TC TO JANE WELSH CARLYLE ; 5 March 1842; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18420305-TC-JWC-01; CL 14: 57-58
TC TO JANE WELSH CARLYLE
Templand, Saturday 3½ o'clock [5 March 1842]—
My poor Jeannie,
I arrived here about noon; in such a condition as you may fancy me,—as sad a man, I suppose, as was within many miles of me. My notion was that first of all I would secure myself if possible three hours of privacy and sleep: but there is no sleep to be had; the Mundells came in before I had got clean clothes on,1 and there are to be Dr Russell and Mr Hunter of Morton Mill at dinner (to consult upon business indeed, if I had any wits left);2—so that on the whole you will expect nothing but a signature and token of arrival from me.
My Brother Jamie had been at the funeral; he waited me at the corner of James Aitken's street; James and he had both been there: this I was very glad of: they had sent my Mother an announcement, and Jamie without farther notice made ready and went. The only other piece of intelligence that gave me much satisfaction, was That they have buried her in poor Aunt Jeannie's grave:3 she died in your Mother's arms, as I always will remember: in death they have not been divided.
I find here a very kind but unfruitful Letter from poor Craik, which is not worth sending. Another, extremely brief, from my Brother John,4 falls under the same category.
Your good uncle I find has been extremely accurate in all his arrangements, and talks like one that would decidedly further the rational transaction of business. It was very wise to consult Hunter; but it would have been better had my head been in a sounder state.
Here is a Letter which seems to be from Jean; I send it without knowing what the contents are. I will attend to writing the Notes you wished by tomorrow's post.
A list of the people who attended the Funeral is here in a correct state; they have also (tho' not very legibly written) lists of the persons who had an announcement: these, I suppose, Helen,5 who is writing to you somewhere in the house, will send.
Adieu, Dearest, adieu; God comfort thee for in man there is no power of comforting.
Your affectionate /