wish
to die yet.

I won't write more of a Matter that you can have but little Interest in,
and that I am as well not thinking about. I came here partly to see his
Widow, and so (as I hope) to avoid having to go to Bedford for the
Present. She, though a wretchedly sickly woman, and within two months of
her confinement when he died, has somehow weathered it all beyond
Expectation. She has her children to attend to, and be her comfort in
turn: and though having lost what most she loved yet has something to
love still, and to be beloved by. There are worse Conditions than that.

I am not going to be long here: but hope to winter somewhere in Suffolk
(London very distasteful now)--But here again:--my good Hostess with whom
I have lodged in Suffolk is dead too: and I must wait till _that_
Household settles down a little.

If it ever gives you pleasure to write to me, it gives me real Pleasure
to hear of you: and I am sincerely grateful for your kind Remembrance of
me.

'Geldestone Hall--Beccles' or 'Farlingay Hall, Woodbridge,' are pretty
sure Addresses. Please to remember me kindly to your Husband and believe
me

Yours very sincerely,

EDWD FITZGERALD.

BATH HOUSE, LOWESTOFT.
_October_ 26 [1859].

DEAR MRS. ALLEN,

I must thank you for your so kind Letter, and kind Invitation. But if I
was but five Days with my old College Friend after twelve years' Promise,
and then didn't go just on to Teignmouth to see my Sister, and her
Family, I must not talk of going elsewhere--even to Prees--where John is
always good enough to be asking me: even in a Letter To day received.

By the way, Last Saturday at Norwich while I was gazing into a Shop, a
Woman's Voice said, 'How d' ye do, Mr. FitzGerald?' I looked up: a young
Woman too, whom (of course) I didn't know. 'You don't remember me,
Andalusia Allen that was!' Now Mrs. Day. I had not seen her since '52,
a Girl of, I suppose, twelve, playing some Character in a Family Play.
John's Letter too tells me of his son going to College.

But Tenby--I don't remember a pleasanter Place. I can now hear the Band
on the Steamer as it left the little Pier for Bristol, the Steamer that
brought me and the poor Boy now in his Grave to that Boardinghouse. It
was such weather as now howls about this Lodging when one of those poor
starved Players was drowned on the Sands, and was carried past our
Windows after Dinner: I often remember the dull Trot of Men up the windy
Street, and