Woodbridge, July 4/72.
My dear Pollock,
I like your Fraser Paper very much, and recognised some points we had talked of together, [139b] but nothing that I can claim as my own. I suppose that I think on these points as very many educated men do think; I mean as to Principles of Art. I am not sure I understand your word ‘Imagination’ as opposed to realistic (d---d word) detail at p. 26, but I suppose I suppose I know what is meant, nevertheless, and agree with that. Is the Prophet of p. 24 Gurlyle? [139c] I think so. The fine head of him which figures as Frontispiece to the People’s Edition of Sartor made me think of a sad Old Prophet; so that I bought the Book for the Portrait only.
The ‘Brown Umbrella’ pleased me greatly.
Well; and I thought there were other Papers in Fraser which made me think that, on the whole, I would take in Fraser rather than the Cornhill which you advised. Perhaps I am just now out of tune for Novels; whether that be so or not, I don’t get an Appetite for Annie Thackeray’s [140] from the two Numbers I have had.
And here is Spedding’s vol. vi. which leaves me much where it found me about Bacon: but though I scarce care for him, I can read old Spedding’s pleading for him for ever; that is, old Spedding’s simple statement of the case, as he sees it. The Ralegh Business is quite delightful, better than Old Kensington.
Then I have bought 3 vols of the ‘Ladies Magazine’ for 1750-3 by ‘Jasper Goodwill’ who died at Vol. iv. It contains the Trials and Executions (16 men at a time) of the time; Miss Blandy above all; and such delightful Essays, Poems, and Enigmas, for Ladies! The Allegories are in the Rasselas style, all Oriental. The Essays ‘of all the Virtues which adorn, etc.’ Then Anecdotes of the Day: as of a Country woman in St. James’ Park taking on because she cannot go home till she has kissed the King’s hand: one of the Park keepers tells one of the Pages, who tells the King, who has the Woman in to kiss his hand, and take some money beside. One wonders there weren’t heaps of such loyal Subjects.
Mowbray Donne wrote me that he sent you the Fragments I had saved and transcribed of Morton’s Letters; the best part having been lost by Blackwood’s People thirty years ago, as I believe I told you. But don’t you think what remains capital? I wish you would get them put into some Magazine, just for the sake of some of our Day getting them in Print. You might just put a word of Preface as to the Author: an Irish Gentleman, of Estate and Fortune (which of course went the Irish way), who was Scholar, Artist, Newspaper Correspondent, etc. A dozen lines would tell all that is wanted, naming no names. It might be called ‘Fragments of Letters by an “Ill-starred” or “Unlucky” Man of Genius,’ etc. as S. M. was: ‘Unlucky’ being still used in Suffolk, with something of Ancient Greek meaning. See if you cannot get this done, will you? For I think many of S. M.’s friends would be glad of it: and the general Public assuredly not the worse. Some of the names would need some correction, I think: and the Letters to be put in order of Time. [141a] ‘Do it!’ as Julia in the Hunchback says.
My dear Pollock,
I went to London at the end of last week, on my way to Sydenham, where my second Brother is staying, whom I had not seen these six years, nor his Wife. . . . On Saturday I went to the Academy, for little else but to see Millais, and to disagree with you about him! I thought his three Women and his Highlanders brave pictures, which you think also; but braver than you think them. The Women looked alive: the right Eye so much smaller than the left in the Figure looking at you that I suppose it was so in the original, so that I should have chosen one of the other Sisters for the position. I could not see any analogy between the Picture and Sir Joshua’s Graces, except that there were Three. Nor could I think the Highlanders in the Landscape vulgar; they seemed to me in character with the Landscape. Both Pictures want tone, which may mean Glazing: wanting which they may last the longer, and sober down of themselves without the danger of cracking by any transparent Colour laid over them.
I scarce looked at anything else, not having much time. Just as I was going out, who should come up to me but Annie Thackeray, who took my hands as really glad to see her Father’s old friend. I am sure she was; and I was taken aback somehow; and, out of sheer awkwardness, began to tell her that I didn’t care for her new Novel! And then, after she had left her Party to come to me, I ran off! It is true, I had to be back at Sydenham: but it would have been better to forgo all that: and so I reflected when I had got halfway down Piccadilly: and so ran back, and went into the Academy again: but could not find A. T. She told me she was going to Normandy this week: and I have been so vext with myself that I have written to tell her something of what I have told you. It was very stupid indeed.
Woodbridge: November 1, [1872].
My dear Pollock,
The Spectator, as also the Athenæum, somewhat over-praise Gareth, I think: but I am glad they do so. . . . The Poem seems to me scarce more worthy of what A. T. was born to do than the other Idylls; but you will almost think it is out of contradiction that I like it better: except, of course, the original Morte. The Story of this young Knight, who can submit and conquer and do all the Devoir of Chivalry, interests me much more than the Enids, Lily Maids, etc. of former Volumes. But Time is—Time was—to have done with the whole Concern: pure and noble as all is, and in parts more beautiful than any one else can do. . . .
