Tennyson perhaps nearest. But _he_ seems quite unable to fathom the heart of a n.o.ble woman with any _strength_ of her own, or any knowledge of the world. "Enid" is to me intolerable as well as the degraded legend it was founded on. Perhaps the brief thing of Lady G.o.diva is the nearest approach, and Elaine faultless as the picture of a maiden-heart brought up in "the innocence of ignorance." But he can write fairly of "fair women." Scott runs closer, but his are paintings from without. "Jeanie Deans" is bad to beat!!

Sh.e.l.ley comes to his side when _weirdness_ is concerned.

"Five fathom deep thy father lies," etc.,

is run hard by--

"Its pa.s.sions will rock thee As the storms rock the ravens on high: Bright reason will mock thee, Like the sun from a wintry sky.

From thy nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle home _Leave thee naked to laughter, When leaves fall and cold winds come._"

But I will not bore you with comparisons. My upshot is that no one of the many who may rival him in SOME of his perfections, COMBINE them all in ONE genius. In all these philosophizing days--who touches him in philosophy? From the simplest griefs and pleasures and humanity at its simplest--Macduff over the ma.s.sacre of his wife and children--to all that the most delicate brain may search into and suffer, as Hamlet--or the ten thousand exquisite womanish thoughts of Portia, a creature of brain power and feminine fragility--

"By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is a-weary of this great world."

TO C.T.G.

_Greno House, Grenoside, Sheffield._ Aug. 3, 1880.

_a propos_ of my affairs ... next year we might do something with some of my "small gems." Don't _you_ like "Aldegunda" (Blind Man and Talking Dog)? D. does so much. Do you like the "Kyrkegrim turned Preacher,"

"Ladders to Heaven," and "Dandelion Clocks"?...

... As you know, these _little_ things are the chief favourites with my more educated friends, whose kindness consoles me for the much labour I spend on so few words (The "Kyrkegrim turned Preacher" was "in hand" two years!!!), and I think their only chance would be to be so dressed and presented as to specially and downrightly appeal to those who would value the Art of the Ill.u.s.trator, and perhaps recognize the refinement of labour with which the letter-press has been ground down, and clipped, and condensed, and selected--till, as it would appear to the larger buying-public, there is _wonderfully little left you for your money_!!...

Poor old Cruikshank! How well--and willingly--he would have done "Kyrkegrim turned Preacher." He said, when he read my things, "the Fairies came and danced to him"--which pleased me much.

Yesterday I pulled myself together and wrote straight to the printers, to the effect that the suffering the erratic and careless printing of "We and the World" cost me was such that I was obliged to protest against X. and Sons economizing by using boys and untrained incapables to print (printing from print being easier, and therefore adapted for teaching the young P.D. how to set up type), pointing out one sentence in which (clear type in _A.J.M._) the words "insist on guiding my fate by lines of their own ruling" was printed to the effect that they wouldn't insist on _gilding_ my _faith_, etc., _their_ being changed to _there_. All of which the _reader_ had overlooked--to concern himself with my Irish brogue--and certain _reiterations of words_ which he mortally hates, and which I regard the chastened use of, as like that of the _plural of excellence_ in Hebrew!

(He would have put that demoniacal mark [symbol: checkmark]

against one of the summers in "All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone"!!!)

I sent SUCH a polite message PER X. to his reader, thanking him much for trying to mend my brogue (which had already pa.s.sed through the hands of three or four Irishmen, including Dr.

Todhunter and Dr. Littledale), but proposing that for the future we should confine ourselves to our respective trades,--That the printer should print from copy, and not out of his own head--that the reader should read for clerical errors and bad printing, which would leave me some remnant of time and strength to attend to the language and sentiments for which I alone was responsible. My dear love, I must stop.

Ever your devoted, J.H.E.

TO A.E.

_Farnham Castle, Surrey._ Oct. 10, 1880.

DIARY OF MRS. PEPYS.

"_Oct. 9._--Pa.s.sed an ill night, and did early resolve to send a carrier pigeon unto the Castle to notify that I must lie where I was, being unable to set forward. But on rising I found myself not so ill that I need put others to inconvenience; so I did but order a cab and set forth at three in the afternoon, in pouring rain. My hostess sent with me David her footman, who saved me all trouble with my luggage, and so forth from Frimley to Farnham. A pause at the South Camp Station, dear familiar spot, a little before which the hut where my good lord lay before we were married loomed somewhat drearily through the mist and rain. At Farnham the Lord Bishop's servitor was waiting for me, and took all my things, leading me to a comfortable carriage and so forth to the Castle.

