would introduce
them to the Poet's son. I suppose I gave them my Address: but I had to
go away next morning before they were down: and never heard of them
again.

I sometimes wonder if this eternal Crabbe is relished in America (I am
not looking to my Edition, which would be a hopeless loss anywhere): he
certainly is little read in his own Country. And I fancy America likes
more abstract matter than Crabbe's homespun. Excuse AEtat. 68.

Yes, 'Gillies arise! etc.' But I remember one who used to say he never
got farther with another of the Daddy's Sonnets than--

Clarkson! It was an obstinate hill to climb, etc.

English Sonnets, like English Terza Rima, want, I think, the double
rhyme.

_To S. Laurence_.

WOODBRIDGE. _Jan._ 15/77.

MY DEAR LAURENCE,

Then I sent you the Greek instead of the Persian whom you asked for? The
two are the same size and binding: so of course I sent the wrong one. But
I will send the right one directly: and you need not make a trouble of
acknowledging it: I know you will thank me, and I think you will feel a
sort of 'triste Plaisir' in it, as others beside myself have felt. It is
a desperate sort of thing, unfortunately at the bottom of all thinking
men's minds; but made Music of. . . . I shall soon be going to old ugly
Lowestoft again to be with Nephews and Nieces. The Great Man . . . is
yet there: commanding a Crew of those who prefer being his Men to having
command of their own. And they are right; for the man is Royal, tho'
with the faults of ancient Vikings. . . . His Glory is somewhat marred;
but he looks every inch a King in his Lugger now. At home (when he is
there, and not at the Tavern) he sits among his Dogs, Cats, Birds, etc.,
always with a great Dog following abroad, and aboard. This is altogether
the Greatest Man I have known.

_To C. E. Norton_.

WOODBRIDGE. _February_ 1/77.

MY DEAR SIR,

I really only write now to prevent your doing so in acknowledgment of
Thackeray's Song {213} which I sent you, and you perhaps knew the
handwriting of the Address. Pray don't write about such a thing, so soon
after the very kind Letter I have just had from you. Why I sent you the
Song I can hardly tell, not knowing if you care for Thackeray or Music:
but that must be as it is; only, do not, pray, write expressly about it.

The Song is what it pretends to be: the words speak for themselves; very
beautiful, I think: the Tune is one which Thackeray and I knew