so early, and promises to continue so long. Even in Jersey Fred.
Tennyson writes me it is all Snow and N.E. wind: and he says the North of
Italy is blocked up with Snow. You may imagine that we are no better off
in the East of England. How is it in London, and with yourself in Queen
Anne's Mansions? I fancy that you walk up and down that ante-room of
yours for a regular time, as I force myself to do on a Landing-place in
this house when I cannot get out upon what I call my Quarter-deck: a walk
along a hedge by the upper part of a field which 'dominates' (as the
phrase now goes) over my House and Garden. But I have for the last
Fortnight had Lumbago, which makes it much easier to sit down than to get
up again. However, the time goes, and I am surprised to find Sunday come
round again. (Here is my funny little Reader come--to give me 'All the
Year Round' and Sam Slick.)
_Friday_.
I suppose I should have finished this Letter in the way it begins, but by
this noon's post comes a note from my Brother-in-law, De Soyres, telling
me that his wife Andalusia died yesterday. {168} She had somewhile
suffered with a weak Heart, and this sudden and extreme cold paralysed
what vitality it had. But yesterday I had posted her a Letter
re-enclosing two Photographs of her Grand Children whom she was very fond
and proud of; and that Letter is too late, you see. Now, none but Jane
Wilkinson and E. F.G. remain of the many more that you remember, and
always looked on with kindly regard. This news cuts my Letter shorter
than it would have been; nevertheless pray let me know how you yourself
are: and believe me yours
Ever and truly,
E. F.G.
I have had no thought of going to London yet: but I shall never go in
future without paying a Visit to you, if you like it. I know not how
Mrs. Edwards' Exhibition of her Husband's Pictures succeeds: I begged her
to leave such a scheme alone; I cannot admire his Pictures now he is gone
more than I did when he was here; but I hope that others will prove me to
be a bad adviser.
LXVIII.
WOODBRIDGE: _Jan._ 8/80.
MY DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,
I think sufficient time has elapsed since my last letter to justify my
writing you another, which, you know, means calling on you to reply. When
last you wrote, you were all in Flannel; pray let me hear you now are.
Certainly, we are better off in weather than a month ago: but I fancy
these Fogs must have been dismal enough in London. A Letter which I have
this morning from a Niece in Florence tells me they have had 'London Fog'
(she says) for a Fortnight there. She says, that my sister Jane (your
old Friend) is fairly well in health, but very low in Spirits after that
other Sister's Death. I will [not] say of myself that I have weathered
away what Rheumatism and Lumbago I had; nearly so, however; and tramp
about my Garden and Hedgerow as usual. And so I clear off Family scores
on my side. Pray let me know, when you tell of yourself, how Mrs. Leigh
and those on the other side of the Atlantic fare.
Poor Mrs. Edwards, I doubt, is disappointed with her Husband's Gallery:
not because of its only just repaying its expenses, except in so far as
that implies that but few have been to see it. She says she feels as if
she had nothing to live for, now that 'her poor Old Dear' is gone. One
fine day she went down to Woking where he lies, and--she did not wish to
come back. It was all solitary, and the grass beginning to spring, and a
Blackbird or two singing. She ought, I think, to have left London, as
her Doctor told her, for a total change of Scene; but she may know best,
being a very clever, as well as devoted little Woman.
Well--you saw 'The Falcon'? {169} Athenaeum and Academy reported of it
much as I expected. One of them said the Story had been dramatised
before: I wonder why. What reads lightly and gracefully in Boccaccio's
Prose, would surely not do well when drawn out into dramatic Detail: two
People reconciled to Love over a roasted Hawk; about as unsavoury a Bird
to eat as an Owl, I believe. No doubt there was a Chicken substitute at
St. James', but one had to believe it to be Hawk; and, anyhow, I have
always heard that it is very difficult to eat, and talk, on the
Stage--though people seem to manage it easily enough in real Life.
By way of a Christmas Card I sent Carlyle's Niece a Postage one, directed
to myself, on the back of which she might [write] a few words as to how
he and herself had weathered the late Cold. She replied that he was
well: had not relinquished his daily Drives: and was (when she wrote)
reading Shakespeare and Boswell's Hebrides. The mention of him reminds
me of your saying--or writing--that you felt shy of 'intruding' yourself
upon him by a Visit. My dear Mrs. Kemble, this is certainly a mistake
(wilful?) of yours; he may have too many ordinary Visitors; but I am
quite sure that he would be gratified at your taking the trouble to go
and see him. Pray try, weather and flannel permitting.
I find some good Stuff in Bagehot's Essays, in spite of his name, which
is simply 'Bagot,' as men call it. Also, I find Hayward's Select Essays
so agreeable that I suppose they are very superficial.
