The Collected Letters, Volume 11


JWC TO JANE WILSON ; 2 August 1839; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18390802-JWC-JWI-01; CL 11: 161-162


Templand Thornhill / Dumfries / [2 August 1839]

My dear Miss Wilson

A letter from me at this date, on a sheet of card paper, and only twopence to pay for it may well fill you with a certain degree of astonishment

The truth is I have received notice of a frank to London and of the arrival of three visitors within the same five minutes and this is a sort of compromise between the desired and the possible

To write without a frank, in the demoralized conditin [sic] which has been my general condition since I came hither, has seemed to me heretofore too strong a measure to venture on—only to be thought of under the increasing pressure of desire to know what you are doing, and if you ever think of poor me— My Husband I am sure you think of; for besides his superior merit you have his books and his d'Orsayfied likeness1 to refresh your memory—

Mrs Sterling2 has written to me but she tells me only of her own family—and Darwin also has written but he confines himself simply to his own ennui—of you I have not heard a word—now then, is the time to show yourself generous, to write me a long letter, and convince me that Reason has not fled out of the world after Justice—an idea one is apt fall into in this region—where the stupidity transcends belief.

The scenery however is enchanting for those who have eyes to see (mine are dim if not quite blind) and the roses so plentiful that I use them as pen-wipers— God bless you remember [me] most kindly to your Brother3

My Husband may write hi[s] compliments in his own hand; mine is growing illegible

Affectionately yours /

Jane Carlyle—

[TC's postscript]

In great pressure of Proofsheets and other rubbish I do write “compliments”; sorry that I have no time or means to write more. I am not well, today, or any day of late. The weather is not dusty; no, moisture enough! The people are dull as ditchwater,—and will not leave me alone, which is the sole blessing one craves of them. I think of running over into the still deeper solitudes of Annandale, and trying it there. It was with silent fields or even moon, with woods and running brooks, not with human blockheads that I wanted to keep company. Pity me, and remember me.———

Ever yours,