candlestick

August-December 1842


The Collected Letters, Volume 15


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TC TO JANE WELSH CARLYLE ; 23 August 1842; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18420823-TC-JWC-01; CL 15: 41-42


TC TO JANE WELSH CARLYLE

Chelsea, Tuesday, 23d [August 1842]

Dearest,—very literally I have no time; and my finger and thumb are all lamed, moreover, with a dirty crabbed pen—nevertheless for one penny a kind salutation and good-morrow for thee, at tomorrow's breakfast!

This morning the enclosed kind Message from Mrs Strachey lay in the Box. What think you of a sojourn for two months in the C[l]ifton1 country! I will certainly go thither some time or other.

Today still I do not write to Mrs Buller: but alas I fear there is no chance of my mustering courage, unexcited by the feminine energy, to embark on such a business,—in this dreadful weather, the temperature again near 90°! However, today we resumed the tea-system, which really answers better;—perhaps, perhaps—

Mazzini is sitting down below; I must go to him. He has left a new apostolato;2 shall I send it tomorrow? It is not so direct “against the Laws of Nature” as some have been.

Yesterday I met, all green, brown, dusty and reeky-looking, but as fat as ever,—Mrs Reeve.3 I cut her, being indeed half desperate, in fierce walking-duel against heat and bile: but she would not be cut; she stept out, caught me, invited me passionately to come some evening of this week, and take Tea! A certain very young Miss Taylor4 was with her; fresh from Dresden and the Austins ach Gott!5

Well, hast thou had sleep last night? May the Devil confound all night-noises! I should find my poor little Lassie quite mended but for them. On the whole, I repeat my advice to sleep in the day; get sleep if it be above ground. Walk what you can, in green shady places: at all events you have a drive daily?

Helen can hardly be held down in the kitchen today; her leg “just beautiful,” I suppose!— Adieu dearest. Ever thine T. C.

Poor Maginn is dead; that was what I meant to write yesterday: died miserably in jail, poor fellow.6 I have a real sadness in thinking of such a life, so wasted into such a death.