To Mr John Blackwood.

“Trieste, Feb. 15, 1871.

“I am now on my twelfth day in bed, somewhat better at last, but very low and depressed. I had, before I was struck down, begun an ‘O’Dowd,’ but how write for a public that buys 150,000 copies of ‘Dame Europa’s School’! Is there any use in inventing epigrams for such an auditory? Tomorrow is the black day of the post, and can bring me no letter, or I should not bore you with this.”

To Mr John Blackwood.

“Fiume Istrica, Feb. 28,1871.

“Your kind letter and its enclosure reached me safely here, where I have been sent to refit. I believe the word suits, as I have got fluid in my pericardium, and my condition is therefore one of being water-logged, which means unseaworthy, but not yet gone down.

“The Gladstone request to Robinson to falsify the date of his letter is too atrocious; and as the ‘O’Dowds’ are made of certain subtle analysis, this case cannot be so treated, there being fortunately no parallel instance to put against it.

“As to old Russell: he was instructed to bark, and he went farther, and growled; but as Bismarck knew he was muzzled, there came nothing of it.

“My impression is the Turks are going to throw us over and make alliances with Russia, and seeing how utterly powerless we are, small blame to them. England is rapidly coming to the condition of Holland. I think another fifty years will do it, and instead of the New Zealander, a Burgomaster will sit on London Bridge and bob for eels in the muddy Thames.

“So you mean to be in town this April? Not that I have any hope of meeting you. Tell Mrs Blackwood for me how glad I should be to spoil her breakfast once more!”

To Dr Burbidge.

“Trieste, March 26, 1871.

“Your letter found me at Rome, where I had been sent for a change of air. It was my first visit to Sydney since her marriage, and I enjoyed myself much, and threw off my cough, and could get up stairs without blowing like a grampus.

“I cannot tell you how sincerely I thank you for your letters. I know of no man but yourself from whom I should have liked to have letters on the same theme, and if my illness did not make me as reflective as you hoped for, your letter has given me much thought.

“It is easy enough for a man to mistake deep dejection for reflection, and so far I might have deceived myself, for I have been depressed to a state I never knew till now.

“I am cared for and watched and loved as much as is possible for a man to be, and all the while I am companionless. The dear friend who was with me through every hour of my life is gone, and I have no heart for any present [? or future] occupation without her. My impatience is even such, that I do not like those signs of returning health that promise to keep me longer here; and I trust more complacently in breaking up than in anything. With all this, your letter has been a great—the greatest—comfort I have yet felt, and your affection is very dear to me. I think I know how only such warm friendship would have taken the tone and the words you use, and it comes to me like water to a man thirsting.”

To Mr John Blackwood.

“Trieste, Wednesday, March 29.

“I believe what I now send you is good, but I will not be certain till I hear you are of the same mind. The truth is, I am so broken in courage as well as health, that it is only the continued insistence of my daughters drives me to the desk at all, and they are perhaps only minded thereto by seeing the deep depression in which I live, and which they ascribe to idleness.

“I hope at all events to hear from you soon, with tidings of the great paper, and if soon after with proof of the present, tant mieux.

“I believe I have seen my last of London, and I am sorry for it, and sorrier not to see you again,—not but I feel you would scarce care to meet me, depressed and low-spirited as I am now.

“I have just seen the aide-de-camp the Emperor here sent to Berlin, and who had a confidential interview with Bismarck.

“The Prussians are furious with us, and not over friendly with Russia. Bismarck even said that if Austria should be attacked by Russia they will stand by her, but not support her in any aggressive policy. He added, ‘Do what you like with Turkey, but don’t interfere with the German rights on the Danube.’”

“If Bright had been still in the Ministry I could have understood Henry Bulwer being made a peer as a subtle attack on the House of Lords. What it means now I cannot guess.

“If I was not an official with a uniform and a quarter day (both d———d shabby), I’d make an O’D. on the Princess’s marriage in this way. The Queen, seeing the impossibility of elevating English democracy, sees that she has but one other thing to do, which is to come down to it. This is like old Sheridan, when appealed to by a drunken man in the gutter, ‘Lift me up, lift me,’ replying, ‘I can’t lift you up, but I’ll lie down beside you.’”

