WOODBRIDGE: _May_ 25/80.

MY DEAR LADY,

Another full Moon reminds [me] of my monthly call upon you by Letter--a call to be regularly returned, I know, according to your Etiquette. As so it must be, I shall be very glad to hear that you are better than when you last wrote, and that some, if not all, of the 'trouble' you spoke of has pa.s.sed away. I have not heard of Donne since that last letter of yours: but a Post Card from Mowbray, who was out holyday-making in Norfolk, tells me that he will write as soon as he has returned to London, which, I think, must be about this very time.

I shall be sorry if you do not get your annual dose of Mountain Air; why can you not? postponing your visit to Hampshire till Autumn--a season when I think those who want company and comfort are most glad of it. But you are determined, I think, to do as you are asked: yes, even the more so if you do not wish it. And, moreover, you know much more of what is fittest to do than I.

A list of Trench's works in the Academy made me think of sending him my Crabbe; which I did: and had a very kind answer from him, together with a Copy of a second Edition of his Calderon Essay and Translation. He had not read any Crabbe since he was a Lad: what he may think of him now I know not: for I bid him simply acknowledge the receipt of my Volume, as I did of his. I think much the best way, unless advice is wanted on either side before publication.

If you write--which you will, unless--nay, whether troubled or not, I think--I should like to hear if you have heard anything of Mr. Lowell in London. I do not write to him for fear of bothering him: but I wish to know that his Wife is recovered. I have been thinking for some days of writing a Note to Carlyle's Niece, enclosing her a Post Card to be returned to me with just a word about him and herself. A Card only: for I do not know how occupied she may be with her own family cares by this time.

I have re-read your Records, in which I do not know that I find any too much, as I had thought there was of some early Letters. Which I believe I told you while the Book was in progress. {186} It is, I sincerely say, a capital Book, and, as I have now read it twice over with pleasure, and I will say, with Admiration--if but for its Sincerity (I think you will not mind my saying that much)--I shall probably read it over again, if I live two years more. I am now embarked on my blessed Sevigne, who, with Crabbe, and John Wesley, seem to be my great hobbies; or such as I do not tire of riding, though my friends may weary of hearing me talk about them.

By the by, to-morrow is, I think, Derby Day; which I remember chiefly for its marking the time when Hampton Court Chestnuts were usually in full flower. You may guess that we in the Country here have been gaping for rain to bring on our Crops, and Flowers; very tantalising have been many promising Clouds, which just dropped a few drops by way of Compliment, and then pa.s.sed on. But last night, when Dombey was being read to me we heard a good splash of rain, and Dombey was shut up that we might hear, and see, and feel it. {187} I never could make out who wrote two lines which I never could forget, wherever I found them:--

'Abroad, the rushing Tempest overwhelms Nature pitch dark, and rides the thundering elms.'

Very like Glorious John Dryden; but many others of his time wrote such lines, as no one does now--not even Messrs. Swinburne and Browning.

And I am always your old Friend, with the new name of

LITTLEGRANGE.

LXXVII.

WOODBRIDGE: _June_ 23, [1880.]

MY DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,

You smile at my 'Lunacies' as you call my writing periods; I take the Moon as a signal not to tax you too often for your inevitable answer. I have now let her pa.s.s her Full: and June is drawing short: and you were to be but for June at Leamington: so--I must have your answer, to tell me about your own health (which was not so good when last you wrote) and that of your Family; and when, and where, you go from Leamington. I shall be sorry if you cannot go to Switzerland.

I have been as far as--Norfolk--on a week's visit (the only visit of the sort I now make) to George Crabbe, my Poet's Grandson, and his two Granddaughters. It was a very pleasant visit indeed; the people all so sensible, and friendly, talking of old days; the Country flat indeed, but green, well-wooded, and well-cultivated: the weather well enough. {188a}

I carried there two volumes of my Sevigne: and even talked of going over to Brittany, only to see her Rochers, as once I went to Edinburgh only to see Abbotsford. But (beside that I probably should not have gone further than talking in any case) a French Guide Book informed me that the present Proprietor of the place will not let it be shown to Strangers who pester him for a view of it, on the strength of those 'papera.s.ses,' as he calls her Letters. {188b} So this is rather a comfort to me. Had I gone, I should also have visited my dear old Frederick Tennyson at Jersey. But now I think we shall never see one another again.

Spedding keeps on writing Shakespeare Notes in answer to sundry Theories broached by others: he takes off copies of his MS. by some process he has learned; and, as I always insist on some Copy of all he writes, he has sent me these, which I read by instalments, as Eyesight permits. I believe I am not a fair Judge between him and his adversaries; first, because I have but little, if any, faculty of critical a.n.a.lysis; and secondly, because I am prejudiced with the notion that old Jem is Shakespeare's Prophet, and must be right. But, whether right or wrong, the way in which he conducts, and pleads, his Case is always Music to me.

So it was even with Bacon, with whom I could not be reconciled: I could not like Dr. Fell: much more so with 'the Divine Williams,' who is a Doctor that I do like.

