candlestick

July 1836-December 1837


The Collected Letters, Volume 9


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TC TO JOHN A. CARLYLE; 3 April 1837; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18370403-TC-JAC-01; CL 9:182-183.


TC TO JOHN A. CARLYLE

Cheyne Row, Chelsea / London, 3d April 1837—

My dear Brother,

Here after rather more delay than I expected, comes off the Printed stuff you bargained for. The first Volume perfect; all but the last sheet, of which I have been obliged after long soliciting to go this day and take a half-corrected revise, ugly but readable: this and all the other horrid blotches of Proofsheets which I have been able to rummage out of this closet. The whole flanked by your Copies of Mirabeau and the Necklace. I send it to Cavaignac tel quel [just as it is]. I have missed one opportunity to Paris, waiting on that miserable Printer Moyes; and I will not miss another. It seems to me very doubtful whether after all, either it or this will ever get fairly into your hands: however I will do my part in it, and hope better things tho' I thus speak.1 Send me a Diario with three strokes, if you do get it.

This time four weeks, I must have delivered my first Lecture. I sit quaking when the thought of it comes into my head; but quite unable to help myself, being kept in such a state of confusion and Press-correcting. We shall see what will become of it. A man usually does get thro' one way or other.

Poor Jane since I wrote has been very ill. She was sick as I told you the day I wrote; a third attack of that Influenza. But she grew ever worse; we were obliged to call in a Doctor (one Morrah from Sloane Street, the Sterlings's Doctor, a skilful-looking little elderly man); he looked rather grave over the business, did not like the cough; and I, reflecting on the tear and wear of the last five years, began to get really alarmed, and dejected: however, after five nights there did come a little sleep; and all began gradually to get better. Mrs Welsh to whom I had written did not send an answer, but came herself literally by return of Post; and has been here since Saturday morning. With the summer before us, it is to be expected that we shall still do well. Jane hitherto does not stir out of bed; but the cough is almost gone; the strength returning; all in a hopeful way. A hopeful way, alas, only for this once! The system of life is evidently much shaken with her; and she will require to be careful, and to have more care taken of her.

I got your money, and sent off a hundred and twenty pounds of it to Dumfries as directed. This day I wrote to Jean and Mother announcing that I had done so. There have no news come since I addressed you last; except the usual silent indications that all is in statu quo. With so little confidence of ever getting to actual audience of you, this scribble will not prolong itself. I am weary, and disgusted, with these sheets and with most things. No Johnson could be come at.2 I have two Pamphlets of Maurice's which I send to Herr Bunsen3 with my kind regards. I have not read them; I read the forerunner of them: a burble [tangle] of hair-fine wiredrawings, altogether unedifying to me. I long to hear from you. Good be ever with you, dear Brother!

T.C.