20March, [1881.]
My dear Lady,
I have let the Full Moon pass because I thought you had written to me so lately, and so kindly, about our lost Spedding, that I would not call on you too soon again. Of him I will say nothing except that his Death has made me recall very many passages in his Life in which I was partly concerned. In particular, staying at his Cumberland Home along with Tennyson in the May of 1835. ‘Voilà bien long temps de ça!’ His Father and Mother were both alive—he, a wise man, who mounted his Cob after Breakfast, and was at his Farm till Dinner at two—then away again till Tea: after which he sat reading by a shaded lamp: saying very little, but always courteous, and quite content with any company his Son might bring to the house so long as they let him go his way: which indeed he would have gone whether they let him or no. But he had seen enough of Poets not to like them or theirTrade: Shelley, for a time living among the Lakes: Coleridge at Southey’s (whom perhaps he had a respect for—Southey, I mean), and Wordsworth, whom I do not think he valued. He was rather jealous of ‘Jem,’ who might have done available service in the world, he thought, giving himself up to such Dreamers; and sitting up with Tennyson conning over the Morte d’Arthur, Lord of Burleigh, and other things which helped to make up the two Volumes of 1842. So I always associate that Arthur Idyll with Basanthwaite Lake, under Skiddaw. Mrs. Spedding was a sensible, motherly Lady, with whom I used to play Chess of a Night. And there was an old Friend of hers, Mrs. Bristow, who always reminded me of Miss La Creevy, if you know of such a Person in Nickleby.
At the end of May we went to lodge for a week at Windermere—where Wordsworth’s new volume of Yarrow Revisited reached us. W. was then at his home: but Tennyson would not go to visit him: and of course I did not: nor even saw him.
You have, I suppose, the Carlyle Reminiscences: of which I will say nothing except that, much as we outsiders gain by them, I think that, on the whole, they had better have been kept unpublished—for some while at least. As also thinks Carlyle’s Niece, who is surprised that Mr. Froude, whom her Uncle trusted above all men for the gift of Reticence, should have been in so much hurry to publish what was left to his Judgment to publish or no. But Carlyle himself,I think, should have stipulated for Delay, or retrenchment, if publisht at all.
Here is a dull and coldish Day after the fine ones we have had—which kept me out of doors as long as they lasted. Now one turns to the Fireside again. To-morrow is Equinox Day; when, if the Wind should return to North East, North East will it blow till June 21, as we all believe down here. My Eyes are better, I presume to say: but not what they were even before Christmas. Pray let me hear how you are, and believe me ever the same
E. F.G.
Oh! I doubted about sending you what I yet will send, as you already have what it refers to. It really calls for no comment from any one who does not know the Greek; those who do would probably repudiate it.
[April, 1881.]
My dear Mrs. Kemble,
Somewhat before my usual time, you see, but Easter[216b]comes, and I shall be glad to hear if you keep it in London, or elsewhere. Elsewhere there has been no inducement to go until To-day: whenthe Wind, though yet East, has turned to the Southern side of it: one can walk without any wrapper; and I dare to fancy we have turned the corner of Winter at last. People talk of changed Seasons: only yesterday I was reading in my dear old Sévigné, how she was with the Duke and Duchess of Chaulnes at their Château of Chaulnes in Picardy all but two hundred years ago; that is in 1689: and the green has not as yet ventured to show its ‘nez’ nor a Nightingale to sing.[217]You see that I have returned to her as for some Spring Music, at any rate. As for the Birds, I have nothing but a Robin, who seems rather pleased when I sit down on a Bench under an Ivied Pollard, where I suppose he has a Nest, poor little Fellow. But we have terrible Superstitions about him here; no less than that he always kills his Parents if he can: my young Reader is quite determined on this head: and there lately has been a Paper in some Magazine to the same effect.
My dear old Spedding sent me back to old Wordsworth too, who sings (his best songs, I think) about the Mountains and Lakes they were both associated with: and with a quiet feeling he sings, that somehow comes home to me more now than ever it did before.
As to Carlyle—I thought on my first reading that he must have been ‘égaré’ at the time of writing: acondition which I well remember saying to Spedding long ago that one of his temperament might likely fall into. And now I see that Mrs. Oliphant hints at something of the sort. Hers I think an admirable Paper:[218]better than has yet been written, or (I believe) is likely to be written by any one else. Merivale, who wrote me that he had seen you, had also seen Mrs. Procter, who was vowing vengeance, and threatening to publish letters from Carlyle to Basil Montagu full of ‘fulsome flattery’—which I do not believe, and should not, I am sorry to say, unless I saw it in the original. I forget now what T. C. says of him: (I have lent the Book out)—but certainly Barry Cornwall told Thackeray he was ‘a humbug’—which I think was no uncommon opinion: I do not mean dishonest: but of pretension to Learning and Wisdom far beyond the reality. I must think Carlyle’s judgments mostly, or mainly, true; but that he must have ‘lost his head,’ if not when he recorded them, yet when he left them in any one’s hands to decide on their publication. Especially when not about Public Men, but about their Families. It is slaying the Innocent with the Guilty. But of all this you have doubtless heard in London more than enough. ‘Pauvre et triste humanité!’ One’s heart opens again to him at the last: sitting alone in the middle of her Room—‘I want to die’—‘I want—a Mother.’ ‘Ah, Mamma Letizia!’ Napoleon is said to have murmured as he lay. By way of pendant tothis, recurs to me the Story that when Ducis was wretched his mother would lay his head on her Bosom—‘Ah, mon homme, mon pauvre homme!’
