1824- 1825

The Collected Letters, Volume 3


TC TO MARGARET A. CARLYLE; 20 March 1824; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18240320-TC-MAC-01; CL 3:49-50.


35 Bristo-Street, Saturday. [20 March 1824]

My dear Mother,

In finishing Alick's letter, I did not think I should have any time to write you a single line: but on second thoughts, I have determined not to send away the package without one single sentence for you; knowing that even a sentence from my hand will be more welcome to you than nothing.

I intended to answer your part of a letter, which I received at Kinnaird; but this is not the time for doing it. I expect at any rate ere long to see you, to sit and talk with you, and have tea together in the small down the house1 at Mainhill, when we shall be able to talk this and a thousand other matters over at our leisure. I have never been half so well since I was there last time.

The Life of Schiller will ere long be printed in London: I told you already that I had some thoughts of making it into a book. The book I am engaged with here is not my own but a translation from the German: it is purely a money speculation. If it do not prosper, I shall get nothing, and lose nothing but my pains; if it do prosper, it may bring me in several hundreds of pounds. Time will try it all.

My health is not bad, as health usually goes with me. I think two months of riding on Bardolph would almost set me up again. I design to lose no time that I can help in trying. If I wait till the book is done, it will be April at soonest ere I come: but if I take it into my head, I can come off in two weeks. I advise you therefore to get the little room in order, and the tea-tackle brushed up, and all things put ready lest I take you unawares.

Above all, My dear Mother, let me desire you to get well and keep well yourself. Two sickly people are bad company for one another. Are you well? I never get any special account whether your health is good or not; only that you are “in the old way,” which I know too well was not a very good way.— Excuse my haste and incoherence; never was [man] so, hurried. You will hear from me again in a week or ten days after you read this: sooner, if I grow worse. Good night, My dear Mother!

I am always your affe son. /

Th: Carlyle