to Brittany, only to see her Rochers, as once I went to Edinburgh only to
see Abbotsford. But (beside that I probably should not have gone further
than talking in any case) a French Guide Book informed me that the
present Proprietor of the place will not let it be shown to Strangers who
pester him for a view of it, on the strength of those 'paperasses,' as he
calls her Letters. {188b} So this is rather a comfort to me. Had I
gone, I should also have visited my dear old Frederick Tennyson at
Jersey. But now I think we shall never see one another again.
Spedding keeps on writing Shakespeare Notes in answer to sundry Theories
broached by others: he takes off copies of his MS. by some process he has
learned; and, as I always insist on some Copy of all he writes, he has
sent me these, which I read by instalments, as Eyesight permits. I
believe I am not a fair Judge between him and his adversaries; first,
because I have but little, if any, faculty of critical Analysis; and
secondly, because I am prejudiced with the notion that old Jem is
Shakespeare's Prophet, and must be right. But, whether right or wrong,
the way in which he conducts, and pleads, his Case is always Music to me.
So it was even with Bacon, with whom I could not be reconciled: I could
not like Dr. Fell: much more so with 'the Divine Williams,' who is a
Doctor that I do like.
It has turned so dark here in the last two days that I scarce see to
write at my desk by a window which has a hood over it, meant to
exclude--the Sun! I have increased my Family by two broods of Ducks, who
compete for the possession of a Pond about four feet in diameter: and but
an hour ago I saw my old Seneschal escorting home a stray lot of
Chickens. My two elder Nieces are with me at present, but I do not think
will be long here, if a Sister comes to them from Italy.
Pray let me hear how you are. I am pretty well myself:--though not quite
up to the mark of my dear Sevigne, who writes from her Rochers when close
on sixty--'Pour moi, je suis d'une si parfaite sante, que je ne comprends
point ce que Dieu veut faire de moi.' {190}
But yours always and a Day,
LITTLEGRANGE.
LXXVIII.
[WOODBRIDGE, _July_ 24, 1880.]
'Il sera le mois de Juillet tant qu'il plaira a Dieu' writes my friend
Sevigne--only a week more of it now, however. I should have written to
my friend Mrs. Kemble before this--in defiance of the Moon--had I not
been waiting for her Address from Mowbray Donne, to whom I wrote more
than a fortnight ago. I hope no ill-health in himself, or his Family,
keeps him from answering my Letter, if it ever reached him. But I will
wait no longer for his reply: for I want to know concerning you and your
health: and so I must trouble Coutts to fill up the Address which you
will not instruct me in.
Here (Woodbridge) have I been since last I wrote--some Irish Cousins
coming down as soon as English Nieces had left. Only that in the week's
interval I went to our neighbouring Aldeburgh on the Sea--where I first
saw, and felt, the Sea some sixty-five years ago; a dreary place enough
in spite of some Cockney improvements: my old Crabbe's Borough, as you
may remember. I think one goes back to the old haunts as one grows old:
as the Chancellor l'Hopital said when he returned to his native
Bourdeaux, I think: 'Me voici, Messieurs,' returned to die, as the Hare
does, in her ancient 'gite.' {191} I shall soon be going to Lowestoft,
where one of my Nieces, who is married to an Italian, and whom I have not
seen for many years, is come, with her Boy, to stay with her Sisters.
Whither are you going after you leave Hampshire? You spoke in your last
letter of Scarboro': but I still think you will get over to Switzerland.
One of my old Friends--and Flames--Mary Lynn (pretty name) who is of our
age, and played with me when we both were Children--at that very same
Aldeburgh--is gone over to those Mountains which you are so fond of:
having the same passion for them as you have. I had asked her to meet me
at that Aldeburgh--'Aldbro''--that we might ramble together along that
beach where once we played; but she was gone.
If you should come to Lowestoft instead of Scarbro', we, if you please,
will ramble together too. But I do not recommend the place--very ugly--on
a dirty Dutch Sea--and I do not suppose you would care for any of my
People; unless it were my little Niece Annie, who is a delightful
Creature.
I see by the Athenaeum that Tom Taylor is dead {192a}--the 'cleverest Man
in London' Tennyson called him forty years ago. Professor Goodwin, of
the Boston Cambridge, is in England, and made a very kind proposal to
give me a look on his travels. But I could not let him come out of his
way (as it would have been) for any such a purpose. {192b} He wrote that
Mrs. Lowell was in better health: residing at Southampton, which you knew
well near fifty years ago, as your Book tells. Mr. Lowell does not write
to me now; nor is there reason that he should.
