it: and, as I believe I said, I was sure that like it you would. I did
not anticipate how much: but am all the more glad: and (were I twenty
years younger) should be all the more proud; even making, as I do, a
little allowance for your old and constant regard to the Englisher. The
Drama is, however, very skilfully put together, and very well versified,
although that not as an original man--such as Dryden--would have
versified it: I will, by and by, send you a little introductory letter to
Mr. Norton, explaining to him, a Greek Scholar, why I have departed from
so much of the original: 'little' I call the Letter, but yet so long that
I did not wish him, or you, to have as much trouble in reading, as I,
with my bad Eyes, had in writing it: so, as I tell him--and you--it must
go to the Printers along with the Play which it prates about.
I think I once knew why the two Cities in Egypt and Boeotia were alike
named Thebes; and perhaps could now find out from some Books now stowed
away in a dark Closet which affrights my Eyes to think of. But any of
your learned friends in London will tell you, and probably more
accurately than Paddy. I cannot doubt but that Sphinx and heaps more of
the childish and dirty mythology of Greece came from Egypt, and who knows
how far beyond, whether in Time or Space!
Your Uncle, the great John, did enact OEdipus in some Tragedy, by whom I
know not: I have a small Engraving of him in the Character, from a
Drawing of that very clever artist De Wilde; {210} but this is a heavy
Likeness, though it may have been a true one of J. K. in his latter
years, or in one of his less inspired--or more asthmatic--moods. This
portrait is one of a great many (several of Mrs. Siddons) in a Book I
have--and which I will send you if you would care to see it: plenty of
them are rubbish such as you would wonder at a sensible man having ever
taken the trouble to put together. But I inherit a long-rooted Affection
for the Stage: almost as real a World to me as Jaques called it. Of
yourself there is but a Newspaper Scrap or two: I think I must have cut
out and given you what was better: but I never thought any one worth
having except Sir Thomas', which I had from its very first Appearance,
and keep in a large Book along with some others of a like size: Kean,
Mars, Talma, Duchesnois, etc., which latter I love, though I heard more
of them than I saw.
Yesterday probably lighted you up once again in London, as it did us down
here. 'Richard' thought he began to feel himself up to his Eyes again:
but To-day all Winter again, though I think I see the Sun resolved on
breaking through the Snow clouds. My little Aconites--which are
sometimes called 'New Year Gifts,' {211a} have almost lived their little
Lives: my Snowdrops look only too much in Season; but we will hope that
all this Cold only retards a more active Spring.
I should not have sent you the Play till Night had I thought you would
sit up that same night to read it. Indeed, I had put it away for the
Night Post: but my old Hermes came in to say he was going into Town to
market, and so he took it with him to Post.
Farewell for the present--till next Full Moon? I am really glad that all
that Atlantic worry has blown over, and all ended well so far as you and
yours are concerned. And I am always your ancient
LITTLE G.
LXXXIX. {211b}
[_March_, 1881.]
MY DEAR LADY,
It was very, very good and kind of you to write to me about Spedding.
Yes: Aldis Wright had apprised me of the matter just after it happened--he
happening to be in London at the time; and but two days after the
accident heard that Spedding was quite calm, and even cheerful; only
anxious that Wright himself should not be kept waiting for some
communication which S. had promised him! Whether to live, or to die, he
will be Socrates still.
Directly that I heard from Wright, I wrote to Mowbray Donne to send me
just a Post Card--daily if he or his wife could--with but one or two
words on it--'Better,' 'Less well,' or whatever it might be. This
morning I hear that all is going on even better than could be expected,
according to Miss Spedding. But I suppose the Crisis, which you tell me
of, is not yet come; and I have always a terror of that French
Adage--'_Monsieur se porte mal_--_Monsieur se porte mieux_--_Monsieur
est_'--Ah, you know--or you guess, the rest.
My dear old Spedding, though I have not seen him these twenty years and
more--and probably should never see him again--but he lives--his old
Self--in my heart of hearts; and all I hear of him does but embellish the
recollection of him--if it could be embellished--for he is but the same
that he was from a Boy--all that is best in Heart and Head--a man that
would be incredible had one not known him.
I certainly should have gone up to London--even with Eyes that will
scarce face the lamps of Woodbridge--not to see him, but to hear the
first intelligence I could about him. But I rely on the Postcard for but
a Night's delay. Laurence, Mowbray tells me, had been to see him, and
found him as calm as had been reported by Wright. But the Doctors had
said that he should be kept as quiet as possible.
