"My and your dear friend," wrote Mrs. Southey, "thanks you for your letter. But, alas! he no longer says, I will write soon to Landor; for when I proposed to answer in his stead, he said, Yes, yes, do so, pray do. Landor has indeed a true regard for me." "You are ofen with him still in spirit," she resumed after a few days; "his affectionate remembrance of you is unfading. The volume of poetry still oftenist in his hands is Gebir. It lived upon the sofa with us all last week; and he often exclaimed in delight, struck as by a first reading with something that charmed him, Why, what a poem this is! If at such times you could see him, you would still see the glorious mind all undimmed in those lustrous eyes of his. He took up his Book of the Church to-day, and, turning its leaves over and over, looked up at me and said, Well, thank God, I have written a book that may do good to somebody." Not for long were even such fitful glimpses of the fast-fading intellegence discernible; but for so long the recollection of his friend Walter Landor remained. "It is seldom now," wrote Mrs. Southey on the 24th of December, 1841, "that he ever names any person: but this morning, before he left his bed, I heard him repeating softly to himself, Landor, ay, Landor."