MY DEAR LADY; [ May, 1883.]

Stupid me! And now, after a little hunt, I find
poor Mowbray's Letter, which I had made sure of
having sent you. But I should not now send it if I
did not implore you not to write in case you thought fit
to return it; which indeed I did ask you to do; but
now I would rather it remained with you, who will
acknowledge all the true and brave in it as well as
I -- yes, it may be laid, if you please, even among
those of your own which you tell me Mowbray's Father
saved up for you. If you return it, let it be without a
word of your own: and pray do not misunderstand
me when I say that. You will hear of me (if Coutts
be true) when you are among your Mountains again;
and, if you do hear of me, I know you will -- for you
must -- reply.

At last some feeling of Spring -- a month before
Midsummer. And next week I am expecting my
grave Friend Charles Keene, of Punch, to come
here for a week -- bringing with him his Bagpipes,
and an ancient Viol, and a Book of Strathspeys and
Madrigals; and our Archdeacon will come to meet
him, and to talk over ancient Music, and Books: and
we shall all three drive out past the green hedges, and
heaths with their furze in blossom -- and I wish -- yes,
I do -- that you were of the Party.

I love all Southey, and all that he does; and love
that Correspondence of his with Caroline Bowles. We

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