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To Jane Welsh Carlyle.

Scotsbrig: July 22, 1837. Many thanks, my dear Bairn, for thy two long lively letters, the faithful reflex of that cockney-land phantasmagory, all glittering and whirling with changeful sights and sounds, from opera soirées to madhouse cells, in which, however, this one satisfactory fact evinces itself, that my poor Jeannie is tolerably well in it and enjoys herself a little there. Suave mari magno. I, sitting here on the safe brink, have not had two gladder hours than thy two franks gave me. It is a pity, and perhaps not a pity, that so lively a pen did not turn itself to writing of books. My coagitor, too, might become a distinguished female. Nay, after all, who knows? But perhaps we are better as we are, 'probably just as well.' I know not why, did pure Utilitarian intellect rule us, I should write a letter to-day. A newspaper, and two strokes to indicate from the bottom of my ditch that nothing is wrong with me, and a third, if that were at any time needful, to indicate that I do with my whole soul wish you well-this really is the amount of all that, with quires of paper, I could write. I am doing nothing: witnessing nothing. My stupidity is great, my sadness, my tranquillity. Nothing more ghostlike diversifies anywhere the green surface of July in this world. But yet if to anybody on earth, then surely to thee, its partner of good and evil, does the poor worn-out soul of me turn. I will clatter and croak with thee for an hour. They say I am growing better, looking better. I do believe it is a kind of road towards betterness that I am travelling. This is the sum of all my news. Very generally the history of my day is somewhat thus: Breakfast shortly after such hour as I awake at, any time from seven till nine; shaving, dawdling, reading, smoking, till dinner about two or three; a ride on a little violent walking pony of Jamie's, oftenest to the top of Blaweery, where I have the benefit of total solitude, and a prospect of wide miles of sea and air; then tea, succeeded again by dawdling, smoking,

reading, and clatter, till porridge come, and eleven o'clock and sleep. No man need do less. I cannot be said to think of anything. I merely look and drowsily muse. When tide and weather serve, I ride down to bathe. Alick or Mary gets me up some victual, I smoke a pipe, and amble home again.

Spenser's knight, sorely wounded in his fight with the dragon, fell back under the enchanted tree whence flowed, as from a well,

A trickling stream of balm most sovereign.

Life and long health that gracious ointment gave,
And deadly wounds could heal, and rear again

The senseless corse appointed for the grave.

Into that same he fell which did from death him save.

What that tree was to the bleeding warrior, the poor Annandale farmhouse, its quiet innocence, and the affectionate kindred there, proved then as always to Carlyle, for he too had been fighting dragons and been heavily beaten upon. One more letter may be given, which explains the tone in which he had written to Chelsea.

To John Carlyle.

Scotsbrig: August 12.

Our good mother keeps very well here. She and I have been out once or twice for two hours, helping Jamie with his hay. She is 'waul as an eel' while working. She cooks our little meal which we eat peaceably together. She mends clothes, bakes scons, is very fond of newspapers, especially Radical ones, and stands up for the rights of man. She has toiled on into near the end of the second volume of the 6 French Revolution,' not without considerable understanding of it, though the French names are a sad clog. She will make it out pretty completely by-and-by.

Jane represents herself as better than she was, but far enough from well. I do not at all like the state she is in, but I cannot alter it. I try always to hope it will alter.

She writes in great spirits; but there is no fund of real cheerfulness. There is not even a serious melancholy visible. My poor Jane!

Cavaignac is angry with me for my treatment of the Sea-green man and impartialité generally. I take no side in the matter. How very singular! As to the success of the book I know almost nothing, but suppose it to be considerably greater than I expected. I understand there have been many reviews of a very mixed character. I got one in the Times' last week. The writer is one Thackeray, a half-monstrous Cornish giant, kind of painter, Cambridge man, and Paris newspaper correspondent, who is now writing for his life in London. I have seen him at the Bullers' and at Sterling's. His article is rather like him, and I suppose calculated to do the book good.

6

1 Robespierre.

CHAPTER V.

A.D. 1837-8. ET. 42-43.

Effects of the book-Change in Carlyle's position-Thoughts on the cholera-Article on Sir Walter Scott-Proposals for a collection of miscellanies-Lord Monteagle-The great world-T. ErskineLiterature as a profession-Miss Martineau-Popularity-Second course of lectures-Financial results-Increasing fame.

AUTUMN, as usual, brought back the migratory London flocks, and among them Carlyle. He found his wife better in health, delighted to have him again at her side, and in lightened humour altogether. She knew, though he, so little vain was he, had failed as yet to understand it, that he had returned to a changed position, that he was no longer lonely and neglected, but had taken his natural place among the great writers of his day. Popular he might not be. Popularity with the multitude he had to wait for many a year; but he was acknowledged by all whose judgment carried weight with it to have become actually what Goethe had long ago foretold that he would be a new moral force in Europe, the extent of which could not be foreseen, but must be great and might be immeasurable. He was still poor, wretchedly poor according to the modern standard. But the Carlyles did not think about standards, and on that score had no more anxieties. He had no

He was

work on hand or immediate desire for any.
able to tell his brother John that, 'having no book to
write in the coming year, he would not feel so fretted
and would fret no one else: there would be a cheer-
fuller household than of old.' An article on Sir
Walter Scott had been promised to Mill, and a sub-
ject had to be thought of for the next Spring's
lectures. Both of these would be easy tasks. Mean-
while, he discovered that his wife was right. 'He
was to be considered as a kind of successful man.
The poor book had done him real service in truth,
had been abundantly reviewed and talked about and
belauded; neither, apparently, had it yet done.' He
sent to Scotsbrig cheery accounts of himself. I find
John Sterling here,' he said, and many friends, all
kinder each than the other to me. With talk and
locomotion the days pass cheerfully till I rest and
gird myself together again. They make a great talk
about the book, which seems to have succeeded in
a far higher degree than I looked for. Everybody is
astonished at every other body's being pleased with
this wonderful performance.'

To Margaret Carlyle, Scotsbrig.

Chelsea: October 9, 1837.

People all say,' How much better you look!' The grand improvement I trace is that of being far calmer than I was, the immense fuff having subsided into composure. . . I have seen most of my friends that are here. All people are very good to me. Doubt not, dear mother, I shall be able to do better now, have a far better chance. My book has been abundantly reviewed, praised, and discussed. Fraser also tells me it is steadfastly making way. Also I must mention a strange half-daft Edinburgh gentleman that called here

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