Lord!

But what a fine vigorous Letter from the old Man! When I was walking my
Garden yesterday at about 11 a.m. I thought to myself 'the Master will
have had this Letter at Breakfast; and a thought of it will cross him
tandis que le Predicateur de Ste Marie soit en plein Discours, etc.' . . .

If Lord Houghton be with you pray thank him for the first _ebauche_ of
Hyperion he sent me. Surely no one can doubt which was the first Sketch.

_To Miss Anna Biddell_.

12 MARINE TERRACE, LOWESTOFT.
_Jan._ 18/75.

DEAR MISS BIDDELL,

I am sending you a Treat. The old Athenaeum told me there was a Paper by
'Mr. Carlyle' in this month's Magazine; and never did I lay out half-a-
crown better. And you shall have the Benefit of it, if you will. Why,
Carlyle's Wine, so far from weak evaporation, is only grown better by
Age: losing some of its former fierceness, and grown mellow without
losing Strength. It seems to me that a Child might read and relish this
Paper, while it would puzzle any other Man to write such a one. I think
I must write to T. C. to felicitate him on this truly 'Green Old Age.'
Oh, it was good too to read it here, with the old Sea (which also has not
sunk into Decrepitude) rolling in from that North: and as I looked up
from the Book, there was a Norwegian Barque beating Southward, close to
the Shore, and nearly all Sail set. Read--Read! you will, you must, be
pleased; and write to tell me so.

This Place suits me, I think, at this time of year: there is Life about
me: and that old Sea is always talking to one, telling its ancient Story.

LOWESTOFT. _Febr._ 2/75.

DEAR MISS BIDDELL,

I am _so_ glad (as the Gushingtons say) that you like the Carlyle. I
have ordered the second Number and will send it to you when I have read
it. Some People, I believe, hesitate in their Belief of its being T. C.
or one of his School: I don't for a moment: if for no other reason than
that an Imitator always exaggerates his Model: whereas this Paper, we
see, _un_exaggerates the Master himself: as one would wish at his time of
Life. . . .

I ran over for one day to Woodbridge, to pay Bills, etc. But somehow I
was glad to get back here. The little lodging is more to my liking than
my own bigger rooms and staircases: and this cheerful Town better (at
this Season) than my yet barren Garden. One little Aconite however
looked up at me: Mr. Churchyard (in his elegant way) used to call them
'New Year's Gifts.'

_To E