s, my dear old Donne, and some coeval Suffolk
Friends. I was half tempted to jump into a Bus and just leave my name at
Carlyle's Door! But I did not. I should of course have asked and heard
how he was: which I can find no one now to tell me. For his Niece has a
Child, if only one, to attend to, and I do not like to trouble. I heard
from vague Information in London that he is almost confined to his house.

I have myself been somewhat bothered at times for the last three months
with pains and heaviness about the Heart: which I knew from a Doctor was
unsettled five years ago. I shall not at all complain if it takes the
usual course, only wishing to avoid _Angina_, or some such form of the
Disease. My Family get on gaily enough till seventy, and then generally
founder after turning the corner.

I hope you know Charles Tennyson's Sonnets; three times too many, and
some rather puerile: but scarce one but with something good in Thought or
Expression: all original: and some delightful: I think, to live with
Alfred's, and no one else's. Old Fred might have made one of Three
Brothers, I think, could he have compressed himself into something of
Sonnet Compass: but he couldn't. He says, Charles makes one regard and
love little things more than any other Poet.

My Nephew De Soyres seems to have made a good Edition of Pascal's
Letters: I should have thought they had been quite well enough edited
before; and yet a more 'exhaustive' Edition is to follow the House that
Jack built, he tells us.

Groome had proposed a month ago that he would visit me about this time:
but I have heard no more of him: and am always afraid to write, for fear
of those poor Eyes of his.

I was very glad to meet Merivale on Lowestoft Pier for some days. Mrs.
M. writes to me of an enlarged Photo of him whose Negative will be
destroyed in a month unless subscribed for by Friends, etc. 'Will I ask
Friends, etc.' No: I will not do that, though I will take a copy if
wanted to complete a number: though, if it be life size, having no where
to hang it up: my own Mother, by Sir T. Lawrence, being put away in a
cupboard for want of room.

Now, my dear Master, I want neither you nor the Mistress to reply to this
Letter: but please to believe me, both of you, yours as ever sincerely

E. FITZ.

_To C. E. Norton_.

WOODBRIDGE. _February_ 20, 1881.

MY DEAR NORTON,

. . . I have little to say about Carlyle, but that my heart did follow
him to Ecclef