted to him for his kind encouraging Letters, the last of which arrived here on Tuesday evening. I will write to him at great length when I have returned from Canandagua and Canada, whither I mean to go next week, if I am in health. I hope poor Jenny will now perceive what the rest of us have all along perceived, the absolute necessity of discarding forever from her affection, the cold-hearted villain who has so cruelly betrayed her. Remember me, my dear Mother, to all enquiring friends, and tho' absent in the body let us be present in the spirit. Ever your affectionate Alexr. Carlyle

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In respect to the appearance of the Country, it is very much what I had been led to expect, tho' perhaps not so fertile-looking as I expected. But I have little right yet to give an opinion. — Tell James Little2 that W. Carruthers and his daughter are at present working for Mr. Clow. — If my Brother Thomas is with you, as the Dr. hinted he was expected to be, remember me to him in all brotherly kindness. — I hope someone will write to me in time for the Mail of the first of next month. MS: unrecovered. From a typescript. 1. Unidentified. 2. See Letter 55.

• Alexander and his family were met at Lyons by sons of Robert Clow and driven the final ten miles of their journey north to Alton. Alexander's son Thomas described in his Journal, parts of which his son John incorporated into his "Family History," the Clows' rented farm on which his parents now made a temporary home: "We were kindly received by Clow's family which consisted of the old gentleman, a cousin of mother's, five sons and three daughters and one sonin-law. They lived on a big farm of many hundred acres which they rented from Mr. Greig, a banker in Canandaigua, near Rochester, whom Carlyle and his wife knew in Scotland and to whom father carried a letter of introduction written by Uncle. This large farm was originally owned by a 'Shaker' community, who had built a goodsized wooden church and five or six dwelling houses scattered around it. Here they lived and prospered for some years. But the frailties and limitations of human nature, supplemented doubtless by the machinations of the devil proved too much for them. They quarreled among themselves, sold their farm to Mr. Greig, and left the empty church and dwellings as silent as Tadmor in the wilderness and dispersed among the unregenerate round about. . . . We lived in one of the empty houses from July to March, 1844." Carlyle now addressed his brother in care of "Mr Clow, Wayne County, State of New York." ·

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188. 5. Cheyne Row, Chelsea, London, 18 September, 1843 My dear Brother, It is a long time since I have had the smallest written intercourse with you. At the time of your departure I was involved in such a whirl of hurry, and business night and day, as I hardly ever was in before: I did write to you in time for Liverpool, nay the Letter had been lying there on the very morning (Saturday) when you sent your Letter off to me; but you never got it; a good while afterwards it came back to me, without effect! I shall not soon forget the emotions of those days. At every vacant moment my mind was full of the image of you, — all the sadder that I had to fall to work again, and think only of my work. Furthermore I always hoped to get up perhaps and see you still; on the Tuesday I should have been ready for it, and I still thought you might linger for a day or two: alas, on the Tuesday came John's Letter to say that you had sailed! — I keep your last Note to me as a very stern and yet blessed memorial: my short Note to you, which you never read, is now laid beside it; they shall lie there to keep me in mind of several things. Dear Brother, I write all this, lest at any moment you should have fancied what never was the fact that I was too careless of writing to you; sure enough that was not it! Two weeks after your departure I myself, considerably exhausted by writing etc., set out on a wandering and visiting thro' Wales North and South, by Liverpool, Scotland, not forgetting Scotsbrig and dear old Annandale; and it was only three nights ago that I returned hither, and for the first time got sight of your Letter to the Doctor; and knew rightly where to address that I might find you. My Tour, ending in a sail by steam in rough seas all the way from Dundee, has in the first place tired and lamed me so that I can hardly stir: a few words, however, shall go by this Packet; so much is still possible for me: Jack agreed that he should address you at John Carlyle's in Canada, at R. Clow's in New York State; and both our letters we hope, will find you without much delay. Luckier than both yours; for of these only one (that written to Jack) has yet come to hand. Your two New York Newspapers came, one of them while I was at Dumfries; you cannot over-

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rate the joy they gave us. Our good Mother brought out the Cover of hers with a peculiar look when I came back to Scotsbrig. Your letter to our Mother also will surely come? At all events, we should be right thankful for what we have got. We are all much pleased with the healthy practical tone of your Letter, and take it as a good augury of your success in that new bield. What you say of the Yankees agrees too well with my own experience and ideas of them. With some few shining exceptions they have come to appear in my eyes as a truly unpleasant set of persons, full of cant, full of vanity, and of a forwardness, not to say an impudence that seeks its fellow in the world. Visages among them, not unlike "living red herrings," I have also seen. Not a pleasant set of men! Of course we cannot in the least advise you in that new scene; but perhaps you will find upper Canada with Scotch neighbours round you, a more kindly place. You will have time to look about you, and deliberate. A piece of ground all your own, moreover, would perhaps be most acceptable to you. You have endless skill in you for battling with a work like what that would be. Jack has already advised you about health, — pray attend very specially to that. We shall long to know where you ha[ve] ultimately pitched your tent; many a thought we shall all send thither, I believe. Nor, if you will write duly, shall due Letters from one of us at least be ever wanting while I can wag a pen. Courage, my dear Brother; may the worst of our days be past! The wretched windbag Harming sent a Letter to Jamie while I was at Scotsbrig; urging that Jenny should be advised to go out with you to join him. Jamie, after consulting with me and also with Jenny herself, answered in brief, that neither he nor you nor Jenny herself nor any one of the kindred wished to hear any farther talk from such a character as he had proved himself; that in short he had better go his ways, and leave all us to go ours. The consummate blown-up Nothingness! Jenny herself seems now to have renounced him: if he did chance to marry, or to get hanged, or in some way to terminate all legal hold of her, it would be by far the handsomest thing he could do. — At Scotsbrig, as Jack will have told you, our good Mother was in better health than when you left her; indeed wonderfully cheery; speaking about you and your voyage with endless affection indeed, but without despondency, with peaceable hope: the good old Mother;

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as good a Mother as lives on this Earth at present! Jenny had staid with her for a considerable while; two cousins1 from Hawick, good young women, one of them in poor health, were there when I came away about a fortnight ago; they and Jenny were to go over to Gill for a while; then she perhaps to join them there. Alternative like that was judged to be the best way. The kindred all were in good health, except Isabella who remained as before. Jamie seemed to have a fair crop, and this is the best harvest weather I have almost ever seen. Austin was behind with his rent; inevitably, like many others. A good harvest was growing everywhere; but no abatement, or hardly any was yet visible of the Universal distress. Rejoice that you are out of it. Black days are coming for this country. — Alas, dear Brother my paper is done! Write by the very earliest chance; you shall have a better answer in return. God bless you all. T. Carlyle Jane is well here, better than her worst. She had provided a little gift for you, quite useless but very precious, for it had been her Father's: this stood ready, but could not be sent in time; one day we may have a better opportunity. — I rejoice greatly to hear that Tom was becoming a brave fellow worthy of the name. Our love to him and Jane, — and their Mother and all the rest. Heads up, hearts up, my braveones! We all salute you from the heart. I desire also my very kind remembrances to Robert Clow, of whose welfare I rejoice always to hear. — Tell me what way I shall send you the Dumfries Courier, or the Herald if you like that better. Brotherly regards to John when you see him. Adieu, dear Brother, once more. T. C. 1. Unidentified.

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189. Chelsea, 17 Novr, 1843 My dear Brother, Your Letter came exactly a week ago, much to our joy; a Steamer is going off tomorrow, and I, tho' in great haste tonight, must write you a few words. We had got into considerable impatience to hear from you; do not be remiss in writing! Remember that for the next four months there is only one packet per month; ascertain what is the day of despatch, and be punctual in hitting it. Our good Mother especially is overjoyed with a Letter from you! If no word come, you know what her anxieites are like to be. That very day your Letter came, having shewn it to Jack, I despatched it for Scotsbrig; I have a short Note since acknowledging with delight that they had got it directly: "one of the Gill lassies was coming over thro' Ecclefechan (on the Sunday evening it was), she called at the Post-Office, and got it." Our good Mother is "spinning yarn for stockings," very busy, and as well as we could hope her to be. There is a small line in her own hand, a written blessing from her: the body of the Note had been written by Isabella. This Gill lassie is come over to stay thro' the winter months, or some part of them, till some other succeed her, with our Mother. The rest are all in "their usual way"; Jenny is at Gill; has shirts etc. to make. This is my latest news. — In the beginning of this Month a long Letter from Jean went off to you, with a small word in the corner from me: a more minute account of all Scotch matters was in that. You seem to have had your share of disaster, dear Brother; yet happily nothing irremediable as yet, since you went into that new country. "Every town," it is a true saying, "has a dub at the end of it." It was a provoking business that of the sore leg, when you had so much need of all your faculties; — and to find poor Jenny and the poor bairn lying ill at your return! Jack thinks it may have been damp in the house you are inhabiting; he earnestly counsels you to look after this, — and not to sleep on the ground-floor, but in an upper story if there is one. We hope the poor patients are got out of the business now; that you are all getting seasoned to the new way of life, and may have that command of health which you so particularly need at present. Canada

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and Canandaigua appear alike to have their drawbacks, every place will be found to have drawbacks and advantages: you will have studying enough before you can decide! Of course we cannot give you the smallest counsel; except again to urge that you should look out for a healthy place, above all. Good neighbours you are not to look for all at once; probably in the worst places they will turn up better than you expect at first. We hope at least that Mr Clow's fate 1 for this winter will have already settled itself; that you know by this time whether your house is your own or not. — The joyfullest news to all of us, which of itself would outweigh a whole burden of mischances, is what you say [about] the Teetotal habit! Nothing that I have heard for many months has given me half the pleasure. Once fairly parted from that insidious diabolic enemy I have no fear for my brave brother. Mistake itself will teach him new wisdom; he will front his difficulties with calm clear manhood; ascertain what and how they are, on what side they are to be taken up; and conquer them whatever they are! I predict so with true confidence and satisfaction. Somewhere or other you will find an eligible piece of Mother Earth; you do know how to plough and till the Earth, and Earth honestly tilled will not fail to give you due increase. By God's blessing, and man's faithful endeavour, it shall all be tolerably well before long. You have the whole winter to familiarize yourself with the scene of operations; a hard clear frost we understand the weather to [be] : by the time of casting in the seed, you will probably have decided, and be ready to start. One feels as if a "place of one's own" would be the more cheerful way of it: but you can judge better; you alone can judge. And so Heaven guide you to a good choice, dear Brother; and then with health and heart there is no fear. Courage, Courage! — As for us here in London we are steering along, without notable rubs, in the old fashion; and have much to be thankful for, nothing that it were fair to complain of. I have begun a new Book,2 — or rather, alas, I am still but struggling to begin one, and it will not prosper yet; which is of all operations the ugliest known to me. But I must stand to it; with or without hope, stand to it! By and by the mud settles; one finds hard footing somewhere, after infinite plunging; and then it goes along. My Book is to be on Oliver Cromwell and the old Puritans of England, analogous to our Scotch Covenanters. It will be

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horribly difficult; but in due time I do hope to send you a Copy: I send always one Copy to America ( Friend Emerson lives at Boston in New England), but now this to my Brother will be two! There is plenty of reviewing and confused uproar about me; but that literally is nothing; I find my only safe course is to go on as if it were not there. — Had you once a settled place, we will send you out a Box some time, and all manner of sundries in it! Jack lives not far from us here, in handsome convenient lodgings; seems always very busy, with books etc. etc.: we see him duly every Sunday evening. He loooks healthy and brisk; by and by, we consider, he will settle to something definite: at all events he is now in no man's way. — Jane sits reading by the lamp at the fireplace behind me here in this upstairs room; she sends her blessing to you one and all. She is in good health hitherto, and fronts the winter under fair auspices. It is a great comfort to think that you are near Clow. Pray give him my very kind regards; may good ever follow him. I desire also to be remembered to Mr Wightman,3 whose one visit to me I can very well recollect. Dear Brother, my sheet is done; and it seems as if I had still so much to say! Trade is better with us than it was; corn, by their slidingscale, fallen very low: but distress still abounds. O'Connell has Ireland in a great ferment; yet no public disturbance is at all apprehended there for the time. — Jamie has sent us up his winter Barrel of meal; Isabella was reported to be a little better, but does not seem to acknowledge much of it, — we suppose it is very trifling. [Turn to the beginning.] 4 You must remember me as an affectionate uncle to Jane and Tom, and the other younger branches. Tell Tom that I expect to find him a rugged piece of stuff (not to discredit the name) when I come over. Of Jane as a nice wise lassie everybody reports. Be kind to Jenny and them; stand all truly by one another! Adieu dear Brother, and may God ever bless you! T. Carlyle When you see Mr Greig, offer him my kind regards, and thanks fpr the Letter I got from him. It came in so good season; at a time when we had otherwise no news from you. If he can do you good, there is no doubt he will be ready to try.

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Jack complains that he has written thrice to you, and got no answer; he would have written half of this Letter, could I have undertaken to carry the sheet up to him tomorrow in time. You will write to him next, or soon. 1. See introduction to Letter 191. 2. On November 9 Carlyle wrote Mill, "In these weeks it has become manifest to me, after four years of the dreariest reading ever read, that I must actually write something on Cromwell and Puritanism, and get myself delivered from it . . . I have already tried it successively on ten or twenty different tacks, and been everywhere repelled; and up to this hour I but write and burn, and then write again, very miserably" (CMSB, p. 182). He kept at it until about December 16, and then threw into the fire all he had written except the portion of his manuscript that Alexander Carlyle later edited as Historical Sketches of Notable Persons and Events in the Reigns of James I. and Charles I. (London, 1898). At that point Carlyle decided to postpone his work until he could collect and edit Cromwell's letters and speeches. See "Carlyle's Will and Codicil," Reminiscences, I, 271; NL, I, 303; and Last Words of Thomas Carlyle, pp. 291-292. 3. Carlyle once wrote Jane Welsh of such a man, a hedger, who with his family lived "within two bowshots" of him and Alexander when they were rusticating at Hoddam Hill. See Fraude, I, 352. 4. Carlyle's brackets.

190. Chelsea, London, 3 March 1844 My dear Brother, You get a Letter this time from Jamie at Scotsbrig, which we have read here on its way; wherein is given, with a minuteness that will be interesting to you, all manner of Anandale public and family news: nevertheless I think I will add a word of my own, tho' it can contain little of importance; I feel as if I could not let you go in quest of a habitation without at least sending you my spoken good-wishes. Your Letters, coming so regularly, have been a great comfort to us all since you went away; my Mother in especial is greatly obliged to you. We gather from your writing a tolerably accurate notion of the

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new scene you are in, and of your winter's way of life there. You have had a solitary season of it; and innumerable thoughts, some of them sad enough, have no doubt passed thro' your mind in that wide wilderness you have arrived upon the edge of, to push your fortune there. Such seasons often seem to ourselves painfully idle, and as good as altogether useless and lost; by and by, however, we find that they were not so, that their fruits are the richest of all. As for me I like your late Letters from America better than any that I have seen; and prophesy for you with more confidence than ever a good future there. We can give you no advice, dear Brother, as to what should be your course when the weather comes for travelling; we can only all of us heartily send you our prayer that you may be guided wisely, in the best direction. You seem likeliest at present for an expedition along with Clow towards the Western Country. I have a feeling like Jamie's that there are rather more agues there; more broken people too, and a wilder kind of existence in store for the emigrant: but of course our notion amounts to nothing practical, and cannot go for an advice at all. Could not you get some handy bit of ground, tho' less in quantity, for your money, where there are roads, mills, neighbours and arrangements, — such a piece as you could hope to manage by yourself and your family chiefly (for Tom himself will be a strong fellow soon), and see yearly growing handsomer by your energy and order infused into it? That is the main happiness, I should imagine; to see the fruit of one's labour, whether on a big or a small surface: indeed, it is the one blessing of human effort anywhere. I know not whether Canada and Scotch people might not be eligibler than the wide vacant west with greedy Yankees and their physiognomy of "living redherrings"? Alas, my dear Brother, I do not know anything about your great enterprise; it must be left to your own choice and wisdom. Only these things are very dear to me, three things which I will mark here for your good head: first, that no earthly consideration should tempt one to settle in an unhealthy place, — all things ought to yield, and you should go to the healthier place, and reject the unhealthier, if these qualities be in them, whatsoever their other qualities be: second, that a large extent of ground, and even fertile ground, may be a very dear bargain, in comparison with a small one; this seems to me an important truth, which a stranger from our old crowded countries might be very

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apt to forget: third, that there is no necessity (whatever the human "red-herrings" and others around you may think), actually no necessity for "making money" in haste, or for making money at all! The blessedness of man, as I often say and feel, is to labour diligently, conquering his difficulties round him, and to see that in some measure going on; on the great or the small scale, it matters little: — h e is doing the will of his Great Maker, I think, and may understand that it is well with him while he persists in this. It is only when one can see no fruit of one's labour, and is utterly disheartened from carrying it on, that one gets entirely astray, and wanders without any sure guidance left. — My dear Brother, these are but useless words, and can throw little light on the matter f[or] you; I will occupy no more of your poor sheet with them. May the great Guide put wisdom, patience, faithfulness, ever more into your own heart; that you may discern ever better what is but to be done: — i n readiness to do it, when once that is the case, I think you will not fail! We shall of course look with great interest for your next Letters; you will settle some way of corresponding; and not fail at any rate to keep your good resolution of writing with deliberate exactness once a month. Our good Mother thinks some of the Bairns should write to her; — ask Jane if she is not up to such a thing? Dear little Jane, tell her she must grow a clever woman in that country; she will have plenty of honourable work there, if she shew herself what I expect! — Alas, the sheet is just ending; and I, as it were, am hardly beginning. All winter we have gone on here in the old way, — Jane's health never good and also never totally bad. As Jamie tells you, we had no winter till the last month; I hear of Americans driving sledges 50 miles along the Hudson, — a man was talking of that the other night, and it looked strange enough in our muddy region. — I have had really terrible work with my attempted Book on Cromwell, and must admit that with great labour I have got on as badly as possible, that indeed the enterprise still lies before me as huge and difficult, nay in sad moments, as impossible. But I must struggle on; gar myself do it, as our brave old Father used to say! There is no other way for us. — The misery of this country continues, and alas must long continue, tho' there is some decided improvement of trade etc. : the aspect of things, Ireland, England, Scotland, makes one sad and sick of heart. — Jack

1844, London 587 rushes about here at a great rate, but does not fasten very heartily on any occupation,1 least of all does he seem minded for any medical one: of late he has lighted on some historical departments, neighbouring to mine ( old Manuscripts at the British Museum etc. ) and is making himself rather busy with those. He has no compulsion to work, poor fellow, but he also wants many of the fruits of working. — My dear Brother, the paper is done here: I must send my blessing to you and Jenny and all your house, and abruptly close. May [G]od bless you and guide you! — T. Carlyle Jane unites with me in every wish for you: your Letters when they arrive are always interesting to her. She has had great sufferings and sorrows since she lived near you, and is grown graver than ever, but also wiser, one may hope, and struggles faithfully along. — When you communicate with Canada John give him my brotherly regards: I continue to send the Courier to him weekly. Remember me also very kindly to Robert Clow your good neighbour, and say how heartily I wish his voyage good speed. — Some two weeks ago there came hither (after lingering in Dumfriesshire a fortnight or more) the miserablest bit of Paper I ever saw called by the name of Letter, — addressed to you from James Brand 2 (once of Craighouse) dated, something like "Addys Swamp, 15 augt, 1843." After reflexion, I decide on not sending it to you. It is black as a soot-besom (literally black), written across as well as along; I could not for my life read it, nor do I think any body can. It seems to indicate that he was well at that date, that his sister was married to somebody; there is mention too of John Carlyle,3 who does not seem very prosperous; and then of great distress of times, prices of produce etc. I do not burn the thing, and will send it if you like to bid me. — O'Connell is here at present, and a considerable fuss made about him by the radical brotherhood. It is thought he will not be put in jail;4 but Ireland seems very like ending in bloodshed and fire before very long, I doubt. 1. It is not clear when John left Ogilvie. 2. See Letter 60. 3. Probably the son of their uncle John and aunt Janet. See Letter 60.

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4. O'Connell was arrested for creating discontent and disaffection, but liberated when the judgment of a £.2,000 fine and a one-year jail sentence was reversed on appeal.

• Thomas' Journal continues the story of his parents' settlement in America, relating now the move into Canada: "Some time in the winter Father started for Brantford, Ont., to see his half-brother, Uncle John Carlyle, and to find out what he could about the capabilities of Canada as a field for emigrants. Clow's lease of the farm was about to expire. He decided on going 'West' to Illinois and advised Father to accompany him. However we decided on Canada, and never needed to regret that decision. Mr. Clow bought 1300 acres of land, unbroken, 30 miles west of Chicago, where I visited them in the autumn of 1859." John Carlyle at this point inserted a letter from Clow to Alexander, but then his father's story goes on: "In the Spring, therefore, of 1844, we moved northward into Canada, hiring teams to take us from Sodus Bay to Carthage . . . , now named Charlotte, and sailed from there (mouth of the Genesee River), to Toronto and on to Hamilton, or rather Wellington Square, Burlington Bay being full of ice. We hired a waggon and driver, and leaving our boxes for the nonce, reached Uncle John's place before night. The roads were horrible, just breaking up in the Spring thaws. Father and I often walked to ease the horses somewhat. Here we lived for six weeks, making excursions all round in search of farms for sale, mother once or twice accompanying." Carlyle now wrote to Alexander in care of "John Carlyle's, Brantford, Hamilton, Upper Canada." ·

191. Chelsea, 3 May, 1844 My dear Brother, Probably Jack may write to you today; but it was not quite indisputably fixed between us, to my remembrance, at our last meeting: therefore, lest you should be short of a Letter altogether by this mail, I will scribble you a word; — better are repetitions in this case than no tidings at all! We duly got your Letter announcing that you were just about to

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move off for a trial of Canada. The news was most welcome to one and all of us. We had got no favourable notion of those deep Western Countries: aguish, swampy, hot, far-distant regions, the scene of diseases, 'shinplaster banks,' uncertainties, sorrows and confusions! Better that you did not venture thither. Canada too you will no doubt find a place of difficulties, of drawbacks, — what place on this Earth is not such? But you are nearer hand in all senses; you are among people of your own blood and kin: you know much better what you are about there. On the whole, if you can avoid getting an unhealthy place, I do not otherwise care much what place it is. If it be a favourable fertile place, you will have less extent of it for your money; if you get a large place, it must needs be that it is unfavourable. On the whole we wish you to be settled "on a healthy place of your own"; that is all the length our wishes have light to go. A piece of God's earth committed to your own free charge; it is a real blessing for a man that lives by tilling of the soil! Were it ugly as sin, every stroke of good labour you bestow on it, will make the place beautifuller; — what "beauty" is there in Fairyland itself compared with the aspect of Order produced out of Disorder by one's own faithful toil? That is the real beauty that will make a man feel some reconcilement to his ugly lot, however ugly it look. Next Letter, or some Letter soon, we hope to address you in some hadding of your own! It will be as a little spot of light for us in that dim Continent. We will think always of our brave Alick struggling manfully along there; and bid with our whole hearts the Heavenly Powers be favourable to him. Courage; courage, my Brother: perhaps the worst of our days are over; and calmer and better days are coming! — Nothing new has taken place here since you heard last. Our dear old Mother is still reported to be in her usual health; or rather I should say, is again so reported; — for she has had, I think, rather a sickly winter of it, and has been a degree oftener ailing than was her wont: the warm summer will now help her: —alas, we cannot have our brave old Mother always; it is the saddest thought I have in this world, the sternest to accustom myself to! Already I seem almost to have as good as lost her: it is but a few times, and then in sickliness, unnameable dispiritment, embarrassment, that I can hope to see her in this world. Why do I awaken these feelings in you? Surely you are farther gone

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from her than I! My dear Brother, we must look to a Higher than aught earthly for comfort in such matters. God is above us; surely there is no love in our hearts that H e has not made, — our höhest affections, surely with them too H e will do what is wise, what is good and best! Jenny has gone over to Scotsbrig after a considerable absence at Gill; she reports Jamie as being rather unwell, with some influenza or the like, I suppose; he is "busy sowing" too. At Dumfries, at Gill, all things go on as heretofore; except that Jamie Aitken, I think, has abandoned Thornhill, having found his man there not trustworthy, and the trouble of the thing greater than its profit. — Jack, still here, begins to talk now of "going to the country somewhere," probably to Annandale when he first stirs. But he has not stirred yet. H e is terribly in want of employment, I believe; but shews hitherto little increase of symptoms of fixing on any. Years ago, I have ceased to speak with him on that subject, poor fellow, having in truth no auth[or]ity in it, no power to throw light on it. I am often heartily sorry for him[, liv]ing "in lodgings," with a grey head, which he has not where to lay otherwise: one is angry that he cannot with these excellent talents and means take to work; but on the whole he cannot, there is something that prevents him, his hard fortune is such. You need not say anything about all this; for it does but provoke him, and that serves no purpose, and less than now. As for myself I make very bad progress, the work is so chaotic, unimaginably confused, and I am so bilious, irregular in sleep etc. etc.: however I do get a little under way of late, and hope to struggle out the Book yet by and by. A piece of it is now fairly written, — thank Heaven: the first stone is more than half the building, when you have such quagmires to found i n ! 1 All goes well with me otherwise: indeed nothing can go ill; I keep out of the way of all men and things, so far as possible, except this one thing; and feel that the whole world cannot much help me or much hinder me. Jane is growing strong as the sun grows. She sends you all her affectionate wishes. When once you have a place, we must get up a Box and have it shipped for you with odd things; — it will shew that we are far nearer one another than you or we fancy; nearer than London and Edinburgh once were. Dear Brother, the sheet is done; no room for more! You will give

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my kind wishes to Jenny and the Bairns, my affectionate regards to them all. Poor little Jane, poor little Tom; say I expect to hear that they shew themselves good stuff in that new country. They will not disgrace the gang, I should hope? — Remember me also, in all affection to our Brother John and his Peggy.2 It will be a comfort to us to hear that you are near one another. I saw a Letter from Clow to Graham of Burnswark; I suppose he is far over the Mountains by this time. — God bless you, my dear Brother; may all Good be ever with you. Your affectionate T. Carlyle I have no time to read over what I have written; I had to write my day's task first, and now the time is "just agoing." — Two nights [ago] there was a woman killed on Battersea Bridge, about a gunshot from this. A wretched man who had been courting her cut her throat; he was about 50, she 43; a widower and widow! He was mad, it does seem. John Sterling has had a terrible fit of sickness; the danger is supposed to be past now. — I must end. Published in part: NL, I, 308-311. 1. But five days later he entered in his Journal this dreary report: "My progress in 'Cromwell' is frightful. I am no day absolutely idle, but the confusions that lie in my way require far more fire of energy than I can muster on most days, and I sit not so much working as painfully looking on work. A thousand times I have regretted that this task was ever taken up. My heart was never rightly in it. My conscience it rather was that drove me on. My chief motive now is a more and more burning desire to have done with it. Eheu, eheu! I am very weak in health, too. I am oftenest very sad. The figure of Age, of greyhaired weakness, twilight, and the inevitable night never came on me so forcibly as this year. Age is sad, yet it is noble after a sort; the advance of it upon me is a peculiar tragedy, new for every new life. Words are weak in general to express what I feel. Thou art verily growing old, and thou hast never been young; and thy life has amounted to this poor paltriness, and, etc. etc. etc. There is no wisdom in writing such thoughts, or even in more than partially entertaining them. The Future alone belongs to us. Let us doubly and trebly struggle to profit by that — turn that to double and treble account. Oh heavens! get on with thy 'Cromwell'" (Froude, III, 339)·

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2. John's wife. The couple had three sons — John, James, and William— and two daughters — Janet, the older, who in 1844 (see Letter 198) married a Mr. Illes or Ellis, a carpenter of or about Brantford, and Mary.

192. To Margaret Aitken Carlyle Chelsea, 15 june, 1844 (Friday Evening) My dear Mother, I lose not a single moment in forwarding you this Letter of Alick's, which I know you have been so long impatiently expecting. It came half an hour ago, by our six-o'clock delivery; and now I will put it in to be off tomorrow morning, that you may find it lying as you go to the Preaching on Sabbath; it will be a very glad morning's salutation to you, will it not! You see you were wrong, dear Mother; and Jamie and I were right, — as we generally are, in arguing with you! Alick had been writing at the appointed time; but "the Mail went off too early" etc. etc. — He has no bad news, none that we can call bad, to send us: the two bairns, Tom and Jane have got that country disease, the ague, poor little things; — but they make light of that, as he once told us before, in the New Country; we hope they will soon get thro', and be better seasoned against ailments in future perhaps. He has not got any place yet; but is, it seems, in treaty for one: this he has perhaps already got, — I on the whole wish he may. At worst, he has leisure and scope now to choose. — I find it a very sensible Letter this that poor Alick writes; if he were once fixed on his own soil, and saw but a bed of potatoes springing up for him, he would begin to be much happier. By this same post I have a Note from Jack, who is at a place called Pilmore House near Darlington (not many miles south of Newcastle) : he says he means to be with you "early next week." His host is very kind to him; a worthy Mr Rainie1 whom he knew in Italy: he himself is very well; and will tell you his news, by word of mouth, soon, I hope. — We here continue in our usual state; I still busy, and not entirely

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making no progress. The weather is droughty to excess, but very clear and pleasant otherwise; a strong wind blowing now, night and day, from the west. It promises always rain, but none except mere spittings falls, which are licked up again in half an hour, for the heat also is very great. The hay crop is totally a failure; I saw them mowing today, — such swaths as I have seldom seen before. The Parks very generally are getting altogether brown: the "green" in our Garden has gone all to powder under our feet. — — Dear Mother, send me word that you are well, if you can! No more; but regards to Isabella and Jamie, and blessings on you all. — Your affectionate Son, T. Carlyle I write a word to Jack; telling him that Alick's Letter is come; — that you expect him soon. You may send the Letter on to Jean, I think; with instructions to have it back again directly for Jack. 1. George Rainey ( 1 8 0 1 - 1 8 8 4 ) , anatomist, who for reasons of health resided in Italy from 1 8 3 7 to 1842. He was made M.R.C.S. in 1 8 2 7 , demonstrator at St. Thomas' Hospital in 1846, and reputed to be "one of the ablest instructors in London" (DNB).

193· Chelsea, London, 17 june, 1844 My dear Brother, It was with very great pleasure that we received your Letter written from Brother John's the other night. Our impatience to hear something of you was fast growing somewhat unpleasant; our good Mother's had already reached to a continual anxiety. Jamie endeavoured, and Jack and I endeavoured to convince her good heart that the failure of Letters from you was but accident; that you had ( as it actually has proved) mistaken the post-day, or some such thing: we silenced her arguments, but her motherly anxieties and secret misgivings there was no silencing. Pray be very punctual in writing every month, less or more! There is no need of filling your sheet; we will take cheerfully the smallest Une: but do let us have some line, if it

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were but one. You know how our good old Mother takes it, in these cases! Jack has gone out of Town; I despatched your Letter towards Scotsbrig within an hour: I do not know whether any of them will write to you, by this Packet; therefore I will, at any rate, tho' in great haste. Dear Brother, you have had a sad travelling hither and thither; with the two children ill beside you, no wonder your spirits are sometimes low. That is a sad business of the poor Bairns; we trust to receive better news of them better news of them before long, poor things. Try, whatever you do, to get a dry house, in a situation airy and remote from swamps! It is really the most indispensable of all the conditions of settlement you have to look after. Spare no pains upon that. Perhaps this thing may be a new monition to you how important it is: if so, poor Tom and little Jane will not have been suffering in vain. — Your wanderings up and down Canada, presided over by mere Uncertainty and Interrogation, I can well conceive to be the most unpleasant. It is the one thing that makes a man's lot insupportable, That he cannot know it clearly, cannot give it battle manfully! But it will soon be over, this part of it; once seated on your own soil, with your axe and plough in your hands, a whole jungle of confusions will fall away from you, as it were at once. I am glad you have advanced so far as to ascertain that Brantford district is decidedly the best. Stand by that; your problem is already greatly narrowed. Perhaps you have got this Farm you were in treaty for? If you refused it, it would be in clear expectation of getting a better in the same region. I clearly applaud your project of purchasing; a man should anchor himself, especially on land. There is, as you say, less pressure now, no need to be in such haste, the seed being all in for this year. You will at any rate feel much more comfortable in your own house; and have, at worst, due deliberation there. God guide you, my dear Brother! For the rest, be not too anxious about a choice. Study as you will, no man can make a perfect choice, he can only do his best towards that. Really I suppose there are drawbacks and compensations in every place whatever: I should be for choosing a healthy situation, that first; then good convenient land in small quantity, rather than inferior and inconvenient in large quantity, and above all having chosen, let it be

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finished; adieu to all regrets; look forward then, and not behind at all! There is nothing more fatal to the poor Emigrant, as you wisely remark, than that dim groping condition of his; regretting that he did not do otherwise, changing and fluctuating in false hope etc. etc. Wherever you are, Mother Earth is under you, God's sky above; and a blessing waits on manful constancy there, even there. My dear Brother, I will again with my whole soul wish you a Good Guidance in this choice of yours; and anticipate a great alleviation so soon as you have fairly chosen, — well knowing that you have ingenuity in you to make even an imperfect choice available. — But now for some news; my sheet is going so fast! We have had and have a most parched barren year on this side the Sea; very unwholesome for fruits and for living things. Six weeks of the withering east wind, changed only of late days into a strong West, and North-West, as yet without almost a drop of rain. The hay-harvest is ruined, and the barley; all round here is as brown as a fox: much sickness withal. It is partly to the season that I impute the increase of ailments which, I can trace thro' their Letters, our dear Mother has been subject to, this Spring. They report her now, and she reports herself, "as well as her old usual," but I do not know exactly that it is so. Digestion etc. is not so good, I think: —but Jack is gone hitherward now, and will probably do her good. Jamie the other day, reports her as "over at the Gill"; but your Letter, which would arrive at Scotsbrig yesterday, would bring her back in a hurry again! — Jack went off about a fortnight ago, to "pay visit," and stroll about; he had got to Darlington lately, to an old Roman friend there-abouts, and meant to be at Scotsbrig "on Tuesday or Wednesday." He will probably not stay long there. He is without rest, as yet, poor fellow; — you need not surprise yourself if you see him in Canada yet before all is done! — Jamie seems to be well, and his farm does better with drought than with wet. I think he knows not what to do when his lease expires. Jamie Austin too, they said, was doing better. Jean and her people are quite right. Tom Carlyle,1 the disgraceful slut, has vanished from Dumfries, leaving debts and even frauds there, — gone to Australia, or none knows whither: he too is one of those to be suppressed from men-

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tion! — Frank Little, as you would perhaps notice in the Courier, is off again to New South Wales; I wrote to him to call for me here, but nothing came. — As for our two selves here, all is as well as usual. Jane still keeps afoot in spite of the influenzas: I, tho' very bilious sometimes, get on better with my Book than before, and that consoles me for all things. Jane is for going to Liverpool to see her Uncle, a couple of weeks: I do not yet talk of leaving London at all, — so ill did my work speed for a long while. We are an awful brattle here; 150,000 strangers this month, rushing along as if Devils drove them! I keep well out of it here; as well as I can. John Sterling, of whom you have heard me speak as a dear friend, is dangerously sick; a terrible attack in the lungs, spitting of blood etc., his friends seem to have the worst apprehensions. One Scott2 too, Irving's old Assistant, is understood to be in a dangerous state, — a good fellow he too, and a brave — struggling, tho' with little success! — Dear Brother, you see I must end. I wonder if they would not let one write to Canada in a cover, by the half-ounce; that would be handier: I will inquire! May we hear good news of Jane and Tom, — our love to them, poor things. Ever yours, T. Carlyle Jane's regards to Jenny and you and all of you [that] are not mentioned; but they may be confidently understood. Adieu, dear Brother. God bless you. You will not neglect my kind regards to John Carlyle and Peggy. I remember right well that day I found them on the moor at Cockermouth, many long years ago. χ. A son of their uncle Francis and aunt Elizabeth. See Letter 97. The Dumfries and Galloway Courier of May 13 reports the dinner given in honor of Frank Little (see Letter 55) in Ecclefechan prior to his return to Australia. 2. The Reverend Mr. Alexander John Scott (1805-1866) had been Irving's assistant in London in 1828. In 1831 he was deprived of his license, but officiated as minister of the congregation at Woolwich until 1846. He was thereafter appointed professor of English language and literature at University College in 1848, served as first principal of Owens College, Manchester, from 1851 to 1857, and participated in the founding of the Manchester Working Men's College.

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• Another extract from the portions of Thomas' Journal that his son John incorporated into his "Family History" will serve in place of the missing letter Alexander next wrote to Carlyle and also as an introduction to the reply by Carlyle that follows: "We eventually decided to purchase Bield, 4M miles west of Brantford, paying $20 an acre cash, with the growing crop thrown in. Here we all lived for many years and were modestly successful as fanners, and what was of most importance, led, on the whole, contented, industrious lives; happy lives I may safely say, looking back on it now and viewing it all in the 'pale moonlight of memory.' No lack of hard work but we had time for reading, for music, etc. and all agreed well among ourselves. Uncle [s] Thomas and John were endlessly generous and kind to us in every way. Carlyle, whom so many people, in their ignorance, characterize as harsh, and gloomy and gruff, was nothing short of an inspiration to us, arousing hope, courage, energy and steadfastness. The 'good' Doctor too was one of a million for disinterested kindness. In fact, two such uncles would be hard to find in any age or country for high, noble, loveable qualities." John interrupted his father's narrative at this point to explain that in 1849 Alexander increased his original holding of 102 acres to 180 acres by purchasing the farm across the road, and that in 1857 he had built on that property the little brick cottage that he and his wife lived in for the rest of their days and that their grandchildren always knew as Bield. Today the cottage is white and is owned by its present occupants, Mr. and Mrs. R. Piovaty. John now turned back to his father's story, to Thomas' impressions of his neighbors, who came from England, Scotland, Denmark, and Germany, and to Thomas' recollection of the surrounding countryside, which at the time of his family's settlement "looked rough and rather ugly to new-comers from Britain: poor houses built of logs or wooden frame and boards, straggling snake or zig-zag rail fences the only style. . . . Barns were small, inconvenient structures resting on huge boulders some two or three feet high. There were no bank barns with stone built cattle cellars beneath. The wells were open with old-fashioned sweeps and buckets for raising the water. Girdled trees were quite common and mournfully ugly objects they were, done to death by hungry utilitarians. Then the cultivated fields dotted with stumps, stones, logs and tall weeds all combined to form a picture by no means beautiful, as I often thought, when comparing it with the hedge rows and their haws or hawthorn blossoms, the green meadows with their primroses and bluebells, and the clear rushing streams of bonnie Scotland." ·

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I94· Chelsea, 18 june, 1844 My dear Brother, I wrote to you only yesterday; and today, you may justly wonder what more I can have to say! — Last night there came a Note from Jack, and along with it your Second Letter, which quite alters the figure of your affairs for us; this fact too I thought it good to apprise you of, as a comfort to your mind till you hear of us again. We are all very glad, my dear Brother, to learn that you have actually got a bit of Earth that you can call your own; and are now seated by a hearth which is yours, — were it under your vine and figtree, or even under the poorest thorn and bramble, this is an immense comfort to a man! So far as we can understand the affair, moreover, you seem to have decided with true wisdom. A small handy farm, near to a school, to a high road, to the only friends you yet have in Canada: all this is certainly infinitely preferable to some large tract of wild inarable land, destitute of these advantages. I for my share will take it as a good omen that you have made this choice. The only fault we all used to allege against you was, that you had a tendency towards the cheap and the large rather than towards the really good and small; I believe it is a real fault, and leads to very noxious results: but here you have entirely taken farewell of that, — and decided I do believe like a wise man, awake to the other side of the question! The poor Bairns too are got better, and 'like to eat you out of house and hold'; long may it continue so. All goes better in this Letter than in the former one. Our Brother John 'helping you to put in your barley'; you yourself 'making three bed-steads'; it is all very cheerful to us, tho' full of toil and exertion. You contemplate a hard struggle for a while; but there are better omens now than there ever were. Not an honest stroke you put upon your Property there, but it will remain to you and yours. God's Earth is an honest taskmistress; and you have now her to appeal to mainly. She says, "Behave wisely, behave manfully, with patience, with industry, with real veracious endeavour; and I will reward thee!" What do you call the place? Or has it yet got any name? You must try to give it a good one! And explain all to us, very minutely, so that

1844, London 599 on a Map we may be able to find it, and picture it out for ourselves. But, for all this there will be ample time by and by, and we shall see it gradually. — Your Letters have really good insight in them about Transatlantic affairs. I would recommend you not to spare writing down whatsoever thing you do see into there: such things deserve to stand on paper; the putting of them down may tend, more than you think, to good in all ways. I sent on the Letter to Dumfries yesternight, with orders to forward instantly to Ecclefechan: Jack had already written to our Mother, imparting to her the outline of the better news. He was to get home by Carlisle, "next Wednesday" (precisely, tomorrow), Jamie to take him up at the "Galls Loaning." He bids me say that he will very speedily write to you, but is in a bad post-country, and too full of general botheration, to do it at present. I am not sure, on reflexion, if I have not aggravated to you my own impression of our dear old Mother's rather more than usually ailing situation this Season. I impute it very much to the noxious weather. Our Doctor will tell us better about it when there, we hope. Jane sends you her love. I my blessing to one and all of you once more. Adieu, dear Brother. Ever your affectionate, T. Carlyle

195· Chelsea, London, 18 august, 1844 My dear Brother, We have to thank you for the interesting and comfortable news we got a few days ago, by your Letter written "at the hour when you should have rested." No doubt you had need enough of rest; nevertheless it was a good work to let us all have assurance of your wellbeing, to gratify and comfort us all by news of your procedure in that far home you have found. I sent the Letter off, directly after we had both read it here with true satisfaction; our good Mother and the Doctor, I learn since, found it straightway in their passing thro' Ecclefechan from the Gill. I have had two Notes from the Doctor since; by one

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of which he warns me that I must write to you, and not he this time; and that this is the last day for doing it. Our dear Mother, I am to assure you, is well, better than your imaginations represent; Jack bids me "assure you with perfect truth that she is at least as well as she was last year, and in better spirits." "She was extremely glad to to see his (Alick's) Letter, and hear that he had got strong again and able to work vigorously. She desires to have her love and blessings sent to him and all his household." This will be the most important piece of intelligence I have to send you. The rest of us are all in the old way, if not better. Jamie, while the harvest gets ready, is looking out for a new Farm, Jack assisting him; as yet without any success. Our Mother seems to have decided that it will be agreeablest for all parties, to continue living with Jamie for her part; Jamie it seems is warmly of the same mind. I commissioned the Doctor to look accurately into this business of a Dwelling for our Mother; and, if need were, to buy or build her a fit House: but it seems as if all parties were rather tending towards the above arrangement. Jenny will, as before, come and see our Mother whenever there is need or convenience; but they and she both think it will be better that she retain her old quarters withal. Isabella, in these weeks, has got a notable aversion of strength, and can now go about the kitchen, and look after her affairs herself; which is of course an immense comfort to poor Jamie and her whole house. At the Gill, it appears, there is a goodish outlook for this season; and all goes on well. At Dumfries too all well. The Doctor, as perhaps you already know, has been in those regions some two or three months now; very idle, I suppose, for most part: but indeed he has not any work exactly handy anywhere at present. Perhaps he will find some by and by; but we must just give him his head up in the mean time, and make no observations. Jane went away this summer, two months ago, to see her Uncle and Cousins1 at Liverpool; almost the only kindred she has now left her. She staid there about a month, with them and certain other friends in that quarter; she came home to me, certainly not worse than [when] she went away; and has been pretty well ever since. Our City is now totally "empty," as they say; that is about 100,000 persons have rushed out of it, to bathe, saunter, travel, and shoot partridges; among whom are very nearly all the persons we have any acquaintance with: so that

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we are quieter here for the present than we could be almost anywhere; on which ground I decide to continue where I am for this season, and not go out of Town at all. I got but little quietness last year, and no perceptible improvement of health or heart, tho' I went seeking it at a considerable cost over many weary miles. I have never suffered from the heat this year, tho' it has been a very genial summer, and till the July time exceedingly dry: but there has always been a fresh brisk wind; besides I understand the climate better now, and guard against it better. My work is terribly behind; — but I struggle along at it, and hope one day to bring some result that shall be useful out of all this.2 We were all delighted, dear Brother, to read of your new Home in these late [Let]ters: the image of you and all your Bairns planting Indian corn, the Father digging holes, and the little ones busily dropping-in grains, was the beautifulest thing to me I had seen for some time. God's blessing is on that, I think, if on anything under this Sun. Doubt it not, dear Brother, better days are coming than you have for long been acquainted with. You always were a fell little fellow since you were first bolted in this world; — and if you will struggle to abate that fiery impatience of mind, which confuses one in all ways so that one can no longer see clearly what is one's own error and one's own truth, and thus go on in the right direction, at the right step, I do predict a blessed harvest of good for you; good temporal and spiritual! Write to us always how you get on. Never mind how brief you are in busy times. We will wait till Winter for a complete description; — tell us only in the meanwhile how you lie from Brantford and from John Carlyle's, whether there is any brook or landmark near, so that one may find you exactly on the map. Your tanned cheeks, grown thin, and with a deep lirk in them; your muscles all grown lean, but tough as iron, and invincible by toil as formerly: all this is not sad to me, it is beautiful and blessed. Only, have a care: do not work too hard either, to do yourself a mischief; that also is a fault! Remember our brave Father; — I have never seen such a worker! It were better for all of us, if we were like him in many ways. — If the first brush were by, you will not be so pushed in another season: the beauty of such a place is that if you are honest and wise towards it, it will infallibly reward you. Poor little Alick and his ague does not please us so well: but we hope it has past too as the others did: it seems as if all of you would

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need to get acclimated in that new country; then, we hope, you will be as healthy as in the old. — Will you inquire, the first time you have opportunity, what is the way of getting a Package, Parcel, Box or the like conveyed to you; what it costs by the cubic foot, laid down within reach of you; and what is the best port to ship it from, London, Liverpool or which? This by the first chance you have of accurately ascertaining. — Jack farther bids me say you are not to put "By Halifax British Mail" on the backs of the Letters any more; it is at best superfluous: it was the cause, he thinks, why certain of your Letters were much belated some months ago. [No more room here.]3 When you see Brother John, give him our kind regards. Does Jamie send you or him the Herald Newspaper? I think it might be worth while; it would be very easy to do, if you spoke of it. You will have ample time for reading in Winter, — Newspapers and better things. — The harvest, they say, is going to be good, for the Corns, with us this year, tho' bad for hay and fodder: — they seem to me to be getting rather ugly weather for it in this quarter; the wheat hereabouts, I understand, is by no means all got in yet. Distress, difficulty, discontent abound among the working classes as when you left us; nay some of the Lord John Russells now are got to admit it.4 — Adieu dear Brother; I have only half room to subscribe myself. — Your affectionate — T. Carlyle Jane sends her land love to all of you; rejoices heartily along with me to hear of your welldoing and wellbeing. You must commend me to Tom and Jane; excellent workers I think they will both be! — 'Span of horses' is a Dutch term: Span is still the German name for team; to span is to yoke. It was Scotch people that first of all settled in New York region; but the Dutch succeeded them, and staid long. I suppose you have heard nothing at all from Clow, since he struck forth into the West? — I am very glad you did not go in that direction. Yankees seem to me even worse than Canadians can be. One of my best Friends here, poor John Sterling, a very noble and gifted man, is now understood to be dying, of consumption in the Isle of Wight. I got a Note from him last Sunday; like the Farewell of a Hero; — which I shall never forget! 5

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χ. Besides Alexander, Helen, and Jeannie they were Margaret and the Reverend Mr. Walter Welsh (d. 1881?)—all children of John. In 1846 Walter became minister at Auchtertool, Fifeshire. Helen moved to the manse with him in 1851, Jeannie and Margaret by 1856. 2. On July 29 Carlyle wrote Edward FitzGerald, whom Carlyle had met two years before and who then had offered to help him on the details of Naseby Battlefield necessary for Cromwell, that he was "fast gathering Oliver's Letters together; have a big sheaf of them copied with my own hand, and tolerably elucidated . . . The ground grows always a littlefirmeras I work in that quarter" (NL, I, 316). 3. Carlyle's brackets. 4. Although Lord John Russell had led the opposition against Peel's administration in 1841, in 1845 he supported him in repealing the corn laws. 5. Sterling died September 18. His note, dated from Hillside, Ventnor, 10th August 1844, Carlyle included in his biography of Sterling (pp. 260-261).

