impression that they were
properly in the possession of the person holding them. I know nothing of
that, nor of what letters they are, nor who published them, nor when and
where they were issued. But I do know what Posh has told me, and if the
volume (if there is one) was published in America by one innocent of
trickery, here is his chance to come forward and explain.

I was glad to see that Posh no longer numbered me among "that breed." But
I was no longer surprised at the difficulty I had experienced in getting
to close quarters with the man. From that time on he was the
plain-speaking, independent, humorous, rough man that he is naturally. He
has his faults. FitzGerald indicates one in several of his letters. He
is inclined to that East Anglian characteristic akin to Boer "slimness,"
and it is easy enough to understand that the breach between him and his
"guv'nor" was inevitable. The marvel is that the partnership lasted as
long as it did, and that that refined, honourable gentleman (and I doubt
if any one was ever quite so perfect a gentleman as Edward FitzGerald)
was as infatuated with the breezy stalwart comeliness of the man as his
letters prove him to have been.

As all students of FitzGerald's letters know, the association between
FitzGerald and Posh ended in a separation that was very nearly a quarrel,
if a man like FitzGerald can be said to quarrel with a man like Posh. But
Posh never says a word against his old guv'nor's generosity and kindness
of heart. He puts his point of view with emphasis, but always maintains
that had it not been for other "interfarin' parties" there would never
have been any unpleasantness between him and the great man who loved him
so well, and whom, I believe in all sincerity, he still loves as a kind,
upright, and noble-hearted gentleman.

And as Posh's years draw to a close (he was born in June, 1838) I think
his thoughts must often hark back to the days when he was all in all to
his guv'nor. For evil times have come on the old fellow. He is no
longer the hale, stalwart man I first saw at Bill Harrison's.

A little before the Christmas of 1906 he was laid up with a severe cold.
But he was getting over that well, when, one Sunday, a broken man, almost
decrepit, came stumbling to my cottage door.

"The pore old lady ha' gorn," he said. "She ha' gorn fust arter all.
Pore old dare. She had a strook the night afore last, and was dead afore
mornin'."

Into the circum