To Mr John Blackwood.

“Trieste, April 16, 1871.

“I have got a short leave, and having determined to venture on the road, I mean to start on Wednesday, and, if I can, reach town by Saturday next. My plan is—as I want to go over to Ireland—to do my ‘Irishries’ until such time as you arrive in London, where, I need not say, I have no object more at heart than to meet you and Mrs Blackwood.

“If I could manage a rapid run south and west in Ireland, I’ll try what I could do as ‘A Last Glimpse of Ireland,’ and only wish I had a little more strength and more spirit for the effort.

“Write me a line to meet me in town (at Burlington Hotel) to say when I may hope to see you—to see you both, I mean.”

To Mr John Blackwood.

“[? London] Tuesday, April 25, 1871.

“What with being nearly driven over ten times a-day, and the certainty of being over-dinnered at night, I have a perilous time of it here.

“I was delighted to get your cordial note, and more so to count upon seeing you so soon, and I hope, too, Mrs Blackwood with you. My plans are to visit Ireland at once, so as to have as much of London as I can when you shall have arrived.

“How I would wish to have you over with me in Ireland, but I suppose the thing is impossible.

“I have got an autumn invitation to Sir Healy Maxwell, and if we could manage it perhaps we could then make a little Killarney excursion together. Nous en parlerons!

“I wish I may see and be able to record something in my new ramble worth sending to ‘Maga,’—at least I will try.

“They tell me here that the Tories might come in at any moment by a snap vote with the Radicals, but that they are too wise to be tempted.

“I hear that Tichborne is certain to win his suit: indeed fabulous odds are laid in his favour.”

To Mr Alexander Spencer.

“Garrick Club, London, April 25, 1871.

“I am here in the midst of civilities and attentions more than enough to turn my poor head; but I mean to run over to Ireland and be there on Sunday next, and, if not inconvenient, would ask you to tell Morrison’s people to keep a room for me as low down—that is, with as few steps to mount—as they can, always provided that the room be large and airy. I intend to take some hurried rambles through the south and west to refresh memories and lay in new stores, if I can.” Lever arrived in Ireland at the end of April. He was in excellent spirits, and apparently in a more even frame of mind than he had been during his previous visit. Again he found himself in a vortex of dining, whisting, talking, and laughter. Lord Spencer, who was Viceroy of Ireland at this period, made the author of ‘Lord Kilgobbin’ his guest for some days at the Viceregal Lodge. Lever “charmed and entertained” Lord and Lady Spencer. Bishops, military folk, judges, doctors, professors, vied with each other for the privilege of securing the novelist’s company at dinner-tables and receptions. Morrison’s hotel, where he had engaged rooms, was besieged by callers. One of these gives a very pleasant glimpse of the Irish novelist. “I found him seated,” he says, “at an open window, a bottle of claret at his right hand and the proof-sheets of ‘Lord Kilgobbin’ before him. It was a beautiful morning of May: the hawthorns in the College park were just beginning to bloom.... He looked a hale, hearty, laughter-loving man of sixty. There was mirth in his grey eye, joviality in the wink that twittered on his eyelid, saucy humour in his smile, and bon mot, wit, and rejoinder in every movement of his lips. His hair, very thin but of a silky brown, fell across his forehead, and when it curtained his eyes he would jerk back his head—this, too, at some telling crisis in a narrative.... He made great use of his hands, which were small and white and delicate as those of a woman. He threw them up in ecstasy or wrung them in mournfulness—just as the action of the moment demanded.... He was somewhat careless in his dress, but clung to the traditional high shirt-collar.... ‘I stick to my Irish shoes,’ he said. ‘There is no shoe in the world—or no accent either—equal to the Irish brogue.’” Trinity College decided to confer upon him the title of Doctor of Laws—the actual bestowal of the title did not take place until July—and played whist with him. The University Club gave a dinner in his honour. Standing with his back to a chiffonnier, he remarked to a friend that most of the old faces had disappeared. “You still have some friends at your back,” said his companion; and turning to see who they were, the novelist beheld some volumes of his own writings. Taking up ‘Harry Lorrequer,’ he observed, “A poor thing. How well Phiz illustrated it!” One of the calls he made during this visit to Dublin was at the house of Sheridan le Fanu. The author of ‘Uncle Silas’ was in an extra gloomy mood, and he denied himself to his old comrade. He was more fortunate with another friend, Sir William Wilde. Lever was beginning to suffer from dimness of sight. The eminent oculist assured him that there was nothing radically wrong with his eyes—that the difficulty arose out of late suppers. Every one who met him during his last visit to Dublin declared that ‘Lorrequer’ had never been so agreeable, so fascinating, so buoyant. The ramble through the south and west of Ireland was not undertaken. Dublin festivities had weakened the novelist’s will. He said goodbye to Ireland in May, and made a short stay in London. He enjoyed again in London the company of all that was bright and lively, himself the brightest and liveliest. He made some heavy losses at whist, but his ill-luck had a sunny side. It encouraged him to call upon Mr W. H. Smith, whose firm now owned most of his copyrights; and Mr Smith, it is said, gave Lever a very considerable sum of money on account of payments to be made to him for a series of autobiographical prefaces to his novels.