I think, from what Mowbray also says, that you may have seen our other
old Friend Donne in somewhat worse plight than usual because of his being
much shocked at this Accident. He would feel it indeed!--as you do.
I had even thought of writing to tell you of all this, but could not but
suppose that you were more likely to know of it than myself; though
sometimes one is greatly mistaken with those 'of course you knows,
etc.'--But you have known it all: and have very kindly written of it to
me, whom you might also have supposed already informed of it: but you
took the trouble to write, not relying on 'of course you know, etc.'
I have thought lately that I ought to make some enquiry about Arthur
Malkin, who was always very kind to me. I had meant to send him my
Crabbe, who was a great favourite of his Father's, 'an excellent
companion for Old Age' he told--Donne, I think. But I do not know if I
ever did send him the Book, and now, judging by what you tell me, it is
too late to do so, unless for Compliment.
The Sun, I see, has put my Fire out--for which I only thank him, and will
go to look for him himself in my Garden--only with a Green Shade over my
Eyes. I must get to London to see you before you move away to
Leamington; when I can bear Sun or Lamp without odious blue Glasses, etc.
I dare to think those Eyes are better, though not Sun-proof: and I am
ever yours
LITTLE G.
XC. {214}
20 _March_, [1881.]
MY DEAR LADY,
I have let the Full Moon pass because I thought you had written to me so
lately, and so kindly, about our lost Spedding, that I would not call on
you too soon again. Of him I will say nothing except that his Death has
made me recall very many passages in his Life in which I was partly
concerned. In particular, staying at his Cumberland Home along with
Tennyson in the May of 1835. 'Voila bien long temps de ca!' His Father
and Mother were both alive--he, a wise man, who mounted his Cob after
Breakfast, and was at his Farm till Dinner at two--then away again till
Tea: after which he sat reading by a shaded lamp: saying very little, but
always courteous, and quite content with any company his Son might bring
to the house so long as they let him go his way: which indeed he would
have gone whether they let him or no. But he had seen enough of Poets
not to like them or their Trade: Shelley, for a time living among the
Lakes: Coleridge at Southey's (whom perhaps he had a respect for--Southey,
I mean), and Wordsworth, whom I do not think he valued. He was rather
jealous of 'Jem,' who might have done available service in the world, he
thought, giving himself up to such Dreamers; and sitting up with Tennyson
conning over the Morte d'Arthur, Lord of Burleigh, and other things which
helped to make up the two Volumes of 1842. So I always associate that
Arthur Idyll with Basanthwaite Lake, under Skiddaw. Mrs. Spedding was a
sensible, motherly Lady, with whom I used to play Chess of a Night. And
there was an old Friend of hers, Mrs. Bristow, who always reminded me of
Miss La Creevy, if you know of such a Person in Nickleby.
At the end of May we went to lodge for a week at Windermere--where
Wordsworth's new volume of Yarrow Revisited reached us. W. was then at
his home: but Tennyson would not go to visit him: and of course I did
not: nor even saw him.
You have, I suppose, the Carlyle Reminiscences: of which I will say
nothing except that, much as we outsiders gain by them, I think that, on
the whole, they had better have been kept unpublished--for some while at
least. As also thinks Carlyle's Niece, who is surprised that Mr. Froude,
whom her Uncle trusted above all men for the gift of Reticence, should
have been in so much hurry to publish what was left to his Judgment to
publish or no. But Carlyle himself, I think, should have stipulated for
Delay, or retrenchment, if publisht at all.
Here is a dull and coldish Day after the fine ones we have had--which
kept me out of doors as long as they lasted. Now one turns to the
Fireside again. To-morrow is Equinox Day; when, if the Wind should
return to North East, North East will it blow till June 21, as we all
believe down here. My Eyes are better, I presume to say: but not what
they were even before Christmas. Pray let me hear how you are, and
believe me ever the same
E. F.G.
Oh! I doubted about sending you what I yet will send, as you already have
what it refers to. It really calls for no comment from any one who does
not know the Greek; those who do would probably repudiate it.
XCI. {216a}
[_April_, 1881.]
MY DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,
Somewhat before my usual time, you see, but Easter {216b} comes, and I
shall be glad to hear if you keep it in London, or elsewhere. Elsewhere
there has been no inducement to go until To-day: when the Wind, though
yet East, has turned to the Southern side of it: one can walk without any
wrapper; and I dare to fancy we have turned the corner of Winter at last.
