might also have supposed already informed of it: but you
took the trouble to write, not relying on 'of course you know, etc.'

I have thought lately that I ought to make some enquiry about Arthur
Malkin, who was always very kind to me. I had meant to send him my
Crabbe, who was a great favourite of his Father's, 'an excellent
companion for Old Age' he told--Donne, I think. But I do not know if I
ever did send him the Book, and now, judging by what you tell me, it is
too late to do so, unless for Compliment.

The Sun, I see, has put my Fire out--for which I only thank him, and will
go to look for him himself in my Garden--only with a Green Shade over my
Eyes. I must get to London to see you before you move away to
Leamington; when I can bear Sun or Lamp without odious blue Glasses, etc.
I dare to think those Eyes are better, though not Sun-proof: and I am
ever yours

LITTLE G.

XC. {214}

20 _March_, [1881.]

MY DEAR LADY,

I have let the Full Moon pass because I thought you had written to me so
lately, and so kindly, about our lost Spedding, that I would not call on
you too soon again. Of him I will say nothing except that his Death has
made me recall very many passages in his Life in which I was partly
concerned. In particular, staying at his Cumberland Home along with
Tennyson in the May of 1835. 'Voila bien long temps de ca!' His Father
and Mother were both alive--he, a wise man, who mounted his Cob after
Breakfast, and was at his Farm till Dinner at two--then away again till
Tea: after which he sat reading by a shaded lamp: saying very little, but
always courteous, and quite content with any company his Son might bring
to the house so long as they let him go his way: which indeed he would
have gone whether they let him or no. But he had seen enough of Poets
not to like them or their Trade: Shelley, for a time living among the
Lakes: Coleridge at Southey's (whom perhaps he had a respect for--Southey,
I mean), and Wordsworth, whom I do not think he valued. He was rather
jealous of 'Jem,' who might have done available service in the world, he
thought, giving himself up to such Dreamers; and sitting up with Tennyson
conning over the Morte d'Arthur, Lord of Burleigh, and other things which
helped to make up the two Volumes of 1842. So I always associate that
Arthur Idyll with Basanthwaite Lake, under Skiddaw. Mrs. Spedding was a
sensible, motherly Lady, with whom I used to play Chess of a Nigh