To Mr Alexander Spencer.

“Trieste, June 14, 1871.

“It is in no ingratitude for all the hospitalities and courtesies I have lately received that I say I was glad to be once more in my cottage, and back in the calm, quiet, and comfortable little crib I call my home.

“I was present in court at the Tichborne examination of Thursday last, and a more miserable spectacle of evasion, falsehood, and shame I never witnessed; but in these depreciations of the man’s character I see no reason to dispute his identity,—on the contrary, the blacker he is, the more, to my thinking, he is a Tichborne. At the same time, juries do not confine themselves to the issue they have to try, but are swayed by moral reasons outside the legal ones, and may in all likelihood scruple to endow with fortune such a palpable scoundrel.

“My last dinner in London was with Ballantine, and he persists in believing the claimant to be the real man; but I do not perceive that he is confident of the verdict.”

To Mr John Blackwood.

“Trieste, July 2, 1871.

“I am so anxious to be early that I send you the three O’Ds. I have written this very moment. I have finished them, and so near post hour that I have scarce time for a line to say that I am at home again, and have brought back a fair stock of the good health my visit to town gave me, and a large budget of the pleasure and kind flatteries which every one bestowed on me when there,—narratives my daughters delight in, and in which your name and your wife’s come in at every moment and to meet all our gratitude in recognition.

“I hope you will like the O’Ds., and think they have not lost in vigour because of my late excesses in turtle and whitebait.

“When you send me a proof, tell me all you think of them, and if anything occurs to me in the meanwhile, I’ll speak of it.

“Tichborne I incline to think the real man, and the blacker they make him the more certainly they identify him: so far I regard Coleridge as his best advocate. Of course, I must not speak of the case till it is concluded.”

To Mr John Blackwood.

“Trieste, July 5, 1871.

“As I had finished the enclosed O’D., I read how Trinity had made me LL.D. The degree must not be exported to me in gratitude. I really believe a large amount of what I have said, which is more than can be asserted by Tichborne, or the man who says he is Tichborne.

“It is a great grief to me that I cannot say what I think of that curious trial, and all that I should like to say of the solicitor to the Crown’s examination; but I see it would be too dangerous, and, to use his own style, I might ask myself, ‘Would you not be surprised to hear that an attachment was issued against you?’”

“The hot weather has begun here, and in such honest earnest that I can do nothing but hunt out a dark cool corner and go to sleep.

“I am very sorry not to be in Ireland now, when the [? ] have been invited to the Exhibition banquet on the 20th; but I have done with banquets now, and must address myself to my maccaroni with what appetite I may.”

To Mr William Blackwood.

“Trieste, July 13, 1871.

