April-December 1844

The Collected Letters, Volume 18


TC TO JANE WELSH CARLYLE ; 9 July 1844; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18440709-TC-JWC-01; CL 18: 117-118


Chelsea, Tuesday 8 [9] july / 1844.

All well here, Dearest, and not a word of news. Wm Cunningham called yesterday when I was out, and I have spoken to no creature— Yes yesterday I went to leave a card for Lady Monro: alas, a card would not do; to my despair I was ushered in, and had to make conversation for a while,—and poor enough conversation it was. Pictures, Art, Henry Taylor, and rubbish of various kinds! I am sorry for poor human creatures, and their embarassed communings together. Lady M. is a good woman, or1 some dignity and great personal stature, and has seen and suffered many things; but— In a word, she is coming to see you whenever you come home, and then you shall, how cheerfully, have her all!—

The Stanleys are to depart this week; I must go and leave a card for my beautiful Moonface; a card here, so oblique is Fortune, will be sure to do.

I walked all last evening thro' innumerable quiet streets; I bought a big Book of Topography that I had need of, very cheap: I have even bespoken a pair of shoes,—feat never to be forgotten. When I succeed in buying anything out of a shop here, it seems to me as if I had made it, as if I had conquered it by my bow and my spear: the shop-commerce of Cockneydom will never in this world become heimlich [comfortable] to me.

I have worked in the drowsiest manner at my poor Cromwell; stupid drudge—work, Ach Gott! My progress is small; but I wriggle on, were it like a tortoise thro' abysses of tough mire. If I can live, I shall get an Oliver Made Visible to shew you, one day! Allons [Forward].

But the chief thing that gives me pause today is my poor Goody's cold. I could have liked well to hear from you these words, ‘My cold is gone.’ Perhaps it is but fancy: however, I must entertain this bur sticking on me till you speak and pluck it off.

Helen boils me the second quarter of my Dorking “stalled”—hen;2 this day, as yesterday. It makes a capital dinner.— I fear we waste cream here; there seems to be exactly the old quantity always, and one month fewer: I never interfere!— Tell me about the cold; and take care of thyself!

T. C.

Thanks for the Child of Hale. I can find no trace of him in any of my Books, but believe and wonder.