People talk of changed Seasons: only yesterday I was reading in my dear
old Sevigne, how she was with the Duke and Duchess of Chaulnes at their
Chateau of Chaulnes in Picardy all but two hundred years ago; that is in
1689: and the green has not as yet ventured to show its 'nez' nor a
Nightingale to sing. {217} You see that I have returned to her as for
some Spring Music, at any rate. As for the Birds, I have nothing but a
Robin, who seems rather pleased when I sit down on a Bench under an Ivied
Pollard, where I suppose he has a Nest, poor little Fellow. But we have
terrible Superstitions about him here; no less than that he always kills
his Parents if he can: my young Reader is quite determined on this head:
and there lately has been a Paper in some Magazine to the same effect.
My dear old Spedding sent me back to old Wordsworth too, who sings (his
best songs, I think) about the Mountains and Lakes they were both
associated with: and with a quiet feeling he sings, that somehow comes
home to me more now than ever it did before.
As to Carlyle--I thought on my first reading that he must have been
'_egare_' at the time of writing: a condition which I well remember
saying to Spedding long ago that one of his temperament might likely fall
into. And now I see that Mrs. Oliphant hints at something of the sort.
Hers I think an admirable Paper: {218} better than has yet been written,
or (I believe) is likely to be written by any one else. Merivale, who
wrote me that he had seen you, had also seen Mrs. Procter, who was vowing
vengeance, and threatening to publish letters from Carlyle to Basil
Montagu full of 'fulsome flattery'--which I do not believe, and should
not, I am sorry to say, unless I saw it in the original. I forget now
what T. C. says of him: (I have lent the Book out)--but certainly Barry
Cornwall told Thackeray he was 'a humbug'--which I think was no uncommon
opinion: I do not mean dishonest: but of pretension to Learning and
Wisdom far beyond the reality. I must think Carlyle's judgments mostly,
or mainly, true; but that he must have 'lost his head,' if not when he
recorded them, yet when he left them in any one's hands to decide on
their publication. Especially when not about Public Men, but about their
Families. It is slaying the Innocent with the Guilty. But of all this
you have doubtless heard in London more than enough. 'Pauvre et triste
humanite!' One's heart opens again to him at the last: sitting alone in
the middle of her Room--'I want to die'--'I want--a Mother.' 'Ah, Mamma
Letizia!' Napoleon is said to have murmured as he lay. By way of pendant
to this, recurs to me the Story that when Ducis was wretched his mother
would lay his head on her Bosom--'Ah, mon homme, mon pauvre homme!'
Well--I am expecting Aldis Wright here at Easter: and a young London
Clerk (this latter I did invite for his short holiday, poor Fellow!).
Wright is to read me 'The Two Noble Kinsmen.'
And now I have written more than enough for yourself and me: whose Eyes
may be the worse for it to-morrow. I still go about in Blue Glasses, and
flinch from Lamp and Candle. Pray let me know about your own Eyes, and
your own Self; and believe me always sincerely yours
LITTLEGRANGE.
I really was relieved that you did not write to thank me for the poor
flowers which I sent you. They were so poor that I thought you would
feel bound so to do, and, when they were gone, repented. I have now some
gay Hyacinths up, which make my pattypan Beds like China Dishes.
XCII. {219}
[_April_, 1881.]
MY DEAR LADY:
This present Letter calls for no answer--except just that which perhaps
you cannot make it. If you have that copy of Plays revised by John the
Great which I sent, or brought, you, I wish you would cause your Maid to
pack it in brown Paper, and send it by Rail duly directed to me. I have
a wish to show it to Aldis Wright, who takes an Interest in your Family,
as in your Prophet. If you have already dismissed the Book elsewhere--not
much liking, I think, the stuff which J. K. spent so much trouble on, I
shall not be surprised, nor at all aggrieved: and there is not much for
A. W. to profit by unless in seeing what pains your noble Uncle took with
his Calling.
It has been what we call down here 'smurring' rather than raining, all
day long: and I think that Flower and Herb already show their gratitude.
My Blackbird (I think it is the same I have tried to keep alive during
the Winter) seems also to have 'wetted his Whistle,' and what they call
the 'Cuckoo's mate,' with a rather harsh scissor note, announces that his
Partner may be on the wing to these Latitudes. You will hear of him at
Mr. W. Shakespeare's, it may be. There must be Violets, white and blue,
somewhere about where he lies, I think. They are generally found in a
Churchyard, where also (the Hunters used to say) a Hare: for the same
reason of comparative security, I suppose.
