TC TO JAMES CARLYLE, THE ELDER; 25 June 1824; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18240625-TC-JCE-01; CL 3:96-97.
TC TO JAMES CARLYLE, THE ELDER
Kew Green, Friday Afternoon [25 June 1824].
My dear Father,
I sent you off a letter two days ago by the post; not knowing when I might have an opportunity to send it free, and being apprehensive that you would be anxious touching my welfare in this strange country. It so happens that I got a frank last night: but I cannot let it go, without adding to the multitude of writings it contains a brief note inquiring more particularly after you, and begging to hear of you. I fear your crops have fared but badly since I went: I hear there has been a parching drought in Scotland ever since I left it. Strange that there should be such a difference! Here in London we have been deluged with rain: for the last two days it poured unceasingly. This morning it was fair; but now it seems about to recommence its drenching. What the aspect of the crops is here, it is impossible for me even to guess. There are literally no crops within many miles of London. The ground is in grass for the feeding of milk-cows and horses, and the making of hay. The hay crop seems to be very good; the people are just in the middle of it, and unless the weather mend it must be wo[e]fully spoiled. I delight to see the hay-makers, but I think pensively that last year I saw haymaking at Mainhill.
I find we are going to be somewhat more tolerably situated here than I anticipated. When once a person sits down, and gets himself fairly stationed, the meagerest establishment will be found to yield some entertainment: I now feel little tendency to remove from Kew; except that at Shooters Hill I should enjoy the society of Mrs Strachey who likes me, and whom I like. In other respects matters are pretty much upon a par. This place is quiet and pleasant; and solitude tho' irksome is become tolerable to me.
Edward Irving once of Supplebank, the Poyais Emigrator is here at present: he came in to call on Irving, a night or two ago, while I was there. The Knight of the Green Cross was looking somewhat blue upon the matter; yet he says he will stand it out and see the end of it. He expects a letter from some surveyor at Poyais, which he thinks will set all to rights. Tom of the Bank, his Brother, is with Macgregor at Paris; under the title of Baron [underscored twice] de—I forget what! He actually calls himself Baron, he Tom of the Ban[k]—Baron de Goosedubs!1
But I must finish for my paper [is at] an end. I beg to hear from you soon; and pray earnestly that you may all be well. I remain always My dear Father,
Your affe' Son, /