candlestick

April-December 1844


The Collected Letters, Volume 18


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TC TO MARGARET A. CARLYLE ; 14 June 1844; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18440614-TC-MAC-01; CL 18: 65-66


TC TO MARGARET A. CARLYLE

Chelsea, 15 [14] june, 1844 (Friday Evening).

My dear Mother,

I lose not a single moment in forwarding you this Letter of Alick's, which I know you have been so long impatiently expecting. It came half an hour ago, by our six-o'clock delivery; and now I will put it in to be off tomorrow morning, that you may find it lying as you go to the Preaching on Sabbath; it will be a very glad morning's salutation to you, will it not!

You see you were wrong, dear Mother; and Jamie and I were right,—as we generally are, in arguing with you! Alick had been writing at the appointed time; but “the Mail went off too early” &c &c.— He has no bad news, none that we can call bad, to send us: the two bairns, Tom and Jane have got that Country disease, the ague, poor little things;—but they make light of that, as he once told us before, in the New Country; we hope they will soon get thro', and be better seasoned against ailments in future perhaps. He has not got any place yet; but is, it seems, in treaty for one: this he has perhaps already got,—I on the whole wish he may. At worst, he has leisure and scope now to choose.— I find it a very sensible Letter this that poor Alick writes; if he were once fixed on his own soil, and saw but a bed of potatoes springing up for him, he would begin to be much happier.

By this same post I have a Note from Jack, who is at a place called Pilmore House near Darlington (not many miles south of Newcastle): he says he means to be with you “early next week.” His host is very kind to him; a worthy Mr Rainie whom he knew in Italy:1 he himself is very well; and will tell you his news, by word of mouth, soon, I hope.—

We here continue in our usual state; I still busy, and not entirely making no progress. The weather is droughty to excess, but very clear and pleasant otherwise; a strong wind blowing now, night and day, from the west. It promises always rain, but none except mere spittings falls, which are licked up again in half an hour, for the heat also is very great. The hay crop is totally a failure; I saw men mowing today,—such swaths as I have seldom seen before. The Parks very generally are getting altogether brown: the “green” in our Garden has gone all to powder under our feet.— — Dear Mother, send me word that you are well, if you can! No more; but regards to Isabella and Jamie, and blessing on you all.— Your affectionate Son, T. Carlyle

I write a word to Jack; telling him that Alick's Letter is come;—that you expect him soon. You may send the Letter on to Jean, I think; with instructions to have it back again directly for Jack.