vincing the
young Blood in the old Man still.

Wesley's Journal is very well worth reading, and having; not only as an
outline of his own singular character, but of the conditions of England,
Ireland, and Scotland, in the last Century. Voila par exemple un Livre
dont Monsr Lowell pourrait faire une jolie critique, s'il en voudrait,
mais il s'occupe de plus grandes choses, du Calderon, du Cervantes. I
always wish to run on in bad French: but my friends would not care to
read it. But pray make acquaintance with this Wesley; if you cannot find
a copy in America, I will send you one from here: I believe I have given
it to half a dozen Friends. Had I any interest with Publishers, I would
get them to reprint parts of it, as of my old Crabbe, who still sticks in
my Throat.

I have taken that single little Lodging at Dunwich for the next three
months, and shall soon be under those Priory Walls again. But the poor
little 'Dunwich Rose,' brought by those monks from the North Country,
will have passed, after the hot weather we are at last having. Write
when you will, and not till then; I believe in your friendly regard,
with, or without, a Letter to assure me of it.

WOODBRIDGE. _October_ 15/78.

MY DEAR NORTON,

. . . I got little more than a Fortnight at that old Dunwich; for my
Landlady took seriously ill, and finally died: and the Friend {255a} whom
I went to meet there became so seriously ill also as to be obliged to
return to London before August was over. So then I went to an ugly place
{255b} on the sea shore also, some fifteen miles off the old Priory; and
there was with some Nephews and Nieces, trying to read the Novels from a
Circulating Library with indifferent Success. And now here am I at home
once more; getting my Garden, if not my House, in order; and here I shall
be probably all Winter, except for a few days visit to that sick Friend
in London, if he desires it. . . .

We too have been having a Fortnight of delightful weather, so as one has
been able to sit abroad all the Day. And now, that Spirit which Tennyson
sung of in one of his early Poems is heard, as it were, walking and
talking to himself among the decaying flower-beds. This Season (such as
we have been enjoying)--my old Crabbe sings of it too, in a very pathetic
way to me: for it always seems to me an Image of the Decline of Life
also.

It was a Day ere yet the Autumn closed,
When Earth before her Winter's War reposed;
When