t send you any but a fair MS. if I sent MS. at
all; and may perhaps print it in a small way, not to publish, but so as
to ensure a final Revision, such as will also be more fitting for you to
read. It is positively the last of my Works! having been by me these
dozen years, I believe, occasionally looked at. So much for that.

Now, you would like to be here along with me and my delightful Cowell,
when we read the Second Part of Don Quixote together of a morning. This
we have been doing for three weeks; and shall continue to do for some ten
days more, I suppose: and then he will be returning to his Cambridge. If
we read very continuously we should be almost through the Book by this
time: but, as you may imagine we play as well as work; some passage in
the dear Book leads Cowell off into Sanskrit, Persian, or Goody Two
Shoes, for all comes within the compass of his Memory and Application.
Job came in to the help of Sancho a few days ago: and the Duenna
Rodriguez' age brought up a story Cowell recollected of an old Lady who
persisted in remaining at 50; till being told (by his Mother) that she
could not be elected to a Charity because of not being 64, she said 'She
thought she could manage it'; and the Professor shakes with Laughter not
loud but deep, from the centre. . . .

Pray read in our Athenaeum some letters of Severn's about Keats, full of
Love and intelligent Admiration, all the better for coming straight from
the heart without any style at all. If I thought that Mr. Lowell would
not find these Athenaeums somewhere in Madrid, I would send them to him,
as I would also to you in a like predicament. . . .

This letter has run on further than I expected: and I am now going to see
Sancho off to his Island, under convoy of my Professor.

_To S. Laurence_.

11 MARINE TERRACE, LOWESTOFT.
_Septr._ 22/79.

MY DEAR LAURENCE,

Your letter found me here this morning: here, where I have now been near
six weeks, for a month of which Edward Cowell and his Wife were my
neighbours; and we had two or three hours of Don Quixote's company of a
morning, and only ourselves for company at night. They are gone,
however; and I might have gone to my own home also, but that some Nephews
and Nieces wished to see a little more of me; and I thought also that
Lowestoft would be more amusing than Woodbridge to a young London Clerk,
a Nephew of the Cowells, who comes to me for a short Holyday, when he can
get away from his Desk. But e