TC TO JANE WELSH CARLYLE ; 13 August 1842; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18420813-TC-JWC-01; CL 15: 12-13
TC TO JANE WELSH CARLYLE
Chelsea, Saturday [13 August 1842]
Here has my poor Dame's clever little Letter come to me; alas, perhaps too clever, I fear! Thanks to thee for it any way; it is a little picture—a thing worth reading!
Surely the revd Reginald Buller, tho' in the grave of revealed religion will have interest enough to silence two jackasses under his windows. Pray do pluck up a heart, and speak to him about them, if he have not already done it. Confound them, say I. My poor Goody will get quite wrecked by their braying: I of all mortals know best how to pity it. I shall be in real anxiety for Monday morning, to hear what has become of that. The thing would all do, otherwise, so well; I will try to hope that you get into sleep, but still with many misgivings. Cannot you close your windows, and try to open some door? Even suffocation is better than jack-asses.—
We go on here, in perfect composure; we had a long dose of Creek last night; Elizabeth1 was here this morning, apparently only for a minute. I have been very busy all morning, and have now no time left.
Yesterday I did not see Charles Buller; on arriving at Charing Cross I found the Parliament just then in its agonies, and that there was no chance of him at the Temple. I stept down rather, to look at the Queen for an instant.2 She did pass, she and Albert, looking very much frightened, red in the face; but none shot at the poor little thing, some even gave a kind of encouraging cheer. “No, me? I vont holler!” said some of the populace near me; neither did I holler at all.— From that I got to Mrs H. Taylor's,3 settled some poor Ghent businesses (of money I owed her brother, a book I owed the Captain,4 &c), and got home half an hour after my time. We walked a little before tea. Creek was very wearisome, forbade all reading. Today at six a villainous cock woke me,—and Helen spilt the coffee; but left enough for us two, and supplied herself with tea!— My dearest, what a wretched scrawl is this. But I can do no more. I will be ten times better to thee than before! Ever as I grow older I mean to grow better every way. Get thou well, and love me. Get well,—and sleep, sleep! God bless thee, Dearest.
I read most of your Letter to Jeannie,—except the Kiss—ach Gott, which I neither mean to read nor to execute!5