196. Chelsea, 3 deer, 1844 My dear Brother, Your Letter in answer to the last I sent you arrived duly, as you have already heard thro' other channels; for I sent it off immediately after we had done with it here; and since that, I have seen in my regular turn various other Letters of yours, bringing down your history to the last arrival, which occured a few nights ago. The Doctor, who was in Annandale all summer, professed to be very constant in writing to you from the scene of all others most interesting; so that at present I, who have not been out of London at all, can have little that is new to communicate. No man can well be busier either. But I write nevertheless, were it only to assure you that there are no news which you do not know. The account you give us of your new farming operations is to me highly promising and agreeable. No pleasanter picture have I known for a long time in your biography than that you gave us of the planting of the Indian Corn, — every soul of the establishment busy getting

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the grain dibbled in, the very infants, toddling about, each industrious after its kind; a little useful "dottle of a body," already working for its little bit of bread there, — claiming from the Great Parent of us all, with a noble practical "prayer," planted into the bosom of our general Mother Earth, "Give us this day our daily bread!" And then in your next Letter we had word of the reaping of that same crop; all again busy, gathering where they had sown. Such sights, whatever be the "state of markets," the etc. etc., are very blessed to me. There lies health, and truth, and solid good for a man. We can make no more of it, — few can make so much, — in any sphere of life whatever. My prediction to myself is, That whatsoever is most serious, most patient, manful, industrious, good and worthy in you, will more and more unfold itself there, — to the discouragement, to the extinction of whatever is not so; — and that you will find a sober manful existence, which you have always longed after, at length possible for you there! And if so why should we complain of anything? Life is a most grave matter; issuing in Death, and in what lies after Death; — it is not a joyous matter, it is a matter full of toil and earnest difficulty, full of sadness, I believe, to all manful men! We have to get above it; to say that we care not for its "happinesses," that we can do with all its sorrows, and patiently front them, and work a little good even out of them, — before its comforts, such as they are, come to any evidence for us. We do not get the good of Life till we have gained the victory over it. Be not too sad, my dear Brother, that we are parted: this too is [a] portion of the lot of man. Every one of us has, in many stern situations to say, "Alone, alone! I tread the winepress alone!" 1 — My solitude here, I believe, is equal to that of Canada. I too feel that my Mother will die; the being who of all others has loved me best; — that already she is almost as if dead to me: — and I have no refuge except saying, and trying to say truly from my heart, "God made us all; God is the maker of Death too; and nothing in us or of us which He found worthy, which was noble and godlike, can die!" Courage, Courage! — Nay why should we look at it so sternly after all? You can at any time come over to England again; by the outlay of a certain sum of money and time, it is always double; many have come, visit after visit:

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why should we afflict our hearts, not knowing at any time what a day may bring forth? — 2 Much better than all this moralising, however, is the fact which I can still assure you of, that our good old Mother is, so far as I can learn, in a really very good way at present. Jack is but an indistinct reporter; however I do gather from him that her health is reasonbly good, altogether as we used to know it of late years; that she bears all things with a devout composure such as from of old we have all known and admired in her; and is in fact "mercifully dealt with" outwardly and inwardly, as she herself would say: for which we all of us have reason to thank God. — Of Jamie's getting Scotsbrig again you have already heard. We rejoice at it for her [ ( ] Mother's [ ) ] sake withal. Some kind of rent we are now to pay Jamie for her; and that will be the only change necessary. Did any mention to you the death of a young daughter of M'Kinnow's3 from Hawick? I forget her name. She came down to Scotsbrig when I was there last, a nice blote little woman; seeking refuge from threatened Consumption: she came again last year, I think: — and now a few weeks ago she is dead. Poor little thing; fluttering like a bird out from the talons of Death, and could not escape! The news made me very sad; made the image of her very sad to me. — The rest of them in Annandale and elsewhere are, as you hear, much about their usual way. Jenny continues very industrious, they say; one of the best-behaved little bodies: I hope she will gradually dismiss the Past out of her mind; and may yet, even legally, get loose from so fatal an entanglement as that has been. Jean's children have been unwell, but seem recovering. Mary also complains; but our Doctor reports improvement in her too. He himself as you learn has got back to this neighbourhood again; he looks well in health, shews good spirits; — has but one want, which indeed is a dreadful one, that of some real work to do! I do not now speak to him at all on that subject. But if I could assist him towards getting to work, I should esteem it the greatest blessing. I begin, however, to forsee for him a Future as it were nearly or altogether idle, — furnished with what he will call "work," but what impartial onlookers cannot call such. But we must still hope. As for me I struggle at my very ugly task, sometimes with a little

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progress, at other times with none visible. Just at present I am in a kind of crisis: the day after tomorrow I am to attempt another time the real heart of the matter! It makes me very uncomfortable; — but I have pretty good health for me; I must persevere till I do get the matter off my hands in one form or another. — Did they tell you our brave Friend, the most intimate we had in this region, John Sterling, is dead? Of consumption; he died slowly, with great heroism and composure: he is a real loss to us here, where amid regiments of acquaintances etc. whom it is one's first duty to avoid, worthy friends are rare. — Dear Brother, you must write long descriptions about Canada thro the winter; let us thoroughly understand your locality, neighbours etc. etc.: one cover, you see, will hold a good deal of writing; Jane sends her affectionate remembrance to you all. My kind regards to the little ones and Jenny. Take care of that ancle! T. Carlyle χ. Isa. 63:3. 2. Prov. 2 7 : 1 . 3. H e and his daughter are unidentified.

197· Chelsea, London, 3 feby, 1845 My dear Brother, John, I believe, is writing to you today; and certainly there need be no busier man than I am at this present; nevertheless I will not let the monthly Packet go again without sending you my blessing and express New Years wishes. It will be worth a shilling to me, — and to you. This morning there came a Letter from Jamie, direct from Scotsbrig: I will inclose that too, as the freshest news; it will bring the whole scene before you, more vividly than Jack can. I was charged indeed specially from our dear good Mother to send you her thanks for the Letter she had from you some time ago; which, I dare say, gave her the liveliest satisfaction, — good old Mother! She has not sent me anything from her own hand this long while, but employs Jenny to write: however, I can understand she is really toler-

1845, London 607 ably well, and they often say "better than usual." Jamie's new lease of Scotsbrig will be a great thing for her; I did not see well how she was to adjust herself in a new establishment; and am very glad she is to continue as before. Jamie, as perhaps John will explain to you, has made a favourable kind of bargain about Scotsbrig; and is full of brisk zeal, draining etc. etc. His wife continues still weakly. Jenny is at present there with our Mother. Mary is a little complaining at Gill; the rest, in spite of our dirty broken ever-changing weather, are in their usual way. — Jamie also alludes to the letting of Craingenputtock: ah me, what recollections join themselves to that, — very miserable, some of them! But they are all past; "may the worst of our days be past!" I have got James Stewart to take charge of letting Puttock for me. Peter Austin wants it "for one of his sons," I am told: Peter, to my memory, figures as a still disagreeabler body than Joseph1 himself; I will not interfere in favour of Peter: it is probable Joseph will get it again, — poor Stot, why not! One should be humane even to Stots. We are divided from all that now, you and I, as by a great gulph! I often want to be in the country; but Puttock always makes me shudder: indeed Scotland at large, and Annandale itself, is infinitely sad to me; it is as if I should never return thither, and could not except as a strange alien creature, not at home any more. Courage! Let us not keep looking back; let us look forward, with hope, and diligently bear a hand! Your Letters, dear Brother, are on the whole very comfortable to me. I see all your sorrows; the deep loneliness, mournful affections of your heart: alas, I know them well! But there comes good out of all that; beyond doubt there does. You are working as a man should; you are in good health, which above all rejoices me: you must work along, endure along. Depend upon it, there is no good act that you do there but will be as seed sown to bring forth good; no evil that you repress in yourself or another but will be as the rooting out of weeds: God's blessing does attend such things, there as here, — and in several respects the work is more towardly there than here. Go on, and prosper. We shall meet again, I think; and find that we are both of us "made better by suffering." 2 If it be God's will! — I am sunk deeper and deeper into my bottomless Task here, and feel often quite disconsolate and almost desperate about it: but I must

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hold on. Never turn back, till you cannot help it! I do make progress, but of the slowest. My health is not very good, — that indeed is the ugliest feature of the whole business; a frightful feature! But I am long used to that. I think of getting a horse in Summer, if I can manage it, — but it is very expensive, and I grudge it on such a business. Nothing new ails me at all; only the old story somewhat aggravated by my town life and work. Courage, courage! — Jane has been weakly all winter; the Sun will return; then she will brighten up again. She sends you, and all yours, many a kind wish. Dear Brother, you must, now in the winter time, send us a full description of your New Place, — what name do you call it? I am delighted to hear of your grain and your cows and poultry, — and all the bits of Bairns running about, gathering strength and size when we are to grow weak and grey by and by. God Almighty bless you all. Give my kind regards to Jenny; to good little Jane, to Tom and all the rest in mass. I have not given up the notion of a Box to Canada; it is one of the beautiful things that he before me "when my Book is done"! Ever your affectionate T. Carlyle ι.

M'Adam.

2. Cf. Heb. 2:10. Carlyle quoted the passage correctly in

Heroes,

P· 92·

198. Alexander to Carlyle, with postscripts from Carlyle and John Aitken Carlyle to Margaret Aitken Carlyle Brantford 14th March 1845 My Dear Brother, On the fourth of the month I found your most welcome epistle waiting in the post-office, and also a very full one from dear brother Jack which made us very happy after existing so long on hope and the two strokes on the news-papers. — third Deer, being the date of our latest written intelligence. Our dear old Mother, Jean, the good Dr and also

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Jamie had been all adressed in the interim so that you will easily believe I had become somewhat impatient and made I fancy by long waiting a shade more thankful for the pleasing nature of your communications. — Pleasing tho' alas also mixed with painful considerations for we cannot my dear brother but feel greived to think of the prolonged struggle you continue to endure with your present task — such fiery-bouts never failed to make you "lean." I would by all means provide myself with a horse to ride upon so soon as the weather became warm enough I always thought you reaped benefits from that exercise and you happily now do not need to live in fear of poverty. I was yesterday to Brantford delivering the last of the grain I mentioned to the1 and having thrashed. Markets was exceedingly flat and speculators are becoming affraid of loosing notwithstanding the very low prices they purchased at. I have realized however upwards of ninty dollars for the two ruks. Fortunatly a very considerable proportion of our crop was rye which this season is selling much better than wheat. In this ruk of wheat I speak of we have more than twenty bushels of another strange sort of grain I never heard of but in this country; called Shep. — It is somewhat of the colour of rygrassseed but larger and so tough and hard that even horses cannot chew it but when ground any of the animals will consume it readily enough. — The people here and also in the States seem to believe that the wheat seed under certain circumstances produce it. From the little I have seen I consider the thing probable tho' curious and difficult to account for. Much of the wheat in Canada this year and particularly on dry soils was damaged with rust as it is called. I saw some of it myself the people were foddering cattle with without considering it worth thrashing. Rust is brought on in thicker, close warm days when the sun has not power to dry up the copious dews that fall. I may mention that but for the abundance of dew that regularly drops down no vegetable plant whatever could in any way exist, hence also arise the peculiarly unwholsomeness of the night air in these parts. In respect to the marketing of our grain I may remark, that in brisk times our Merchants have their harpies prowling about the outskirts of the village ready and eagre to purchase and of cowrse take all proper as well as improper advantage of any thing like a sudden rise in price: but in dull times no harpies are visible and you are allowed to drive your wagon along the

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street without molestation and indeed required to call upon said merchants when you would make a bargain. — People who are known in the neighbourhood can also sell by samples which I think the preferable way. It seems as if a hole were ready for the proceeds of every penny realized from our ricks. — It is not one but a thousand little things that are required in farming a new establishment. Brother John's eldest daughter Janet got married on christmas day to a very respectable young man of the name of liles 2 a joiner in our neighbourhood and of course we attended the wedding and had as is usual to invite the young people back again. But then our Missus considered we should make a very shabby figure only (being lairds) with the good table I got up while the potatoes were a cooking, three bedsteads also of home manufacture — six kitchen chairs purchased and the only thing in the house esteemed respectable. In short a new bed-stead of the couch kind — a small breakfast-table made of pear-tree wood — six room chairs nay seven, one of them is of the sort called rockingchairs which one may inocently enough guess will not be required again. — twelve dollars worth in all. Then our zig-zag fence all the way along the plant road, a quarter of a mile in length, required to be renewed, I have determined on having it done with boards and oak posts and accordingly have bargained for the said boards at the rate of four dollars per thousand-feet — the posts I am enabled to furnish myself; but calculate that the whole expence beside will amount to upwards of thirty dollars. — This is the way the money goes. In respect to the system of farming practised here, or rather nosystem I may call it, I am unfortunately still considerably in the dark. — An everlasting round of plain fallow followed with wheat seems by far the most general rule. — the fallow ground is from choice not ploughed until the month of June and is harrowed some time afterwards and crop ploughed in the end of August or beginning of Septr and very often I believe the wheat sown without more ado. When a farmer feels himself too poor to fallow a sufficient quantity he lets it out to some more able neighbour on shares as they term [them,] that is gets for the use of the land a half or third of the crop as they case may be. A better understanding however is beginning to manifest itself, during the last winter a farmers club has been formed in this

1845, Brantford and London

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township com[p]osed mostly of old country people which perhaps may be the means of difus[ing] better light. Our snow after three or four days of terrific storm about a month ago began to disappear and is now nearly all gone — but we dread a return of it the thaw having come so unusually early — our weather resembles march dry weather in the old country but more frosty at nights and the old frost is not out of the ground. We are all well in health thank God and begin to feel a little liviler as the weather brightens up. Tom and Jane have been writting to Annandale Jenny and the children are going with me to Brantford to see eggs and are standing round about me waiting so that I am again forced to plead excuse. God Bless you all My kind dear Brother Alexr. Carlyle My dear Mother, — I am well; but busier than ever, with the Printers jingling away at my heels, and a whirl of paper-clippings and confusions of every sort about my ears! — I will have a few minutes, however, for writing to my good Mother before long. Jane is pretty well too; getting better as the season gets on. We are still very windy, cold, and clashy. — I have some thoughts of getting a Horse, as Alick recommends: if Jamie were near me, I think I should commission him to buy me one; — but we cannot pack a Dumfries Horse into a band box, and send it by Pickford! — I leave this with the Dr, whom I saw last night. Perhaps he will add a few words more before sending it off. My blessings with you all. — Keep out of these wild winds and rains, dear Motherl Your affectionate T. C. Chelsea, Monday3"] 13 April 1845J My dear Mother, I have just got time to forward this to the post. I hope you got my letter on Sunday. Alick writes in good spirits and like one wholesomely and thoroughly occupied. This is one of the best letters we have had. Ever yours affectionately JAC

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MS: N L S # 1763.238-239. 1. Word omitted. 2. John Carlyle spelled it "Ellis" in his "Family History." 3. Monday was the fourteenth.

199· Chelsea, 18 April 1845 My dear Brother, The Mail Steamer is going towards you today: and tho' seldom in my life in greater haste than even now, I must write you a small word [in] acknowledgement for your welcome Letter of News, which arrived last week. I sent it on towards Annandale, directly after Jack had seen it; and there too, no doubt, it would create thankfulness and joy. We are very well pleased with your accounts of yourself; of John's daughter's marriage, and your tea party, and the good wife's determination to have new chairs (which was very proper in her!), and of all your marketings and cares and industries in that new home. There was one Letter about 'the Street' to Brantford, and all your neighbours, which was very entertaining. I have got a map of Canada; found out your place, and can now in some measure figure various elements of your position. Perhaps I shall see the place one day! Who knows? They are always asking me to come across; and now I have a real motive, if opportunity do ever serve! — Go on and prosper, my dear Brother. You cannot overrate the satisfaction it gives me to hear of your well-doing. If it please God, you shall now reap the fruit of many bitter trials you have had in this world: it is the use of suffering to us, which we are all born to, here below. — Markets seem but indifferent; much, I can readily believe, is very cross and perverse: but a man that can till his Mother Earth, and has a piece of Earth to till; — it is a great fact for a man at present. Courage! All grows smoother, more obedient to us, just as we expend our wisdom and valour and worth upon it. All things do. Your good health is an immense point; which let us all be thankful for; which do you yourself take every care of, and prize as it merits.

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From Annandale the news, I rejoice to say, are good. Our brave old Mother seems to have stood the winter well, and the Spring, which latter has been one of the hardest ever seen. Today even it is cold as December all but the Sun; — a poisonous east wind blowing. Jamie seems busy draining etc. : Isabella is very poorly still. Mary complains a little; but Jack thinks her getting better. Perhaps you notice in the Courier that Puttock is again to let. M'Adam demands some £.20 (if I remember) of abatement. I got Stewart of Gillenbie to take charge of letting the place; told him what M'Adam was; — desired that he would do what was fit[t]est, and not to speak to me of it, in my present terrible hurry! He undertakes; and I have no thought about the matter. Plenty else to think about! In fact I have Printers clanking away at my heels; and such a confusion going about me and within me as no other man. It is the ugliest job in reality I ever had. But it is getting on; a fourth part of it printed; far more than half done: I shall rejoice to be rid of it for one! Nothing but my love for Oliver could carry me thro' such an ocean of confusions; money could not hire any man to it. I send you a leaf or two of Proof papers. In some three months more I shall see daylight thro' it, I hope: one of my anticipated pleasures then is packing up a Copy of it with other bits of things for a certain Farmhouse in the Brantford region! I wish we were but at that! — I think sometimes really of getting a horse as you advise; it will depend on the effect of West wind on me, from which I expect great things. In fact I am wonderfully well, considering. Jane has been but poorly all winter; recovering now. She sends her love to you all. My blessing with you dear Brother. Ever yours T. Carlyle

200. Chelsea, 17 june, 1845 My dear Brother, John, who is gone Northward as his own Letter will explain, has appointed me to add a few words for you by this Mail: I take a little minute before going to bed tonight, as tomorrow there will be no

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leisure at all, and send you my brotherly salutation accordingly. My time at present, as it has been for these many months, is hardly any minute of it my own: I never in my life was held busier; and now the hot weather too has come to lame me still farther. We were all much gratified with your last Letter; a clear healthy tone breathes thro' it, and we see you busy, and what we can well call prosperous in your new enterprise, — for a man that embarks himself on any enterprise in that spirit, and perseveres so, may be said to be prospering in it. Go on, my dear Brother; and every year will add its little stock of fruit to your store of good manful possessions, and you will gradually grow rich in true wealth. — I have had one little Note out of Scotland since Jack went away: it was from Jenny at Dumfries to say that Jean had just been safely delivered of a little Daughter, and that both she and it were doing well. They have called the little creature Margaret: Jenny had been there waiting for the event for some weeks. Our good old Mother, pretty well in health, was in the interim waiting at the Gill. She will now very soon be home at Scotsbrig when she hears that Jack is coming. Jamie's Isabella is said to be still as poorly as ever; "unable to speak except in whispers"; really a very heavy handful for poor Jamie and for herself. Except Ben Nelson's death, of which I get no particulars hitherto, there was no other news from Scotland. Poor Ben, I believe, was falling into drink besides all other miseries: perhaps it is a mercy that his days were not prolonged in this world. — I might mention also, what is only like a piece of country news to myself, for I could take little or no hand in the operation, — that Craigenputtock is let to Macqueen,1 and Macadam is fairly out of it; which is a result I am glad of. James Stewart and the Factor Adamson did the whole without troubling me about it; for I absolutely had no time at all for such a business. The rent I think is £180, big house and all. But I do not well know; — and really cannot much care at present: the place and its concerns are not lovely to me. I have got a horse2 according to your advice! Often I thought of you, when this business was on hand: I had no Alick to buy a horse for me now! A benevolent friend of these parts undertook it for me: — a very smart horse, a gelding of six years, black, long-tailed, high and thin, — swift as a roe; reminds me of poor Larry in some of his ways, tho' better bred than Larry: the price of him was £35; would be very

1845, London

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dear in Dumfries. I ride two hours every day; and really hope to get benefit by and by, — tho' the effect hitherto is rather an increase of biliousness; which I am told is common in such cases. I really have been kept terribly busy and much harrassed all Spring and Summer; I long very sincerely indeed to be thro' this affair, and out into the Country again! But alas we are still a good way from that. The first volume is fairly done and printed: but we have hardly the fifth part of the second ended yet. I think it may be three months almost before I am fairly off. However, the Book does prove a little better than I expected; and will perhaps be of some use by and by; which is a kind of consolation. Did you get a fraction of a leaf of it, with some little Note of mine? I think I sent you such a thing: I did not see in your last Letter any notice that it had arrived. Jane has recovered greatly since the weather grew fairly warm. We have it now hot enough, after long months of barren cold. The people are all mowing, a heavy crop of fine natural hay, as I ride abroad thro' the field lanes here: the smell of it is sweeter than any perfume to me. I ride alone; strive to keep out of people's way as much as possible. Dear Brother, you too I suppose are broiling away at field-labour in the Canadian heat. I am very glad to learn that you are got more moderate; violent working was always one of your faults. And the little Bairns are at their schooling; and Jenny is busy within doors; and you, as head of the house, have many cares; — and God's fair sky bends over all. May His blessing be with you, dear Alick, you and all dear to you! And so good Night. — Your affectionate Brother, T. Carlyle Jane sends her affectionate regards to you and all of you. When little Jane takes the pen in hand, I do not see why she should not write a line to her Namesake here. — Published in part: NL, I, 325-326. 1. John Macqueen, or M'Queen (d. ca. 1850), a native of the region of Craigenputtock, who by 1846 had "become a mighty cattle-dealer, famed at Norwich, much more over all these moor countries for his grandeur of procedure ( and who in a year or two died tragically, poor man! ) . . . — T . C." (LM, I, 275; see also 3). See Letter 230 for the ap-

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proximate year of his death and for his brother Thomas, who apparently leased Craigenputtock from 1850 to 1852. For Adamson see Letter 135. 2. Which Carlyle first called Black Duncan, then Bobus.

201. Chelsea, 3 july 1845 My dear Brother, In a hurried moment, on one of the little bits of Paper fluttering copiously round me, I write my salutations. We are well; my horse does me good, — tho' a very wild fellow; whom I think of parting with, were this hurry over. Weather cool, often wet. I am getting steadily on with my Book, tho' there yet remain six good weeks of it. I will then run for the Country, — for poor old Scotland, I intend. Jack has sent you all the news. Tom's Letter, which I saw lately only, was admirable to us here! Tell him to write again, the rugged Son of Earth, — and little Jane too. The greater Jane, stronger in the summer time, salutes you all. Adieu, dear Brother. T. C.

202. Chelsea, 31 August, 1845 My dear Brother, Your Letter arrived here two days ago, and was straightway despatched, after due perusal here, to our Mother and the Friends in the North; all of whom, like us, will be right glad to see it. I happen to be nearly alone here at present; Jane is away in Lancashire1 for the last month; — only Jack, who has been roving about the Country thro' the summer, is with me for the last ten days. You have been working terribly again; too hard, I fear! That was a fault of yours from of old: I also have often cause to remember our Father in that respect, how much wiser he was than I in laying out of strength. — I find you still very melancholy, my dear Brother, — sad

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LETTERS ACROSS THE ATLANTIC

and solitary in your new Country: but on the whole I surely think it is a wholesome way you are in; better and better will come of it as you persevere. Whatsoever a man plants in this God's-world, it does sooner or later grow for him. That is true in regard to all spiritual things too; really as true as in regard to trees and grain. Whatsoever manfulness he shew in any matter, whatsoever virtue or worth we do veritably put forth, does turn to good for us in all ways by and by. Men do not reward us for it; but the Author of Men very infallibly does. — One finds all places sad, solitary; earnest labour is one's lot here below. Let us never mind what the people are; let us elbow our own way thro' them as faithfully as lies in us: their unsound ways of procedure are a misery to themselves; a thing worthy of pity from us, if of any feeling. You are fairly getting nestled into that new seat, we find. I wish you would give it a name! Have you never thought of any name? You must also in the winter time give us a much fuller description of the whole figure and conditions of it: there was a Letter last year full of description of your neighbours and neighbourhood, which we all found very interesting. And think of a name! Something emblematic; descriptive of the locality, or of your own humour towards it. Pilgrimston, Alexton (that is the indisputablest name of all!), Hopeston, Bield, Screen, Bush etc. etc. I shall like to hear of your gradually taking some affection to the place; which, as you see the fruits of your toil spring up there, will not fail in time. You, it is true, as I here, and as all of us or most of us in this world, will never get entirely to feel it as a home: but Tom and little Jane and the rest of them will; and may have great reason to bless the hour when you brought them out there. Bad people in one's neighbourhood is a very sad element: but if there be no good society, you must train the children all the more strictly to stand on their own feet, and front a life of solitude among their fellow creatures; which is often the lot of those that would be honest here. Your Canada Harvest seems none of the best; and we here have also great doubts about ours. The Summer has been dim, damp and cold: all things are four weeks later than they ought to be, which is itself a bad sign. Immense railwaying, and other "Speculation," carried to a most wild pitch, is going on; I myself should not wonder if it all broke down on the sudden, and adding itself to a bad harvest, brought great woe upon the working people again. Prosperous or unpros-

184s, London 619 perous it is a very ugly sight to me, such fierce hunting after money. The Carlisle-and-Glasgow railway does now go on; comes across by Claughbrae,2 I think they say: the poor people will get employed for a while digging at it; but I have small hope of any permanent improvement to them by means of it. Our news out of Annandale are still good: our brave old Mother stands out wonderfully; she has been once or twice a little unwell, but on the whole never really ill, — rallies into new strength in a day or two again. She is now at the Gill, for a little sea-bathing. Jack was there for two or three weeks in the early part of Summer: he brings a good report in general of them. Mary indeed still continues to suffer; and poor Isabella is perfectly feckless, confined to bed I believe. But Jamie struggles away; his farm is now going to be a few pounds easier for him every year. Jean at Dumfries has got a new Daughter; I had a short Letter from her lately; my correspondence there and indeed in all quarters whatsoever has been much curtailed for a while past. I have written as it were no Letters, none at all that I could escape writing. Now however I am to have a little more leisure. Last week I actually got done3 with that Book on Cromwell! It is all gone to the Printers now, indeed all printed but a few sheets; I shall not have much more trouble with it. They are not to publish it till October: I hoped to have got you a Copy, and indeed a whole Box of little things for a Gift this Autumn: but, alas, the work grew greatly on me; and in place of ending in May or June, I am ending now. — I am in great bustle at present; getting everything sorted for an instant run Northward. I am to meet Jane in Liverpool; then she returns, and I go on across to Annandale. I have much need of a little country quiet, but shall not get much. I am this day sending off my horse to winter-quarters. It has grown a capital horse, and I have ridden much on it; but nothing can or could keep me well. I am to have the beast maintained for ¿£6 in some supportable kind of way till March next; then I will try it again perhaps. — — Jack, as I said, is with me; reading the Sheets of this new Book at present. He does not seem to have any plan for himself; and one of the worst features is, he is wonderfully content with that form of affairs. In fact he is thoroughly idle; and is conscious rather of being busy. I am often sorry for him poor fellow. I think he will per-

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haps stay here a while, and then go into Annandale when I have left it. — Dear Brother, I have a bad headache, even if my paper were not done. I will write with more minute news, when I have seen Annandale myself. — Mr Greig has been here and in Scotland; he returns by the Steamer that will carry this Letter. I gave him a Copy of Past and Present for you, — a new edition they4 have just published here; — he undertakes to have it sent to you by some conveyance. Farewell then dear Brother. Be diligent valiant and patient. Ever your affectionate T. Carlyle ι. Visiting first her uncle in Liverpool and by August 5 Elizabeth Paulet and her husband, an "extensive merchant," at Seaforth House three miles down river. "Paulet was a good, cleverish Genoese; Mrs. Paulet, an early friend of Geraldine Jewsbury, a strange, indolently ingenious, artistic, etc., creature, very reverent of us at this [1844] time. — T. C." (LM, I, 214). 2. There is a Cleughbrae two miles off the Caledonian Railway four miles west of Dumfries, and a Cleuchbrae one mile off it one mile north of Mouswald. There is also a Cleuchside just off the railway three miles northwest of Ecclefechan and a Cleuch-Head less than a mile off it two and one-half miles south of Ecclefechan. 3. On August 26. His Journal entry for that date reads, "I have this moment ended Oliver; hang it! He is ended, thrums and all. I have nothing more to write on the subject, only mountains of wreck to burn. Not (any more) up to the chin in paper clippings and chaotic litter, hatefuller to me than most. I am to have a swept floor now again" (Froude, III, 356). 4. Chapman and Hall.

203. With enclosed note from Margaret Aitken

Carlyle

Scotsbrig, 30 Septr, 1845 My dear Brother, — The time for the Packet drawing nigh, I, being here where your chief interests all lie, cannot but get a line ready for you. I got to Scotsbrig almost three weeks ago, and have been loitering about, doing very

1845, Scotsbrig

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little; but I can at least tell you the news of this Household, which I am very sure will be a welcome service to you. Our dear old Mother was in waiting for me that morning Jamie brought me up from the Steamer; she has run about unweariedly ever since, and nothing can prevent her from the most restless endeavour to make her guest better and better off, — far better than he has any need or wish of. She is in, what one must call very good health for her; not much weaker than when I saw her last: her hands shake a little more, I think, and that is almost all the change one notices in her. She varies considerably, however, from day to day; has slept indifferently last night, for instance, — we cannot expect her now to be strong. She does not mourn audibly for your absence; indeed she says expressly with thankfulness, You seem for all your sadness of mind to be doing really better than there was any clear chance of here. Good Mother! She is quite cheery yet, when moderately well in health; looks back with still resignation on many a sorrow, and forward with humble pious trust. It is beautiful to see how in the gradual decay of all other strength, the strength of her heart and affections still survives, as it were, fresher than ever; — the soul of Life refuses to grow old with the body of Life; one of the most affecting sights! We were talking last night of the death of Margaret, — that unforgettable night when you and I rode down from Craigenputtock;1 — and were all again, as it were, brought together, the dead of us and the absent of us; in a sad but to me very solemn and profitable manner. — I am far from happy here; indeed, in real fact, had I consulted but my own lazy feelings I had much rather not have come: nobody knows what inexpressible sorrow and confusion it is to me to look on this old Annandale in these sick humours of mine. However, I am very thankful I did come. Amid the muddy confusions outward and inward, there are things taught me here which I can learn nowhere else. Let us be thankful, for many blessings such as fall to the lot of few. Good Parents whom you can honour, it is the foundation of all good whatsoever for a man. Jenny is here with her two children, doing the house-work. She seems to me stronger and much cheerfuller than two years ago. She is a very handy active lassie; and conducts herself with much wisdom and discretion. Very diligent; does all the sewing of the kindred, or nearly all; has her two bits of bairns clean as two pennies, in thrifty neatness;

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has them good readers, the eldest is even a good sewer. She never speaks of her misfortunes, nor does anybody else: indeed I am very glad to see the figure she cuts. Perhaps all that she has suffered may turn to her for good yet. — Jean and her Husband seem very prosperous, Jamie getting more and more employment (has twelve journeymen this year, I think): they were very land to my Mother and me two days last week; — a terrible tumult of children always round them. Mary who has been unwell for a good while, with some rather dangerous tendency in the bowels, as I understand, is now very decidedly better; she was looking really well, the other day, with her children and house all clean and snug: — I believe she still complains a little, internally; but everybody admits she is very much better. Austin was in the middle of his harvest: four ricks in, some six more expected; a really tolerable crop, better than ever he has had, they say, — and now it is expected he will be able to go on without staggering henceforth. At Scotsbrig here, Jamie in so far as his farming affairs go has nothing bad to report of himself: prices rather high (owing to the railway, the expectation of which has already raised the price of all kinds of labour); prices very fair; a reasonable crop, stock all thriving; rent well reduced. His harvest is backward, as all the country is; — mowing hard today, in the interval of windy showers, and not half done yet. Indeed he is getting to diminish his crop, year after year; and depends now more and more upon sheep, which I think may prove good husbandry for such a climate. Will Easton2 and his squad are here just now, rebuilding the Stable; — exactly where it stood, only some feet higher, — and longer, close to the corner of old Betty's house. Poor old Pete Easton is dead, last winter. Wull has the premises all full of mortar-heaps and lumber ever since I came; and seems to me to get on very slowly. But the saddest feature for Jamie is poor Isabella, who is really a heavy load, to herself and others. She cannot speak, except with great effort a word or two in a scarcely audible whisper; is obliged to lie on a sofa, and do what she can for directing her house by signs thro' one of her nieces from Potstown: she is in terror whenever Jamie leaves her; she suffers much, in mind if not in body; and he has a very sad time of it, I think, so far as this goes. One does not hear him complain: but I notice him much graver than he used to be in

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623

former times. Nothing can be done to help his poor wife or him: Patience and quiet waiting is the only remedy. This is nearly all the news I have to give of Scotsbrig. As to the rest, I have seen almost nobody, nobody at all that I could help seeing; and can only report in general that the people seem all busy harvesting; that the weather is very plashy and wet. Indeed our summer over all the Island was unusually dim and cold; people say the harvest is much better than was once expected. A very sad feature of it, however, is the Disease of the Potatoes; almost everywhere the Potatoes when nearly ripe are seized by a kind of murrain; whither in the stems; the Potatoe itself gets black-spotted, soft, and slowly or fast inevitably goes to mush. Jamie thinks he has lost about half of his: he has put up his swine to eat them as fast as possible out of the way. It is thought by some the Potatoe is about refusing to grow any more in these climates; which will be a very frightful business indeed! All over Holland, Germany etc. as well as in Britain and Ireland this Potatoe-Epedemic is prevalent; to a great extent, I fear, tho' nobody as yet can tell how great. — Near Frank Graham the Tailor's house ( a little on the Scale-wood 3 side ) is seen a heap of dug earth among the corn: it marks the course of the railway in that quarter; which is just to be begun; and has raised wages, as I was saying: for two years there will likely be a greater briskness of demand for labour, and then the demand will end again; indeed it will mainly be the Irish that do the digging, I suppose; they are already crowding in great quantities into this quarter. — One Corry ( Andrew Corry, I think they called him), a drunken Drover once well known hereabouts overturned his gig on the road from Dumfries lately, and killed himself on the spot: it was broad daylight, but the poor wretch was utterly drunk. Dear Brother, you must write a Letter to us soon; you will have more leisure now that the winter is coming. A Letter of Tom's giving a minute account of all the domestic stock is still spoken of with much praise herel Tell him to try it again; and Jane too: you cannot be too minute. I must be off homewards again, in some week or ten days. The Book is coming out, I believe; you shall hear of me again. Farewell T. C.

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All here salute you; I design to make my Mother write her own salutations, tho' her hand shake. My blessings on you one and all. Be diligent, patient: "Work and hope!" My dear Alick I would like to write you if I could as this will testify but send you my best wishes thank Tom for his good letter and teell Jane and him to write soon and tell me all their news. May the God keep and guid you all in His ways and fear which is the prayer of your old Mother give my kindest love to Jenny and all the dear little ones. May you all be in Gods keeping MAC Published in part: NL,

II, 2-5.

1. See introduction to Letter 79. 2. Unidentified. For Peter Easton see Letter 20. 3. There is a Scalehill immediately off the railway one mile southeast of Lockerbie.

204. Chelsea, 2 jany, 1846 My dear Brother, Will you accept from me a very hasty Note, conveying almost nothing. I am again, and especially at this moment, very busy, — contrary to my expectation, for I have had weeks of idleness since you last heard of me; but I did not think they were to end again so soon. The essential Message I have to deliver you at present is, That a Copy of the Book on Cromwell addressed to you was duly despatched ( by the New York or Boston Steamer, I think ) five or four weeks ago, To the Care of Messrs Armour and Ramsay, Booksellers, Montreal, — where doubtless it is now lying; waiting that you should send for it. The Address was the common one on your Letters. I did not write earlier to announce it, because I did not know how the Booksellers were to contrive sending it, — not till after the last Packet had sailed.

1846, London

625

I do not know if this is a good way? I meant it to get to you free of expense: but the Booksellers tell me this "Armour and Ramsay" will very likely charge carriage for it, and may even keep it till they see clearly how they are to be paid. The carriage of such a bulk, by way of separate Parcel, might come to 10 or 15 shillings, some say; — which I am very sorry to hear! The selling value of the Book is but 3 6 / , — and probably you could get a Yankee Copy cheaper than the carriage (for they have already pirated two editions from me, I hear): 1 on the whole, you must do what you find desirable; and I shall be very glad if you get that small memorial of my love to you, on any moderate terms. John has told you, there is to be a new edition of the Book; for, contrary to all human expectation, it proves rather popular here! A new edition with improvements, with a good many new Letters etc. that have turned up in consequence of the first edition: — I am extremely busy once more, endeavouring to gather these, and see what I am to do with them. Of this new edition also you shall have a Copy, and I will try to send it by some better conveyance. I dislike the work I am again upon very much; — yet surely ought not to grudge that I am set upon it! — John has pretty fully told you all our important news here; especially the good accounts from Annandale, for which you will be as we are very thankful. Newspapers will teach you what Political changes are afloat, — promised abrogation of the Corn-Laws etc. For indeed there is little other than a prospect of famine in various quarters of this Kingdom at present. The Potatoes seem totally ruined; either rotted, or else irretrievably rotting. They are at 4 for three half-pence in Chelsea at present, near a halfpenny apiece! And even at that price they are next to uneatable; the rot in them all. Judge what Ireland will be! Happily there are capital wages in Scotland (owing to railway work) and plenty of employment. Our weather too is very mild. Jane and I have been almost six weeks away, 2 living with "great people," very friendly to us, down in Hampshire. It did not suit us too well, that totally idle life, beset with flunkies at every hand; but the people too were very good and friendly; — they are the Lord Ashburton people ( the Son and his Wife ). It struck us with an almost sacred feeling to read your last brave toilsome manful Letter in that grand idle

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drawingroom of theirs! — Adieu my brave Brother: may God's blessing to be with you all. Your faithful T.C. 1. The only American edition of Cromwell published at this time was Wiley and Putnam's two-volume 1845 (though dated 1846) edition. It had not been pirated. The set sold for twenty-five cents each volume, from which Carlyle received ten percent. See Slater, pp. 26-27. Colyer of New York published a second American edition in 1846 from Chapman and Hall's three-volume second (1846) edition, which contains fifty-three letters and a forty-three-page appendix not in the first. Carlyle insisted that for the purchasers of the first edition Chapman and Hall issue separately and at their expense the new matter in this second edition. They did so as Oliver Cromwell's Letters and Speeches: With Elucidations. Supplement to the First Edition (1846). See Dyer, pp. 63-64. 2. At Bay House, Alverstoke, Hants.

205. From, Margaret Aitken

Carlyle

Scotsbrig ist March 1846 My dear Son I need need not say how glad I am to see your leetters and hear of your welfare you all daily present with me. I think I see every feature of your faces. May God dwell in every heart young and old He is a strong hold in the day of truble and He knoweth them that put their trust in him. Please thank my young friends for their good letters, and tell them to write when ever they can find time; it very gratifing to me. I have been rather better this winter than last year. O that I were thankfull to the Giver of all good. Peggy Brand1 desires to be rembred kindly to you all. She keeps her old house, ever your own Mother MAC 1. See Letter 60.

ι8φ, London 627 206. Chelsea, 3 March, 1846 My dear Brother, This is American Post-day; and tho' they are probably writing you from Scotsbrig where Jack still is, yet I know you will like to see a short line from me also; and so here I send one, — tho' my time is literally measured by minutes, and you must put up with merely a word. We got your Letters here last month, directly after they had been at Scotsbrig: your reply to Jack's Letter (which was very kind, but I think not very wise ) affected us deeply; filled us with approval. Your resolution on it is manful; good and genuine; and you will not fail yet to reap the benefit of that piece of virtue. No: — in fact, my dear Brother, it grows with every Letter more apparent to me that you are doing well and nobly in your new place; and, in spite of all your sorrow, are prospering much more than many who count their gains by much larger figures of arithmetic than yours! Never mind a whit what 'monies* you make or fail to make: that is not the question at all. So long as you stand on your own feet by your own industrious toil and the bounty of our common Father alone, no man is richer than you in the money sense; many are not half so rich. Wretched slaves with big bags of dollars or guineas; and not a thought or a purpose within the skin of them that can make a man rich! Plough the Earth, my Brother, and comport your self like a wise husband, father and man; and never mind all that. — I have to observe also how very much your writing is improved. You spell now nearly with perfect accuracy; write currently in a clear excellent fashion; — and really tell one a good clear story about all things. I want you farther to get some backer ink, and some good paper: you will then send us many long pieces I hope, of which we shall all get enjoyment and benefit by and by. Your descriptions of the Country and its ways are far the most intelligible to me I have ever read. I have to gratify you by news that our friends in Scotland are all reported well; our good old Mother "better this winter than she has been for a number of years." The good old Mother! — Jack as I said is still there; very gratifying to her, I have no doubt; in spite of the

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considerable racket he will keep up. — Jenny has decided on removing to Dumfries at whitsunday; has got a small commodious place to live in, "looking out upon green ground," somewhere in Maxwelltown. We all think she will do better there: be on her own footing at least; perhaps gets some sewing work, and be in nobody's way. She has behaved herself to perfection all along, poor little Jenny. We judged that it might be best not to tell her what you had seen of the wretched Scamp she is connected with. There has never come any profit from mentioning his name to her: and by a kind of tacit accord all mention of him is avoided by all of us. He will probably write himself to her; and on the whole, it is on her own sense that she must depend for forming a judgement of him. My terrible hurry with this Second Edition of Cromwell will not last so very long now. Perhaps in two months the thing will be quite finished. There is new matter going into it; and my fash is reali [y] enormous at present. — I could like well to hear that you had ever got your Copy from Montreal. But if you have not, never mind over much. You shall at any rate have a Copy of the new Edition sent by some good conveyance, — and that will be better. They are making a great noise about it here; which seems to me somewhat strange. Dear Brother, my paper is done; my time is more than done! Jane has come in here from her walk; she sends many kind loves to you all, especially to her namesake Jane the Second. Blessings be with you and yours, dear Brother! — Ev[er] your affectionate T. Carlyle

207. Chelsea, 3 April, 1846 My dear Brother, Nobody can well have less time than I at present! But it seems uncertain whether there is any Letter going for you by this Packet: so I, in never such haste, will send you a little fraction of a Line, to assure you that nothing has gone wrong here. I received that Note from Jack at Scotsbrig this morning: that will be an assurance to you, and well worth its postage by itself. — Jenny, you perhaps know, is to flit

1846, London 629 into Dumfries at whitsunday; she has got a small comfortable kind of house, they say, in Maxwelltown there. The rest of the hasty Note (Jack seldom writes deliberately ) you will understand by its own light. I am still terribly busy with the Second Edition of this Book, and new Letters I have got to crush into it; but now I am drawing towards the end of my difficulties in that. Did your Copy ever come? I gave you the Montreal address (which I have forgotten now) : but probably a Yankee Copy was cheaper than the carriage of that other: they are selling it for a half-a-dollar in Yankeeland, tho' it cost 36/ here. — The people have made a considerable buzz about it in this Country; and indeed I believe it will do them a great deal of good, poor blockheads: — at all events, I am right glad it has nearly got out of my hands at last. The people are toiling along in the most wearisome Debates about their Corn Law; which is very sure to be abolished, as Peel has appointed: nothing can be more entirely wearisome than their "debates" upon it. And in the meanwhile there is an indubitable Famine coming upon Ireland; a Scarcity upon all places of this Empire: the potatoes are fast running out everywhere; — and we are a good way off August yet! Our season hitherto is very good as to weather; and several weeks ahead of what it usually is in point of vegetation. Jane is staying out in the Country with some Friends,1 for a week or two; about ten miles off: she comes in on the Wednesdays; sees how I am getting on. She is pretty well in health; as I am too, — tho' much fagged. Dear Brother, you must write to some of us; if you have not very lately written! How are Jenny and the little new Stranger?2 I have heard no tidings specially since that event. I suppose you too are busy in these Spring days; tilling the face of old Mother Earth, — urging her, far off, by Annandale Art, to grow you a little corn! It is an honest function for a man, and God the Maker looks on it wellpleased! I pray for all blessings on you, Dear Brother, here and hereafter. Ever Yours T. Carlyle 1. Principally Lady Harriet Baring, at her and her husband's residence of Addiscombe Farm in Croydon, Surrey. 2. James ( 1 8 4 6 - 1 9 2 4 ) . "After farming for a time he sold out and went to live in Toronto" ("Family History"). He never married.

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208. Chelsea, 18 April, 1846 My dear Brother, Having again got a Note from Jack just last night, which in a rough way conveys the latest intelligence from Annandale, and an account of your Letter to me as received there, — I will send it off, and a hasty word of my own to go with it. I did the like by last Packet: we should use the benefits of the Post-Office, when for a little coin it will carry friendly news in never so rough a state. Your Letter by Boston came about a week ago, — not conveyed, I think, by steam·, but right welcome when it did come. The "price," which you ask after, was 8 pence: a very cheap price! Do not neglect to send us the smallest word when you can, whatever the price be. — — Your Letter pleased me much; and your new name of Bield,— "better a wee bush than nae bield"; across the Water too, the same great sky envelopes us all! I am very glad, and very sad both in one, to figure you toiling like a man, in your vocation, far away there. Brother Jack seems to lament that you are not merry of humour or of situation: alas, there is not any "mirth" for any of us any more! A serious heart can hope to be calm in this most serious world; but need not long to be joyful: joy is not our portion here; grim battle is; and some victory, — and what of peaceable and good the Great Father, in the Eternities, has appointed for us, after battle! Courage, my brave Brother. We will try to work well and wisely, whether sad or cheerful, each in his task here; and look not to changeful Fortune, but to something far beyond that, for our blessedness. — And withal let us not be sad, but quiet, clear and free; prepared for all things. I also liked little Jane's Letter immensely! Poor little creature: it seems but yesterday when I first saw her on your knee at Scotsbrig, with little hands like her Father's; and now she is growing a young Canada lass, full of sense and spirit I see; and will do a pretty part there, I hope! The Letter is to be returned from Scotsbrig for Jane's (my Jane's) especial perusal, who being in the Country still has not yet seen it. She comes home now in two days; and that is ended. I have sent little Jane a Newspaper today, or kind of three-halfpenny Journal, as memorial of me.

