TC TO JANE WELSH CARLYLE ; 20 July 1844; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18440720-TC-JWC-01; CL 18: 150-151
TC TO JANE WELSH CARLYLE
Chelsea, Saturday, 20 july / 1844—
Little Dearie,— There is no event since yesterday,—if it were not the extraordinary kicking of Mazeppa1 during the night-watches; in spite of whom, however, I slept. I have seen no mortal since the “oald gentleman” (of five—and—twenty) yesterday;2 heard no news except those of Beggars on the Street, announcing that “Koind pipple, we have long been out of employment, and do not know where” &c &c. The arrival of your Letter is the principal event; and the partially succesful deciphering of one of Cromwell's. I ought to be in the Showerbath, and then swiftly out into the Sun, for the thunder has cleared the air, and all is bright today:—but I will write a word for Manchester Sunday nevertheless. You will hardly need any more, I suppose? Do not hurry till you are tired; but I flatter myself Manchester will soon tire you.
Go and see the Mill3 by all means;—highly proper! And see what you will bring away from it, you little goose! A sound of chaos dinning in your poor little ears. Take care, at least, not to hank any part of your apparel on their hooks or spindles, and get your own little person drawn in to be carded!—
Our little Dottle4, ‘a desultory widow’ in these times, is very busy cleaning today. She has had three sovereigns from me since you went; and represents her household accounts as being in the most liquid state, ready for your inspection. Of late days it rather seems to me, the “Numbers”5 are getting a shade more numerous. I know not that they do or think or imagine anything amiss; but the sound of them, an element not under my command, is more or less offensive to me. Were it not that Goody is returning to take the command, I would interfere with peremptory veto; at least, would insist on understanding it. “Who is that?” I said, the other night. “Ou, it's Sairey.” Sairey Gamp,6 thought I! “And who is Sairey?” Sairey was—Some well—known Entity, whom I had not and never shall have the slightest knowledge of.— On the whole, however, this poor little Totem of an Helen has behaved, I really do think, in the most unexceptionable manner.
A heroic Letter comes today from Dodds; he is actually coming to London, poor fellow; and I even augur well of him. A cheerful enthusiastic strength is in poor Dodds; and a heart as leal [honest] and wholesome as haver-bread.7 May the Destinies be kind to him here, poor creature!
Big bursten [bursting] London is getting emptier; thank Heaven. They will be all off, by and by; and then for a fling, under better auspices, at some bit of work! Anthony Sterling and his Wife are for the Cumberland Lakes, the Scotch Highlands, and I know not where. The news from Ventnor8 are represented as still entirely bad.——— Well, make my compliments to Geraldine and Mrs Darbyshire; take care of all delirium,—and come safe home to me soon, thou little unfortunate! Thy own Necessary Evil,
Addiscombe is off; I made my excuses yesterday. Too bilious for a brilliancy of that kind. And then on Monday have I not the Harmonious Blacksmith,—with a murrian9 on him!
Are you crossing over Chat Moss10 at this moment,—my poor little Goody!