Ernest had often
explained to him that the vegetables were of no use to him, and that he
had rather he would not bring them; but Theobald persisted, I believe
through sheer love of doing something which his son did not like, but
which was too small to take notice of.
He lived until about twelve months ago, when he was found dead in his bed
on the morning after having written the following letter to his son:--
"Dear Ernest,--I've nothing particular to write about, but your letter
has been lying for some days in the limbo of unanswered letters, to
wit my pocket, and it's time it was answered.
"I keep wonderfully well and am able to walk my five or six miles with
comfort, but at my age there's no knowing how long it will last, and
time flies quickly. I have been busy potting plants all the morning,
but this afternoon is wet.
"What is this horrid Government going to do with Ireland? I don't
exactly wish they'd blow up Mr Gladstone, but if a mad bull would
chivy him there, and he would never come back any more, I should not
be sorry. Lord Hartington is not exactly the man I should like to set
in his place, but he would be immeasurably better than Gladstone.
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