MY DEAR POLLOCK,

In a late Box of books which I had from Mudie were Macmillan and Fraser, for 1869-1870. And in one of these--I am nearly sure, Macmillan--is an Article called 'Objects of Art' {145} which treats very well, I think, on the subject you and I talked of at Whitsun. . . .

My new Reader . . . has been reading to me Fields' 'Yesterdays with Authors,' Hawthorne, d.i.c.kens, Thackeray. The latter seems to me a Caricature: the d.i.c.kens has one wonderful bit about Macready in 1869, which ought not to have been printed during his Life, but which I will copy out for you if you have not seen it. Hawthorne seems to me the most of a Man of Genius America has produced in the way of Imagination: yet I have never found an Appet.i.te for his Books. Frederic Tennyson sent me Victor Hugo's 'Toilers of the Sea,' which he admires, I suppose; but I can't get up an Appet.i.te for that neither. I think the Scenes being laid in the Channel Islands may have something to do with old Frederic's Liking. . . .

The Daily News only tells me of Crisises in France, Floods in Italy, Insubordination of London Policemen, and Desertion from the British Army.

So I take refuge in other Topics. Do look for 'Objects of Art' among them.

Which are you for

Noi leggiavamo } or } un giorno per diletto? {146a} Noi leggevamo }

WOODBRIDGE: _Nov._ 28 [1872].

'Multae Epistolae pertransibunt et augebitur Scientia.' Our one Man of Books down here, Brooke, {146b} had told me that the old Editions on the whole favoured 'legg_ia_vamo.' Now I shall tell him that the Germans have decided on 'leggevamo.' But Brooke quotes one Copy (1502) which reads 'leggev_am_,' which I had also wished for, to get rid of a fifth (and superfluous) _o_ in the line. I suppose such a plural is as allowable as

Noi andav_am_ per lo solingo Piano, etc.

What is all this erudite Enquiry about? I was talking with Edwards one night of this pa.s.sage, and of this line in particular, which came into my head as a motto for a Device {146c} we were talking of; and hence all this precious fuss.

But I want to tell you what I forgot in my last letter; what d.i.c.kens himself says of his 'Holyday Romance' in a letter to Fields.

_July_ 25, 1867.

'I hope the Americans will see the joke of Holyday Romance. The writing seems to me so much like Children's, that dull folk (on _any_ side of _any_ water) might perhaps rate it accordingly. I should like to be beside you when you read it, and particularly when you read the Pirate's Story. It made me laugh to that extent that my people here thought I was out of my wits: until I gave it to them to read, when they did likewise.'

One thinks, what a delightful thing to be such an Author! Yet he died of his work, I suppose.

WOODBRIDGE, _Jan_, 5/73.

MY DEAR POLLOCK,

I don't know that I have anything to tell you, except a Story which I have already written to Donne and to Mrs. Kemble, all the way to Rome, out of a French Book. {147} I just now forget the name, and it is gone back to Mudie. About 1783, or a little later, a young _Danseur_ of the French Opera falls in love with a young _Danseuse_ of the same. She, however, takes up with a 'Militaire,' who indeed commands the Guard who are on Service at the Opera. The poor Danseur gets mad with jealousy: attacks the Militaire on his post; who just bids his Soldiers tie the poor Lad to a Column, without further Injury. The Lad, though otherwise unhurt, falls ill of Shame and Jealousy; and dies, after bequeathing his Skeleton to the Doctor attached to the Opera, with an understanding that the said Skeleton is to be kept in the Doctor's Room at the Opera.

Somehow, this Skeleton keeps its place through Revolutions, and Changes of Dynasty: and re-appears on the Scene when some Diablerie is on foot, as in Freischutz; where, says the Book, it still produces a certain effect. I forgot to say that the _Subject_ wished to be in that Doctor's Room in order that he might still be near his Beloved when she danced.

Now, is not this a capital piece of French all over?

