candlestick

April 1849-December 1849


The Collected Letters, Volume 24


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TC TO JANE WELSH CARLYLE; 4 July 1849; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18490704-TC-JWC-01; CL 24: 97-98


TC TO JANE WELSH CARLYLE

Imperial Hotel, Dublin / 4 july 1849—

No Letter, alas,—or none from my own little Woman! But I console myself with imagining that you got home too late on Monday afternoon, and did not know of the second or morning post, which quits Chelsea till 8 at night, and Sloane Square and any part of paved London till early next morning, arriving here in the afternoon some thirteen hours afterwards. So I must wait, wait in patience.

Duffy came punctually last night, assisted me to arrange my Dublin introductory Notes, so that I may deliver them all in one journey of a Car,—in about two hours, he thinks. I also gave him the other Letters home, that by studying the Addresses, he might say a little more nearly what he could advise as to routes.— Address you to me while I remain in Dublin, “Imperial Hotel, Sackville Street”; that will be better than “Post-Office,” and I find I shall decide on continuing here during my short stay. Really, Dear, I had next to nothing else to tell thee but this: “Imp. Hôtel instead of Post-Office.”

For you would infer from that what next follows: That I slept last night (Thank God!)—and find myself in general well situated here. The people,warned indirectly thro' Fitzgerald I presume,—seem aware of my high quality here; and do their very best to use me handsomely! Duffy told me the Head Waiter himself had a touch of the Hero-worshipper in him for “Thomas Cyarloil!”— So be it, this once: they have put me into their quietest room; have brought in a kind of cloakpin (to hang coats upon), promise to bring a tub or hip-bath, in short will do the impossible to make me happy. A special valet starts up whenever I ring, and with a high Irish accent, flings himself as it were at my feet, ready to do all things from murder to cheese-toasting on my behalf. Might I not go farther, and fare worse?— It was a blessed luxury to lie down yesternight (towards 1 o'clock) in clean sheets in a right Christian bed: I slept like a stone till towards six; then rose (burning), smoked, washed or spunged in a kind of bidet (poor substitute for my tub); then to bed, cool enough, and gradually slept again above two hours more. Great work, you perceive.

And now, after half a word, about the new address, to my Mother again, let me out—with my cards and fly or car,—close car for it falls an occasional scud of rain. Dublin is beautiful; but it is idle; not one waggon, or business-looking cart have I yet seen; only one gentleman's carriage, with two gig-looking ditto; the vehicles otherwise are mere cars, trucks and trashery of that nature. Sackville Street is broad, high and really splendid, but in population does not equal S. Bridge Street Edinr.— Fitzgerald had a letter for me this morning; and his Aunt, from Kildare,1 already writes inviting me to her house there. You shall have the Letter itself soon. God forever bless thee, Dearest.

T. Carlyle