Please to make my remembrances to Mr. Sartoris, who scarcely remembers
me, but whose London House was very politely opened to me so many years
ago. Anyhow, pray let me hear of yourself: and believe me always yours
sincerely
THE LAIRD OF LITTLEGRANGE.
LXXIX.
WOODBRIDGE: _Friday_, [30 _July_, 1880.]
MY DEAR LADY,
I send you Mowbray's reply to my letter of nearly three weeks ago. No
good news of his Father--still less of our Army (news to me told to-day)
altogether a sorry budget to greet you on your return to London. But the
public news you knew already, I doubt not: and I thought as well to tell
you of our Donne at once.
I suppose one should hardly talk of anything except this Indian Calamity:
{193} but I am selfish enough to ignore, as much as I can, such Evils as
I cannot help.
I think that Tennyson in calling Tom Taylor the 'cleverest man,' etc.,
meant pretty much as you do. I believe he said it in reply to something
I may have said that was less laudatory. At one time Tennyson almost
lived with him and the Wigans whom I did not know. Taylor always seemed
to me as 'clever' as any one: was always very civil to me: but one of
those toward whom I felt no attraction. He was too clever, I think. As
to Art, he knew nothing of it then, nor (as he admits) up to 1852 or
thereabout, when he published his very good Memoir of Haydon. I think he
was too 'clever' for Art also.
Why will you write of 'If you _bid_ me come to Lowestoft in October,'
etc., which, you must know, is just what I should not ask you to do:
knowing that, after what you say, you would come, if asked, were--(a Bull
begins here)--were it ever so unlikely for you. I am going thither next
week, to hear much (I dare say) of a Brother in Ireland who may be called
to India; and am
Ever yours sincerely,
LITTLEGRANGE.
Why won't you write to me from Switzerland to say where a Letter may find
you? If not, the Harvest Moon will pass!
LXXX.
IVY HOUSE, LOWESTOFT:
_Septr._ 20, {194} [1880.]
MY DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,
Here is a second Full Moon since last I wrote--(Harvest Moon, I think). I
knew not where to direct to you before, and, as you remain determined not
to apprize me yourself, so I have refused to send through Coutts. You do
not lose much.
Here have been for nearly two months Five English Nieces clustered round
a Sister who married an Italian, and has not been in England these dozen
years. She has brought her Boy of six, who seems to us wonderfully
clever as compared to English Children of his Age, but who, she tells us,
is counted rather behind his Fellows in Italy. Our meeting has been what
is called a 'Success'--which will not be repeated, I think. She will go
back to her adopted Country in about a month, I suppose. Do you know of
any one likely to be going that way about that time?
Some days ago, when I was sitting on the Pier, rather sad at the
Departure [of] a little Niece--an abridgment of all that is pleasant--and
good--in Woman--Charles Merivale accosted me--he and his good,
unaffected, sensible, wife, and Daughter to match. He was looking well,
and we have since had a daily stroll together. We talked of you, for he
said (among the first things he did say) that he had been reading your
Records again: so I need not tell you his opinion of them. He saw your
Uncle in Cato when he was about four years old; and believes that he (J.
P. K.) had a bit of red waistcoat looking out of his toga, by way of
Blood. I tell him he should call on you and clear up that, and talk on
many other points.
Mowbray Donne wrote me from Wales a month ago that his Father was going
on pretty well. I asked for further from Mowbray when he should have
returned from Wales: but he has not yet written. Merivale, who is one of
Donne's greatest Friends, has not heard of him more lately than I.
Now, my dear Mrs. Kemble, I want to hear of you from yourself: and I have
told you why it is that I have not asked you before. I fancy that you
will not be back in England when this Letter reaches Westminster: but I
fancy that it will not be long before you find it waiting on your table
for you.
And now I am going to look for the Dean, who, I hope, has been at Church
this morning: and though I have not done that, I am not the less
sincerely yours
E. F.G.
LXXXI.
WOODBRIDGE: _Octr._ 20, 1880.
MY DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,
I was to have gone to London on Monday with my Italian Niece on her way
homeward. But she feared saying 'Farewell' and desired me to let her set
off alone, to avoid doing so.
Thus I delay my visit to you till November--perhaps toward the middle of
it: when I hope to find you, with your blue and crimson Cushions {197} in
Queen Anne's Mansions, as a year ago. Mrs. Edwards is always in town:
not at all forgetful of her husband; and there will be our Donne also of
whom I hear nothing, and so conclude there is nothing to be told, and
with him my Visits will be summed up.
