July-December 1858

The Collected Letters, Volume 34


TC TO JWC ; 4 August 1858; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18580804-TC-JWC-01; CL 34: 94-95


The Gill, 4 Augt, 1858—

“All right,1 my Dear”—yes indeed! You have made me a happy man, for this day at least; and neither the damp grey skies with their morning wind, nor any other item, can affect me as yesterday. It is just as I supposed: the evening post makes you 12 hours farther from Annan, 24 hours farther from The Gill: remember that, at any rate, if you cannot help it. If you have any morning or forenoon post accessible; a post earlier than 4 p.m. or the like: that wd still save Annan and me: but probably there is no chance? Saturday night you always have at any rate.

Oh if the poor soul could but continue sleeping! But I dare not hope that; the best I look for is some sensible improvement, in that and the adjoined particulars; that I do let myself anticipate; and it will be an infinite relief to me. To think of you coughing and languishing in the foul element of London all this while has poisoned many a fresh breeze for me here. Take care, take care; and do and avoid, according to your very best ability!— I do not imagine you need have the least shadow of disturbance about “staying too long” &c as matters are. Till “the 24th,” if you could stay so long, it is inconceivable to me that such a canty little gleg phenomenon shd not be worth its keep ten times over, in an Establisht so circumstanced. The very sight of you, and changes of your physiognomy, even tho' you did not speak at all,—whh pray do not too much! You may safely dismiss all that part of your account as a thing settled. Think of that no more. Who is the “Mrs Mildmay” that has “a son”?2 Not “Geraldine's” mother!3 Is it Humphrey's stepmother?4— I always rather liked Fredc Baring, and never saw cause to adopt the slighting way they had of speaking of him. Perhaps it was his being doomed to Parsonhood,5 and a life of Donothing Hypocrisy that was alone the marring of him, so far as marred. I am rather sorry he is gone. But for the rest, the quieter the better. Don't look out after 5 or 6 o'clock by any means! The evenings are decidedly cold. As to the mornings—for example, it was a furious drumming on the window that awoke me this morning: one small robin (I perceived) who had already looked in upon human habitabilities, and could not (for the glass) quite see his way out again!—

Last night I made a long stretch of walking; solitary, sombre, not ugly, under the inarticulate winds. A long shore ride I had had too,—dromedary much astonished at the wonders of nature. Today I have written to Usedom6 abt my German possibilities: that is the one point of advance there. Tomorrow is Craigenputtoch when you will miss a letter. But I will try to hit Saturday at any rate. Mignet's Marie Stuart (not a bad History at all) is my reading.7 God bless thee Dearest.

T. Carlyle