all shattered and Death in
his Face and Voice. . . .

Well, this is so: and there is no more to be said about it. It is one of
the things that reconcile me to my own stupid Decline of Life--to the
crazy state of the world--Well--no more about it.

I sent you poor old Omar who has _his_ kind of Consolation for all these
Things. I doubt you will regret you ever introduced him to me. And yet
you would have me print the original, with many worse things than I have
translated. The Bird Epic might be finished at once: but 'cui bono?' No
one cares for such things: and there are doubtless so many better things
to care about. I hardly know why I print any of these things, which
nobody buys; and I scarce now see the few I give them to. But when one
has done one's best, and is sure that that best is better than so many
will take pains to do, though far from the best that _might be done_, one
likes to make an end of the matter by Print. I suppose very few People
have ever taken such Pains in Translation as I have: though certainly not
to be literal. But at all Cost, a Thing must _live_: with a transfusion
of one's own worse Life if one can't retain the Original's better. Better
a live Sparrow than a stuffed Eagle. I shall be very well pleased to see
the new MS. of Omar. I shall _one day_ (if I live) print the 'Birds,'
and a strange experiment on old Calderon's two great Plays; and then shut
up Shop in the Poetic Line. Adieu: Give my love to the Lady: and believe
me yours very truly E. F. G.

You see where those Persepolitan Verses {5} come from. I wonder you were
not startled with the metre, though maimed a bit.

_To T. Carlyle_.

GELDESTONE HALL, BECCLES.
_June_ 20/59.

DEAR CARLYLE,

Very soon after I called and saw Mrs. Carlyle I got a violent cold, which
(being neglected) flew to my Ears, and settled into such a Deafness I
couldn't hear the Postman knock nor the Omnibus roll. When I began
(after more than a Month) to begin recovering of this (though still so
deaf as to determine not to be a Bore to any one else) I heard from
Bedford that my poor W. Browne (who got you a Horse some fifteen years
ago) had been fallen on and crushed all through the middle Body by one of
his own: and I then kept expecting every Postman's knock was to announce
his Death. He kept on however in a shattered Condition which the Doctors
told me scarce any one else would have borne a Week; kept on for near two
Months, and then ga