stances of his old landlady's death, of the action of her
legal personal representatives, I will not go here. It suffices to say
that Posh and the other lodgers in the house were given two days to
"clear out" and that I discovered that the old fellow had been sleeping
in his shed on the beach for two nights, without a roof which he could
call his home. Thanks to certain readers of the _Daily Graphic_ and to
the members of the Omar Khayyam Club, I had a fund in hand for Posh's
benefit, and immediately put a stop to his homelessness. Indeed, he knew
of this fund, and that he could draw on it at need when he chose. But I
believe the old man's heart was broken. He has never been the same man
since. The last year has put more than ten years on the looks and
bearing of the Posh whom I met first. But his memory is still good, and
I was surprised to see how much he remembered of the people mentioned in
the letters published in this volume when I read them through to him the
other day. He cannot understand how it is that these letters have any
value. He tells me he has torn up "sackfuls on 'em" and strewn them to
the winds. The actual letters have been sold for his benefit, and I
think that FitzGerald would be pleased if he knew (as possibly he does
know) that his letters to his fisherman friend, have proved a stay to his
old age.

{Posh in 1907: p26.jpg}

I have done my best to give approximate dates to the letters, and where I
have succeeded in being absolutely correct I have to thank Dr. Aldis
Wright, whose courtesy and kindliness, the courtesy and kindliness from a
veteran to a tyro which is so encouraging to the tyro, have been beyond
any expression of thanks which I can phrase. I hope that the letters and
notes may help to make a side of FitzGerald, the simple human manly side,
better known, and to enable my readers to judge his memory from the point
of view of those old shrimpers by the new basin as a "_good_ gennleman,"
as a noble-hearted, courageous man, as well as the more artificial
scholar who quotes Attic scholiasts in a playful way as though they were
school classics. Every new discovery of FitzGerald's life seems to
create new wonder, new admiration for him; and there are, I hope, few who
will read without some emotion not far from tears the sentence in his
sermon to Posh.

"Do not let a poor, old, solitary, and sad Man (as I really am, in spite
of my Jokes), do not, I say, let me waste my Anxiety in