ι8φ,

London

631

The Irish are starving; there will be bad work before the new food of the year can come! Our Parliament meanwhile goes on debating its Anti Corn-Law; perfectly plain that Peel must prevail, — so that few people read their jargon: nevertheless there it goes on, and will go, it is said, throughout the whole Session. — I am very glad you got the Book on Oliver, tho' it cost you enormously. An American Copy can be got for half a dollar! You shall have some way or other a Copy of the Second edition free of cost: you can then give the First to Brother John if he care for it. I go still fagging in attendance on my Printers: I think it will be a month yet or more before we end. I have got my Horse back from his winterquarters, which does me good. Our Spring is very forward, but very wet: you will see how Jamie and the rest go on. — Poor Robie Irving 1 the Fiddler, you will see his death in the last Courier; all have to go! — My kind affection to Jenny and all the young ones from Jane down to the new one still in arms. Poor little Suckling may his new Country be propitious to him. May all prosper at the little Bield that is far away! I still think to see it yet some day. Adieu, dear Brother. T. Carlyle Published in part: NL, II, 19-20. 1. (b. 1794) of Ecclefechan, "well known in Dumfriesshire and the border as the most celebrated violin player in the South of Scotland. With him have probably died many of the oldest Scottish airs, which he retained only in memory, and played with exquisite taste" (Dumfries and Galloway Courier, April 13).

209. Wednesday, 3 june, 1846 My dear Brother, Half an hour ago I receivefd] this Note from Scotsbrig, which calls upon me to write to you — now when there is not a minute of deliberation for doing it in! I will enclose you the Note itself as the last news from Scotsbrig; which being good news will be welcome to you, and supply all the uses of a more formal Letter.

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I have seen at least two Letters of yours since I wrote last; the Second of the two was one to Jenny, I think; — as they both went immediately round to Dumfries, I have not the dates of either of them here. I must not forget poor little Tom's Letter either, which interested us very much here! I suppose he is not "little Tom," at least not so little any more; but is growing a great hulk of a fellow, able to help his Father in all manner of things, and make a figure, honestly equal to his strength, on the face of that new Country! Tell him we all heartily love him and wish the best speed to him there. By Heaven's blessing, he shall do his part well in the world yet, when ours is done. — I know not if you saw in the Courier the mournful tragedy of poor Dobbie1 the Burgher Minister, who was poisoned one day by a glass of porter got from Jamie Ewart's shop to give to one Pool (whom I do not know). Pool was nearly killed by his share; and Mrs Dobbie too by hers: poor Dobbie died the same day! It is supposed Jamie Ewart had bought the bottles from some Doctor's Roup (a Doctor Moffat I think, who was removing to Liverpool), and by undue thrift ventured to put porter in them; giving them only an insufficient rincing: the poison would be sticking on the glass, and would only slowly dissolve itself in the liquor. It is a most shocking thing. — What may well add to our feeling about it, moreover, is this: Jamie of Scotsbrig, it seems, was paying somebody an account only a day or two before in Ewart's, and was just about ordering porter (whereby this fatal bottle might possible have fallen to his share), but on consulting they preferred ale. — This will enable you to understand what Jack's Note is mainly taken up with. My poor Book is never yet entirely out of the hands of the Printer; tho' in a day or two it now must and will. The work people are all drinking at present and keeping the "Whitsuntide holidays." I shall be glad enough to be free. The weather has grown terribly hot; neither of us yet well inured to it; with Jane however it usually agrees. Of course you have it far hotter. The Corn bill here is as good as passed:2 never fear that it can do you any ill in Canada; on the contrary I think it possible you may get a great accession of traffic by this and the Free Trade generally which is sure to follow. The Irish are many of them living on Indian Corn this year; and probably we shall all give up

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potatoes and take to that. Farewell dear Brother. I will write again before long. Yours ever affectionate T. Carlyle 1. The Reverend Mr. James Dobbie, minister of the Session Church, Annan, "one of the most active and talented ministers of the Gospel in the South of Scotland . . . [who served] not only among his own flock, but among all classes of society, for a period exceeding a quarter of a century" (Dumfries and Galloway Courier, May 25). The Courier identifies Pool as Mr. James Pool, farmer, Croftheads, and locates James Ewart's shop as Annan. There were follow-up reports on the accident on June 1 and 8. 2. Introduced into Commons on January 27, it was passed on June

25·

210.

Dumfries, 2 Septr, 1846 My dear Alick, Before quitting Scotland, I will here, in a very confused element, among Jean's children on a Dumfries Wednesday, write you a hurried word. I have been in this native region the better part of a month; left London about the end of july, and joined Jean [Jane] in Lancashire whither she had gone a little while before me; abode there about two weeks; then came over to Scotsbrig, where I have been, off and on, ever since. Jane could not muster resolution to accompany or follow me; she has lingered to and fro in the region of Liverpool or Manchester ever since; and is this very day, as I understand, travelling homewards by the railway, to arrive at Chelsea, and be quiet again, tonight. She was not at all in a strong state when I left her; but I believe has improved since, tho' to all appearance she is but weakly still. One of the most important acts we did was the making up of a Box for you to "Bield near Brantford"; an actual deal Box, full of rather useless nicknacks, the usefullest we could find, which [is] I suppose to be now at Sea, fairly on its way towards Montreal, from which

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Town it will be forwarded to you, we hope duly and without cost: the Paulets, Merchant people with whom we were staying, undertook that for us, and seemed as if they might succeed. You shall hear more minutely, if once I were got home, as to this Box and its contents: I do not think it can well reach you before October according to the guess I now form. — Before that, I had sent you off thro' Mr Greig a Copy of the new edition of Cromwell, which I hope may be getting near you almost by this time; it is the best and final edition of the Book: your former Copy you may give if you like to Brother John. I was terribly tired before I got done with that job, among such confusions as I was in; but now I have done with it, and all is right there. And so enough of Books and Boxes for the present. Our good old Mother met me on the close at Scotsbrig with her welcome once again; and has yesterday again given me her silent farewell,— a very tvae affair for both of us! It is inexpressibly sad to me, such a parting, after one of these confused visits; and I often think it would be better for me if I never came again! But that ought not to be either, while the opportunity is left. — Our good Mother is in her usual health, not specially complaining of anything; but grown now very feeble, easily struck down with any whiff of cold or the like. She walked out with me sometimes as far as the top of Middlebie Rig; was cheery and patient of heart, anxious as ever about one and all of us. Repeatedly she expressed her reflexions upon not hearing from you for so long back; but we endeavoured to quiet her by alledging your harvest labour in these weeks. We hope there will a Letter come soon, and speak for itself. — Jamie has been building, a kind of Tofall (of small extent, for a scullery and boys'-bed room) in front of his dwelling house, besides a Stable (last year) and other little things: I understand his stock operations have been pretty successful, and he was rather thriving: we left him busy in the heart of his shearing, — some parts of his crop very good, others decidedly light and weak; as I understand almost all the early Corn is, this year, ill-filled, poor and half-useless; only the cold Corn being good. In the turnips also there were deficiencies; and as for the potatoe crop, that is utterly gone, not worth digging; here and in Ireland and everywhere it is totally rotten and lost! If it were not for Indian Meal, the Irish would be in a dreadful state; some five millions of them absolutely without food or means:

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but there is plenty of Maize Corn in the Earth, and this year the Government has very wisely decided that the Country Gentlemen shall less themselves, and procure work for the Irish Peasants, so that no willing labourer may be without means of keeping himself alive! We consider here that the Potatoes are about as good as gone altogether, and not to be depended on any longer as an article of food; — which will make a most complex affair for the governing parties in years coming. What to do with a people whom you have no potatoes to give, and who have wages like ours? A grave question indeed! — All thro' Annandale, this year, there are such wages as were never seen before; the great railway rapidly in progress, 3 and 6 pence a-day for a spademan: but the poor wretches only drink more whiskey with it, make themselves greater brutes with it! Indeed most of them are Yorkshiremen; all the labour in Annandale is nothing like sufficient for the job: and in about another year it will be done. — O dear Brother, I am at the bottom, and nothing is yet said! — Jack has come thus far with me; for I am going round by Ayr and Belfast (in Ireland) to vary the route a little; and do not yet expect to be home for about a fortnight. Jack as you know has been at Scotsbrig for several months; our Mother seems to be rather the better for him; and he does not yet see any way of being busy to better purpose than there. I wish we saw him settled some where poor fellow. — Jenny came down, to assist during my stay at Scotsbrig; I doubted we were too crowded about our poor Mother, and did her harm with our confusions; but she would not let us say it. Jenny is to stay yet a week; Jack sees me away here, and then returns. All are well and seemingly doing well here. The like at Gill, where we saw them yesterday; busy inning and mowing. All join in the kindest affection to you. Write immediately, if you have not written by this Packet just arrived. Adieu dear Brother. T. Carlyle Published in part: NL, II, 23-25.

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211.

Chelsea, 3 octr, 1846 My dear Brother, Probably they are writing to you from Scotsbrig by this Packet; but it can do you no ill to get a little word from me too. I wrote you last from Dumfries, on my way hitherward, in a great hurry: this present sheet will signify to you that I am safely arrived. I was, as is usual with me when tumbling about in strange places (and poor old Annandale is now grown very strange to me), in a most confused bewildered and altogether suffering condition; body acting upon mind, and mind upon body, in a most sorrowful manner for me: but now I am a little rested again; and may at least tell you intelligibly what I have to say. I went along by Ayr two days after that Letter; crossed from Renfrewshire to Belfast in Ireland; went down the coast there so far as Dublin; and after a few days, crossing to Liverpool, got home again; heartily wearied, and glad to rest anywhere. Ireland did not rejoice me much. A sad country at present; bad husbandry; rags and noise and ineffectuality: from Belfast all the way to Dublin I hardly saw a dozen fields completely fenced. To a man on the Coach I remarked, "What is the use of fencing at all, if this is the way of it? Leave one gap in your field, it is quite the same, surely, as if you had not put a thorn in it at all!" — The Potatoes, as you know, are totally a ruin, this year, there and everywhere. Nothing but sheer famine and death by hunger for millions in Ireland, — had not the Government interfered, most wisely, and signified to the Landlords of the Country that they would have to assess themselves, to look out for work and wages to these poor wretches of peasants and see that they did not famish. This appears to me the most important law ever passed for Ireland; the beginning, I do hope, of a new time for that wretched land: I almost rejoiced at the black Potatoe fields, which had brought it about; and bade the Potatoes "Go about their business, there," since the loss of them was leading us a little towards justice and a better sort of food for man! In fact it seems likely enough the Potatoes are done, not going to grow any more for us; which probably is the most important revolution ever brought about in our time, — for without them the working people cannot be supported on the old principle, and we

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must either perish or else improve. Indian Corn, I suppose, must be the substitute; we are trying to learn how to cook it so as to be palateable with flesh-meat, and shall succeed by and by. Here at present it is selling at two pence expound, being a rarity as yet! — In Dublin I saw O'Connell haranguing his beggarly squad in "Concilliation Hall," too; perhaps the most disgusting sight to me in that side of the water. He is sinking, however, I think; that is another good symptom.1 At Liverpool, where my stay was brief, I made due inquiry about the Box for "Bield near Brantford." It had actually sailed for Montreal, addressed to you as above: in no great length of time after this Letter reaches you, I hope you may have one from Montreal announcing that the Box has arrived there, and telling you when and how to look for it at Brantford. The carriage was to be all paid: I hope they will attend to that. In the Box itself there was nothing of much moment to you except as a memorial from us; Jane and I packed it ourselves ( very full indeed) the day before I went across from Liverpool to Scotsbrig: a Pilot-coat [and a] Pilot-hat (very strange articles) for yourself and also for Tom; a cloak for Jenny, ditto for little Jane (hers was one of big Jane's); some Books, and other sundries: you will receive them with pleasure for the sake of the feeling they convey. Inside is a tin coffer with a lock, which I thought might be useful to you as a repository for papers etc. : it is crammed with various articles; — and one ( there, I believe ) is a knife bought by Jane herself, which is a gift from her to you. All the women things were bought by her; but this was with her own money, and destined as I say. There is nothing more that need be explained about the cargo, that I recollect of. — Did you get the 2d edition of Cromwell? I sent a Copy for you thro' Mr Greig, and another for himself: if it have not yet come, it almost certainly will by and by. From Annandale I hear frequently, but nothing special the last time, — except that our Mother had caught a little cold; which she has now grown very apt to do: Jack hoped his medical treatment would speedily bring her round again. She is still very fond of reading; wonderfully lively of heart, but growing perceptibly lighter of figure; less and less able to encounter any hardship. Good old Mother! We cannot have her always; and we shall never see her like again! Jack has a kind of speculation about bringing her to Dumfries neighbourhood,

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to live with Jenny and occasionally himself; but I know not what will come of it; the project is in a very crude state as yet. Since my return hither, I have got something like a Bookseller's proposal for Jack's own enterprise2 which he has long been jumbling about with: I shall be heartily glad if it come to anything useful for the poor Doctor, who is sadly off for work in late times. W e shall see. Jamie, they write to me, has got his harvest well in: an average crop or more, as crops go this year. The Millwrights have nearly finished his new Thrashingmachine. Poor old Calvert 3 is dead. All Annandale was full of drunk "Navvies" (Navigators, so they call them) working at the Railway: the most detestable set of savages I ever saw. Wages 3/6 a-day, and they drink it all; drink even till their tools are pawned. The Annandale people who work there, do most a little better; they eat all their wages: hardly one or two of the whole squad are laying by any money against the evil day. One could only wish they would soon get done with their job, and disappear out of one's sight. — Dear Brother, I must now finish. W e got your account of the puzzle you were in at harvest-time; and how nevertheless you succeeded in extricating yourself. Courage! I like the resolute patient manful temper you exhibit; there is more good in that than there can be evil in anything. Persevere, persevere; every day, if you keep your eyes open will make you wiser. I delight much to think of you labouring away among your Bairns, seeing them grow around you in all ways. Tom will be a strong fellow now! Let him try if he can fill that "P. jacket"! Little Jane will teach us one day how to cook our Indian Meal for dinner. Adieu dear Brother. God's blessing on you all. T. Carlyle Published in part: NL, II, 25-27. χ. Carlyle elaborated on his Irish tour, the one through Scotland just before, and his impressions on seeing and hearing O'Connell — "this Demosthenes of blarney" — in LM, I, 275-277.

2. His Dante's Divine Comedy: The Inferno. A Literal Prose Translation: With the Text of the Original Collated from the Best Editions, and Explanatory

Notes

(London, 1849), the material for which he had

gathered while he was in Italy. 3. Isabella Carlyle's father.

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212. To John Aitken Carlyle Chelsea, Monday, 25 octr, 1846 My dear Brother, The Bookseller's Offer1 turns out to be but a small matter! I had begun to dread in secret that it might result in some such issue: and here we see it is. No money in it at all; that is the real meaning; for as to the "second edition" etc., there is nothing but uncertain moonshine in that. I believe however, it is the real answer you will get from "the Trade" as to this enterprise which has hung before you so long: you have now the materials for deciding what you will do with it; and that is something to have. I wish from my heart I had means of advising you at all towards what would be your real good in the matter! But I have not: perhaps I could know what I myself would do in your situation (perhaps also not, very clearly); but what you yourself are to do is a question still wide of that! May you resolve wisely, and what will be for your real advantage: my power is limited to that poor prayer. I have the Piece of the Translation; but do not send it till next Letter: I have not yet got it well examined. — This enclosed Letter came for you a few hours ago. Your*2 friend at Keswick seems to be in a very sad way, poor fellow. You do not mention whether you have any thought of profiting by his advice and interest, and taking up the vacancy at Leamington? The "three Physicians" already come thither are an element that will never fail in such a case: but I suppose you might elbow them aside to a reasonable extent without any miracle in your favour. I was at Sir Jas Clark's,3 dining, the other night; he had been so very civil about Christie etc. I could not refuse: the indigestion consequent thereon still hangs about me. He was very civil, asked about you and so forth; indeed I find him a very simple-hearted humane man, with far more inarticulate wisdom about him than any that comes out in the shape of speech. Forbes4 was there too; Dr Arnot and another; and the hero of the night was one Baron Stockmar, a shrivelled shrewd little German, once a kind of Doctor I believe, who resides at

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Coburg, and hangs about Prince Albert and that clan, it would seem. We did well enough together; and I came home with my indigestion and the feeling of "duty done." — Christie is in sad straits just now, his Wife dangerously ill etc.: but it is hoped a kind of Clerkship in the Albemarle-Street Institution may, by a dead-lift effort on all hands, be procured for him: I wish to Heaven it werel For I am tired writing and soliciting about the poor man. We have to go off, on Wednesday, to The Grange ( Alresford, Hants, Lord Ashburton's ) ; are to stay for a week: one of the joyfullest things would be my landing safe home again; that is my real humour at present on iti I will send my Mother a Letter from that; a Parcel for her is already on the way towards Dumfries. Affection to her and to them all. Ever Yours. T. Carlyle e Dr

L.5 who practised one year at Leamington and by a disease that has come upon him is now deformed to such a degree that he shuns society.

Published in part: NL, II, 27-28. 1. Chapman and Hall's, for John's translation of the Inferno. 2. John pencilled in the asterisk, its corresponding note, and the explanatory "a doctor" above Carlyle's second mention of "Christie" before forwarding this letter on to Alexander. Dr. John Christie had come to Carlyle for work in a nearly starved condition in 1844. Carlyle gave him "a guinea to copy for me certain particulars of an Ipswich Election" (NL, I, 316), retained him as a researcher until he finished Cromwell, and then found him regular employment. See Wilson, III, 261. Carlyle published the paper on the Ipswich election as "An Election to the Long Parliament," Fraser's Magazine, 30 (October 1844), 379-393; republished in CME, IV, 322-347. 3. See Letter 128. 4. Identified by Alexander Carlyle (NL, II, 28) as the naturalist Edward Forbes (1815-1854), professor of botany at King's College, London, lecturer (1842) and president (1853) of the Geological Society, and within six months of his death professor of natural history at Edinburgh. But Sir John Forbes (see Letter 243) is another possibility. Alexander Carlyle suggested Arnot might have been Neil Arnott (17881874), physician and natural philosopher and in 1837 physician ex-

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traordinary to Queen Victoria. Again there is a second possibility — Dr. Archibald Arnott. See Letter 128. Stockmar was Christian Friedrich, Baron von Stockmar (1787-1863), who in 1816 was physician to Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, then his private secretary, household controller, and political agent. In 1837 Leopold (since 1831 King Leopold) sent him to London as advisor to Queen Victoria. He subsequently became tutor to Prince Albert, counselor to him and the queen, and in 1848 ambassador of Coburg to the German parliament. 5. Perhaps Dr. William Laing. See Letter 70.

213. Chelsea, 3 Deer, 1846 My dear Brother, Just before going out today I bethink me of some slight intimation I had that perhaps none of our Annandale friends will write to you by this Packet. Lest you should suppose there was anything wrong on that account, I throw you off a hurried line to signify that all is still well (thank Heaven) both there and here: I had a Note from Jack at Scotsbrig this very morning, who had been at Dumfries etc., and reported to that welcome effect. Our dear old Mother, he says, holds out wonderfully against the cold weather, — frost at present with them as with us; — and she and they are all doing quite tolerably well. Farm prices are very high, Jamie's sheep selling "higher than he ever knew them": yet, owing to the railway, I believe there is such abundance of labour and of wages that the poor people suffer less in that quarter than they have done in many better years bygone. There is nowhere yet any real dearth, except here and there in Ireland; where also one is much consoled to see that at last the Landlords have been peremptorily told (by act of Parliament last autumn) that the people must not be allowed to starve; that the Landlords will have to assess themselves, and raise money to keep the people everywhere at work and alive! And so, in a very confused way, that legal assessment is now going on all over Ireland; Landlords meeting in "Barony-Courts" etc. etc., with much speechifying and complaining; but with the miseries of actual starvation kept at a distance hitherto: — and my guess is,

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the Irish Landlords (if the potatoe, as is like, refuse to grow farther) will all be ruined, and in a few years obliged to sell out, and give place to better Landlords; and thereby, with infinite difficulty and confusion, some better state of things will be worked out for the poor wretches in that country. Scotland, and the Scotch Landlords, I believe, will follow next, — directly after these railways are done: and in the rear of them the English Landlords will come also: and, on the whole, this destruction of the potatoe will perhaps bring very blessed consequences to us by and by! — Some three weeks ago or so your Letter to me arrived; I sent it on directly after reading it to our other Friends. We all rejoice to see you still doing well; still struggling manfully along, which I think is all the wellness anybody can look for in this world. The Liverpool Box had not then got to hand; but must surely have been at no great distance then? We hope to hear by and by that it is safe in the house of Bield. But do not weary for it; you will find it worth little ( except as a sign of our brotherhood) when it does come; and the routes to that Western Quarter are no doubt very longsome. We have a kind of small domestic revolution going on here: namely, our old servant Helen is gone away to keep house for a fortunate brother of hers; and a new fit servant has not yet been found;1 — which little puddle becomes considerable in our quiet quarter; the rather as poor Jane has got a cold, as she oftenest does in frosty London fog (the nastiest weather, I believe, in all the climates of the Earth), and is not so able as usual to bear a hand. But of course there are tolerable Servants; and doubtless we shall by and by get one, — and be right again, so far as that goes! I myself am in very fair health, rather superior health for me; but have not got to any definite work hitherto; and begin to feel now and then that I ought to be up, and at it again. — Tomorrow I shall be Fifty-one! That is a consideration that should keep one a little quieter, I think. Half a century of life ought to teach one a thing or two! — Dear Brother, I must end here. I will send my affectionate regards and love to all your household young and old; my heart's prayer that blessings may rest on you and them forevermore. — Adieu. Your Brother T. Carlyle

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1. Found December 3 1 was the "little creature called Anne [who] did prove a good cockney parallel of Scotch Helen Mitchell . . . — T. C . " ( L M , I, 2 8 a ) and who served them well until autumn 1848, when she left to marry a butcher's helper. Between her coming and Helen Mitchell's leaving (at the end of November) were Isabella, nicknamed "Pessima," who "left declaring that no woman living could do the work expected of her by the Carlyles," and the nameless "Old Half Dead Cook" (Thea Holme, p. 1 8 6 ) .

214. 5. Cheyne Row, Chelsea London, 18 March, 1847 My dear Brother, — We yesterday received your Brantford Newspaper, dated about a month ago; a very welcome sign, with its two strokes: I forwarded the cover of it with a little Note to our Mother; today I am to send the Paper, which may be worth two pence to her, the sum that will carry it anywhither within our bounds here. The cost for bringing it to us was exactly one halfpenny. Pray do not neglect another such, direct to Scotsbrig or hither, when you cannot write. — We had news some time ago that your Liverpool Box had arrived;1 which gave us great satisfaction. Today being the American-Mail day, I will, tho' in very great hurry, send along with the last Courier a small word of writing. Our good old Mother, thanks be to Heaven, is still reported well: at Jack's departure she went to Dumfries; and there still continues; doing very well, they say; with Jenny, who has a nice little quiet place, looking out on a Roper's field, near the Courthouse, — near the Craigenputtock end of Maxwelltown. From this our Mother goes down daily to Jeans at the bottom of Assembly street; talks with them, reads anything, newspaper or other, that is going; and, as I said already, is reported to do very well in her way. Good dear old Mother! We can do little for her: but we can all thank God that he has given us such a Mother, and still continues her with us. The winter, which has been very hard, is now at last gone, and we have bright South-western weather; which also will do her good.

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Jack, as I believe he informed you, is come up to Town again; looking a shade grayer than before; but otherwise brisk and hearty; "touring about" in the old style; has no very special business that I see, but doubtless enjoys the change after a long absence. His project is, in a vague manner, To take up house, in some neat way, with our Mother and Jenny, somewhere about Dumfries, and do what medical practice he likes, gratis: — really one of his most rational projects; but you know he is very difficult to tackle, and so will probably consume yet a long time in speculating! — I am myself at present writing nothing, almost uncertain whether I shall ever write more (for indeed I am getting old, and disgusted with many things), yet not without plenty to do, in the inner man of me and otherwise. This year far excels in dark difficulty all that the British Nation ever saw: fierce actual Starvation2 stalks thro' Ireland, our rulers quite unable to meet it, and kills I believe literally his hundreds every day; and no relief is yet visible; nay I rather think it will be over into Scotland and England before all ends yet: in Scotland, in our own Annandale, it would already have been, had not the resource of the Railway labour (which will end by and by) been there. A terrible account to settle! In Ireland, we heard yesterday, the people do undoubtedly refuse even to till their land for this year ( our land lords will take it all, say they), — they wall themselves into their cabins (for burial is not always to be had ), and there silently lie down to die! The Government has given them 11 millions; had really better have given them nothing at all; but told their scandalous land lords to go among them, and give, — guidance and other things! What it is to end in none knows. — Dear Brother, be courageous there, and diligent and content. May God bless you all always. Our love to all the Bairns. Ever yours T. C. 1. "It came to Hamilton by steamer," wrote John in his "Family History," "and Father drove the 29 miles with the farm waggon and brought it home. What it contained and how it was received is best told in father's own words: Ί can remember the excitement we young people were in when the lid was being pried off and the contents appeared. Among the books were Shakespeare's plays, a fine edition, Plutarch's Lives, Burn's Poems, Rollins Ancient History, the Spectator by Addison, Ossian's Poems, etc. Among the clothing were two pilot hats for father

1847, London 645 and me, also a pilot coat for me, the latter a warm, comfortable article. Uncle said in a letter received about this time "Tom will be grown a big fellow now. Let him try and fill that coat." Coat, in fact, was a little too big for me, but was highly prized. Father and I wore the pilot hats when in Paris on one occasion. We went into a hotel to get warmed and created a decided sensation in the crowd. Were stared at in silence for a while, when one man, unable to curb his curiosity any longer, asked if we were sailors. Another time a satyr from the Burford woods, reared, doubtless on beechnuts and vacant minded, fairly shrieked with laughter on seeing my hat as he was passing on the highway.' " 2. Underscored twice.

215· Chelsea, 19 April, 1847 My dear Brother, — About a month ago your two Brantford Newspapers came to hand; and I wrote you a little Note in return: John has since told me that the Packets did not go in the middle of March (they only begin to go twice a month in April, he says ) ; so that you would not get the Note till after delays. But now, two days ago, your Letter has come: and I straightway address myself to write again in answer to that: this Monday, it seems, is the very day of sailing; wherefore I must not omit, — tho' I have nasty Docto/s drugs in me, and am otherwise but ill fitted for such a service! — We sent off your Letter directly to our Mother, who is still at Dumfries : you may fancy it would be right welcome to her, and to them all. I have still to report, for your satisfaction, that her health is said to be very tolerable, in spite of the cold rigorous Spring we have; that all our Friends in Dumfriesshire are struggling along much in the old fashion; what we may call "gay weel, everything considered." — Provisions are still somewhat dear; but they are now falling, some think they will by and by be quite cheap, for in spite of the potatoes the general harvest of England, and of the world, appears to have been rather good: at any rate in Lowland Scotland generally the people have plenty of work, and all this year have been much better off than usual, owing to the railways they are busy with. The confusion of famine is nowhere traceable

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except in Ireland and the Highlands, in the latter of which regions it seems to prove curable, in the former not at all; the millions of money in Ireland are expended to no purpose, for the people are themselves false and mad, and God only knows what is to become of them. They are sitting idle, in this precious seed time, and refusing to dig their lands! — I suppose it to be very certain that you will get better markets for your Indian Corn, and all your produce, by and by. That seems to me inevitable, however things may go. Nay it is likely, I should say, there may be a great increase of population brought from the old Country to those regions before many years: in any case as you increase in numbers, you may hope to improve in arrangements, for markets and for all things. In the meanwhile he that tills his field, like an honest worker, under the eternal sky, he may esteem himself very certain of his task, and a fortunate man, as things go in this mad world. I am greatly delighted to hear that Tom and Jane are readers: bid them persevere in that, and read with attention, always trying to learn something. A few Books sent out to Bield seems to be a kind of seedcorn that may yield very abundant fruit, in proportion to its value! — Very sorry to hear that your Cromwell had never yet got to hand. I went off straightway to the Booksellers; found that your Copy and Mr Greig's had indubitably been sent off, towards New-York, on the 22d of June last: — but I have never yet heard a word from Mr Greig about his own Copy either; wherefore I begin to think they have both miscarried; so, by this Post, I have written to Greig about it, and we shall be at the bottom of the matter by and by. For the rest, if the second American edition be out, I should not wonder if it were procurable almost cheaper than the price of the carriage will be! I have had three American reprints1 here (all of the first edition), and one of them in very small type sells actually for half a dollar. — The vindication of Cromwell's memory, I think, has been almost complete here; and has surprised many a one exceedingly, and as I believe will do an immense good in time. That is something for one's pains, — nay that is all things! — — I am not got to any new work yet: I am sitting silent; often enough in a very melancholic, sad and confused state; but shall, if I live, have several things to say yet. I keep very solitary; my thoughts are abundantly austere, sorrowful often as death: but

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it is all nonsense to call that "miserable"; I have found that all good whatsoever has to come to one in that way. The people they call "happy" are to me not an enviable people, any more than the cattle and sheep are. The thing we call "misery" is nothing whatever but work to do, work of some kind or other, outward or inward, which we have not yet seen how to undertake and set hand to: — l e t us never forget that! Dear Brother, I know not what to say to you about that new bit of land you have in view. Apparently it might be of real use to you: if the people were wise they would all save bits of their forest for fuel, — they will even have to keep the cattle out of them, if young trees are to grow, and the bit of forest is to continue. Scotland itself has got all pulled bare, simply by neglect of that. — Very useful for fuel, and perhaps for rounding off your present possessions etc.; that seems to me likely: and surely if you could by your industry, prudence and energy compass the purchase of it, — yes, then, my dear Brother I should say it was worth untold gold to you; better than a whole domain that had dropped to you out of the skies, of its own accord! That is the foundation of all I at this distance can think about it, or advise about it. You yourself must decide. And if you dare purchase it, do not let the terror of "debt" stand in your way for a moment: I have spoken to Jack, and he and I are both willing to do about it whatsoever you could deliberately wish: and so, if you do purchase, the money in full tale shall be advanced to you whenever you like, — and I think you will not be put to the horn for payment of it before your time; and, in the meanwhile, three per-cent interest is all that anybody could lose by it: that were the whole extent of the favour done; and so you could acquire your new land, without obligation to anybody, and look upon it as a bit of victory you had gained; which we calculate would be a high satisfaction to you in your new battlefield! This, my dear Brother, is all I can specifically say. If you decide to purchase the land, the thing I have said above shall be at once and right cheerfully done; — and very glad we shall be that you have deliberately formed such a decision: and if the money be never repaid, I think that will not be our chief regret in regard to the matter. So do what you find wise, there, in your own shoes, on the spot; and may the Heavens send a blessing on it. That is all.

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You get no news from me, this time: Jack, I believe, would remember far more news. In fact, for us, there are what one calls none; — which perhaps is the best news. Jack was with us last night; usually dines here on Sunday. He is very well; reading etc. etc., with great bustle and ardour: poor fellow, I do not think he will ever get to any fixed employment fit for him; which is a true pity. He is perceptibly grayer since you went; I too am now getting decidedly gray, — what other can I do at these years! In fact I admit to myself the astonishing fact of old age, which never came rightly home to any door till not long since. I think one need not long much to be young again, according to the sample we had of it! My notion is, that perhaps the best of our days ( if we grow wise ) are still coming. You have not said anything about Brother John for some time. Has he gone to his new place? 2 I send him weekly an Irish Newspaper: I hope he understands that I very much detest all that mad stuff that they write in it about "Repeal" etc., and indeed I very seldom read anything of all that: but the fact is, the Paper comes to me gratis; and it contains a tolerable summary of News, apart from its mad repeal stuff; so I send it him. — The people are great disciples of mine; but I think I have very little credit of them: in fact, they seem not unlikely to get themselves shot, or hanged for treason, by and by! — Dear Brother, I must now end. Jane, who is pretty well, in spite of the cold, sends you her kind love, you and all yours, her Namesake of course included. Tom, I suppose, is grown a big fellow now. A bit of good stuff, I hope! Tell him to be patient, peaceable, wise, in all ways strong, and not to discredit the kind! — Farewell, dear Brother. Tell us about your land, so soon as settled. Yours ever T. Carlyle "By the bye!" — I believe the way to spell "Beild" ( as we now have it) is Bield (with the i before the e): let us attend to that! I have looked in the Dictionary, and found it actually so — "Bield": and so write it on the cover here. 1. Dyer (p. 64) lists only Wiley and Putnam's. Ofrville] A. Roorbach in his Bibliotheca Americana. Catalogue of American Publications, Including Reprints and Original Works, from 1820 to 1848, Inclusive

1847, London 649 (New York, 1849), gives the other two: a two-volume edition by Harper's of New York (n.d.) and a two-volume edition by Putnam of Boston (n.d.). 2. See Letter 221.

216. Chelsea, London, 3 july, 1847 My dear Brother, — Your Letter came three days ago: after John too had read your news, it was instantly sent off to Scotsbrig, where our good Mother, who is come thither again from Dumfries, would also be gratified with hearing of your welfare. They have not written to us very copiously since our Mother left Dumfries: but two days ago, there was a short Note from Isabella, which reported generally that all was well. Our Mother was in her usual health and spirits, she informed us, doing very well at Scotsbrig: Jenny, one of whose bairns being unwell had detained her at Dumfries, was to come over now shortly, and rejoin our Mother; which would be suitable for both. Except this general intimation that all went in the common course, there was no news: considerable dearth still, but crops looking well, railway to be opened as far as Beattock "in August," Jamie busy with sheep etc. : — in fact, all going on as when you last heard; which negative news we are to take thankfully as good. Here too it is the same. Jack is now about getting some part of his Translation of Dante printed, which will take the thing off his hand, and be a real advantage on that side, tho' as he is to get no money for it, little other advantage is visible in the business. So soon as he gets his Printers fairly set to work, I suppose he will return to Scotsbrig, as cheaper quarters; which our good Mother too will like. As for Jane and me we have not determined on any outrake for the autumn: but I suppose in general that a little glimpse of Scotsbrig may be my natural destination. I grow yearly a worse traveller; and if I have need of travelling at this time, I regard such need as a real misfortune. I have taken to no outward work yet; and do not see any very near me yet, tho' my mind is getting heavier with the feeling of endless work to be done, — to be struggled at, so long as I live. —

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By the bye, I had a letter from Mr Greig, informing me that he had duly sent off by a private gentleman (whom he named) your copy of Cromwell; very sorry that it had never come, he would take strict order etc.: by and by, I should think, you were sure of the Book. If it do not come shortly, you had better write to Mr Greig, and appoint some shop or public place in Brantford (the Post-Office, for instance?) where the Parcel could be certainly left for you. We were delighted, dear Brother, to hear of your wholesome industries; of your planting Appletrees, and other solid labours. By all means, complete your orchard; it is a beautiful duty that of planting fruit-trees; and a blessed one, especially when you can hope your children will pluck the fruit! And get the best trees you can; that will prove to be the real thrift at last. And train the children, each in its own little garden, to respect fruit-trees, honourable profit, industry, beauty and good order: it is the summary of all Gospels to man! I have bought 3 fruit-trees and put them in this poor sooty patch of garden; the old ones, the work of some good man 150 years ago, having died or needed to be torn out: one pear and one cheriy, for this year, seem to be all our promise of fruit-harvest; but some poor hungry Cockney in another generation may do better. — Jane and I, for our share, were hugely amused at your application of gunpowder to the old immovable oak logs! An excellent invention indeed. With a wimble you can sink the physic into the very heart of them; and the most gnarled monster of a block will, with one roar, obey you, and go its ways, when the match-paper acts! I think they ought to make it general, that plan, in the Canada woods. Only take care to be well out of the range, when your shot goes off! This really is to be attended to; and I should be most afraid of you in that respect. Your Purchase of the 40 acres was partly expected by us here. We cannot judge of the wisdom of it: but as you did it with all your sagacity summoned to the inquiry, we cannot but hope it will do well. Nothing in the world seems more certain than that all Canada, and that Bield in particular, will and must increase yearly in value: whoever can stick to his place there, like a patient, valiant man, he infallibly will find his place fruitful for him. May Bield, and this new Purchase, be blessed to our Brother and our Brother's heirs! — The instant your Letter came, Jack and I despatched the due order for 800 dollars to

1847, London 651 Adamson at Dumfries; with injunction to be swift, that he might save the Post-Steamer (of Today). Adamson, as you will see by this Note received from him yesterday, has done the business; tho' it was not, at first very clear to us how: but we now perceive, you are to receive from Adamson by this same Post, a Letter of Credit on the Bankers Smith, Payne et[c. of] London: this Letter of Credit you take to any respectable Bank in Canada (or perhaps it mentions some special Bank?); and they will give you 800 dollars for it. I hope and believe it is all right. But if you do not get the Letter of Credit, or if anything else in it be wrong, you must write immediately to "R. Adamson Esqr Dumfries," and demand remedy: one thing is very certain, he has already got the money into his hands here, and is bound to put it safe into yours. — For the rest, it were surely wise to look strictly after these "rights and titles" before you part with your cash. To consult some good Lawyer, or otherwise known and responsible man, if you have any doubt about it? Of course doubts can be removed, by asking in the right quarter. And so enough of that affair; which, we hope, you will tell us by return of the Steamer, is all settled and off your hands, — and the acres safe into your hands. Dear Brother, I am at the end of my time today; and must not write any more. You have got, I believe, what is essential; and my hurry at present is very great. — They 1 are printing my F. Revolution the third time, which brings me a little money. Of late years I get regularly a kind of rent from these poor Books of mine; some 2 or 300 a-year of late; which is almost affecting to me, for the "estate" lay long quite barren, and would pay nothing, not so much as a bit of Canada Forest. Courage always! There are great fears entertained about the Potatoes this year again; which I hope will be realized! Fever rages in Ireland, now that famine has somewhat ceased: it is better to go thro' the horrible quagmire than to turn back in it. — Adieu, dear Alick: we send you our best blessings, one and all of us, to you and yours. Your affectionate Brother T. Carlyle Published in part: N L , II, 38-39. 1. Chapman and Hall.

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217. To John Aitken Carlyle Matlock Bath, 8 August, 1847 My dear Brother, We got along very happily on Friday, 1 all the way, having nothing to complain of from men or machines or heavenly elements; about half past 3 or 4 we were safe in Derby, worrying down a most hasty slice of roast-mutton and tough bread; after which a rapid whirl of some half hour, or not much more, put us down at Ambergate (where we saw your friends the Limekilns with windowed chimnies to them); and there a heavy-laden omnibus took us upon its back or into its belly, and in about an hour-and-half more, put us down at one of the Hotels in this thrice and four-times wold-celebrated Village of Matlock Bath. I say Matlock Bath; for Matlock proper is quite another place, some two miles farther up the river, and distinguished by nothing but a little cotton, — where we have not yet been. It was only by the accidental conversation of an ancient man sitting beside me on the Omnibus that I knew we had to stop here, and did not push on for the other fallacious goal. We left our trunks etc. under care of the Hôtel Boots, and proceeded straight in search of "private Lodgings." Lodgings are moderately plentiful; nay I know not but the Hôtel, tho' a very little dearer, and what was more to us a somewhat noisier, might have suited as well for our purposes as the "private" arrangement. The three Hôtels are all fine airy houses, seemingly the best in the place; and Matlock is not Malvern for noise, but a comparatively very quiet place, tenanted by invalids, manufacturing ennuyes, and people generally who make no great din. However we did get private lodgings; moderately successfully, and without any difficulty: the place we first entered was this place, where we have ultimately fixed. Our accommodation is two upper rooms, or rather cells, to sleep in, and a first-floor room or cell to sit in; most infirm rustic apartments but done up with a certain "elegance of poverty" 2 that rather attracted us: rent including extras, 30/ per week! The poor people have a skill in charging rent, while their brief horn· is! 3 For 1 guineas we could have had prettier and

1847, Matlock Bath 653 larger rooms, but with less appearance of quiet, and with landlordage of less promising physiognomy; and nowhere with so fine a view from the windows, — in that latter respect we stand unrivalled. As to household necessaries, Jane says they are a shade dearer than in London, and all procurable of moderate quality. For a week we shall do tolerably well here; a kind of sleep-week, in which we are to forget all the world, and be forgotten by it, — not so much as a Letter possible here till Thursday morning; and every day a day in which one can walk or sleep, and smoke or read or dream and dawdle at one's own sweet will. — I have had, this morning, a considerable walk before breakfast, down to Cromford, past Arkwright's place and his two Mills; one of them, the Cromford one if I mistake not, the first* erected Mill in England, and consequently the Mother of all Mills. Near by it is Willerslay "Castle" so-called; a solid sumptuous-looking free stone Castle built by Arkwright, and now tenanted by his grandson. The Mother of all Mills, I was sorry to hear, had lost most of its water, by new mine-drainings in late years; and was very nearly fallen silent now, likely soon to go out altogether. I clomb also to the tops of fine breezy hills, by narrow stony paths; but had to make haste home again, and found Jane walking on "Temple Terrace" here, waiting my return for breakfast. I will not trouble you with much description; but take this in the way of scientific increment of knowledge, if you like. The thing called "Matlock Dale," about the middle part of which we stand here, begins as I understand somewhere below Matlock Village northwards, and ends at the south about Cromford (aforesaid), some two miles in all; and is a great yawning chasm, rent across a range of limestone Hills, watered by the flow of the river Derwent, a green rather foul-coloured stream, which may rank about the size of Milk Water.5 Both sides of this said Dale are very precipitous, and as is usual in fine limestone country, very vegetative, fond of producing trees, bushes, ivy, grass, wherever there is the smallest opportunity for a root. Both sides are precipitous, but the west, especially hereabouts, is most so, indeed almost quiet sheer, just opposite our windows, a sheer whitish wall of rock, winding about, perhaps near 200 feet high, and all along well mantled with wood etc.: our Village again stands altogether on the eastern side of the river; stands, or rather hangs; for you never,

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in this country, saw human houses so situated; all stuck along the steep, connected by zigzag paths, shrouded in wood, overlooked, there too, by bare cliffs; — at night with their lit windows you might think them caves of the Troglodytes, by day they are as Bird-cages, each hung by its nail on the green wall. The only platforms of any extent (and they not of much) are occupied by the Hôtels, three in number; — and a small patch of Street, for one little while, attaches itself to the carriage road, which runs close by the river, hewn out in many parts, — very far below where I now write. Such is Matlock Bath; a place for lounging; and for bathing in three lukewarm Springs (properly Tanks, where you use them), not warmer I think than about 6o° of Farenheit; pale-greenish in colour, mawkish-insipid in taste, pleasant enough to swim in, — and according to my guess, probably not worth twopence for any complaint in the Nosology, except as the imagination may be solaced by them a little. Ohe, jam satis est!6 The Address of this place is "Mr Pearson s, Temple Terrace, Matlock Bath"; we have only one post a-day to or from London, and that is your main one (pray attend to that), — arrives here about 7 in the morning. There are two posts to the North ( it appears ), but six p.m. is our one available hour for London. Jane is writing to Anne about the Post affairs: but will you also step down, and see that the three Newspapers etc. are duly sent off. And then write us a word also about yourself and your affairs, while we still continue here. Our subsequent route is quite in the vague yet. Yesterday I wrote to Isabella; sent off a Newspaper to Jean. — Are you at Hampton Court today with Charley? 7 My remembrances to him. Adieu, dear Brother; Jane salutes you. Yours ever T. Carlyle Published in part: N L , II, 40-42. 1. August 6, the day the Carlyles left London on what Mrs. Carlyle called "The

Pursuit

of the

Picturesque

time in our married lives that w e ever (NLM,

under figured

Difficulties, — the first as declared

Tourists"

I, 228).

2. Cf. William Cowper, "Table Talk," line 588. 3. Cf. Macbeth

V . v. 25.

4. Arkwright erected his first mill in Nottingham in 1769. T h e Crom-

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ford mill, which he erected in partnership with Jedediah Strutt (17261797) and Samuel Need in 1771, was his second. 5. A tributary of the river Annan. 6. "Alas, that is enough!" 7. Buller.

218. Rawdon, near Leeds (Yorkshire) 3 Septr 1847 My dear Brother, — As I am in extreme hurry I must content myself with a very few words today; but I send even a few, since Jack announces that it is I who am to write on this occasion. Jane and I left home almost a month ago; have been lingering about in Derbyshire etc.; and for the last fortnight and more, have been here on a visit to one Forster1 a young Bradford Manufacturer, who has very pleasant very quiet country-quarters, is a most friendly cheerful man, and has long testified much desire to have us here. Jane seemed considerably worn out with the heats of London, and I considered it would do her good to get into the silence of the fields for a while. As it accordingly [h]as proved; for I find her much amended at present, and indeed fully in her average state of health. We have had beautiful weather, and no evil accident at all has befallen us. It was from the first settled that I was to go on to Annandale; Jane too was eagerly invited, and at one time seemed to have thoughts of it; but she cannot yet resolve to revisit Scotland after her great losses there: so she turns homewards for Chelsea again, on the day when I set off for Manchester2 and Annandale. That is to be the day after tomorrow, as we at present calculate; which in part accounts for my hurry at present. Early next week, probably on Monday (it may even be this week and on Saturday, if I find nobody that I like in Manchester), I expect to be in poor old Annandale again, and to see our dear old Mother once more. It is a sight for which one ought to thank Heaven, surely with one's whole soul: and yet to me it is always full of sorrow; and when the time comes to part again, it quite tears me to pieces

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for the moment, so that I could almost repent ever having come. O surely there is some kind of higher reunion appointed for poor mortals who have honestly loved one another here, and yet could never much help one another, but had all to admit many times that their hearts were sore, and could only share their sorrows together! God made us all; God will provide what is good for us all, what is best for us all. — But I may well change this strain. We got your Letter here just three days ago: I sent little Jane's Note directly forward to our Mother, from whom (at least from Jean our Sister who is there ) I have just got an answer this morning; — which, as it is the very latest news from Scotsbrig, I enclose for you here. Your own Letter is also at Scotsbrig before now: I sent it to Jack, with charge to forward it from Chelsea; the small scraping of an answer, which he has sent in return, I also enclose here. He agrees with me in regret that you have not got the bit of land after all! There was of course no help; land with a doubtful title, paid for by very indubitable money, would never have done. You did in all ways wisely to stop short till you were clearly satisfied on that head. Could or can the "Land-agent," or Thomson,3 not do anything to bring the matter into clearness? For instance, not get any indisputable person to guarantee his sale, and hold you harmless in case the title do misgive? I suppose, not. You will naturally be very particular in regard to any such guarantee; and poor Thomson, I suppose, is a rather dubious figure, on the other hand. So, unquestionably, you have done what was wise, and the only thing that was wise. — As to the money, Jack agrees with me that there is no hurry at all about returning it hither; that if you can get it well invested (I mean safely first, all things are subordinate to that), it may lie there, bearing its bit of interest, till we see. As to remitting it in corn or flour, that, as Jack says, will be a terribly unsafe operation just now! Our Corn-Merchants, who have flourished like the green bay-tree during last year of dearth, are now falling like the leaves in November: never such a time of "Corn failures," — amounting already to five millions of bankruptcy, some say! We have an excellent harvest here, all over Europe indeed, and are getting it some weeks earlier than was at one time expected. Do not invest money in Corn, therefore. Put it by, as we said, in some safe place; and let us wait till we see.