Well—I am expecting Aldis Wright here at Easter: and a young London Clerk (this latter I did invite for his short holiday, poor Fellow!). Wright is to read me ‘The Two Noble Kinsmen.’
And now I have written more than enough for yourself and me: whose Eyes may be the worse for it to-morrow. I still go about in Blue Glasses, and flinch from Lamp and Candle. Pray let me know about your own Eyes, and your own Self; and believe me always sincerely yours
Littlegrange.
I really was relieved that you did not write to thank me for the poor flowers which I sent you. They were so poor that I thought you would feel bound so to do, and, when they were gone, repented. I have now some gay Hyacinths up, which make my pattypan Beds like China Dishes.
[April, 1881.]
My dear Lady:
This present Letter calls for no answer—except just that which perhaps you cannot make it. Ifyou have that copy of Plays revised by John the Great which I sent, or brought, you, I wish you would cause your Maid to pack it in brown Paper, and send it by Rail duly directed to me. I have a wish to show it to Aldis Wright, who takes an Interest in your Family, as in your Prophet. If you have already dismissed the Book elsewhere—not much liking, I think, the stuff which J. K. spent so much trouble on, I shall not be surprised, nor at all aggrieved: and there is not much for A. W. to profit by unless in seeing what pains your noble Uncle took with his Calling.
It has been what we call down here ‘smurring’ rather than raining, all day long: and I think that Flower and Herb already show their gratitude. My Blackbird (I think it is the same I have tried to keep alive during the Winter) seems also to have ‘wetted his Whistle,’ and what they call the ‘Cuckoo’s mate,’ with a rather harsh scissor note, announces that his Partner may be on the wing to these Latitudes. You will hear of him at Mr. W. Shakespeare’s, it may be. There must be Violets, white and blue, somewhere about where he lies, I think. They are generally found in a Churchyard, where also (the Hunters used to say) a Hare: for the same reason of comparative security, I suppose.
I am very glad you agree with me about Mrs. Oliphant. That one paper of hers makes me wish to read her Books.
You must somehow, or somewhile, let me knowyour Address in Leamington, unless a Letter addressed to Cavendish Square will find you there. Always and truly yours
Little G.
May8, [1881.]
My dear Mrs. Kemble:
You will not break your Law, though you have done so once—to tell me of Spedding—But now you will not—nor let me know your Address—so I must direct to you at a venture: to Marshall Thompson’s, whither I suppose you will return awhile, even if you be not already there. I think, however, that you are not there yet. If still at Leamington, you look upon a sight which I used to like well; that is, the blue Avon (as in this weather it will be) running through buttercup meadows all the way to Warwick—unless those Meadows are all built over since I was there some forty years ago.
Aldis Wright stayed with me a whole week at Easter: and we did very well. Much Shakespeare—especially concerning that curious Question about the Quarto and Folio Hamlets which people are now trying to solve by Action as well as by Discussion. Then we had The Two Noble Kinsmen—which Tennyson and other Judges were assured has muchof W. S. in it. Which parts I forget, or never heard: but it seemed to me that a great deal of the Play might be his, though not of his best: but Wright could find him nowhere.
Miss Crabbe sent me a Letter from Carlyle’s Niece, cut out from some Newspaper, about her Uncle’s MS. Memoir, and his written words concerning it. Even if Froude’s explanation of the matter be correct, he ought to have still taken any hesitation on Carlyle’s part as sufficient proof that the MS. were best left unpublisht: or, at any rate, great part of it. If you be in London, you will be wearied enough with hearing about this.
I am got back to my—Sévigné!—who somehow returns to me in Spring: fresh as the Flowers. These latter have done but badly this Spring, cut off or withered by the Cold: and now parched up by this blazing Sun and dry Wind. If you get my letter, pray answer it and tell me how you are: and ever believe me yours
Littlegrange.
May, [1881.]
My dear Lady,
If I did not write (as doubtless I ought) to acknowledge the Playbook, I really believe that I thought you would have felt bound to answer my acknowledgment! It came all right, thank you: andA. Wright looked it over: and it has been lying ready to be returned to you whenever you should be returned to London. I assure you that I wish you to keep it, unless it be rather unacceptable than otherwise; I never thought you would endure the Plays themselves; only that you might be interested in your brave Uncle’s patient and, I think, just, revision of them. This was all I cared for: and wished to show to A. W. as being interested in all that concerns so noble an Interpreter of his Shakespeare as your Uncle was. If you do not care—or wish—to have the Book again, tell me of some one you would wish to have it: had I wished, I should have told you so at once: but I now give away even what I might have wished for to those who are in any way more likely to be more interested in them than myself, or are likely to have a few more years of life to make what they may of them. I do not think that A. W. is one of such: he thought (as you may do) of so much pains wasted on such sorry stuff.
So far from disagreeing with you about Shakespeare emendations, etc., I have always been of the same mind: quite content with what pleased myself, and, as to the elder Dramatists, always thinking they would be better all annihilated after some Selections made from them, as C. Lamb did.
Mowbray Donne wrote to me a fortnight or so since that his Father was ‘pretty well,’ but weak in the knees. Three days ago came in Archdeacon Groome, who told me that a Friend of Mowbray’shad just heard from him that his Father had symptoms of dropsy about the Feet and Ankles. I have not, however, written to ask; and, not having done so, perhaps ought not to sadden you with what may be an inaccurate report. But one knows that, sooner or later, some such end must come; and that, in the meanwhile, Donne’s Life is but little preferable to that which promises the speedier end to it.
