_To George Crabbe_.

MARKET HILL: WOODBRIDGE.
_Jan._ 12/64.

MY DEAR GEORGE,

. . . Have we exchanged a word about Thackeray since his Death? I am
quite surprised to see how I sit moping about him: to be sure, I keep
reading his Books. Oh, the Newcomes are fine! And now I have got hold
of Pendennis, and seem to like that much more than when I first read it.
I keep hearing him say so much of it; and really think I shall hear his
Step up the Stairs to this Lodging as in old Charlotte Street thirty
years ago. Really, a great Figure has sunk under Earth.

_To W. H. Thompson_.

MARKET HILL: WOODBRIDGE.
_Jan._ 23/64.

MY DEAR THOMPSON,

You see I return with your other troubles of Term time. Only when you
have ten spare minutes let me know how you are, etc. . . . I have almost
wondered at myself how much occupied I have been thinking of Thackeray;
so little as I had seen of him for the last ten years, and my Interest in
him a little gone from hearing he had become somewhat spoiled: which also
some of his later writings hinted to me of themselves. But his Letters,
and former works, bring me back the old Thackeray. . . . I had never
read Pendennis and the Newcomes since their first appearance till this
last month. They are wonderful; Fielding's seems to me coarse work in
comparison. I have indeed been thinking of little this last month but of
these Books and their Author. Of his Letters to me I have only kept some
Dozen, just to mark the different Epochs of our Acquaintance.

_To E. B. Cowell_.

MARKET HILL: WOODBRIDGE.
_Jan._ 31/64.

MY DEAR COWELL,

I have only Today got your Letter: have been walking out by myself in the
Seckford Almshouse Garden till 9 p.m. in a sharp Frost--with Orion
stalking over the South before me--(do you know him in India? I forget)
have come in--drunk a glass of Porter; and am minded to answer you before
I get to Bed. Perhaps the Porter will leave me stranded, however, before
I get to the End of my Letter.

Before this reaches you--probably before I write it--you will have heard
of Thackeray's sudden Death. It was told me as I was walking alone in
those same Seckford Gardens on Christmas-day Night; by a
Corn-merchant--one George Manby--(do you remember him?) who came on
purpose to tell me--and to wish me in other respects a Happy Christmas. I
have thought little else than of W. M. T. ever since--what with reading
over his Books, and the few Letters I had kept of h