I am very glad you agree with me about Mrs. Oliphant. That one paper of
hers makes me wish to read her Books.
You must somehow, or somewhile, let me know your Address in Leamington,
unless a Letter addressed to Cavendish Square will find you there. Always
and truly yours
LITTLE G.
XCIII. {221}
_May_ 8, [1881.]
MY DEAR MRS. KEMBLE:
You will not break your Law, though you have done so once--to tell me of
Spedding--But now you will not--nor let me know your Address--so I must
direct to you at a venture: to Marshall Thompson's, whither I suppose you
will return awhile, even if you be not already there. I think, however,
that you are not there yet. If still at Leamington, you look upon a
sight which I used to like well; that is, the blue Avon (as in this
weather it will be) running through buttercup meadows all the way to
Warwick--unless those Meadows are all built over since I was there some
forty years ago.
Aldis Wright stayed with me a whole week at Easter: and we did very well.
Much Shakespeare--especially concerning that curious Question about the
Quarto and Folio Hamlets which people are now trying to solve by Action
as well as by Discussion. Then we had The Two Noble Kinsmen--which
Tennyson and other Judges were assured has much of W. S. in it. Which
parts I forget, or never heard: but it seemed to me that a great deal of
the Play might be his, though not of his best: but Wright could find him
nowhere.
Miss Crabbe sent me a Letter from Carlyle's Niece, cut out from some
Newspaper, about her Uncle's MS. Memoir, and his written words concerning
it. Even if Froude's explanation of the matter be correct, he ought to
have still taken any hesitation on Carlyle's part as sufficient proof
that the MS. were best left unpublisht: or, at any rate, great part of
it. If you be in London, you will be wearied enough with hearing about
this.
I am got back to my--Sevigne!--who somehow returns to me in Spring: fresh
as the Flowers. These latter have done but badly this Spring, cut off or
withered by the Cold: and now parched up by this blazing Sun and dry
Wind. If you get my letter, pray answer it and tell me how you are: and
ever believe me yours
LITTLEGRANGE.
XCIV.
_May_, [1881.]
MY DEAR LADY,
If I did not write (as doubtless I ought) to acknowledge the Playbook, I
really believe that I thought you would have felt bound to answer my
acknowledgment! It came all right, thank you: and A. Wright looked it
over: and it has been lying ready to be returned to you whenever you
should be returned to London. I assure you that I wish you to keep it,
unless it be rather unacceptable than otherwise; I never thought you
would endure the Plays themselves; only that you might be interested in
your brave Uncle's patient and, I think, just, revision of them. This
was all I cared for: and wished to show to A. W. as being interested in
all that concerns so noble an Interpreter of his Shakespeare as your
Uncle was. If you do not care--or wish--to have the Book again, tell me
of some one you would wish to have it: had I wished, I should have told
you so at once: but I now give away even what I might have wished for to
those who are in any way more likely to be more interested in them than
myself, or are likely to have a few more years of life to make what they
may of them. I do not think that A. W. is one of such: he thought (as
you may do) of so much pains wasted on such sorry stuff.
So far from disagreeing with you about Shakespeare emendations, etc., I
have always been of the same mind: quite content with what pleased
myself, and, as to the elder Dramatists, always thinking they would be
better all annihilated after some Selections made from them, as C. Lamb
did.
Mowbray Donne wrote to me a fortnight or so since that his Father was
'pretty well,' but weak in the knees. Three days ago came in Archdeacon
Groome, who told me that a Friend of Mowbray's had just heard from him
that his Father had symptoms of dropsy about the Feet and Ankles. I have
not, however, written to ask; and, not having done so, perhaps ought not
to sadden you with what may be an inaccurate report. But one knows that,
sooner or later, some such end must come; and that, in the meanwhile,
Donne's Life is but little preferable to that which promises the speedier
end to it.
We are all drying up here with hot Sun and cold Wind; my Water-pot won't
keep Polyanthus and Anemone from perishing. I should have thought the
nightly Frosts and Winds would have done for Fruit as well as Flower: but
I am told it is not so as yet: and I hope for an honest mess of
Gooseberry Fool yet. In the meanwhile, 'Ce sera le mois de Mai tant
qu'il plaira a Dieu,' and I am always your ancient
LITTLE G.
XCV.
WOODBRIDGE: TUESDAY:
[_End of May_, 1881.]