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Dear Brother, this is all that was essential, I think; and therefore, being in such bustle, I will now conclude. Jack, as before, is busy getting his Dante printed: one can learn nothing farther of him by all the bits of Notes he writes. I, as before, am still idle, so far as writing goes; I know not when I shall get well to work again, — probably not till I get more miserable than I am hitherto! On the whole, I am not in any hurry; not loath to take a bit of sheer idleness, and of lying fallow in the scribbling line. — We rejoice to think of you and yours diligent in real work; honestly accomplishing what lies before you; and all kept in a body (which is an immense consideration), the bits of bairns all busy round you each according to his strength. Tell Jane and Tom their Letters are truly enjoyed here. God bless you all, dear Brother. Jane sends her love to every one. Your affectionate T. Carlyle Published in part: NL, II, 47-48. 1. William Edward Forster ( 1 8 1 8 - 1 8 8 6 ) , who entered the woolen trade in 1842, but after accompanying his father, William ( 1 7 8 4 - 1 8 5 4 ) , to Ireland in 1846 turned first as lecturer and then as politician in support of relief, education, and reform. He was liberal M.P. for Bradford from 1 8 6 1 to 1 8 8 6 and held, among other appointed posts, that of chief secretary for Ireland under Gladstone in 1880. 2. Francis Espinasse, a journalist there and now an acquaintance of Carlyle's, left an account of Carlyle's stay in Manchester in his Literary Recollections and Sketches, pp. 1 4 5 - 1 5 5 . 3. Unidentified.

219.

With enclosed note from Margaret Aitken Carlyle Scotsbrig, Ecclefechan, 2 Octr, 1847 My dear Brother, You had a Letter from me lately out of Yorkshire; and this month I write you again, dating from another place, much more interesting to youl I have been here some three weeks; in fact, came direct hither, Jane returning Southward from our Yorkshire quarters to Chelsea: and

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now just before my own return homeward, here has your Letter to my Mother come, which quickens in me the purpose I had to write you a line before leaving this old native quarter. It was the day before yesterday that your Letter came to hand; our Mother and Jenny both eagerly announced it to me when I came in from my excursions; yesterday we read it to Mary at the Gill, where Mother and I were; and tonight, I suppose, it is in the Doctor's hands at Chelsea, who will soon return it to Dumfries. Tom's Enclosure, which gave great satisfaction here, went of course with it. Our dear old Mother is very well here; considering her age, fully as well as I could expect to see her. Her hand shakes a little worse than when you saw her; otherwise there is little perceptible change. She is much delighted to learn of your welfare, to see that you are "getting more content in your new place," as she expresses it: and, I think, of all the news you have ever sent there is none that gratifies her more than this of the "Secession-Church Minister," whom you are about getting. Good old Mother! She is even now sitting at my back, trying at another table to write you a small word with her own hand; the first time she has tried such a thing for a year past. It is Saturday night, after dark; we are in the East room, in a hard dry evening, with a bright fire to ourselves two; Jenny and her Bairns are "scouring up things" in the other end of the house; and below stairs the noisier operations of the farm go on, in a subdued tone: you can conceive the scene! — Jamie has got all his crop in, and indeed the Harvest is quite over, a fortnight ago, on all hands of us: 20 ricks Jamie has, a considerably heavier crop than he expected; no potatoes, however, having planted none; moreover, it seems, within a week past the disease has broken out in the unlucky potatoes again, and people are all hastening to get them up: with that exception, there was hardly ever seen a better crop all over Britain, and all over Europe as far as we can hear. Very many of the Grain-dealers of last year have failed; and grain-prices bid fair, by all symptoms, to be low. This, so far as it comes from plenty, is certainly a blessing; but there is likely to be another sadder cause for low prices: the terribly embarrassed state all manner of trade is in, — nothing but failure on the back of failure; a short crop of cotton in America, and all the Manchester region in great embarrassment. Properly it is the down-tumble of the railway mania which

1847> Scotsbrig 659 raged at its height about two years ago: you never saw the like then and since; some 3 or 4 hundred millions, they say, are laid out in railways all over Britain; — which of course has absorbed all the ready capital of the country, and left neither money nor saleable money'sworth to carry on any "trade" with! The wretched children of Mammon are right well served: but for the poor people that depend on them, it is a sad enough case. You will read in the Newspapers1 the account of one great failure, very interesting in this quarter, that of the great "Irvings," Reid, Irving and Co, — the Irvings of Burnfoot. They are gone, "for a million and a half': thus do riches make themselves wings and fly away! It is understood that all their properties will come to the hammer; — I have been, half in joke, advising the Doctor to purchase Satter, close by here: Newfield is said to be secure to Corrie for Life, and then to his son2 after him; but of course this is a sore downbreak to all of them. — — In return for all that confusion, we have got a new railway here, actually running from Beattock to Carlisle, for some weeks past, heard squealing by all of us many times a day, visible from Mother's end window about the Broadlea and partially from Kirtlebrig all the way to Near Land. I came on it one day from Lockerby: it passes Milk-Water a little above the Mail-road; winds, by deep cuttings, but without tunnels, within sight of CocklesYeth, across the Cowdens or rather Breconhill Height, right thro' the Bar Moss (which, they say, has quite disappeared from the place); then within sight of Colinpint (I supposed it to be), and so sweeps gently round to the Swaugh,z where the Ecclefechan Station is, and the road crosses the railway on a bridge. The railway then whirls along direct for "Ha'," almost touches the corner of poor Dr Arnotts stable there; and rushes along thro' the Eastmoor (about a gunshot below the Sawyer's house), goes with a deep cut across Slater's and the Castlebank fields; then, by a huge mound and little bridge, across the Westgill Burn, close by Philip's Cottage; and so across Mein-water between Land and Burrens, by a big bridge and long mound towards Broadlea, Kirtlebrig etc. etc. It crosses the two roads, both at once or nearly so, at the Galls; where it is said there is to be a station for lime, for coals etc.: and there we will leave it! I know not whether too much description have not already been given: but perhaps you will like to picture the figure of the thing once for all. With such a winding

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course, there is great squealing needed, and that ugly Steam-whistle must henceforth perpetually break the solitude in Annandale. The thing, I suppose, will turn out to be beneficial at last; but in the meanwhile it seems to me likely that the Land and the owners of the L a n d are likely to reap the main benefit, and many other's more loss for a good season. Enough of it now! They are driving another railway, "the Nithsdale," up past Austin's place even now, and clouds of blackguard Irishmen are on it: but of that we will say nothing. — The weather is bright and dry; drier all this year than usual; the ground at present is hard as lead, and the grass quite gone: altogether the look of poor old Annandale, with the fields so bare and bright, is unusual to me. Dear Brother, I certainly think you will be very wise to get that Frame-barn you speak of: it must b e an almost indispensable convenience, if you do not thatch your stacks. Make an effort for it; and if you cannot manage it, take some of that money to help you. We delight much to hear of improvements made upon poor far-off Bield: every new improvement you make, it becomes more yours: by and by, too, there is little doubt, even on the money side, all the care you take of it will pay you well. Steady, steady! It gratifies us all to think of our dear Brother and kindred following a manful course, and modestly prospering in it. We may have little money; but if so we shall not have "a million and a half" less than none, I suppose; which is some comfort! — My Mother is very anxious, as the rest of us are too, about the poor little child Jamie: do not forget to tell us. — The Doctor, when his Book is over, or perhaps sooner, when I am off, will probably come hither. Jenny returns to Dumfries when I go. Adieu dear Brother. Ever yours. T. Carlyle

Poor Mary Carlyle ( Harkness ) died at Ecclefechan, the very night I came here. We did not know of her illness, which had been sudden. They were very poor, the Husband too, was unwell: unhappy creatures! Jamie attended the funeral.

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Saterdaynigt

My Dear Son I am always happy to hear of your welfare may the Lord bliss thee and keep thee and cary His face to shine upon thee in His ways and fear, cast all your cary on Him for time and eternity your affectionate Mother MAC Published in part: NL, II, 49-50. 1. The Dumfries and Galloway Courier of September 21, for example. The senior partner in the London mercantile house of Reid, Irving and Company was Sir John Rae Reid, second baronet (1791-1867). He was a director of the Bank of England in 1820, M.P. for Dover from 1830 to 1831 and again from 1832 to 1847, and governor of the Bank of England from 1839 to 1840. His partner was John Irving (d. 1853), who represented Bramber from 1806 to 1832, County Antrim from 1837 to 1845, and was chairman of the Alliance British and Foreign Life Insurance Company from 1824 to 1846. For Burnfoot see Letter 55. 2. Alexander Corrie's son John. See Letters 82 and 267. 3. Properly Swaughpark. "Ha" is Kirkconnell Hall. All locales are either in Ecclefechan or in the vicinity.

220. Chelsea, 3 1 deer, 1847 M y dear Brother, I rather suspect John is writing to you; but today is the last day of the Year, and the last too for your American Packet, so I will not let it pass without at least one word from me. A word of heartfelt goodwishes, and prayers for a "Good New year" to you, — prayers which indeed we can do little to fulfil,

but cannot avoid forming in our

hearts. They can do no ill; and they abide with us naturally while we continue, however far asunder, in this world! As poor Edward Irving used to say, "May the worst of our days be past," — which indeed I hope and believe they really are. Last time I wrote to you, or one of the last times, was from Scotsbrig. Since that, I have had your Letter, which was eagerly expected here, and was welcome especially to our Mother as you may believe.

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I sent it forward without loss of a moment. — Our dear old Mother, as Jack will probably tell you, has had a kind of ill-turn lately; it [was] a sudden feeling of giddiness lasting for several days, which very much alarmed her, tho' Jack said always, it was probably nothing but derangement in the stomach, — as indeed it proved; for they write us now, for some weeks past, that it is as good as gone again, and that if the weather were kindlier, all would be in its old state, or nearly so. They are very kind and attentive to our Mother, Isabella and Jamie, as I believe; she eats with them ( as Jamie was suggesting, before I left, that she ought); they kindle her fire etc.: Jean too was out from Dumfries about a week ago, and wrote to us satisfactorily while there. — This, I think, is all the news, dear Brother; this little touch of bad news, — which, however, we ought to rejoice is no worse. Indeed there hardly ever was, in man's memory, such an unhealthy year as this hitherto has been; for several weeks the deaths in London have been above 2 1 / 2 times what they commonly are; and it is the same story in all parts of the Country, and even on the Continent far and wide: a kind of Influenza, they call it, which cuts off all manner of old or already weakly people. Happily it is now said to be very considerably abating: if once we had good blackfrost, it would probably altogether disappear; — but we can get no frost yet, and must just wait patiently. I suppose you have plenty of it. The Irish too, as you see by the Newspapers, are worse than ever; busy murdering and shooting, this year: and in England here there have been continued failures, "Commercial pressure" etc., and on the whole more than usual distress among the working classes, and indeed almost all classes, of the people. — We in our small circle have much reason for thankfulness, that we have mercifully been spared from all these common calamities. Dear Brother, here has a visitor come in: I have set him to read till I finished; — but it is evidently impossible to go on with any effect, in these circumstances. Not to say that the daylight is just about departing ( in this dismal damp fog we have ), and, a little after 3,1 must send for a candle if I wish to see any longer. Let me end, therefore, for the present: I will write again soon by a new opportunity. Jane is gone out; cannot join with me in word as she does in heart, — in blessings

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to one and all of you, — from the poor little Baby1 ( now got well again, but very ill-natured) up to Jenny and yourself the heads of the House. Good be with you, dear Brother; — a valiant heart and a wise [head?] be always with you, — that brings blessings to every House where it inhabits. — Remember us also expressly to Tom and Jane; these two I can always recollect as well as any of you, — but the others grow dim and small, when I try to specify them in my imagination. May they all grow brave lads and bonny honest lasses yet! So prays Your ever affectionate T. Carlyle Did the Cromwell (2d edition) ever come from Mr Greig? Mention that, if you can mind. 1. Margaret (1847-1935). She married Edward Marrs (d. 192.7), a widower of Okmulgee, Oklahoma. The couple had no children.

221. Chelsea, 16 june, 1848 My dear Brother, Before your American mail leaves today I will write you a few words, lest none other of them happen to write. I am very busy, and rather out of sorts for writing; but you will take my poor contribution as the best I have. Some weeks ago, after a good deal of delay, there arrived a short Letter, which you had written hastily at Brantford; very welcome to us, as indicating at least that you were all well; and only a few days after there came another (addressed to our Mother, I think), considerably later in date: —it would seem there is some small place in Canada itself called "London," and in two instances now your Letters hither have gone to that poor London, and taken the air there a week or two before they came on! Pray put "England," therefore, or "By Steamer," upon your Letter; — and for the rest, especially in summer-time, the mails are so frequent now (one every fortnight, or even every week), you had better just write when

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you feel at leisure, any time, and put the sheet into the Post-Office to take its chance, if you have not by accident some clearer guidance. Jack also suggests that you should, once at least in every month, send our Mother a Newspaper: the address, in your hand, with two strokes (if kind Providence enable you to that) will signify the essential to her, and the thing cost only a penny here, and I suppose very little on your side either. Attend to this, if you can. — I will endeavour to ascertain better, some day, when the mails do leave your shores: but in the meanwhile, follow the above (viz. to write when you like), and we shall not be far wrong. We had a Letter today from Scotsbrig, of Isabella's writing: she reports very comfortably indeed of our good Mother, who went home from a long visit to Dumfries and Jenny, about a month ago; and is at present very tolerably well, according to Isabella, — "much better since she got into the country air again." Doubtless the beautiful summer is a help to her; for there was hardly ever finer weather, — warm winds and a fair proportion of soft rain; — the crops, they say, look beautiful, and are far ahead of the average for this season of the year in Annandale especially. This is all our news from that quarter. They do not write often; I write to my Mother without much reply. Jean has a new bairn lately (a girl, I think), which of course rather ties her hands in the writing way. Mary of the Gill has also a young child1 some months ago, — a boy, this time, — as perhaps you have already heard. They are all well, or in their usual way, for anything we know or guess. Not long since I had a Letter from Brother John, on his arriving at "Fredericksburgh near Simco," which is a piece farther away from you than before. He wished to give me his new address for the Newspaper, which accordingly I have observed since then; he also lamented about some kind of argument or quarrel you and he had had, and how you said to him some thing about "selling his birth right for a mess of pottage,"— which I wrote back to him was all nonsense, and a thing you probably meant very little by, and would have forgotten before you next met him. Poor fellow, do not be too severe on him! — Jack and I could not help laughing at the "mess of pottage," when we figured to ourselves here how the thing had probably been. I have sent the Newspaper, and hope the poor fellow gets it duly.

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We are in our usual poorish way of health here, which does not grow very brilliant in spite of the good weather: however, we still stir about in a grumbling way, and even Jane is pretty well on foot at present. Jack sticks obstinately to his task, and it proves very dreigh to get done: but I believe it will be really well done at last, and prove a useful thing. — I myself am beginning to write again, — for the wild revolutionary times urge me on; — but I do not get much under way yet; and indeed am much at a loss what form to throw the thing into: but I must bore along, "stogging and blonldng" (as you once defined Corson's ploughing); and nothing but persistence will find me out the right method. I once thought of writing a long set of articles for Newspapers, of which two samples I think were sent to you of late; but the thing does not well take that shape; and in fact I know not what to do with it, but shall gradually know.2 I suppose you hear enough about our Chartists; and how the French, and indeed all Nations, are puddling deep in the quagmire of revolution and social distress: the Chartists do us next to no mischief here as yet (to us here at Chelsea, none at all); but the look of that concern is very ominous too, and I believe there are great miseries and confusions at no great distance for Britain generally, and bad days are coming, and must come before many years go! We cannot help it; I cannot: — nor do I see any hope of real remedy till long after our poor fight will have altogether ended, and that of our sons and grandsons perhaps too! — Much terrible distress prevails just now in the manufacturing regions; and the Irish people have got again into a large potatoe-crop this year, with which, if it fail, they will be in a bad way! — On the whole, I cannot but think you lucky, dear Brother, in spite of all your trials and sorrows, that you have got your family into a hopefuller land than this, and have a piece of soil of your own to till, and little else but Heaven to be responsible to. God keep you in his ways always, and so all will be well! — A Captain Sterling here ( John's brother, the writer's whom you know of) gave us a large map of Upper Canada, which he made while soldiering there. Here is the reduced copy of a scrap of it round Brantford; I want you to put down the exact situation of Bield, and send it back to me that we may know. — If there ever come anybody

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that could take a "Sketch" of the House etc. — But that alas is not at all likely. You will give our affectionate regards to Tom and Jane, and their Mother and all the rest. Let us hear soon that you continue busy and well; and describe to us as far as possible all you are occupied with. Farewell, dear Brother, for this time. Ever your affectionate T. Carlyle Published in part: N L , II, 59-61. 1. James. 2. Since shortly after the revolution of February 24 broke out in Paris Carlyle had been trying to give form to what came to be Latter-Day Pamphlets (London, 1 8 5 0 ) . The newspaper articles he did write were, for the Examiner, "Louis Philippe" (March 4 ) , "Repeal of the Union" (April 2 9 ) , and "Legislation for Ireland" (May 1 3 ) ; for the Spectator (both May 1 3 ) , "Ireland and the British Chief Governor" and "Irish Regiments of the New Era."

22 2. Chelsea, 8 [?] december, 1848 Dear Brother, — You can have no idea what a relief your Letter has been to our poor Mother! For many weeks past she has been fretting and mourning about the want of any tidings from you, and forecasting (as you know her habit) every form of evil. Do not expose her to the like again, if you can possibly help it! Jack suggests that you should get a Brantford Paper for that express purpose; he has twice mentioned it to you, he says; and now urges me to persuade you in the like direction. I really think it would be by far the wisest plan. The exçense of a Weekly Paper, I suppose, is trifling; at any rate, I or any of us here, would gladly pay it (if that were all!) to avoid such anxieties to one now so weak and still so kind! — Dear Brother, let me request of you to do this thing, unless there be difficulties in it which I do not see. If you care nothing about reading the Brantford Paper or any other in the Province, then let it become a fixed habit with you to buy one once a fortnight, and to direct it to our Mother at Scotsbrig, and puntually

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despatch it. Do this, and we will all thank you. "Once a fortnight": I will write to Scotsbrig that they may by and by expect such a messenger with regularity like that of a clock: — and hereby I request my Nephew Tom and my Niece "little Jane," and all persons in the house who care for me, to be aiding and assisting to you in this pious enterprise, — and to look after it themselves if you at any time forget for a day! And so enough. All is well hitherto in Annandale and here, so far as health and outward things go. Jack returned a fortnight or more ago; bringing a very tolerable report of our good old Mother's situation; busy "reading" etc., and pretty well, — except for her anxieties about Bield far off! Jamie's crops were good; his health too, which had been in some disturbance (from local bilious causes, I believe) had improved much under the Doctor's treatment. We had Letters this morning from Dumfries and from Scotsbrig: all well still, at both places, — tho' at Dumfries the cholera had been rather alarming for a few days, and was not quite subsided yet. The disease is everywhere in this country just now; but except at Dumfries I hear of no place where it is not of the last degree of insignificance, not worth noising about as a specific disease. — Jack's Book is just coming out at last: a terrible peghing job with it he has had, poor fellow! He is very well; and considerably improved (in composure etc. ) by his labour. No potatoes here, this year, that a man of taste in that matter can eat! We have taken to Indian Meal; make a kind of mush of it, to eat with flesh meat at dinner. It has a villainous bitter took at the end of it, as if a grain of soot were secretly mixed in it, — or as if the meal itself had got fusty, raw: I could eat it very well otherwise; — and this took I continue to believe accidental in some way. Americans have told us it is too long kept; but that is not quite the reason, for we had a bushel done here from com, and it had the same bitterness, besides a great quantity of sand (our Millstones here being too soft, I suppose). Is there any dust in it perhaps, as in oats? I some times think that may be the reason. Or what is the difference between the yellow meal (yellow, and beautiful as new guineas) and the white (greyish white, with a touch of brown)? I believe we ought all to learn forthwith how to cook and eat it here; for it is to be the staff of life for all Europe in time coming, I apprehend. We find our tolerablest way of cookery is

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to make it first into porridge (exactly like oatmeal), then to tie it up in a linen cloth, and boil it for many hours; — the bitter diminishes by that method, but never quite disappears, and the whole thing has somewhat of the character of sawdust to the very last! I believe we are quite ignorant yet how to manage it; which is a pity, for the poor people will hardly look at it, — and a pound of it here, ample food I should think for a man for one day, can be had in the shops for little more than a penny! No food, not potatoes or any other, ever promised to be such a blessing to poor Europe. But I must have done, dear Brother; being hard up for time today. Alas, I am getting very badly on, or not on at all, with any kind of work yet, — and have many interruptions1 from without and from within: — nevertheless I continue to believe that there is but one chance for me: Persevere, persevere! — Poor Charles Buller, my old Pupil, died 2 suddenly last week, and has created an extensive sorrow among some classes connected with us. He was 42 years old: a very pleasant, cheerful, clear, unaffected man; possessed of much ready talent, but given a little to idling away his time among fashionable people, who much admired him: he was in office since our Whigs came last into power, and was likely to rise, and gain money, reputation etc., — but much work did not lie in him, I think; his stroke was essentially rather swift than heavy or strong. His poor old Mother lost her husband last year, and is now utterly bereaved (Arthur Buller being in India): —Jane has been a good deal with her, for her case is truly sad, — under which she bears up wonderfully. Many deaths have been here, in late months, among persons known to us; it is a sorrowful kind of season in the circles we are used to. — — Ireland seems breaking up as one man, to come over into England, and see if it can find life there! There was never seen till now a real influx of Irish beggary. The Landlords there are clearing their estates, burning down the sod huts, and the wretches must either die, or come over upon us. Their potatoe, on which they madly trusted, has again utterly failed them. There never was such a phenomenon before as the Ireland that now is. It makes my heart sick; and I would fain write about it, but cannot. Dear Brother, enough for today. Remember about the Newspaper, — do not forget! Be thankful that you have no "spectre of a candle-

ι8φ,

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mas rent"; that you are safe away from the tribulations and deliriums that are afflicting all corners of this old world at present. We send our affectionate regards to Jenny, to Jane and Tom and all of you; our blessings on your innocent Homestead and all its honest industries and endeavours, among the wildernesses far away. Well speed the plough there, and right well the Plougher! He reaps his own bread from the soil, and is making it ready for millions yet unborn. God bless you, my dear Brother. Ever your affectionate T. Carlyle A terrible disaster with a Ship of Irish Emigrants from Sligo to Liverpool, the other night! 3 Stormy night, as many nights and days just now are; the Captain packed the people, 130 souls, under hatches, battened them down; — when opened, 72 were found dead! — ( See next Dumfries Courier, probably. ) 1. Among them a sight-seeing excursion over the weekend of July 7-9 to and about Stonehenge with Emerson, who having completed his lecture tour of 1847-1848 would sail on the fifteenth from Liverpool for Boston. For Emerson's account of the excursion see English Traits, chap, xvi. Carlyle in addition dined with Thackeray in August, and with Mrs. Carlyle was a guest of the Ashburtons through September and possibly early October at The Grange, Hampshire. 2. On November 29. Carlyle's "Death of Charles Buller" appears in the Examiner of December 2. Carlyle's relationship of twenty-six years with the Buller family ceased altogether with the death of Mrs. Buller in 1849. 3. The ship involved was the steamer Londonderry, whose captain, first, and second mates were found guilty by a coroner's jury of manslaughter for their "gross negligence and total want of the usual and necessary caution" (Dumfries and Galloway Courier, December 12). The Courier reported the accident as having occurred "Friday last," December 8. Carlyle, then, misdated this letter.

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223. Chelsea, 6 April, 1849 My dear Brother, This is your American post-day; so I will write you a few words, tho' I am in too great a haste for writing to the purpose, being just upon a small journey into the country, and my time very limited. Your Letter came to me about three weeks ago; and gave us all, as you may suppose, real satisfaction. We were delighted with the account of your new purchase;1 and took it as a symptom that you were spreading your roots in that new country, and seeing in it some of the comforts of a home after all your sore battlings. A "home," alas, in the old boyish sense of the word we shall, none of us, ever find more in this world: poor old Mainhill, Ecclefechan and Annandale are to me, when I do see them again, like a land of ghosts, so inexpressibly sad that I rather avoid than seek the sight of them; and feel that "one's father s house in young days" is the only "home" a human creature can look for under this sun! But what then? We are not to spend our time in grieving; we are to shake weak sorrows and regrets away from us, and do manfully some good work for ourselves and others while time continues for us here. I rejoice much in the prospect for you of a grave earnest course of industry in your new field of labour; and can anticipate for you such serious profitable satisfactions, with your children growing up round you, and the fruits of your labour prospering in your hand, as are fit for a good man in this world. O my dear Brother, how thankful should we be that this, in any form, is granted us! Our young days are now far behind us; but the memory of them is sweet and sacred: we will struggle on, courageously yet to the end; and know well that no good thing we can do will be lost to us or to any that relate themselves to us. — The Dr, I suppose, did not fail to tell you how contented we were with this new purchase; and how entirely we declined having any part of the money back. I suppose he told you what arrangements to make on that head; so I need say no more of it just now. We had good news from Scotland and Scotsbrig about a week ago: our Mother, they say, continues unusually well all this winter; is spinning etc.: good old Mother! It appears Jamie complains somewhat;

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and is in a weakly way owing to some kind of biliary trouble: but this is a kind of troubles we are all pretty familiar with; and, in his particular case, as it necessitates him to greater regularity of life, and is not for the present dangerous, it is perhaps not without even some advantage,— tho' an "advantage" not purchased for nothing. The rest, so far as we hear, are all well; and he, and they all, seem to be prospering very tolerably in their affairs. Jack got his Translation done several months ago, and well done, which is still more. It has been very well received, acknowledged everywhere as a piece of real and faithful work; and has indeed fully realised or exceeded all the expectations one could form about it. Perhaps by and by some money even may be realised; but however that may be, I could say to myself confidently enough from the first examination of the thing, "Very well! This is rightly done, and is a work that will keep its value for a long time to come, with all that are fit to judge it!" — The poor Doctor has himself got great comfort, great improvement from it; and tho' still a rather fidgety character, has acquired more composure and dignity of deportment than he ever had before. He is very grey, indeed looks considerably older than I do ( who am beginning also to be grey, and to look like my years ) : nevertheless he is very lively, one might say cheerful and happy; and has very much more of light-heartedness and joyfulness in his composition than any one of us. There are yet two other Parts of Dante, of about the same size as this first one; these also I suppose he silently calculates on doing;2 but is in no haste about it, till he grow at a loss for employment, or see some definite cash come out of the first. I myself am not quite idle; but sore beset with the usual confusions; and by much struggling, realise an astonishingly small visibility of result! I have many things to say about the astounding revolutionary time we have got into; but find an almost impossibility of discovering the way to say them! I hope I shall get them said, before I go out of this world: I seem to have little other business to continue there. Jane is pretty well and has been; she is out on a little visit 10 miles off, whither I am to walk today — immediately. God's blessing be on you and yours, dear Brother. I will write again before long; and send you more minute news. Ever your affectionate T. Carlyle

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They are printing a 3d edition of Cromwell,3— which occasions some fash and will bring some money; but is not otherwise of importance. χ. The seventy-eight acre farm on the south side of Bield. 2. John never published any more from Dante than his translation of

the Inferno. 3. Four volumes

(London, 1850). Carlyle adjoined to the second

volume (pp. 339-420) of this edition the Squire Papers — thirty-five forged Cromwell letters owned by William Squire of Yarmouth — which Carlyle first published with an explanatory note in Fraser s

Magazine,

36 (December 1847), 631-654. For an account of the fraud see C. H. Firth's Introduction to S. C. Lomas' edition of Cromwell

(London, 1904).

224. Scotsbrig, Ecclefechan, 18 Augt, 1849 My dear Brother, — I have been here, sojourning in my native scenes, for above a week, after more than a month of confused wanderings over Ireland,1 whither I went to make a "Tour," not quite "for pleasure" I may say, and which I was very glad to end by striking in hither for a little rest. The day after tomorrow (this is Saturday) I have to set off again, and quit these old familiar haunts, which are very sad to me if very dear: but before going I will write you a hasty word, the most deliberate at my disposal just now: I have all along counted on doing so, for I judge that a Letter with this date will be welcomer to you than one with any other whatsoever. Your Letter to me arrived safe, after not very long delays; and I believe you have since had more than one written to you, by Jack, by way of answer: but as for me, I calculated on answering you first from Ireland; and there I was continually kept in such a flurry, there really never was half an hour at my disposal for such an object: so that, on the whole, this is actually the first fair possibility I had. Another Letter of yours, a shortish one, with news of good health, but of financial intricacies about your new Farm, was also lying here when I came, and I believe has been answered by the Doc-

1849, Scotabrig 673 tor. We are all a little anxious to learn what has come of those same pecuniary "troubles," and hope heartily to hear by the next arrival that you have got the matter handsomely settled in some way. "All beginnings are difficult," says the Proverb.2 "A dub at every Townend, and a loch at this," is another saying to the same purport. Well; a man has to struggle thro' the "loch": on the other side, if he wade well, he does find habitable ground, all the welcomer for his past trouble. Good speed to you, dear Brother! I do not well understand how the matter lies; and can do little more at present than join with all the rest, in wishing you with our whole heart "Good speed" till you get the difficulty subdued again. Scotsbrig, except by the increased size of the children, who grow always whether we heed them or not, is but little altered since you last saw it: Jamie is rather in weakly health, tho' better than he has been, and above all grown more careful in his habits of living; for the rest, he seems to be doing moderately well in all ways; has a fair or even rather superior crop on the ground, but complains of low prices ( 15 pence a stone for meal, — they are extremely low, here as with you and everywhere in these unsettled times! ) : he has suffered something by loss of cattle from an "epidemic" (disorder in the lungs) that has long been hovering about: at present he is "making up his rent" for "Thursday next," — a duty you happily have not to do; — and grumbles a little about the state of things; but, on the whole, I find him doing well, and entitled to the name of fortunate in these broken distracted times. Isabella, too, seems quite herself again; and the children seem good healthy creatures: what is there to complain of, in such a posture of affairs? — Our dear old Mother, you will be delighted to know, is really brisk and well; quite surprisingly so at her time of life (78,® she counts it) : I think I find her perceptibly heartier and fresher than two years ago; which adds greatly to the cheerfulness of this place for me, as is natural. Alas, such a state of things cannot continue always; but in the meanwhile surely we may be humbly glad at it, and ought to feel grateful, as for a great mercy, to the bounteous Heavenly Power! She reads greatly; has lately given up smoking (chews a little liquorice-stick instead), which I imagine is a real improvement: she or her old room are but little altered since you saw her and it, — only the carpet is wearing out, and she is now negoci-

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ating about some fresh one; the peat-house too is getting frail: to this and all such things she will say, with a pious cheerfulness all her own, "It'll maybe last my time, — but we maun ha't mend it too!" Good old Mother! — She gets her meals now mainly with Jamie's people, who are very kind and respectful to her, young and old: Jack's long visits to this place do her good too, I believe. On the whole, it is a great comfort to one to see her as she now presents herself to me. Jack came, I think, two months ago; probably enough he may still stay for a good while; the free lounging life, best possible here, being much to his mind. After enough of that, and not sooner, he may return to Chelsea, and resume his work on Dante, of which a good stock yet remains to him. Of the other Annandale people I can say almost nothing. I have only passed thro' Ecclefechan, and seen nobody but Grahame of Burnswark, and Park4 the Baker for one instant. Park is better in health than he once was, but still looks very much broken; he has has now quite given over work, I believe, and merely superintends. Grahame has got into a new Two-story House, and is otherwise doing well enough in the economic sense; but both he and his Sister are sadly cast down by the death of their last Brother, Peter, in America, which event came upon them unexpectedly, tho' the poor man had been long in a suffering state. Grahame snuffs immensely; and "Oh-whows" in a really tiresome manner, poor fellöw. Calvert, Isabella's father, is dead, as you probably know, a good while ago. Old Garthwaite the Tailor too is dead. The railway, they say, has slightly cheapened coals, but otherwise done Ecclefechan neither good nor harm: the Station is wrong-placed, at Swaugh; and cannot be got altered, so poorly is the whole thing paying hitherto. From Dumfries to Carlisle there is also a rail in action; comes thro' Austin's meadow, near the Bar yonder; but that is paying still worse. They must wait, they must wait: it will be long before those new-arrangements come to their full development.— Coming home the first day, I saw Tom Clow (your Jenny's brother) hoeing turnips in the field near the Potter-knowe: he is still with "the Laird," who is said to be struggling on in a kind of average fashion, fast falling into a large family. James and Charles Stewart's Brother, one Duncan Stewart a big Liverpool Merchant, has entirely ruined himself by some fraud about the Customhouse; was in

1849, Scotsbrig 675 Lancaster jail, is now only out on bail of £20,000: a very bad job indeed, all people say. This with other things has terribly hurt James Stewart, who indeed, by a stroke of palsy, is quite broken down, — to the regret of everybody. Mudie, late Factor at Springldll, went away to Braidalbane in the North; has lately there been detected keeping false books, and otherwise playing the devil; and is now turned out, to disgrace and beggary, they say. Ah me, what a "pluister" of a world this is! Let me close my budget of news here. — Of Ireland and my experiences there nothing must be said just now. I went round the whole coast, south and west, from Dublin round to Derry again ( and thence home by Glasgow); I conversed with all ranks of men, from Peers to Peasants, and saw much of the country; but little that was wholesome or comfortable could I contrive to see! Such a country for beggars and beggary was never before discovered. Desolation, weak and utter dissolution of society seemed fast coming on in various quarters. Over about 1 / 3 of the Island there are "Insolvent Poor-Law Unions" (30,000 beggars supported by Government in some): in these not far from the second soul is a Pauper! I find that it must end soon in great changes. — Dear Brother, there is not another inch of room; nor does any time remain. Adieu, with all our blessings. T. Carlyle I am going to Kirkaldy ( the Fergus's ) on Monday; then to meet Jane, who has been touring for her own behoof while I was absent, and is now about coming southward again, — probably by Scotsbrig for a day. I shall, it may be computed, be at Chelsea again, before this Letter reach you; tho' I have one or two visits in the North to pay first. Jack always forwards the Newspaper in the interim. Duffy 5 of the old "Nation" (intrinsically a good fellow, narrowly escaped from sentence of transportation) accompanied me a good part of my way in Ireland. He loves me well; got many a severe lecture from me, — by which may he profit! 1. Carlyle had left England for Ireland June 30. The notes he took were posthumously published first as "Carlyle in Ireland. Reminiscences of My Irish Journey," Century Magazine, 2, N.S. (May, June, July 1 8 8 2 ) , 17-30, 244-256, 4 2 6 - 4 4 1 , and then, with a preface by Froude, as Reminiscences of My Irish Journey in 184g (London, 1 8 8 2 ) .

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2. One Carlyle used also in Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship and Travels, II, 227. 3. Not until September 30. 4. I have not been able to determine his first name or that of Mudie, below. 5. Sir Charles Gavan Duffy (1816-1903), who had also accompanied Carlyle on his Irish journey of 1846, was one of the founders, proprietor, and editor of the Dublin Nation (1842-1848). He was accused of sedition with O'Connell in 1844, with him was acquitted, but was arrested again in 1848. He stood trial for treason-felony, but the jury was unable to agree. He continued to agitate, was M.P. for New Ross from 1852 to 1855, and then emigrated to Australia, where he served as prime minister from 1871 to 1872 and as speaker of the House of Assembly from 1876 to 1880. That year he resigned, took up residence mainly in the south of France, and wrote, among other works, several on Irish history and Conversations with Carlyle (London and New York, 1892).

225. Chelsea, 25 jany, 1850 My dear Brother, We last night got sight of your Letter to my Mother; which, you need not be told, gave us great pleasure. You are fighting manfully along, far over the Sea yonder, in a manful manner, with your work in this world. There is on the whole no other "happiness" (tho' so much is talked about that word) conceivable, or to be expected, for a human being in this world. May we all so stand to our work; let us all so stand to it, each in the place where he is cast! There is a meeting for us all, — yes, beyond what it is given us to compute or imagine in the present dim sphere, we will hope, — when our Day's work is once well donel Courage, courage! I often feel myself situated very like as you are in that stranger country: very lonely, I here too, in spite of all my talking acquaintances: a stranger and a pilgrim, emphatically so; striving hard to keep my head above the mud, and get my rough miles of journey finished. We shall then be at rest; rest is none till then. — Jack orders me to write a few lines to you, as the Letter goes by;

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which I very willingly do, dear Brother, — and could wish only that I had a little leisure to do it more deliberately. For I often think of you; often, almost daily; and have many, many things which I could wish to talk to you about: but the break-neck express-train speed at which all tumbles along in this world of mine generally reduces me to silence; — I often feel as if my silence were a kind of talk with you. Today especially, and for some weeks past indeed, I am especially hard driven; — getting into the Printers hands again! He has me by the collar even now. After long haggling, and much sorrowful toil and consideration, I have decided to venture out with a set of Reform Discourses, "Latter-Day Pamphlets" I call them, upon the frightful aspects of human affairs, here on our side of the Ocean, — which, especially since I was in Ireland, has lain like a millstone on me. I am minded, perilous as it looks, to tell the people somewhat of my real mind about it; — that is the one service I can do in regard to it. First Pamphlet is just coming out, on the first of Feby; there may be ábout a dozen in all,1 following month after month, — if my strength will hold out: but I am grown very feckless in this bad weather, in these bad times; and shall have my own struggles with this job! — If I knew how to send you these "Pamphlets," I would send them punctually with right pleasure; but I do not. Has the Post-Office, think you, any feasibility for sending such things? I greatly doubt it. At any rate, I suppose they will be reprinted directly in the United States; perhaps by your ordering them of some Bookseller in Brantford or Hamilton, you could get them for a few cents cash? Try; and, on the whole, tell me what to do, if I can do anything in regard to that matter. Jack sends flourishing accounts always from Scotsbrig; our good old Mother is really wonderfully strong, and as brisk as ever in her mind especially. Jack is busy with the continuation of his Dante there: a much better shop than here, I should say, for such a job. — — Jane has kept pretty well on foot all winter, tho' the winter here, and indeed all over Europe, has been excessively severe. I, as abovesaid, have been very gloomy, heavy-laden, but sprawling along too, as I best might. — Nothing that I have read this long while so pleased me as that Sketch you give of the Boys and Girls. Poor things, they will come up to be useful there; they could never have had that outlook here, as times are and were. Here all grows blacker and blacker;

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ripening towards — no good! Poor Tom, with his "insatiable appetite for reading": Oh try to get him good Books, — whatever opportunity of real instruction may lie within your possibilities for him. And give him my love specially; and tell him I expect he will not do discredit to the name he carries! My love to one and all; to little Jane, to Jenny and all the bits of Bairns: God's blessing on them all. Adieu dear Brother. Yours ever T. Carlyle I calculate you will beat down that money-account too, and vanquish it yourself, which will be best any way. But if you cannot, if you find it beating you, — you know always where there is help. 1. There were eight in all: "The Present Time" (February), "Model Prisons" (March), "Downing Street" (April), "The New Downing Street" (April 15), "Stump-Orator" (May), "Parliaments" (June), "Hudson's Statue" (July), and "Jesuitism" (August). In the first collected edition of Carlyle's Works (1858) Latter-Day Pamphlets was prefixed by "Occasional Discourse on the Negro Question," which was first published in Fraser's Magazine, 40 (December 1849), 670-679. That essay was then republished, with some additions, as Occasional Discourse on the Nigger Question (London, 1853). In later editions of the Works it was included as part of the Miscellanies, in CME, IV, 348-383. Latter-Day Pamphlets was published in America by Harper and Brothers and by Phillips, Sampson and Company of Boston in 1850.

226. To John Aitken Carlyle Chelsea, Wedy 3 july, 1850 3 1 / 2 p.m. Dear Brother, — It is all over with poor Peel! 1 The accounts yesterday were of various tenor, generally black and bad, — a great crowd of people, poor and rich, streaming about all day, and large placard-bulletins handed out to them, — in the evening we heard that there was a marked im-

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provement; Poor Peel had risen, washed his teeth etc.; — and alas, alas, about 11 at night, he died, and it was all ended! Lady Ashburton was here this forenoon with the news; all in tears recently and even still; going out to Addiscombe to be in silence till Monday. The public emotion is very great. Peel retained his consciousness, his perfect composure, — took the sacrament, took farewell of them all. — I have not been so sad over the loss of any public man in my time. That meeting I had with him in the Horseguards," 2 of which I told you, has now become a truly mournful and tragic one. My dear Mother and you and all of them are likely to feel an interest in this sad news; so I send it, tho' without time for a word more. My morning's work has utterly failed, — but I cannot help it now; I must out at present, and try to do better tomorrow. Ever your affectionate T. Carlyle "Met Peel in the Horseguards (building) about ten days ago. He looked very well and cheerful, came forward and shook hands. Tom was on the way to call at his house, which is near the Horseguards, and had been dining with him a few days before. J AC Published: N L , II, 98-99. 1. He died July 2 of injuries he received four days earlier, when his horse fell on him. 2. John added the asterisk and its corresponding footnote before forwarding this letter on to Alexander.

227.

Chelsea, 15 Novr, 1850 My dear Brother, It is a long time since I have heard from you or written to you; I indeed pretty regularly hear of you, for your Letters, to whomsoever addressed, are rapidly sent over the whole kindred of us; so that the

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first part of my complaint is of less moment, — but as to the second, I truly meant to have written long ago; and now, this day, before going farther, I will do it! — The truth is, I have been terribly "dadded about," and am generally in a most dislocated, tossed and tumbled state of temper these many long months past; not at all in a state for writing Letters or doing anything else (if I could help it); — t h e old story with me, you perceive; sickness of body and of mind, only aggravated by some incidental circumstances which will not last always, and doubtless too by the approaches of old-age, which is a thing one cannot expect to get better of when once it has come! Oh, it is an earnest tussle this Life of ours here below; and if a man's body fail him, and he get continual grinding misery of ill-health to encompass him for thirty and odd years, and drag down every step of his poor limbs — But let me not complain. I do believe there is nothing quite essential but complete health of soul; and surely the sicker one's body is, the livelier ought one's care to be not to let that other better part grow unhealthy, and fall down into cowardice! I was utterly done before, in the end of July last, I could get those wild Pamphlets off my hand; the last two in particular did try all the obstinacy I was master of; and really, to my own mind, had something of worth in them in that respect, if in no other. They have done little for me hitherto, these Pamphlets, in any outward respect; the money of them (which however I could happily do independently of) has been mostly pocketed by the Bookseller; mostly, not quite, so negligent was I in bargaining about them;1 and as to their reception from mankind, you never in your life heard such a screaming and squealing, — a universal "screigh as of stuck pigs," stuck to the heart, all running about with gillies in their sides, and bleeding to death, by the hand of a friend! Really it was something like that; but there were other better sounds also perceptible in a low key; and as I kept far away from the universal "skreigh," and would not read a word of the balderdash that was written upon me, and was zealously abetted by my Wife in that obstinate course too, — it was in truth rather entertaining to hear the said universal "skreigh" from the distance, and served as a sign that at least the medicine had been swallowed, and that probably (as old Keble2 used to say) "it had took an effect on

1850, London

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them." — In late weeks, now that the thing is all over, I find the tone perceptibly altering; and have no doubt it will alter to the right pitch, or even beyond it, — like the Irishman's jamb, "plumb and more." They had much need of a dose like that, the stupid blockheads of this generation. But the fact is, being quite knocked up by such a job, following on many other rubs and injuries to one's nerves, I ran off 3 to a certain friendly hermit's in South Wales (one Redwood's, about 120 miles off), as the quietest shelter I could think of in the attainable parts of this world; to try for a little rest there. Alas, rest was not in store for me there; difficult for the like of me to find rest! After 3 weeks or more of very torpid yet agitated existence, I set off towards Scotsbrig; had an unpropitious journey, so far as weather, inns, companioncy, sleep and other outward things went; — and was at last, in a deluge of rain, taken up by Jamie on the street of Annan ( in the old fashion you can well remember), and set down at Scotsbrig to tea with my good old Mother once again in this world. Oh me! You can fancy what a strange mixed emotion; — for a man half-mad with weary misery of body, more especially! Here I staid near a month, with as little stir as it was possible for me to contrive: I meant always to write to you during that month; but always missed it. In fine, I had to lift anchor again, and steer southward, homeward; and so after various hoverings about, I am only got fairly settled at home a few weeks ago, — for there has been much bother with change of servants4 etc., and it has only got completely to an end lately; — and so here I at last am, writing to my Brother a few words over the Sea. Our good old Mother is wonderfully cheerful and well, considering all that she has now seen and suffered: brave old Mother! She had lost her teeth since my last visit; all her upper teeth, I believe, "except one stump"; which change altered her appearance to me somewhat at the first glance: but this too she had taken cheerfully, and was doing her best with it. We tried, while I was there, to get her an artificial set at Dumfries; but the Dentist, on examining, found that he could not fix them, without the likelihood of doing greater mischief otherwise; so we had to give it up, much to our disappointment, not very much to hers, tho' she was anxious too about it. She bakes fresh bread for herself, soft, soda-scons etc.; she struggles along quite bravely un-

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der that and all losses. Her hand shakes perhaps rather worse too, especially when she is out of order; but she does not complain of that either. She reads with all the old eagerness; is ever full of interest and affection for you and me and all that pertain to her; occasionally even jokes, in her old genial way; — twice or thrice she had a washing while I was there, and did it all herself and well. The chief falling off one sees in her is the facility with which any ailment knocks her quite down: she can stand almost nothing in the way of injury; her little stock of strength is not adequate for any extraordinary draught upon it. But in general she shifts along wonderfully still; used to walk with me to the Backburn and round by the Fairy Brae, chatting, and picking up sticks by the way: she was a sad but also one of the beautifullest sights to me always. Jack's residence at Scotsbrig (where he continues pretty steadily, doing gratuitous medicine) is an immense help to her: indeed if he were not there, I should not feel easy in the arrangement that now is. I sometimes think Jack will perhaps take some better house for himself some day, and bring Jenny to look after Mother and him; — in which I should be most glad to assist, as you may fancy; only, as is necessary sometimes, I must say nothing of it, for fear I obstruct. At present all is on a very tolerable footing, in the fashion I describe. — — Scotsbrig otherwise is much as you left it, only scraped up a little, with some new walls and roofs in some of the buildings, and last year with a shifting of the garden into what was once the "swine fauld" (under the big back or eastern window), and a general inclosing and tillage of the waste grounds about the dwellinghouse: all, visible improvements. Jamie is in much better health after his Edinburgh operation. His crop this year is good: but farming, I see, is all altering thereabouts into a grazing-and-fattening business for the Liverpool market, — and I suppose the railway, with its trains hissing by continually, will open other similar markets more and more. Jack is still hearty, restless, tho' very grey now. Jamie even has grey hairs; and as for me, I am rapidly tending in that direction, quite silvery on the haffits ("half-heads"), and getting a grim, austere and I hope rather venerable aspect! It is the way of all men and of all things, dear Brother; let us all learn to grow old, as we must; and know that age too has its beauty to the rim. — My Paper is done, for I want to send you Jeans Dumfries Note of this morning; so adieu. We are

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right glad to hear of your continued growth and welfare; thank Tom and Jane for their occasional Letters. Your new Property will be an excellent affair by and by. Courage, dear Brother; and God bless you always! — Your affectionate T. Carlyle Published in part: NL, II, 101-104. 1. John Chapman, bookseller and brother of Frederick, Carlyle's publisher, "called the other morning," Carlyle wrote his mother March 29, "with an offer of £ 4 10s for a copy of each No. . . . I instandy said, 'done!'" (NL, II, 92). 2. Unidentified. 3. On July 31 to Cowbridge. He stayed one night en route at Bath "with one Savage Landor, an honourable, angry-tempered old literary gendeman" (NL, II, 99-100). 4. After Anne left to be married in 1848, Helen Mitchell, having quarreled with her brother, returned to Chelsea in the fall of that year and the Carlyles rehired her. They later discovered her drunk, as they had in the past, and let her go in February 1849. They replaced her with Elizabeth Sprague, who left August 1850. Following her were Eliza in August, Emma in September, probably "Irish" Fanny through most of December, and then some nameless deaf girl, who gave notice the end of February 1851 fearing she would "certainly die of grief if she went on listening to bells and never hearing them" (Thea Holme, p. 188).

