July-December 1855

The Collected Letters, Volume 30


TC TO JOHN A. CARLYLE ; 9 August 1855; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18550809-TC-JAC-01; CL 30: 19-20


Farlingay, Woodbridge, SuffolkThursday (9? Augt) 1855—

My dear Brother,

I came out duly yesterday,—in spite of very bad symptoms of weather, night of perfect torrents preceding my departure;—and, after the usual clangour and suffocation for about 3 hours, got safe to Ipswich; where the beneficent Fitzgerald was duly waiting for me with gig &c, tho' himself lame of a sprained ancle, and by no means sure of my coming that day. He is one of the best landlords anywhere to be fallen in with.

This is a pleasant fertile country, up and down, with woody fringings and wheat and turnips in abundance,—not quite unlike Annandale in general character, except that there is no rising of mountains in the distance nor any waste land, nor audibly running stream, near at hand. The physiognomy of the Country people really is good; very patient, very stout and honest and reasonable: no look of poverty but all the houses neat with hollyhock gardens and the common etcetera duly about them.

Fitzgeral1 here is with an old pair of farm-people,2 once dependants of his Father's, who occupy this old Farm-villa (rather in a dilapidated state) by way of farm house, and even a little farm at some distance; and are full of loyal attentions to “Mr Edward” or any one that belongs to him. I have got an excellent bedroom, best of the many rooms that are in the queer old rambling house: a glass-house on the lower story leans up against my gable; I am window, above that, from wall to wall (12 feet or more of more window); look out upon green pasture fields after the garden is; and see the Church Tower and chimney tops of Woodbridge well intermixed with trees about half a mile off towards the noon sun (if there were yet any sun!) Nothing can be quieter, more rustic simple; there is even a kind of sea bathing (tho' only towards highwater) which I tried this morning, and found to be very fair.— I have not yet done much in the way of sleeping, or otherwise “improving,” but I have engaged for a week at any rate. The only acquaintance I mean to make is that of a revd Mr Crabbe son of the Poet,3 an old man, and much an intimate of F's in this neighbourhood.— Tell Jamie there never was such rain! Corn evidently much hurt here (especially oats and barley) all the way from London; turnips (it seems) all eaten by “the jack”; a kind of fly so named. Write to me what is going on at scrg.4

Yours ever /