oving about nearly ever since till yesterday, and my
Letter, thus far written, was packt up in a Box sent down hither, namely,
Gorlestone Cliffs, Great Yarmouth. Instead of the Regent's Park, and
Regent Street, here before my windows are the Vessels going in and out of
this River: and Sailors walking about with fur caps and their brown hands
in their Breeches Pockets. Within hail almost lives George Borrow who
has lately published, and given me, two new Volumes of Lavengro called
'Romany Rye,' with some excellent things, and some very bad (as I have
made bold to write to him--how shall I face him!). You would not like
the Book at all, I think. But I must now tell you an odd thing, which
will also be a sad thing to you. I left London last Tuesday fortnight
for Bedfordshire, meaning to touch at Hertford in passing; but as usual,
bungled between two Railroads and got to Bedford, and not to Hertford, on
the Tuesday Evening. To that latter place I had wanted to go, as well to
see it, as to see N. Newton, who had made one or two bungled efforts to
see me in London. So, when I got to Bedford, I wrote him a line to say
how it was I had missed him. On the very Saturday immediately after, I
received a Hertford Paper announcing the sudden Death of N. Newton on the
very Tuesday on which I had set out to see him! He had been quite well
till the Saturday preceding: had then caught some illness (I suppose some
infectious fever) which had been visiting some in his house; died on the
Tuesday, and was buried on the Thursday after! What will Austin do
without him? He had written to me about your Hafiz saying he had got
several subjects for Illustration, and I meant to have had a talk with
him on the matter. What should be done? I dare not undertake any great
responsibility in meddling in such a matter even if asked to do so, which
is not likely to be unless on your part; for I find my taste so very
different from the Public that what I think good would probably be very
unprofitable.

When in Bedfordshire I put away almost all Books except Omar Khayyam!,
which I could not help looking over in a Paddock covered with Buttercups
and brushed by a delicious Breeze, while a dainty racing Filly of W.
Browne's came startling up to wonder and snuff about me. 'Tempus est quo
Orientis Aura mundus renovatur, Quo de fonte pluviali dulcis Imber
reseratur; _Musi-manus_ undecumque ramos insuper splendescit;
Jesu-spiritusque Salutaris terram p