Somewhat affrighted at the hill, which is steep, and turns suddenly; but recovered my steadfastness in thinking that no horses could know the way so well as these.

The Bishopess and her daughter received me on the stair-case, and we had tea in the book-gallery, a most pleasing apartment.

Thence to my room to rest till dinner. It is a mighty fine apartment, vast and high, with long windows having deep embrasures, and looking down upon the cedars and away over the whole town, which is a pretty one.

Methinks if I were a state prisoner, I would fain be imprisoned in an upper chamber, looking level with these same cedar-branches, whereon, mayhap, some bird might build its nest for mine entertainment.

Dinner at 8.15. Wore my ancient brocade newly furbished with olive-green satin, and tinted lace about my neck, fastened with a brooch made like to a Maltese Cross, green stockings and shoes embroidered with flowers.

Was taken down to dinner by Sir Thos. Gore Browne, an exceeding pleasant old soldier, elder brother to the Bishop,--having before dinner had much talk with his Lordship, whom I had not remembered to have been the dear friend of our dear friend the Lord Bishop of Fredericton, when both prelates were curates in Exeter."

I am very much enjoying my visit to this dear old Castle. They are superabundantly kind! After the evening yesterday everybody, visitors and family, all trooped into the dimly-lighted chapel for Evening Prayer. They sang "Jerusalem the Golden," and Gen. Lysons sang away through his gla.s.s, in his K.C.B. star, and came up to compliment me about it afterwards....

October 22, 1880.

Yesterday was Trafalgar Day. About half-a-dozen old Admirals of ninety and upwards met and dined together! I don't know what I would not have given to have been present at that most ghostly banquet! How like a dream, a shadow, a bubble, a pa.s.sing vapour, and all the rest of it, must life not have seemed to these ex-midshipmen of the _Victory_ and the _Temeraire_! m.u.f.fling their poor old throats against this sudden frost, and toddling to table, and hobn.o.bbing their gla.s.s in old-fashioned ways to immortal memories,

"here in London's central roar, Where the sound of those, he wrought for, And the feet of those he fought for, Echo round his bones for Evermore!"

The cold is sudden and most severe. I fear it will hustle some of those dear old Admirals to rejoin their ancient comrade--the "Saviour of the silver-coasted isle."

May 1881.

"The Harbour Bay was clear as gla.s.s-- So smooth--ly was it strewn!

And on--the Bay--the moonlight lay And--the--Shad--ow of--the Moon!"

--thus was it at 11 p.m. on the night of the 4th of May, when I looked out of my bedroom window at Place Castle, Fowey, on the coast of Cornwall!!!!--(and we must also remember that Isolde was married to the King of Cornwall, and lived probably in much such a place as Place!)

I caught a train on to Fowey, which I reached about 5. There I found a brougham and two fiery chestnuts waiting for me, and after some plunging at the train away went my steeds, and we turned almost at once into the drive. There is no park to Place that I could see, but the drive is _sui generis_! You keep going through _cuttings_ in the rock, so that it has an odd feeling of a drive _on the stage_ in a Fairy Pantomime. On your right hand the cliff is _tapestried_, almost hidden, by wild-flowers and ferns in the wealthiest profusion!

Unluckily the wild garlic smells dreadfully, but its exquisite white blossoms have a most aerial effect, with pink campion, Herb Robert, etc., etc. On the left hand you have perpetual glimpses of the harbour as it lies below--oh, _such_ a green! I never saw such before--"as green as em-er-ald!"--and the roofs of the ancient borough of Fowey!--I hope by next mail to have photographs to send you of the place. It perpetually reminded me of the Ancient Mariner. As to Place (P. Castle they call it now), the photographs will really give you a better idea of it than I can. You must bear in mind that the harbour of Fowey and a castle, carrying artillery, have been in the hands of the Treffrys from time immemorial.... We went over the Church, a fine old Church with a grand tower, standing just below the Castle. The Castle itself is chiefly Henry VI, and Henry VII. I never saw such elaborate stone carving as decorates the outside. There are beautiful "Rose" windows close to the ground, and the Lilies of France, of course, are everywhere. The chief drawing-room is a charming room, hung with pale yellow satin damask, and with beautiful Louis Quinze furniture. The porphyry hall is considered one of _the_ sights, the roof, walls, and floor are all of red Cornish porphyry....

_Frimhurst_, May 10, 1881.