MY DEAR MRS. KEMBLE:
I must write you a word of 'God Speed' before you go: before even you go
to London to prepare for going: for, if I wait till then, you will be all
bother with preparations, and leave-takings; and nevertheless feel
yourself bound to answer. Pray do not, even if (as I suppose) still at
Leamington; for you will still have plenty to think about with Daughter
and Children. I do not propose to go to London to shake hands before you
go off: for, as I say, you will have enough of that without me--and my
blue Spectacles, which I can only discard as yet when looking on the
Grass and young Leaves.
I duly sent your Book to Henry Kemble, as you desired: and received a
very polite Note from him in acknowledgment.
And now my house is being pulled about my Ears by preparations for my
Nieces next week. And, instead of my leaving the coast clear to Broom
and Dust-pan, I believe that Charles Keene will be here from Friday to
Monday. As he has long talked of coming, I do not like to put him off
now he has really proposed to come, and we shall scramble on somehow. And
I will get a Carriage and take him a long Drive into the Country where it
is greenest. He is a very good fellow, and has lately lost his Mother,
to whom he was a very pious Son; a man who can _reverence_, although a
Droll in _Punch_.
You will believe that I wish you all well among your Mountains. George
Crabbe has been (for Health's sake) in Italy these last two months, and
wrote me his last Note from the Lago Maggiore. My Sister Jane Wilkinson
talks of coming over to England this Summer: but I think her courage will
fail her when the time comes. If ever you should go to, or near,
Florence, she would be sincerely glad to see you, and to talk over other
Days. She is not at all obtrusively religious: and I think must have
settled abroad to escape some of the old Associations in which she took
so much part, to but little advantage to herself or others.
You know that I cannot write to you when you are abroad unless you tell
me whither I am to direct. And you probably will not do that: but I do
not, and shall [not] cease to be yours always and truly
E. F.G.
XCVI.
[_Nov._ 1881.]
MY DEAR LADY:
I was not quite sure, from your letter, whether you had received mine
directed to you in the Cavendish Square Hotel:--where your Nephew told me
you were to be found. It is no matter otherwise than that I wish you to
know that I had not only enquired if you were returned from abroad, but
had written whither I was told you were to be found. Of which enough.
I am sorry you are gone again to Westminster, to which I cannot reconcile
myself as to our old London. Even Bloomsbury recalls to me the pink May
which used to be seen in those old Squares--sixty years ago. But 'enfin,
voila qui est fait.' You know where that comes from. I have not lately
been in company with my old dear: Annie Thackeray's Book {227a} is a
pretty thing for Ladies in a Rail carriage; but my old Girl is scarce
half herself in it. And there are many inaccuracies, I think. Mais
enfin, voila, etc.
Athenaeum and Academy advertise your Sequel to Records. {227b} I need
not tell you that I look forward to it. I wish you would insert that
capital Paper on Dramatic and Theatrical from the Cornhill. {227c} It
might indeed very properly, as I thought, have found a place in the
Records.
Mowbray Donne wrote me a month ago that his Father was very feeble: one
cannot expect but that he will continue to become more and more so. I
should run up to London to see him, if I thought my doing so would be any
real comfort to him: but _that_ only his Family can be to him: and I
think he may as little wish to exhibit his Decay to an old Friend, who so
long knew him in a far other condition, as his friend might wish to see
him so altered. This is what I judge from my own feelings.
I have only just got my Garden laid up for the winter, and planted some
trees in lieu of those which that last gale blew down. I hear that
Kensington Gardens suffered greatly: how was it with your Green Park, on
which you now look down from such a height, and, I suppose, through a
London Fog?
Ever yours
LITTLE G.
XCVII.
[_Dec._ 1881.]
MY DEAR MRS. KEMBLE:
I _will_ write to you before 1881 is gone, carrying Christmas along with
him. A dismal Festivity it always seems to me--I dare say not much
merrier to you. I think you will tell me where, and with whom, you pass
it. My own company are to be, Aldis Wright, with whom Shakespeare, etc.,
a London Clerk, may be--that is, if he can get sufficient Holyday--and
one or two Guests for the Day.
I forget if I wrote to you since I had a letter from Hallam Tennyson,
telling me of a Visit that he and his Father had been making to
Warwickshire and Sherwood. The best news was that A. T. was 'walking and
working as usual.'
Why, what is become of your Sequel? I see no more advertisement of it in
Athenaeum and Academy--unless it appears in the last, which I have not
conned over. Somehow I think it not impossible--or even unlikely--that
you--may--have--withdrawn--for some reason of your own. You see that I
speak with hesitation--meaning no offence--and only hoping for my own,
and other sakes that I am all astray.