We are all drying up here with hot Sun and cold Wind; my Water-pot won’t keep Polyanthus and Anemone from perishing. I should have thought the nightly Frosts and Winds would have done for Fruit as well as Flower: but I am told it is not so as yet: and I hope for an honest mess of Gooseberry Fool yet. In the meanwhile, ‘Ce sera le mois de Mai tant qu’il plaira à Dieu,’ and I am always your ancient
Little G.
Woodbridge:Tuesday:[End of May, 1881.]
My dear Mrs. Kemble:
I must write you a word of ‘God Speed’ before you go: before even you go to London to prepare for going: for, if I wait till then, you will be all bother with preparations, and leave-takings; and nevertheless feel yourself bound to answer. Praydo not, even if (as I suppose) still at Leamington; for you will still have plenty to think about with Daughter and Children. I do not propose to go to London to shake hands before you go off: for, as I say, you will have enough of that without me—and my blue Spectacles, which I can only discard as yet when looking on the Grass and young Leaves.
I duly sent your Book to Henry Kemble, as you desired: and received a very polite Note from him in acknowledgment.
And now my house is being pulled about my Ears by preparations for my Nieces next week. And, instead of my leaving the coast clear to Broom and Dust-pan, I believe that Charles Keene will be here from Friday to Monday. As he has long talked of coming, I do not like to put him off now he has really proposed to come, and we shall scramble on somehow. And I will get a Carriage and take him a long Drive into the Country where it is greenest. He is a very good fellow, and has lately lost his Mother, to whom he was a very pious Son; a man who canreverence, although a Droll inPunch.
You will believe that I wish you all well among your Mountains. George Crabbe has been (for Health’s sake) in Italy these last two months, and wrote me his last Note from the Lago Maggiore. My Sister Jane Wilkinson talks of coming over to England this Summer: but I think her courage will fail her when the time comes. If ever you should go to, or near, Florence, she would be sincerely gladto see you, and to talk over other Days. She is not at all obtrusively religious: and I think must have settled abroad to escape some of the old Associations in which she took so much part, to but little advantage to herself or others.
You know that I cannot write to you when you are abroad unless you tell me whither I am to direct. And you probably will not do that: but I do not, and shall [not] cease to be yours always and truly
E. F.G.
[Nov.1881.]
My dear Lady:
I was not quite sure, from your letter, whether you had received mine directed to you in the Cavendish Square Hotel:—where your Nephew told me you were to be found. It is no matter otherwise than that I wish you to know that I had not only enquired if you were returned from abroad, but had written whither I was told you were to be found. Of which enough.
I am sorry you are gone again to Westminster, to which I cannot reconcile myself as to our old London. Even Bloomsbury recalls to me the pink May which used to be seen in those old Squares—sixty years ago. But ‘enfin, voilà qui est fait.’ You know where that comes from. I have not lately been in company with my old dear: Annie Thackeray’sBook[227a]is a pretty thing for Ladies in a Rail carriage; but my old Girl is scarce half herself in it. And there are many inaccuracies, I think. Mais enfin, voilà, etc.
Athenæum and Academy advertise your Sequel to Records.[227b]I need not tell you that I look forward to it. I wish you would insert that capital Paper on Dramatic and Theatrical from the Cornhill.[227c]It might indeed very properly, as I thought, have found a place in the Records.
Mowbray Donne wrote me a month ago that his Father was very feeble: one cannot expect but that he will continue to become more and more so. I should run up to London to see him, if I thought my doing so would be any real comfort to him: butthatonly his Family can be to him: and I think he may as little wish to exhibit his Decay to an old Friend, who so long knew him in a far other condition, as his friend might wish to see him so altered. This is what I judge from my own feelings.
I have only just got my Garden laid up for the winter, and planted some trees in lieu of those which that last gale blew down. I hear that Kensington Gardens suffered greatly: how was it with your Green Park, on which you now look down from such a height, and, I suppose, through a London Fog?
Ever yoursLittle G.
[Dec.1881.]
My dear Mrs. Kemble:
Iwillwrite to you before 1881 is gone, carrying Christmas along with him. A dismal Festivity it always seems to me—I dare say not much merrier to you. I think you will tell me where, and with whom, you pass it. My own company are to be, Aldis Wright, with whom Shakespeare, etc., a London Clerk, may be—that is, if he can get sufficient Holyday—and one or two Guests for the Day.
I forget if I wrote to you since I had a letter from Hallam Tennyson, telling me of a Visit that he and his Father had been making to Warwickshire and Sherwood. The best news was that A. T. was ‘walking and working as usual.’
Why, what is become of your Sequel? I see no more advertisement of it in Athenæum and Academy—unless it appears in the last, which I have not conned over. Somehow I think it not impossible—or even unlikely—that you—may—have—withdrawn—for some reason of your own. You see that I speak with hesitation—meaning no offence—and only hoping for my own, and other sakes that I am all astray.
We are reading Nigel, which I had not expected to care for: but so far as I got—four first Chapters—makes me long for Night to hear more. That returnof Richie to his Master, and dear George Heriot’s visit just after! Oh, Sir Walter is not done for yet by Austens and Eliots. If one of his Merits were not hisclear Daylight, one thinks, there ought to be Societies to keep his Lamp trimmed as well as—Mr. Browning. He is The Newest Shakespeare Society of Mr. Furnivall.
The Air is so mild, though windy, that I can even sit abroad in the Sunshine. I scarce dare ask about Donne; neither you, nor Mowbray—I dare say I shall hear from the latter before Christmas. What you wrote convinced me there was no use in going up only to see him—or little else—so painful to oneself and so little cheering to him! I do think that he is best among his own.
But I do not forget him—‘No!’—as the Spaniards say. Nor you, dear Mrs. Kemble, being your ancient Friend (with a new name)Littlegrange!
