candlestick

April-December 1844


The Collected Letters, Volume 18


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TC TO JANE WELSH CARLYLE ; 10 July 1844; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18440710-TC-JWC-01; CL 18: 119-120


TC TO JANE WELSH CARLYLE

Regent Street (Nickisson's)1 Wednesday 10 july, 1844—

Alas, my poor little Goody, it is just as I thought! For God's sake keep yourself quiet, take nothing but thin food, no strong drink whatever, take physic even,—and on the whole tell me tomorrow that you are better, that you are well among these good people! At any rate do not neglect to tell me how you are, whether better or worse;—and thank Mrs Paulet a thousand times from me for putting you into a quiet warmed room, and leaving you alone. It is wise a thing as she could do, and stamps her at once for a rational humane woman.—

But why do I write here? Indeed it was simply thus: Today before one o'clock, the little Tick2 Milnes came rolling down; was by Helen's good judgment admitted; and so my morning's work was abruptly over. Talk, talk,—well enough at a right hour! I decided before long on sallying out: the little villain has taken me to Westminster Hall Cartoons,3 walked me up and down; and now it is close on 4 o'clock, and if I go home there will be no letter at all,—and you in your sore-throat condition may be vaixed. That is it: however, I need not continue writing here; the indispensable was to tell you that nothing is wrong but your own sore-throat in our little kingdom.——— I had got a packet of things at home; several Letters, none of moment,—or if there be you shall see them tomorrow.

I have likewise asked Nickisson since I came here, What is become of Geraldine's Manuscript?4 He answers me, The Ms. itself is in Sussex (in the hands of some Mysterious Unknown); the decision has not yet arrived, but is daily expected, and shall be communicated straightway.— My Parliament Journals which he was binding, are promised me tomorrow?

Can you sing at all, or will you, any of your at Seaforth? I have got a Song of my own set to music, “a trio,”5parbleu [forsooth]!

On the whole, I will end, Dearest; for why should I scribble more in such a posture? The poor Goody's cold, her sore throat; tell me it is better, and all will be right again. Adieu Dearest; blessings ever with thee.

T.C.