"Ever your faithful friend,

"G.H. LEWES."

She writes:--

"DEAR FRIENDS,--Writing letters or asking for them is not always the way to make one's memory agreeable, but you are not among those people who shudder at letters, since you _did_ say you would like to hear from us, and let us hear from you occasionally. I have no good news to tell about myself; but to have my husband back again and enjoying his work is quite enough happiness to fall to one woman's share in this world, where the stock of happiness is so moderate and the claimants so many. He is deep in Aristotle's _Natural Science_ as the first step in a history of science, which he has for a long while been hoping that he should be able to write. So you will understand his demand for brown folios. Indeed, he is beginning to have a slight contempt for authors sufficiently known to the vulgar to be inserted in biographical dictionaries. Hermolaus Barbaras is one of those distinguished by omission in some chief works of that kind; and we learned to our surprise from a don at Cambridge that _he_ had never heard the name. Let us hope there is an Olympus for forgotten authors.

"Our trial of the water cure at Malvern made us think with all the more emphasis of the possible effect on a too delicate and fragile friend at Florence." [My wife.] "It really helped to mend George. And as I hope the Florentine hydropathist may not be a quack as Dr.---- at Malvern certainly is, I shall be disappointed if there is no good effect to be traced to 'judicious packing and sitz baths' that you can tell us of. Did Beatrice enjoy her month's dissipation at Leghorn? And is the voice prospering? Don't let her quite forget us. We make rather a feeble attempt at musical Sat.u.r.day evenings, having a new grand piano, which stimulates musical desires. But we want a good violin and violoncello--difficult to be found among amateurs. Having no sunshine one needs music all the more. It would be difficult for you to imagine very truthfully what sort of atmosphere we have been living in here in London for the last month--warm, heavy, dingy grey. I have seen some sunshine once--in a dream. Do tell us all you can about yourselves. It seems only the other day that we were shaking you by the hand; and all details will be lit up as if by your very voice and looks. Say a kind word for me sometimes to the bright-eyed lady by whose side I sat in your balcony the evening of the National Fete. At the moment I cannot recall her name. We are going now to the British Museum to read--a fearful way of getting knowledge. If I had Aladdin's lamp I should certainly use it to get books served up to me at a moment's notice.

It may be better to search for truth than to have it at hand without seeking, but with books I should take the other alternative.

"Ever yours,

"M.E. LEWES."

The lady in the balcony spoken of in the above letter was Signora Mignaty, the niece of Sir Frederick Adam, whom I had known long years previously in Rome, and who had married Signor Mignaty, a Greek artist, and was (and is) living in Florence. She was, in fact, the niece of the Greek lady Sir Frederick married. I remember her aunt, a very beautiful woman. The niece, Signorina Margherita Albani as she was when I first knew her at eighteen years old in Rome, inherited so much of the beauty of her race that the Roman artists were constantly imploring her to sit for them. She has made herself known in the literary world by several works, especially by a recent book on Correggio, his life and works, published in French.

The next letter from Lewes, written from Blandford Square on the 2nd June, without date of year, but probably 1863, is of more interest to myself than to the public. But I may perhaps be permitted to indulge my vanity by publishing it as a testimony that his previous praise of what I had written was genuine, and not merely the laudatory compliments of a correspondent.

"MY DEAR TROLLOPE,--Enclosed is the proof you were good enough to say you would correct. When am I to return the compliment?

"I have finished _Marietta_. Its picture of Italian life is extremely vivid and interesting, but it is a long way behind _La Beata_ in interest of story. I have just finished one volume of Anthony's _America_, and am immensely pleased with it--so much so that I hope to do something towards counteracting the nasty notice in the _Sat.u.r.day_.

"Ever yours faithfully,

"G.H. LEWES."

The next letter is from Lewes, dated "The Priory, North Bank, Regent's Park, 20th March, 1864."--

"MY DEAR TROLLOPE,--My eldest boy, who spends his honeymoon in Florence (is not that sugaring jam tart?), brings you this greeting from your silent but affectionate friends. Tell him all particulars about yourselves, and he will transmit them in his letters to us.