What would you say of the Œdipus, not of Sophocles, but of Dryden and Nat Lee, in which your uncle acted!
P.S. You did not mention anything about your Family, so I conclude that all is well with them, both in England and America.
I wish you would just remember me to Mr. H. Aïdé, who was very courteous to me when I met him in your room.
This extra Paper is, you see, to serve instead of crossing my Letter.
[Feb.1882.]
My dear Mrs. Kemble:
This week I was to have been in London—for the purpose of seeing—or offering to see—our dear Donne. For, when they told him of my offer, he said he should indeed like it much—‘if he were well enough.’ Anyhow, I can but try, only making him previously understand that he is not to make any effort in the case. He is, they tell me, pleased with any such mark of remembrance and regard from his old Friends. And I should have offered to go before now, had I not judged from your last account of him that he was better left with his Family, for his own sake, as well [as] for that of his Friends. However, as I said, I should have gone up on Trial even now, but that I have myself been, and am yet, suffering with some sort of Cold (I think, from some indications, Bronchial) which would ill enable me to be of any use if I got to London. I can’t get warm, in spite of Fires, and closed doors, so must wait, at any rate, to see what another week will do for me.
I shall, of course, make my way to Queen Anne’s, where I should expect to find you still busy with your Proof-sheets, which I am very glad to hear of as going on. What could have put it into my head even to think otherwise? Well, more unlikely things mighthave happened—even with Medes and Persians. I do not think you will be offended at my vain surmises.
I see my poor little Aconites—‘New Year’s Gifts’—still surviving in the Garden-plot before my window; ‘still surviving,’ I say, because of their having been out for near a month agone. I believe that Messrs. Daffodil, Crocus and Snowdrop are putting in appearance above ground: but (old Coward) I have not put my own old Nose out of doors to look for them.
I read (Eyes permitting) the Correspondence between Goethe and Schiller (translated) from 1798 to 1806[231]—extremely interesting to me, though I do not understand—and generally skip—the more purely Æsthetic Part: which is the Part of Hamlet, I suppose. But, in other respects, two such men so freely discussing together their own, and each other’s, works interest me greatly. At Night, we have The Fortunes of Nigel; a little of it—and not every night: for the reason that I do not wish to eat my Cake too soon. The last night but one I sent my Reader to see Macbeth played by a little ‘Shakespearian’ company at a Lecture Hall here. He brought me one new Reading—suggested, I doubt not, by himself, from a remembrance of Macbeth’s tyrannical ways: ‘Hang out ourGallowson the outward walls.’ Nevertheless, the Boy took great Interest in the Play; and I like to encourage him in Shakespeare, rather than in the Negro Melodists.
Such a long Letter as I have written (and, I doubt, ill written) really calls for Apology from me, busy as you may be with those Proofs. But still believe me sincerely yours
Though Laird ofLittlegrange.
[Feb.1882.]
My dear Lady:—
The same Post which brought me your very kind Letter, brought me also the enclosed.
The writer of it—Mr. Schütz Wilson—aLittérateur général—I believe—wrote up Omar Khayyâm some years ago, and, I dare say, somewhat hastened another (and so far as I am concerned) final Edition. Of his Mr. Terriss I did not know even by name, till Mr. Wilson told me. So now you can judge and act as you see fit in the matter.
If Terriss and Schütz W. fail in knowing your London ‘habitat,’ you see that the former makes amends in proposing to go so far as Cheltenham to ask advice of you. Our poor dear Donne would have been so glad, and so busy, in telling what he could in the matter—if only in hope of keeping up your Father’s Tradition.
I am ashamed to advert to my own little ailments, while you, I doubt not, are enduring worse. I should have gone to London last week had I believed thata week earlier or later mattered; as things are, I will not reckon on going before next week. I want to be well enough to ‘cut about’ and see the three friends whom I want to see—yourself among the number.
Blakesley (Lincoln’s Dean) goes to stay in London next week, and hopes to play Whist in Weymouth Street.
Kegan Paul, etc., publish dear Spedding’s ‘Evenings,’[233]etc., and never was Book more worth reading—and buying. I think I understand your weariness in bringing out your Book: but many will be the Gainers:—among them yours always
LittleG.
[Feb.1882.]
My dear Mrs. Kemble:
I have quoted, and sent to Mr. Schütz Wilson, just thus much of your Letter, leaving his Friend to judge whether it is sufficiently encouraging to invite him to call on you. I suppose it is: but I thought safest to give youripsissima verba.
‘It is so perfectly easy for any one in London to obtain my Address, that I think I may leave the future Mercutio to do so at his leisure or pleasure.’
I dare say you are pretty much indifferent whether he ventures or not; if he does, I can only hope thathe is a Gentleman, and if he be so, I do not think you will be sorry to help him in trying to keep up your Father’s traditionary excellence in the part, and to save Mr. Terriss—to save Mercutio—from the contagion of Mr. Irving’s treatment of Shakespeare—so far as I have seen of it—which is simply two acts of Hamlet.
As I told you, I know nothing—even hitherto heard nothing of Mr. Terriss. His friend, S. Wilson, I have never seen neither. And I hope you will think I have done fairly well in my share of the Business.
Fanny Kerrich, my Niece, and a capital Woman, comes to me to-day, not more for the purpose of seeing myself, than my Brother’s Widow who lives alone in a dismal place three miles off.[234a]I am still wheezy, and want to get in order so as to visit my few friends in London next week.[234b]
You see there is no occasion for you to answer this: for, even if I have done amiss, it is past recall; and I am none the less ancient Friend
LittleG.!