228. Chelsea, 10 Octr, 1851 My dear Brother, — It seems a shamefully long time since I wrote a word to you: but indeed it has not been neglect or forgetfulness, or want of affection; very far from that! Alas, I am so locked in the wild treadmill here, and my heart and life are overloaded with such tumultuous confusions, I have no heart to write hardly at all; and often, from under my bewildering burden, feel as if reduced to silence, — to try if I can plod along without stumbling, and send a mere unspoken prayer and remembrance to my Brother far away who is doing the like! Do not

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ever dream that I forget you. You are almost daily in my mind; and all our history in common, from early infancy upwards, remains indelible, growing ever stronger, more solemn and affecting, the older I grow, and often turning up, with an almost preternatural aspect, from the bosom of the old dead years all on a sudden, in the loud discordant whirl of things which the present time distracts me with! Poor old Annandale, my poor and ever-faithful Brother, — ah me, ah me! But we must not give way to memory. We have each of us a bit of task to do while it is still called Today; we must go on, in love of one another, steadfastly, whether speaking or not. — In fine, however, I have decided to write you a line or two this day once more; and no hurry, or confusion of demands shall obstruct that small purpose, for on[c]e. Let me hope, too, my next Letter may follow at a rather shorter interval! — We have had such a year of nonsense here as was seldom seen even in London years: the "Glass Palace," Grand Exhibition, and other fine names of it1 are of course familiar to you from the Newspapers. Thank God, it is to end tomorrow; and thro' all Time, may I, for one, not see its like again. I believe there never was such a congregation of empty windy mortals from all corners of the world gathered into any human Town before. Palaver, noise, nonsense and confusion, in all its forms, has been the order of the day; all fools rejoicing; the few wise men sitting silent, and asking only "How long, How long!" — What good has been, or is ever to be, got of this big Glass Soapbubble, and all the gauderies spread out in it (beautiful to the fool, insignificant or even hateful to the wise) is yet a mystery to me and most people; and in the meantime England, I think, must have lost some 25 per cent of its year's labour by the job (the London shopkeepers are nearly bankrupt by the want of business, and every British man, even I in spite of all precautions, has felt himself enveloped in confusions by it), — millions' worth of lost labour that will come to the debtor side of the account one day; and such an emission of nonsensical talk, thought and speculation (leading devilward, every jot of it since it is nonsense and not sense), the damage of which is not so computable in millions. But it does end tomorrow, — to all Eternity, end, — and so I will not say another word on it; but congratulate you who were

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well divided by the broad Ocean from it, a real advantage on this occasion! During the Spring and Summer I took to writing a light Book, not worth very much otherwise, but a thing I had to do some time or other: after a good deal of petty fash, it was got done two months ago, but delayed till this "Exhibition" were over, there being no chance of sale till that; — and now, I believe, the poor Book is coming out this very day, "more power to its elbow," as the Irish say! It is a Life of John Sterling2 ( an excellent friend of mine here, who died seven years ago); it is in One Volume; and I am really satisfied to have it off my hands. Some tell me it is very readable: but in fact it cannot amount to much importance whether readable or not. The best part of the job, as usual, is that I am done with it, — clear of it forever and a day. They say Books can now be conveyed, even to Canada, by the PostOffice! I will make more precise inquiry about this directly; and if the thing is so, a Copy shall set out for you early enough next week, — and within a week of this arriving, you may expect the Life of Sterling to arrive. I shall be very glad to hear it has! If otherwise I will try what other method there may be; — and at the very worst you will soon get a Yankee Copy cheap enough; they are busy reprinting it in Boston even now. — So much for this poor Volume: the only definite piece of work I have to show for myself since you last heard of me. Directly after ending Sterling, Jane and I set off 150 miles westward, to a place called Malvern, there to try a thing called "Water Cures" — as perhaps the Doctor has already informed you; for he came here a few days before we lifted anchor, and stayed in this house all the time of our absence, returning to Scotsbrig the following week (now some three weeks ago). At Malvern we staid one month complete,— I, not Jane, diligently Water-Curing; which is a very odd business, sitting in baths, lying wrapt in wet sheets etc., and above all, walking immensely on the airy hills, and following a strict regimen as to food: — I was terribly cut short of sleep all the time; and did not feel that I got much good, or indeed till lately that I got any. However I had to try the thing; — and now have tried it, and shall at least not be bothered with advice on that subject henceforth. — Directly after Malvern, we went northward; Jane to Lancashire, I on to

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Scotsbrig where I staid a fortnight, — in sight of the most impressive of all scenes for me! 3 I fully meant to write you a Letter there; but the sad turmoil within me and about me cut it short. Our dear old Mother, she is now grown very old, and one of the most tender and affecting sights! She has lost all her teeth, that makes the principal change in her face. Dear good old woman, she has her sense and senses all perfect, is unweariedly fond of reading; will take no help ( except it be from Jack, who is indeed a treasure to her and to us in those circumstances): one notices her great weakness chiefly in this, that a whiff of any illness quite accosts her, one finds that she has no strength to resist with now. John lives with her, they have the upstairs all between them; and except for him I could not be in the least comfortable about her. Alas, alas! Old age is dark; and in all human life there lies something infinitely stern, — yet something infinitely beautiful too: my dear old Mother, now in her extreme age, may be said to have still a blessing such as is still possible for her. — My dear Brother, I have to end at present. I hope to write again perhaps in a few days. God bless you all! T. Carlyle We had heard from Jenny4 repeatedly, to my Mother's great joy; a Newspaper came from you too, while I was at Scotsbrig. — All is still well in this circle, that I hear of. Just as I [was] sealing, comes a Note from Jean, with a report that all is well thereabouts, and that a new Letter has come from Jenny, reporting well on your side too. So be it, so be it! — ι.

Most

commonly

"The

Crystal

Palace."

The

official title

of

the

world's first international fair was " T h e Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry of A l l Nations." 2.

(London, 1 8 5 1 ) . Phillips, Sampson and C o m p a n y of Boston p u b -

lished an edition also in 1 8 5 1 . 3. H e failed to mention that on September 2 5 he left Chelsea with Browning

(whom

Carlyle first met

at L e i g h

Hunt's

early

in

1840),

Browning's wife, child, and maid to join the Ashburtons in Paris. H e returned October 2 and recorded the experience as "Excursion Enough)

to Paris; Autumn,

1851:

T h r o w n on Paper, P e n

from Saturday to T u e s d a y , October 4-7,

1851,"

(Futile

Galloping,

New Review,

5

(Oc-

1851,

London

687

tober, November, December 1891), 298-307; 385-394; 481-490; republished in Last Words of Thomas Carlyle, pp. 149-191. 4. Who with her children had left Dumfries May 27 to join her husband in Hamilton, Ontario.

229. Chelsea, 24 Oct'r, 1851 My Dear Brother, — About a fortnight ago I wrote to you intimating that I would soon send a copy of a Book called Life of John Sterling, which was just about coming out, and also that I would write soon again. Last week, in good time for the mail, said Life of Sterling did accordingly set out towards you. On enquiring practically I found such a feat was now quite handy. If the Book weighs under one pound, it will go to Canada or from it for a shilling; if under two pounds and above one, you must pay two shillings, (in stamps always), and so on for other weights. It is an immense convenience and I design if I live to make use of it on other occasions on your behalf. If all went right the book will reach you about a week before this present letter, if it do not, write to me and I will take some order in the matter. If it do come rightly you may send me an old newspaper addressed in your hand. That will be announcement enough for the purpose, and so we have finished this affair of the Book, let us hope. Since I wrote last our "Exhibition" has dissolved itself, all gone or going to the four winds, and on our streets there is a blessed tranquillity in comparison. London is of all the year stillest at this season or a little earlier. All one's acquaintances are in the country, two or three hundred thousand of the inhabitants are in the country. Now is the time for a little study,1 for a little private meditation and real converse with one's self — a thing not to be neglected, however little pleasant it be. The days are getting foggy, a kind of dusky, stoorylooking, dry fog, dimmed with much thin reek over and above, not an exhilarating element at all, but it is very quiet comparatively and one ought to be thankful. I often think I will go into the country to

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live, out of this dirty reek and noise, but I am very feckless for making changes and find all countries (Annandale itself) grown very solitary and questionable to me. "Busy, busy, be busy with thy work": — let that in the meanwhile suffice as commandment for me. Within the week I have news from Scotsbrig. Our dear old Mother was reported well (for her) "better than when I was there." Jack being now with her, that is always a considerable fact in her favor. The good old woman, she can do wonderfully when things go perfectly "straight," but a small matter is now sufficient to over-set her. She can read, the whole day if she have any Book worth reading, and her appetite for reading is not at all sickly or squeamish, but can eagerly welcome almost anything that has, on any subject, a glimmering of human sense in it. Jamie's harvest is well over, a rather superior crop for quality, the quantity about an average, that is the account he gives — and indeed it is the general account of the country this year. Trade is good this year or more back; so that numbers of the people are or might be well off (tho' I think they mainly waste their superior wages ) and huge multitudes of vagrant, distressed wretches are to be found everywhere even now. What will there be when "trade," as it soon will do, takes another turn. Strolling Irish, hawking, begging, doing all kinds of coarse labour, are getting daily more abundant — unhappy beings! We hear from the Newspapers much absurd talk about the "Millions that have emigrated to America." Alas, it has been to England and Scotland that they have "emigrated," as anybody but a Stump Orator or Newspaper Editor might see — and they will produce their effects here by and by! — On the whole, dear Brother, you are right happy to have got out of this horrible welter into a quiet garden of your own over the sea. There are times coming here, and rushing on with ever faster speed, though unnoticed by the "glass pal ace" sages and their followers, such as none of us have ever seen for violence and misery. Church and State and all the arrangements of a rotten society, often seem to me as if they were not worth 20 years' purchase and the thing that will first follow them is nearly certain to be greatly worse than they. God mend it. We can do nothing for it but try if possible to mind our own work in the middle of it. There came a letter lately from Sister Jenny which reports of you at Bield in a very interesting and cheering fashion. You are not much

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changed except (like myself) a little whiter in the happits. Tom is a stout handy looking fellow, not too tall. Jane a douce tidy lass, in short "you look all very comfortable on your two farms." We were thankful enough for such a pictorial report, I need not tell you. As to Jenny herself there seem good omens too, and we hope her husband and she may now do well, his follies having stilled themselves with advance of years. At all events she will be more content than in Dumfries in her old position: there it was clear enough she could not abide much longer. That she is near you on any emergency is a great comfort to our Mother and the rest of us. Adieu, dear Brother, I did not mean to write so much to-day, being hurried enough with many things. Jane sends her love to her namesake and to you all. I wish you would buy Tom an American copy of one of my books, (Translaton of W. Meister? No?), and give it him as a memento of me and you, some time when his behaviour is at the best. Assure him, at any rate, of my hearty regard, him and all the household. My blessing with you all. Affectionately, T. Carlyle MS: unrecovered. Text: Copeland, pp. 201-205. 1. On November 20 he wrote to John, "We keep very quiet and studious: I reading [Johann D. E.] Preuss's big Book of Frederick the Great, a terrible hulk of a compilation, — not without some considerable private love for Frederick; whom, if I were a Prussian, I would write about" (NL, II, 1 1 7 ) . He recorded in his Journal January 1852 that he took to studying Frederick "soon after my return from Paris" (Froude,

IV, 90). Carlyle worked on his Ηistori/ of Friedrich II. of Prussia, Called

Frederick the Great for the next thirteen years. Chapman and Hall published vols. I and II in 1858, vol. Ill in 1862, vol. IV in 1864, and vols. V and V I in 1865.

230. Chelsea, London, 18 feby, 1852 My dear Brother, We heard of you lately thro' Jenny; and were gratified to learn that you were all well, and that things were going on in the usual style with you. Poor Jenny appears to have improved greatly in spirits since she

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made this courageous adventure to your side of the water; indeed she never had, or was like to have, any peace of mind or real contentment at Dumfries; so it behooved her to go, whatever became of it: on the whole it seems to have turned out very well hitherto; and we can reasonably hope she will find it a change for the better. Her husband may perhaps continue steady henceforth, with these new chances and inducements; and in that case there is room for all sorts of good anticipations. Poor soul, he has been well scourged too for his errors; and, we may hope, will learn his lesson, as the rest of us have had to do I Meanwhile it is a pleasant new interest for you in Canada, this in Hamilton; and it gives all of us comfort to reflect upon it for both your salces. The most interesting news you have sent lately is that "little Jane," who has now grown a big enough Jane, is about to be married,1 and set up for her little self! Good little lassie, I remember her always, and shall always remember her, as a gleg little bairn; and it is joyful, sorrowful, and in all ways pathetic and interesting to me to hear of this new phasis of her history. Jane and I have often talked of it here; and if good wishes could make her life lucky, I do not think it would fail in that respect. You must tell us something more about her intended; some honest manful young lad, I hope; — to whom, if he comport himself well, there is a fair prospect open for beginning life. Things do differ infinitely in your new home and in your old one here, in that respect! With us, the outlook is daily more confused, difficult and almost impossible: I confess, it would be a terror to me, had I children to try to set up in this horrible complexity. And things will not mend; I believe they have to grow much worse, or at least universally bad, before mending; and that they will not take that turn "in our thank" at all. Painful as it has been, dear Brother, you ought to be very thankful, and all of us ought, that you and yours are where you are and as you are! — Enclosed here is a scrap of thin paper; which, I am taught, will grow into "Forty Pounds with a premium" (some small advantage in the exchange) at any Bank in your neighbourhood or elsewhere: I must ask you to get it cashed, and keep it ready; and to give it to poor little Jane, on her Wedding-day, as a gift from her Uncle and Aunt. This is all the transaction; — and if my blessing along with it could be of any avail to the young pair, sure enough that, too, si-

1852, London 691 lently goes. — For the rest, address me a Newspaper with three strokes so soon as you fairly get the cash, and do not, except it is handy for you, write just at once, — unless there be something wrong with the Draft, as I do not expect there will. And may all good be with our dear little Jane; and may her House, too, in the wilderness, be an honest and a fruitful industrious and blessed one! — That is all on this head. You would notice perhaps in your Courier that Craigenputtock was advertised again to be let. John M'Queen died suddenly, and Tom became tenant for two years; the lease being now out, Jamie (of Scotsbrig) went to examine, and reported that the farm was worth at least £.200: M'Queen was offered it at that; declined to rise a penny above the old rent ( £ 1 8 0 ) ; and so he being otherwise a kind of slattern, we determined to advertise as you saw. The place is now taken at £210, by one Thos Bell, lately of Whitcastle, whose father2 you knew: a smart, promising, newly-married and altogether eligible kind of tenant: so that this business (thanks to the Doctor, who has been extremely active in it) seems speedily and satisfactorily settled. Poor old Puttock, it is the emblem to us of days that are far gone, and to me as to you it is sad, and grand withal, like the lands beyond the Grave! — "A brother3 of Joseph M'Adam's," it seems, was one of the applicants; but, beyond all others, he could never have been preferred, I should say! — Doubtless the Doctor has reported to you how they are going on at Scotsbrig. Jamie, in the complicated shifting course of things, manages very discreetly, and contrives to get along better than most of his neighbours: I understand the steamers and rails are gradually dragging all Annandale into new methods, — into graziery and beef, instead of ploughing and corn. Jamie goes more and more upon sheep of late years. [I understand there is going to be a railway past you also, and far better trade for your corn than you yet have.] 4 All is changing in every province of this world: — Our dear old Mother is still reported to me as "well for her": but I find she is really very frail, the good old Mother, and passes most of her time (reading) "in bed," this winter; Mary's eldest daughter (Margt) attends to the house, and manages all domesticities for the Doctor and her. Such is the arrangement since Winter began; which I have no doubt is a great improvement. God bless our dear old Mother and them all! will be your prayer

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as well as mine. — — I duly got signal of the Sterling Book having come to you: the other day I sent one, of the 2d edition,5 to Jenny's address. There goes on an immense uproar of reviewing (mostly scolding and screeching, it would seem); but I never read any of it: "Di' tha naither ill na' guid!" — Adieu, dear Brother. Ever your affectionate T. Carlyle 1. To Robert Sims. The couple lived "on a farm some miles west of Bield, near New Durham" ("Family History"). 2. Perhaps the Thomas Bell of Letter 40. Carlyle mentioned the deaths of the elder Bell and his brother George in Letter 240. 3. Perhaps Samuel. See Letter 90. 4. Carlyle's brackets. 5. (London, 1852). The protest was against the

Latter-Day Pam-

phlets.

231. Chelsea, London, 6 january, 1853 My dear Brother, We are now in the beginning of a new Year, when old accounts are summed up, and old recollections sad and joyful are gone into; and I will delay no longer, what I have been thinking of this great while, to send you again a word of direct writing from me. It is indeed a long time since I have written: alas, I have been so whirled about for many months, I have not written a line, except upon compulsion, to anybody; and am very seldom, even if time were plentiful with me, which it never is, in a care to write anything that could be cheering to a Brother far away! Never mind, let me write at last; and try if I can be more punctual in time coming! Last summer early, in June I think, it was, after study and consultation enough, decided by my Helpmate and me, that we should finally abandon the speculation of ever getting out of this place; that we should secure a long lease (31 years, long enough!) of this solid old House, "thoroughly repair it according to our mind," and decide

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on being quiet here henceforth. On the whole I found that it must be so. Nearly every year since I came to live here, especially in late years since there was a possibility for me of getting elsewhither, I have madly struggled, in my thoughts, expressed or not, to be out of this horrible uproar of London, and into some place of country quiet and fresh air: but, alas, it always ended with the mere struggle and without any victory; the chains were too heavy for me. Scotland, when I go back to it, is little other than a place of graves to me; I wander there like a ghost among the living, — a common lot at such years as mine now are. And to settle down, as a hermit and stranger, without work out of doors or the chance to form new relations, in some solitary place in England — alas! Not to say that my Wife was always silently against giving up our advantages here:—in short, I gave it up, as you perceive; and have now, for anything I know, done with dubitating on the matter. — Well, we set about getting our House "thoroughly repaired"; fairly began about the first of July, I think; and — are not properly done yet! Let me not speak of the affair; it is really one of the abominablest jobs I have ever been engaged in; and has cost me, in money paid and misery suffered, more than I care to think of at present! "Six weeks" was the time set, and £200 the sum guessed: if double the sum, and six times the time, get me fairly thro', I suppose it will be well, as things have proved! — However, let us not murmur: the House really is very much improved; has been comfortably habitable ever since October, and with a 3 weeks of papering and painting (in this chief room, where I now am, and where my books and work are), were the long days«once come again, — we shall actually have done; — and, I believe, shall not be in haste to begin a similiar job again while we continue here! Often have I thought of you, my dear and helpful shifty Alick, while all this was going on! How you carried us thro' a tenfold harder-looking business at Puttock once, and at quite another rate of charges: —in fact, had you been here, it had not taken us the dance it has, in any respect whatever. For above all things, the thing we have wanted all along has been a Master of the Works: our Builder1 has been without faculty that way, tho' otherwise an honest reputable painstaking man, whom I have pitied and paid, what else could I do? However, the thing I had to say was: About the middle of July,

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all being dust noise and desolation here, and the weather blazingly hot, Jane, who alone had the superintendance, sent me off to Scotland to be out of the way. I was in a most wrecked bilious condition, and glad enough to go. I sailed to Dundee; staid 3 weeks or better with a Mr Erskine2 a friend of mine in that quarter; then came down to Annandale, staid 4 weeks there, still weak, sleepless and very ill off indeed, — but in hopes my own home would soon be ready for me again. Alas, it became now evident that there was no chance of that for other four weeks or more. Jane sent me off3 to Germany, she and others; I went for some six weeks into that Country, was at Berlin, at Weimar, — scenes full of sorrowful and other interest to me, had I been in any tolerable condition as to body; but I was not! I got no right sleep any night, often no sleep at all; grew every day more weakly wretched; and in fact do not remember six such weeks, for vile suffering of various kinds, in all my life. I hurried home again; resolute to have done with that at any rate. Early in October I got home; but it was not till the end of the month that I could fairly live here (painters etc. etc. still haunting us); I think it was in November when I first flung myself fairly down; and said, "Well then, let me sink as low as gravitation carries me; I will have rest, whatever befal!" — That has been my posture, "lying at the bottom of the dead sea" ever since; — and that will explain why I have been so remiss in writing among other things. I think I never was more "brashed to pieces," or have been in such weak gloomy humour; holding my peace, keeping diligently mute: that was nearly all I could do; and that I have hitherto pretty honestly done. — Quietly, hotvever, let me say: in the rear of all this wretchedness I feel as if my health even were not fundamentally hurt, but rather were clearer and improved; also that perhaps I shall get some good of my sight of Germany yet; that the House will be better and perhaps the Man better; — and in brief that all shall be well that ends well, as we have seen it sometimes heretofore! Do not distress yourself therefore about my vociferous extensive complainings, — not too much; — you know of old, it is in some sort the "nature of the beast." And now, after a whole sheet of worthless lamentations (which I was far from intending, but cannot now help), let us turn from the so remarkably unfortunate Thomas Carlyle, and speak of other members of the family, a little.

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Scotsbrig is still the most interesting of all places; Scotsbrig, where our poor old Mother is, I will first speak of. Ah me, she is now very old and weak; lies mostly in bed I believe in this dark season of the year. In the autumn time I found her feeble, but clear, lively after her weak sort, and very seldom in bed thro' the day. However, she took small "ill-turns," and the least thing was now able to arrest her. She walked with me sometimes to the Fairy Brae; seldom farther. She was peaceable in mind; intellect etc. clear as ever; but the light of her old life, so far as joy or satisfaction of any kind went, was waxing dim, not now the cheerful sunlight, but pale grey twilight, — alas, alas, it is the inexorable law; and no love of ours can deliver this loved life from the universal lot! They are kind to her, all of them, as they can contrive to be: she reads a great deal, all kinds of clever books are still interesting to her; reading is her chief resource. One of the Austin lasses ( Margaret it was in Septr, and I think again is ) always stays with her; waits upon her handily and with due attention. She was fond of talking when in moderate health; fond especially of talking to me, whom she had not always with her. Oh my Brother, I do not know that you should regret being cut off from that spectacle; especially if, like me, you only had it from year to year! I can recollect no bitterer moments than these I have of parting from My old Mother, and leaving her so! — Well, well; in fine, she is in God's hand, as we all are; and surely He will do what is right and best with that dear old Mother and with us: let us try if we can say, His will, not ours, be done in all things! — I write almost weekly, not quite, to my Mother; Jack is also still often about her; and I think there is no lack of care about her, on all hands. Jack, as you doubtless know long since, has got married,4 — contrary to calculation of many! He was busy about that enterprize, running continually to Moffat etc. all the time I was there; so that I did not get much communication with him, and little or none of an intimate nature. He has since been here, with our new Sister; staid a couple of weeks in Chelsea here in lodgings near us; was very happy and good; and I liked his Missus very much after a sort. A tall Ladylike person enough, not beautiful but handsome enough and healthfully agreeable; has sense enough, and I think is of cheerful temper and honest heart, which are great qualities. She seems very fond of her new hus-

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band: and in short I concluded they might fairly hope to be a real and considerable addition to each other's comfort. Jack has got a home and other advantages; she a guardian to her 4 boys5 and ditto. She is said to have "plenty of money"; how much ( whither £. 1,000 a year or twice that sum ) I never know. — They are living now and till midsummer next, at Moffat ( as you doubtless are aware ) in a House6 of Hope Johnstone's opposite the Star Hôtel, — an uppish-looking stout old mansion with court etc., which I daresay you remember. He writes me frequently, a short very short Note; and seems to be down at Scotsbrig once every 7 or 8 days to see our Mother. It seemed to me as if she would not like that method of his help less than the old one, where perhaps anybody constantly beside her might be a disturbing influence at times to one so weak. — — The rest of our kindred were all well, and doing rather well; these times being brisk for trade of every kind, — so long as the game lasts, that is; but I look for the inevitable "crisis" again, and a change of game by and by; such as we have known before to be the rule! — — Adieu dear Brother; it is now near midnight; and I must end. Till tomorrow I need not seal; and will now only say Good Night. T. C. Friday 7 jany. — Dear Brother, — I must now finally seal, in great haste; for the rain we have had all day has at last ceased, — and my work is flung by, to go out and walk a little (violently striding thro' the mud! ) for "constitutional purposes." There never was such a winter for wet: no frost at all, only rain, rain, and tempests of wind, or stagnant damp vapours still more disagreeable. 1 had your Letter (the last you wrote me) duly. No farther news for me this morning. With heartfelt love and regards to you and yours every one — dear Brother, adieu! — Your affectionate ever, T. Carlyle 1. One Morgan. See Thea Holme, pp. 77-98, for a good account of the renovations at 5 Cheyne Row and the trials the Carlyles suffered because of them. 2. Thomas Erskine. See Letter 24. 3. On August 30. 4. In autumn 1852 to Mrs. Phoebe Elizabeth Hough Fowler Watts

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( i 8 i 4 ? - i 8 5 4 ) , a widow, daughter of the late John Fowler of Horton Hall, North Staffordshire. 5. John gave the name of only one, William, the youngest. See Letter 257· 6. " 'Moffat House,' . . . a big, old-fashioned, red ashlar edifice, stands gaunt and high in the central park of Moffat; which the Hope Johnstones now never use, and which, some time ago, brother John had rented as a dwelling-place, handy for Scotsbrig, etc., being one of various advantages" — T. C. (LM, II, 5 ) .

232. Chelsea, London, 8 April, 1853 My dear Brother, Here is a little Package, which is intrinsically worth nothing, but which will be welcome to you nevertheless. One of the inventions of these times, that of taking Portraits by the light of the Sun, is no doubt common in your neighbourhood as it is in ours: a particular form of it, called Talbotype, has lately come into the hands of the general public here; and one of our acquaintances (Anthony Sterling, a man rich and idle) amuses himself, as various people do, with taking likenesses by that method. Here are two of his best specimens; at least the two which, I am well sure, you will like best. Mine was not originally done by him, but has been copied successfully by him, as you here see: Jane's I do not think nearly so good; but it also is a tolerable Likeness, and of course faithful so far as it goes. You can keep the poor Scraps, if they come safe to, under some kind of cheap frame, or safe anywhere from dust and damp (these are the two elements hostile to them); and now and then they will give you remembrances of those by whom you never can be forgotten, and who otherwise do not fear that you ever will forget them. Alas, alas! — We are in our usual health here, which is not of the most vigorous description, and in the usual situation of affairs, — rather stationary and contemplative amid the huge whirl pool of noise, and mostly aimless locomotion, and mostly vain activity, which surrounds us. I am not writing anything, at least not anything that will stand on the

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paper: but I try to be not quite idle, to struggle at least toward work, if I cannot yet get into it; and to possess my soul in what patience I can. For the rest I find we have never yet got properly out of our "House-repair," or fairly settled in the old routine again. So thinskinned and helpless is a poor "speculative" creature; unacquainted with the world's industries, and abhorrent of many of its habits and ways! How often have I remembered you, and your struggles with the Dumfries Tradesmen in the other "repair" we made; — alas, I never knew so well what a cloak against the weather you were for me on that occasion; and how unfit I am, and becoming ever more so, to go abroad without such protection! I believe truly it has cost more than twice as much money, and perhaps five times as much time and bother, as you, had you been here on the spot, would have brought us thro' it for. — However, I have ( tho' unpapered and unpainted as yet) an excellent large wholesome room to sit in (19 feet by 18 or more); also a pleasant wholesome bedroom and dressing-closet, clean as the country itself, and extremely quiet for London: I ought to be thankful and content; and shall be so, were my nerves quite healed to their old pitch again. London, which has about 21/2. Millions of people in it already, is building as never City did: what it will grow to, or where is to be the end of all this, I confess I am utterly unable to conjecture; — in the meanwhile, it makes a great increased of dirt and of tumult in one's courses here; and I could have wished they had put the business off till I — were somewhere else. All is "prosperity," too, they say continually; that is, money is plentiful and makes luxury and folly, in all classes, still more plentiful: truly, the "prosperity" we are now in, and the paths we are now travelling as with the speed of express-trains, — give rise to meditations enough in me. — — In your last Letter to Graham of Burnswark, I noticed, you talk of "eyesight": did I ever tell you that I too use spectacles at night, for a year or two past; and feel myself indeed growing very old. What is notable I have not yet lost much of my strength, perhaps little in any sense, but I feel a dreadful increase of laziness in all senses: "Gude guide us to, Sandy, I think ha's stiff to ye reise!" In fact nothing but the sting of conscience, and much internal misery, or else a plain outward necessity, can make him "reise" or get into a right red heat of effort any more. How much

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more insignificant all earthly things become, as one approaches day by day the "earnest portal"! Courage, my Brother; God is above us, the Good and Just reigns to all Eternity, and He only. Our dear old Mother is still holding wonderfully together; and I have good report of her not yet a week old; our dreadful spring weather (one of the fiercest and latest springs I ever saw) did give her a shock once which alarmed us for a day or two; but it soon passed again, and she seems as well as before. Jack comes down weekly to her from Moffat; — where he is to live after June, I do not yet hear. The rest in Annandale are all in their usual state: what a tract of quiet years have we had in that respect for long, — by Heaven's goodness! I saw Tom's Letter and one from your "little Jane," now a happy woman and mother. God bless them all: they seem good clever creatures. Adieu dear Brother. Here is interruption (sorrow on it); but at any rate, my space was quite done. Ever your affectionate T. Carlyle Published in part: NL, II, 146-147.

233· To Margaret Aitken Carlyle Chelsea, 21 june, 1853, (Tuesday) My dear Mother, Yesterday, being detained at Addiscombe till after Post-time, I sent you forward a Spectator, which I hope would arrive, and prevent any uneasy imaginations about us. W e expected to come home in the morning of Monday; but, by hospitable pressing etc., it was not till nine at night that we got away: I had a very pretty ride outside, thro' the summer air, Jane inside; and we found all safe here on our return about 11. One of our days at Addiscombe was wholly wet till towards evening; but even that was not unpleasant in the beautiful green silent Country; and all the rest of the time was sunny weather, or fine grey

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which I like better. We were a small quiet party, and did very well; a little breath of pure country very agreeable after these months of town. Yesterday we had a drive to a place called Hayes, some four or five miles away; a House worth looking at, for it was the dwelling place of a great man called Lord Chatham, and the birthplace of Pitt his son! I was the discoverer of this fact; not a soul knew anything about such a thing, or would believe it, till we went and found that the people in the House itself were familiar with it, — knew Pitt's birthroom, Chatham's bedroom etc. etc. The latter, a truly remarkable person, had new-built the place, according to his own plans; a terrible "capon" for nervous ill health, horror of noises etc. etc.: we were all very glad to have seen it, and the thick shady woods that are round it. Coming home, I found, among other things, a Canada Newspaper from Alick; of which I clip off the date and title for you, and send the cover with its three strokes. Three, I suppose, mean that a small packet I had sent for Alick, — consisting of my own Portrait and Jane's (like what you got), — had arrived safe, and that otherwise too all was well. This will serve my poor Mother for a Letter from Canada, or some thing almost as good; and, I need not doubt, will be very welcome. Jamie's Herald Newspaper has never yet come; I send you off the Examiner; I myself read another copy of it at Addiscombe. Our Painters are here; but we keep the door strictly shut upon them; and they do not do us much ill. Besides we hope they will be away in a few days, — and that we shall never see their faces again ( or almost never)! — I am in treaty with some "dud of a body," who wishes to be "clerk" to me, to copy for me, go to the Museum etc.; but I rather fear he will not answer after all; so shall hardly engage him. He lives too far o f f , that is the worst fault (nearly 10 miles from me); and writes but an indifferent hand. All about Addiscombe, and in Pitt's park at Hayes, the people are busy mowing; and have a most sappy and heavy swath of hay; — all natural grass, as usual. The crops generally look extremely well. On the top of the height (near Pitt's place) I remember nothing [but] rye in ear. But I must go, my dear good Mother! Ah me, ah me; I had, and have

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always, so many things in my heart that long to be spoken to you: — but you understand the best of them without any speaking. May blessings be on you, dear Mother, I send my love to all. Your affectionate T. Carlyle

234· Scotsbrig, 28 December, 1853 My dear Brother — To-day comes the saddest news I ever sent you from this place; the sorrow you have no doubt long been anticipating: our good and beloved old Mother is gone from us; on this Earth we have no Mother. She died on Sunday last (the 25th) at ten minutes past four in the afternoon; nothing else had been expected for many weeks and months; she had endured much suffering too (tho' without any disease except old age), and was spent to the last thread of weakness, hardly could you fancy a weaker creature with life, with clear intellect and generous affection still left. The good Doctor was unwearied in his attendance, coming from Moffat once or twice a week this long while, and lately staying here nearly altogether. Jean and Mary alternated in their attendance for several months; for almost the last two, it had been chiefly Jean alone whom our Mother seemed to prefer, and who indeed alone of the two had strength sufficient either of body or mind: Jean refused to be worn out, and has indeed stood with faithful, almost heroic affection to her task, in a loving manner well rewarded with love; looks greatly fatigued and excited, but I think will recover herself gradually without damage. I came from Chelsea hither only on Friday morning last, after great uncertainties as to what I ought to do, — for I could ill move, and felt that I should be in the way here. It had long been signified expressly to our dear Mother that if she gave the least sign of wish to me I could be with her in one day; but she was too magnanimous ever to express such a wish; and it was not till last week that I could fairly see I ought to go without delay. During the journey it became frightfully uncertain to me whether I should still find her alive; walking from Kirtlebridge where

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the morning early train had set me down, I durst ask nobody; I learned with certainty only when half-way up this stair-case. Thank God (as I may do for the rest of my life), my dear old Mother was still alive, still able with a perceptible joy to recognize me: her mind tho' occasionally clouded with pain and extreme weakness, was there, as it had always been, and as it continued still more conspicuously to the end, clear, quietly nobly patient, simple and composed: her spirit, her very form of character and humour (fqr she occasionally spoke with a faint touch of jocosity, in her old fashion even in late weeks ) continued entire to the very last, to a most singular degree; I likened it to a bit of sharp steel ground now to the very back, yet still the same steel in all respects, and with the same edge. Her weakness that Friday, after all I had heard so long, was almost beyond my expectation; she had a restless weary day, asleep and awake from minute to minute; — mistook us several times; me once, "did not know me at all," yet sent Jane out directly after (the good generous ever-loving Mother!) to bring me back with apologies, "That I was Tom, that she knew me right weel." After midnight when I was retiring, she said as in old healthy days, "Tell us how thou sleeps!" Ah me, ah me! On the morrow, especially towards dusk and afterwards, she was visibly weaker; but her mind was steady and clear as it had ever been, indeed to a degree that still astonishes me. Struggling for breath ( for she had not strength to take half an ordinary fill of the lungs, as John explained to us ), she was in great suffering and distress for some hours; little sips of a kind of drink ("give me a spark of that thing"), shifting of her posture; restlessly struggling (as seemed evident then) with the last enemy, in this condition she asked for Jean; heard that she was "seeking up coals" (from the old shed you will remember), and thereupon ordered John to "hold the candle to the Window" for light to Jean! Such a trait I never witnessed from any creature before; and there were others of the like which I shall remember with satisfaction as long as I live. — Jean said she nightly heard her whispering her prayers all along; forgetting none of us, "going round by America too now" (as she sometimes would say, when speaking of it), nay not forgetting any public or general interest fit for prayer; and thinking only of herself and her own grandest interests as subject and posterior to these. Oh my Brother, we are to be forever thankful to such a Mother! A pious

1853, Scotsbrig 703 dignity, a truth, affection, generosity, and simple valour and invincibility were in her, such as are given to only very few; and are a high and noble treasure, far above this world's wealth, to all connected with them. — About midnight of Saturday, there being no relief visible anywhere, John ventured not without apprehension, on a small applicance (half her former quantity) of laudanum, in two portions; this very soon brought abatement. A little after midnight, John said to her, "Here's Tom come to bid you goodnight." She looked kindly at me, as she had done even in the worst pain, and she was now somewhat easier; I kissed her cold lips; and she took leave of me in these words, "I'm muckle obliged t'ye," audibly whispered; which are forever memorable to me; — which except a "yes" and a "no" in answer to questions from John about one and about four o'clock, were the last she spoke in this world. For shortly after midnight, she fell asleep, slept ever deeper for sixteen hours; her look on Sunday morning and all day pointing grandly towards death as we sat by her: about 3.45 p.m. the breathing rather suddenly sank fainter (it had never been harsh, nor was there any phlegm), — paused once or twice, and then gently ceased; and she was with God. Amen, amen. — My only consolation ever since is, the thought that she is freed forevermore from great bodily suffering; that she finished a life full of sorrows, but also full of worth, and such as only a few whom God loves can lead. — This is what I had to write, dear Brother, not in good circumstances for imparting in a proper way such news to you. Please send the Letter forward to Jenny, to whom I will now write only the bare fact. The Funeral is to be to-morrow (Monday); the weather is frosty with some snow. You will, after that, hear some humbler details about business, and have your consent asked to what the other three parties here shall think wisest to be done in that respect. — I received from you duly what you wrote; well that you rejected the Books.1 I hope to write you soon again; and now bid God bless you! Your affectionate Brother, T. Carlyle MS: unrecovered. Text: N L , II, 1 5 9 - 1 6 3 . 1. " A present from Carlyle," the younger Alexander Carlyle explained, "on which an extortionate charge for carriage had been claimed, — perhaps at the rate of letter-post" (NL, II, 1 6 3 ) .

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¿35· From John Attken Carlyle Moffat-House, Moffat 6th Jany 1854 My dear Brother, You will have heard that our good old mother was taken from us on the 25th of last month. She had long suffered from extreme weakness, etc. we had nursed her as faithfully as possible. She maintained her old composure and patience till the very last moment, and her end was as peaceful as any of us could have wished. She went away as it were in a kind of gentle sleep. The memory of her will be dear to us all so long as we remain in this world. I daresay the loss of her forms as great a void to me as to any of the rest, for I had been more with her in the last years of her life. Some months before her death she expressed a wish that Jenny should have a gift of Five Pounds from her, and that your Tom and Jane also should have the same sum between them to purchase some memorial of her. I enclose a Bill for ten pounds, which you will be able to negocíate quite easily; and you will please send one half of the pounds to Jenny at Hamilton with as little delay as possible, and divide the other half between your own Tom and Jane — giving Tom three pounds, I should say, and Jane two. Please tell him also that his last note sent in yours to Mr Graham came in time and was read by me to our mother some days before her departure; and she was glad to hear of your prosperity and welfare, and begged me to send her love and blessing to you. — The small articles of furniture etc. at Scotsbrig were parted quite amicably in equal shares to Jamie, Mary and Jean, Tom and I superintending. We gave one book to Mr T a i t 1 of Ecclefechan, and another to Mr Riddle of Moffat. I will enclose Tait's acknowledgement of his. — I do not know the address of Jenny. You will put it on the enclosed letter for her, which you can read. Love to all your family. — Ever yours affectionately J A Carlyle We are all well here, and Tom is at Chelsea again, Jean at Dumfries. Please acknowledge receipt of this as soon as you can.

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1. The Reverend Mr. William Tait ( 1 8 1 1 - 1 8 6 7 ) , fifth minister of the United Presbyterian Church, Ecclefechan. He was born in Fala-dam, Midlothian, ordained June 23, 1840, and served twenty-eight years in the ministry. Besides the stone marking his grave, there is a tablet to his memory in the church vestibule. Riddle was the Reverend Mr. John Riddle ( 1 8 1 8 - 1 8 6 8 ) , minister of the United Presbyterian Church, Moffat, for nearly twenty-five years.

236. Alexander to Carlyle1 Bield 27th March 1854 My Dear Brother, I mentioned several weeks ago in a very brief note to Jamie (regarding the houses2 at Ecclefechan) that another little daughter had been sent to us; and now the mournful task of telling you of her removal is appointed to me. On the tuesday immediately following the decease of our ever dearly beloved good old mother she came into the world and on last tuesday again was taken back to the Alwise disposer of events, having lived in our world twelve weeks — four of which she spent mostly in severe and painful suffering: her disease was what is called Ensipelas [encephalitis?], a complaint that none of us had ever witnessed before. A Dr Digby from Brantford who attended her, succeeded in removing the redness and inflamation from the skin and we felt in some hope for a few days but alas the dregs of the disease still remained — swelling in the limbs and finally in the chest which in not many hours of painful suffering cut off the dear helpless inocent babe while she lay struggling on her mother's knees, us all sorrowing around. It was about four o'clock on tuesday morning, as I have said, when she was taken away. Would, my dear brother, that these sharp and loud knockings at the doors of our hearts "be ye also ready" may not sound to us in vain. I had for years past, dear brother, as you rightly judge, been saying to myself our dear old mother can not be long spared to us but the solemn tidings filled me with anguish and has been little out of my

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thoughts by night or day ever since — something seems awanting that cannot ever be replaced in this life. Yes, dear brother, she never ceased to love us and in all ways care for us since we came into the world. I had prepared a long letter to her which I carried in my pocket to the post-office; where I met the fatal tidings that all was over. Jenny had forwarded her letter, mine did not arrive, strangely enough, for more than a week after. Ah me! dear brother, it will soon, who knows how soon, be all over with us too. Let us then strive anew to live and die as our departed mother lived and died. So may God our father in his mercy grant. We are all in our usual state of health except poor Alick who has been ill of inflammatory rheumatism all winter nearly — he can now move about the doors and sleeps middling well. If the weather were once become warmer we hope he will mend again. From Jenny we have not heard for a week or two but calculate that all is well there. I partly at least expect to find a note in the post-office to day and if all is well I will put two strokes below your address. I have had many self reproaches, my dear brother, to endure respecting that ill fated package of last year. I have to blame our postmaster here, without hope of clearing myself in assisting me in giving way to the irritation of the moment. Maybe as the indescration stands solitary and alone; you may be induced to look over it. I feel in poor heart at present for entering more into details so will only add this prayer that God would Bless you both and all the kindered tho' not named here yet well remembred. Your truly affectionate Brother Alexr Carlyle MS: NLS#5i5.7i. ι . With a postscript from Carlyle to Jean Carlyle Aitken dated April 19, which because of an intervening letter I have made Letter 238. 2. Their mother's. Alexander and Janet had named their daughter Euphemia. They had two sons — William Grahame ( 1 8 4 9 - 1 9 3 5 ) and Robert C. ( 1 8 5 1 - 1 9 3 2 ) — b o r n to them between the births of Margaret and Euphemia. Neither married.

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Chelsea, 8 aprii, 1854 My dear Brother, — I have seen one Letter from you since that sad one I wrote from Scotsbrig in winter: I have often meant to write to you again in these weeks; for it seems to be really a shame that I, whose trade is writing, should ever fall into such a state of silence towards you, and have so many feelings in my mind to which I give no utterance to a Brother who is the object of them. Alas, I fall always short nevertheless; for indeed I am quite torn to pieces in this wild roaring whirlpool of a place: — a n d so even at this moment I write at a galloping pace, as better than not writing at all; and must beg you to interpret kindly my obstructions, dispiritments, confusions; and never, in your saddest humour, to interpret my silence into neglect or forgetfulness. — Oh no, that will never be the meaning of it, nor can, while I continue in this world. — Do you know there is an old reaping-hook you got me at Carlisle almost twenty years ago, which has hung in the garden ever since; and the rusty ghost of which still hangs there, awakening strange remembrances in me! Moreover, I still have somewhere the little Note 1 which did not find you at Liverpool when you were embarking, but was sent back to me: I would have sent it this day, after so long an interval of waiting; and will yet send it; but at present it is not to be found in the drawer where I thought it lay, and there is not a moment to spend in searching. The loss of our dear Mother had fallen heavy on me, as on us all; heavier almost on myself than I could have fully anticipated, considering how old I had grown, and how weak and heavy-laden the last year or two had been to her who is now gone. Oh, God teach us pious thoughts on that subject; for it is great and deep to me, and rises as a most sad background in my mind ever since. The poor Mother, I saw her that day I got to Scotsbrig after a night's railwaying: she had still all her wits and clearness of sense, distinct to a singular degree, but utterly worn down (as it were) with weakness and weariness: I remember her eyes, as she lay in bed, after I had done speaking with her, and her faint but true smile of gladness at sight of me had passed away again: the winter-light shone in, at that end window you re-

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member; the poor Mother was as if both awake and asleep; her eyes always opening, and then again closing, as if pressed down by leaden weight: nev[er] can I forget that sight; — she that had always loved us all, as none other ever will or can, was now about to take her leave of us; and all scenes of Time with her were soon to be transfigured and become Eternal. Ah me, ah me! — But I will not speak another word on all this: why should I incite you also to sad thoughts? Tho' there is blessedness in such sorrow withal; and we may say truly, God be ever thanked that He gave us such a Mother; and continued her with us till she could no longer stay! I get rather fewer Letters of late out of Annandale; but suppose there is no point of News that escapes me either. They are all in their usual health, and course of work; doing well enough, all of them. Martha Park2 of Relief (whom I suppose you knew) has had a sad death (by Cancer) since I was in that Country; which has no doubt saddened them at Scotsbrig, tho' otherwise all seems to be going well enough there. Farming, I understand, is a good trade for the last year or two, — seems to go mainly upon sheep now, — the railways having opened all the large Towns with their markets; and Commerce having been very brisk till lately. Poor Grahame at Burnswark is himself grown very dull and old; and I fear his Sister is very poorly, in some kind of lethargic or half paralytic condition; which of course grieves and weighs on him extremely: but I have got no special word from John about him for some time. — John's last tidings to me were about the sale of those poor Houses at Ecclefechan: how they had announced a roup; and positively nobody came, so that they had to postpone it till a new season. Jack, poor fellow, is very busy searching for a House just now. He can find nothing quite suitable in Moffat; is trying up and down Dumfriesshire, Deanbie, etc. etc., but has not yet decided: I sometimes rather guess he will land in London at the tail of the account. His Wife, of whom you have now often heard, is a very reasonablelooking person, of lady habits, and still pleasing enough [in] appearance, — turned of forty, and in good health, with good store of money (it appears), — and Jack and she seem to do very well together. I saw her for some two weeks very often in winter gone a year, and was well

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contented with all I saw; but we did not get to any intimacy, and I have never seen her again. Dear Brother, I am sorry and ashamed to break off here: I had so many things to say, and am but just getting my wallet open! I promise to write again before long. You must remember me to Jenny, to the other Jenny and Household at Hamilton; to your own good Tom, whom I fancy to be an effectual useful fellow by this time. We rejoice to hear that your farming affairs go rather better; sbove all that you have health, and a heart whole yet: God bless you dear Brother, dear to me for above half a Century now! Yours ever T. Carlyle ι. See Letter 185. 2. Unidentified. Relief is two miles north of Ecclefechan.

