January-September 1845

The Collected Letters, Volume 19


TC TO JANE WELSH CARLYLE ; 1 September 1845; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18450901-TC-JWC-01; CL 19: 186-187


Chelsea, 1 Septr, 1845—

Dearykin,— I still hold out for Wednesday; if you hear nothing more tomorrow,1 you may consider it fixed. I will come by the Mail Train, the one you came by;—and certainly a hospitable vehicle, at such a moment, with a kind Goody in it, to take me to a hospitable house with friendly faces, and a quiet pipe of tobacco, will be very welcome!— If I have time I will send a line tomorrow too, in confirmation; but without any line, you are to go upon this. I have given up Browning, given up Scott; I have settled Christie's Index, got a pair of gloves; my horse is off this morning,—and here has just arrived a Letter2 that bids him welcome. Things are actually getting on. I have my hair to get cut yet! I am rough as a bear, can hardly get my hat on.— Courage!—

That other Letter accompanied the Purgatory of Suicides, a dark Titanic Rhapsody, not without energy, in rumbling Spencerian rhyme and at the beginning a Sonnet to me, bearing date STAFFORD GAOL! For the man is a Chartist of the fiercest.3 I have sent a copy of Past and Present (in some faint hope to throw light on him, poor fellow), and have waved the “personal interview” for the present.

I rejoice in the prospect of sea-bathing; in the prospect of cigars! Could you, however, procure me a good tobacco-pipe or two, and lay them in some greenhouse, they also would be welcome.— I have sent off Miss Donaldson's Pt and Prest; I have one for Mrs Paulet. I could be a very amiable man, really; but I am dreadfully bilious. In fact, almost sick of my life, if there were not some hope of improvement.

Darwin is not returned yet; Jack was up there yesterday,—then to dine with the Chorleys, who are all established now in Chester Square.4 What Jack means to do is a secret to every one, I believe even to himself. He avoids Annandale I think, to make room for me. Poor fellow, he has no habitat I am heartily sorry for him. I think he will take his old lodging again for a while; then perhaps for Annandale so soon as I am off. He does me little ill here; but also little good: in fact his mind is idly wandering, and there is no conversation to be got out of him.—— Fuz on Saturday was great. All his wines, and even a bit of lobster he forced me to eat were not half so noxious as that plate of veal-soup without wine or any shadow of error otherwise. Is not virtue its own reward?— My blessings on thee poor Goody! I am thine always

T. Carlyle