IVY HOUSE, LOWESTOFT: _Septr._ 20, {194} [1880.]

MY DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,

Here is a second Full Moon since last I wrote--(Harvest Moon, I think). I knew not where to direct to you before, and, as you remain determined not to apprize me yourself, so I have refused to send through Coutts. You do not lose much.

Here have been for nearly two months Five English Nieces cl.u.s.tered round a Sister who married an Italian, and has not been in England these dozen years. She has brought her Boy of six, who seems to us wonderfully clever as compared to English Children of his Age, but who, she tells us, is counted rather behind his Fellows in Italy. Our meeting has been what is called a 'Success'--which will not be repeated, I think. She will go back to her adopted Country in about a month, I suppose. Do you know of any one likely to be going that way about that time?

Some days ago, when I was sitting on the Pier, rather sad at the Departure [of] a little Niece--an abridgment of all that is pleasant--and good--in Woman--Charles Merivale accosted me--he and his good, unaffected, sensible, wife, and Daughter to match. He was looking well, and we have since had a daily stroll together. We talked of you, for he said (among the first things he did say) that he had been reading your Records again: so I need not tell you his opinion of them. He saw your Uncle in Cato when he was about four years old; and believes that he (J.

P. K.) had a bit of red waistcoat looking out of his toga, by way of Blood. I tell him he should call on you and clear up that, and talk on many other points.

Mowbray Donne wrote me from Wales a month ago that his Father was going on pretty well. I asked for further from Mowbray when he should have returned from Wales: but he has not yet written. Merivale, who is one of Donne's greatest Friends, has not heard of him more lately than I.

Now, my dear Mrs. Kemble, I want to hear of you from yourself: and I have told you why it is that I have not asked you before. I fancy that you will not be back in England when this Letter reaches Westminster: but I fancy that it will not be long before you find it waiting on your table for you.

And now I am going to look for the Dean, who, I hope, has been at Church this morning: and though I have not done that, I am not the less sincerely yours

E. F.G.

Lx.x.xI.

WOODBRIDGE: _Octr._ 20, 1880.

MY DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,

I was to have gone to London on Monday with my Italian Niece on her way homeward. But she feared saying 'Farewell' and desired me to let her set off alone, to avoid doing so.

Thus I delay my visit to you till November--perhaps toward the middle of it: when I hope to find you, with your blue and crimson Cushions {197} in Queen Anne's Mansions, as a year ago. Mrs. Edwards is always in town: not at all forgetful of her husband; and there will be our Donne also of whom I hear nothing, and so conclude there is nothing to be told, and with him my Visits will be summed up.

Now, lose not a Day in providing yourself with Charles Tennyson Turner's Sonnets, published by Kegan Paul. There is a Book for you to keep on your table, at your elbow. Very many of the Sonnets I do not care for: mostly because of the Subject: but there is pretty sure to be some beautiful line or expression in all; and all pure, tender, n.o.ble, and--original. Old Spedding supplies a beautiful Prose Overture to this delightful Volume: never was Critic more one with his Subject--or, Object, is it? Frederick Tennyson, my old friend, ought to have done something to live along with his Brothers: all who _will_ live, I believe, of their Generation: and he perhaps would, if he could, have confined himself to limits not quite so narrow as the Sonnet. But he is a Poet, and cannot be harnessed.

I have still a few flowers surviving in my Garden; and I certainly never remember the foliage of trees so little changed in October's third week.

A little flight of Snow however: whose first flight used to quicken my old Crabbe's fancy: Sir Eustace Grey written under such circ.u.mstances.

{198}

And I am always yours LITTLEGRANGE

(not 'Markethill' as you persist in addressing me.)

Lx.x.xII.

WOODBRIDGE, _Novr._ 17/80.