238. To Jean Carlyle Aitken1 Chelsea, 19 April, 1854 Dear Jean, — This came yesternight: so soon as you have read it, you may despatch it on its rounds, I suppose to Moffat first of all. Poor A lick seems very sad of humour; as indeed is not unnatural: I cannot but be very sorry for him on account of his peculiar part of the affliction, the loss of his poor little lassie, who has, as it were, just looked into this world, to taste only misery in it, and then returned. Ah me, ah me! There came at the same time two Canada Newspapers; are evidently addressed by Jenny ( to whom I had sent a Newspaper not long since); the other, after study, proved to be from John our HalfBrother; I suppose, in gratitude for his weekly Copy of the Nation, which he has got this long while. Jenny's had the two strokes duly. Nothing farther to be noted was in either of the Papers. I wrote a word to the Dr the other day; principally to signify that

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our Addiscombe visit was not to take effect, sickness (not of a grave character) on the part of the Hosts having caused it to be put off. It now appears that we are, after all, to go out for at least one day, and attend them in their solitude, about the end of this week. As the place is only ten miles off, and the weather as dry as a bone, this will not be attended with difficulty. I confess, for the rest, I was much better pleased to be left alone, in my present humour and confused situation. I cannot get daylight thro' my work at all; and never was engaged with such a crooked job of work since I first took tools up. Alas, alas! — This morning I read in Aird2 that Mrs Bell of Craigenputtoch has got twin daughters: poor little souls! I hope she herself is more out of danger than when I last heard account of her. Tell me a little about Aird; he seems getting very rusty in his Newspaper labours: the death of Wilson3 at Edinburgh must have been a heavy stroke to him, tho' it had been long expected as inevitable. Wilson was by far the weightiest literary figure left in Scotland, or indeed in Britain; and might have been, in fact, a great man, could he have taken care of himself. But he could not; there was from the first a loose joint about the very centre of his existence, — a want, namely, of distinct veracity of mind; — so all his fine great gifts went tumbling helter-skelter into huge uncertainty, into inextricable confusion: and on the whole he had to call in the aid of whisky-punch to a large extent, for many years; and has come to nothing more than we see. Poor fellow, there was something very generous in him, too; very proud and stout: nor is it easy for so big a waggon to get thro' the dirty intri[c]acies and vile parish-roads of this world at present! 1 have not begun my day's work yet! I must not stay clattering here with you, if I am to come to any good issue with it at all! My kinds regards to James and to every one. Write when you have half an hour. — Your affectionate Brother, T. Carlyle MS: N L S # 5 i 5 . 7 i . Published in part: NL,

II, 165-166.

1. See Letter 236. 2. In the Dumfriesshire and Galloway Herald. I have not been able to verify the appearance of the announcement there, but it does appear in the Dumfries and Galloway Courier of April 11. 3. John Wilson died August 3. In 1868 Carlyle wrote "Christopher North," Nineteenth Century and After, 87 (January 1820), 103-117.

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239· Chelsea, 6 Septr, 1854 My dear Brother, In this week's Courier you will notice the announcement of the death of our poor Doctor's Wife: 1 I know not whether he, in his great hurry and sorrowful confusion, may have written to you on the subject, nor is he just now beside me to be asked; — wherefore I will write you a little word myself, having long had it in view to write, tho' I did not expect so sorrowful a topic would occur among us. John and his Wife, as you probably have heard, quitted Moffat in June last, having looked over many houses in Dumfriesshire, but found none that would suit as a residence for them: they came up hither, and settled in Lodgings within a mile of us, intending, as we could guess, to make choice of some residence in these neighbourhoods. Poor Phoebe, a very cheerful quiet and good lady, with whom it was easy to live pleasantly, used to come often down in the summer evenings with John: they ran about at a great rate thro' the day, "looking for houses," also "seeing sights," for she was of a travelling roaming turn like her husband, and they did not seem in any haste to fix upon a house, — tho', as she was five or six months gone with child, we always silently thought it altogether desirable they should be fixed. However, she was uncommonly strong; had been used to easy confinements; cared for no fatigue; and ran about, he and she, as if there had been nothing ahead. Alas, alas, this security has been sadly punished, if it was a crime! Some three weeks ago, they were in a railway, 15 or 20 miles off town (going about "houses," as usual), when an alarm was given about some collision or accident likely to befal; and I believe there was imminent danger, but by the skill of their engineer no harm, or none to speak of was done, — none except the terror itself, which the Doctor strove well to moderate, I believe, and behaved very wisely in, but which in her tender state proved enough, and equal to the wreck of the world, for poor Phoebe! It had killed her child, now in its 8th month; and brought on all the sad tragedy that followed. For two days more, Phoebe made nothing of it, but ran about as usual. But about noon of the third day (Saturday) she was suddenly seized with fits, hysteria fits, and had the most frightful

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continued series of such for 30 or 48 hours, — in fact till the whole strength of life was worn out: — so that, tho' the Doctors ( skilful men) gave us good hopes all along, and she even bore her dead child without difficulty, and was quite clear and cheery in mind, and to appearance suffered only from weakness, and we thought the danger quite past, it had been quite otherwise appointed; and suddenly, on Saturday evening, a week after her seizure, and only a few hours after the birth, she sank away among their hands, sheer weakness dragging her down; and without pain, was gone to her rest forever. This is the brief history of the tragedy we have had: one of the saddest scenes, or perhaps the very saddest I ever was concerned with. We all thought this coming child, and this good and prudent and cheerful Wife might prove of the most marked advantage to all parties concerned; and now it has suddenly all vanished; and our poor Brother is mournfully thrown loose, and his poor Life-partner crushed down in that overwhelming manner. What he will do next for a life-arrangement I think he does not yet even much consider: he is busied with many things connected with his late Phoebe's affairs and the children she already had: he went three days ago, with two of these Boys (the only two in England) and one Dr Hunter2 a friend he has, to Leamington ( a quiet Watering place 100 miles off this ), there to repose for a week before going farther; there he still is. He bears well, seems stout in health too: but is of course much flurried, shocked and confused by the sad change that has overtaken him. The rest of us, so far as I hear or understand, are all in our usual way of health; — Jane and I here thro' the solitary autumn, which proves none of the healthiest hitherto. But we could not think of the bother of travelling and lumbering about in the weak humour we are in. Besides I wanted much to get forward with work, a sad chapter in my history of late. And alas it does not much prosper with me, tho' I still try and try. Courage, dear Brother; let us hold on, and stand to it faithfully to the last! — I have found today the actual little bit of Writing3 sent once to Liverpool, and returned upon me; you receive it now, after 11 years: I have not the heart to look into it; and perhaps you too had better throw it into the fire! I certainly mean to write again before long. Why these long intervals occur I do not well see: want

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of thinking about you it surely is not, nor I think ever will be! God's blessing on you all, dear Alick. I am ever Your affectionate Brother T. Carlyle (Do you take charge about telling Jenny of what has happened.) 1. She died August 26. Her obituary appears in the Dumfries and Galloway Courier of September 6. 2. Unidentified. 3. Letter 185.

240.

Chelsea, 8 April, 1855 My dear Brother, Today I send you a small mournful Gift; which, I need not doubt, will be very precious to you. You remember perhaps I got a Portrait1 done, at Dumfries, before you went away, of One who has now left us, and who is forever dear to us all. I have now had a few Copies taken of it; am sending one to each of the Seven of us who still remain (no other gets a Copy, for there were only seven, "seven good ones," bargained for); and here inclosed is your share. Having one still over, not upon a Card, I put it in; you may give in to Tom, who used to write to his good Grandmother, and was well loved by her: he will perhaps remember her when we also are all away. The Likeness seems to me rather good. The poor fellow that did the OilPicture, who was once a Mill-boy at Glenessland, took to drinking etc. after his success as a Painter at Dumfries, and is now dead himself. The Copies are of the kind called Photograph ( done by the sunlight, and a certain apparatus they have) : it is easy to take as many Copies as one likes; but I ventured only Seven. — You can keep yours in the Cover where it is, till you get a little frame for it. I have sent one to Jenny by this same mail across the Ocean; and that is the last I have. Enough said now of that small object, which will give rise to many thoughts in you, very sad but not unblessed, I trust.

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It seems a long while since we got any full stock of news from the Bield in Canada. I think a Letter to Grahame was the last direct thing. We understand you to be toiling along in the old course of labour and exertion; and that you do not at all forget us any more than we you, in our silent multifarious reflexions and anxieties. I grow yearly more silent; write, in the Letter way, less and less, for a long time back, — in fact no Letter at all that has not a clear claim to be written. The swift flight of Time; the inevitable nearness of the Evening and Night "wherein no man can work," admonishes me continually to do what I can while it is Day. The frivolous noise of men about me is rather an oppression to me than otherwise; and I much prefer my silent upper room here, — and go puddling on, accomplishing little almost nothing2 (for it is terribly unhandy work I am upon, and no end to the quantity of it), yet still refusing to give up. — If I live, I shall get done with it; and then, it is one [of] my dreams that I shall perhaps have a Sail to America, and see my true Brother again before all end! Well do I remember always the pair of little brown fists (probably fifty years ago now) which I noticed suddenly interfere in some battle I was fighting on the Ecclefechan Street, one summer afternoon,— a memorable and pretty little phenomenon to me! 3 The Doctor is here at present; lodges about a mile off (the three Boys, his late Wife's, are with him for a week or two just now) : I see him almost every night for a little while. He makes no complaint, go [es] about, busy with Books etc.; and indeed takes his cross fortune, and confused ups and downs, in a very fine and goodnatured way. He has had a little whiff of ailment (surgical and bilious, I believe, — a boil in a bad place ) this last fortnight; but is now out, and stirring as before. Grahame is growing very dim and heavy; perfect health of body, but his memory much gone, poor old man. G. Bell of Whitecastle is dead; his Brother Thomas was gone before: brisk young man whom perhaps you remember. — Dear Brother, this Cover will stand no more weight. I mean to write again soon. God bless you all T. Carlyle Published in part: NL, II, 172-173. 1. See Letter 171. 2. On the contrary, he had made a considerable start. His Journal

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entry for April 4 reads, "Writing at something called 'Frederick.' The 'Double Marriage' at present most mournful, dreary, undoable work" (Froude, IV, 1 7 3 ) . "Double Marriage Project, and What Element It Fell Into, 1 7 2 3 - 1 7 2 6 " is the title of Book V , the first book of Vol. II. 3. Alexander Carlyle wrote, "Carlyle while struggling against superior numbers, suddenly became aware that a reinforcement had arrived in the shape of his brother Alick, who 'with little fists like walnuts rained rapid blows on the enemy,' and helped to turn the tide of battle" (NL, II, 1 7 3 ) .

241. Chelsea, 29 Augt, 1855 My dear Brother, Your Letter came to us a week or two ago; very welcome, as all tidings from you always are. I read it; sent it on to Jack (who was then at Scotsbrig), by whom it was communicated to the rest of the kindred. You must not neglect to write to us, to me in particular; so long as I live in this world, you may be always sure of one fellow-creature to whom nothing that befáis you can be indifferent. We are all getting old now, I oldest; and must try to keep one another company, to cheer, and participate with, one another, the best we can. I must say, looking back, my Brothers and you as the nearest to me have been a great comfort to my pilgrimage, one way and another. Nothing that has been given me in life deserves better to be reckoned as a blessing and possession. For which let us piously thank the All-bountiful! Many Households, of less apparent capability, have gained far more promotion in this rather scurvy epoch of the world than our Father's Household has: of which we will make no complaint at all; nay probably we should take that also as a blessing, and silently thank God for it (really and truly so ) ; — but in all our ups and downs we have loved one another; yes; and surely all the yellow metal of California, and all the foul puffs of Newspapers now going, are but poor "wealth" in comparison to that! — I often think of these things: but perhaps it is good to know them, without speaking much about them. We had heard of Tom's shifting into Hamilton;1 we of course did not

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know the details; but reckoned in general that it might be a natural and even proper endeavour and wish, on the part of the young fellow, to cut out some road for himself in the world; and hoped it might answer; — which it appears not to have done. Poor Tom; I remember him well, stepping gallantly thro' the Burn at Scotsbrig with Letters for us; invincible by wet or difficulty of way, tho' then hardly three feet high! I calculate always he has grown to be a sturdy fellow, — perhaps with a good deal of temper in him, which he should keep a severe and steady bridle over, — but I hope, with many capabilities, with various developed ingenuities; and, now and henceforth (I hope most of all), with a steady veracity and integrity of mind, like those that have gone before him under the same name! Be good to him, poor fellow; for he will naturally feel chagrined at this disappointment; and find his old place not quite the same after coming back to it on those terms. You must sympathise with him, even if you had your irritations at first; you must really consider what is fair in the unrest he has manifested; and let him have the benefit of his Father's longer experience to guide him cannily towards some good issue if you can. He is of course totally unacquainted with the ground, which lies all as a pathless jungle round him; and yet his wish to get into some wider field of activity may be quite the reverse of wrong on his part. The total want of such a feeling, in a young man so situated: this, for anything I know, would have been a far worse fault, and perhaps a disgraceful and unpardonable one. I know you will pardon me for speaking about this; which mere affection and anxiety prompt me to do, tho' I am very ignorant about it, and speaking mainly into the air. I will only add therefore, that if you and the other Boys are really adequate to the labour of Bield, it were perhaps well to think seriously (seriously, tho' perhaps in secret) of establishing Tom in some other way. And if an opening of any kind, which you think reasonable and which he likes, do occur, — then I think I may answer for Jack and myself ( for one of the two I can completely answer), we should not be backward in assisting such a work, according to means and opportunity. That is a certain fact; — and that is perhaps the only thing I had a clear right to say. And I will and do request you to bear it in mind, when the occasion rises. And that really is all I had to say, and the end of that head of my discourse.

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London is utterly empty (that is, this West Quarter of it, or those we know in it) at this August season: the air is often very clear and good; and certainly for "retirement" there are few places equal to it. The straggling individuals that do continue, even these seem to make a tacit rule of ignoring one another; and one is called upon by nobody, calls upon nobody. Sometimes, when the wind falls dead for a few days and the hot sky is cloudless ( which has not been much the case this year), the streets get villainously baked, an unwholesome stew of bad breath coming out of every cellar and grocer's shop; so that Town-life, all imbedded in impalpable dust from so many whirled vehicles withal, reaches its disagreeablest figure; and one is glad of rain and thunder again, which is pretty sure not to be far off. I had some thoughts of poor old Scotland this year; but they are gone again; the old scenes at any rate, as you may guess, are not the joyfullest to me just now. Jack, with his two Boys in vacation from school, went to Scotsbrig in july or june; he has been there ever since, his Boys till the beginning of this month, — he, I believe, is leaving it this very day, as happens. Poor fellow, he makes a business out of guardianing these poor Boys (to which post he has been appointed by Chancery, with plenty of money); he writes, travels etc. etc., and fills his time, to some satisfaction, with it. Which is pathetic to look upon, poor fellow, and yet a kindly aspect of this world's destinies. There is not one of us so capable of finding interest for himself, out of next to nothing, as he. "From the youngest to the ouldest there's none of them so much resembles" — No, you were wrong in that part of the account at any rate! He is far the happiest of the family I do believe; and it would be so easy for a grumbling discontented unhealthy nature to pick holes without and in the life he has had. I often look at him poor fellow, and his head (six years younger than mine) now old and utterly grey, with a tender and wondering feeling. He has a great deal of superior intellect running waste, and yielding no adequate crop at all; that is the worst of it: but that is nothing like the worst of bads in this world, among the outcomes of human lives! He and I never have any cross word now; for I have long since recognised that rebuking of him is of no use; that Nature is stronger than any argument against Nature; and that my poor Jack is even made so, and might have been infinitely worse made. "Ungrateful, how could he have been

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better made!" I often say to myself. He is a truly loving Brother; and from me has forgiven innumerable provocations, and superficial irritations from an old date! Today, as I said, he is leaving Scotsbrig; bound by rail towards Edinburgh and Leith, where he takes Steamer for Hamburg in Germany. The eldest of his Boys (there are four of them in all) is in some kind of rigorous disciplinary School in Hamburg, having been a baddish boy at one time, and in violent quarrel with his Mother, owing perhaps to misguidance mainly: he is now doing much better; getting to be 17 or 18, I think, withal: and Jack is going across to have a personal survey of his affairs and him. Which will do good, I have little doubt; or will at least be satisfactory to poor Jack's feelings in the matter. He has there an acquaintance, an old Roman Medical comrade, established in a little Town some 200 miles inland: him he proposes next to visit, and to look at various things in the adjacency or in the distance (Weimar, probably among others); in this way he means to make a three-weeks tour of it: which may be pleasant enough in this fine season. You will see by my strokes on the Newspaper (if I continue the two strokes ) that nothing is gone wrong with him that I hear of; till he himself write again. I suppose he is likely to come home this way, and to anchor here again for winter, but he does not say hitherto. He sails tomorrow evening, Thursday 30 August. — Jamie appears to have a fair harvest, tho' late, as all harvests this year. Farmers are prospering beyond want: I privately suppose it is from the California gold in some measure: —Jamie keeps very busy, and steadily improves his footing, and at a slow rate seems to do better and better. Jean at Dumfries, poor thing, is looking forward not without anxiety to an Event which ought now to be near hand: the Doctors say there is no cause for apprehension; but her last two births have been of dead children, and all precautions surely are prescribed in such a case. Of the Austins I hear good accounts too. And that is the general bulletin from Annandale. Poor old Graham has no illness, but sinks duller and duller. As to myself I have had and still have a fearful tussle with that sad Book of mine, — which is yet far, far from being off my hands: — never in my life had I an uglier job; a sore year of hard labour, last, and almost without result, as I often think. But it is not so either: by and

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by, if I live, I shall get thro' that adventure too; and I think it ought to be my last of the kind. — My health feels often miserably bad; and yet is not so: nothing ails me still except perpetual indigestion, and that could be greatly relieved if I had a healthier trade; my trade chiefly causes that. We have run down to the shore once or twice (by cheap trains and otherwise) and got a bathe or two; I have a horse at present lent me: tomorrow we are going to Addiscombe,2 a lent country house some ten miles off, for a little while. All this it is calculated will sensibly help. — Paper done, my dear Brother; I must say Adieu! — T. Carlyle Published in part: NL, II, 175-177. 1. To work at least at first in a flour mill. Thomas may have boarded with and perhaps at one time worked for his uncle Robert Harming, but he shortly returned to his father's farm ("Family History"). 2. Which the Ashburtons in their absence had offered to the Carlyles. Carlyle was back at his desk on Monday, September 24.

242. Scotsbrig, 3 Octr, 1856 My dear Brother, Being here again, for a few hours, before returning to London, I think I ought to write you a word ( with this bad pen, and in hurried circumstances); perhaps the date itself will make amends for the meagre Letter. In the end of July, being very feckless in point of health (mere biliousness still, rather than anything worse), with a great spell of work just ahead, I set off with Jane into these Northern parts, to have a little country air by way of outfit. All August I staid, perfectly silent and solitary, with Mary at The Gill; riding about, bathing when the Priestside 1 Water served; walking a great deal in the fine twilights, on roads and lanes that were solitary, or where nobody troubled me with speech. Jane in the meanwhile was in Fife, with her Liverpool Cousins: — one of them is a Minister there, and the two girls2 stay with him,

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the Father (Jane's worthy "Uncle John" whom you remember) being dead, and Helen the eldest Cousin being also gone. I came over to Scotsbrig for a ride once or twice, rode twice into Dumfries too, and once into Annan, speaking to no soul, — and for the rest was quite stationary, till September came. In the beginning of September I had unwillingly to take a long journey into the Highlands to visit "the Ashburtons" (kind English friends of mine) who were "deer-hunting" there. Far away beyond Aberdeen and Inverness, amid surly black mountains, solitary crags and bogs, — a country thrice as wild as Craigenputtock, and otherwise of the same kind of character. To me not "beautiful" at all. But such things have a charm for idle English people with more money than enough! Nothing can b e madder than the doings of English grandees at present, in those Highland parts, in pursuit of deer. — In fine I had a very laborious journey to and from; and was not disappointed in the want either of pleasure or profit in that part of my Tour: however, I had to go; and now it is done, and no mischief sticking by it, — perhaps a little health gained by the endless locomotion, and confusion of weather and other things. I got hither the night before last; found Jane waiting me, all well with the rest here and hereabouts; and Tomorrow morning we set off for London again, to arrive that same night, and end these wanderings. You did not get your Courier thro' September; the reason was it never came to me, Jean having lost my address: I send you a No. off today again, and hope there will b e no more blanks. All our kindred in these regions are in their usual health; and I think all rather prospering. The Austins have got more ground ("Hen's Nest," as I think you know, some years ago ), and appear to b e standing considerably better: poor Mary looks very old even for her years, but is still busy, industrious, and was kind hearted to me beyond measure: the lasses are all fine menseful industrious creatures; — Margaret waited on me like a beneficent Fairy, and is indeed very clever at all kinds of work and management. I did myself a great deal of good during the month I spent there. Jean has again a young child (eldest Boy is gone to Glasgow to be a Clerk ) ; Jamie is still gradually on the growing hand with his business, — much given up to chemistry etc., and takes as much tobacco as ever. Poor Shaw 3 is married

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a second time; has been mad for a little while, but is now sane again, and pluistering along ( I understand ) in the old fashion. — At Scotsbrig as you may conceive I found a great sad want and change, of which I could say nothing: Jamie and I went one Sunday to the Ecclefechan Churchyard (which is now all walled in, and locked till you get the key); — there, yes there they all lay; Father, Mother, and Margaret's grave between them: silent, now that [they] were wont to be so speechful when one came among them after an absence. I stood silent, with bared head, as In the sacredest place of all the world, for a few moments; and I daresay tears again wetted these hard eyes which are now unused to weeping. All silent, sheltered forever from all the storms and hardships; — your little Bairns lie near on the right; — and the big sky is high overhead, and the Maker of all reigns there and here. One need not much mourn the lot of the Dead: it will, in all events, be our own so very soon. 1 did not return to that sacred spot; but if I come again to this country to this country, I will visit it. No shrine can be so holy to a man. Everything is now changed and changing with furious rapidity in this country, — principally owing to the railways I think. A great increase of luxury is coming over all ranks; prices of everything very nearly doubled ( 13d per lb for Butter, id each for eggs, and all in proportion), so that farmers, with a lease, prosper amazingly. Much draining goes on too; nobody but Irishmen to do it. Jamie says, porridge will be out of use altogether in 20 years. — I cannot say I love these aspects of things; but they are not to be altered. John is at present in London, getting one of his Wards ( a very bad Boy) put apprentice to sea. He expects to be here shortly. Poor soul, he has got no other home, nor does he look as if he would get any. For the rest he is well and always cheerful, and busy about something or other at all times. Dear Brother, here is an alarm that the Post is passing! I must abruptly close. — I hope to write again soon from Chelsea, about London matters, and with a better pen and leisure. I am to go and see Grahame this evening; he is quite sunk into stupidity and want of memory, they say: otherwise in fresh health: poor old man! —

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Good be with you all, dear Brother: from our dear old Native Country, poor and harsh but dear, I send you and yours a Brother's blessing. Ever your affectionate T. Carlyle Published in part: N L , II, 1 8 1 - 1 8 2 . 1. An area on the Solway Firth below Cummertrees. 2. See Letter 195. 3. See Letter 5.

243. To John Aitken Carlyle Chelsea, Wedy 1 Night 24 March, 1857 My dear Brother, Thanks for your Letter; which may be useful if Jane happen to fall at all seriously worse: she as yet stiffly declines having any Doctor, — did not find Shaw2 "do anything but certify that nothing could be done"; "never saw Thomson, tho he shewed very great attention in the matter of the Irish maid" etc. etc. In fact she shrinks at the idea of a stranger (especially of the London species): — I was thinking once of old Forbes, who has just been publishing a little quasi-medical Book, which seemed to have very just notions of the Art. But I doubt he does not practice: nor if he did, do I know at all where he lives even. I have seen him often enough in old times: certainly rather a wooden old gentleman, yet not without mother-wit in his head. — It will be best of all if we do not need any Medical man! — This is the crown of bad weather in these days; I never felt a more truly Greenland element; I ride sometimes with Cape etc. as in the heart of winter, and am not too warm. Jane complains of toothache, as an addition, this afternoon; has had to get chloroform etc.: poor soul she had little or no sleep last night; and has been a shade worse all day, but I trust it is not a relapse again. She absolutely has not stirred from the warm rooms. On the whole she

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is certainly much stronger than I have sometimes seen her since this began. . . . [Sco]3tsbrig Letter (what is curious to think of) there arrived one from Alick: a very touching and interesting piece I found it, — the sugar-bush, the burnt trees, Alick's feeling of inexorable old age creeping on; an affectionate, most softhearted sternvisaged Brother, — at war with Fate, like the rest of us. My work goes on, work could not well [be] worse. The light of hope is as if withdrawn from my eyes: it seems I was born to (among other things ) sink in this spoonful of dirty water? I won't tho', — that is flat! Jean tells me about Stevenson4 (of Glasgow) going out with a Free Kirk party "to Jeruselem": what is that? Kind regards to Jamie and the rest . . . ι. Wednesday was the twenty-fifth. 2. He and Thomson are unidentified. Forbes was Sir John Forbes ( 1 7 8 7 - 1 8 6 1 ) , from 1 8 3 2 to 1 8 3 5 joint editor of the Cyclopaedia on Practical Medicine, 4 vols. ( 1 8 3 3 - 1 8 3 5 ) , principal founder of the British and Foreign Medical Review ( 1 8 3 6 - 1 8 4 7 ) , and author of medical and travel books. In 1840 he was appointed physician to the queen's household. His book that Carlyle referred to is Nature and Art in the Cure of Disease ( 1 8 5 7 ) . 3. Two-thirds of this line and the complimentary close and signature on the reverse are cut away. 4. Unidentified.

244. Chelsea, 13 Augt, 1857 My dear Brother, — I had a pleasant and kind Letter from you not very long ago; awakening manifold affectionate remembrances, and echoes of old times and things, in my mind: I have ever since been thinking from time to time that I would send an Answer "soon"; — yet, such is the pressure of my affairs, and such my own hurried weak condition, no

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answer comes till now; and indeed, of late weeks, I have been looking forward to this as the real time for it, — namely, the day's holiday I was to give myself on finishing a certain Section of my sad Book; which feat has now been brought about at last. The day before yesterday I got a very welcome good little Letter from Tom (thank him for me); but this would have come on its own score, had there been no new reason. Ever since I wrote last year from Scotsbrig, I have been working like a slave; day and night involved in confusions, of the most unmanageable nature; — the only limit, not to break myself down altogether, in which case there would be no hope of the job. Never in my life had I a thing so difficult to do; and I am fallen old, and feckless in comparison; hope much dead in me, especially: not fit to handle such huge mountains of rubbish; — yet dreadfully unwilling to be beaten by them, too! Being withal in the most evident state of special illhealth, worse than even naturally belongs to me at this age, I decided on getting a Horse again; have had a Horse1 since November last; and go riding daily as the Sun; which does (I sometimes think) begin to tell on me at last, or at least prevents me getting still worse: — and so I fight along; and hope fairly to finish this frightful job too; after which I contemplate taking a rest for the remainder of my life, or mainly "a rest." This is a fine brisk Horse I have got (now into my third thousand of miles, riding upon him "after health"): how often did I think of my poor true Alick who used to buy me horses, and do all things for me, in old days! The poor Cutlugs which you bought for £,2..IO at Mainhill (do you remember it?), I often think, almost like to cry, of that poor Snaffle; and would not give the memory of it for the price of the best Horse now alive! My dear Brother, I know that your affection for me lasts and has lasted, faithfully to the end: you need not doubt that mine towards you is, was, and will be the like. That is a mournful but blessed possession for us both, wherever we be in this world. — But the best news of myself I must give too; namely that I am fairly printing that unspeakable New Book; 150 pages of it off my hands forevermore; and if I can hold out wisely I shall verily do it, and get rid of it, one day, in a not discreditable manner! For years back, I have had hardly any other wish left. About this time twelvemonth, if I can go on neither too fast nor too slow, I expect to

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be rid of Three Volumes; — there will remain then, after such pause as I like, other Two Volumes, and not the tenth part of the difficulty in them. Steady, therefore; "steady!" as the drill serjeants say. My poor Jane took a cold last year, two or three weeks after returning home with me; and could not get out of it again, — ill and weak in a high degree, often confined to bed (never out of doors at all), dreadfully off for want of sleep especially, — all winter thro'. In my hurries this was (to her, still more than to myself perhaps) a great aggravation. Not till the end of May could she get out again; and still she continued far below par in strength, — and I fear, continues so in some sensible degree. There appeared to me to be nothing specifically wrong with her; merely the crisis or summing up of a long tract of sickly sleeplessness etc. etc. which was come to a head: perhaps she might be a thought better even, could she once gather strength again. Above a month ago, being pressingly invited by the old Misses Donaldson2 (whom perhaps you remember), she went to Haddington; thence over into Fife (to her Cousin Walter of Liverpool, who is a Clergyman there, — poor kind "Uncle John" of Liverpool is dead several years ago ) : she is, this very day I think, coming over to Edinburgh to her Aunts (Grace 3 etc., who live there, in fine suburban air "Craigen Villa," and are grown very good old Dames, of a strongly religious turn); after a week with her Aunts she goes back to Haddington, — thence home to me; I should fancy, about the beginning of Septr. She does not appear to have gained much in strength, poor little soul; but we hope she will find herself really profited (as has sometimes been my own case ) on getting into her old place, and summing the whole up, as then happens. I used to liken myself to an old garrón whose harness, collar etc., had worn it into "raws": going 300 miles off, you get into new harness; which likewise hurts you: but on resuming the old harness, the "raws" are found somewhat mended nevertheless! — John has not been here, or away from Scotsbrig, since soon after Newyearsday last. He came up hither about that time; to dispose of some troublesome tho' occasionally profitable Shares in a Ship, which had been bequeathed to him: this he successfully did (a very wise act), and soon after returned to Scotsbrig. There he seems not to be doing much, — selling off old bequeathed Libraries (at Chester

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this, by Letter sent from Scotsbrig); corresponding with or about his "four wards" (rather indifferent subjects than otherwise, I should judge), occasionally having some of them with him there, etc. etc.; — he does not speak of setting up a House of his own, tho' now abundantly wealthy for that; seems to keep much at home about Scotsbrig; and to be healthy and contented there. He is a placid sanguine creature; looking always at the "sunny side of his cloud" ( as our dear old Mother used to say); — and has a much more satisfied life than some others of us. Dumfriesshire and all places are what they call "prospering" at present: many circumstances perhaps (the California gold, I privately reckon, most of all) have given such an explosive impulse to "trade," all corners of this Country are testifying [to] it. To me it is by no means exclusively beautiful, this enormous effulgence of wealth, and with it of luxury and gaudery and folly, on the part not of the wise men of the community (for it is not they that the "wealth" mainly falls on): — it is on the contrary inexpressibly ugly to me when I reflect on it; and I perceive that the Devil is in it, he in fact and no Saint! However, that is the course at present; all things rising in price; all manner of gamblers getting "fortunes" etc. etc.: and by and by there will be a very burbly account to settle indeed! I often think, for myself and you, we are better not concerned in it: I just above the fear of poverty and nothing more; you ditto, with your own bit of the Earth's surface secured for a field of honest industry to your children and you. There are more secrets in Heavens ways of doing "kindness" to man, than men are always aware of. — At The Gill, at Scotsbrig they are in health, I think; Jamie a very good farmer (I perceive) and [a] respectable honest man; things going the right road, with more money-profit than formerly, at The Gill too. Of Jean at Dumfries, a sim[ilar] account is to be given: — "All well" was the word two days ago. Poor old Graham at Burnswark continues bodily in excellent health, his Sister extremely frail; but both of them, he especially, much sunk in mind from what they were. In Miss Graham, I thought, it was mostly depression and darkness from ill health: but with him, memory is quite gone for practical purposes, — and this too is about the sum of the matter, for his "intellect," by itself, seemed much the same as ever when I saw him last year. John goes up from time to time; but

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finds it a very sad monotony I think, and has never the least change to report. Tom's Letter yesterday gave me a sad glimpse into that Emigrant Steamer4 that took fire in your river! I had read the thing in the Newspapers with a very miserable feeling, for it seemed to be mere neglect and want of sense: but I did not know there was anybody we were specially concerned in there. Poor Jenny and her Household may well think with a strange shock of that poor Annandale Sister and her Goodman: Horrible indeed! — Give my affectionate regards to Jenny the first opportunity you have: if I were once a little more my own master, she shall hear from me again. Also to your own Jane, "Jane the Second"; — I can never think of her except as of a little Child good at reading; and she has got a long way out of that! — There was an account from Tom (I think to the Dr in winter last) about an adventure in Maple Sugar with his Brother-in-law; which I read with much interest. The two rugged sons of Nature reading Homer5 in the Bush, while their pans boiled, made an admirable picture to me, — full of health, and rugged honest life and worth. I once thought to have written to Tom specially a word under this Cover: but on the whole, it will not now do; and you can tell him all I specifically had to say. Two other Volumes6 are ready for him here (one comes generally monthly); I think I shall wait till there is a third: then off with them. There are to be about 15 in all. Also you can tell him, our Harvest here (all but the hay which was average) is said to be excellent. Certainly there has not been so hot a year in my experience here. I am writing now ( as I am often obliged to do ) in the open air, — under an "Awning" in the speck of garden; which I which I find a very useful invention. May was mostly winter's self: but in june and since we almost defied the W. Indies now and then. Scotland is far cooler, I hear. — Adieu, dear Alick: blessings be on you and what belongs to you. A Letter when you can. Your affectionate Brother T. Carlyle Published in part: NL, II, 1 8 5 - 1 8 8 . 1. Fritz. A lithograph from a photograph of Carlyle astride him in Hyde Park, August 2, 1 8 6 1 , is reproduced in N L , II, Frontispiece. a. Catherine (d. i 8 6 0 ) , the eldest and Mrs? Carlyle's godmother, Jess (d. i 8 6 0 ) , and Eliza, who apparently died a long time before the

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other two. They were, Mrs. Carlyle wrote, a "family of good women, who were dearly attached to my mother" ( LM, I, 271 ). 3. (d. 1867) and Elizabeth and Anne Welsh. 4. The Montreal, which burned July 9 in the St. Lawrence at Cape Rouge taking the lives of two hundred Scots emigrants. See the London Times for July 10, 11, 13, 15, 16. Mrs. Hanning's sister-in-law and her husband are unidentified. 5. John Carlyle wrote of his father that in spite of his limited formal education "He became in due time one of the best read men I have met" ("Family History"). 6. Of The Collected Works of Thomas Carlyle, 16 vols. (London, 1857-1858), which Carlyle had contracted for with Chapman and Hall in 1856.

245· To Jean Carlyle Aitken Chelsea, Wedy 10 feby, 1858 Dear Jean, — I got your Letter yesterday, which I was very glad to read: Jim1 seems to be in the thick of the business at Liverpool; and he must not let himself be repulsed by difficulties. I do not know the Mr Farie he went to; but there is no doubt he wants to help him if he can. This morning came the enclosed from Canada to you: it was at first a mystery to me how I should have got hold of it: but on reading Tom's little Note, the matter became clear. It is a pleasant cordial and clear delineation by poor Alick, one of the best accounts we have yet got of his real position, and what his Household may be conceived to be like. Doubtless you will send the Letter forward among the rest of the Kindred, — Dr first. — ,—Jane is still a close Prisoner, sleeps ill etc. etc.; but keeps up her spirits wonderfully too, and has never been so low at all as she was last winter. Our weather is of the grimmest february sort, the harshest we have had this year: were that once gone, the air will be softened, and perhaps she may get out by some sunny blink. · I am but weak myself, tho' complaining of nothing special: in fact

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greatly spent by the long hideous swim I have had, in an element that has often looked like being too strong for me. I still waggle along, but wish much I had a little more strength! You talked about my being done in 3 weeks; alas, it was 3 months you meant, which is a different story. Never mind! — I have not another moment; must therefore say Adieu. — Poor Aird; — give my kind remembrances to him. To James and your own house, need not be mentioned. — Ever your affectionate T. Carlyle χ. Jean's son.

246. Chelsea, 15 octr, 1858 My dear Brother, I have meant this long while to write to you, so soon as the hurlyburly would a little abate and now I had better proceed at once than wait farther. I might have written, with more seeming composure, out of poor old native Annandale, where I was not long since: but there I always felt so sad of heart, and several things (especially poor Jane's health here in London) were so uncertain with me, I never liked to infect you with these humours. I am now home after unusual wanderings, one job (or half of a job) done, the other not begun: before beginning, I will ha [ve] 1 a word with dear old Alick, faithful Brother Wayfarer with [me on this] Earth almost from my first starting, and whose unalterable love, responded to by my own, is one of the sacred treasures I have still [left] here. Th[ese] two [volumes of] Frederick were by far the hardest job ever laid upon me, even in the best of my strength; often enough I thought, within the last two years I have been pulling and toiling, that I should never get thro' it. I had to ride very diligently, and be canny too; or that sad prophesy might have come true! However, they are now done, those two Volumes (and people all reading them, with much noise which I take care to hear little of); — and there are still

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Two more to be done (perhaps two years of hard work, if I still live); but they are not nearly so difficult, I expect, as the former were, if I can only keep my strength so long! 1 got out of these first Two Volumes in june last, or mainly out of them, for my share: but the Bookseller did not publüh them till quite lately, the beginning of this month. A Copy (two big Volumes) was sent off to you, and another to Sister Jenny (according to the old rule in such cases), duly addressed, a fortnight ago. When they will get to you I cannot guess, nor by what route the Bookseller ultimately [will send] them: but upon some route they actually are; and you need no[t] be impatient for them farther. I suppose a Yanke[e] Copy, 2 cheap, w[ould be] procurable, if you are too. . . . — A sm . . . is alre[ady on the] way at its fastest; the people (for the first time in their lives and mine) having made a kind of run upon my ware. Which amounts to a little prospect of money, but not of any other kind of profit or pleasure to me. — Tell Tom, too, that I have some more volumes for him; that there is still another of his set to publish; and that so soon as it is out, I mean to despatch the whole by post as formerly. — The instant I had got done with my part of the Task, I ran off for Annandale; end of june last; — quite worn to the ground, and in very great need of rest. John, with some of his Boys, was at Scotsbrig; otherwise perhaps I had aimed thither: as it was, I made for The Gill; and continued about two months there, as idle as a dry bone; sauntering about in strict silence, riding a little, reading a little; — peaceably, but in the natural sadness of humour all the time. Jane, whom I [am sorry to say] was in very feeble state, — as she is generally, poor thing, for [the la] st two years; — and I had a great deal of writing and anxiety [about] her; nearly all the writing I could prevail on myself to do . . . is now fa[irly] . . . came to Scotland about the end of August (just when I was leaving;3 so badly had we ordered it): I now have her here safe again, a little stronger against the winter-storms that are coming. Jean came often out to me from Dumfries; three times or so I rode over to Scotsbrig for an hour or two; Dr and Jamie came about as often to see me: from all the rest of the human species I was silent and withdrawn. A man at 63 has a strange feeling when visiting his native country, — as of a ghost coming back to the Earth! I rode one day, market-day, thro' Annan; did not see one soul whose face was

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known to me; only the old stone-walls were familiar; and strangers gazed at my "wide-awake" hat and old grey beard, — asking, as their fathers or grandfathers would that?"

not have needed to do,

"Who's

All our kindred were rather well in Annandale, and doing

well. The railways in that Country still keep farming profitable; Californian gold ( that is it, I privately believe ) keeps all "trade" in a kind of fa . . . ity. Jamie of Scotsbrig is a tight little fellow of f[i]f[t]y, s [ad and gr]ayish as becomes that age; manages his sheep-husbandries, tile-dra[ining] etc. with evident success, and indeed is a very g[oo]d [man] in his sph[ere and is] quietly estee[med. Here] has Jack himself come in; and it is time for me, and more than time, to be out. I will write again before so long. Ah me, ah me! — May God bless you ever, you and yours. T. Carlyle Published in part: NL, II, 193-194. 1. This letter is badly torn. I have supplied what words I could from NL, II, 193-194, conjectured others, and inserted ellipses where I could not do otherwise. 2. Harper and Brothers published a six-volume edition over the period 1858-1866. 3. August 21, on his second trip to Germany. In his Journey to Germany Autumn 1858, ed. Richard Albert Edward Brooks (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1940), he wrote graphically of his protracted voyage from Leith to Hamburg, his eight-day stay in Rügen as the guest of Baron and Baroness von Usedom, his visits to Frederick's battlefields, and his return to Chelsea by way of Aix-la-Chapelle and Ostend on September 22.

247. Chelsea, London, 7 octr, 1859 My dear Brother, I have been in Scotland, this long while; above 3 months in all, the last 3 weeks of it in Annandale; — and have often been thinking to write you a long Letter out of those old scenes, where at every turn the deep remembrance of you rose so fresh in me. I came home about

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a week ago; I find, in the confused weak state I have been in, my resolution of writing to you not yet fulfilled: but I set about fulfilling it before attempting any kind of work here; — regular work is to begin again on Monday; and on this Friday I will write my good Alick's Letter, and have the comfort of despatching it. While I continue in this world he is one I can never forget, or cease to be thankful for! — Last year was not a propitious one to me: I returned, rather before this day of the month, out of Germany, as I think I then told you; and in a few days farther I started the attempt to finish my miserable big Task, as it were by sheer force, and violently cut my way to the end of it. Alas, the attempt had no success with me. The attempt was itself an unwise one, could not well have succeeded in any case: moreover, I had got myself so smashed to pieces with that sleepless German Tour (the effects of which I still feel) that I was quite below par in health: — i n short, .1 prospered worse and worse all thro' winter and spring, and made no real way at all; only in my obstinate persistence, like a man trying to dig tho' up to the neck in mud, grew stupider and stupider! Jane too was very weak; and in May, got into the worst fit of illness I ever saw her have, — kind of cold caught there, in the burst of wild weather we had; but cold attended with such spasmodic pains, and such a degree of utter weakness as were alarming to behold. A Doctor of the neighbourhood, who forced her to eat a little, did her a great deal of good: that, I think, was his chief medicine, that of eating; on which followed sleep and other good things. Finding herself a little reinstated tho' in such a state of feebleness, and seeing me so bemired and farspent, she recommended "a long flight to solitude and the sea-shore": so after much haggling we did take flight in the end of june, — to the shore of Fife (place called Aberdour, about 4 miles west of Burntisland, if you recollect those localities); — and there for the first 6 weeks, lodging in a rough Farmhouse1 (upper story of it ours, and a maid with us), and after that for 5 weeks more in "Auchtertool House," a big vacant Mansion, all to ourselves, about 3 miles inland, we did our best to be dietetic, quiet, idle, and to get good of Fife. The finish was, I went to Annandale; Jane, soon after, into EastLothian2 for a while, whence home to Chelsea by the East road ( Maid, Horse etc. preceding her by Edinburgh-London Steamer), I following, about a week after, by the western rail-course, — namely starting

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from Cummertrees. Nearly a week ago I too got home; and it was all over. We had an immense quantity of fash, of expense etc. etc.; whether benefit in proportion may well be questioned: but I do hope we are both a little better; and a little must be reckoned precious in the circumstances we have now arrived at. Jack was in Edinburgh most of the time (living in Lodgings there, poor soul, — very lively still), and was often coming across to us; always prompt to help in every way he could. For the rest, I studied to have no company, or as little as possible; Fife was grown old and tragic to me; I passed my time, riding about, walking, diligently bathing, generally in a sombre silent mood. One day in Kirkcaldy I rode up the Kirk Wynd, saw the old room where we two lodged together long ago,3 — the staircase window etc. seemed all younger rather than otherwise, in their bright new colouring by lime and paint, but the Two Lodgers had not been growing younger the while! Kirkcaldy is still a flourishing place; and Peter Swan (whom you may remember as a little black-eyed boy), now an old bachelor, inclined to corpulency, is the chief man of the place.4 All new paved, old Jail quite swept away; screaming with railways etc. etc.: a place I had no pleasure in re-surveying. Down in Annandale, at Scotsbrig, I again met Jack: in Scotsbrig you know what sad change had occured in the first days of June; poor Isabella carried to her last home, after long years of sickliness and sufferings, the last months and weeks of which had been tragically severe! Her complaint was of the liver and bowels; you may fancy all the rest: Jamie and the two Boys were her nurses; she kept her composure, and was singularly quiet, clear and steady to the very last day. — Jamie seemed to me to be silently very sad, tho' he makes no open lamenting: poor little Jenny (not yet quite 17) has to act as mistress, — and, for one so young, she seemed to do it admirably well. Jamie hopes, her love of him being great, that she will be abler for her post as she grows older, and stand faithfully to it with increasing sense. Poor Jamie: we went to the Ecclefechan Kirkyard together, one day, and spent a few silent minutes, which could not be other than solemn. There they all lay, so still and dumb those that were once so blithe and quick at sight of us; gathered to their sleep under the long grass: — I could not forbear a kind of sob, like a child's, out of my old worn heart, at first sight of all this. A high wall now surrounds the Kirkyard,

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no entrance till you get the key: Jamie has on hand a bit of low masonwork and railing to be put round our portion of the place, about which he had consulted me before: it will probably be finished this month or next. The old "Kirkyard Tree" is nearly all blown away, at least 2/3 of it gone within the last 5 or 6 years; — and there is a great yellow fungus, or mushroom (large as a cow's liver, visible off the road), growing in a cleft of the stem of it. Jamie, I believe, is doing well enough in his farming operation, — tho' this year was not so favourable as others; "the driest year since 1826"; all the turnips wasted into fingers-and-toes; crop short, and never such a dearth of hay. But farming is still a good trade there, in comparison with what you once knew it; and Jamie seems very gleg, to fit himself to the new circumstances that are changing so many things. Crop farming is almost out; grazing, stall-feeding, for Liverpool and the railways, that is now the method. Jamie's two Boys are at home: the elder of them (Jamie junior, a nice rational kind of dandyish figure) has left Glasgow, on the score of health, and also I think of dislike; and does not at all know what he will go into next. At the Gill, Mary and her Husband and Household were all brisk and busy; building new Offices etc. They have got a new Lease, as you doubtless heard; I think, some £ 2 0 more of rent yearly, — they still hope to do, in the improved times, tho' the place is fairly dear. Mary is much worse in appearance, but I judge her to be in stouter health than in former years, and still full of activity and energy (the whole management lying on her mainly, as some of them say). Austin is but little changed: a quiet, labourious man; many worse for one there is better. Margaret (I was privately told by her mother) is likely to wed soon; one of the Holly-Bush people, a partner in the farm, and the best of the 3 brothers, it appears. She is a right clever lass; that I can testify: a better pair of hands I have seldom seen, in that country or elsewhere. Jean came out to me and staid several days at The Gill: Dumfries is going on as it did; Aitken prosperous, steadfast; but a "dibble of a temper," Jean hints. At The Gill too Mary read me, out of Canada, something about your Tom coming to visit his kindred in the old Country. It was not very distinct, some Letter from Jenny, perhaps in haste: but Tom is affectionately expected among his kindred, where I can testify

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to him he stands in good esteem, as a sensible useful and true-hearted solid young fellow. Dear Brother, I am got got to the end of my second sheet, and must close this rambling account; without almost a word addressed from myself to yourseW. You know all that I could say, without a word spoken on that head. Ah me, ah me! We have been young and now are old; and surely it is a blessing to us that we are thus still together! If I live to get done with my Book, I will write to you then; I mean to work no more in this world then! Your Letter to me came;— as you know? God bless you all, my ever-dear Brother. T. Carlyle Published in part: NL, II, 201-203. 1. Called Humbie. Auchtertool House, lent them by a Mr. Liddell, was "within a quarter of an hour's walk" (LM, II, 143) of Auchtertool Manse and Mrs. Carlyle's cousins. 2. To her aunts in Edinburgh and the Misses Donaldsons in Haddington. Mrs. Carlyle's maid at this time was Charlotte Southane. See Thea Holme, p. 189. 3. In the winter of 1816-1817, while Carlyle was teaching in Kirkcaldy. See Introduction. 4. Patrick Don Swan was a member of the town council from 1834 to 1837 and from 1 8 5 3 to 1859. He was provost, according to Lachlan

MacBean's Patrick Don Swan, Provost of Kirkcaldy 1841-1886 (Kirkcaldy, 1893), from 1841 to 1845

an

d from i860 to 1886.

