sad and weary, all things bored me! Here at Chelsea, with my clever Jeannie for hostess, and some clever Mrs. Twisleton for fellow-guest, Sir George was reported to be charming and amusing at their little dinner, while I sat aloft and wrote. But not here could he amuse; not here, though his constant perfect goodness, and the pleasure he always expressed over me, were really welcome, wholesome, and received with gratitude. I had many invitations from him afterwards, saw him here annually once or twice; but never went to Thurso again; never could get going, had I even wished it more.

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Few letters went from me in that Thurso solitude, none that I could help. From my darling herself I seemed to receive still fewer than I wrote; the tediously slow posts, I remember, were unintelligible to her, provoking to her! Here is one, beyond what I could count on, come to me last week among four of my own, printed on approval,' in some memoirs of Sir George, which the relations have set a certain well-known Mr. James Grant upon writing! To Miss Sinclair's poor request, I said reluctantly yes-could not say no; corrected the five letters (not without difficulty); returned my own four originals; retained (resolutely) the original of this, and a printed copy as well as this. (December 13, 1869.)—T. C.

The letter from Mrs. Carlyle to Sir George Sinclair is not dated, so far as regards the year; but evidently follows close on the foregoing. It is felicitously playful in reference to her own husband. It is as follows:

5 Cheyne Row, Chelsea: August 1, 1860.

My dear Sir,-Decidedly you are more thoughtful for me than the man who is bound by vow to‘love and cherish me;' not a line have I received from

him to announce his safe arrival in your dominions. The more shameful on his part, that, as it appears by your note, he had such good accounts to give of himself, and was perfectly up to giving them.

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Well! now that you have relieved me from all anxiety about the effects of the journey on him, he may write at his own reasonably good leisure.' Only I told him I should not write till I had heard of his arrival from himself; and he knows whether or no I am in the habit of keeping my word. -to the letter.

A thousand thanks for the primrose roots; which I shall plant, as soon as it fairs! To-day we have again a deluge; adding a deeper shade of horror to certain household operations going on under my inspection (by way of improving the occasion' of his absence!). One bedroom has got all the feathers of its bed and pillows airing themselves out on the floor! creating an atmosphere of down in the house, more choking than even cotton-fuzz.' In another, upholsterers and painters are plashing away for their life; and a couple of bricklayers are tearing up flags in the kitchen to seek the solution' of a non-acting drain! All this on the one hand; and on the other, visits from my doctor, resulting in ever new com

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posing draughts,' and strict charges to keep my mind perfectly tranquil.' You will admit that one could easily conceive situations more ideal.

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Pray do keep him as long as you like! To hear of him in high spirits' and 'looking remarkably well' is more composing for me than any amount of

composing draughts,' or of insistence on the benefits of keeping myself perfectly tranquil.' It is so very different a state of things with him from that in which I have seen him for a long time back!

Oh! I must not forget to give you the kind remembrances' of a very charming woman, whom any man may be pleased to be remembered by, as kindly as she evidently remembered you! I speak of Lady William Russell. She knew you in Germany, ' a young student,' she told me, when she was Bessy Rawdon. She had a great affection for you, and had often thought of you since.' You were 'very romantic in those days; oh, very romantic and sentimental,' she could assure me! Pray send me back a pretty message for her; she will like so much to know that she has not remembered you with the reciprocity all on one side.'

I don't even send my regards to Mr. C., but

Affectionately yours,

JANE W. CARLYLE.

Oh

my

LETTER 219.

T. Carlyle, Esq., Thurso Castle.

5 Cheyne Row, Chelsea: Friday, Aug. 10, 1860.

dear! If all about feelings' be bad in

a letter, all about scenery and no feelings is a deal

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worse! Such a letter as that I received from you, yesterday, after much half-anxious, half-angry waiting for, will read charmingly in your biography! and may be quoted in Murray's Guide Book;' but for me, as one solitary individual,' I was not charmed with it at all! Nevertheless, I should have answered it by return of post, had I not been too ill for writing anything yesterday, except, on the strength of phrenzy, a passionate appeal to the ' retired cheesemonger,' about his dog, which, I am happy to say, like everything coming straight from the heart, went straight to the heart of the good little old cheesemonger. You will infer, from my going ahead against noises' on my own account, that the 'extraordinary disturbance of the nervous system,' which Mr. Barnes found me suffering under when he came, has not yielded yet to an equally extraordinary amount of composing mixture!' My sleep had been getting small by degrees, and beautifully less,' till I ended in lying awake the whole nights through! not what you call' awake,' that is, dozing; but broad wide awake, like a hawk with an empty stomach! Still the mixture was to be persevered in, nay, increased, and I was assured that it was doing me a little good,' so little I myself couldn't perceive it, even through the powerful microscope of my faith in Mr. Barnes! and, in spite of his assurance that

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home was the best place for me at present,' I had

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wild impulses to take the road' (like the Doctor,' and with the Doctor's purposelessness!). The night before last, however (Wednesday night), I fell into a deep natural sleep, which lasted two hours, and might have lasted till the masons began, but for cheesemonger's dog, which was out that night (bad luck to it!) on a spree! and startled me awake at three of the morning with furious continuous barking-just as if my head was being laid open with repeated strokes of a hatchet! Of course I slept no more;' and yesterday was too ill for anything except, as I have said, writing a wild appeal to the cheesemonger. I will inclose his comforting answer which he handed in himself an hour after. It will be comforting to you also, in reference to your own future nights.

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I have nothing to tell that you will take any interest in, except about the horse. He is still under the process of breaking,'1 poor creature! Isso nervous and resolute,' so dreadful resolute,' that the breaker can't tell how long it will take to get the better of him!' I must see Silvester to-day before writing to Frederick Chapman. I saw the poor horse three days ago, just coming in from the breaker's, like a horse just returning from the Thirty Years' War!' Poor beast! I could have cried for him

1 To run in harness; but he wouldn't-couldn't-though the bestnatured of horses, poor Fritz!