[March, 1882.]
My dear Lady,
It is very kind of you to break through your rule of Correspondence, that you may tell me how it was with you that last Evening. I was aware of no ‘stupidity’on your side: I only saw that you were what you called ‘a little tired, and unwell.’ Had I known how much, I should of course have left you with a farewell shake of hands at once. And in so far I must blame you. But I blame myself for rattling on, not only then, but always, I fear, in a manner that you tell me (and I thank you for telling me) runs into occasional impertinence—which no length of acquaintance can excuse, especially to a Lady. You will think that here is more than enough of this. But pray do you also say no more about it. I know that you regard me very kindly, as I am sure that I do you, all the while.
And now I have something to say upon something of a like account; about that Mr. Schütz Wilson, who solicited an Introduction to you for his Mercutio, and then proposed to you to availhimselfof it. That I thought he had better have waited for, rather than himself proposed; and I warned you that I had been told of his being somewhat of a ‘prosateur’ at his Club. You, however, would not decline his visit, and would encourage him, or not, as you saw fit.
And now the man has heaped coals of fire on my head. Not content with having formerly appraised that Omar in a way that, I dare say, advanced him to another Edition: he (S.W.) now writes me that he feels moved to write in favour of another Persian who now accompanies Omar in his last Avatar! I have told him plainly that he had better not employ time and talent on what I do not think he will everpersuade the Public to care about—but he thinks he will.[236]He may very likely cool upon it: but, in the meanwhile, such are his good Intentions, not only to the little Poem, but, I believe, to myself also—personally unknown as we are to one another. Therefore, my dear Lady, though I cannot retract what I told you on such authority as I had,—nevertheless, as you were so far prejudiced in his favour because of such service as he formerly was to me, I feel bound to tell you of this fresh offer on his part: so that, as you were not unwilling to receive him on trial before, you may not be less favourably disposed toward him now; in case he should call—which I doubt not he will do; though be pleased to understand that I have no more encouraged him to do so now than at first I did.
What a long Story!—I still chirp a little in my throat; but go my ways abroad by Night as well as by Day: even sitting out, as only last night I did. The S.W. wind that is so mild, yet sweeps down my garden in a way that makes havoc of Crocus and Snowdrop; Messrs. Daffodil and Hyacinth stand up better against it.
I hear that Lord Houghton has been partly paralysed; but is up again. Thompson, Master of Trinity, had a very slight attack of it some months ago; I was told Venables had been ill, but I know not of what, nor how much; and all these my contemporaries; and I, at any rate, still yours as ever
E. F.G.
Littlegrange:Woodbridge,March31, [1882.]
Dear Mrs. Kemble:—
It is not yet full Moon:[237a]—but it is my 74th Birthday: and you are the only one whom I write to on that great occasion. A good Lady near here told me she meant to pay me a visit of congratulation: and I begged her to stay at home, and neither say, nor write, anything about it. I do not know that [I] have much to say to you now that I am inspired; but it occurred to me that you might be going away somewhere for Easter, and so I would try to get a word from you concerning yourself before you left London.
The Book? ‘Ready immediately’ advertised Bentley near a fortnight ago: to-morrow’s Academy or Athenæum will perhaps be talking of it to-morrow: of all which you will not read a word, I ‘guess.’ I think you will get out of London for Easter, if but to get out of the way. Or are you too indifferent even for that?
Satiated as you may have been with notices and records of Carlyle, do, nevertheless, look at Wylie’s Book[237b]about him: if only for a Scotch Schoolboy’saccount of a Visit to him not long before he died, and also the words of his Bequest of Craigenputtock to some Collegiate Foundation. Wylie (of whom I did not read all, or half) is a Worshipper, but not a blind one. He says that Scotland is to be known as the ‘Land of Carlyle’ from henceforward. One used to hear of the ‘Land of Burns’—then, I think, ‘of Scott.’
There is already a flush of Green, not only on the hedges, but on some of the trees; all things forwarder, I think, by six weeks than last year. Here is a Day for entering on seventy-four! But I do think, notwithstanding, that I am not much the better for it. The Cold I had before Christmas, returns, or lurks about me: and I cannot resolve on my usual out-of-door liberty. Enough of that. I suppose that I shall have some Company at Easter; my poor London Clerk, if he can find no more amusing place to go to for his short Holyday; probably Aldis Wright, who always comes into these parts at these Seasons—his ‘Nazione’ being Beccles. Perhaps also a learned Nephew of mine—John De Soyres—now Professor of some History at Queen’s College, London, may look in.
Did my Patron, Mr. Schütz Wilson, ever call on you, up to this time? I dare say, not; for he may suppose you still out of London. And, though I have had a little correspondence with him since, I have not said a word about your return—nor about yourself. I saw in my Athenæum or Academythat Mercutio did as usual. Have you seen the Play?
I conclude (from not hearing otherwise from Mowbray) that his Father is much as when I saw him. I do not know if the Papers have reported anything more of Lord Houghton, and I have not heard of him from my few correspondents.
But pray do you tell me a word about Mrs. Kemble; and beg her to believe me ever the same
E. F.G.
[Spring, 1882.]