At night comes my quaint little Reader with Chambers' Journal, and All
[the] Year Round--the latter with one of Trollope's Stories {171}--always
delightful to me, and (I am told) very superficial indeed, as compared to
George Eliot, whom I cannot relish at all.
Thus much has come easily to my pen this day, and run on, you see, to the
end of a second Sheet. So I will 'shut up,' as young Ladies now say; but
am always and sincerely yours
E. F.G.
LXIX.
WOODBRIDGE: _Febr_: 3/80.
MY DEAR LADY,
I do not think it is a full month since I last taxed you for some account
of yourself: but we have had hard weather, you know, ever since: your
days have been very dark in London, I am told, and as we have all been
wheezing under them, down here, I want to know how you stand it all. I
only hope my MS. is not very bad; for I am writing by Candle, before my
Reader comes. He eat such a Quantity of Cheese and Cake between the Acts
that he could scarce even see to read at all after; so I had to remind
him that, though he was not quite sixteen, he had much exceeded the years
of a Pig. Since which we get on better. I did not at all like to have
my Dombey spoiled; especially Captain Cuttle, God bless him, and his
Creator, now lying in Westminster Abbey. The intended Pathos is, as
usual, missed: but just turn to little Dombey's Funeral, where the
Acrobat in the Street suspends his performance till the Funeral has
passed, and his Wife wonders if the little Acrobat in her Arms will so
far outlive the little Boy in the Hearse as to wear a Ribbon through his
hair, following his Father's Calling. It is in such Side-touches, you
know, that Dickens is inspired to Create like a little God Almighty. I
have read half his lately published letters, which, I think, add little
to Forster's Account, unless in the way of showing what a good Fellow
Dickens was. Surely it does not seem that his Family were not fond of
him, as you supposed?
I have been to Lowestoft for a week to see my capital Nephew, Edmund
Kerrich, before he goes to join his Regiment in Ireland. I wish you
could see him make his little (six years old) put him through his Drill.
That is worthy of Dickens: and I am always yours sincerely--and I do hope
not just now very illegibly--
LITTLEGRANGE.
LXX.
WOODBRIDGE: _Febr_: 12/80.
MY DEAR MRS. KEMBLE:
A week ago I had a somewhat poor account of Donne from Edith D.--that he
had less than his usually little Appetite, and could not sleep without
Chloral. This Account I at first thought of sending to you: but then I
thought you would soon be back in London to hear [of] him yourself; so I
sent it to his great friend Merivale, who, I thought, must have less
means of hearing about him at Ely. I enclose you this Dean's letter:
which you will find worth the trouble of decyphering, as all this Dean's
are. And you will see there is a word for you which you will have to
interpret for me. What is the promised work he is looking for so
eagerly? {173} Your Records he 'devoured' a Year ago, as a letter of his
then told me; and I suppose that his other word about the number of your
Father's house refers to something in those Records. I am not surprised
at such an Historian reading your Records: but I was surprised to find
him reading Charles Mathews' Memoir, as you will see he has been doing. I
told him I had been reading it: but then that is all in my line. Have
you? No, I think: nor I, by the way, quite half, and that in Vol.
ii.--where is really a remarkable account of his getting into Managerial
Debt, and its very grave consequences.
I hear that Mr. Lowell is coming Ambassador to England, after a very
terrible trial in nursing (as he did) his Wife: who is only very slowly
recovering Mind as well as Body. I believe I wrote all this to you
before, as also that I am ever yours
E. F.G.
I cannot remember Pangloss in Candide: only a Pedant Optimist, I think,
which became the _soubriquet_ of Maupertuis' _Akakia_ Optimism; but I
have not the book, and do not want to have it.
LXXI.
WOODBRIDGE, _March_ 1, [1880.]
MY DEAR LADY,
I am something like my good old friend Bernard Barton, who would
begin--and end--a letter to some one who had just gone away from his
house. I should not mind that, only you will persist in answering what
calls for no answer. But the enclosed came here To-day, and as I might
mislay it if I waited for my average time of writing to you, I enclose it
to you now. It shows, at any rate, that I do not neglect your Queries;
nor does he to whom I refer what I cannot answer myself. {174}
This Wright edits certain Shakespeare Plays for Macmillan: very well, I
fancy, so far as Notes go; simply explaining what needs explanation for
young Readers, and eschewing all _aesthetic_ (now, don't say you don't
know what 'aesthetic' means, etc.) aesthetic (detestable word)
observation. With this the Swinburnes, Furnivalls, Athenaeums, etc.,
find fault: and a pretty hand they make of it when they try that tack. It
is safest surely to give people all the _Data_ you can for forming a
Judgment, and then leave them to form it by themselves.
