Pray let me know how you have fared thus far through Winter--which began so early, and promises to continue so long. Even in Jersey Fred.

Tennyson writes me it is all Snow and N.E. wind: and he says the North of Italy is blocked up with Snow. You may imagine that we are no better off in the East of England. How is it in London, and with yourself in Queen Anne's Mansions? I fancy that you walk up and down that ante-room of yours for a regular time, as I force myself to do on a Landing-place in this house when I cannot get out upon what I call my Quarter-deck: a walk along a hedge by the upper part of a field which 'dominates' (as the phrase now goes) over my House and Garden. But I have for the last Fortnight had Lumbago, which makes it much easier to sit down than to get up again. However, the time goes, and I am surprised to find Sunday come round again. (Here is my funny little Reader come--to give me 'All the Year Round' and Sam Slick.)

_Friday_.

I suppose I should have finished this Letter in the way it begins, but by this noon's post comes a note from my Brother-in-law, De Soyres, telling me that his wife Andalusia died yesterday. {168} She had somewhile suffered with a weak Heart, and this sudden and extreme cold paralysed what vitality it had. But yesterday I had posted her a Letter re-enclosing two Photographs of her Grand Children whom she was very fond and proud of; and that Letter is too late, you see. Now, none but Jane Wilkinson and E. F.G. remain of the many more that you remember, and always looked on with kindly regard. This news cuts my Letter shorter than it would have been; nevertheless pray let me know how you yourself are: and believe me yours

Ever and truly, E. F.G.

I have had no thought of going to London yet: but I shall never go in future without paying a Visit to you, if you like it. I know not how Mrs. Edwards' Exhibition of her Husband's Pictures succeeds: I begged her to leave such a scheme alone; I cannot admire his Pictures now he is gone more than I did when he was here; but I hope that others will prove me to be a bad adviser.

LXVIII.

WOODBRIDGE: _Jan._ 8/80.

MY DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,

I think sufficient time has elapsed since my last letter to justify my writing you another, which, you know, means calling on you to reply. When last you wrote, you were all in Flannel; pray let me hear you now are.

Certainly, we are better off in weather than a month ago: but I fancy these Fogs must have been dismal enough in London. A Letter which I have this morning from a Niece in Florence tells me they have had 'London Fog'

(she says) for a Fortnight there. She says, that my sister Jane (your old Friend) is fairly well in health, but very low in Spirits after that other Sister's Death. I will [not] say of myself that I have weathered away what Rheumatism and Lumbago I had; nearly so, however; and tramp about my Garden and Hedgerow as usual. And so I clear off Family scores on my side. Pray let me know, when you tell of yourself, how Mrs. Leigh and those on the other side of the Atlantic fare.

Poor Mrs. Edwards, I doubt, is disappointed with her Husband's Gallery: not because of its only just repaying its expenses, except in so far as that implies that but few have been to see it. She says she feels as if she had nothing to live for, now that 'her poor Old Dear' is gone. One fine day she went down to Woking where he lies, and--she did not wish to come back. It was all solitary, and the gra.s.s beginning to spring, and a Blackbird or two singing. She ought, I think, to have left London, as her Doctor told her, for a total change of Scene; but she may know best, being a very clever, as well as devoted little Woman.

Well--you saw 'The Falcon'? {169} Athenaeum and Academy reported of it much as I expected. One of them said the Story had been dramatised before: I wonder why. What reads lightly and gracefully in Boccaccio's Prose, would surely not do well when drawn out into dramatic Detail: two People reconciled to Love over a roasted Hawk; about as unsavoury a Bird to eat as an Owl, I believe. No doubt there was a Chicken subst.i.tute at St. James', but one had to believe it to be Hawk; and, anyhow, I have always heard that it is very difficult to eat, and talk, on the Stage--though people seem to manage it easily enough in real Life.

By way of a Christmas Card I sent Carlyle's Niece a Postage one, directed to myself, on the back of which she might [write] a few words as to how he and herself had weathered the late Cold. She replied that he was well: had not relinquished his daily Drives: and was (when she wrote) reading Shakespeare and Boswell's Hebrides. The mention of him reminds me of your saying--or writing--that you felt shy of 'intruding' yourself upon him by a Visit. My dear Mrs. Kemble, this is certainly a mistake (wilful?) of yours; he may have too many ordinary Visitors; but I am quite sure that he would be gratified at your taking the trouble to go and see him. Pray try, weather and flannel permitting.

I find some good Stuff in Bagehot's Essays, in spite of his name, which is simply 'Bagot,' as men call it. Also, I find Hayward's Select Essays so agreeable that I suppose they are very superficial.

At night comes my quaint little Reader with Chambers' Journal, and All [the] Year Round--the latter with one of Trollope's Stories {171}--always delightful to me, and (I am told) very superficial indeed, as compared to George Eliot, whom I cannot relish at all.

