t in my Garden till a week ago,
when we dug up the Beds in order for next year. So now little but the
orange Marigold, which I love for its colour (Irish and Spanish) and
Courage, in living all Winter through. Within doors, I am again at my
everlasting Crabbe! doctoring his Posthumous Tales _a la mode_ of those
of 'The Hall,' to finish a Volume of simple 'Selections' from his other
works: all which I will leave to be used, or not, whenever old Crabbe
rises up again: which will not be in the Lifetime of yours ever

E. F.G.

I dared not decypher all that Mrs. Wister wrote in my behalf--because I
knew it must be sincere! Would she care for my Eternal Crabbe?

LXVI.

[_Nov._ 1879.]

MY DEAR LADY,

I must say a word upon a word in your last which really pains me--about
yours and Mrs. Wister's sincerity, etc. Why, I do most thoroughly
believe in both; all I meant was that, partly from your own old personal
regard for me, and hers, perhaps inherited from you, you may both very
sincerely over-rate my little dealings with other great men's thoughts.
For you know full well that the best Head may be warped by as good a
Heart beating under it; and one loves the Head and Heart all the more for
it. Now all this is all so known to you that I am vexed you will not at
once apply it to what I may have said. I do think that I have had to say
something of the same sort before now; and I do declare I will not say it
again, for it is simply odious, all this talking of oneself.

Yet one thing more. I did go to London on this last occasion purposely
to see you at that particular time: for I had not expected Mrs. Edwards
to be in London till a Fortnight afterward, until two or three days after
I had arranged to go and meet you the very day you arrived, inasmuch as
you had told me you were to be but a few days in Town.

There--there! Only believe me; my sincerity, Madam; and--_Voila ce qui
est fait_. _Parlons_, etc.

Well: Mrs. Edwards has opened an Exhibition of her husband's works in
Bond Street--contrary to my advice--and, it appears, rightly contrary:
for over 300 pounds of them were sold on the first private View day,
{166} and Tom Taylor, the great Art Critic (who neither by Nature nor
Education can be such, 'cleverest man in London,' as Tennyson once said
he was), has promised a laudatory notice in the omnipotent Times, and
then People will flock in like Sheep. And I am very glad to be proved a
Fool in the mat