'. . . Ever since I set foot in England I have been pestered with applications for leave to write the Life of my wife--I have refused--and there an end. I have last week received two communications from friends, enclosing the letters of a certain . . . of . . ., asking them for details of life and letters, for a biography he is engaged in--adding, that he "has secured the correspondence with her old friend . . ." Think of this beast working away at this, not deeming my feelings or those of her family worthy of notice--and meaning to print letters written years and years ago, on the most intimate and personal subjects to an "old friend"--which, at the poor . . . [friend's] death fell into the hands of a complete stranger, who, at once wanted to print them, but desisted through Ba's earnest expostulation enforced by my own threat to take law proceedings--as fortunately letters are copyright. I find this woman died last year, and her son writes to me this morning that . . . got them from him as autographs merely--he will try and get them back. . . , evidently a blackguard, got my letter, which gave him his deserts, on Saturday--no answer yet,--if none comes, I shall be forced to advertise in the 'Times', and obtain an injunction. But what I suffer in feeling the hands of these blackguards (for I forgot to say another man has been making similar applications to friends) what I undergo with their paws in my very bowels, you can guess, and God knows! No friend, of course, would ever give up the letters--if anybody ever is forced to do that which _she_ would have writhed under--if it ever _were_ necessary, why, _I_ should be forced to do it, and, with any good to her memory and fame, my own pain in the attempt would be turned into joy--I should _do_ it at whatever cost: but it is not only unnecessary but absurdly useless--and, indeed, it shall not be done if I can stop the scamp's knavery along with his breath. 'I am going to reprint the Greek Christian Poets and another essay--nothing that ought to be published shall be kept back,--and this she certainly intended to correct, augment, and re-produce--but _I_ open the doubled-up paper! Warn anyone you may think needs the warning of the utter distress in which I should be placed were this scoundrel, or any other of the sort, to baffle me and bring out the letters--I can't prevent fools from uttering their folly upon her life, as they do on every other subject, but the law protects property,--as these letters are. Only last week, or so, the Bishop of Exeter stopped the publication of an announced "Life"--containing extracts from his correspondence--and so I shall do. . . .'