In Sophie Gay's 'Salons de Paris' {148} I read that when Madlle Contat (the Predecessor of Mars) was learning under Preville and his Wife for the Stage, she gesticulated too much, as Novices do. So the Previlles confined her Arms like '_une Momie_' she says, and then set her off with a Scene. So long as no great Pa.s.sion, or Business, was needed, she felt pretty comfortable, she says: but when the Dialogue grew hot, then she could not help trying to get her hands free; and _that_, as the Previlles told her, sufficiently told her when Action should begin, and not till then, whether in Grave or Comic. This anecdote (told by Contat herself) has almost an exact counterpart in Mrs. Siddons' practice: who recited even Lear's Curse with her hands and arms close to her side like an Egyptian Figure, and Sir Walter Scott, {149a} who heard her, said nothing could be more terrible. . . .

The Egyptian Mummy reminds me of a clever, dashing, Book we are reading on the subject, by Mr. Zincke, Vicar of a Village {149b} near Ipswich.

Did you know, or do you believe, that the Mummy was wrapt up into its Chrysalis Shape as an Emblem of Future Existence; wrapt up, too, in bandages all inscribed with ritualistic directions for its intermediate stage, which was not one of total Sleep? I supposed that this might be a piece of ingenious Fancy: but Cowell, who has been over to see me, says it is probable.

I have brought my Eyes by careful nursing into sufficient strength to read Moliere, and Montaigne, and two or three more of my old 'Standards'

with all my old Relish. But I must not presume on this; and ought to spare your Eyes as well as my own in respect of this letter.

WOODBRIDGE, _Jan._ /73.

MY DEAR POLLOCK,

I have not been reading so much of my Gossip lately, to send you a good little Bit of, which I think may do you a good turn now and then. Give a look at 'Egypt of the Pharaohs' by Zincke, Vicar of a Parish near Woodbridge; the Book is written in a light, dashing (but not c.o.c.kney pert) way, easily looked over. There is a supposed Soliloquy of an English Labourer (called 'Hodge') as contrasted with the Arab, which is capital.

Do you know Taschereau's Life of Moliere? I have only got that prefixed to a common Edition of 1730. But even this is a delightful serio-comic Drama. I see that H. Heine says the French are all born Actors: which always makes me wonder why they care so for the Theatre. Heine too, I find, speaks of V. Hugo's Worship of Ugliness; of which I find so much in --- and other modern Artists, Literary, Musical, or Graphic. . . .

What, you tell me, Palgrave said about me, I should have thought none but a very partial Friend, like Donne, would ever have thought of saying. But I'll say no more on that head. Only that, as regards the little Dialogue, {150} I think it is a very pretty thing in Form, and with some very pretty parts in it. But when I read it two or three years ago, there was, I am sure, some over-smart writing, and some clumsy wording; insomuch that, really liking the rest, I cut out about a sheet, and subst.i.tuted another, and made a few corrections with a Pen in what remained, though plenty more might be made, little as the Book is. Well; as you like this little Fellow, and I think he is worth liking, up to a Point, I shall send you a Copy of these amended Sheets.

[_March_ 1873.]

MY DEAR POLLOCK,

7.15 p.m. After a stroll in mine own Garden, under the moon--shoes kicked off--Slippers and Dressing Gown on--A Pinch of Snuff--and hey for a Letter--to my only London Correspondent!