“I should have liked to have detained these proofs until I heard what your uncle might have to say to them, but I am afraid of delay, and send them back at once. My hope is that he will like them, though I cannot dare to think that my chief, Lord Granville, will approve of what I say of his speech at the Cobden dinner. At any rate, if they kick me out, I can go home and be a rebel, and if too old for a pike I am still good for a paragraph.

“All that London life with its flatteries and fat-feeding has sorely unfitted me for my cold mutton v. existence at home; but it cannot be helped, and I must try to get back into the old groove and work along as before.

“There is now a dull apathy over life—the consequence of all our late excitement; but we cannot always afford to pay for ‘stars,’ and Bismarck is too costly an artiste to keep always on the boards. From all I see, the French are just as insolent and bumptious as before they were licked,—showing us, if we like to see it, what the world would have had to endure had they been the conquerors!

“It is a sore grief to me that I cannot go to the Scott festival; but I have no leave and less money, and though I believe F. O. might grant me the one, they’d even stop my pay, which is the aggravation of insult.

“I hope sincerely you don’t feel it a matter of conscience to read all a man writes, for if so I’d shut up. Only assuring you that now we have met and shaken hands, it is with increased pleasure I write myself, yours sincerely, Chas. Lever.”

To Mr John Blackwood.

“Trieste, Aug. 6, 1871.

“En attendant to writing you a long letter, I send you these ‘O’Dowds’ now, which will give us more time to discuss them.

“That on our ‘National Donations’ is, I hope, good. I know it is called for. The shabby scoundrels from Manchester that want to manage England like a mill and treat the monarch like an overseer deserve castigation, and I feel you will agree with me. Is not ‘Meat without Bone’ good enough for use?

“I am so sorry not to be able to say all the civil things I should like to say of the Solicitor-General now, for when the trial is over I shall not be able to revive my generous indignation to the white heat it now enjoys.

“Why don’t you tell me some popular theme to O’Dowd? I’m here, as they say in Ireland, ‘at the back of good speed,’ and know nothing.

“A very curious trial occurred five years ago in Austria on a disputed identity, and the man questioned substantiated his case. It would be interesting if a correct record could be had.

“Ballantine tells me that Jeune is gone to Australia, and will be back in November with proofs of the loss of the Bella, names of survivors, and existence in the colony of Arthur Orton up to November last. B. is sure of a verdict—at least, he is sure of his right to it.”

To Mr John Blackwood.

“Trieste, Aug. 5, 1871.

“It is time I should thank you and Mrs Blackwood for your cordial invitation to myself and my daughter to go and see you in Scotland, and we are only too sorry we cannot manage you a visit, and in talk—for it is all that is left us—to ride over the links of Fife, and even assist at golf.

“Even if I could have plucked up courage to go over now, I ‘stopped’ myself by letting my ‘vice’ go on leave,—a piece of generosity on my part that has cost me heavier than I thought for, and gave me nearer opportunities of intimacy with Cardiff captains and Hull skippers than I care for.

“Of course, it is out of the question trying to write except on my ‘off days,’ when I shut out the whole rabble.

“I begin to think that Gladstone has been carried away by pure anger in all his late doings. It is purely womanish and hysterical throughout. To hit off this I have thrown off the short ‘O’Dowd,’ ‘What if they were to be Court-martialled?’ which, with a little change, will perhaps do.

“It is one of those cases which will be as long kept before the public, for it is the attack on a great principle—and in that sense no mere grievance of the hour.

“As a means of lowering the House of Lords—if such was the intention—it has totally failed, and even ‘Pall Mall’ has come to the side of the Peers, which is significant.

“I see Seymour, my old friend, has got his first verdict in the Hertford case. It is £70,000 a-year at issue, but of course the great battle will be fought before ‘the Lords,’”

To Mr John Blackwood.

“Trieste, Aug. 17,1871.

“About half an hour after your pleasant letter and its handsome enclosure reached me, Langford came in. He was on his way to Venice, but, like a good fellow, stopped to dine with myself and daughter.

