candlestick

October 1856-July 1857


The Collected Letters, Volume 32


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TC TO JEAN CARLYLE AITKEN ; 17 February 1857; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18570217-TC-JCA-01; CL 32: 91-92


TC TO JEAN CARLYLE AITKEN

Chelsea 17 feby 1857 (10 p.m.)

Dear Jean,

Here has your Note with the Address just come. I have packed the little book for going tomorrow; so that little matter is settled.

The good people are welcome to what they mean to print. I think it must be a piece, pretending to be by a Yankee Dr, whh I furnished to some poor lady (a Niece of [L]ady Blessington's)1 to go into an “Annual”: I did no[t] hear of its ever being in a Newspaper;2—in the Annual I believe it was correctly printed: if your people have nothing but the Newspaper to go upon, it will nearly to a certainty be incorrect. They should make an exertion to get the Annual;—I quite forget its name, but of course the Newspaper will tell.— If they absolutely cannot get the Annual, their next-best plan will be to send me a Proofsheet; which they shall get back with the smallest possible interval.— Enough as to that also.

Jane is slightly if at all better; has a heavy frequent (but not deep or dangerous-sounding) cough; can[n]ot3 attain to any moderate capability of sleeping;—in short is very weak and feckless, tho’ not feverish or so miserable as you might fancy. I constantly hope she will rally soon now that the weather is changed for the better.

This ha[s] been a sad day with me,—work altogether spilt and gone to nothing: a day as if it had not been! I was in very bad fettle at starting; got into deeper and deeper confusion;—finally took to horse, and rode away from it all, (by poor Jane's advice) into the mild spring Day taking the shortest & quietest road into Country region. After dinner and return, being very weary, I fell asleep; tea once done, I set out again, on foot, a considerable round of walking;—and here I am, innocent of work for one day, and mournfully hoping tomorrow may be a little more propitious.

Good night dear Sister; I seal this up tonight, and it goes off with the Glasgow Book tomorrow

Yours ever affectely

T. Carlyle