However that may be, the Curtain drew up for the Sleep-walking Scene; Doctor and Nurse were there, while a long mysterious Symphony went on--till a Voice from the Gallery called out to the Leader of the Band, Levey--'Whisht! Lavy, my dear--tell us now--is it a Boy or a Girl?' This Story is in a Book which I gave 2_s._ for at a Railway Stall; called Recollections of an Impresario, or some such name; {82a} a Book you would not have deigned to read, and so would have missed what I have read and remembered and written out for you.

It will form the main part of my Letter: and surely you will not expect anything better from me.

Your hot Colorado Summer is over; and you are now coming to the season which you--and others beside you--think so peculiarly beautiful in America. We have no such Colours to show here, you know: none of that Violet which I think you have told me of as mixing with the Gold in the Foliage. Now it is that I hear that Spirit that Tennyson once told of talking to himself among the faded flowers in the Garden-plots. I think he has dropt that little Poem {82b} out of his acknowledged works; there was indeed nothing in it, I think, but that one Image: and that sticks by me as _Queen Mary_ does not.

I have just been telling some Man enquiring in Notes and Queries where he may find the beautiful foolish old Pastoral beginning--

'My Sheep I neglected, I broke my Sheep-hook, &c.' {82c}

which, if you don't know it, I will write out for you, ready as it offers itself to my Memory. Mrs. Frere of Cambridge used to sing it as she could sing the Cla.s.sical Ballad--to a fairly expressive tune: but there is a movement (Trio, I think) in one of dear old Haydn's Symphonies almost made for it. Who else but Haydn for the Pastoral! Do you remember his blessed Chorus of 'Come, gentle Spring,' that open the Seasons? Oh, it is something to remember the old Ladies who sang that Chorus at the old Ancient Concerts rising with Music in hand to sing that lovely piece under old Greatorex's Direction. I have never heard Haydn and Handel so well as in those old Rooms with those old Performers, who still retained the Tradition of those old Masters. Now it is getting Midnight; but so mild--this October 4--that I am going to smoke one Pipe outdoors--with a little Brandy and water to keep the Dews off. I told you I had not been well all the Summer; I say I begin to 'smell the Ground,' {83} which you will think all Fancy. But I remain while above Ground

Yours sincerely E. F.G.

x.x.xIII.

[_October_, 1875.]

DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,

My last Letter asked you how and where I could get at your Papers; this is to say, I have got them, thanks to the perseverance of our Woodbridge Bookseller, who would not be put off by his London Agent, and has finally procured me the three Numbers {84} which contain your 'Gossip.' Now believe me; I am delighted with it; and only wish it might run on as long as I live: which perhaps it may. Of course somewhat of my Interest results from the Times, Persons, and Places you write of; almost all more or less familiar to me; but I am quite sure that very few could have brought all before me as you have done--with what the Painters call, so free, full, and flowing a touch. I suppose this 'Gossip' is the Memoir you told me you were about; three or four years ago, I think: or perhaps Selections from it; though I hardly see how your Recollections could be fuller. No doubt your Papers will all be collected into a Book; perhaps it would have been financially better for you to have so published it now. But, on the other hand, you will have the advantage of writing with more freedom and ease in the Magazine, knowing that you can alter, contract, or amplify, in any future Re-publication. It gives me such pleasure to like, and honestly say I like, this work--and--I know I'm right in such matters, though I can't always give the reason why I like, or don't like, Dr. Fell: as much wiser People can--who reason themselves quite wrong.

I suppose you were at School in the Rue d'Angouleme near about the time (you don't give dates enough, I think--there's one fault for you!)--about the time when we lived there: I suppose you were somewhat later, however: for a.s.suredly my Mother and yours would have been together often--Oh, but your Mother was not there, only you--at School. We were there in 1817- 18--signalised by The Great Murder--that of Fualdes--one of the most interesting events in all History to me, I am sorry to say. For in that point I do not say I am right. But that Rue d'Angouleme--do you not remember the house cornering on the Champs Elysees with some ornaments in stone of Flowers and Garlands--belonging to a Lord Courtenay, I believe?

