Through his long life John Loder lived quietly in Woodbridge, eager and merry in his shop, a great reader, always delighted when any one came in who was qualified to discuss the literature which interested him.  He and FitzGerald had long cracks together and perhaps Loder may have accompanied the Woodbridge Omar on some of those trips down the Deben on the Scandal or the Meum and Tuum (the Mum and Tum as Posh, Fitz’s sailing master, called her).  He played a prominent part in the life of the town, became a Justice of the Peace, and sat regularly on the bench until he was nearly ninety.  As he entered upon the years of old age, came a delightful surprise.  An old friend of his in the publishing business, whom he had known long before in London, died and left him a handsome legacy by will.  Thus his last years were spared from anxiety and he was able to continue his unobtrusive and quiet generosities which had always been his secret delight.

Looking over the preceding paragraphs I am ashamed to see how pale and mumbling a tribute they are to this fine spirit.  Could I but put him before you as he was in those last days!  I used to go up to Burkitt House to see him:  in summer we would sit in the little arbour in the garden, or in winter by the fire in his dining room.  He would talk and I would ask him questions; now and then he would get up to pull down a book, or to lead me into his bedroom to see some special treasure.  He used to sit in his shirtsleeves, very close to the fire, with his shoe laces untied.  In summer he would toddle about in his shaggy blue suit, with a tweed cap over one ear, his grizzled beard and moustache well stained by much smoking, his eyes as bright and his tongue as brisk as ever.  Every warm morning would see him down on the river wall; stumping over Market Hill and down Church Street with his stout oak stick, hailing every child he met on the pavement.  His pocket was generally full of peppermints, and the youngsters knew well which pocket it was.  His long life was a series of original and graceful kindnesses, always to those who needed them most and had no reason to expect them.  No recluse he, no fine scholar, no polished litterateur, but a hard-headed, soft-hearted human man of the sturdy old Suffolk breed.  Sometimes I think he was, in his own way, just as great a man as the “Old Fitz,” whom he loved and reverenced.

He died on November 7, 1917, aged ninety-two years three months and four days.  He was extraordinarily sturdy until nearly ninety—­he went in bathing in the surf at Felixstowe on his eighty-sixth birthday.  Perhaps the sincerest tribute I can pay him is these lines which I copy from my journal, dated July 16, 1913: