The Collected Letters, Volume 13


TC TO JOHN A. CARLYLE ; 7 September 1841; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18410907-TC-JAC-01; CL 13: 248-249


Greta Bank, Keswick, 7 Septr / 1841—

My dear Brother,

No answer has come from you to my Keswick Letter; which a little disappoints me. Perhaps you only had no matches, and did not like writing till they came? I hope it will be nothing of a worse sort. One Letter of yours1 did come; in answer to my Scotsbrig one: I think it was the day after mine went away. I have had a notice that our Sister Jean's breast was in the way of recovery: nothing else out of Annandale; from my Wife, these four days, nothing at all. Perhaps I may still get a Letter from you today: in that case it will be sent after me to Scotsbrig. That, at present, is the best address I can give you.

Tomorrow morning it is fixed that I go off; an ugly journey from which my laziness repugns. I get to Carlisle about noon; after waiting there till five, a coach will take me up to Ecclefechan.

I have seen all the people I expected in this region, so far as that was possible; and can consider my poor purpose in it as accomplished: tant mieux [so much the better]. I was on the top of Skiddaw on Sunday.2 We have had some three dry days; one of them, yesterday, an almost preternaturally bright one. I was over at Hallsteads on Ullswater at the house of the elder Marshalls; but only for a night: our times did not suit for my ending with their house, and getting home by Penrith, as I at first proposed. We had a grand Mechanics-Institute soiree, last night, Whewell the huge Cantab lecturing to the rustics on astronomy! Some wild Cambridge students, at present rusticating here, let off rockets &c in honour of the occasion. The Monteagles are here, a great bevy of people are here; four besides myself are in this house. I am right glad that I have not to stand the racket much longer: but shall get to repose again in a little.

From Scotsbrig I will write whether I hear or not. Jane I suppose is getting impatient to be let away. I too must shrink away back to Chelsea before long. Every fox to its hole,—especially the sick fox. Adieu dear Jack.

—Your Affectionate Brother

T. Carlyle