And do you remember a Pepiniere over the way; and, over that, seeing that Temple in the Beaujon Gardens with the Parisians descending and ascending in Cars? And (I think) at the end of the street, the Church of St.

Philippe du Roule? Perhaps I shall see in your next Number that you do remember all these things.

Well: I was pleased with some other Papers in your Magazine: as those on V. Hugo, {85a} and Tennyson's Queen Mary: {85b} I doubt not that Criticism on English Writers is likely to be more impartial over the Atlantic, and not bia.s.sed by Clubs, Coteries, etc. I always say that we in the Country are safer Judges than those of even better Wits in London: not being prejudiced so much, whether by personal acquaintance, or party, or Fashion. I see that Professor Wilson said much the same thing to Willis forty years ago.

I have written to Donne to tell him of your Papers, and that I will send him my Copies if he cannot get them. Mowbray wrote me word that his Father, who has bought the house in Weymouth Street, was now about returning to it, after some Alterations made. Mowbray talks of paying me a little Visit here--he and his Wife--at the End of this month:--when what Good Looks we have will all be gone.

Farewell for the present; I count on your Gossip: and believe me (what it serves to make me feel more vividly)

Your sincere old Friend E. F.G.

x.x.xIV.

[Nov. 1875.]

DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,

The Mowbray Donnes have been staying some days {86} with me--very pleasantly. Of course I got them to tell me of the fine things in London: among the rest, the Artists whose Photos they sent me, and I here enclose. The Lady, they tell me--(Spedding's present Idol)--is better than her Portrait--which would not have so enamoured Ba.s.sanio. Irving's, they say, is flattered. But 'tis a handsome face, surely; and one that should do for Hamlet--if it were not for that large Ear--do you notice? I was tempted to send it to you, because it reminds me of some of your Family: your Father, most of all, as Harlowe has painted him in that famous Picture of the Trial Scene. {87a} It is odd to me that the fine Engraving from that Picture--once so frequent--is scarce seen now: it has seemed strange to me to meet People who never even heard of it.

I don't know why you have a little Grudge against Mrs. Siddons--perhaps you will say you have not--all my fancy. I think it was noticed at Cambridge that your Brother John scarce went to visit her when she was staying with that Mrs. Frere, whom you don't remember with pleasure. She did talk much and loud: but she had a fine Woman's heart underneath, and she could sing a cla.s.sical Song: as also some of Handel, whom she had studied with Bartleman. But she never could have sung the Ballad with the fulness which you describe in Mrs. Arkwright. {87b}

Which, together with your mention of your American isolation, reminds me of some Verses of Hood, with which I will break your Heart a little. They are not so very good, neither: but I, in England as I am, and like to be, cannot forget them.

'The Swallow with Summer Shall wing o'er the Seas; The Wind that I sigh to Shall sing in your Trees;

The Ship that it hastens Your Ports will contain-- But for me--I shall never See England again.' {88a}

It always runs in my head to a little German Air, common enough in our younger days--which I will make a note of, and you will, I dare say, remember at once.

I doubt that what I have written is almost as illegible as that famous one of yours: in which however only [paper] was in fault: {88b} and now I shall scarce mend the matter by taking a steel pen instead of that old quill, which certainly did fight upon its Stumps.

Well now--Professor Ma.s.son of Edinburgh has asked me to join him and seventy-nine others in celebrating Carlyle's eightieth Birthday on December 4--with the Presentation of a Gold Medal with Carlyle's own Effigy upon it, and a congratulatory Address. I should have thought such a Measure would be ridiculous to Carlyle; but I suppose Ma.s.son must have ascertained his Pleasure from some intimate Friend of C.'s: otherwise he would not have known of my Existence for one. However Spedding and Pollock tell me that, after some hesitation like my own, they judged best to consent. Our Names are even to be attached somehow to a--White Silk, or Satin, Scroll! Surely Carlyle cannot be aware of that? I hope devoutly that my Name come too late for its Satin Apotheosis; but, if it do not, I shall apologise to Carlyle for joining such Mummery. I only followed the Example of my Betters.

Now I must shut up, for Photos and a Line of Music is to come in. I was so comforted to find that your Mother had some hand in Dr. Kitchener's Cookery Book, {89} which has always been Guide, Philosopher, and Friend in such matters. I can't help liking a Cookery Book.

