rd the Packet from Bristol: and next morning at the Boarding
House--apt then to appear with a little _chalk_ on the edge of his Cheek
from a touch of the Billiard Table Cue--and now a man of 40--Farmer,
Magistrate, Militia Officer--Father of a Family--of more use in a week
than I in my Life long. You too have six sons, your Letter tells me.
They may do worse than do as well as he I have spoken of, though he too
has sown some wild oats, and paid for doing so.

_My_ family consists of some eight Nieces here, whom I have seen, all of
them, from their Birth upwards--perfectly good, simple, and well-bred,
women and girls; varying in disposition but all agreed among themselves
and to do what they can in a small Sphere. They go about in the Village
here with some consolation both for Body and Mind for the Poor, and have
no desire for the Opera, nor for the Fine Folks and fine Dresses there.
There is however some melancholy in the Blood of some of them--but none
that mars any happiness but their own: and that but so slightly as one
should expect when there was no Fault, and no Remorse, to embitter it!

You will perhaps be as well entertained with this poor familiar news as
any I could tell you. As to public matters, I scarcely meddle with them,
and don't know what to think of India except that it is very terrible. I
always think a Nation with great Estates is like a Man with them:--more
trouble than Profit: I would only have a _Competence_ for my Country as
for myself. Two of my very dearest Friends went but last year to
Calcutta:--he as Professor at the Presidency College there: and now he
has to shoulder a musket, I believe, as well as deliver a Lecture. You
and yours are safe at home, I am glad to think.

Please to remember me to all whom I have shaken hands with, and make my
kind Regards to those of your Party I have not yet seen. I am sure all
_would be_ as kind to me as others who bear the name of Allen _have
been_.

Once more--thank you thank you for your kindness; and believe me yours as
ever very truly,

EDWD. FITZGERALD.

_To E. B. Cowell_.

RUSHMERE, _October_ 3/57.

MY DEAR COWELL,

I hope things will not be so black with you and us by the time this
Letter reaches you, but you may be amused and glad to have it from me.
Not that I have come into Suffolk on any cheerful Errand: I have come to
bury dear old Mr. Crabbe! I suppose you have had some Letters of mine
telling you of his Illness; Epileptic