My dear Mrs. Kemble,
I scarce think, judging by my old Recorder the Moon, that it is a month since I last wrote to you. But not far off, neither. Be that as it may, just now I feel inclined to tell you that I lately heard from Hallam Tennyson by way of acknowledgment of the Programme of a Recital of his Father’s verse at Ipswich, by a quondam Tailor there. This, as you may imagine, I did for fun, such as it was. But Hallam replies, without much reference to the Reading: but to tell me how his Father had a fit of Gout in his hand while he was in London: and therefore it was that he had not called on you as he had intended. Think of my dear old Fellow with theGout! In consequence of which he was forbidden his daily allowance of Port (if I read Hallam’s scrawl aright), which, therefore, the Old Boy had stuck to like a fine Fellow with a constancy which few modern Britons can boast of. This reminded me that when I was on my last visit to him, Isle of Wight, 1854, he stuck to his Port (I do not mean too much) and asked me, who might be drinking Sherry, if I did not see that his was ‘the best Beast of the two.’ So he has remained true to his old Will Waterproof Colours—and so he was prevented from calling on you—his hand, Hallam says, swelled up like ‘a great Sponge.’ Ah, if he did not live on a somewhat large scale, with perpetual Visitors, I might go once more to see him.
Now, you will, I know, answer me (unless your hand be like his!) and then you will tell me how you are, and how your Party whom you were expecting at Leamington when last you wrote. I take for granted they arrived safe, in spite of the Wind that a little alarmed you at the time of your writing. And now, in another month, you will be starting to meet your American Family in Switzerland, if the Scheme you told me of still hold—with them, I mean. So, by the Moon’s law, I shall write to you once again before you leave, and you—will once more answer!
I shall say thus much of myself, that I do not shake off the Cold and Cough that I have had, off and on, these four months: I certainly feel as if some of the internal timbers were shaken; which is not to bewondered at, nor complained of.[241a]Tell me how you fare; and believe me
Your sincere as ancient
Littlegrange.
I now fancy that it must be Bentley who delays your Book, till Ballantine & Co. have blown over.[241b]
Whitmonday, [May29th, 1882.]
My dear Mrs. Kemble,
Not full moon yet, but Whitsun the 29th of May,[241c]and you told me of your expecting to be in Switzerland. And when once you get there, it is all over with full moons as far as my correspondence with you is concerned.
I heard from Mowbray that his Father had been all but lost to him: but had partially recovered. Notfor long, I suppose: nor need I hope: and this is all I will say to you on this subject.
I have now Charles Keene staying Whitsuntide with me, and was to have had Archdeacon Groome to meet him; but he is worn out with Archidiaconal Charges, and so cannot come. But C. K. and I have been out in Carriage to the Sea, and no visitor, nor host, could wish for finer weather.
But this of our dear Donne over-clouds me a little, as I doubt not it does you. Mowbray was to have come down for three days just now to a Friend five miles off: but of course—you know.
Somehow I am at a loss to write to you on such airy topics as usual. Therefore, I shall simply ask you to let me know, in as few lines as you care to write, when you leave England: and to believe me, wherever you go,
Your sincere AncientE. F.G.
Woodbridge,June24, [1882.]
My dear Mrs. Kemble,
You wrote me that you had bidden Blanche to let you know about her Father: and this I conclude that she, or some of her family have done. Nevertheless, I will make assurance doubly sure by enclosing you the letters I received from Mowbray, according to their dates: and will send them—for once—through Coutts, in hopes that he may find you, as you willnot allow me to do without his help. Of that Death[243a]I say nothing: as you may expect of me, and as I should expect of you also; if I may say so.
I have been to pay my annual Visit to George Crabbe and his Sisters in Norfolk. And here is warm weather come to us at last (as not unusual after the Longest Day), and I have almost parted with my Bronchial Cold—though, as in the old Loving Device of the open Scissors, ‘To meet again.’ I can only wonder it is no worse with me, considering how my contemporaries have been afflicted.
I am now reading Froude’s Carlyle, which seems to me well done. Insomuch, that I sent him all the Letters I had kept of Carlyle’s, to use or not as he pleased, etc. I do not think they will be needed among the thousand others he has: especially as he tells me that his sole commission is, to edit Mrs. Carlyle’s Letters, for which what he has already done is preparatory: and when this is completed, he will add a Volume of personal Recollections of C. himself. Froude’s Letter to me is a curious one: a sort of vindication (it seems to me) of himself—quite uncalled for by me, who did not say one word on the subject.[243b]The job, he says, was forcedupon him: ‘a hard problem’—No doubt—But he might have left the Reminiscences unpublisht, except what related to Mrs. C.—in spite of Carlyle’s oral injunction which reversed his written. Enough of all this!
Why will you not ‘initiate’ a letter when you are settled for a while among your Mountains? Oh, ye Medes and Persians! This may be impertinent of me: but I am ever yours sincerely
E. F.G.
I see your Book advertised as ‘ready.’
[August, 1882.]
My dear Mrs. Kemble,
I have let the Full Moon[245b]go by, and very well she looked, too—over the Sea by which I am now staying. Not at Lowestoft: but at the old extinguished Borough of Aldeburgh, to which—as to other ‘premiers Amours,’ I revert—where more than sixty years ago I first saw, and first felt, the Sea—where I have lodged in half the houses since; and where I have a sort of traditional acquaintance with half the population. ‘Clare Cottage’ is where I write from; two little rooms—enough for me—a poor civil Woman pleased to have me in them—oh, yes,—and a little spare Bedroom in which I stow a poor Clerk, with his Legs out of the window from his bed—like a Heron’s from his nest—but rather more horizontally. We dash about in Boats whether Sail or Oar—to which latter I leave him for his own good Exercise. Poor fellow, he would have liked to tug at that, or rough-ride a horse, from Boyhood: but must be made Clerk in a London Lawyer’s Office: and so I am glad to get him down for a Holyday when he can get one, poor Fellow!
