January-July 1842

The Collected Letters, Volume 14


TC TO JANE WELSH CARLYLE ; 28 March 1842; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18420328-TC-JWC-01; CL 14: 99-100


Templand, Monday, 28 March, 1842—

My dear Wife,

As you will hardly hear from me tomorrow, seeing I have to go down to Dumfries, and the next day (Wednesday then) is also uncertain, I will still send a line tonight. Your Letter of this morning is far from cheering; I see you are still very poorly, and the weather does not allow you to get out. I wish I could change the weather; I wish I could do anything to assuage your sick feelings a little either from without or from within! Alas, I can do nothing: a silly word or two scribbled on paper, that is all I can manage for you at present. It rains here today again, and the whole world is dreary: Courage, we must rouse ourselves against dispiritment, and refuse to give way to sorrow! Sorrow is a disease; we are to work and not to sorrow.

At Thornhill where I spent this forenoon I strove to make out something. M'Caig is to get me a new complete list of everything here (he already took one as an official appraiser, which is gone to the tax-office); I will then eliminate from it all the articles that are to be kept, and so be ready for the Auctioneer, whom perhaps I shall still call upon tonight. M'Caig is a useful respectable kind of man. He will be useful to me in settling (about grates and other fixtures) with the pig Jardine,—poor pig! I have not yet got any formal settlement about the House itself, till the Duke's answer to my Memorial come; but I can afford to waste no more time with their babbling. The Letter-cutter is also to come over tonight to take my final instructions. I will attend to Mrs Black and the Cow.— After business done, I called on the Russells: Mrs R. is a good woman, her old Father a man I like much: his old eyes were full of tears today as he spoke of one that is gone. “A generous-hearted woman, Sir; one that struggled always to be doing kindness.” The faces of Margaret Hiddlestone and of these good people are among one's chief consolations in think1 of her latter months here.

Poor Emerson's Letter too brings bad news; he has lost his eldest child, a very fine boy of five years. His calm speech on it is full of pathos.2 His Letters bring bills for me equal to £56 and odd:—money seems very mean in presence of great sorrow.——— John's Note which came this morning I enclose, as the envelope will hold it: he sent a dozen of cigars along with it. His account of you is far from satisfactory to me.3 Adieu, dearest; take care of yourself, take courage, and sink deep into your own soul and you will there find comfort: deep in our souls is God.——— Yours ever affectionate T. Carlyle