The Collected Letters, Volume 13


TC TO JANE WELSH CARLYLE ; 24 July 1841; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18410724-TC-JWC-01; CL 13: 198


Scotsbrig, Saturday Night [24 July 1841]. / (late)

My dear Jeannie,

Here is your second Note; for which, as well as for the other, many thanks You do not say whether you got mine or not; but I conclude there is no doubt.

Today, ever since 3 in the morning, I am decidedly out of order (Castor in me &c, without any effect,—a bad outlook for this night!)—and for anything I can yet see it may chance to prove rather a bad business for me, that of driving even to Dumfries and back again. Especially as there is, at bottom, no need of it. If you do not see me on arriving at Dumfries, you have only to continue in the same Coach some eleven miles farther, and be set down “at the Flosh Toll-bar,” or rather a hundred yards beyond it, which is Austins yett [gate]: there, if able to crawl I will be, or if not I some to receive you, and the Gig to Newby will be in readiness. It seems clearly the best place. Your Coach stops about a quarter of an hour at the King's Arms Inn: during this interval if you do not dine with the others as is very unlikely you may run over to Jean's,1 and explain why I am not there.— To avoid all uncertainty, I will conclude by undertaking not to be at Dumfries: so you may engage from Thornhill at once all the way to “the Flosh Bar” (7 miles on this side of Annan), and then there will be no anxiety about your “place” &c at Dumfries.

If by some unexpected chance (bad headache &c) you should even fail us on Monday, I will go to Newby myself,—very desolate, I do suppose,—and on Tuesday (the hour is about 4½ p.m. I believe) there will again be I and a Gig at Austin's for you,—or 100 yards beyond that same Flosh Bar above spoken of. The name of Austin's farm is Gill (hard g). Is not this enough?

Writing is making me horribly sick; I have had one of the ugliest days, but passed it happily all alone,—and done less mischief than usual.

Good night, poor Goody. You will come on Monday now, in spite of that unexampled toleration I give you? Good night.

Yours ever /

T. Carlyle