TC TO JANE WELSH CARLYLE ; 18 August 1845; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18450818-TC-JWC-01; CL 19: 151-152
TC TO JANE WELSH CARLYLE
Chelsea 18 Augt, 1845—
Dearest,—Here again is a Letter from you, full of cheery details and delineations; right pleasant for me to read. I go down from my litter of Papers here when I hear the bell ring about noon; and there is a Letter from Goody! Thanks to Goody.— I think you have fallen on your feet, this time, for a visit: it is very seldom indeed that such a thing succeeds so well.—— I taste your Mr Yates, a spoonful of dishwashings, satisfactory sample of an Ocean! Really I begin almost to pity poor James Martineau: the lot of a poor man, of so many poor men, doomed to twaddle all their lives in Socinian Jargon, and look at this Divine universe thro' distracted despicable Jew-Greek spectacles, and a whole Monmouth Street of “ou' cloe!”1—seems to me very sad. But the back is made for the burden, I suppose. If it were so very sad for a man, he could give it up.— Rawlins too is very awful to me.
I worked hard yesterday to keep my word to myself, but it would not do; nay I had, at starting, as good as no hope of its doing. However, I have managed today;—the last Speech of Oliver's is fairly ready for printing; not a line of his now remains: thank Heaven! I have now only to have him die, and then to wind up in the briefest endurable way. I say to myself, Why should not, for instance, the first of September actually see me free of the job altogether; and ready for the road somewhither? We will try.— As a preliminary I have started today by—a blue-pill with castor, O Heavens! But I supposed it was the most judicious step of all.— Christie has been set to the Index too; is to have it done in two weeks. He came last night: I fear he has little chance for the Hanwell Situation; but he is trying hard, leaving no stone unturned.— Today too, as you perceive Fitzgerald writes to me about dismissal of the Horse: I shall be very glad to close with that; it answers a question quite insoluble hitherto in my schemes.
Yesterday I went to Richmond Park; saw the deer, the trees and skies; and for a little while had no noise to bother me. Chelsea was swarming with Cockneys more than usual: some “balloon,” or remains of a balloon, I believe, about Cremorne House, invited the curious. Nay I think we are to have another ascent there tonight.2 Meinetwegen [So be it].— In the evening when my candles were alight there came a knock,—no admittance: it was Gambardella with many respects to you. Darwin goes to some Wedgwoods at Woking (Hampshire)3 today for a week: to my knowledge I have now no company whatever here,—tant mieux [so much the better]
Riding today is at four; which hour is now close at hand. I have already dined on beef-tea and a slice of bread. The Sun is out, the weather much improved. I had actually got drawers on, and my winter waistcoat.— Darwin left me a Novel of Hahn-Hahn's, Cecil she calls it:4 a gleg [sharp] little creature Hahn-Hahn; very snappish, sharp of temper; and destitute of silence: but much more tolerable to me than your Sansculotte-Idyllic George Sands with all their “dap thochts”—very deep for short legs!— Write again, write again;—and Leb'wohl [Farewell]!— T. C.