[_Edinburgh_, _June_ 1887.]
MY DEAR S. C.,—At last I can write a word to you. Your little note in
the _P. M. G._ was charming. I have written four pages in the
_Contemporary_, which Bunting found room for: they are not very good, but
I shall do more for his memory in time.
About the death, I have long hesitated, I was long before I could tell my
mind; and now I know it, and can but say that I am glad. If we could
have had my father, that would have been a different thing. But to keep
that changeling—suffering changeling—any longer, could better none and
nothing. Now he rests; it is more significant, it is more like himself.
He will begin to return to us in the course of time, as he was and as we
loved him.
My favourite words in literature, my favourite scene—‘O let him pass,’
Kent and Lear—was played for me here in the first moment of my return. I
believe Shakespeare saw it with his own father. I had no words; but it
was shocking to see. He died on his feet, you know; was on his feet the
last day, knowing nobody—still he would be up. This was his constant
wish; also that he might smoke a pipe on his last day. The funeral would
have pleased him; it was the largest private funeral in man’s memory
here.
We have no plans, and it is possible we may go home without going through
town. I do not know; I have no views yet whatever; nor can have any at
this stage of my cold and my business.—Ever yours,