April-December 1844

The Collected Letters, Volume 18


TC TO JANE WELSH CARLYLE ; 11 July 1844; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18440711-TC-JWC-01; CL 18: 122-124


Chelsea, Thursday 11 july / 1844—

Alas, Dearest, there is no little Note from thee today: the poor little throat is still disordered? I wish I knew at worst; for one's fancy is apt to be not better than the reality! Pray do write to me tomorrow;—I mean indeed today, tho' it is impossible that my petition can effect it: if I do not hear tomorrow either—!

For one thing I do hope Mrs Paulet still keeps you in the quiet room. Sitting there, alone, within sight of the sea, and with perhaps a re[a]sonable1 Book, to read in spite of sniftering [sniffling], it will not be so bad. At worst, the cure is physic and a course of slops. Do tell me that it is over,—my poor little Jean!

I have got little done today; answering the multiplicity of useless Letters. I have told Redwood that most probably I shall never see Glamorganshire more; at least not for an indefinite extent of years: he is a real weariness to me, that poor gaunt Welsh admirer; I wish I had not gone to his house, or ever hinted at going. With Cary on Saturday I am to dine; poor old Cary!2 I wish I knew Mazzini's Address specifically: the Lady Harriet gave me a Book for him on Sunday, and here it still lies. “37. Devonshire Street”: was not that it? I will at least try that, on Saturday when I shall be at Cary's in that region, if not sooner. Punch has come today, still full of flogging to poor Sir James; the Times too, I find, is thundering as over a lost man, “sinking, sinking!”— The Coleridges have no chance of me at dinner,—ach Gott!—nor of “Mrs Carlyle” either: if the time prove favourable, I mean to walk that way after tea. Derwent called the day before yesterday leaving a card (I do not insert it, to avoid weight): His sister coming, most anxious, a Miss Southey3 to be there too,—à la bonne heure [just so]! Darwin called yesterday while I was with Milnes; left two Books (Strafford4 your one), the second of them addressed Kajinski.5— There was also an immense Letter from poor Edinburgh Dodds, who talks of coming up to try his fortune in London. I have answered, asking him, “If he dare?”

Poor Strachey6 I send; hope springs eternal! My Moonface was out, and there could only be a card. Today, after showerbath, I am for Miss Wilson's; you will see whether a card there will suffice!— — Ellen roasted both my hen-quarters yesterday; what waste! It was “the flees [flies],” and I had nothing more to say. The wing remains cold for this days dinner. I am better now again, tho' still bilious to a high degree,—sleeping irresistibly after dinner &c. Today is to be my first shower-bath; in the evening I do propose going over to the Maurice Garden, and actually doing myself the inexpressible benefit of raising reek [smoke] there. They have brought over pipes; they have “sent the key” often enough: I really begin to have remorse. Stupid Cromwell Books will keep me going after that till my eyes fall together.

Brother Jack seems to be about Kirkchrist at Mrs Church's; I had a poor Note yesternight from Jenny, who has been “really ill” with a tedious cold, now mostly off again.— But now for the shower-bath.

My dear good little Wifie, write to me that the throat is better; that things go well with thee. O my dear, my own poor dear,—I declare I could greet a good deal; but it would not serve. God ever bless thee, my poor little Jeanie!

T. Carlyle

You shall have Punch tomorrow; the Paper not the Drink! Does Geraldine know that the writer of John Buncle was one Thomas Amory, ‘who lived private in Westminster’; that he has a Daughter, old and poor, now in Wakefield?7