Now, lose not a Day in providing yourself with Charles Tennyson Turner's
Sonnets, published by Kegan Paul. There is a Book for you to keep on
your table, at your elbow. Very many of the Sonnets I do not care for:
mostly because of the Subject: but there is pretty sure to be some
beautiful line or expression in all; and all pure, tender, noble,
and--original. Old Spedding supplies a beautiful Prose Overture to this
delightful Volume: never was Critic more one with his Subject--or,
Object, is it? Frederick Tennyson, my old friend, ought to have done
something to live along with his Brothers: all who _will_ live, I
believe, of their Generation: and he perhaps would, if he could, have
confined himself to limits not quite so narrow as the Sonnet. But he is
a Poet, and cannot be harnessed.
I have still a few flowers surviving in my Garden; and I certainly never
remember the foliage of trees so little changed in October's third week.
A little flight of Snow however: whose first flight used to quicken my
old Crabbe's fancy: Sir Eustace Grey written under such circumstances.
{198}
And I am always yours
LITTLEGRANGE
(not 'Markethill' as you persist in addressing me.)
LXXXII.
WOODBRIDGE, _Novr._ 17/80.
MY DEAR LADY,
Here is the Moon very near her Full: so I send you a Letter. I have it
in my head you are not in London: and may not be when I go up there for a
few days next week--for this reason I think so: viz., that you have not
acknowledged a Copy of Charles Tennyson's Sonnets, which I desired Kegan
Paul to send you, as from me--with my illustrious Initials on the Fly
Leaf: and, he or one of his men, wrote that so it should be, or had been
done. It may nevertheless not have been: or, if in part done, the
illustrious Initials forgotten. But I rather think the Book was sent:
and that you would have guessed at the Sender, Initials or not. And as I
know you are even over-scrupulous in acknowledging any such things, I
gather that the Book came when you had left London--for Leamington, very
likely: and that there you are now. The Book, and your Acknowledgment of
it, will very well wait: but I wish to hear about yourself--as also about
yours--if you should be among them. I talk of 'next week,' because one
of my few Visitors, Archdeacon Groome, is coming the week after that, I
believe, for a day or two to my house: and, as he has not been here for
two years, I do not wish to be out of the way.
A Letter about a fortnight ago from Mowbray Donne told me that his Father
was fairly well: and a Post Card from Mowbray two days ago informed [me]
that Valentia was to be in London this present week. But I have wanted
to be here at home all this time: I would rather see Donne when he is
alone: and I would rather go to London when there is more likelihood of
seeing you there than now seems to me. Of course you will not in the
slightest way hasten your return to London (if now away from it) for my
poor little Visits: but pray let me hear from you, and believe me always
the same
E. F.G.
LXXXIII.
WOODBRIDGE: _Decr._ 6, [1880.]
MY DEAR LADY,
I was surprised to see a Letter in your MS. which could not be in answer
to any of mine. But the Photos account for it. Thank you: I keep that
which I like best, and herewith return the other.
Why will you take into your head that I could suppose you wanting in
Hospitality, or any other sort of Generosity! That, at least, is not a
Kemble failing. Why, I believe you would give me--and a dozen
others--1000 pounds if you fancied one wanted it--even without being
asked. The Law of Mede and Persian is that you _will_ take up--a
perverse notion--now and then. There! It's out.
As to the Tea--'pure and simple'--with Bread and Butter--it is the only
meal I do care to join in:--and this is why I did not see Mowbray Donne,
who has not his Dinner till an hour and a half after my last meal is
done.
I should very gladly have 'crushed a Cup of Tea' with you that last
Evening, coming prepared so to do. But you had Friends coming; and so
(as Mrs. Edwards was in the same plight) I went to the Pit of my dear old
Haymarket Opera: {200} remembering the very corner of the Stage where
Pasta stood when Jason's People came to tell her of his new Marriage; and
(with one hand in her Girdle--a movement (Mrs. Frere said) borrowed from
Grassini) she interrupted them with her "Cessate--intesi!"--also when
Rubini, feathered hat in hand, began that "Ah te, oh Cara"--and Taglioni
hovered over the Stage. There was the old Omnibus Box too where D'Orsay
flourished in ample white Waistcoat and Wristbands: and Lady
Blessington's: and Lady Jersey's on the Pit tier: and my own Mother's,
among the lesser Stars, on the third. In place of all which I dimly saw
a small Company of less distinction in all respects; and heard an Opera
(_Carmen_) on the Wagner model: very beautiful Accompaniments to no
Melody: and all very badly sung except by Trebelli, who, excellent. I
ran out in the middle to the dear Little Haymarket opposite--where
Vestris and Liston once were: and found the Theatre itself spoilt by
being cut up into compartments which marred the beautiful Horse-shoe
shape, once set off by the flowing pattern of Gold which used to run
round the house.