And to London have I been since my last Letter: and have seen the Old Masters; and finished them off by such a Symphony as was worthy of the best of them, two Acts of Mozart's 'Cosi.' You wrote me that you had 'a.s.sisted' at that also: the Singing, as you know, was inferior: but the Music itself! Between the Acts a Man sang a song of Verdi's: which was a strange Contrast, to be sure: one of Verdi's heavy Airs, however: for he has a true Genius of his own, though not Mozart's. Well: I did not like even Mozart's two Bravuras for the Ladies: a bad Despina for one: but the rest was fit for--Raffaelle, whose Christ in the Garden I had been looking at a little before. I had thought t.i.tian's Cornaro, and a Man in Black, by a Column, worth nearly all the rest of the Gallery till I saw the Raffaelle: and I couldn't let that go with the others. All Lord Radnor's Pictures were new to me, and nearly all very fine. The Vand.y.k.es delightful: Rubens' Daniel, though all by his own hand, not half so good as a Return from Hunting, which perhaps was not: the Sir Joshuas not first rate, I think, except a small life Figure of a Sir W. Molesworth in Uniform: the Gainsboro's scratchy and superficial, _I_ thought: the Romneys better, _I_ thought. Two fine Cromes: Ditto Turners: and--I will make an End of my Catalogue Raisonnee. . . .

I suppose you never read Beranger's Letters: there are four thick Volumes of these, of which I have as yet only seen the Second and Third: and they are well worth reading. They make one love Beranger: partly because (odd enough) he is so little of a Frenchman in Character, French as his Works are. He hated Paris, Plays, Novels, Journals, Critics, etc., hated being monstered himself as a Great Man, as he proved by flying from it; seems to me to take a just measure of himself and others, and to be moderate in his Political as well as Literary Opinions.

I am hoping for Forster's second volume of d.i.c.kens in Mudie's forthcoming Box. Meanwhile, my Boy (whom I momently expect) reads me Trollope's 'He knew he was right,' the opening of which I think very fine: but which seems to be trailing off into 'longueur' as I fancy Trollope is apt to do. But he 'has a world of his own,' as Tennyson said of Crabbe.

_March_ 30/73.

MY DEAR POLLOCK,

. . . You have never told me how you thought him [Spedding] looking, etc., though you told me that your Boy Maurice went to sit with him. It really reminds me of some happy Athenian lad who was privileged to be with Socrates. Some Plato should put down the Conversation.

I have just finished the second volume of Forster's d.i.c.kens: and still have no reason not to rejoice in the Man d.i.c.kens. And surely Forster does his part well; but I can fancy that some other Correspondent but himself should be drawn in as d.i.c.kens' Life goes on, and thickens with Acquaintances.

We in the Country are having the best of it just now, I think, in these fine Days, though we have nothing to show so gay as Covent Garden Market.

I am thinking of my Boat on the River. . . .

You say I did not date my last letter: I can date this: for it is my Birthday. {153} This it was that made me resolve to send you the Photos.

Hey for my 65th year! I think I shall plunge into a Yellow Scratch Wig to keep my head warm for the Remainder of my Days.

In September 1863 Mr. Ruskin addressed a letter to 'The Translator of the Rubaiyat of Omar,' which he entrusted to Mrs. Burne Jones, who after an interval of nearly ten years handed it to Mr. Charles Eliot Norton, Professor of the History of Fine Art in Harvard University. By him it was transmitted to Carlyle, who sent it to FitzGerald, with the letter which follows, of which the signature alone is in his own handwriting.

CHELSEA, 14 _April_, 1873.

DEAR FITZGERALD,

Mr. Norton, the writer of that note, is a distinguished American (co-editor for a long time of the North American Review), an extremely amiable, intelligent and worthy man; with whom I have had some pleasant walks, dialogues and other communications, of late months;--in the course of which he brought to my knowledge, for the first time, your notable _Omar Khayyam_, and insisted on giving me a copy from the third edition, which I now possess, and duly prize. From him too, by careful cross-questioning, I identified, beyond dispute, the hidden 'Fitzgerald,'

the Translator;--and indeed found that his complete silence, and unique modesty in regard to said meritorious and successful performance, was simply a feature of my own _Edward F._! The translation is excellent; the Book itself a kind of jewel in its way. I do Norton's mission without the least delay, as you perceive. Ruskin's message to you pa.s.ses through my hands sealed. I am ever your affectionate

T. CARLYLE.

_Carlyle to Norton_.

5 CHEYNE ROW, CHELSEA, 18 _April_ 1873.