248. Chelsea, London, 13 April i860 My dear Alick, The other night John read to me a Letter of yours to Jean, which had been sent hither from Dumfries for our use; and was very welcome after the long silence. You give us there a fine lively account of your dear Household over the Sea; the whole matter came home to me, and I thought of you my Brother ever true to me, and far away, struggling handsomely on, tho' growing old, like others of us: in short it brought up such a vivid picture of the present and the past, and was so wholesome and agreeable in its simplicity of truth, I privately

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determined to go and do at once a thing I had long intended, but had put off for want of time, — namely to send you the Bit of Paper which is now here inclosed, as a small memorial of my regard for you which will live as it ought so long as I live. Dear Brother, you may believe me, it is years since I had such a pleasure as in sending you this little gift. It will ditt up some little hole in your establishment perhaps, and keep the wind out, as if by my command, Brother Tom's command; and no man can be more welcome to a thing than Brother Alick is to this. 1 am not now so scarce of money as I used to be, nor indeed scarce at all, within the last few years; we have, on the contrary, an increasing stock, with the diminishing time left to use it in: pray remember this always; and never scruple to apply to me in any pinch, — you know that I literally mean what I say, and that I would not say it if it were not the the truth. It has been in my head for a long time to write to you about Tom my namesake; of whom, on all that I could gather and guess, I have a good opinion; and who seems to be struggling towards some settlement for his own behoof, as is natural at his age, but not successfully hitherto. If you can see any way for him that could be opened by a £.200 or so, and that promised to be for his real good and yours, I wished you to tell me about it. I am so held to the grindstone, and almost slaved to wreck with this sad Book of mine, I have seldom a moment of my own for any purpose: but I wish you would consider this thing, now that I have got it stated, and if you come to any conclusion, let me know instantly. It is very possible you may not wish Tom himself to know of this at all; if so, be only silent; the secret lies between you and me, and shall so lie till you permit otherwise. Again I say we are not now scarce of money, nor like to be: my late Books have sold beyond common; the British Public, after having tried in vain to starve me into compliance or death, now renounces the attempt, and says, "Live!" — now when one has so near done with it at any rate! I cannot say I care for any Public, or men or body of men that are so loose from me. That is a kind of kingship I have attained to by their treatment of me, — and by stern Time's treatment withal, who spares no mortal. Pray understand all this, dear Brother; and act accordingly when there is reason you should — namely good to be done to you or yours by so doing. And so enough on that subject.

i86i, London 737 We are all as well as usual; my poor Jane, whom you would hardly know again, so changed and weakly is she, is decidedly better this winter, than for the last two. Jack is here this good while; doing little or nothing; buying old Books, reading, rambling about; very healthy still, and feeling less of age (I fancy) than you or I do. From Annandale we hear similar accounts. Jamie at Scotsbrig has his eldest son now at home ( a very reasonable nice young fellow ) out of a situation; who talks of going to Australia etc., — to Jamie's sorrow in his lonely state. As for me, I ride diligently and count on a fine continuance of idleness to the end, if I can live to get this sad Task off my hands, which is by far the hardest I ever had, when there was much more birr in me. Adieu dear Brother. God's blessing on you all. — T. Carlyle Published in part: NL, II, 205-207.

2 49. To John Aitken Carlyle Chelsea, 4 june, 1861 My dear Brother, Your Note with Alick's Letter in it was waiting for me when I got back from riding this afternoon. I remain ignorant of the particulars of Alick's Proposal; but the practical outline, as I suppose, of what is immediately to be done is very clear to me. Seven or eight weeks ago, not knowing what you had written to Alick, nor whether you had written at all, I wrote to him myself, a little Note prompted by my dread of accidents, reiterating, and confirming as serious and practical, what I had said in a former Letter, That by way of helping Tom to an Outfit there was money here, any sum not above £250, which was intentionally set apart for that object, and which he (Alick) might himself draw a bill for at any time, in case my great hurries did not permit me to settle all about it, and to send it, before it should be needed. This was, and is, the state of matters; as perhaps I explained to yourself also in writing about it long ago.

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There seems to me no trade in the world so little eligible as that of Schoolmaster for poor Tom; nor any so likely as something of the kind which appears now to have offered itself, — namely, starting as a Farmer, a Tiller of the soil, with a fair chance of becoming Full owner of it by paying in gradual instalments. If the thing therefore is sound, which on Alick's judgment we must take it to be, — I can only desire you, for my own share, to act for me, with all despatch, on the above principle, — viz. of £250 in whole, or in part, being ready for the object: to you, with your better information on particulars, coupled with knowledge of your own intentions, I must leave wholly to choose what sum of mine (the whole or the part of that £-250); but send at once what you judge right; and whatever you send I will be good for. I can turn sufficient. — I am worried worse than usual with Proof-slips with etc. etc.; and must so leave it. I write at some length Sunday last; and put it into "the Pillar"; you do not seem to have got the poor dud nevertheless; — I will beware of Pillars again! Good night, dear Brother. Yours ever T. Carlyle

250. Chelsea, 7 augt, 1861 My dear Brother, — If I wrote to you once for every twenty times I think of you, you would get a great many Letters! But in these overloaded times you know how it stands with me: I have not, literally for years, written any Note that I could help; so completely occupied is every moment of my available day, — struggle of labour during the few hours possible for that (for "the tightest old quarry-boy in the whole Hone-rig," you know, gets tired at last, and good for little! ) — and then the resting, the etc. etc.; not to mention the incessant botherations from people I have no business with, whom in this roaring element I cannot in the least brush perfectly away, let me try as I will! Let me stop short in this grievous detail; let me tell you rather that, within the last few months, I have made some new arrangements (particularly, to try

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for a little sleep before dinner, just after my ride; to be very regular, etc. etc.); that I think I am perceptibly better, not tormented about sleep, as I lately was; that I am steadily working along, "faint tho' pursuing"; — and that in 8 or 9 months more, if I can hold out at this rate (of which there is prospect), I hope to have done with the unutterable job, and to wash my hands of it forever,1 and belong to myself and my dear ones again! Let us hope, let us hope! — For a good few weeks past it has been on my mind that I ought to write to you, upon one particular point ( what I once said to you about Tom and his settlement in life); that I had "time" for a practical word or two on that head ( if I plucked up courage! ) — and that I must and would do it. Above a month ago, I requested John to write something to that effect; but whether he ever yet did it, I have not learned; — and so, in brief, I now, after all that haggling, do it myself. You are to understand, then, that I am, was, and shall be, practically quite in earnest about that sum of money ( £.250, I think) — that the sum is properly yours for Tom, whenever you like to demand it. And, if anything happen to me before it be paid, I wish you to present this to those who stand for me; in proof (which it is) of my owing you that sum, before any other affair be gone into about what once belonged to me. — Now pray understand this, dear Brother; and be ready to act upon it, now or afterwards, at the moment you see fit: — I shall be easier in my mind knowing henceforth that you do understand it. — Something was said in your last Letter to Jack I think, about setting up of Tom, as a thing you were vaguely contemplating: it was but a word; but I never forgot it, — and always meant and wished, since then, to write you what is now at last on paper! If you should want the money at once, and cared to make a Brantford or Hamilton Banker draw on me, for your behoof, to the above amount, his Draught should be honoured, and you would get the money by return of post; — at any time, this will hold. And if, not being in such readiness or hurry, you warned me direct that the thing was coming ready, I would spend a couple of hours on it some day, and get you the due Paper ready, which would need only endorsing and presenting on your part. And now we will be silent about the matter (you need not even answer till your time come); everything, I hope, being now clear.

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Jane is tolerably well; better, she too, than usual. Our March has been the wettest and warmest I can recollect. No seed-time anywhere, I doubt, till now, when the wind has stuck itself North-east. A bad harvest our last; probably a bad one coming too, after such a start. Kindred all well, by last accounts, a few days ago. Jack still in Edinburgh; "in lodgings"; — lodgings still, but not in bad spirits in the least. — Adieu, dear Brother; my blessing be on you all. Your affectionate, T. Carlyle ι. Carlyle at this time still believed he could complete Frederick in four volumes.

251· Chelsea, 31 March 1863 My dear Brother, Jean, you perceive, has sent this around by me, "th[at] I might add a message": but she has not left the smallest particle of margin, and I find it is unsafe to add half a grain to her weight! However, I have found a scrap of the thinnest Paper in the world; which may hold a poor word. — Did you know before about the "new House"? 1 ( it stands on the Lochmaben road, as I understand, a gunshot or two beyond the railway station, say three gunshots beyond the last houses of the Town, and looks towards the west, from the east side of the road). Or about Margt Austins Husband? (one Stewart son of some Ayrshire milk people, neighbours to Gill, said to be a very good man of his kind). Of this House [Turn over] 2 and poor Child's Head, we here have heard a great deal, tho' we (at least, I) never saw either of them. For our own part, we are as you last heard of us; Jane sometimes very sleepless, feeble, tho' she has got better thro' the past winter than usual, — one of the warmest winters, or the very warmest ever seen. I am within 8 months ( as I strive to believe ) of ending my terrible Book. It has nearly ended me: never in my life had I such an ad-

ι86ζ, Scotsbrig

74 1

venture. My poor old body seems broken, my poor old heart broken. However, I have but one course: to sprawl forward, while there is is the breath of life left in me, and try to finish. I think I should then grow a little better, old as I am. — I read your Letter as it passed; with great thankfulness to see so comfortable a glimpse of you all. "Eight months hence" (if I live to finish), I will write a deliberate Letter of my own to [you.] Jack lives habitually in Edinburgh, these last two years; I live the loneliest life here, — am obliged to do it. Al[l my] moments are for work (or should be). — God's blessing be on you, dear Brother, and on all yours. T. Carlyle χ. The Aitkens' home, The Hill, Dumfries. John ultimately retired there. 2. Carlyle's brackets.

252. Scotsbrig, Ecclefechan, 6 Augt 1865 My dear Brother, I came down into these parts in the end of May, with a view of resting myself, and trying for a little recovery of strength and health, after the long deadly tug of pulling ( 12 years long! ) at that last Book of mine.1 Hitherto I do not feel as if the duration had been very successful; I have had a great deal of bother about sleep etc., and often enough have been low and dreary in this dear old Birthland now so changed and solitary to me: but perhaps on getting home, I shall really find that I have got some little benefit; — at any rate the thing had to be done; for almost five years past I have always been saying to myself, "Were this sad labour finished, I will see poor old Annandale again and the friends I still have there!" — Most of my time has been spent at The Gill, which was the quietest and much the loneliest place, where indeed I was left almost altogether to myself, to saunter about with such thoughts as you in my own head, and the sorrow and gloom of one's mind could got its full length and be as sorrowful as it likes. The truth is, I am much worn out; also very old; and ought

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now to know well that the end cannot and even should not be far off. For the last two weeks I have been at Scotsbrig; am for Edinburgh in the course of two days (John, who is at Dumfries all this while, has appointed to accompany me thither); in and about Edinburgh we calculate to loiter perhaps a fortnight more; after which I am for home again, — then to set my house in order a little, and see what farther I will do. Before leaving Scotsbrig I had long resolved to send you some kind of Letter dated there; and this at last is it, — in spite of a shaking hand, and other impediments which render writing disagreeable to me just now. I inclose a Photograph which represents me pretty truly, well on in my 70th year: — your Photograph I have safe in my bedroom at Chelsea, and a great treasure to me it is (very recognisable to me, and not so changed as one might expect); in me and over all the kindred there is an eager desire and expectation of getting a good few others representative of the seniors and juniors in that Canadian Household we have all such an interest in. See that you don't disappoint us in this! — Our kindred here may be described as going on in a singularly equable manner; prosperous, all of them, rather than otherwise; and being not spared hitherto in the constant ravagings of Time. In Ecclefechan there are hardly three people alive whom I can remember at all from my young years. A country changed wholly; nothing but the old localities now left, — the sight of which has been a continual interest to me, sad and strange, in my ridings up and down. Day before yesterday, for instance, I rode by Sandbed, Whins2 etc., and home by "Jean's Bar" ("Jean" quite vanished with much else) : at Sandbed I remembered to have passed the place, on some Mainhill Pony, almost 50 years ago; under the quiet sky, in the old house still standing, poor old "Sandbed" 3 was making worship, and I heard the sound of his psalm: only once since, in a drive you once took me from Ecclefechan, could I remember to have passed that place. Ah me, ah me! — Jamie has grown old, grave and sad, in comparison with formerly; but for the rest, is prosperous and diligent in the new mode of Husbandry now introduced in these parts, — that is to say in raising cattle and sheep at higher and higher prices, for the Liverpool and other manufacturing Stomachs; that of grain-husbandry being almost wholly abandoned by those that have a little money for shifting into

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the new course. Grain (such the extent of import from foreign Countries) was never seen so cheap in man's memory, nor butcher'smeat etc. a third part so dear. Perhaps about 3 each way may pretty much express the astonishing change of prices since these "free-trades" and raging railways began running. People that cannot change (poor Jock4 of Stennybeck, for instance) are reduced to bitter straits; all the others are prosperous as never before. — Jamie's daughter is married to his mind ( at Birmingham to one Scott some kind of Draper or Dealer, and has just had a son); both his Sons are with him, —Jamie anxious to become Farm-Overseer or Factor somewhere, the merchants desk being absolutely unwholesome to him. One of Mary's Daughters keeps house here; what seems to be an immense improvement on the late state of things: Mary herself is now here taking care of me till I have gone my ways. Jean, I daresay, will herself have written to you, and mentioned how her two Boys are both in good Clerk employment, her Good man at the top of his trade, and finding good profit in it: fine new house etc. etc. — — Yesterday I was at Craigenputtock (Jamie and I by railway and gig, from Scotsbrig and back): ah me, what a place of reminiscence for both of us, for me much more! There it lay, the poor old scene; sleepy, overgrown with wood and indolent neglect: the Tenant, one Common, pays just about your old rent (Jamie tells me) and mutton is 3 times the price, and wool about 4, that you were used to! So that Common lives in more clover; and being an idle fellow, roams the country and leaves things at home a good deal to themselves. Whitsunday come a year, he will have to walk his ways, and very much alter all that! We found your old CattleHouse, still standing by the the woodside in the hollow, walls still standing entire, roof long since gone; for the rest, solitude, silence, and innumerable thoughts that no word could really utter. God forever bless you, my dear and faithful Brother. We are widely parted in this world, but while alive, nothing can entirely part us. With blessings and regards to Jenny, Tom and everybody. Your affectionate — T. Carlyle Published in part: NL, II, 228-230. 1. Carlyle was to have received his last proof sheet Saturday, February 4. " I will finish him off on Monday, I think," he wrote on that date, and added, " I have endless things to sort and sweep away. I have even

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to have my hair cut; nay even to have my beard clipt, — both of which have been neglected this long time" (NL, II, 226). On March 1 he wrote John, "I am the idlest of all mankind; feel as if I had not only got done with Friedrich, but with all the work I had to do in this Planet. A gloomy but quiet collapse there is, in mind and body; — a world left very vacant in comparison, and much less lovely to me than it once was . . . I don't feel as if there were much of ruined in me; but everything is in such a smashed and completely tired out condition as never before. In particular this right hand (the left not yet) has for about two years back taken to shaking at a new and unpleasant rate; especially shakes if I have been muscularly working at any thing. It must take its own w a y ! — " (NL, II, 226). 2. A farm one mile southeast of Ecclefechan. 3. See Introduction. 4. Unidentified. See Letter 83 for Stennybeck.

253· To John Aitken

Carlyle Chelsea, 29 Augt, 1865

Dear Brother, Here I am; safe out of the enormous jingling whirlwind; arrived (40 min. too late) about 11 p.m.; found Jane 1 to have come in the afternoon; considerably improved since I last saw her, and with a House all shining in apple-pie order round her. I have got some sleep (not quite enough), and feel up to the work of at least unpacking, and beginning the work of order. I am on the ground floor, as perhaps you know, Books etc. all about me, and a room or 3 rooms, so smart and lively you would not know them again. Till Carlisle I rode quite alone with the fresh Winds: w e staid 1/2 an hour in that City; and then in spite of my precautions my compartment was invaded, — two Glasgow bodies, an Edinburgh ditto; harmless trading people with "return tickets," for some time there was a lank sleepy-looking cockney youth of the same trade: but all were harmless, good-natured; I persuaded them to let down a bit of their window b y and by, which they loyally kept so; and w e had

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smoking ad libitum, and peace in our borders, amid the outside noises. But it was a big train; crowded, and had the usual accompaniment of Chaos animate and inanimate. I drank by degrees every drop of the branched water; but, dining well at Preston, had no need (or none till this morning) of Jean's fine chicken sandwich. At Carlisle the guard asked us all, "Dine at Preston?" but kept his telegraphing strictly to himself. Enough! — "Nobody" is here, I suppose; my own head (and heart) is still sounding with the sad and kind thoughts natural to the hour of Parting. God bless you all, you ever kind and dear souls whom I so grieved to quit. Ever affectionate T. C. 1. Who had most recently been visiting Mrs. Russell at Holm Hill.

254·

From John Aitken Carlyle The Hill, Dumfries 31st Augt 1865 My dear Alick, Several months ago I sent off a letter to Tom, addressed Farm,1 Brantford, hinting at the bad times in America owing to the war, and asking him to send me word if he found difficulty in paying the instalment due this year for his farm; and I have got no answer — from which I infer that there is difficulty. I enclose an order for £-100 payable to you (not being very certain of Tom's address), and request you to aid him with whatever part of it is necessary, and apply the rest to help his brother2 who was staying with him to get forward in the struggle to become a scholar which Tom told us of in his letter. It were well to send him to some good school, but I leave all the details to your own judgement, knowing that you will try to do whatever is best. Please acknowledge receipt of this, however briefly, as soon as it comes to hand. If you think any portion of the £.100 can otherwise be better applied, do with it as you think fit. You should

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get about £ 109 at present rate of exchange. And now enough of this. Our brother Tom left us on Monday (28th) and got safely home the same day, and found Jane waiting for him. I enclose his little note which came yesterday. He staid in Scotland a little more than three months — chiefly at Gill and Scotsbrig, only ten days at Dumfries — and we were in and about Edinburgh a fortnight this month. He looked much better at starting than when he arrived here in May, has no disease upon him except age; and it seems to me wonderful that he got through his twelve years of hard unremitting labour without any other injury than immense fatigue, in itself dangerous when carried to such extent. He has done no work since his task ended in February last, brought his horse from London and rode about on it, and has no[w] given it to Henry Inglis3 (who once came to Craigenputtock from Edinburgh) to be treated well for the rest of its life. Jane staid only one month in Dumfriesshire, and then some three weeks at Folk[e]stone4 beyond London. She has had no return of her disease of last year, but an attack [of] rheumatic gout in the right arm which seems to be now well nigh gone too. I was at the Gill last Saturday to meet Tom on his way from Scotsbrig. All well at both places on that day. Turnips excellent, other crops lightish. We are all well here too. I came back from Edinburgh last Friday only, Tom having gone the day before to Scotsbrig. The lease of Scotsbrig ends this year, and Jamie hardly thinks he will get the farm again, a rent being talked of that he cannot afford to give. Times are bad and unsettled for all but sheep farmers just now. Rents higher than any imagination could have figured. The rent for Burnswark in our friend Graham's time £ 160 was paid with difficulty, and now it is about £500 and Ayrshire dairy-people are thriving in it at that rent. Prices of grain very low, however bad the crops may be, and nothing to be gained except by sheep or cattle. The largest farmer in Wigtownshire ground down his best wheat last year to give to his cattle instead of oilcake. All small farmers, that have not money to buy feeding cattle will apparently soon be brought to ruin. I send you the newspapers of today which says much of the new cattle disease. Tom wrote to you from Scotsbrig. Whenever you have time, either your Tom or yourself will send us details of all that concerns you. All

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here send kindest good wishes and remembrances. My best address is that given above, as Jean always forwards letters punctually when I am away from the Hill — Ever your affectionate brother, J A Carlyle ι . It was shortly before this time that Alexander's son Thomas bought the farm of 1 1 3 acres on the Brantford-Paris highway that Carlyle years later named Bieldy Knowe. Thomas, preferring the plural, made it Bieldy Knowes. It was a name "apt enough," his son John later wrote, "for the house was on a hill surrounded by trees that Father and Mother had planted . . . Here Father 'kept batch,' assisted from time to time by brothers or sisters, until his marriage to my mother, Margaret MacVicar [1845-19x7], on the last day of 1867. . . . The house to which Father brought his bride has long since disappeared. It had originally been a little log structure to which a frame addition had been built on. The present house, now [ 1 9 5 1 ] the house of my brother Tom, was built in 1870-1871. The spruce trees round about were planted in April, 1 8 7 1 , and Father and Mother moved from the old house into the new one June 9 of the same year" ("Family History"). 2. Alexander. 3. A friend, correspondent, and writer to the signet of Edinburgh. He visited Craigenputtock in November 1828. See L, p. 130. 4. With Miss Davenport Bromley. Carlyle wrote that "her greatgrandfather at 'Woot[t]on,' in Staffordshire, was the 'Mr. Davenport' who gave shelter to Rousseau" (LM, II, 232). David Hume had arranged for the house and Rousseau went to it in 1766 after the Bernese government ordered him off the lie St. Pierre. Miss Bromley had been a friend of Lord Ashburton and remained one to his widow, his second wife, the former Louisa Caroline Mackenzie, youngest daughter of James Archibald Stuart-Wortley-Mackenzie, first Baron Wharncliffe (1776-1845). Lord Ashburton and Miss Mackenzie were married November 17, 1858.

• With the publication of Frederick the Great Carlyle reached the zenith of his career. The public recognized him as a great man as it never had before. Among his admirers were many of the students of Edinburgh University. "Carlyle," Froude reminds us, "had been one of themselves. He had risen from among them — not by birth or favour, not on the ladder of any established profession, but only by the internal force that was in him — to the highest place as a modern man of letters" (IV, 295). And they wanted to mark their appre-

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dation of him in a distinct way. With the retirement of Gladstone as rector of the university the way became clear. In the fall of 1865 they invited him to run for the office against Disraeli. Carlyle reluctantly agreed and in November received the news of his overwhelming election. In spite of being outwardly vexed by a speech he would now have to prepare and frightened nearly to death at the prospect of speaking before strangers again, this time some two thousand of them, he must have been secretly pleased at being so honored. Mrs. Carlyle certainly was, and she must have spent much of her time over the next four months assuring her husband he would not break down. She was not sure of herself, however, for she declined to accompany him to Edinburgh, prophetically fearful that any shock would destroy her. So on March 29 she entrusted her husband to John Tyndall (1820-1893), the natural philosopher, who had earlier professed his love for Carlyle and had offered to Mrs. Carlyle his services for the journey. She kissed her husband goodbye, "she me once, I her a second time" ( Reminiscences, I, 246), for the last time in this world, and Carlyle and Tyndall set off for Fryston. Carlyle rested there two nights in the home of Milnes (now Lord Houghton), and then with Tyndall and Thomas Huxley, and with Lord Houghton accompanying them as far as York, went on to Edinburgh. He stayed in the town house of another old and dear friend, the Reverend Mr. Thomas Erskine of Liniathen, and was greeted there by two infinitely older and dearer, his brothers John and James, and James's son John. On Easter Sunday evening Carlyle and one of his brothers went over to David Massons house for an hour's smoke and a talk about how he should get through his address. The next day, April 2, he was directed across the platform, seated next to Sir David Brewster, who was now principal of the university, took the oath of his office, and began, simply, "Gentlemen . . ." His speech, which was published as the Inaugural Address at Edinburgh University, April 2nd, 1866; by Thomas Carlyle, on Being Installed as Rector of the University There in Edinburgh and London in 1866, and in CME, IV, 449-483, was a thrilling success. Tyndall wired Mrs. Carlyle, "A perfect triumph" (Froude, IV, 307). The maids clapped their hands with glee, Margaret Welsh danced with delight, and Mrs. Carlyle drove off enthusiastically with the good news to dine at the home of the biographer John Forster (1812-1876) with Dickens and Wilkie Collins. Ten days later John reported to Alexander. ·

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255·

From John Aitken Carlyle Edinburgh, 12th April 1866 My dear Alick, Last week I sent to you and your son Tom the Scotsman1 containing report of the Address which had been delivered here by our brother on the occasion of his Installation of the university. He and I were both very much occupied at the time, as [you] may easily conceive; and to be out of the bustle he went off to Scotsbrig last Saturday (7th April) and is now there. I have a note from him dated yesterday, and he seems to be enjoying the solitude and reports all well. He got through the Address without hesitation though he had been very anxious about it beforehand, and it seemed to produce a deep impression on the whole of his audience. Jamie and John had come express from Scotsbrig to hear it, but neither they nor I got a good place in the large hall. Tom has since been busy correcting the whole thoroughly, and it will appear in a separate form early next week —of which you shall have a copy by the earliest post; and so you will be able to compare it with the report in the Scotsman which is also very good in its way. I was in London the whole of last month, and often went to Cheyne Row. Jane has had no return of her illness, but keeps tolerably well from day to day though frail enough. She is at Windsor at present with some old friends,2 and Tom means soon to go back to her. Young James Aitken has taken an office in the central part of London, and is going to try to get business as a Shipbroker. Jean and all the rest of her family at Dumfries were well a few days ago, and also Mary at the Gill who is now at Scotsbrig attending to Tom's wants. Jamie has got a new lease of Scotsbrig for fifteen years, as you have heard I think before, and has put lime on much of the land. The Cattle Plague has now ceased in Dumfriesshire. It did not injure the stock of any of our kindred, though it was very severe at places not far from them — which is a great mercy to be thankful for. Some five or six weeks ago, please tell your son Tom, I received the excellent letter he sent me with Alick's postscript and the photograph

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of himself; and I several times tried to get it acknowledged, but something always came in the way to prevent me. Tell him I and Tom too liked the sensible and spirited style of it. And tell Alick, with my thanks for his postscript, to be diligent and honest in those studies of his, passing nothing without thoroughly understanding it. In the Address he will see what advice his uncle gave the Students here in that respect. I have a great many letters to write today, and numerous other things to attend to; so that I have to be briefer than I could have wished; but I have at least told you all that is most essential. I need only add that Tom expects that his duties as Rector will not require attendance in Edinburgh, but merely brief letters from time to time during the three years it lasts. In general he is in better health than last year, and can walk much better, but has difficulty in getting sleep away from home. I daresay you have had uneasiness in regard to those loud threats of invasion from the Fenians. A most solid and experienced old gentlemen, who had long been a leading member of parliament and known O'Connell, Smith O'Brien,3 and other Irish men and things thoroughly, predicted to me that this new agitation of Fenianism will collapse and come to an end as soon as the leaders of it have got all the money they can by it; for there is not a single man of any standing or character connected with it. O'Connell and Smith O'Brien came to miserable results, tho' they were supported by many better men in their time. I enclose two photographs for you — one taken last month, the other some years [ago]. They are both tolerably good tho' stiff as such things usually are. Please give my kindest remembrance to every one of your household and its immediate connections. I must end here and remain, Ever your affectionately J A Carlyle I send the Herald of Dumfries4 to Tom, by this day's post; and he will shew it to you. ι . Of April 8. 2. Principally

Mrs. Margaret Oliphant

(1828-1897),

torian, biographer, and contributor to Blackwood's

novelist, his-

Edinburgh

Maga-

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zine. Her Life of Edward Irving (1862) is of especial interest to students of Carlyle. 3. The nationalist William Smith O'Brien ( 1803-1864). 4. The Dumfriesshire and Galloway Herald and Register of April 6.

256. From John Aitken Carlyle 5 Cheyne Row, Chelsea May 3d 1866 My dear Brother, On Saturday 21st April I was in Edinburgh, and Tom at Dumfries, when a piece of very sad news came to me from London, late in the evening by telegraph, which I had to forward to him at once. A second telegram came the same night at a still later hour, and it too had to be forwarded. The two joined together announced that Mrs Carlyle had died suddenly in the afternoon of that day while driving in her little carriage alone in Hyde Park. A small terrier,1 left to her care by a friend (Mrs Chapman) who died lately (in March) of consumption, had been running alongside the carriage and got itself either kicked or trampled on by the horses of another carriage and was left lying on the road. Jane got out, took it up, and spoke a few words to the lady of that other carriage who had got out to make an apology; then entered her own carriage again, and the driver went on as before noticing nothing particular about her and seeing that the dog had got very little if any injury. There was a string close to her by pulling which she could at once have stopt him. He first became uneasy at her not pulling it after he had gone on as far as usual; looked down through the front window, saw her hands lying quiet and open on her lap; went round the Park again, and on returning to the place (again) of which she used to pull the string, he stopt and saw her hands exactly in the same position — which of course gave him great alarm — and not being able to quit the horse he asked the nearest lady and gentleman to look into the carriage and see if aught had happened. They found her quite gone, reclining backwards with face looking placid in death and relieved of all sorrow. I joined Tom

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at Dumfries by the earliest train from Lockerby, having come so far by the only Sunday train from Edinburgh; and we started together for London the same day (Monday), arriving here about half past ten at night. He had written to a friend 2 on the Sunday from Dumfries, to make preparations for the funeral, and we found every thing in a state of forwardness. In the coffin her face still retained the expression of earnest placidity and relief from sorrow. On Wednesday went to Haddington with the coffin in next compartment of railway carriage before us, two friends3 from London accompanying us; and on the Thursday the funeral took place from the house of Mr Dods, banker, an old friend and schoolfellow of hers. It was attended by many other old friends and acquaintances of the neighbourhood and passed off very quietly indeed, the weather being quite beautiful. She lies buried in the same grave as her Father, in the ruined choir4 of the old Abbey church. She had written to Mr Dods about her burial more than twelve months ago; and she had told Tom before he went to Edinburgh, that she durst not go with him owing to some disease of the spine which sometimes took away her breath and stopped the action of the heart when aught agitated her suddenly; and the physician,® who attended her before, certified this spinal disease as the cause of death under the circumstances. She had talked of it to Tom as slight and so he had felt little or no alarm beforehand. He has felt the shock most severely of course, especially since we got back from Haddington on Friday, but he is quite calm and has had pretty good sleep for the last three nights. I intend staying here sometime with him. I will put three strokes on the newspaper address, if all goes well next week, as a signal. I could get no time to write earlier, or even to send off the newspaper last week. We hear today from Dumfries, Gill, and Scotsbrig that all was well there. From the Queen downward there have been condolences, if any good were possible from them. Tom is as well as usual in body. Let us hope he may soon be able to adjust himself patiently to his great loss. I have not time to write more today. Please either send this on to Jenny without delay, or write her the substance of it, for I feel quite worn by writing. Ever your affectionate J A Carlyle

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The kind of death which I have described, from that disease of the spine or brain, would be as sudden and as free from all pain as a simple fainting fit. The position in which the body was found reclining also shewed that there had been no struggle or suffering. She had written a letter6 to Tom, in excellent spirits, on the Saturday just before going out for her drive, and reached him at Dumfries on the Sunday. She had lunched with Mrs Forster too and been in high spirits only some 20 minutes before her death. Ever since her illness in 1864 she had been frail as possible, but had kept driving out daily and had never complained to any one; so that none of us felt alarmed about her. I did not hear of her spinal disease at all, or it might have alarmed me, as it did her physician whom I don't know personally and who had said nothing to Tom about it. She had suffered much from want of sleep all along, though she made no complaints. To herself such a gentle death would be a real benefit, though it has left our brother desolate and without his main stay in life. The Edinburgh Address you would get from himself, as well as the first report of it from me, by post. It was as successful as anything of the kind could be, and poor Jane of course was glad as if some great victory had been gained. I will write two words after all by this mail to Jenny, referring her to you for particulars. J AC The infinite number of letters of condolence has been most troublesome to me especially as I have had to acknowledge most of them. 1. Called Tiny. Mrs. Carlyle's driver was one Silvester, whom Wilson (VI, 485) designated "T. C.'s coachman." Mrs. Chapman is unidentified. 2. The below-named William Dodds (or Dods) of Haddington, whose family Carlyle described as "excellent people, in their honest, homely way" (Froude, IV, 316). Carlyle wrote to him from The Hill, April 22, "There has come to me, last night, the saddest of all earthly messages. My dear and noble wife suddenly reft away from me . . . Long ago it was her covenant with me, that she was to lie beside her Father in Haddington Churchyard; and within these two years she repeatedly made me promise, that I should write at once to you, — who would immediately, for her sake, undertake all the arrangements" (Wil-

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son, VI, 68). Carlyle's letters to the Doddses are published in James Dodds, Lays of the Covenanters, With a Memoir of the Author (Edinburgh; 1880). 3. John Forster and Edward Turner Boyd Twisleton (1809-1874), politician, barrister, and one-time fellow of Balliol College, Oxford, whom Carlyle had known since at least 1849 and whom he once spoke of as "a particularly honest, faithful and worthy man" (NL, II, 70). 4. Properly the chancel. A photograph of the ruined chancel of Haddington Church, with the grave of Dr. Welsh and Mrs. Carlyle, is reproduced in Ritchie, facing p. 329. 5. Sir Richard Quain, first baronet (1816-1898), physician extraordinary to Queen Victoria in 1890 and the friend of and physician to the Ashburtons, Disraeli, and John Forster. Carlyle wrote of Quain's kindnesses to him in the Reminiscences, I, 223-224, 250-251. See also Richard Renton, John Forster and His Friendships (New York, 1 9 1 3 ) , pp. 108, 1 1 2 - 1 1 3 . 6. See LM, II, 388-390.

2 5 7· From John Aitken

Carlyle Chelsea, 4th July, 1866

My dear Brother, Last week I received your kind letter dated 13th June. I was on a visit in the Isle of Jersey at the time, and staid there some ten days; and when I got back to Chelsea I found Tom looking much better than when I had left him. He has now got over all the painful details and arrangements consequent on his wife's death. You would find the inscription,1 which he has put on the grave-stone at Haddington, in the newspaper I sent you by post of 30th June, just after my return from Jersey. The loss of her of course was a very heavy calamity to him (though none of the rest of us except Mary ever got on well with her); for they were much attached to each other, and she always kept every thing in order most dexterously and faithfully for him, and with all her vehemenius of temper was really a most truehearted and excellent woman. Her cousin Miss 2 Welsh of Liverpool has been with us ever since her death, and has been very useful in

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many ways. I have to go once to Jersey again to be present at the marriage of my youngest ward or stepson Wm Watt, who is an officer of Dragoons, and has been four or five years engaged to the young lady whom he is to be wedded next week. It is with her father and mother that I staid on my first visit, and mean to stay again, till after the wedding when I get back to Jersey. If all goes well I shall start tomorrow or next day, and shall most likely go straight to Dumfries from Jersey along the west coast of England. Tom himself thinks he will be quite as well or perhaps better without me for a time, and he means to remain in London and the neighbourhood without going back this year to Dumfriesshire. He is at present in as good health as usual and sleeps as well. His own house is perhaps the quietest he could find in Britain and also for him the most comfortable; and if he wants any change later in the year he ha's friends 3 also [who will] invite him to the neighbourhood of Dover and also to Devonshire. He desires me to send you his kindest remembrances, and would have written himself had he had anything of importance to say. He has written as few letters as possible since April, leaving most of them that were absolutely necessary to Miss Welsh and me; but every forenoon he occupies himself some hours with writing that he says nothing of, and reads diligently in the evenings. We have recent news from Dumfriesshire. At Scotsbrig the dwelling house has been slated and roofed anew, and the floors strengthened with new joisting, and every thing is still in confusion there; but all were well last week. From Dumfries we had a letter two days ago, reporting ^11 well at the Hill, where they had seen Mary from the Gill a few days before. There had been a fire at Ironhirst [?] last week (place of Margaret Austin's husband) caused by sparks from some of the R. W. Trains, and it had done considerable damage — for which I suppose due compensation will be got. I will write again to you whenever I get back to Dumfries, if all goes well—say sometime early next month. I have had to write today in anticipation of the post of tomorrow, for I may have packing to hinder me from writing if I delay till then. With kind remembrance to all your household, I am ever, Yours affectionately, J. A. Carlyle

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5th July. Last night I had a letter from Jean in which she reported all well at Dumfries the night before. I enclose you a photograph of Tom.4 It represents him in the garden behind the house, preparing for his day's work, the little dog Nero attending him as it always did after breakfast and till he began work. It knew my box and used to meet me at the door when I came here, and also to attend me as far as the door when I went away. It died in i860 and lies buried in the garden. We are all well here today. I send you the usual Courier by the same post as this letter. JAC 1. Published in the Dumfriesshire and Galloway Herald and Register of June 29, it reads: "Here likewise now rests/JANE WELSH CARLYLE/Spouse of Thomas Carlyle,/Chelsea, London./She was born at Haddington, 14th July 1801, only daughter of the above John Welsh, and of Grace Welsh, Capelgill, Dumfriesshire, his wife. In her bright existence she had more sorrows than are common; but also a soft invincibility, a clearness of discernment, and a noble loyalty of heart, which are rare. For forty years she was the true and ever-loving helpmate of her husband, and by act and word unweariedly forwarded him, as none else could, in all of worthy that he did or attempted. She died at London, 21st April, 1866; suddenly snatched away from him, and the light of his life, as if gone out." 2. Margaret. 3. Lady Ashburton, at whose cottage, Seaforth, near Seaton, Devonshire, Carlyle and his wife had stayed for about a month in March 1865; and Miss Bromley, at whose home, 1 Sidney Villas, Dover, Carlyle spent a quiet two weeks in August. He went there shortly after July 28, when he finished the reminiscences of his wife (Reminiscences, I, 53-258), the writing John mentioned below. 4. Possibly the one reproduced in Jane Welsh Carlyle: Letters to Her Family, 1839-1863, ed. Leonard Huxley (New York: Doubleday, Page, 1924), facing p. 340.

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258. Chelsea London, 20 Octr 1866 My dear Brother, It is a long time since I wrote directly to you; and you know what irrefacrable sorrow and loss has befallen me since then, — which has naturally indisposed me to writing or corresponding, except where altogether indispensable; and has thrown me into silence, and sad and solemn meditations of many kinds, instead. My loss was sudden, as if by lightning: but her death was very beautiful, and such as she had always wished; her noble life, at that point of time (what with those poor Edinburgh celebrations, and her love to me the object of them), would be felt by her, I know well, to be crowned by perfect victory; and indeed everybody testifies, what was most of all evident to myself, that her last eighteen months, and especially her last two weeks, and her last day, were the happiest she had had for many years. Beautiful she was in her utter feebleness and general misery of health; and had such an unconquerable radiancy of cheerfulness, and tranquil clearness, and warmth of affection and generosity to those about her, as are now forever memorable to those that looked on them. To me her loss has been the loss of all that made life valuable; and I do not seem to gather much insensitivity to it; but at all hours of the day, and every turn of my procedures in the world, am painfully reminded that she, my bright fellow-pilgrim, has gone from me beyond the stars, and that the rest of my journey must be done wearily alone. It is the will of God, it is the everlasting Order of Nature; and I must not repine, — nor do I; but strive always to readjust my astonished thoughts, and try more and more to set myself and "my house in order," 1 and to find still something not quite useless which I may do for the days that remain, till I follow not unworthily those that have honourably gone. Enough on this subject, dear Brother of my young years now far away; more than enough, — for you know already, in your own sympathetic heart, all that I could say upon it. My business at present is with two small things I had to hand you as memorial: the first is a Photograph2 done the year before her death, and incomparably the best there ever was of her; it will recai many remembrances, and be a softly pious kind of company to your

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thoughts now and then. The other is the bit of green Paper here inclosed, which I have been intending for some time and which is now come to hand in the ready state. The small Gift is to me, in no conceivable sense, any loss at all; and [to] you it may be of some use, — to help some of your children, to do this or that: no doubt there are "holes that need stopping up," and you will find uses for it. Consider it as her Gift: she is in part the cause of it, — the guiding cause at this time. I told you once, I was grown rich; that is not so true as I then thought it (for my revenues, coming out Book-sales and their fluctuations, soon fell off again); but it is still true enough, and of money there is indisputably abundance and super-abundance far beyond what I shall ever (to all appearance) have the least chance to need; — so that, if at any time you are in a strait, I charge you strictly to let me know; it will be a real charity to me. Alas, it is, at all times, so little we can do for one another: — and the time is fast striding on, when it will be nothing, forever! — My blessing be with you, dear Brother, and with all that are yours, far over the sea yonder. I am myself in average bodily health; not worse that way, since April last; perhaps even some slight shade better, so quiet and mostly passive have I been: but indeed the 12 years deadly wrestle with my last Book had quite broken me of itself, not to speak of the 58 foregoing years, and new calamities that have followed! I am living quite alone for the last two months and more; and tho' it is occasionally not a little dreary, and at all times sad and sombre more or less, I find it more supportable than most kinds of company I might have. The Dr, as you know, was with me most of the summer; so was "Maggie Welsh" (one of the Liverpool Cousins, used to the house here): John talked of being back perhaps in Novr; Maggie too will consent to come if I ask it; — and it is not yet certain how I shall finally arrange. There was left me here an excellent elderly servant,3 of highly respectable, skilful and rational ways; with her, and a small gleg little girl under her, the house goes on quite reasonably well hitherto, and I have no disturbance on that side. From John I heard the other day; — indeed it was he that got ready for me that green Paper inclosed: — o u r Dumfriesshire friends are all in their usual health; and nothing very bad happening to any of them. Bad harvest ( the worst I can remember, for weather, since 1816

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at Mainhill) they have indeed had; but cattle is now more and more their dependence, and the prices of that are still good. Jamie, I think, is not much stronger than one of us (tho 8 years younger than even you); and has had some domestic "pluisters" (no Wife and no Daughter there for him now! ), but, I hear, is getting well clear again. Nothing of your harvest, which is more important than the Annandale one, has come to our knowledge here; nor of what the elders and the younger branches of you are at; — nothing since Tom wrote to us; who always sends distinct accounts. We latterly sometimes bother ourselves on your account about the mad Fenian rumours which the Newspapers bring: never was anything madder, tho' doubtless it more or less disturbs those that are in close neighbourhood to it. I believe nothing whatever of actual will come of it more; and that, when once the Yankee Elections are over (which will be next month), it will die out altogether; no Yankee Politician, never so blackguard, having the temptation to pretend flattering it farther. Tell us how you all are, dear Brother; none of us can ever forget you here, least of all I. We have some Photographs, and should not object to more. Jenny and you are framed in my little dressing-room, every morning and noon; — you quite the old face, every lineament of it known to me. Adieu, dear Brother, with my warmest blessing. Yours ever T. Carlyle Published in part: N L , II, 237-240. 1. Isa. 3 8 : 1 . 2. Possibly the one reproduced in Jane Welsh Carlyle: Letters to Her Family, ed. Huxley, facing p. 340. 3. Mrs. Warren, "a respectable widow of fifty" when Mrs. Carlyle hired her in November 1864. The "little girl under her" was Jessie Hiddlestone, daughter of Mrs. Welsh's Templand servant. See Thea Holme, esp. pp. 1 9 2 - 1 9 3 .