Enough of these Old Man's fancies--But--Right for all that!
I would not send you Spedding's fine Article {201a} till you had returned
from your Visit, and also had received Mrs. Leigh at Queen Anne's. You
can send it back to me quite at your leisure, without thinking it
necessary to write about it.
It is so mild here that the Thrush sings a little, and my Anemones seem
preparing to put forth a blossom as well as a leaf. Yesterday I was
sitting on a stile by our River side.
You will doubtless see Tennyson's new Volume, {201b} which is to my
thinking far preferable to his later things, though far inferior to those
of near forty years ago: and so, I think, scarce wanted. There is a bit
of Translation from an old War Song which shows what a Poet can do when
he condescends to such work: and I have always said that 'tis for the old
Poets to do some such service for their Predecessors. I hope this long
letter is tolerably legible: and I am in very truth
Sincerely yours
THE LAIRD OF LITTLEGRANGE.
LXXXIV.
WOODBRIDGE, _Christmas Day_, [1880.]
MY DEAR LADY:
You are at Leamington for this day, I expect: but, as I am not sure of
your address there, I direct to Queen Anne as usual. This very morning I
had a letter from my dear George Crabbe, telling me that he has met your
friend Mr. H. Aide at Lord Walsingham's, the Lord of G. C.'s parish: and
that Mr. Aide had asked him (G. C.) for his copy of my Crabbe. I should
have been very glad to give him one had he, or you, mentioned to me that
he had any wish for the book: I am only somewhat disappointed that so few
do care to ask for it.
I am here all alone for my Christmas: which is not quite my own fault. A
Nephew, and a young London clerk, were to have come, but prevented; even
my little Reader is gone to London for his Holyday, and left me with Eyes
more out of _Kelter_ {202} than usual to entertain myself with. 'These
are my troubles, Mr. Wesley,' as a rich man complained to him when his
Servant put too many Coals on the fire. {203a} On Friday, Aldis Wright
comes for two days, on his road to his old home Beccles: and I shall
leave him to himself with Books and a Cigar most part of the Day, and
make him read Shakespeare of a night. He is now editing Henry V. for
what they call the Clarendon Press. He still knows nothing of Mr.
Furness, who, he thinks, must be home in America long ago.
Spedding writes me that Carlyle is now so feeble as to be carried up and
down stairs. But very 'quiet,' which is considered a bad sign; but, as
Spedding says, surely much better than the other alternative, into which
one of Carlyle's temperament might so probably have fallen. Nay, were it
not better for all of us? Mr. Froude is most constantly with him.
If this Letter is forwarded you, I know that it will not be long before I
hear from you. And you know that I wish to hear that all is well with
you, and that I am always yours
E. F.G.
How is Mr. Sartoris? And I see a Book of _hers_ advertised. {203b}
LXXXV.
WOODBRIDGE: _Jan._ 17, [1881.]
DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,
The Moon has passed her Full: but my Eyes have become so troubled since
Christmas that I have not written before. All Christmas I was alone:
Aldis Wright came to me on New Year's Day, and read to me, among many
other things, 'Winter's Tale' which we could not take much delight in. No
Play more undoubtedly, nor altogether, Shakespeare's, but seeming to me
written off for some 'occasion' theatrical, and then, I suppose that Mrs.
Siddons made much of the Statue Scene.
I cannot write much, and I fancy that you will not care to read much, if
you are indeed about to leave Queen Anne. That is a very vexatious
business. You will probably be less inclined to write an answer to my
letter, than to read it: but answer it you will: and you need trouble
yourself to say no more than how you are, and where, and when, you are
going, if indeed you leave where you are. And do not cross your letter,
pray: and believe me always your sincere old friend
E. F.G.
LXXXVI.
[_Feb._, 1881.]
MY DEAR LADY:
I expected to send you a piece of Print as well as a Letter this Full
Moon. {205} But the Print is not come from the Printer's: and perhaps
that is as well: for now you can thank me for it beforehand when you
reply (as I know you will) to this Letter--and no more needs to be said.
