candlestick

August-December 1842


The Collected Letters, Volume 15


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TC TO JANE WELSH CARLYLE ; 18 August 1842; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18420818-TC-JWC-01; CL 15: 27-28


TC TO JANE WELSH CARLYLE

Chelsea, 18 Augt, 1842—

Dear Goodykin,

Do not fret yourself writing Letters; entertaining to us as they are always, and the chief event of the day, we will not have them at the expense of plaguing you: write when you can; to enjoy the country and be well is poor Goody's work at present. She is indeed a “capital hand with the pen,” makes a letter out of mere Trostons and vacancies such as you see,—but let them come as free fruits, a pleasure to herself as well as me. And yet on whatever day you can contrive to write a bit of a word—!—

Yesterday there was hardly any event capable of record: I got myself half-roasted going to leave a card for “Lady Harriet,”1—who, to the immense relief of my pusillanimity, proved to be out. Cracked voices of Hawkers were proclaiming on the street a “massacre last night at Manchester”; which, tho' I did not believe it, sent me up to Nickisson's2 to see the Papers; there have been some five men shot mortally by the soldiers at Preston; but Manchester is getting quieter the business like to hush itself—tho' God knows into what ultimately.3

Helen's leg is fast mending, able to carry her triumphantly up stairs these two days; today she has clothes out, and asked me for more money to grocerize with: never mind her at all,—nor little Babbie either, who I do believe enjoys the degree of work she has. Did she tell you about her Stimabile dinner; how Maurice gallantly came down with her in a cab, and did not quarrel with. …4 pity “Cousin” is not here! Redwood is one of the politest of men;—but hard to keep in talk rather!

I do wish to Heaven the Calthorpe would give us that deserted Paradise; would let us secretly into it, and give it out still as a “deserted place.” If I could not write a good Book there, I see not where the thing need be tried.— But, Patience!

Vincent Hunt5 entered half an hour ago; the queerest little blackpale shadow of a Pontiff of Dwarfdom you ever saw. I shuddered with apprehension for my sovereigns:—it was only a volume of the Biog. Universelle.6

Well; adieu dear good Wifie. Be good to thyself, and love me, and be better when we meet!

Auf immer [For ever] /

T. C.

Thanks for the flower-petals: we have none here but one marigold.