“We are delighted with him,—not only with his talk about books and writers, Garrick men and reviewers, but with his fine fresh-hearted appreciation of all he sees in his tour. He likes everything, and travels really to enjoy it.

“I wish I knew how to detain him here a little longer; though, God knows, no place nor no man has fewer pretensions to lay an embargo on any one.

“I took him out to see Miramar last evening, and we both wished greatly you had been with us. It was a cool drive of some miles along the Adriatic, with the Dalmatian mountains in front, and to the westward the whole Julian Alps snow-topped and edged. I know you would have enjoyed it.

“I am so glad you like the O’Ds. As I grow older I become more and more distrustful of all I do; in fact, I feel like the man who does not know when he draws on his banker that he may not have overdrawn his account and have his cheque returned. This is very like intellectual bankruptcy, or the dread of it, which is much the same.

“The finest part of Scott’s nature to my thinking was the grand heroic spirit—that trumpet-stop on his organ—which elevated our commonplace people and stirred the heart of all that was high-spirited and generous amongst us. It was the anti-climax to our realism and sensationalism—detective Police Literature or Watch-house Romance.

“This was the tone I wanted to see praised and recommended, and I was sorry to see how little it was touched on. The very influence that a gentleman exerts in society on a knot of inferiors was the sort of influence Scott brought to bear upon the whole nation. All felt that there was at least one there before whom nothing mean or low or shabby should be exhibited.”

To Mr John Blackwood.

“Trieste, Aug. 28, 1871.

“The day after Langford left this, my horse, treading on a sharp stone that cut his frog, fell on me and crushed my foot,—not severely, but enough to bring on the worst attack of gout I ever had in my life, and which all my precautions have only kept down up to this from seizing on the stomach. My foot was about as big and as shapely as Cardwell’s head. I am now unable to move, and howl if any one approaches me rashly.

“I told Langford of a curious police trial for swindling here at Vienna—curious as illustrating Austrian criminal procedure, &c. He thought I ought to report it in ‘O’Dowd.’ I send it off now for your opinion and judgment (and hope favourably). It might want a little retouching here and there, but you will see and say.

“I was delighted with your ‘Scott’ speech—the best of them of all that I read, and I see it has been copied and recopied largely. Your allusion to Wilson was perfect, and such a just homage to a really great man whom all the Cockneyism in the world cannot disparage.

“I am in such damnable pain that I can hardly write a line, but I want you to see the ‘Police’ sketch at once. Can I have a proof, if you like it, early? as perhaps when I am able to move I shall have to get to some of the sulphur springs in Styria at once.

“My enemy is now making a demonstration about my left knee, and, as the newspapers say, La situation est difficile.

“I am not so ill but that I can desire to be remembered to Mrs Blackwood.”

To Mr John Blackwood.

“Sept., 9, 1871.

“Between gout and indignation I am half mad. Gladstone at Whitby is worse to me than my swelled ankle, and I send you a furious O’D. to show that the Cabinet are only playing out—where they do not parody—the game of the Communists.

“Whether it will be in time to send me a proof I cannot tell, but you will, I know, take care of me. I feel in writing it as though we had been talking the whole thing together, and that I was merely giving a rÉsumÉ of our gossip.

“Your delightful note and its enclosure have just come. I thank you cordially for both. I have not any recollection of what I said of Scott, but I know what I feel about him, and how proud I am that you like my words. I cannot get my foot to the ground yet, but I am rather in vein for writing, as I always am in gout, only my caligraphy has got added difficulties from the position I am reduced to.

“I am glad Langford likes us here: my daughters took to him immensely, and only were sorry we saw so little of him. If he has really ‘bitten’ you with a curiosity to see Miramar I shall bless the day he came here.

“Tell Mrs Blackwood my cabin will be glad to house her here, and if she will only come I’ll be her courier over the whole of North Italy.”

To Mr John Blackwood.

“Trieste, Sept. 10, 1871.

