His friendly notes were exquisitely turned, and are among his most charming compositions.  They abound in felicities only like himself.  In 1860 he wrote to me while I was sojourning in Italy:  “I should like to have a walk through Rome with you this bright morning (for it really is bright in London), and convey you over some favorite ground of mine.  I used to go up the street of Tombs, past the tomb of Cecilia Metella, away out upon the wild campagna, and by the old Appian Road (easily tracked out among the ruins and primroses), to Albano.  There, at a very dirty inn, I used to have a very dirty lunch, generally with the family’s dirty linen lying in a corner, and inveigle some very dirty Vetturino in sheep-skin to take me back to Rome.”

In a little note in answer to one I had written consulting him about the purchase of some old furniture in London he wrote:  “There is a chair (without a bottom) at a shop near the office, which I think would suit you.  It cannot stand of itself, but will almost seat somebody, if you put it in a corner, and prop one leg up with two wedges and cut another leg off, The proprietor asks L20, but says he admires literature and would take L18.  He is of republican principles and I think would take L17 19_s_. 6_d_. from a cousin; shall I secure this prize?  It is very ugly and wormy, and it is related, but without proof, that on one occasion Washington declined to sit down in it.”

Here are the last two missives I ever received from his dear, kind hand:—­

    5 Hyde Park Place, London, W., Friday, January 14, 1870.

My Dear Fields:  We live here (opposite the Marble Arch) in a charming house until the 1st of June, and then return to Gad’s.  The Conservatory is completed, and is a brilliant success;—­but an expensive one!

I read this afternoon at three,—­a beastly proceeding which I particularly hate,—­and again this day week at three.  These morning readings particularly disturb me at my book-work; nevertheless I hope, please God, to lose no way on their account.  An evening reading once a week is nothing.  By the by, I recommenced last Tuesday evening with the greatest brilliancy.

I should be quite ashamed of not having written to you and my dear Mrs. Fields before now, if I didn’t know that you will both understand how occupied I am, and how naturally, when I put my papers away for the day, I get up and fly.  I have a large room here, with three fine windows, overlooking the Park,—­unsurpassable for airiness and cheerfulness.

You saw the announcement of the death of poor dear Harness.  The circumstances are curious.  He wrote to his old friend the Dean of Battle saying he would come to visit him on that day (the day of his death).  The Dean wrote back:  “Come next day, instead, as we are obliged to go out to dinner, and you will be alone.”  Harness told his sister a little impatiently that