Ever yours E. F.G.

No: I never turned my tragic hand on Fualdes; but I remember well being taken in 1818 to the Ambigu Comique to see the 'Chateau de Paluzzi,'

which was said to be founded on that great Murder. I still distinctly remember a Closet, from which came some guilty Personage. It is not only the Murder itself that impressed me, but the Scene it was enacted in; the ancient half-Spanish City of Rodez, with its River Aveyron, its lonely Boulevards, its great Cathedral, under which the Deed was done in the 'Rue des Hebdomadiers.' I suppose you don't see, or read, our present Whitechapel Murder--a nasty thing, not at all to my liking. The Name of the Murderer--as no one doubts he is, whatever the Lawyers may disprove--is the same as that famous Man of Taste who wrote on the Fine Arts in the London Magazine under the name of Ja.n.u.s Weatherc.o.c.k, {90a} and poisoned Wife, Wife's Mother and Sister after insuring their Lives.

De Quincey (who was one of the Magazine) has one of his Essays about this wretch.

Here is another half-sheet filled, after all: I am afraid rather troublesome to read. In three or four days we shall have another Atlantic, and I am ever yours

E. F.G.

x.x.xV.

WOODBRIDGE: _Decr._ 29/75.

DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,

You will say I am a very good Creature indeed, for beginning to answer your Letter the very day it reaches me. But so it happens that this same day also comes a Letter from Laurence the Painter, who tells me something of poor Minnie's Death, {90b} which answers to the Query in your Letter.

Laurence sends me Mrs. Brookfield's Note to him: from which I quote to you--no!--I will make bold to send you her Letter itself! Laurence says he is generally averse to showing others a Letter meant for himself (the little Gentleman that he is!), but he ventures in this case, knowing me to be an old friend of the Family. And so I venture to post it over the Atlantic to you who take a sincere Interest in them also. I wonder if I am doing wrong?

In the midst of all this mourning comes out a new Volume of Thackeray's Drawings--or Sketches--as I foresaw it would be, too much Caricature, not so good as much [of] his old Punch; and with none of the better things I wanted them to put in--for his sake, as well as the Community's. I do not wonder at the Publisher's obstinacy, but I wonder that Annie T. did not direct otherwise. I am convinced I can hear Thackeray saying, when such a Book as this was proposed to him--'Oh, come--there has been enough of all this'--and crumpling up the Proof in that little hand of his. For a curiously little hand he had, uncharacteristic of the grasp of his mind: I used to consider it half inherited from the Hindoo people among whom he was born. {91}

I dare say I told you of the Proposal to congratulate Carlyle on his eightieth Birthday; and probably some Newspaper has told you of the Address, and the Medal, and the White Satin Roll to which our eighty names were to be attached. I thought the whole Concern, Medal, Address, and Satin Roll, a very c.o.c.kney thing; and devoutly hoped my own ill.u.s.trious name would arrive too late. I could not believe that Carlyle would like the Thing: but it appears by his published Answer that he did.

He would not, ten years ago, I think. Now--talking of ill.u.s.trious names, etc., oh, my dear Mrs. Kemble, your sincere old Regard for my Family and myself has made you say more--of one of us, at least--than the World will care to be told: even if your old Regard had not magnified our lawful Deserts. But indeed it has done so: in Quality, as well as in Quant.i.ty.

I know I am not either squeamishly, or hypocritically, saying all this: I am sure I know myself better than you do, and take a juster view of my pretensions. I think you Kembles are almost Donnes in your determined regard, and (one may say) Devotion to old Friends, etc. A rare--a n.o.ble--Failing! Oh, dear!--Well, I shall not say any more: you will know that I do not the less thank you for publickly speaking of [me] as I never was spoken of before--only _too_ well. Indeed, this is so; and when you come to make a Book of your Papers, I shall make you cut out something. Don't be angry with me now--no, I know you will not. {92}

The Day after To-morrow I shall have your new Number; which is a Consolation (if needed) for the Month's going. And I am ever yours

E. F.G.

Oh, I must add--The Printing is no doubt the more legible; but I get on very well with your MS. when not crossed. {94}