July 1836-December 1837

The Collected Letters, Volume 9


TC TO JOHN STUART MILL; 22 February 1837; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18370222-TC-JSM-01; CL 9:155-156.


Chelsea, Wednesday Night [22 February 1837]—

My dear Mill,

Two days ago I undertook to write to you about that Article of Hunt's: I have not had time till now.

Hunt has carefully studied his Lady Mary; has marked it and meditated it; but not yet put pen to paper. It is of considerable moment to him that he get published this Number (at least that he get paid this Number). I told him my impression was that your rule did not admit of anything being given in to the Printer after the 12th of March. Hunt can be ready at the 12th of March: at the 1st of March he cannot be ready. His Article he cannot yet guess at in regard to number of pages; but he thinks it will not be a short Article;—it shall not be longer than there is good interesting stuff to carry him.

On these data I write to you, that taking them into estimate, and predicting from them, you may help so far as possible to spare the worthy man from disappointment,—which lying unprinted always is, and will be to him more than to another. His address is 4. Upper Cheyne Row, Chelsea. Shall he get ready for the 12th, with some assurance that you will be ready for him then? Or were it better that he delayed altogether till next No? If you do not like writing to him, write to me and I will communicate it.1

The sheets of the First Volume of that F.R. will probably be ready for you in about a fortnight: surely not sooner. Our second Printer has not “the identical sort of types” &c &c: I have not seen the mark of his existence yet.

The Copies of Mirabeau had come about the time you wrote, tho' I could not get to see for some days after, and they were not sent hither. They were just in the right season; a baker's-dozen of them: they are now all travelling on their various highways; and we happily have done with them.

I went to Hume's Commemoration of “Scotch Martyrs”2 at the Crown and Anchor;3 being urged by Cavaignac and Coy. Nothing like it has come across me. Cold, unfruitful, dead and low—as the Bog of Allen!4 C'est de la dernière platitude.5 Let me be forgotten forever rather than remembered in that manner. I came away before Warburton6 had got half way.

I have not Influenza but a kind of subaltern perennial-looking cold.

Yours always /

T. Carlyle.