it: not only on Lands and House
(which I maintain were simply those of a Scotch Gentleman) but to help
any poor Devil that applied to him. Then that old Toad Rogers must tell
Sumner that Manzoni's 'Sposi' were worth any ten of Scott's; yes, after
Scott's Diary spoke of 'I really like Rogers, etc.,' and such moderate
expressions of regard as Scott felt for him and his Breakfast of London
Wits.

Here am I running over to Chapter II. You will be surfeited, like your
Captain, if not on Turtles' Eggs. But you can eat me at intervals, you
know, or not at all. Only you will certainly read my last Great Work,
{247} which I enclose, drawn up first for my own benefit, in reading
Lamb's Letters, as now printed in batches to his several Correspondents;
and so I thought others than myself might be glad of a few Data to refer
the letters to. Pollock calls my Paper 'Cotelette d'Agneau a la minute.'

As to my little Dialogue, I can't send it: so pretty in Form, I think,
and with some such pretty parts: but then some odious smart writing,
which I had forgotten till I looked it over again before sending to you.
But I will send you the Calderon which you already like.

And, if you would send me any samples of Spanish, send me some Playbill
(of the old Drama, if now played), or some public Advertisement, or
Newspaper; this is what I should really like. As to Books, I dare say
Quaritch has pretty well ferreted them out of Spain. Give a look, if you
can, at a Memoir of Alfred de Musset written by his Brother. Making
allowance for French morals, and Absinthe (which latter is not mentioned
in the Book) Alfred appears to me a fine Fellow, very un-French in some
respects. He did not at all relish the new Romantic School, beginning
with V. Hugo, and now alive in --- and Co.--(what I call The _Gurgoyle_
School of Art, whether in Poetry, Painting, or Music)--he detested the
modern 'feuilleton' Novel, and read Clarissa! . . . Many years before A.
de M. died he had a bad, long, illness, and was attended by a Sister of
Charity. When she left she gave him a Pen with 'Pensez a vos promesses'
worked about in coloured silks: as also a little worsted 'Amphore' she
had knitted at his Bed side. When he came to die, some seventeen years
after, he had these two little things put with him in his Coffin.

WOODBRIDGE. _May_ 1878.

Ecce iterum--Crispin! I think you will soon call me '_Les_
FitzGerald_s_' as Madame de Sevigne called her too offici