Ranger.'

They have half spoilt Aldbro'; but now that Dunwich is crossed out from
my visiting Book by the loss of that fine fellow, {290} whom this time of
year especially reminds me of, I must return to Aldbro' now and then. Why
can't you go there with me? I say no more of your coming here, for you
ought to be assured that you would be welcome at any time; but I never do
ask any busy, or otherwise engaged man to come. . . .

Here is a good Warwickshire word--'I _sheered_ my Eyes round the room.'
So good, that it explains itself.

WHITE LION, ALDEBURGH.
_July_ 7/80.

MY DEAR KEENE,

I shall worry you with Letters: here is one, however, which will call for
no answer. It is written indeed in acknowledgement of your packet of
Drawings, received by me yesterday at Woodbridge.

My rule concerning Books is, that Giver and Taker (each in his turn)
should just say nothing. As I am not an Artist (though a very great
Author) I will say that Four of your Drawings seemed capital to me: I
cannot remember the Roundabouts which they initialed: except two: 1. The
lazy idle Boy, which you note as not being used; I suppose, from not
being considered sufficiently appropriate to the Essay (which I forget),
but which I thought altogether good; and the old Man, with a look of
Edwards! 2. Little Boy in Black, very pretty: 3. (I forget the Essay)
People looking at Pictures: one of them, the principal, surely a
recollection of W. M. T. himself. Then 4. There was a bawling Boy:
subject forgotten. I looked at them many times through the forenoon: and
came away here at 2 p.m.

I do not suppose, or wish, that you should make over to me all these
Drawings, which I suppose are the originals from which the Wood was cut.
I say I do not 'wish,' because I am in my 72nd year: and I now give away
rather than accept. But I wished for one at least of your hand; for its
own sake, and as a remembrance, for what short time is left me, of one
whom I can sincerely say I regard greatly for himself, as also for those
Dunwich days in which I first became known to him. 'Viola qui est dit.'

And I wish you were here, not for your own sake, for it is dull enough.
No Sun, no Ship, a perpetual drizzle; and to me the melancholy of another
Aldbro' of years gone by. Out of that window there 'le petit' Churchyard
sketched Thorpe headland under an angry Sunset of Oct. 55 which heralded
a memorable Gale that washed up a poor Woman with a Babe in her arms: a