“You are right. There is little point—that is, there is no epigram—in the ‘Trial.’ I wrote it rather to break the monotony of eternal moral-isings than with any other object. If it be pleasant reading I am content, and, I hope, so are you.

“I sent yesterday a hard-hitting O’D. on ‘How Gladstone is doing the Work of the Commune,’ and I send you now, I think, a witty comparison between the remaining troopers and the Whigs. My daughter thinks it the smartest bit of fun I have done since I had the gout last, and all the salt in it comes unquestionably from that source.

“All the names in the ‘Trial’ are authentic. The lady is really the grand-daughter of Hughes Ball (the celebrated Golden Ball); and the man’s assertion of being ‘Times’ correspondent was accepted as an unquestionable fact.

“I have made superhuman efforts to be legible in this ‘O’Dowd’ now, so as to make correction easy. Heaven grant that my ‘Internationals’ be as lucky.

“I am still a cripple, and if irritability be a sign of recovery, my daughter says that my convalescence is approaching.”

To Mr John Blackwood.

“Trieste, Oct. 1, 1871.

“I am so eager to save a post and see this in proof, that I have never left my desk for five hours, and only read it to Lord D. (Henry Bulwer), who was delighted with it, before I sent it.

“You have given me a rare fright by printing, as I see, what I said of Scott—at least, any other man than yourself doing so would terrify me, but you are a true friend and a wise critic, and what you have done must be right and safe: I do not remember one word of it. I have written myself back into gout, and must now go to bed. I had a sort of coup yesterday, and D. believed I was off.”

To Mr John Blackwood.

“Trieste, Oct. 3,1871.

“I have just seen ‘Maga,’ and I am ashamed at the prominence you have given my few words about Scott.

“What a close connection a man’s ankles have with his intellect. I don’t know, but I can swear to it, that since I have become tender about the feet I have grown to feel very insecure about the thinking department, and the row in the cellar is re-echoed in the garret.

“Every fresh speech of Gladstone gives me a fresh seizure, and his last ‘bunkum’ at Aberdeen has cost me a pint of colchicum.

“I have an O’D. in my head on the ‘Cobden Campaign,’ but I suppose it is safer to leave it there. You know what the tenor replied when some one said from the pit, ‘Monsieur, vous chantez fau.’ ‘Je le sais, Monsieur, mais je ne veux pas qu’on me le dise.’

“Give my warmest regards to Mrs Blackwood. I wish with all my heart, gout nonobstant, I was to dine with you to-day.”

To Mr John Blackwood.

“Trieste, Oct. 17, 1871.

“I know well but for golf and its ‘divartin’ sticks’ I should have had a line from you, but you have no moment to spare correcting O’Ds. amidst your distractions.

“I kept back the proof I now send to hear from you and make any changes or alterations you might suggest, and I have a half-done O’Dowd ‘On Widows’ which I shall keep over for another time. I am sorely done up,—only able to crawl with a stick and a friendly arm, and so weak that the Irishwoman’s simile of a ‘sheet of wet paper’ is my only parallel. Robert Lytton tells me he has got such a pleasant letter from you. He and his wife had been stopping with us here, and we were delighted with them both.”

To Mr John Blackwood.

“Trieste, Nov. 1, 1871.

“I was sorry not to see my ‘Home Rule’ in ‘Maga,’ but sorrier still not to hear from you, and I tormented myself thinking—which I ought not—that you were somewhat chagrinÉ with me. I am delighted now to find you are not, and that the only ‘grievance’ between us makes me the plaintiff for your not having printed my O’D. I can forgive this, however, and honestly assure you that I could forgive even worse at your hands. It is the nervous fear that I may be falling into [? senility] as well as gout that makes me tetchy about a rejected paper.

“Henry James got very safely out of my hands. He has no more pretension to play whist with me than I would have to cross-examine a witness before him, and I told him so before I won his sixpenny points.

“I fortunately asked F. O. by telegraph if I should take on the despatches, as the messenger was in quarantine, and they said not. They knew they were Henry Elliott’s, and that the delay could not injure the freshness. He is a great diplomatist, and there is nothing ephemeral in the news he sends home. Drummond Wolff is here with me now and Lord Dalling, and our conversation is more remarkable for wit than propriety.

