THE WIFE OF THOMAS CARLYLE. 187 I cannot do as you bid me. My servants are pretty well got into the routine of the house now, and if Mr. C. were like other men, he might be left to their care for two or three weeks, without fear of consequences. But he is much more like a spoiled baby than like other men. I tried him alone for a few days, when I was afraid of fall- ing seriously ill, unless I had change of air. Three weeks ago I went with Geraldine Jewsbury to Ramsgate, one of the most accessible sea-side places, where I was within call, as it were, if anything went wrong at home. But the letter that came from him every morning was like the letter of a Babe in the Wood, who would be found buried with dead leaves by the robins if I didn't look to it." Mrs. Carlyle's lot was indeed in many respects a miserable one. Another woman in her state of health would almost from the first have claimed the rights of an invalid. She was burdened far beyond her strength ; Carlyle did not see it, did not appreciate her heroic toil, and gave her little of the comfort of his society. At one period he sought and frequently enjoyed the conversation ' of a brilliant and titled lady, who was his admiring friend, but was scarcely civil to his wife. At this time the spirit, the confidence, the humor, the gayety, that had so long sustained her no longer sufficed, and her sorrow found vent in a bitter journal ; kept, as she records on the first page, because she had taken a notion to, and " just as the Scotch professor drank whisky, because I like it, and because it's cheap." During this period, which fortu- nately did not last long, her letters to Carlyle are short and cold ; but gradually the matter adjusted itself, her jealousy died a natural death, and she wrote to him once more in the old, lover-like tone, and the old, merry humor. There was a bright side to the picture. Her husband was famous. She was proud of him, proud of being con- sulted concerning his works ; and he never failed to ask 12
