y: but Cowell, who has been over to see me, says
it is probable.

I have brought my Eyes by careful nursing into sufficient strength to
read Moliere, and Montaigne, and two or three more of my old 'Standards'
with all my old Relish. But I must not presume on this; and ought to
spare your Eyes as well as my own in respect of this letter.

WOODBRIDGE, _Jan._ /73.

MY DEAR POLLOCK,

I have not been reading so much of my Gossip lately, to send you a good
little Bit of, which I think may do you a good turn now and then. Give a
look at 'Egypt of the Pharaohs' by Zincke, Vicar of a Parish near
Woodbridge; the Book is written in a light, dashing (but not Cockney
pert) way, easily looked over. There is a supposed Soliloquy of an
English Labourer (called 'Hodge') as contrasted with the Arab, which is
capital.

Do you know Taschereau's Life of Moliere? I have only got that prefixed
to a common Edition of 1730. But even this is a delightful serio-comic
Drama. I see that H. Heine says the French are all born Actors: which
always makes me wonder why they care so for the Theatre. Heine too, I
find, speaks of V. Hugo's Worship of Ugliness; of which I find so much in
--- and other modern Artists, Literary, Musical, or Graphic. . . .

What, you tell me, Palgrave said about me, I should have thought none but
a very partial Friend, like Donne, would ever have thought of saying. But
I'll say no more on that head. Only that, as regards the little
Dialogue, {150} I think it is a very pretty thing in Form, and with some
very pretty parts in it. But when I read it two or three years ago,
there was, I am sure, some over-smart writing, and some clumsy wording;
insomuch that, really liking the rest, I cut out about a sheet, and
substituted another, and made a few corrections with a Pen in what
remained, though plenty more might be made, little as the Book is. Well;
as you like this little Fellow, and I think he is worth liking, up to a
Point, I shall send you a Copy of these amended Sheets.

[_March_ 1873.]

MY DEAR POLLOCK,

7.15 p.m. After a stroll in mine own Garden, under the moon--shoes
kicked off--Slippers and Dressing Gown on--A Pinch of Snuff--and hey for
a Letter--to my only London Correspondent!

And to London have I been since my last Letter: and have seen the Old
Masters; and finished them off by such a Symphony as was worthy of the
best of them, two Acts of Mozart's 'Cosi.' You wrote me that you had
'assisted