TC TO MARGARET A. CARLYLE ; 26 November 1847; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18471126-TC-MAC-01; CL 22: 168-169
TC TO MARGARET A. CARLYLE
Chelsea, 26 Novr, 1847
My dear Mother,—Here is the bit of a Paper on Oliver, of which you have heard so many hints.1 There is a copy of the Miscellanies gone for you too; but I think I will make them keep it at Dumfries till they get it bound. And so enough of Books.
We have an exceeding puddle of a day, our fine fresh weather having all melted into mud and rain this morning. I am for the Country for a walk today, in my dirty clothes, since all is dirt. Moreover very little time is left me; for I have sat all the morning away, over Books.— Jane, tho' confined to the house these two days by the mud, is pretty well; busy just now with tailoring a little. I saw Jack yesterday, and only saw him: he was making homewards in haste, from the Library; he is very busy, and I daresay much happier than in former times. He takes a terrible hold of his work; and will not slight it on any account; which surely is a laudable feature of him. Our Parliament has begun again;2 but they are not likely to throw much light on anything human or divine; so we do not as yet heed them. They are like to have a winter of it,—they that take charge of “governing” this country! A good deal of sickness, we hear, begins to shew itself in these parts; Ireland is full of starvation and murder; and in England all is locked up for want of money. Happy for us that we have no general charge to take of all that; but can sit quiet in our own little cells!— One of our neighbours here was kicked to death by a wild horse he had; it attacked him in the stable one night: he was a horse-fancier; an extensive Coal-merchant, not a poor man.3 His eldest son is since dead of fever.
I am puddling away amid my abstruse affairs here; it will be a good while, I believe, before you hear much of me in print. But I ought not to be idle; nor do I mean it— Jamie had a Letter from me, about Satter, the other day: I scarcely hope much good will come of that affair; however, let us see it handsomely to the end.—— — Dear Mother, I am growing rather impatient to hear some little word of you again: How are you? How do you resist the dark season? I wish I knew!— The Paper is done, and the weight will admit no more. Blessings with you all. / T. Carlyle