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MS untraced; text is taken from Eustace R. Conder, Josiah Conder: A Memoir (London, 1857). Previously published: Eustace R. Conder, Josiah Conder: A Memoir (London, 1857), pp.164–166.
These letters were edited with the assistance of Carol Bolton, Tim Fulford and Ian Packer
For permission to publish the text of MSS in their possession, the editor wishes to thank the Beinecke Rare Books and Manuscript Library, Yale University; Berg Collection of English and American Literature, The New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox and Tilden Foundations; the Bodleian Library Oxford University; the British Library; Boston Public Library; the Syndics of Cambridge University Library; the Syndics of the Fitzwilliam Museum Cambridge; Haverford College, Connecticut; the Historical Society of Pennsylvania; the Hornby Library, Liverpool Libraries and Information Services; the Houghton Library, Harvard University; the John Rylands Library, Manchester; the Kenneth Spencer Research Library, University of Kansas; Luton Museum (Bedfordshire County Council); Massachusetts Historical Society; McGill University Library; the National Library of Scotland; the Newberry Library, Chicago; the New York Public Library (Pforzheimer Collections); the Pierpont Morgan Library, New York; the Public Record Offices of Bedford, Suffolk (Bury St Edmunds) and Northumberland, the Master and Fellows of Trinity College, Cambridge; the Society of Antiquaries of Newcastle upon Tyne; the Trustees of the William Salt Library, Stafford, the Wisbech and Fenland Museum; the University of Virginia Library.
A research grant from the British Academy made much of the archival work possible, as did support from the English Department of Nottingham Trent University.
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At length I have received your packet, with your letter of March 2nd. I thank you for its contents. Robert Hall’s
pamphlet has done its work.
The poembalked in the fourth verse,
at coming to nigh instead of near.
The Hymns,
Thank you for your letter respecting our excellent friend Neville. I have been too much occupied to write to him, and of late my spirits have wanted their usual elasticity. A brother of my wife’s, who came here hoping to enjoy a few weeks of relaxation, is lingering under a complication of obscure and incurable diseases; and how long he may live, or rather how long he may continue dying, is what no medical skill can foresee. I know just enough of nosology to punish me for ever having looked into the science without making it my study. Not an ailment can occur among my children that I cannot in my own mind explain by some alarming cause; and thus little illnesses, which men who lived less with their children would hardly hear of, and men in healthier feelings and happier ignorance would never think of, give me serious disquietude. It seems as if I had as many hopes and fears as the veriest worldling, and that having none with respect to common worldly objects, they had all taken this direction.
Montgomery has not written to me for many months, and I have long intended to tell him so. I see his “World before the Flood” advertised, and when next I write to Murray, will take a place in the
My own poem
Why did not your cousininside of my house, as well as of the outside? A line from you would have procured him ready admittance,
and such attentions, as a stranger may find useful. Remember this in future.