The account you give of my old Squire 'that he is in a poorish way' does
not satisfy me: and I want you to ask Mr. Jones the surgeon, whom you
know, and who used to attend on the Squire,--to ask him, I say, how that
Squire is. He has been ill for the last two or three winters, and may
not be worse now than before. He is one of our oldest friends: and
though he and I have not very much in common, he is a part of my country
of England, and involved in the very idea of the quiet fields of Suffolk.
He is the owner of old Bredfield House in which I was born--and the
seeing him cross the stiles between Hasketon and Bredfield, and riding
with his hounds over the lawn, is among the scenes in that novel called
The Past which dwell most in my memory. What is the difference between
what has been, and what never has been, _none_? At the same time this
Squire, so hardy, is indignant at the idea of being ill or laid up: so
one must inquire of him by some roundabout means. . . .
We had a large party here last night: Horace Smith came: like his brother
James, but better looking: and said to be very agreeable. Do you [know]
that he gives a dreadful account of Mrs. Southey: that meek and Christian
poetess: he says, she's a devil in temper. He told my mother so: had you
heard of this? I don't believe it yet: one ought not so soon, ought one?
Goodbye.
_To W. B. Donne_.