First and foremost about the health of your wife, and how this bitter winter has treated her. Next about Bice, and then about yourself.

"We rejoice in the prospect of your _History of Florence_, and I am casting about, hoping to find somebody to review it worthily for the _Fortnightly Review_. By the way, would not you or your wife help me there also! Propose your subjects!

"I hope you will like our daughter. She is a n.o.ble creature; and Charles is a lucky dog (his father's luck) to get such a wife.

"We have been and are in a poor state of health, but manage to scramble on. Charles will tell you all there is to tell. With our love to your dear wife and Bice,

"Believe me, ever faithfully yours,

"G.H. LEWES."

Shortly after receiving this my wife had a letter from George Eliot, from Venice, dated 15th May, 1864. She writes from the "Hotel de Ville."

"MY DEAR MRS. TROLLOPE,--I wonder whether you are likely to be at Lake Como next month, or at any other place that we could take on our way to the Alps. It would make the prospect of our journey homeward much pleasanter if we could count on seeing you for a few hours; and I will not believe that you will think me troublesome if I send the question to you. I am rather discontented with destiny that she has not let us see anything of you for nearly three years. And I hope you too will not be sorry to take me by the hand again.

"My ground for supposing it not unlikely that you will be at one of the lakes, is the report I heard from Mr. Pigott, that such a plan was hovering in your mind. My chief fear is that our return, which is not likely at the latest to be later than the middle of June, may be too early for us to find you. We reached Venice three days ago, after a short stay at Milan, and have the delight of finding everything more beautiful than it was to us four years ago. That is a satisfactory experience to us, who are getting old, and are afraid of the traditional loss of glory on the gra.s.s and all else, with which melancholy poets threaten us.

"Mr. Lewes says I am to say the sweetest things that can be said with propriety to you, and love to Bice, to whose memory he appeals, in spite of all the friends she has made since he had the last kiss from her.

"I too have love to send to Bice, whom I expect to see changed like a lily-bud to something more definitely promising. Mr. Trollope, I suppose, is in England by this time, else I should say all affectionate regards from us both to him. I am writing under difficulties.

"Ever, dear Mrs. Trollope,

"Very sincerely yours,

"M.E. LEWES."

Here is another from Lewes, which the post-mark only shows to have been written in 1865:--

"DEAR TROLLOPE,--Thank Signor ---- for the offer of his paper, and express to him my regret that in the present crowded state of the _Review_ I cannot find a place for it. Don't you however run away with the idea that I don t want _your_ contributions on the same ground!

The fact is ----'s paper is too wordy and heavy and not of sufficient interest for our publication; and as I have a great many well on hand, I am forced to be particular. Originally my fear was lest we should not get contributors enough. That fear has long vanished. But _good_ contributions are always scarce; so don't you fail me!

"We have been at Tunbridge Wells for a fortnight's holiday. I was forced to 'cave in,' as the Yankees say--regularly beat. I am not very flourishing now, but I can go into harness again. Polly has been, and alas! still is, anything but in a satisfactory state. But she is gestating, and gestation with her is always perturbing. I wish the book were done with all my heart.

"I don't think I ever told you how very much your _History of Florence_ interested me. I am shockingly ignorant of the subject, and not at all competent to speak, except as one of the public; but you made the political life of the people clear to me. I only regretted here and there a newspaper style which was not historic. Oscar Browning has sent me his review, but I have not read it yet. It is at the printers. Polly sends her love.

"Ever faithfully yours,

"G.H.L."

He writes again, dating his letter 1st January, 1866, but post-marked 1865. It is singular, that the date as given by the writer, 1866, must have been right, and that given by the post-mark, 1865, wrong. And the fact may possibly some day be useful to some counsel having to struggle against the evidence of a post-mark. The letter commences:--

"MY DEAR TROLLOPE,--A happy new year to you and Bice!