The Collected Letters, Volume 28


TC TO JANE WELSH CARLYLE ; 28 July 1853; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18530728-TC-JWC-01; CL 28: 230-232


Chelsea, Thursday, 28th july [1853]

Alas, alas, dear Goody mine, I have made a sad useless day of it; and, with much fuss, have got no visible work done; nor is there any hope of you at the end of it. None! I slept much better; but am still, most abject, parboiled, in physical condition: and the failure of work, that is a thing to vaix anybody! Tomorrow you will write at any rate;—tomorrow you will perhaps come? I know what I wish, at any rate; but will say nothing.

Read Neuberg, pity his poor gums;1 let us pity our poor fat friend! Yesterday I got the hastiest Note from Lord An, enclosing the due “Draught,”2 but not deciding the other Neuberg question (about new Prints), and so have decided it myself,—and done a big mass of Frederic Messages besides to poor Neuberg; and wasted all my time in it, Eheu, eheu!— Clough is not coming tonight; “hopes” to see me at Addiscombe,—which I don't!

Fanny is getting ready a two-days sc[r]ag3 again: poor Fanny. One scrag more will set me out of her jurisdiction; and I shall cease to be an UNPROTECTED MALE. Thank God!— — The poor woman called today, and got her rent (£8.15)4; not till today.

We had a deluge of rain last night; and after some sluggish heat, it has begun sluggishly raining again. I heard nothing of it thro' the night, tho' Fanny reports that it awoke her (nothing of it had begun at 1 a.m.): indeed the Garden itself bears traces what a pour it was; the little Darling is washed quite flat in consequence.

I have got no farther notice from John: alas, I meant to have written to my poor Mother today—writing is all I can do!—but in this also I am foiled. Half an hour's talk (really not bad) yesterday with Donne: Stephen's son (the one that comes to us)5 has been dangerously ill, is getting better or got.— Town quite “empty,” so to speak.— God bless thee, Dearest!—

T. Carlyle

The “Books” were a Nigger Question and a Johnson;6 I have fired them off, at the rate of sixpence, in two other Irish directions (Lady Beecher7 one) and to Thomas Erskine; whh I reckoned rather a judicious move.

If you have nothing to do in Liverpool, why not (by aid of Alick and Sophie) buy me the desiderated stock-buckle,8—an honestly good stockbuckle (old kind, fangs on both sides of the tongue), or even two,—in steel, in silver, in any clean metal, ensuring good workmanship. By the present vile plan (of dirty black buckles that will not act) I save perhaps about sixpence in the course of my life, & get vexation to the value say of £60. “Cheap and nasty”: Ach Gott! (No never mind it, at all, at all! Nichts, gar nichts [Nothing, nothing at all]!—

T. C.