“While James was here I was too gouty to go out with him, and what the latter Q.C. (queer customer) means by saying I was dog-bitten, I can’t guess. I am now crippled hand and foot, and a perfect curse to myself from irritability.”

To Mr John Blackwood.

“Trieste, Nov. 3, 1871.

“If my late discomfiture in your opinion of my last rejected O’Ds. had not taught me that I am not infallible, I should say that the O’D. I now send you is, as regards thought or pith, as good as any of them. I wrote it in a fit of gout. Spasmodic it is, perhaps, but vigorous I hope.

“I have been violently assailed in letters for what I said about ‘touching pitch,’—but there is nothing that leads me to retract or modify one word I wrote,—some from doctors, well written, but on a wrong issue. You can no more make people modest by Act of Parliament than you can make them grateful or polite in fifty other good things.

“A Mr Crane, West George Street, Glasgow, writes me a very courteous note, and says, ‘I do thank the Editor of “Blackwood” for publishing what you say of Scott,’ and goes on to express his hearty concurrence with it all, and he regrets that it had not been spoken instead of written, &c, &c.

“I do not feel as if I was to get better this time; but I have called wolf so often I shall scream no more. What I feel most, and struggle against most in vain, is depression. I have got to believe not only that my brains are leaving me, but that my friends are tired of me. Of course, I couple the two disasters together, and long to be beyond the reach of remembering either one or the other.

“You read my MS. so easily that if you do not like the O’D. don’t print it—it saves me a disappointment at least; and above all, do not mind any chance irritability I display in writing, for a cry escapes me in my pain, and I often do not hear it myself.

“Now that I write very little and brood a great deal, I sit thinking hours’ long over a very good-for-nothing life, and owning to myself that no man ever did less with his weapon than I have. I say this in no vanity, but sheer shame and self-reproach.

“If I could be with you at times it would rouse And stimulate me greatly, for I think you know—that is, you understand—me better than almost any one, and I always feel the better of your company.

“Bulwer (Lord Dalling) is with me now; but he is a richer man than myself, and though we rally after dinner, we are poor creatures of a morning.

“Your last note did me real good, and I have re-read it three or four times.”

To Mr John Blackwood.

“Trieste, Nov. 16, 1871.

“You are right about Bradlaugh, and I have added a few lines to insert in the place marked. I hope I am not libellous, and I believe I have steered safely.

“I am breaking up at last more rapidly, for up to this the planking has been too tough; but I am now bumping heavily, and, please God, must soon go to pieces.

“Your kindness, and your wife’s, are very dear to me. I am constantly thinking of you both. Your last note gave me sincere pleasure.

“Lytton and I talked a great deal of you and drank your health. We often wished you were with us. He is immensely improved—I mean mentally,—and become one of the very best talkers I ever met, and not a shade of any affectation about him. I am convinced he will make a great career yet.

“‘Our Quacks’ is, I think, a better title. Decide yourself.”

To Mr John Blackwood.

“Trieste, Dec. 11, 1871.

“I was indeed surprised at the address of your letter, but I should have been more than surprised—overjoyed—had I seen yourself, and I am sorely sorry you did not come on here. Do let it be for another time, and ask Mrs Blackwood to have a craving desire to see Venice and the Titians, and take me as an accident of the road.

“I am getting too ill for work, but not for the pleasure of seeing my friends, and there is nothing does me the same good.

“I see no difficulty in writing to you about Austria, but not as O’Dowd,—gravely, soberly, and, if I could, instructingly. But I must wait for a little health and a little energy, or I should be only steaming with half-boiler power.

“I see little prospect now of getting better, and all I have to do is to scramble along with as much of health as remains to me, and not bore my friends or myself any more on the matter. Sending the divers down to report how thin my iron plating is, is certainly not the way to encourage me to a new voyage.

“Like a kind fellow, send me George Eliot’s new book. There is nothing like her.”