I last night smoked a pipe with Carlyle. He has had two large packets
from Dr. Cookson, who shows alacrity enough to do what is asked, and may
turn up something. But he has chiefly spoken of Winsby: and your
Allenbys had so well cleared all that matter up with their map, etc.,
that the Doctor was going over needless ground. I hope we may be as
successful with some other field: or rather that Cookson will anticipate
us and save us all trouble.
London is very hateful to me. I long to spread wing and fly into the
kind clean air of the country. I see nobody in the streets half so
handsome as Mr. Reynolds {157} of our parish: all clever, composed,
satirical, selfish, well dressed. Here we see what the World is. I am
sure a great City is a deadly Plague: worse than the illness so called
that came to ravage it. I tried to persuade Carlyle to leave his filthy
Chelsea, but he says his wife likes London. I get radishes to eat for
breakfast of a morning: with them comes a savour of earth that brings all
the delicious gardens of the world back into one's soul, and almost draws
tears from one's eyes.
With renewed thanks believe me ever yours,