January 1835-June 1836

The Collected Letters, Volume 8


TC TO WILLIAM GRAHAM; 10 January 1835; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18350110-TC-WG-01; CL 8:5-6.


Cheyne Row, Chelsea, London, 10th Jan. 1835.

My Dear Friend,

Our Elections1 being concluded, and a frank attainable, I now send you this melancholy scrap of print. The Bookseller has kept his promise to the eye rather than to the hope: However such as I have you get, and will give it welcome. It stood beside some other stuff about poor Edward, written by Henry Drummond, or some one, which I thought you would care little for seeing.2 I send another for Mrs. Irving under cover to Scotsbrig: my Mother's one cannot go this time, owing to Post-office owners; for there is a letter from Italy too (wherein the Doctor, in perfectly good heart, makes honourable mention of you, and affectionate inquiry): my Mother gets no more paper than yourself; so hard are we run.

I toil night and day at that French Revolution; which I hope will amuse you for eight and forty hours by and by. If we live, you shall see it. My sole prayer is that it too were done: it is the hardest work (such an armful I take of it) I have had for long. The first Book or perhaps first volume (for I am thinking of three now) will be finished when you read this. Give me your Good-speed! Nay I know I have it, from the heart. “Girt with dark tempests,” says a German friend of mine, “or sailing thro' the serene blue, our Mother, old Earth, seen or unseen of the central Sun, holds on her equal way, and over as the day has finished the course: so be it with man, her child!3— Had the Earth lungs, a stomach, and were not boss [hollow], she would cough a little (peck [pech, or wheeze] a little)—in London fogs! However, I walk valiantly some two hours daily; and get along not so ill.

Politics run mountain-high: my own interest therein is as zero; but the prophecy I give is black. What were the wager that Wellington lived yet to lose his head? God help him,—and the rest of us.— Send me plenty of Annandale news: be of good cheer, and remember me!

Yours always,— /

(Signed) T. Carlyle.

Kind Newyear's regards and wishes to Mrs. Howatson,4 and Miss Grahame: may the worst of our years (above all, the wickedest of them) be done! Adieu!

I fell in singularly with Currie5 one day in the Pall Mall Picture Gallery:6 he seems a promising ingenuous youth, with much of his Mother in his face; a face I liked from very early days. He has since called; but I was out; and his card had no address on it: and now he is gone. Bonn is likely to be very useful to him.