he other two, and mostly on Elwin. As his son tells, the
literary part of the business was most considerable; there was an
edition of Landor to be "seen through" the press; there was a vast
number of papers and letters to be examined, preserved or destroyed.
"His own inclination and Forster's instructions were in the direction
of destroying all personal letters, however eminent the writer might
be."]

At another time he wrote with warmth, "Most welcome was your letter
this morning, as your letters always are to me. They come fraught with
some new proof of the true, warm-hearted, generous friend who has made
life worth something more to me than it was a year ago," 1857.[3]

[Footnote 3: Memoirs by Warwick Elwin.]

When Forster married, in 1856, he was eager that Elwin should
officiate, and proposed going down to Norfolk. But legal formalities
were in the way, and Elwin came to London instead. "He never," says
Warwick Elwin, "wavered in his attachment to him. Sometimes he would
be momentarily vexed at some fancied neglect, but the instant they met
again it was all forgotten." Elwin was, in fact, subject to moods and
"nerves," and there were times when he shrank sensitively from the
world and its associations--he would answer no letters, particularly
after the period of his many sore trials. The last time I saw him was
at that great _fiasco_, the production of the first Lord Lytton's
posthumous play on the subject of Brutus, produced by Wilson Barrett,
with extraordinary richness and pomp: a failure that led to an
unpleasant dispute between Lytton's son and the lessee.

When the _Life of Dickens_ appeared, Elwin, as in duty bound,
proceeded to review it in the _Quarterly_. I confess that on reading
over this article there seems to be a curious reserve and rather
measured stint of praise. One would have expected from the generous
Elwin one enthusiastic and sustained burst of praise of his friend's
great work. But it seems as though he felt so trifling a matter was
scarcely worthy of solemn treatment. The paper is only twenty pages
long, and, after a few lines of praise at the beginning and a line or
two at the end, proceeds to give a summary of the facts. The truth was
Elwin was too scrupulously conscientious a critic to stretch a point
in such a matter. I could fancy that for one of his nice feeling it
became an almost disagreeable duty. Were he tempted to expand in
praises, it would be set down to partiality, while he