For I do [not] need your Advice as to Publication in this case; no such
Design is in my head: on the contrary, not even a Friend will know of it
except yourself, Mr. Norton, and Aldis Wright: the latter of whom would
not be of the party but that he happened to be here when I was too
purblind to correct the few Proofs, and very kindly did so for me. As
for Mr. Norton (America), he it was for whom it was printed at all--at
his wish, he knowing the MS. had been lying by me unfinisht for years. It
is a Version of the two OEdipus Plays of Sophocles united as two Parts of
one Drama. I should not send it to you but that I feel sure that, if you
are in fair health and spirits, you will be considerably interested in
it, and probably give me more credit for my share in it than I deserve.
As I make sure of this you see there will be no need to say anything more
about it. The Chorus part is not mine, as you will see; but probably
quite as good. Quite enough on that score.
I really want to know how you like your new Quarters in dear _old_
London: how you are; and whether relieved from Anxiety concerning Mr.
Leigh. It was a Gale indeed, such as the oldest hereabout say they do
not remember: but it was all from the East: and I do not see why it
should have travelled over the Atlantic.
If you are easy on that account, and otherwise pretty well in mind and
Body, tell me if you have been to see the Lyceum 'Cup' {206a} and what
you make of it. Somebody sent me a Macmillan {206b} with an Article
about it by Lady Pollock; the extracts she gave seemed to me a somewhat
lame imitation of Shakespeare.
I venture to think--and what is more daring--to write, that my Eyes are
better, after six weeks' rest and Blue Glasses. But I say so with due
regard to my old Friend Nemesis.
I have heard nothing about my dear Donne since you wrote: and you only
said that you had not _heard_ a good account of him. Since then you
have, I doubt not, seen as well as heard. But, now that I see better
(Absit Invidia!) I will ask Mowbray.
It is well, I think, that Carlyle desired to rest (as I am told he did)
where he was born--at Ecclefechan, from which I have, or had, several
Letters dated by him. His Niece, who had not replied to my note of
Enquiry, of two months ago, wrote to me after his Death.
Now I have written enough for you as well as for myself: and am yours
always the same
LITTLEGRANGE. *
* 'What foppery is this, sir?'--_Dr. Johnson_.
LXXXVII.
[_Feb._, 1881.]
MY DEAR MRS. KEMBLE:--
As you generally return a Salute so directly, I began to be alarmed at
not hearing from you sooner--either that you were ill, or your Daughter,
or some ill news about Mr. Leigh. I had asked one who reads the
Newspapers, and was told there had been much anxiety as to the Cunard
Ship, which indeed was only just saved from total Wreck. But all is well
so far as you and yours are concerned; and I will sing 'Gratias' along
with you.
Mowbray Donne wrote to tell me that he and his had provided for some man
to accompany our dear old Friend in his walks; and, as he seems himself
to like it, all is so far well in that quarter also.
I was touched with the account of Carlyle's simple Obsequies among his
own Kinsfolk, in the place of his Birth--it was fine of him to settle
that so it should be. I am glad also that Mr. Froude is charged with his
Biography: a Gentleman, as well as a Scholar and 'Writer of Books,' who
will know what to leave unsaid as well as what to say.
Your account of 'The Cup' is what I should have expected from you: and,
if I may say so, from myself had I seen it.
And with this Letter comes my Sophocles, of which I have told you what I
expect you will think also, and therefore need not say--unless of a
different opinion. It came here I think the same Day on which I wrote to
tell you it had not come: but I would not send it until assured that all
was well with you. Such corrections as you will find are not meant as
Poetical--or rather Versifying--improvements, but either to clear up
obscurity, or to provide for some modifications of the two Plays when
made, as it were, into one. Especially concerning the Age of OEdipus:
whom I do not intend to be the _old_ man in Part II. as he appears in the
original. For which, and some other things, I will, if Eyes hold, send
you some printed reasons in an introductory Letter to Mr. Norton, at
whose desire I finished what had been lying in my desk these dozen years.
As I said of my own AEschylus Choruses, I say of old Potter's now: better
just to take a hint from them of what they are about--or imagine it for
yourself--and then imagine, or remember, some grand Organ piece--as of
Bach's Preludes--which will be far better Interlude than Potter--or I--or
even (as I dare think) than Sophocles' self!
And so I remain your ancient Heretic,
LITTLE G.
The newly printed Part II. would not bear Ink.
LXXXVIII.
[_Feb._, 1881.]
MY DEAR LADY,