You see that I enclose you the fine lines {175} which I believe I
repeated to you, and which I wish you to paste on the last page of my
Crabbe, so as to be a pendant to Richard's last look at the Children and
their play. I know not how I came to leave it out when first printing:
for certainly the two passages had for many years run together in my
Memory.
Adieu, Madame: non pas pour toujours, j'espere; pas meme pour long temps.
Cependant, ne vous genez pas, je vous prie, en repondant a une lettre qui
ne vaut--qui ne reclame pas meme--aucune reponse: tandis que vous me
croyez votre tres devoue
EDOUARD DE PETITGRANGE.
LXXII.
WOODBRIDGE: _March_ 26, [1880.]
MY DEAR LADY:
The Moon has reminded me that it is a month since I last went up to
London. I said to the Cabman who took me to Queen Anne's, 'I think it
must be close on Full Moon,' and he said, 'I shouldn't wonder,' not
troubling himself to look back to the Abbey over which she was riding.
Well; I am sure I have little enough to tell you; but I shall be glad to
hear from you that you are well and comfortable, if nothing else. And
you see that I am putting my steel pen into its very best paces all for
you. By far the chief incident in my life for the last month has been
the reading of dear old Spedding's Paper on the Merchant of Venice: {176}
there, at any rate, is one Question settled, and in such a beautiful way
as only he commands. I could not help writing a few lines to tell him
what I thought; but even very sincere praise is not the way to conciliate
him. About Christmas I wrote him, relying on it that I should be most
likely to secure an answer if I expressed dissent from some other work of
his; and my expectation was justified by one of the fullest answers he
had written to me for many a day and year.
I read in one of my Papers that Tennyson had another Play accepted at the
Lyceum. I think he is obstinate in such a purpose, but, as he is a Man
of Genius, he may surprise us still by a vindication of what seem to me
several Latter-day failures. I suppose it is as hard for him to
relinquish his Vocation as other men find it to be in other callings to
which they have been devoted; but I think he had better not encumber the
produce of his best days by publishing so much of inferior quality.
Under the cold Winds and Frosts which have lately visited us--and their
visit promises to be a long one--my garden Flowers can scarce get out of
the bud, even Daffodils have hitherto failed to 'take the winds,' etc.
Crocuses early nipt and shattered (in which my Pigeons help the winds)
and Hyacinths all ready, if but they might!
My Sister Lusia's Widower has sent me a Drawing by Sir T. Lawrence of my
Mother: bearing a surprising resemblance to--The Duke of Wellington. This
was done in her earlier days--I suppose, not long after I was born--for
her, and his (Lawrence's) friend Mrs. Wolff: and though, I think, too
Wellingtonian, the only true likeness of her. Engravings were made of
it--so good as to be facsimiles, I think--to be given away to Friends. I
should think your mother had one. If you do not know it, I will bring
the Drawing up with me to London when next I go there: or will send it up
for your inspection, if you like. But I do not suppose you will care for
me to do that.
Here is a much longer letter than I thought for; I hope not troublesome
to your Eyes--from yours always and sincerely
LITTLEGRANGE.
I have been reading Comus and Lycidas with wonder, and a sort of awe.
Tennyson once said that Lycidas was a touchstone of poetic Taste.
LXXIII.
WOODBRIDGE: _March_ 28, [1880.]
MY DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,
No--the Flowers were not from me--I have nothing full-blown to show
except a few Polyanthuses, and a few Pansies. These Pansies never throve
with me till last year: after a Cartload or two of Clay laid on my dry
soil, I suppose, the year before. Insomuch that one dear little Soul has
positively held on blowing, more or less confidently, all winter through;
when even the Marigold failed.
Now, I meant to have intimated about those Flowers in a few French words
on a Postcard--purposely to prevent your answering--unless your rigorous
Justice could only be satisfied by a Post Card in return. But I was not
sure how you might like my Card; so here is a Letter instead; which I
really do beg you, as a favour, not to feel bound to answer. A time will
come for such a word.
By the by, you can make me one very acceptable return, I hope with no
further trouble than addressing it to me. That 'Nineteenth Century' for
February, with a Paper on 'King John' (your Uncle) in it. {179} Our
Country Bookseller has been for three weeks getting it for me--and now
says he cannot get it--'out of print.' I rather doubt that the Copy I
saw on your Table was only lent to you; if so, take no more trouble about
it; some one will find me a Copy.
