told me how Mr FitzGerald always gave him plenty
of plum-cake, and how they used to play piquet together. Only sometimes
a tame mouse would come out and sit on the table, and then not a card
must be dropped. A pretty picture! In the bar-parlour sat an oldish
man, who presently joined in our conversation. He had made the lead
coffin for "the old Major" (FitzGerald's father), and another for Mr
John; and he seemed half to resent that he had not performed the same
office for Mr Edward himself, for whom, however, he once built a boat. He
told me, moreover, how years before Mr FitzGerald had congratulated him
on some symptoms of heart disease, had said he had it himself, and was
glad of it, for "when he came to die, he didn't want to have a lot of
women messing about him."

Next day I went and called on FitzGerald's old housekeeper, Mrs Howe, and
her husband. She the "Fairy Godmother," as FitzGerald delighted to call
her, was blithe and chirpy as ever, with pleasant talk of "our
gentleman": "So kind he was, not never one to make no obstacles. Such a
joky gentleman he was, too. Why, once he says to me, 'Mrs Howe, I didn't
know we had express trains here.' And I said, 'Whatever _do_ you mean,
sir?' and he says, 'Why, look at Mrs ---'s dress there.' And, sure
enough, she had a long train to it, you know." Her husband ("the King of
Clubs") was eighty-four, but the same cheery, simple soul he always was.
Mr Spalding, one broiling day, saw him standing bare-headed, and peering
intently for good five minutes into the pond at Little Grange. "What is
it, Howe?" he asked him; and the old man presently answered, "How fond
them ducks dew seem of water, _to_ be sure." Which, for some cause or
other, greatly tickled FitzGerald.

I was staying in Woodbridge at the "Bull," kept whilom by "good John
Grout," from whom FitzGerald procured the Scotch ale which he would set
to the fire till it "just had a smile on it," and who every Christmas
sent him a present of mince-pies and a jug of punch. An excellent man,
and a mighty horse-dealer, better versed in horse-flesh than in
literature. After a visit from Lord Tennyson, FitzGerald told Grout that
Woodbridge should feel itself honoured. John had not quite understood,
so presently took a chance of asking my father who that gentleman was Mr
FitzGerald had been talking of. "Mr Tennyson," said my father, "the poet-
laureate." "Dissay," {90} said John, warily; "anyhow he didn't fare