candlestick

August 1846-June 1847


The Collected Letters, Volume 21


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TC TO JANE WELSH CARLYLE; 8 September 1846; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18460908-TC-JWC-01; CL 21:47-48.


TC TO JANE WELSH CARLYLE

Dundrum, 8 Septr, 1846—

O my dear Jeannie, Jeannie, I am terribly ill off, and wish well I were beside thee at home again,—as by Heaven's blessing I shall before long be! I am tired to death with talking and being talked to; have caught some cold, cannot sleep, am in the middle of confusions,—“surrounded by a friend (or two)”! We had a large party here last night; Young Ireland almost in mass, and one Carlton (a Tale writer, a genuine bit of ould Ireland),1 and we talked, and dined, and drank liquids of various strength, and in spite of the profound quiet I could not sleep, and felt myself aweary, very weary! And have still another night and day of it before me, and a dinner at Mitchell's this day, and young Irish ladies of genius to see—Ach Gott! But tomorrow (Wednesday) Evening, I do take flight, get on board the Liverpool Steamer; and on Thursday morning am within 7 hours of you again. It will be a while I hope before there come any more travelling for me: it may be profitable, but pleasant it by no means is. But I did see Dan yesterday in his green Cap, the Prince of Humbugs; Conciliation Hall and other unforgettable sights I have seen: of which there will be speech when we meet.

Whether to go along by Manchester, and carry it too with me, or to hasten off direct by Liverpool, home as fast as I can fly,—that must depend on the turn this cold takes; I rather think it cannot easily mend before that date. But you shall hear; I will write before that:—or if I write nothing, consider only that I have been hustled out of it by one confusion or another; and that before long I will appear in person to give account of my ways. Meanwhile you have written for me to Liverpool? Take care of your Little Self for my sake; and be good to me, be not estranged and bad!

Duffy is the hospitablest of landlords; this is quiet country too, and a strange half-interesting Irish scene of things: one might do better in it if one had not cold, if one could sleep. “Tare and ages!”2 Ah me!— Adieu, Dearest; Heaven send me soon home.

Ever yours

T. Carlyle