I shall revolve in my own noble mind what you say about Jessica and her
Jewels: as yet, I am divided between you, and that old Serpent, Spedding.
Perhaps 'That is only his Fancy,' as he says of Shylock. What a light,
graceful, way of saying well-considered Truth!
I doubt you are serious in reminding me of my Tumbler on the Floor; and,
I doubt not, quite right in being so. This comes of one's living so long
either with no Company, or with only free and easy. But I am always the
same toward you, whether my Tumbler in the right place or not,
THE LAIRD OF LITTLEGRANGE.
LXXIV.
WOODBRIDGE, _April_ 6, [1880.] {180a}
MY DEAR LADY,
I hope my letter, and the Magazine which accompanies it, will not reach
you at a time when you have family troubles to think about. You can,
however, put letter and Magazine aside at once, without reading either;
and, anyhow, I wish once more--in vain, I suppose--that you would not
feel bound to acknowledge them.
I think this Atlantic, {180b} which I took in so long as you were
embarked on it, was sent me by Mr. Norton, to whom I had sent my Crabbe;
and he had, I suppose, shown it to Mr. Woodberry, the Critic. And the
Critic has done his work well, on the whole, I think: though not quite up
to my mark of praise, nor enough to create any revival of Interest in the
Poems. You will see that I have made two or three notes by the way: but
you are still less bound to read them than the text.
If you be not bothered, I shall ask you to return me the Magazine. I
have some thought of taking it in again, as I like to see what goes on in
the literary way in America, and I found their critics often more
impartial in their estimation of English Authors than our own Papers are,
as one might guess would be the case.
I was, and am, reading your Records again, before this Atlantic came to
remind me of you. I have Bentley's second Edition. I feel the Dullness
of that Dinner Party in Portland Place {181a} (I know it was) when Mrs.
Frere sang. She was somewhile past her prime then (1831), but could sing
the Classical Song, or Ballad, till much later in Life. Pasta too, whom
you then saw and heard! I still love the pillars of the old Haymarket
Opera House, where I used to see placarded MEDEA IN CORINTO. {181b}
And I am still yours sincerely
LITTLEGRANGE.
You are better off in London this black weather.
P.S. Since my letter was written, I receive the promised one from
Mowbray: his Father well: indeed, in better health and Spirits than
usual: and going with Blanche to Southwell on Wednesday (to-morrow)
fortnight.
His London house almost, if not quite, out of Quarantine. But--do not
go! say I.
LXXV.
WOODBRIDGE: _April_ 23, [1880.]
MY DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,
I was really sorry to hear from you that you were about to move again. I
suppose the move has been made by this time: as I do not know whither, I
must trouble Coutts, I suppose, to forward my Letter to you; and then you
will surely tell me your new Address, and also how you find yourself in
it.
I have nothing to report of myself, except that I was for ten days at
Lowestoft in company (though not in the house) with Edward Cowell the
Professor: with whom, as in last Autumn, I read, and all but finished,
the second part of Don Quixote. There came Aldis Wright to join us; and
he quite agrees with what you say concerning the Jewel-robbery in the
Merchant of Venice. He read me the Play; and very well; thoroughly
understanding the text: with clear articulation, and the moderate
emphasis proper to room-reading; with the advantage also of never having
known the Theatre in his youth, so that he has not picked up the twang of
any Actor of the Day. Then he read me King John, which he has some
thoughts of editing next after Richard III. And I was reminded of you at
Ipswich twenty-eight years ago; and of your Father--his look up at
Angiers' Walls as he went out in Act ii. I wonder that Mrs. Siddons
should have told Johnson that she preferred Constance to any of
Shakespeare's Characters: perhaps I misremember; she may have said Queen
Catharine. {183a} I must not forget to thank you for the Nineteenth
Century from Hatchard's; Tieck's Article very interesting to me, and I
should suppose just in its criticism as to what John Kemble then was. I
have a little print of him about the time: in OEdipus--(whose Play, I
wonder, on such a dangerous subject?) from a Drawing by that very clever
Artist De Wilde: who never missed Likeness, Character, and Life, even
when reduced to 16mo Engraving. {183b}
What you say of Tennyson's Eyes reminded me that he complained of the
Dots in Persian type flickering before them: insomuch that he gave up
studying it. This was some thirty years ago. Talking on the subject one
day to his Brother Frederick, he--(Frederick)--said he thought possible
that a sense of the Sublime was connected with Blindness: as in Homer,
Milton, and Handel: and somewhat with old Wordsworth perhaps; though his
Eyes were, I think, rather weak than consuming with any inward Fire.