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259· 1 Chelsea, 12 jany 1870 My dear Brother, Three or four days ago I was agreeably surprised by a very kind and interesting Letter from me; welcome, as you may fancy, beyond almost any other that could have come! After twice reading, I despatched it next day to Dumfries, where also it naturally gave much pleasure. You and I don't write so often directly to each other as we were wont; but both of us know that it is not from decay of affection; — ah no, — but from far other causes! — and that in our silence, we think of each other, almost every day of our lives, with a sad and solemn tenderness, with wishes, hopes and memories, that only deepen as the End draws neigh! Your Photograph is in my dressing-closet, your true old face well known to me; among the shadows of my other Loved Ones who are far away, — far, far, into Eternity itself all but one or two: — i t is there, every morning, that I see myself surrounded as with a cloud of sacred witnesses; and am silently admonished to send my sad thoughts Heavenward, and to silently worship if there be anything of piety and goodness left in me. Alas, the sadness and the longing wishes do not fail, nor can ever; but the "piety," the faith and goodness are not so constant. One's poor heart can say only, in its heavy-laden state "Great unknown God, King and Maker of this Universe be merciful to us all." — But I will quit this; all this is already as good as known to you: and my Writing talent (nearly gone, as you see) 2 must confine itself to narrower practical limits. It is a great comfort to me to know that you are in fair old-man's health; and furthermore that your Boys and Girls seem all to be good promising Creatures and all doing well, these young ones springing up are now a great wealth to you, dear Brother; I now feel what a stern poverty the want of all such in my own case is! Since April gone 3 years, I feel at all hours entirely left solitary; no joy, or cheerful promise of a social hearts-communion in this world, now possible. Nevertheless be complaint far from us. I[n] noble sorrow there is, or can be, a blessedness too. I am far sadder and gloomier of mind than I used to be; but ought not to say that I am to be called unhappier, —

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the contrary rather. This wretched blockhead and beggar of a world can now do nothing for me, nothing against me: I look upon it (if at all, which is not often ) with authentic and nearly" complete contempt; sometimes (what I hope may become more frequent) with a great deal of pity. All is going (as you too feel) into unspeakable downbreak; and must either re-make itself on a truer basis or else die forever: — in either case, with long misery and agony; sad to contemplate: but yet it is a blessed alternative, too; and we can calmly, with Hope still tremulously alive, leave it to The All-Mighty and All-Wise! — Enough of that too. What I had practically to say had reference to your Children, Tom and the rest of them; whose starting in the world is of real interest to me, and a thing I ought to help in if I could. Understand then, dear Brother, that, tho' not to be called in the modern English dialect, by any means rich, I have plenty of money, far far beyond any wants I shall now ever have; — and that if, at any time, your own Household, or the outfit of any of your Young Folk, get to need a lift over any hard hill, I bid you, and again bid you, at once apply to me; and tell you, what is true, that it will be a comfort to me to be of help. Believe that always; do, without my speaking farther of it. — Tell Tom he might write to me; I have not forgotten him at all; — say I could answer him by a word in pencil at any rate. And your Jane, poor little Jane, whom I figure still as a wee wise lassie, — I pray you let me know something precise about her: I fear often she is heavily burdened; but she utters no complaint, or none audible here. What is Alick going in for at Toronto College? The Photograph represents to me a modest, stedfast, likely fellow; but of him I retain no other portraiture; only Tom and Jane are present to me as actual little human beings still completely luminous. I am myself in a little better health perhaps, at least I visibly sleep somewhat better, for the last 3 months or so; which is a great blessing and relief from paltry fears and ditto miseries; tho' my strength of any kind seems hitherto as if it were rather weakened by the change. In particular, I never in my life was so idle; have no heart at all for work; languid, silent, weary, wae. Little Mary3 writes for me; but I cannot yet learn to write by dictating to her; willing, swift and eager as she is, poor little soul. She is a wise little thing, honest I think as spring water; pretty to look upon and shines here like a small taper,

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slightly breaking the gloom of this my now element. I think I will send to Dumfries, and get you a Photograph, if I can, for next Letter! — What is more important, I think all is in its usual way with our kindred there and thereabouts; Sister Mary old but still tough and helpfully busy at The Gill; Brother Jamie seems to go to Birmingham annually on a longish visit; he has returned this year with a Scott Granddaughter, a good g leg little Creature as they all report. His two Boys, at Scotsbrig, the junior, at Craigenputtock the elder, seems to be doing usefully and well. I made a visit to poor Craigenputtock last time I was in Scotland; looked over all things with these old eyes; sight melting my very heart: "So sad, so strange, the Days that are no more!" 4 Sometime ago they sent me from Dumfries, a poor old dud of a Book, Andrew M'Nay's Book of Doggeral 5 ( of 1823 or so, which I remember at Mainhill so well): it is at the Binder's to have some Cover put on it; next week I mean mean to despatch it to your care, for Tom as a memorial to him of his poor old Birthland. — Today, I inclose some copies (all there are) of a Print6 they have put into Vol XII of a New Edition they are printing of me; scatter them as you like. — God's blessing be on you and yours, dear Alick. Ever your affectionate Brother T. Carlyle

Published in part: NL, II, 260-263. 1. The John Rylands Library holds a fragment of an earlier letter (MS#374.366). Dated from "Scotsbrig, Ecclefechan 13 Septr, 1868," it reads: "Dear Alick,/. . . Checque [?] the beginning of next week./With many regards and rememberances I remain/Yours always truly/T. Carlyle." 2. Carlyle had now so little control over his right hand that his characters are badly formed, shaky, and sprawling. Further, he had given up his pen for a more manageable blue pencil, and he abbreviated frequently. 3. Aitken. 4. Tennyson, "Tears, Idle Tears," The Princess, IV.35. 5. See Letter 14. 6. From a photograph taken July 31, 1854. It is reproduced in Vol. XII of the thirty-volume Library Edition of his Works (London, 1869-

1871).

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260. To Thomas Carlyle Chelsea, 4 May, 1870 Dear Tom, I had a Letter from you lately which gave me, and all your kindred here, a great deal of satisfaction, and truly was full of interest to us all. Indeed you have written us a good many Letters, and always (for I have read them all) in an honest, clear, affectionate and practical form: just such Letters as one wants from dear relations abroad; — so that the sight of your handwriting on an envelope is, by this time, a hopeful sign so far. Continue to send in distinct news, the more in detail the better; — and let us all be devoutly thankful that the news you send have so often been good, when they might so easily have been other! — As to me, my old right hand ( and also my poor old heart) has grown weary of writing; and indeed, except with pencil, you see, I cannot do it: — very perverse that my right hand has got so shaky, while the left is still steady enough: a very great loss to me in many senses (laying me quite idle, for one thing); — tho' surely, were not I an unthankful creature, it is rather on the continuance of the lefthand that I should reflect, than on the decay of the right, after so many years of heavy service! — Meanwhile you perceive, I can still write, tho' in a slow, obstructed, uncomfortable manner: and there is one little private point, on which I want to question you a little; you, rather than your Father who might not feel himself so free in answering about it. It is first and chiefly of your sister Jane that I wish for information; from whom I have had one or two pretty Letters long ago; but nothing at all (I can well judge why) since that time of her troubles began. A general notice, that now and then, that she is well in health, and holds out valiantly, while her poor husband is fallen quite . . : this is nearly all I have, — and more of this from you in your last Letter than from any other. On inquiry in Scotland, too, nobody can tell me what is now her Post-OfBce address, or even what is her Name. The essential fact is, dear Tom, I privately intend to make her a little Gift, to satisfy many feelings in myself; and I much wish to know

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whatever in her situation and ways of Life would best enable to fix wisely the manner and amount of that. What details can be usefullest you can yourself consider and judge; all details will be welcome; — and (observe!) you are to keep the matter in the meanwhile perfectly a secret between you and me. Tell me her wedded name; how far her Farm (or Property) lies from you, and what it is called; what the extent and probable worth of it is; what children she has, and of what outlook and character; whether you understand them and her to be easy as to money, or not? etc. etc. Tell me whatever you shall think elucidation of the matter in hand. If I had even a good Photograph of her, it would have value: — she must be now about 40 years old (perhaps 39 or 38?) —it is as an infant, as a wise little child to whom I have given lessons in reading, that I still vividly remember her. "Good little Jane":—you know of whom she is the Namesake; and how sad and strange and solemnly beautiful those recollections may have become to me now! — It is probable I shall write to your Father directly after the arrival of your report; to him ( if you judge it useful, I do not forbid you speak in consultation) : but don't to any other person, especially not to Jane herself. And, in general, do your best for me, what you judge best! — I should also like to hear about your Brother John, and what outlook towards settlement he has? Your Father's last Letter shewed him as carpentering for some Neighbour; — and certainly the wages seemed to me to be small: but I guessed the acquisition of the talent might be important in his contemplated way of life. Tell me what prospect you think he has of getting to a settlement of his own? And whether in your neighbourhood, or farther away, perhaps in some more fertile, tho' as yet wilder and roomier territory? Let him walk wisely, 'stand wisely to himself,' it seems to me he has essentially nothing to fear. In that wide and free element, where Labour is the one thing wanted, —how different from ours here where (madly and miserably) Labour seems the one thing not wanted; and is getting at once ever hungrier and ever falser, in consequences year by year! — Finally, dear Tom, to tell me more and more about yourself will always be a welcome part of your Letter. I cannot help you in many things; but I could in some, — for example, in Books; if I knew any direct road to you, or indeed, except the Post-Office, any sure road

ι8γο, JLonâon γβζ at all. Tell me what is the best way you know. To "Boston Mass.," probably also to New York, I find I might have means of franking Parcels now and then: but what is your conveyance thence? Advise if you know anything better! As to health etc. here, you are to report us not sensibly otherwise than usual, certainly not worse; except the weight of years and what that universally brings, I have no complaint as to health; stomach getting gradually weaker, heart and spirit ditto ditto: for the rest, describable as "quite well." My lame hand, and the idleness it hitherto brings, is probably the worst feature of late; — and I cannot yet learn to dictate to little Niece Mary ( who is a most most swift and willing writer, if she could fully understand! ) — but I am often thinking I ought still to try. Farewell, dear Tom; write so soon as you are fairly ready, — sooner the better, I need not add! You will give my kind regards to your Wife; to my old and ever-faithful Brother I have no words that would express my feeling. Blessings on you all. — Your affectionate Uncle T. Carlyle ι. Word illegible.

261. Chelsea, 3 june 1870 My dear Brother, Some time ago I wrote to Nephew Tom, — as perhaps he may have told you (or perhaps not, for I left that optional with him):—my purpose privately was, to make some direct inquiry after your good "Little Jane" and her circumstances; upon which I could trust to Tom for more precise and free details than I yet had. Dear Little Jane; not "little" now, but grown big enough, and experienced in much toil and sorrow; — I often wonder what I should think of those Two little Creatures now! They are the only Two of your Bairns whom I have a clear idea of, and can vividly see: Little Tom, with his white feet and grave steady face, stepping the Scotsbrig Burn for us, with Letters, on

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a rainy morning, as I looked from the window there; this must be 2 or 3 and 30 years ago or more, and I can see it now as if it had been this morning! Little Jane I recollect from a still earlier date; as an infant lying on your knee that evening when you had received us at Whinnyrig 1 from London, with tears in the eyes of some of us: ah me, ah me! What Time brings, and what Time takes from the transient sons of Adam! My Father did not see that meeting; the "tears" of other eyes are now also wiped away. God the Eternal look down in pity on us all. Amen, amen. — Tom's answer has not yet come, probably has not yet had time: but I have since been thinking that the secret little Purpose I had, behind those inquiries, could be filled at once and still more comfortably perhaps, thro' you; and being anxious that no delay or mistake should occur in it, I have got ready, and now this day do it. [Alas, here enter intrusive person, "Visitors" whom I care little about; and I am cut off for today!] 2 june 4th. [A baddish morning for me, compared with yesternoon (want of sleep etc. etc.); but I will finish, all the same, and by no means lose the Post, for which there is still time!] Understand, then, dear Brother, that this inclosed £800 is a bit of Gift to my Two Namesakes, specially distinguishing them from all my other kindred, — to Tom who bears my own Name, and to his Sister who was named for Another3 not now in this world, but solemnly present to me at all hours, and for whom I seem as if acting in the matter; — and that the charge of cutting the money in two, and delivering it to the respective Parties is now laid upon you their Father, as the fittest person. Tom (I find on inquiry of the Dr) has had from me already (some years ago, on entering his Farm) £200; to this you will add £300; which will in all make £500 for him; and have for my dear "little Jane" an equal sum, "Five Hundred Pounds for each," that is the sum of the affair: I wish you to draw the money at once, and at once hand it over to the respective parties (with their Uncle's love and blessing, you may safely say), each of them to be left free to dispose of it, invest it, (spend) lay it out, as he or she sees fittest. No doubt you will give them your paternal counsel on that latter point (whether to put it in a Bank, to buy land with it, to buy better stock with it, to lend it on good security etc. etc. ) ; and I cannot doubt that they will

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be ready and thankful (in this as in all cases), to add their old Father's best wisdom to their own in forming a decision! However, as this is a peculiar land of Gift, and as they are both wise prudent honorable kind of people, I do not wish them to be bound any farther. I myself have no knowledge whatever about the ways of wisely using money in a Country so unknown to me. Do your best for me, my good ever-helpful Alick, — your best for me this once more, — and it will be well enough! — The money, I understand, you will get at once by slitting off the 2d leaf of this and presenting it at any [Bank]; nor, probably, will the rest of the affair take up much time. N.b., however, it will be best for you to write at once, without any delay, so soon as the money comes, that it is safe and in your hands: on other points there is no such hurry. Enough, then, enough. — My heart is with you, dear Brother; my heart is all set melting by this Act I am about: but I write with great difficulty and will end till your answer come. With my best blessings on you all, Your ever-affectionate Brother T. Carlyle 1. One mile south of Annan. 2. Carlyle's brackets, here and below. 3. Underscored twice.

262. 5 Cheyne Row Chelsea 6 October 1870 My dear Brother, Since your Letter in June, which punctually gave fortunate account of that Bank Paper for your Jane's and Tom's behoof, which I was glad to see and much thanked you for, there have come addressed to the Dr, but for benefit of us all, Two Letters from you, — the last only four or five days ago, forwarded hither from Dumfries. I have also had a Letter from Tom, which, you can tell him, I have read with pleasure. We are all right ^glad and thankful to hear of your continued welfare, and that nothing of notable misfortune hitherto occurs to disturb the current of your days. Old age indeed is of itself sad, and

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ought naturally to be, as it is with you, serious and even solemn, not "joyful" any more; but we have all of us great reason to acknowledge with gratitude to Providence that extraordinary misfortune has visited us so rarely, and that so many of us, brothers and sisters, have all lived peaceably to be old men and old women. All grown or growing old, and two of us (I myself well a-head) already past the Psalmist's limit of three score and ten. Many a time I remember the old pious Annandale phrase, which every sinful man may well apply to himself, "A Monument of Mercy!" — In the end of June, as doubtless you have heard from John, we came to Dumfries (Niece Mary and I); staid there till the middle of September. A silent, quiescent, very empty, dreary kind of life to me, cheered only by the great affection patience and kindness of every one about me. The air was pure and excellent; the solitude not unbeneficial; but the railway whistles, which are near that excellent House of Jean's were a sore misery to me (tho' to no one else of the smallest inconvenience); and I lost, often in a very wretched way, on the whole, about a third part of my natural sleep; which of course was much in the way of the salutary influences there. So that I know not at this time if my health got any improvement or not; though of course the change itself was something, — the turning of a poor sick creature from one side to another. I feel, at least, no worse; am gradually recovering my sleep here, and hope sometimes to do a little better this winter than last. My worst inconvenience in these years is the refusal of my right hand to write for me. The left hand is yet quite steady; but the right shakes so as to render writing, if not impossible, at least intolerably slow and unsatisfactory: literally enough, the breaking of my work arm, and cutting me off from any real employment I may still be fit for. In these weeks, however, I am trying to write by dictation (as you see here-),1 and Mary, who is both swift and willing, eagerly helps and encourages; so that perhaps something may come of it. Let us hope! The2 noises during my first month at Dumfries, drove me to Craigenputtock for shelter for one week (properly for five days), — how inexpressibly sad, I need not describe to you. Silent, empty, sorrowful and mournful as death and the grave. Not in my life have I passed five more heavy-laden days. Your old stone dyke, the fence to the Cow

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Field which you built for us the year we were in London, that was still standing, firm every stone of it, a Memorial of affection still alive for me; all else was of affection now in the death-realms, gone, gone, and only a sorrow and a love for it left in me which exceeds all others. The place is all, I believe, in substantially superior order; immensities of grass upon it this season, effectually drained and a great deal of money laid into it. "Young Jamie," who is a kindly active and clever young fellow, standing in a far flowerier element than yours and mine was there. Well, well, how much better so, than if it had been the reverse way! I was twice at The Gill and back, — no where else on visit. I made two Pilgrimages, one to Ecclefechan ( was some hours at Scotsbrig), another to Haddington; on what errand each of them you may conjecture. The Ecclefechan one did my heart a solemn kind of good; the other Pilgrimage was wrong planned, it involved three sleepless nights in Edinburgh, — and the blessing in it was encircled by a great deal of mean wretchedness. This and the day's railwaying hither, which soon followed, was all the journeying I did. The Dr, I suppose, gives you precise accounts of all the little Annandale history, and the doings and condition of our kindred there; so that I need not enter upon that head. Outwardly, they seem to me to be all prospering. Old age not crushed down with any burdens except its own. Sister Mary at The Gill is as loving-hearted as ever, not specially in ill-health either, so far as I could notice, though looking worn and old, as she well may. Jamie, I fear, suffers a great deal from want of health mid his economic prosperity, — sleeps very badly, eats very badly, and, I fear, has nobody at Scotsbrig to do well for him what is still do-able by way of cheering his now lonely home for him. His Son John is said to be less sympathetic with him than Jamie is; and John's Wife is, hitherto, tho' a very amiable looking, innocent creature, extremely helpless in domestic matters. Daughter Jenny was with him during part of our time. He seems to spend a good portion of every summer at Birmingham on visit to her Husband and her; and, at other seasons, pretty frequently comes and goes to Craigenputtock for a week or two at a time: He makes no complaint to any of us; is a hardy, steel-grey little fellow, and as emphatic of speech and as decided of conduct as ever he was.

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Dear Brother, I doubt you have abundantly enough of this; and, at any rate, my own time is up. If you would write me similar details about yourself and Bield, it would be right welcome to me, and I could write in a similar strain as copiously once more. Pray tell me about poor old John, our half-brother. I often think inquiringly about him and what is becoming of him in his lonely old age. Some rumour was going among us that he was to come over to Bield to spend some of the dark months with you. Was that true or not? Give my affectionate regards to him, and to every one of yo[urs,] down to the youngest; especially to Tom and Jane, whom I personally know. [May Go]d's blessing be on you and yours. Dear Brother, Ever affectionat[el]y T. C[arlyle] Published in part: N L , II, 2 6 9 - 2 7 1 . 1. Carlyle dictated the rest of his letters in this collection to

Mary

Aitken. H e did, however, sign each one. 2. T h e r e is a figure t w o in the margin at this point as if to mark a second paragraph. I have indented accordingly.

263. 5 Cheyne Row, Chelsea, 28 Feb. 1871 My dear Brother, I heard of some intention you had to "write me a long Letter" a good while ago; but nothing has yet come: indeed I guess well enough, by sad experience of my own, how unwilling you are to write at all, if it can be helped; I myself with a shaking right hand have almost lost the power of writing. But having got a willing Clerk here ( gleg little Mary Aitken who is very good to me ), I overcome my languours, and will this day at last accomplish my small purpose of sending you an articulate word. Alas, if the thoughts I send you could go without writing, you would hardly any day want a Letter: that I firmly believe too is my own case on your side; so we will endeavour to be patient; to be justly thankful, both of us, that we are still spared to

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send one another silent Letters, and to be Brothers to one another in this world yet a while! — The Winter here, [a] singularly wild tempestuous and inclement one, has been perceptibly unkind to me; though now, in the Spring, I flatter myself with thoughts of coming back to the old poor level again; — whether ever of getting to do any Work more, I dare not promise, or even confidently hope. I have no bodily ailment, except what I have always had for above half a century now, mamely the inability to digest; which of course is increasing as years increase, and is not in the possibility of doing other. I can still walk a great deal in my better days; and it is a thing I try daily as the one medicine I have, or ever really had. Outward things go what might be called altogether prosperously with me: much printing and new printing of my poor bits of Books; which never had such a degree of circulation as now; honour enough, all sorts of honour from my poor fellow creatures etc. etc.; all which sure enough is good in its kind, is at least better than the contrary would have been; but has all become of small moment, and indeed to a degree that astonishes myself utterly indifferent, in sight of the Immensities and Eternities which I now see close ahead. Plenty of personal friends there are too; who are abundantly kind, and several of them clever and ingenious to talk with; I do not shun these altogether, but neither do I seek them; conversation generally wearies rather than delights me, and I find the company of my own thoughts and recollections; what may be called conversing with the Dead, a more salutary, though far mournfuller employment. In fact, dear Brother, I am now in my 76th year; and for the last five years especially am left altogether solitary in these waste whirlwinds of existence: that is, as you perceive, the summary of my history at present. I think I was always a serious creature too, and always had in the heart of me a feeling that was unspeakable for those I loved. No wonder one's thoughts, in such case, are solemn, and one's heart indisposed for worldly trivialities, however big these think themselves. — But I must get out of this; which is leading us nowhither, and fast wasting the space left me for more definite objects at present. The last Letter I saw of yours was the one to John several months

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ago, directly on the death of Tom's poor little Boy. 1 That was a sternly sad event. I can never since forget the speech of the poor little creature to his Father as the clouds of Death were sweeping him away! — We hear lately from Sister Jenny that she has lost a little Grandchild: no doubt there, too, there is sorrow and mourning. Death at all times lies under the flowers and the thorns of existence, whatever or wherever these may be. — In late times, looking at you all in Canada, where you are as it were a little Colony of yourselves, I cannot help felling thankful that you are there and not here. This Country seems to me to grow more and more uninhabitable for the natural minded man of any rank, and especially for the poor man, who has to work for his Bread, and determines to be honest withal. More and more does that become impracticable to him as matters now go; the proportion of false work and of false ware, — shoddy in all departments, practical and spiritual,— increases steadily from year to year. Wealth in enormous masses becomes ever more frequent; and, in a still higher proportion, poverty, grim famine and the impossibility to live among larger and larger masses of the Working People, in the lower kinds of them. Among the higher kinds of them, intemperance, mutiny, bad behaviours increases daily: in fact, I apprehend before many years the huge abominable Boil will burst, and the British Empire fall into convulsions; perhaps into horrors and confusions which nobody is yet counting on. All Europe, indeed the whole civilized World, is in weltering confused struggle and mutiny: I can find nobody so safe as he that is piously and faithfully tilling the earth and leading a manful life in silence far away from all that, divided by the Sea from all that. — Of our kindred in Scotland, I think you hear pretty regularly; and probably I should have nothing new to tell you: I will say only that nothing has gone wrong there since you heard last; and that the Dr (which also perhaps you know) has been spending a six weeks in Edinburgh; seemingly with both satisfaction and profit; and expects to return tomorrow (Wednesday) afternoon and resume his solitary habits, his Books and his old rural walks at Dumfries, now when the bright Spring has come. He is usually very solitary there and cultivates hardly any Company, but what the walls of the house contain for him. At Scotsbrig, at The Gill, or elsewhere among us, there is noth-

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ing changed, still less anything changed for the worse. Let us be thankful, thankful! I often think of your Boys and Girls, especially of Tom and Jane, and am always glad to have any details about them. It is very long since I had a Letter from your Jane: do not bother her about determining to write to me; say I remember some pretty Letters from her long ago, and if she ever did come upon the thought of writing to me again, it would be very welcome. As to Tom, he knows I always read his Letters with pleasure, especially when he expands freely into the historical and biographical. Some of you tell me at least about this new Edition2 of my Books — whether any of you get an actual Copy of it? There are to be 30 or even 33 volumes; and about 25 are already printed. In a smaller form, there is an older handy Edition, in 23 volumes, I surely think I sent that to Tom or to some of you! There is also to be straightway a People's Edition; very neat, tho' very cheap. Any or all of these, I could readily send, and would to such of you as really needed them. To Boston our Bookseller here has a regular transit of Books; from Boston to you I think the road also is open. Tell me something about this so soon as you like. We have had, as you doubtless know, an agitated six months with the German-French War. Not since we were Boys, and the First Napoleon was getting handcuffed and flung out of doors, have I seen so much emotion or so universal about any Continental thing. Yesterday, and not till then, we learn that the Preliminaries of Peace are actually signed, — not yet Peace itself; though that latter too is to be looked for as certain in a few days;3 and so an end to the most furious controversy Europe has ever seen; at least to the compietesi brashing into ruinous defeat that vain and quarrelsome France has ever had. "Such a thrashing as probably one creature of the human kind never gave another" to use poor Will Brown's expression; — and sure enough this "Scoury Devil from the Priestside" did richly deserve it; and we all hope will be the better for it; no event has taken place in Europe in my time that pleased me better; and, for my own part, I expect that the results, which are certain to be many-fold, and are much dreaded by the ignorant English, will be salutary and of benifit to all the world. — Adieu, my dear Brother, I will weary you no more today: I am in fact utterly stupid, and have not, except symbolically,

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been able to express anything of my feelings towards you or what I most wanted to say. But you understand it all well enough without my saying. Give my Love and Blessing to all the Canadian Kindred, big and little, young and old. Be diligent and faithful, patient and hopeful, one and all of you; and may we all know, at all times, that verily the Eternal rules above us, and that nothing finally wrong has happened or can happen! Send some news, the more copious the better, some willing hand of you; it will be welcome whenever it comes. Ever your affectionate Brother, T. Carlyle Published in part: NL, II, 275-277. 1. Alexander (1868-1870). 2. The Library Edition. The "older handy Edition" is the first edition of his Works, 16 vols. (London, 1857-1858). In 1869 Chapman and Hall added to it a seven-volume edition of the History of Frederick the Great. The thirty-seven-volume People's Edition, which Carlyle superintended through the press and insisted on its low price of two shillings a volume, Chapman and Hall published over the period 1871-1874. 3. Armistice was declared January 28. The Treaty of Frankfurt was ratified May 23.

264. 5 Cheyne Row, Chelsea London 16 Deer 1871 My dear Brother, The night before last your welcome Letter came to hand; I am very glad to hear of you again, with nothing but good news, after so long a silence. Neither of us can now write much; to myself the inability to write with my own poor right hand is, on all sides, a severe affliction, and announcement that my Work is properly speaking done: but not the less, nay all the more, perhaps, one's thoughts go free; and I doubt not there is fully as much communication between Canada and me in that way as there ever was by any other. Many thanks for the trouble you have taken to give me some shadow of your doings and various fortunes there.

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One bit of news gratified me specially: that of poor old Sandbed John1 getting out of his lonesome Shanty into a better circle of surroundings; — I do hope and trust his Daughter will be daughter-like, and faithfully good to him; she must be much unlike what I can suppose her if this be not an altogether favourable change for the poor old man. That of the Kist-lid bed and heap of duds, where you had last seen him, was a most grim and rugged picture; totally unsuitable to the most stoical old man within a step or two of his 8oth year! — Directly on reading your Letter, the wish rose in me to send the good old man a little Gift and Memorial of kinship and days that are gone; I wrote, accordingly, at once to John at Dumfries, and he at once returns me the enclosed Bank Document,2 which you are to get translated into a Draft of Canada Dollars for him and to present inclosed in the letter, bearing his address, which goes along with this. I know well you will not grudge the trouble, and will do the thing with punctuality and convenient speed. The Dr from Dumfries suggests that New-Year's Day would be a fit time for your making your appearance with the little message: "at Old New-Year's Day," if not at New, there will be time enough to have the thing ready, — we here for our part waste no time, but write by the very first post. I also enclose the Dr's Letter of this morning, which contains the freshest news from our kindred in Scotland, — and at least tells you the state of the weather! Our poor Sister at Dumfries bears up valiantly under what is doubtless the heaviest stroke that ever befel her:3 I was at Dumfries sitting at breakfast with her when the Telegram came, summoning Mary and her to London; I have seldom seen a more pathetic scene than that of her rising instantly from the half done meal and starting on the tragic journey, and with a world of wild sorrow carefully repressed, or struggling nobly to repress itself, getting down to the railway in little less than half an hour. The whole occurrence was of cruelly tragic nature; and has deeply grieved us all. There is only one Son now left to poor Jean; John, the youngest of the three; whom I think you never saw; he is now in London, getting settled as a Clerk favourably beside us here; — it was on rapid visit to him that poor James found his death in that tragic manner. This John also is an honest, ingenious and kindly creature, of whom we all hope good, now that he has got delivered out of his long dormancy ( as Clerk at

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Dumfries in some Branch Bank, under one they called Leein' Jamie) into a wider and freer field. Your own two Boys made a memorable day for me last Autumn; and I may tell you, their Father, that I really liked them both well, as indeed we all did in the Old Country; I have seldom seen a pair of young men, whose modest rational and affectionate ways were more agreeable to me. You may tell A lick in particular — or even not tell him, if you so think fitter — that I expect considerable things from him, in the Scholarly or otherwise intellectual way, though I by no means urge that on him, No, No. Let him try to be a faithful man in whatever station he alights; that is all I require of him. To your good Jimmie also, whose sensible discreet and kindly way, and even whose Yankee accent (or even imagined resemblance of such) was singular and agreeable to me, I send my affectionate regards and best wishes, — do not forget this. Goodluck be with them all, poor Fellows. There is something mournfully beautiful to see the hearty Young Ones starting on the race, when one is quitting it oneself. Right good speed to them, and honest speed above all! 4 Our Brother Jamie of Scotsbrig we hear is at Birmingham, with his Daughter and Son in law, wither he often goes of late years in the Winter season; I suppose he feels better there; his Daughter is naturally very good to him. I believe her Husband too is a worthy and friendly sort of man, and that they are well enough off in their financial affairs. Poor Jamie has generally a good deal to do with ill-health, want of sleep etc., want of power to eat, poor Fellow; — and I can well believe that a skilful Nurse and Cook who takes pains with him must be of great benefit and comfort in his case. At home he usually alternates between Scotsbrig and Craigenputtock; liking the latter rather more (they can observe), the Housewife there being rather the skilfuller. John's Wife at Scotsbrig is a very amiable honest creature, whom I have seen just twice, for a little while each time, but I can believe the general opinion entertained, that in housewifery she is below the level rather than above. Jamie is prosperous otherwise, and I believe has plenty to live upon, and latterly finds all his enterprises prosper reasonably well. Be so good as send me one word, dear Brother, when you have received this enclosure, and undertaken this message: one word to this

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effect (or even a Newspaper addressed to me with three strokes) will suffice so far: so soon as you have delivered the thing, please report in another word; — but this you can make Tom do. That will be the method: Newspaper first, then Letter by Tom or Jimmie. God bless you all, young and old, dear dear Brother. I ever am, Affectionately yours, T. Carlyle 1. Their half brother. 2. For £ 2 5 . See NL, II, 2 8 1 . 3. Jean's son James was killed in a London bus accident shortly before Carlyle wrote this letter. 4. The younger Alexander returned for a second visit in August 1878. He was accompanied on that occasion by his brother Thomas, who left his impressions of Carlyle and his conversations with him in his Journal, that portion of which Mrs. Clump permitted me to publish as "Reminiscences of a Visit with Carlyle in 1 8 7 8 by His Nephew and Namesake," Thoth, 8 (Spring 1 9 6 7 ) , 66-83.

265. 5 Cheyne Row, Chelsea January 7 —1873 My dear Brother, Within the last week or ten days I have had two short letters from you; one of them accompanying a much long longer one from my Nephew Tom, which last gave me a great deal of satisfaction, — so minute and clear was its account of many things concerning you all not clearly known to me before. — Pray tell Tom of this; and that I feel as if he should be the individual replied to; but that he must excuse me for taking you as the one I am used to from of old! another time I hope to use him better; and in the meantime wish he would try me again with a new letter like the last. Your account of poor old John's death, though very brief, was very touching to me and abundantly clear. A death from weary old age alone; no disease visible, only a tabernacle wornout with 80 years of work, and the wheel at the cistern falling slower and slower till at

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length it silently stops. The way of all the earth; none of us will escape it, and to some of us it naturally seems close at hand. We have only to say, in such dialect as we have, God's just and holy will be done. I forget when it was I last wrote to you, dear Brother; but suppose that since last Autumn you have heard little special of my history; and therefore I will begin there. John and I, after his return from France, escaped out of the sultry whirlpool of London down to the Southern coast of Devonshire (London smoke following us perceptibly for the first 30 miles; but the rest of the country green and beautiful as you can anywhere see). We went to a grand little Cottage 1 overhanging the salt water; a place belonging to Lady Ashburton, — where, in 1865, I and Another, not now here, made our last considerable visit in this world; you may conceive my thoughts on coming back to it again after such a 7 years as I have had! But we need not speak of that. I will say only that, in spite of my weakness, I walked a great deal, John oftenest accompanying; that the splendid cottage was by no means proportionately adapted for lodging a weak old man, Hable to great misery from sounds and the like; and that there, as everywhere, though the kindness shown us was supreme, one daily needed all the "philosophy" one had; however I managed to get down every morning to the sea side; where you could bathe at any hour, and there had a hearty swash in the sea, as the first thing done for the day. In the course of 2· weeks or so I began to perceive some influence from this practice, and before the end of the month, which was the limit of our stay there, I had judged it was an influence for good; — which I continue still to think it. The only kind of medical appliance that for the last 20 years has had any effect upon me at all. John staid with me a while after our return hither; after which he went to Dumfries and from there I believe you have more than once heard of him and from him. Of our other kindred the accounts are generally good; to the effect "going on as usual." Brother Jamie is reported as going and coming between Scotsbrig and Craigenputtock; and rather in better health than has been usual for long years back. The Austins are very anxious about the new lease of their farm, which falls vacant next year: I always hope they will get the place again; but a

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painful uncertainty lies in such things. They have been prospering; they and most farmers, I understand, of late years, except the last one which has been very unfavourable in all parts of this country. Such a winter of rain I have never in my life seen; and in Scotland last year the people were generally comparing the season to that of 1815, — which you and the rest of us dismally, though with a pathetic beauty in it too, so well remember in Mainhill! — For myself, dear Brother, I have only to say that there has no work come out of me whatever, except an accidental and very simple bit of addition to the Life of Schiller;2 which, if my right hand had been my own, I could have finished in 5 or 6 days; though to poor Mary and me it cost 7 or 8 weeks of a very confused labour! This inability to write with my own right hand is a heavy calamity at present, and prevents all literary labour, of which otherwise I were now and then perhaps capable. — I think I must send you that pitiful bit of addition to Schiller, or rather the Schiller volume altogether. It is to come out next month, soon after the end of February I expect you may have it. The Dr is in Edinburgh at present; some three weeks ago or more he went off thither to vary a little the rainy and muddy monotony of his life at Dumfries, where he has almost no society except within the house; in Edinburgh he is extremely popular; dines out almost every day; and complains rather of too much society than of anything else. He will probably stay there a week or two longer; the rather as there is now singularly bright weather; and paved towns are (almost) all trim and clean, though the country is still drowned in mud, and great part of the middle of England especially is a lake of water from overflowing of the rivers. Winter wheat is said to be all rotted; potatoes were a bad crop too, and between the fanners and their labourers there is rising everywhere a trouble, which it will be difficult to settle. Times not bright here at all, more than elsewhere! Try if you can persuade your Tom to write to me again. Alick too I should be well pleased to hear from; the Dr, by my suggestion, I believe, has been writing to your James; and probably there will be some specific tidings3 got by him before long. I send my blessing, if it were worth anything, to you and all of them, my ever-dear Brother. Well may you fare, and brave may your lives be, yonder far over the sea! —

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Before very long, I hope to write to you once again. Mary's kind regards. Ever your affectionate Brother, T. Carlyle Published in part: NL, II, 293-295. 1. Seaforth. 2. The Life of Friedrich Schiller: Comprehending an Examination of His Works. With Supplement of i8y2 (London, 1873). In 1872 Carlyle also wrote Last Words of Thomas Carlyle on Trades-Unions, Promoterism, and The Signs of the Times, the MS of which he gave to his sister Jean about the time he completed it, July 12. William Paterson of Edinburgh published it in 1882. 3. Carlyle inserted this word.

266. Alexander to Carlyle Bield April ist 1874 My Dear Brother, Your most welcome letter 1 of the Fifth march reached us duly and has stirred me up you perceive truly and [I] scribble you some sort of reply, having been unable all the winter to write or indeed do any thing by rheumatism in the arms this at no time very severe happily. W e are I need hardly say much gratified to hear that our Brother has recovered from his severe cold and [is] again somewhat in his ordinary way. — W e are also much pleased to think of niece Mary's presence in the house — many little touches of kindness she is doubtless able to perform that a stranger would look over for blood is still thicker than water. I would here agin my Dear Brother with my whole heart thank you both for the unexampled and undeserved kindness you have bestowed on myselfe and more. But Gods Blessing I feel ashured and not my idle pray[er]s will reward you both. Accept also dear brother my poor thanks for your kind attention in sending us a new photograph of our ever dear old Mother. Yes it

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may not be denied the old ones have become very dim but the original becomes only more and more sacred. We feel much sympathy w[ith] poor brother Jame[s] in the death of his poor daughter Jessie and thank you much for the intersting information afforded, a postal-card had reached us shortly before your letter but mentioning only the mournful fact and we knew nothing whatever of poor Jamie so that your remarks were devoured with much egerness I need hardly add. She was always understood to be a very great favourite of her fathers and doubtless will be long and sadly mourned by him. We feel very glad to learn that Mary's people have got their farm again and at less rather than more rent than we anticipated: James the master being a very helpless man as to finding a farm. Son Jamie was over here yesterday and seemed in good heart and health. He is much pleased with his farm one cannot help noticing and as to his industry and perseverance having few equals and in short if health is granted — a man whose bread is bakin and his water . . .2 as they used to express it. The rest of us I am happy to inform you are all much in the usual way. — Alick is expected up here tomorrow or next day on a short visit in the easter hollidays. From Hamilton3 we have not heard for some short time but understand them to be in their usual way. I have a somewhat vague hope that if the frost were gone and the weather warm I might be able to scribble a brief note to Chelsea owning debt at any rate. Please my dear brother remember me in true kindness to the whole clan young and old. I think of sister Jean very often but feel difficulty in asking her to write. Ever your affectionate Alexr. Carlyle MS: NLS# 1763.318-3x9. 1. Missing. 2. Word illegible. 3. From the Hannings.

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267. 5 Cheyne Row Chelsea 4 March 1875 My dear Brother, For days and weeks past, I have been thinking of writing to you; but multitudes of trifling things and some bits of serious occupation have kept me more than usually occupied. All this added to my own inability to write, and my great distaste to dictation have held me silent often enough; I need not say, my thoughts are occupied with you; many, many times my thoughts fly across the wide ocean; and I ask myself what you are all about in your Canadian home. At length in an hour of absolute leisure I determine to write to you expressly once again. We heard of you many months ago as suffering from asthma, which is a most grievous complaint; we heard again that it had a good deal left you; and that you were somewhat in your usual health; which for one now verging upon eighty can never be a high figure of health! But you keep quiet, no doubt; and do the best and wisest you can, patiently waiting for the Almighty's time, when earthly toils and sufferings are to be exchanged for the long repose. Your Alick and ethers of the boys write from time to time; and I had a direct letter once from Tom; thank him and thank them all for being as punctually mindful of us. My own health, considering everything has been wonderfully good this winter. It has been one of the coldest winters, now and then, we have ever heard of hereabouts; especially in Scotland they have had the fiercest colds and the deepest snows ever known there; and few people have escaped throat disorders, rheumatisms and the other ills that flesh is heir to, in these circumstances. The Dr has had bits of cold once or twice, and Sister Jean we hear is still confined to the house, though now much better and only waiting for a sunny day or two to get into the air again, and be as before. You heard no doubt of poor Margaret Stewart, Mary's eldest daughter's sudden death; which naturally has been a sorrow to us all, and to her poor Mother a crushing calamity, coming with hardly a day's warning; but she says nothing, poor Mary; keeps struggling about, and doing her appointed task as best she can. She is I think considerably the weakest of us all now; generally lame, sometimes lame of

1875, London 783 both knees, — owing to swollen veins and rheumatism, — poor soul, and yet is the cheerfullest and most unaffectedly kind of all the kindred. Her poor daughter, whom you and I both remember so dismally well was a skilful, active, resolute and clever woman; I think one of the best workers I ever saw; she had been left suddenly by the death of her husband in very difficult circumstances, and not one woman in a hundred could have managed so well as she had done and was doing, when all at once the end came; and her poor bairns, farm and everything they depended upon were left again, without guide of their own any farther. Jamie her one brother has been in management ever since, assisted by advice of those about him; and is said to do creditably well in his new position. The youngest of the four poor orphans a stirring kind of boy, of rather weak health has gone to his grandmother at the Gill, to whom I doubt not he is a consolation, not a burden. They are comparatively at their ease in regard to economics far otherwise than you and I can remember of them and indeed of the whole kindred; which undoubtedly is a great comfort for the time being; but whether much an advantage in the long run one cannot always say. Brother Jamie has his two sons now both at hand. John he lives with mostly; but has over at Newlands ne[ar] Kirtlebridge, Jamie always at hand too; with whom he stays a good deal. Jamie (Junior) as perhaps you have heard has seen good to quit Craigenputtock; and reduce it to the condition of "led farm"; which to me was rather unexpected, tho' I have said nothing about it, nor will say: the place had got into a mournful state of degradation as a residence, the woods all cut away, our poor attempts at a hedge fallen altogether scraggy and ruinous etc. etc.: four or five years ago I spent a week there, driven thither by the noises of the railway at Dumfries. I wandered about in all directions; could scarcely find or recognize the "grave of the last sixpence," the old cattle-shed you built behind the hill (nothing but the ruinous heaps of it); and in my life never spent six days more sad painful and solemnly mournful to heart and soul. My resolution then was that I must never go thither again. — Jamie Senior is always in puny health; and had, as you know, a great sorrow in the death of his only daughter, not long since; but he is reported and I saw the fact myself last summer in visibly stronger health than formerly; has a bette[r] appetite, tho' still very feeble

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and pecky; and takes a st[ri]ct charge of sons and their farms, which are properly h[is]; and they all live in good agreement together. Young John of Scotsbrig is a fine intelligent fellow, but is reported to have got a rather useless Wife, who brings him quantities of children. Jamie Junior is growing a monstrous bulk; but is very active, pushing and successful in business affairs, tho' of weakish health now and then, like his brother John. Last Autumn1 as perhaps you heard I went to Fife on visit to Peter Swan, now Provost Swan, for a good many years past, and a very worthy hospitable useful, human creature; who was very glad to see Niece Mary and me, when we came across to him and Brother John, the Dr, who soon after followed. Probably you remember Peter, a small, pretty, black-eyed boy, your school-fellow once for a while. He is now grown an immense tower of a man, many feet in girth about the stomach part and with three chins, an altogether mountain of a man, but still active, very opulent and held in immense respect by Kirkcaldy and neighbourhood. He lost both his brothers2 years ago, who were busy and successful manufacturers in the steps of their Father; and Peter, left alone, has inherited them all; and has nothing to do with his great wealth, but lay it out, as he assiduously does, in works of benificence and general utility all round. Our old lodging in the Kirkwynd is standing precisely as it did, but nearly all the population of the place has vanished that were alive when we two knew it. I did not go inside our old lodging house, some subaltern respectable kind of man appeared to be living in it; but I recoiled at the many memories it would have called up in me. Kirkcaldy itself has grown twice as big but chiefly by widening itself and has still the old physiognomy. Far more manufacturing industry, perhaps double or treble what it had in our time. Peter drove us about at a great rate, far and wide at least as far as St. Andrews and Queensferry, but to me as was natural at my age, it was a sorrow rather, at least what enjoyment it offered was drowned in sorrowful memories suggested. The people seemed exceedingly good to me, so far as we had any intercourse with them, and I did with difficulty get a little bathing of which I was in quest. On the whole I dont feel as if I could go again. — The other day I had a visit from James Currie (Sandy Currie's3 Son) who had been home on visit from the Isle of France; chiefly for the sake of his eldest Sister, who is falling into

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loss of memory and, I think, of health otherwise; and whom he wished to see once again in this world. He is a clever hardy fellow of 60; of much breeding and accomplishment, compared with any of the Curries we used to know. His brother John, whom doubtless you also recollect has been for many years, a peaceable nonentity at Newfield, living with his Sisters there, quite under their control; a tall ladder of a fellow, I think an inch or two beyond his Father; not quite a fool to speak to, nor indeed perhaps internally a fool at all, but reduced to zero by the habit of drink he had got into; — and is now kept out of by rigorous tutorage in the nearly cutting off of the cash-supply altogether. I think they give him one glass divided into two at two different hours of the day, and he goes to bed at nine o'clock at night, and eats his meals in total silence. "Poor Currie, after all" as the Dr is in the habit of saying. But enough of all this clatter, dear Brother; which however I think you will not altogether dislike, tho' the interest you take in it will have its mournful side withal. I have been printing some trifling things4 since New Year's day of which you shall by and by have a copy. The chief portion of them relates to Knox and his Portrait, but really the whole affair is of no moment at all, and the use of it to myself is that it satisfies my mind a little and keeps me from utter idleness, which is unsuitable for all mortals so long as the gift of life is left at all. Here has an interruption come, dear Brother and I must close more abruptly than I counted upon doing. My faithful and loving regards are with you all, from yourself downwards. Write me soon, some of you. God's blessing be with you, one and all, now and forever more. Your ever affectionate Brother T. Carlyle 1. On the last day of August, after he and Mary had first visited Lady Ashburton at Kyleakin, Skye, and then Edinburgh. 2. Patrick Don Swan had had six brothers — Thomas, William, Alexander, Robert, David, James — and one sister, Sophia. 3. See Letter 82. 4. "The Early Kings of Norway," Fräsers Magazine, 1 1 N.S. (January, February, March 1875), 1-26, 135-155, 273-288; and "Portraits of John Knox," Fraser"s Magazine, 1 1 , N.S. (April 1875), 407-439. They are republished as The Early Kings of Norway: Also an Essay on the Portraits of John Knox (London, 1875), and in CME, V, 201-310, 313-367.

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268.

5 Cheyne Row, Chelsea 15 Feb. 1876 My dear Brother, It is a long time since you have heard anything direct from me; indeed I more and more have given up the practice of writing altogether, my poor old hands quite refusing to serve me in that matter; and the business even by dictation becoming more, and more unpleasant and unsatisfactory to me. But you may depend upon it, dear Brother, there are few days in which you are not vividly present to my thoughts; and especially since that bodily disorder fell upon you, I and all of us, are anxious and interested about you. I figure you painfully as held down by your bodily suffering and imprisoned in the house, under the fierce Canadian winter; and often and often ask myself how my poor old Alick is getting on, oppressed with burdens, from which even I am comparatively free. God be with him and assist him, is all I can say to myself! Winter agrees very ill with myself; and we have had rather an ugly time of it since the end of November last, snows and frosts always coming on us now and then, the latest of them hardly over even now. Your cold I figure to myself as far sharper and severer; but on the other hand you[r] sky is oftenest perfectly free; and you have the blessing of pure light in abundance, which many times [is] wanting here. The boys are very good in writing to us, especially Alick, whom we much thank, and beg to continue the charitable process. His promotion and well doing in his new place is the best tidings we have had from Canada for a long while. Tom, also, wrote to me a clear and kind Letter several months ago; him also thank from me. Good be with them all, poor young fellows; and may their life be worthy of the honest name they carry. I am thankful to Heaven that this implies what can be called a victorious future for them. Along with this, or perhaps a day or two before you will receive from the Bank a document bearing Adamson1 of the British Linen Co's signature for the amount of