I have heard again from Carlyle who has sent me, a letter from Dr. Cookson, which I am to burn or send, as I think best. Before I do so, I should be glad to speak to Miss Charlesworth on the matter again: and as my brother is going off on one of his comet excursions to-morrow (at least so he purposed an hour ago) I shall go with him to Ipswich, unless it snows, etc., and shall walk to Bramford. My humble request therefore is nothing more than that you will be so good as to lock up Miss C. till I have come and consulted as to what is best to be done: and how best to address this Doctor: whom I conclude she knows. However, I only mean that if the day is pretty fair I may hope to find some of you at home: and Mr. Charlesworth well again. Yours very truly, E. FITZGERALD. [19 CHARLOTTE STREET, RATHBONE PLACE,] LONDON, _April_ 11/44. DEAR MRS. CHARLESWORTH, I last night smoked a pipe with Carlyle. He has had two large packets from Dr. Cookson, who shows alacrity enough to do what is asked, and may turn up something. But he has chiefly spoken of Winsby: and your Allenbys had so well cleared all that matter up with their map, etc., that the Doctor was going over needless ground. I hope we may be as successful with some other field: or rather that Cookson will anticipate us and save us all trouble. London is very hateful to me. I long to spread wing and fly into the kind clean air of the country. I see nobody in the streets half so handsome as Mr. Reynolds {157} of our parish: all clever, composed, satirical, selfish, well dressed. Here we see what the World is. I am sure a great City is a deadly Plague: worse than the illness so called that came to ravage it. I tried to persuade Carlyle to leave his filthy Chelsea, but he says his wife likes London. I get radishes to eat for breakfast of a morning: with them comes a savour of earth that brings all the delicious gardens of the world back into one's soul, and almost draws tears from one's eyes. With renewed thanks believe me ever yours, E. FITZGERALD. _To Bernard Barton_. 19 CHARLOTTE ST., _April_ 11/44. DEAR BARTON, I am still indignant at this nasty place London. Thackeray, whom I came up to see, went off to Brighton the night after I arrived, and has not re- appeared: but I must wait some time longer for him. Thank Miss Barton much for the _kit_; if it is but a kit: my old woman is a great lover of cats, and hers has just _kitted_, and a wretched little blind puling tabby lizard of a thing was to be saved from the pail for me: but if Miss Barton's is a _kit_, I will gladly have it: and my old lady's shall be disposed of--not to the pail. Oh rus, quando te aspiciam? Construe that, Mr. Barton.--I am going to send down my pictures to Boulge, if I can secure them: they are not quite secure at present. If they vanish, I snap my fingers at them, Magi and all--there is a world (alas!) elsewhere beyond pictures--Oh, oh, oh, oh--