January-September 1845

The Collected Letters, Volume 19


TC TO JANE WELSH CARLYLE ; 14 August 1845; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18450814-TC-JWC-01; CL 19: 145-147


Chelsea, Thursday [14 August 1845].

No Letter Goodykin, none today yet?— Well, I must wait patiently; there will come one all the welcomer tomorrow. “Better than I deserve!”1

The day is grey and damp; the Sun has gone his ways again. I give my horse a rest; he has had long gallops of late. Last night I was round by Kew Bridge and Acton (totally unknown to thy Topography; but meaning 18 miles or so); saw shocks of wheat for the first time, and poor reapers, who do not cut as the Scotch do, but on a plan of their own. Harvest is a month too late; will hardly fail therefore to be bad: and if the Railway Bubble burst at the same time,2 as is likeliest, there will be a precious winter for the poor Operatives again, and those that have charge of them! The naked beggarly Greed and Mammon-worship of this generation is sorrowfully apparent at present; and I confess sometimes I do not care if their “wealth” and all the greasy adjuncts of it were actually to take wings and fly away! I think we might have a less detestable existence without; a chance for a less fetid life-element than this! Even Darley was stutter-stuttering with much emphasis to that effect the night I saw him.— Did I ever mention that Browning came too one night? He sent many respects to you; is about publishing new Pomegranates,—no, new Something-elses,3 on an improved principle; had I been in clearer mood, he wd have been welcome to me.

How did the Martineau visit go? Tell me, tell me; I like to hear all these things whether I say so or not; and thy bits of Letters, by whatever name I call them, are very entertaining to me.— Or are you not well, at present? Alas, that would be a very bad solution of it!— Tomorrow certainly I shall hear?

This morning I had the pleasure of seeing my little Russia-leather Dressingcase stand where it did again; and of shaving myself with the stray razor. Other good news, or news of any kind, I have had none. The domestic Bee is for treating me with “a pudding,” she says! I try all kinds of vegetables; today I am for soup and bread merely, whence the “pudding.”— My head begins to ache; my literature is not prospering: I had better out, and have a little walk.

My cigars are all done,—“noty bena!”4 if you see Wr5 Macgregor, or any man knowing in cigars, say to him I shall be very happy to negociate for a box of right ones, and pay down ready money to the due amount. Really this. It is a practical thing.— But do not bother yourself with it either. I believe one can get supportable cigars here, with some trouble besides cost, at one Verrina's.6 I called there with Anthony Sterling one Summer night some weeks ago,—there was a very ugly population there: Young England7 in one of its phases.

Good be with thee, dear little Goody mine! “We clamb the Hill together,” in a very thorny but not paltry way; now let us sit and look around a little! We shall have “to totter down” also, “but hand in hand we'll go!”8 Adieu, dear Jeannie

T. C.