The Collected Letters, Volume 26


TC TO JOHN A. CARLYLE; 18 October 1851; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18511018-TC-JAC-01; CL 26: 211-212


Chelsea, 18 Octr, 1851—

My dear Brother,

Your Letter has come this morning from Dumfries.1 The day before yesterday I paid the Watchmaker your account, and now enclose his receipt. I have only a minute snatched from the whirl of hurries; therefore must be brief.

These last two or three days I have been continually bustled, sending off “Copies” of the new Volume:2 I hope I am now rid of it! The small incessant bother I have had with that affair since the first of it, now amounts to a very considerable sum. I sent off one Copy, by post, to Alick; I had written him a long Letter the week before. Books go now to Canada, just as they do within Britain,—only you pay 1/ if under a pound weight, 2/ if under two, and so on. Remember this; it may be useful on occasion.— — Review Chapman3 came here one day, urgent for an Article, and looking rather wide-mouthed; he got none, nor is like to get any. I find in the Eclectic and various other dirty little Reviews and Magazines I have had shoved under my nose in these days, a curious aspect of things in reference to myself,—all my miserable little “Advanced-Liberal” and other enlightened quondam [former] “disciples” risen into a state of dreadful rebellion (owing to Niggers, ashes of Extinct Socinianism, postponement of the Millenium &c &c), and decided to be my disciples no longer! À la bonne heure [well and good]. That was quite a volunteer process, my darlints [darlings]; and I do not remember that I ever got sixpence by the business!— Truth to say, this world seems wholly run mad at present; considerably madder than usual, in all corners of it where the eye can reach. I wish I had fairly got another Book fixed upon; for the day declines rapidly, and if one can get a little work done before nightfal, it will be well. That, I perceive more and more, is the sum-total of all the good I shall ever get of the affair, try how I may.— Thackeray was here last night; he is going to Edinr to lecture in December, then to America (“to send round the hat”), is meanwhile writing an illustrious Novel:—“poor fellow, after all!”4 A blockhead from Girvan, ugly as an Ayrshire swine,—some kind of heterodox Free-Kirker,5—stumbled in, the other night, ready to fall into my arms,—ach Gott! But the “Exhibition” is now done; and we have only the miraculous Kossuth to stand “for about ten days.” Allah Kareem [God is generous].— — How does my poor old Mother stand this raw-frosty weather? The good old Mother, oh be good to her!— I send my blessing to you all. Yours ever

T. Carlyle