The Collected Letters, Volume 12


TC TO ALEXANDER CARLYLE ; 17 February 1840; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18400217-TC-AC-01; CL 12: 50-51


Chelsea, 17 Feby, 1840

My dear Brother,

Alick Welsh's answer, about his address for the Tobacco, is come this morning. Their office, he says, is within not many yards of the place where the Steamers moor: he will with all readiness take charge of the Tobacco, and forward it straightway by the railroad.

Will you therefore get the thing despatched to Annan, with due Permit, and address (which I will give here) as soon as possible. As I have no means of paying Alick Welsh, I wish also you would pay it to Liverpool. I suppose a piece of white paper well wafered upon the gray, will be the best way of giving the address: the parcel will require a new address when despatched from Liverpool. I write you an address, and inclose it here:—unless you have some better way of managing it? As this Note will come on Wednesday, perhaps you will have a chance to get the thing sent off without delay on Thursday! Failing Thursday there is no such dreadful hurry; I think I can hold out yet two weeks good, or even more.— On the whole, my dear Brother, I will leave the matter with you; not doubting but you will manage it right kindly and well. I shall owe you many thanks when we settle accounts,—at our next meeting! Ah me!—

Jane is gone out today, in a sort of half-desperate determination, fog tho' it be; she will not stay prisoner of Mud Rain and Fog any more! This is the wettest spring hitherto I ever saw here; a very ugly spring indeed. Queen Victory has got her bit wedding over; the people are all accusing her, poor little dear, how she has quarrelled with her mother, openly insulted her; how she has done this and that!1 I am heartily sorry for her, poor little fool; but for the poor little fool's Twenty Millions of people I am infinitely sorrier. Bad days are coming, as I often spae [foretell].

I wrote to the Doctor on Saturday; for indeed directly after finishing your Note, it began to rain, and I could not get out. I send him the Examiner today; does he send it forward to Scotsbrig, it and the Courier.

These three nights I have had three longer sleeps than have been allotted me together these six months: great stupidity, a sort of fixed icy sadness, has been the immediate result; but it will undoubtedly do me good. Where is our good Mother now? Was she staying with Jenny for a day or two? Thank Heaven for the news you send me about her health.

We have nearly 2 volumes of printing done; there are still 3 to do. I wish often enough it were done! Not that it is great work,—far from it; but it keeps me in a kind of continual puddle [petty but hard work].—Good b'ye dear Brother!— Your affectionate

T. Carlyle