Thus much has come easily to my pen this day, and run on, you see, to the end of a second Sheet. So I will 'shut up,' as young Ladies now say; but am always and sincerely yours

E. F.G.

LXIX.

WOODBRIDGE: _Febr_: 3/80.

MY DEAR LADY,

I do not think it is a full month since I last taxed you for some account of yourself: but we have had hard weather, you know, ever since: your days have been very dark in London, I am told, and as we have all been wheezing under them, down here, I want to know how you stand it all. I only hope my MS. is not very bad; for I am writing by Candle, before my Reader comes. He eat such a Quant.i.ty of Cheese and Cake between the Acts that he could scarce even see to read at all after; so I had to remind him that, though he was not quite sixteen, he had much exceeded the years of a Pig. Since which we get on better. I did not at all like to have my Dombey spoiled; especially Captain Cuttle, G.o.d bless him, and his Creator, now lying in Westminster Abbey. The intended Pathos is, as usual, missed: but just turn to little Dombey's Funeral, where the Acrobat in the Street suspends his performance till the Funeral has pa.s.sed, and his Wife wonders if the little Acrobat in her Arms will so far outlive the little Boy in the Hea.r.s.e as to wear a Ribbon through his hair, following his Father's Calling. It is in such Side-touches, you know, that d.i.c.kens is inspired to Create like a little G.o.d Almighty. I have read half his lately published letters, which, I think, add little to Forster's Account, unless in the way of showing what a good Fellow d.i.c.kens was. Surely it does not seem that his Family were not fond of him, as you supposed?

I have been to Lowestoft for a week to see my capital Nephew, Edmund Kerrich, before he goes to join his Regiment in Ireland. I wish you could see him make his little (six years old) put him through his Drill.

That is worthy of d.i.c.kens: and I am always yours sincerely--and I do hope not just now very illegibly--

LITTLEGRANGE.

LXX.

WOODBRIDGE: _Febr_: 12/80.

MY DEAR MRS. KEMBLE:

A week ago I had a somewhat poor account of Donne from Edith D.--that he had less than his usually little Appet.i.te, and could not sleep without Chloral. This Account I at first thought of sending to you: but then I thought you would soon be back in London to hear [of] him yourself; so I sent it to his great friend Merivale, who, I thought, must have less means of hearing about him at Ely. I enclose you this Dean's letter: which you will find worth the trouble of decyphering, as all this Dean's are. And you will see there is a word for you which you will have to interpret for me. What is the promised work he is looking for so eagerly? {173} Your Records he 'devoured' a Year ago, as a letter of his then told me; and I suppose that his other word about the number of your Father's house refers to something in those Records. I am not surprised at such an Historian reading your Records: but I was surprised to find him reading Charles Mathews' Memoir, as you will see he has been doing. I told him I had been reading it: but then that is all in my line. Have you? No, I think: nor I, by the way, quite half, and that in Vol.

ii.--where is really a remarkable account of his getting into Managerial Debt, and its very grave consequences.

I hear that Mr. Lowell is coming Amba.s.sador to England, after a very terrible trial in nursing (as he did) his Wife: who is only very slowly recovering Mind as well as Body. I believe I wrote all this to you before, as also that I am ever yours

E. F.G.

I cannot remember Pangloss in Candide: only a Pedant Optimist, I think, which became the _soubriquet_ of Maupertuis' _Akakia_ Optimism; but I have not the book, and do not want to have it.

LXXI.

WOODBRIDGE, _March_ 1, [1880.]

MY DEAR LADY,

I am something like my good old friend Bernard Barton, who would begin--and end--a letter to some one who had just gone away from his house. I should not mind that, only you will persist in answering what calls for no answer. But the enclosed came here To-day, and as I might mislay it if I waited for my average time of writing to you, I enclose it to you now. It shows, at any rate, that I do not neglect your Queries; nor does he to whom I refer what I cannot answer myself. {174}

This Wright edits certain Shakespeare Plays for Macmillan: very well, I fancy, so far as Notes go; simply explaining what needs explanation for young Readers, and eschewing all _aesthetic_ (now, don't say you don't know what 'aesthetic' means, etc.) aesthetic (detestable word) observation. With this the Swinburnes, Furnivalls, Athenaeums, etc., find fault: and a pretty hand they make of it when they try that tack. It is safest surely to give people all the _Data_ you can for forming a Judgment, and then leave them to form it by themselves.

You see that I enclose you the fine lines {175} which I believe I repeated to you, and which I wish you to paste on the last page of my Crabbe, so as to be a pendant to Richard's last look at the Children and their play. I know not how I came to leave it out when first printing: for certainly the two pa.s.sages had for many years run together in my Memory.

Adieu, Madame: non pas pour toujours, j'espere; pas meme pour long temps.

Cependant, ne vous genez pas, je vous prie, en repondant a une lettre qui ne vaut--qui ne reclame pas meme--aucune reponse: tandis que vous me croyez votre tres devoue

EDOUARD DE PEt.i.tGRANGE.

LXXII.