him after use,
carefully sealed up." What became of all these papers I cannot tell;
but I doubt if anyone was then _very_ eager about them.

Lately, turning over some old papers, I came upon a large bundle of
proof "slips" of a story I had written for _All the Year Round_. It
was called _Howard's Son_. To my surprise and pleasure I found that
they had passed through Boz's own hands, and had been corrected
throughout in his own careful and elaborate fashion, whole passages
written in, others deleted, the punctuation altered and improved. Here
was a _trouvaille_. These slips, I may add, have extraordinary value,
and in the States would fetch a considerable sum. It was extraordinary
what pains Boz took with the papers of his contributors, and how
diligently and laboriously he improved and polished them.

Forster's latter days, that is, I suppose, for some seven or eight
years, were an appalling state of martyrdom; no words could paint it.
It was gout in its most terrible form, that is, on the chest. This
malady was due, in the first place, to his early hard life, when rest
and hours of sleep were neglected or set at nought. Too good living
also was accountable. He loved good cheer and had an excellent taste
in wines, fine clarets, etc. Such things were fatal to his complaint.
This gout took the shape of an almost eternal cough, which scarcely
ever left him. It began invariably with the night and kept him awake,
the waters rising on his chest and overpowering him. I have seen him
on the following day, lying spent and exhausted on a sofa and
struggling to get some snatches of sleep, if he could. But as seven
o'clock drew near, a change came. There was a dinner-party; he "pulled
himself together:" began another jovial night and in good spirits. But
he could not resist the tempting wines, etc., and of course had his
usual "bad" night. Once dining with me, he as usual brought his Vichy
bottle with him, and held forth on the necessity of "putting on the
muzzle," restraint, etc. He "lectured" us all in a very suitable way,
and maintained his restraint during dinner. There was a bottle of good
Corton gently warming at the fire, about which he made inquiries, but
which now, alas! need not be opened. When the ladies were gone, he
became very pressing on this topic. "My dear fellow, you must _not_
let me be a kill-joy, you must really open the bottle for yourself;
why should you deny yourself for me? Nonsense!" It suggested Winkle