I heard from Mr. Norton that Lowell had returned to Madrid in order to
bring his Wife to London--if possible. She seems very far from being
recovered; and (Norton thinks) would not have recovered in Spain: so
Lowell will have one consolation for leaving the land of Cervantes and
Calderon to come among the English, whom I believe he likes little better
than Hawthorne liked them.
I believe that yesterday was the first of my hearing the Nightingale;
certainly of hearing _my_ Nightingale in the trees which I planted,
'hauts comme ca,' as Madame de Sevigne says. I am positively about to
read her again, 'tout Madame de Sevigne,' as Ste. Beuve said. {184a} What
better now Spring is come? {184b} She would be enjoying her Rochers just
now. And I think this is a dull letter of mine; but I am always
sincerely yours
E. DE PETITGRANGE.
LXXVI.
WOODBRIDGE: _May_ 25/80.
MY DEAR LADY,
Another full Moon reminds [me] of my monthly call upon you by Letter--a
call to be regularly returned, I know, according to your Etiquette. As
so it must be, I shall be very glad to hear that you are better than when
you last wrote, and that some, if not all, of the 'trouble' you spoke of
has passed away. I have not heard of Donne since that last letter of
yours: but a Post Card from Mowbray, who was out holyday-making in
Norfolk, tells me that he will write as soon as he has returned to
London, which, I think, must be about this very time.
I shall be sorry if you do not get your annual dose of Mountain Air; why
can you not? postponing your visit to Hampshire till Autumn--a season
when I think those who want company and comfort are most glad of it. But
you are determined, I think, to do as you are asked: yes, even the more
so if you do not wish it. And, moreover, you know much more of what is
fittest to do than I.
A list of Trench's works in the Academy made me think of sending him my
Crabbe; which I did: and had a very kind answer from him, together with a
Copy of a second Edition of his Calderon Essay and Translation. He had
not read any Crabbe since he was a Lad: what he may think of him now I
know not: for I bid him simply acknowledge the receipt of my Volume, as I
did of his. I think much the best way, unless advice is wanted on either
side before publication.
If you write--which you will, unless--nay, whether troubled or not, I
think--I should like to hear if you have heard anything of Mr. Lowell in
London. I do not write to him for fear of bothering him: but I wish to
know that his Wife is recovered. I have been thinking for some days of
writing a Note to Carlyle's Niece, enclosing her a Post Card to be
returned to me with just a word about him and herself. A Card only: for
I do not know how occupied she may be with her own family cares by this
time.
I have re-read your Records, in which I do not know that I find any too
much, as I had thought there was of some early Letters. Which I believe
I told you while the Book was in progress. {186} It is, I sincerely say,
a capital Book, and, as I have now read it twice over with pleasure, and
I will say, with Admiration--if but for its Sincerity (I think you will
not mind my saying that much)--I shall probably read it over again, if I
live two years more. I am now embarked on my blessed Sevigne, who, with
Crabbe, and John Wesley, seem to be my great hobbies; or such as I do not
tire of riding, though my friends may weary of hearing me talk about
them.
By the by, to-morrow is, I think, Derby Day; which I remember chiefly for
its marking the time when Hampton Court Chestnuts were usually in full
flower. You may guess that we in the Country here have been gaping for
rain to bring on our Crops, and Flowers; very tantalising have been many
promising Clouds, which just dropped a few drops by way of Compliment,
and then passed on. But last night, when Dombey was being read to me we
heard a good splash of rain, and Dombey was shut up that we might hear,
and see, and feel it. {187} I never could make out who wrote two lines
which I never could forget, wherever I found them:--
'Abroad, the rushing Tempest overwhelms
Nature pitch dark, and rides the thundering elms.'
Very like Glorious John Dryden; but many others of his time wrote such
lines, as no one does now--not even Messrs. Swinburne and Browning.
And I am always your old Friend, with the new name of
LITTLEGRANGE.
LXXVII.
WOODBRIDGE: _June_ 23, [1880.]
MY DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,
You smile at my 'Lunacies' as you call my writing periods; I take the
Moon as a signal not to tax you too often for your inevitable answer. I
have now let her pass her Full: and June is drawing short: and you were
to be but for June at Leamington: so--I must have your answer, to tell me
about your own health (which was not so good when last you wrote) and
that of your Family; and when, and where, you go from Leamington. I
shall be sorry if you cannot go to Switzerland.
I have been as far as--Norfolk--on a week's visit (the only visit of the
sort I now make) to George Crabbe, my Poet's Grandson, and his two
Granddaughters. It was a very pleasant visit indeed; the people all so
sensible, and friendly, talking of old days; the Country flat indeed, but
green, well-wooded, and well-cultivated: the weather well enough. {188a}