MY DEAR LADY,

Here is the Moon very near her Full: so I send you a Letter. I have it in my head you are not in London: and may not be when I go up there for a few days next week--for this reason I think so: viz., that you have not acknowledged a Copy of Charles Tennyson's Sonnets, which I desired Kegan Paul to send you, as from me--with my ill.u.s.trious Initials on the Fly Leaf: and, he or one of his men, wrote that so it should be, or had been done. It may nevertheless not have been: or, if in part done, the ill.u.s.trious Initials forgotten. But I rather think the Book was sent: and that you would have guessed at the Sender, Initials or not. And as I know you are even over-scrupulous in acknowledging any such things, I gather that the Book came when you had left London--for Leamington, very likely: and that there you are now. The Book, and your Acknowledgment of it, will very well wait: but I wish to hear about yourself--as also about yours--if you should be among them. I talk of 'next week,' because one of my few Visitors, Archdeacon Groome, is coming the week after that, I believe, for a day or two to my house: and, as he has not been here for two years, I do not wish to be out of the way.

A Letter about a fortnight ago from Mowbray Donne told me that his Father was fairly well: and a Post Card from Mowbray two days ago informed [me]

that Valentia was to be in London this present week. But I have wanted to be here at home all this time: I would rather see Donne when he is alone: and I would rather go to London when there is more likelihood of seeing you there than now seems to me. Of course you will not in the slightest way hasten your return to London (if now away from it) for my poor little Visits: but pray let me hear from you, and believe me always the same

E. F.G.

Lx.x.xIII.

WOODBRIDGE: _Decr._ 6, [1880.]

MY DEAR LADY,

I was surprised to see a Letter in your MS. which could not be in answer to any of mine. But the Photos account for it. Thank you: I keep that which I like best, and herewith return the other.

Why will you take into your head that I could suppose you wanting in Hospitality, or any other sort of Generosity! That, at least, is not a Kemble failing. Why, I believe you would give me--and a dozen others--1000 pounds if you fancied one wanted it--even without being asked. The Law of Mede and Persian is that you _will_ take up--a perverse notion--now and then. There! It's out.

As to the Tea--'pure and simple'--with Bread and b.u.t.ter--it is the only meal I do care to join in:--and this is why I did not see Mowbray Donne, who has not his Dinner till an hour and a half after my last meal is done.

I should very gladly have 'crushed a Cup of Tea' with you that last Evening, coming prepared so to do. But you had Friends coming; and so (as Mrs. Edwards was in the same plight) I went to the Pit of my dear old Haymarket Opera: {200} remembering the very corner of the Stage where Pasta stood when Jason's People came to tell her of his new Marriage; and (with one hand in her Girdle--a movement (Mrs. Frere said) borrowed from Gra.s.sini) she interrupted them with her "Cessate--intesi!"--also when Rubini, feathered hat in hand, began that "Ah te, oh Cara"--and Taglioni hovered over the Stage. There was the old Omnibus Box too where D'Orsay flourished in ample white Waistcoat and Wristbands: and Lady Blessington's: and Lady Jersey's on the Pit tier: and my own Mother's, among the lesser Stars, on the third. In place of all which I dimly saw a small Company of less distinction in all respects; and heard an Opera (_Carmen_) on the Wagner model: very beautiful Accompaniments to no Melody: and all very badly sung except by Trebelli, who, excellent. I ran out in the middle to the dear Little Haymarket opposite--where Vestris and Liston once were: and found the Theatre itself spoilt by being cut up into compartments which marred the beautiful Horse-shoe shape, once set off by the flowing pattern of Gold which used to run round the house.

Enough of these Old Man's fancies--But--Right for all that!

I would not send you Spedding's fine Article {201a} till you had returned from your Visit, and also had received Mrs. Leigh at Queen Anne's. You can send it back to me quite at your leisure, without thinking it necessary to write about it.

It is so mild here that the Thrush sings a little, and my Anemones seem preparing to put forth a blossom as well as a leaf. Yesterday I was sitting on a stile by our River side.

You will doubtless see Tennyson's new Volume, {201b} which is to my thinking far preferable to his later things, though far inferior to those of near forty years ago: and so, I think, scarce wanted. There is a bit of Translation from an old War Song which shows what a Poet can do when he condescends to such work: and I have always said that 'tis for the old Poets to do some such service for their Predecessors. I hope this long letter is tolerably legible: and I am in very truth

Sincerely yours THE LAIRD OF LITTLEGRANGE.

Lx.x.xIV.

WOODBRIDGE, _Christmas Day_, [1880.]

MY DEAR LADY: