ve up his honest Ghost. I went to bid him Farewell:
and then came here (an Address you remember), only going to Lowestoft (on
the Sea) to entertain my old George Crabbe's two Daughters, who, now
living inland, are glad of a sight of the old German Sea, and also
perhaps of poor Me. I return to Lowestoft (for a few days only)
to-morrow, and shall perhaps see the Steam of your Ship passing the
Shore. I have always been wanting to sail to Scotland: but my old Fellow-
traveller is gone! His Accident was the more vexatious as quite
unnecessary--so to say--returning quietly from Hunting. But there's no
use talking of it. Your Destinies and Silences have settled it.

I really had wished to go and see Mrs. Carlyle again: I won't say you,
because I don't think in your heart you care to be disturbed; and I am
glad to believe that, with all your Pains, you are better than any of us,
I do think. You don't care what one thinks of your Books: you know I
love so many: I don't care so much for Frederick so far as he's gone: I
suppose you don't neither. I was thinking of you the other Day reading
in Aubrey's Wiltshire how he heard Cromwell one Day at Dinner (I think)
at Hampton Court say that Devonshire showed the best Farming of any Part
of England he had been in. Did you know all the Dawson Turner Letters?

I see Spedding directs your Letter: which is nearly all I see of his MS.:
though he would let me see enough of it if there were a good Turn to be
done.

Please to give my best Remembrances to Mrs. Carlyle, and believe me yours
sincerely,

EDWARD FITZGERALD.

_To Mrs. Charles Allen_.

LOWESTOFT, _October_ 16/59.

MY DEAR MRS. ALLEN,

In passing through London a week ago I found a very kind letter from you
directed to my London Lodging. This will explain why it has not been
sooner answered. As I do not know _your_ Address, I take the Opportunity
of enclosing my Reply to John Allen, of whom I have not heard since May.

I have been in these Suffolk and Norfolk Parts ever since I left London
in March to see my poor Lad die in Bedford. The Lad I first met in the
Tenby Lodging house twenty-seven years ago--not sixteen then--and now
broken to pieces and scarce conscious, after two months such suffering as
the Doctor told me scarce any one would have borne for a Fortnight. They
never told him it was all over with him until [within] ten Days of Death:
though every one else seem'd to _know_ it must be so--and he did not