ink with _The
Eclectic_ that I have succeeded as well as possible: as honest Pickwick
says, 'And let my enemies make the most of it.' At this time of day it
is not worth my while by any modern replies to attempt to quench such
long extinct volcanoes as 'The Conservative' and 'The Torch,' nor to
reproduce sundry glorifications of the new poet and his verses from many
other notices, long or short, duly pasted down for future generations in
my Archive-book. As to critical verdicts in this case, black and white
are not more contradictory: _e.g._, let _Blackwood_ be contrasted with
the _Monthly Review_, or the _Church of England Quarterly_ with the
_Weekly True Sun_, &c. &c."

It is a pity (at least the author of sold-out volumes may be forgiven
for the sentiment) that most of my books are not to be bought: they are
not in the market and are only purchasable at old-literature stores,
such as Reeves' or Bickers': some day, I hope to find a publisher
spirited enough to risk money in a ten-volumed "Edition of my Prose and
Poetry complete," &c.; but in the past and present, the subscription
system per Mudie and Smith, buying up whole editions at cost price
whereby to satiate the reading public, starves at once both author and
publisher, and makes impossible these expensive crown octavo editions,
"which no gentleman's library ought to be without." Some of the beat
smaller pieces in my "Geraldine and other Poems" will be found in Gall &
Inglis's Miscellaneous Tupper before mentioned: but my two Oxford Prize
Poems, The African Desert and The Suttees, are printed only in the
Geraldine volume.

Anecdotes innumerable I could tell, if any cared to hear them, connected
with each of my books, as friends or foes have commented upon me and
mine in either hemisphere. In this place I cannot help recording one, as
it led to fortunate results. In 1839 I was travelling outside the Oxford
coach to Alma Mater, and a gentleman, arrayed as for an archery party
with bow and quiver, climbed up at Windsor for a seat beside me. He
seemed very joyous and excited, and broke out to me with this stanza,--

"How fair and fresh is morn!
The dewbeads dropping bright
Each humble flower adorn,
With coronets bedight,
And jewel the rough thorn
With tiny globes of light,--
How beautiful is morn!
Her scattered gems how bright!"

There,--isn't that charming? he said,--little aware of whom he asked the
amiable query. Bu