candlestick

October 1831-September 1833


The Collected Letters, Volume 6


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TC TO LEIGH HUNT; 20 November 1832; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18321120-TC-JHLH-01; CL 6:265-266.


TC TO LEIGH HUNT

Craigenputtoch, Dumfries / 20th Novr 1832—

My Dear Sir,

I sent you a little Note,1 by some conveyance I had, several months ago; whether it ever came to hand is unknown here. We learned soon afterwards, from a notice in the New Monthly Magazine, that you were again suffering in health.

If that Note reached you, let this be the second, if it did not then let this be the first little Messenger arriving from the Mountains to inquire for you, to bring assurance that you are lovingly remembered here, that nothing befalling you can be indifferent to us.

Being somewhat uncertain about the Number of your House, I send this under cover to a Friend who will punctually see that it reaches its address. If he deliver it in person, as is not impossible, you will find him worth welcoming: he is John Mill, eldest son of India Mill; and, I may say, one of the best, clearest-headed and clearest-hearted young men now living in London.

We sometimes fancy we observe you in Tait's and other Periodicals. Have the charity some time soon to send to a token of your being and well-being. We often speak of you here, and are very obstinate in remembering.

I still wish much you would write Hazlitt's Life. Somewhat of History lay in that too luckless man; and you, of all I can think of, have the organ for discerning it and delineating it.

As for myself I am doing little. The Literary element is one of the most confused to live in, at all times; the Bibliopolic condition of this time renders it a perfect chaos. One must write ‘Articles’; write and curse (as Ancient Pistol ate his leek2); what can one do?

My wife is not with me today; otherwise she would surely beg to be remembered. You will offer my best wishes to Mrs Hunt, to Miss, and the little grey-eyed Philosopher who listened to us.3

I asked you to come hither and see us, when you wanted to rusticate a month. Is that forever impossible?

I remain always, / My Dear Sir, / Yours truly & kindly /

T. Carlyle.