It has turned so dark here in the last two days that I scarce see to write at my desk by a window which has a hood over it, meant to exclude--the Sun! I have increased my Family by two broods of Ducks, who compete for the possession of a Pond about four feet in diameter: and but an hour ago I saw my old Seneschal escorting home a stray lot of Chickens. My two elder Nieces are with me at present, but I do not think will be long here, if a Sister comes to them from Italy.

Pray let me hear how you are. I am pretty well myself:--though not quite up to the mark of my dear Sevigne, who writes from her Rochers when close on sixty--'Pour moi, je suis d'une si parfaite sante, que je ne comprends point ce que Dieu veut faire de moi.' {190}

But yours always and a Day, LITTLEGRANGE.

LXXVIII.

[WOODBRIDGE, _July_ 24, 1880.]

'Il sera le mois de Juillet tant qu'il plaira a Dieu' writes my friend Sevigne--only a week more of it now, however. I should have written to my friend Mrs. Kemble before this--in defiance of the Moon--had I not been waiting for her Address from Mowbray Donne, to whom I wrote more than a fortnight ago. I hope no ill-health in himself, or his Family, keeps him from answering my Letter, if it ever reached him. But I will wait no longer for his reply: for I want to know concerning you and your health: and so I must trouble Coutts to fill up the Address which you will not instruct me in.

Here (Woodbridge) have I been since last I wrote--some Irish Cousins coming down as soon as English Nieces had left. Only that in the week's interval I went to our neighbouring Aldeburgh on the Sea--where I first saw, and felt, the Sea some sixty-five years ago; a dreary place enough in spite of some c.o.c.kney improvements: my old Crabbe's Borough, as you may remember. I think one goes back to the old haunts as one grows old: as the Chancellor l'Hopital said when he returned to his native Bourdeaux, I think: 'Me voici, Messieurs,' returned to die, as the Hare does, in her ancient 'gite.' {191} I shall soon be going to Lowestoft, where one of my Nieces, who is married to an Italian, and whom I have not seen for many years, is come, with her Boy, to stay with her Sisters.

Whither are you going after you leave Hampshire? You spoke in your last letter of Scarboro': but I still think you will get over to Switzerland.

One of my old Friends--and Flames--Mary Lynn (pretty name) who is of our age, and played with me when we both were Children--at that very same Aldeburgh--is gone over to those Mountains which you are so fond of: having the same pa.s.sion for them as you have. I had asked her to meet me at that Aldeburgh--'Aldbro''--that we might ramble together along that beach where once we played; but she was gone.

If you should come to Lowestoft instead of Scarbro', we, if you please, will ramble together too. But I do not recommend the place--very ugly--on a dirty Dutch Sea--and I do not suppose you would care for any of my People; unless it were my little Niece Annie, who is a delightful Creature.

I see by the Athenaeum that Tom Taylor is dead {192a}--the 'cleverest Man in London' Tennyson called him forty years ago. Professor Goodwin, of the Boston Cambridge, is in England, and made a very kind proposal to give me a look on his travels. But I could not let him come out of his way (as it would have been) for any such a purpose. {192b} He wrote that Mrs. Lowell was in better health: residing at Southampton, which you knew well near fifty years ago, as your Book tells. Mr. Lowell does not write to me now; nor is there reason that he should.

Please to make my remembrances to Mr. Sartoris, who scarcely remembers me, but whose London House was very politely opened to me so many years ago. Anyhow, pray let me hear of yourself: and believe me always yours sincerely

THE LAIRD OF LITTLEGRANGE.

LXXIX.

WOODBRIDGE: _Friday_, [30 _July_, 1880.]

MY DEAR LADY,

I send you Mowbray's reply to my letter of nearly three weeks ago. No good news of his Father--still less of our Army (news to me told to-day) altogether a sorry budget to greet you on your return to London. But the public news you knew already, I doubt not: and I thought as well to tell you of our Donne at once.

I suppose one should hardly talk of anything except this Indian Calamity: {193} but I am selfish enough to ignore, as much as I can, such Evils as I cannot help.

I think that Tennyson in calling Tom Taylor the 'cleverest man,' etc., meant pretty much as you do. I believe he said it in reply to something I may have said that was less laudatory. At one time Tennyson almost lived with him and the Wigans whom I did not know. Taylor always seemed to me as 'clever' as any one: was always very civil to me: but one of those toward whom I felt no attraction. He was too clever, I think. As to Art, he knew nothing of it then, nor (as he admits) up to 1852 or thereabout, when he published his very good Memoir of Haydon. I think he was too 'clever' for Art also.

Why will you write of 'If you _bid_ me come to Lowestoft in October,'

etc., which, you must know, is just what I should not ask you to do: knowing that, after what you say, you would come, if asked, were--(a Bull begins here)--were it ever so unlikely for you. I am going thither next week, to hear much (I dare say) of a Brother in Ireland who may be called to India; and am

Ever yours sincerely, LITTLEGRANGE.

Why won't you write to me from Switzerland to say where a Letter may find you? If not, the Harvest Moon will pa.s.s!

Lx.x.x.