The Carlyle ‘Reminiscences’ had long indisposed me from taking up the Biography. But when I began, and as I went on with that, I found it one of the most interesting of Books: and the result is that I notonly admire and respect Carlyle more than ever I did: but even love him, which I never thought of before. For he loved his Family, as well as for so long helped to maintain them out of very slender earnings of his own; and, so far as these two Volumes show me, he loved his Wife also, while he put her to the work which he had been used to see his own Mother and Sisters fulfil, and which was suitable to the way of Life which he had been used to. His indifference to her sufferings seems to me rather because of Blindness than Neglect; and I think his Biographer has been even a little too hard upon him on the score of Selfish disregard of her. Indeed Mr. Norton wrote to me that he looked on Froude as something of an Iago toward his Hero in respect of all he has done for him. The publication of the Reminiscences is indeed a mystery to me: for I should [have] thought that, even in a mercantile point of view, it would indispose others, as me it did, to the Biography. But Iago must have bungled in his work so far as I, for one, am concerned, if the result is such as I find it—or unless I am very obtuse indeed. So I tell Mr. Norton; who is about to edit Carlyle’s Letters to Emerson, and whom I should not like to see going to his work with such an ‘Animus’ toward his Fellow-Editor.
Yours always,E. F.G.
Faites, s’il vous plait, mes petits Compliments à Madame Wister.
Aldeburgh:Sept.1, [1882.]
My dear Mrs. Kemble,
Still by the Sea—from which I sawThe Harvest Moonrise for her three nights’ Fullness. And to-day is so wet that I shall try and pay you my plenilunal due—not much to your satisfaction; for the Wet really gets into one’s Brain and Spirits, and I have as little to write of as ever any Full Moon ever brought me. And yet, if I accomplish my letter, and ‘take it to the Barber’s,’ where I sadly want to go, and, after being wrought on by him, post my letter—why, you will, by your Laws, be obliged to answer it. Perhaps you may have a little to tell me of yourself in requital for the very little you have to hear of me.
I have made a new Acquaintance here. Professor Fawcett (Postmaster General, I am told) married a Daughter of one Newson Garrett of this Place, who is also Father of your Doctor Anderson. Well, the Professor (who was utterly blinded by the Discharge of his Father’s Gun some twenty or twenty-five years ago) came to this Lodging to call on Aldis Wright; and, when Wright was gone, called on me, and also came and smoked a Pipe one night here. A thoroughly unaffected, unpretending, man; so modest indeed that I was ashamed afterwards to think howI had harangued him all the Evening, instead of getting him to instruct me. But I would not ask him about his Parliamentary Shop: and I should not have understood his Political Economy: and I believe he was very glad to be talked to instead, about some of those he knew, and some whom I had known. And, as we were both in Crabbe’s Borough, we talked of him: the Professor, who had never read a word, I believe, about him, or of him, was pleased to hear a little; and I advised him to buy the Life written by Crabbe’s Son; and I would give him my Abstract of the Tales of the Hall, by way of giving him a taste of the Poet’s self.
Yes; you must read Froude’s Carlyle above all things, and tell me if you do not feel as I do about it. Professor Norton persists[248]in it that I am proof against Froude’s invidious insinuations simply because of my having previously known Carlyle. But how is it that I did not know that Carlyle was so good, grand, and even loveable, till I read the Letters, which Froude now edits? I regret that I did not know what the Book tells us while Carlyle was alive; that I might have loved him as well as admired him. But Carlyle never spoke of himself in that way: I never heard him advert to his Works and his Fame, except one day he happened to mention ‘About the time when Men began to talk of me.’
I do not know if I told you in my last that (as you foretold me would be the case) I did not find yourlater Records so interesting as the earlier. Not from any falling off of the recorder, but of the material.
The two dates of this Letter arise from my having written this second half-sheet so badly that I resolved to write it over again—I scarce know whether for better or worse. I go home this week, expecting Charles Keene at Woodbridge for a week. Please to believe me (with Compliments to Mrs. Wister)
Yours sincerely alwaysE. F.G.
Woodbridge:Oct.17, [1882.]
My dear Mrs. Kemble,
I suppose that you are returned from the Loire by this time; but as I am not sure that you have returned to the ‘Hotel des Deux Mondes,’ whence you dated your last, I make bold once more to trouble Coutts with adding your Address to my Letter. I think I shall have it from yourself not long after. I shall like to hear a word about my old France, dear to me from childish associations; and in particular of the Loire endeared to me by Sévigné—for I never saw the glimmer of its Waters myself. If you were in England I should send you an account of a tour there, written by a Lady in 1833—written in the good old way of Ladies’ writing, without any of thesmartness, and not too much of the ‘graphic’ of later times. Did you look at Les Rochers, which, I have read, is not to be lookedintoby the present owner?[250a]
Now for my ‘Story, God bless you,’ etc., you may guess where none is to be told. Only, my old Housekeeper here has been bedded for this last month, an illness which has caused her great pain, and at one time seemed about to make an End of her. So it may do still: but for the last few days she has suffered less pain, and so we—hope. This has caused much trouble in my little household, as you may imagine—as well on our own account, as on hers.
Mowbray Donne wrote me that his Edith had been seriously—I know not if dangerously—ill; and he himself much out of sorts, having never yet (he says, and I believe) recovered from his Father’s death. Blanche, for the present, is quartered at Friends’ and Kinsfolk’s houses.
Aldis Wright has sent me a Photograph, copied from Mrs. Cameron’s original, of James Spedding—so fine that I know not whether I feel more pleasure or pain in looking at it. When you return to England, you shall see it somehow.
I have had a letter or two from Annie Ritchie, who is busy writing various Articles for Magazines. One concerning Miss Edgeworth in the Cornhill is pleasant reading.[250b]She tells me that Tennyson is at Aldworth (his Hampshire house, you know), and a notice inAthenæum or Academy tells that he is about to produce ‘a Pastoral Drama’ at one of the smaller Theatres![251a]
You may have seen—but more probably have not seen—how Mr. Irving and Co. have brought out ‘Much Ado’ with alléclat.
It seems to me (but I believe it seems so every year) that our trees keep their leaves very long; I suppose because of no severe frosts or winds up to this time. And my garden still shows some Geranium, Salvia, Nasturtium, Great Convolvulus, and that grand African Marigold whose Colour is so comfortable to us Spanish-like Paddies.[251b]I have also a dear Oleander which even now has a score of blossoms on it, and touches the top of my little Greenhouse—having been sent me when ‘haut comme ça,’ as Marquis Somebody used to say in the days of Louis XIV. Don’t you love the Oleander? So clean in its leaves and stem, as so beautiful in its flower; loving to stand in water, which it drinks up so fast. I rather worship mine.
Here is pretty matter to get Coutts to further on to Paris—to Mrs. Kemble in Paris. And I have written it all in my best MS. with a pen that has been held with its nib in water for more than a fortnight—Charles Keene’s recipe for keeping Pens in condition—Oleander-like.
Please to make my Compliments to Mrs. Wister—my good wishes to the young Musician;[252a]and pray do you believe me your sincere as ever—in spite of his new name—
Littlegrange.
[Nov., 1882.]
My dear Mrs. Kemble:
You must be homeward-bound by this time, I think: but I hope my letter won’t light upon you just when you are leaving Paris, or just arriving in London—perhaps about to see Mrs. Wister off to America from Liverpool! But you will know very well how to set my letter aside till some better opportunity. May Mrs. Wister fare well upon her Voyage over the Atlantic, and find all well when she reaches her home.
I have been again—twice or thrice—to Aldeburgh, when my contemporary old Beauty Mary Lynn was staying there; and pleasant Evenings enough we had, talking of other days, and she reading to me some of her Mudie Books, finishing with a nice little Supper, and some hot grog (for me) which I carried back to the fire, andset on the carpet.[252b]She read me (for one thing) ‘Marjorie Fleming’ from a Volume of Dr.Brown’s Papers[253a]—read it as well as she could for laughing—‘idiotically,’ she said—but all the better to my mind. She had been very dismal all day, she said. Pray get some one to read you ‘Marjorie’—which I say, because (as I found) it agrees with one best in that way. If only for dear Sir Walter’s sake, who doated on the Child; and would not let his Twelfth Night be celebrated till she came through the Snow in a Sedan Chair, where (once in the warm Hall) he called all his Company down to see her nestling before he carried her upstairs in his arms. A very pretty picture. My old Mary said that Mr. Anstey’s ‘Vice Versa’ made her and a friend, to whom she read it, laugh idiotically too: but I could not laugh over it alone, very clever as it is. And here is enough of me and Mary.
Devrient’s Theory of Shakespeare’s Sonnets (which you wrote me of) I cannot pretend to judge of: what he said of the Englishwomen, to whom the Imogens, Desdemonas, etc., were acceptable, seems to me well said. I named it to Aldis Wright in a letter, but what he thinks on the subject—surely no otherwise than Mrs. Kemble—I have not yet heard. My dear old Alfred’s Pastoral troubles me a little—that he should have exposed himself to ridicule in his later days. Yet I feel sure that his aim is a noble one; and there was a good notice in the Academy[253b]saying there was much that was fine in the Play—nay, thata whole good Play might yet be made of it by some better Playwright’s practical Skill.
And here is the end of my paper, before I have said something else that I had to say. But you have enough for the present from your ancient E. F.G.—who has been busy arranging some ‘post mortem’ papers.
Woodbridge:March6, [1883.]
My dear Mrs. Kemble,
I have asked more than one person for tidings of you, for the last two months: and only yesterday heard from M. Donne that he had seen you at the Address to which I shall direct this letter. I wrote to you about mid-November, desiring Coutts to forward my letter: in which I said that if you were in no mood to write during the time of Mrs. Wister’s departure for America (which you had told me was to be November end) you were not to trouble yourself at all. Since which time I have really not known whether you had not gone off to America too. Anyhow, I thought better to wait till I had some token of your ‘whereabout,’ if nothing more. And now Mowbray tells me that much, and I will venture another Letter to you after so long an interval. You must always follow your own inclination as to answering me—not by any means make a ‘Duty’ of it.
As usual I have nothing to say of myself but what you have heard from me for years. Only that my (now one year old) friend Bronchitis has thus far done but little more than to keep me aware that he has not quitted me, nor even thinks of so doing. Nay, this very day, when the Snow which held off all winter is now coming down under stress of N.E. wind, I feel my friend stirring somewhat within.
Enough of that and of myself. Mowbray gives me a very good report of you—Absit Nemesis for my daring to write it!—And you have got back to something of our old London Quarters, which I always look to as better than the new. And do you go to even a Play, in the old Quarters also? Wright, who was with me at Christmas, was taken by Macmillan to see ‘Much Ado,’ and found, all except Scenery, etc. (which was too good) so bad that he vowed he would never go to see Sh. ‘at any of your Courts’ again. Irving without any Humour, Miss Terry with simply Animal Spirits, etc. However, Wright did intend once more to try—Comedy of Errors, at some theatre; but how he liked it—I may hear if he comes to me at Easter.
Now this is enough—is it not?—for a letter: but I am as always
Sincerely yours,
E. F.G.