Rain—Rain—Rain! What will become of poor Italy? I think we ought to subscribe for her. Did you read of one French Caricature of the Pope leaving Rome with the Holy Ghost in a Bird Cage?
Woodbridge, Nov. 20.
My dear Pollock,
I am glad the Rogers Verses [144] gratified you. I forget where I saw them quoted, some ten years ago; but as I had long wished for them myself, and thought others might wish for them also, I got them reprinted here in the form I sent you. . . . I have no compunction at all in reviving this Satire upon the old Banker, whom it is only paying off in his own Coin. Spedding (of course) used to deny that R. deserved his ill Reputation: but I never heard any one else deny it. All his little malignities, unless the epigram on Ward be his, are dead along with his little sentimentalities; while Byron’s Scourge hangs over his Memory. The only one who, so far as I have seen, has given any idea of his little cavilling style, is Mrs. Trench in her Letters; her excellent Letters, so far as I can see and judge, next best to Walpole and Cowper in our Language. . . .
I have bought Regnard, of the old Molière times, very good; and (what is always odd to me) as French as the French of To-day: I mean, in point of Language.
[Nov. 1872.]
My dear Pollock,
In a late Box of books which I had from Mudie were Macmillan and Fraser, for 1869-1870. And in one of these—I am nearly sure, Macmillan—is an Article called ‘Objects of Art’ [145] which treats very well, I think, on the subject you and I talked of at Whitsun. . . .
My new Reader . . . has been reading to me Fields’ ‘Yesterdays with Authors,’ Hawthorne, Dickens, Thackeray. The latter seems to me a Caricature: the Dickens has one wonderful bit about Macready in 1869, which ought not to have been printed during his Life, but which I will copy out for you if you have not seen it. Hawthorne seems to me the most of a Man of Genius America has produced in the way of Imagination: yet I have never found an Appetite for his Books. Frederic Tennyson sent me Victor Hugo’s ‘Toilers of the Sea,’ which he admires, I suppose; but I can’t get up an Appetite for that neither. I think the Scenes being laid in the Channel Islands may have something to do with old Frederic’s Liking. . . .
The Daily News only tells me of Crisises in France, Floods in Italy, Insubordination of London Policemen, and Desertion from the British Army. So I take refuge in other Topics. Do look for ‘Objects of Art’ among them.
Which are you for
Noi leggiavamo }
or } un giorno per diletto? [146a]
Noi leggevamo }
Woodbridge: Nov. 28 [1872].
‘Multæ Epistolæ pertransibunt et augebitur Scientia.’ Our one Man of Books down here, Brooke, [146b] had told me that the old Editions on the whole favoured ‘leggiavamo.’ Now I shall tell him that the Germans have decided on ‘leggevamo.’ But Brooke quotes one Copy (1502) which reads ‘leggevam,’ which I had also wished for, to get rid of a fifth (and superfluous) o in the line. I suppose such a plural is as allowable as
Noi andavam per lo solingo Piano, etc.
What is all this erudite Enquiry about? I was talking with Edwards one night of this passage, and of this line in particular, which came into my head as a motto for a Device [146c] we were talking of; and hence all this precious fuss.
But I want to tell you what I forgot in my last letter; what Dickens himself says of his ‘Holyday Romance’ in a letter to Fields.
July 25, 1867.
‘I hope the Americans will see the joke of Holyday Romance. The writing seems to me so much like Children’s, that dull folk (on any side of any water) might perhaps rate it accordingly. I should like to be beside you when you read it, and particularly when you read the Pirate’s Story. It made me laugh to that extent that my people here thought I was out of my wits: until I gave it to them to read, when they did likewise.’
One thinks, what a delightful thing to be such an Author! Yet he died of his work, I suppose.
Woodbridge, Jan, 5/73.
My dear Pollock,
I don’t know that I have anything to tell you, except a Story which I have already written to Donne and to Mrs. Kemble, all the way to Rome, out of a French Book. [147] I just now forget the name, and it is gone back to Mudie. About 1783, or a little later, a young Danseur of the French Opera falls in love with a young Danseuse of the same. She, however, takes up with a ‘Militaire,’ who indeed commands the Guard who are on Service at the Opera. The poor Danseur gets mad with jealousy: attacks the Militaire on his post; who just bids his Soldiers tie the poor Lad to a Column, without further Injury. The Lad, though otherwise unhurt, falls ill of Shame and Jealousy; and dies, after bequeathing his Skeleton to the Doctor attached to the Opera, with an understanding that the said Skeleton is to be kept in the Doctor’s Room at the Opera. Somehow, this Skeleton keeps its place through Revolutions, and Changes of Dynasty: and re-appears on the Scene when some Diablerie is on foot, as in Freischütz; where, says the Book, it still produces a certain effect. I forgot to say that the Subject wished to be in that Doctor’s Room in order that he might still be near his Beloved when she danced.
Now, is not this a capital piece of French all over?
In Sophie Gay’s ‘Salons de Paris’ [148] I read that when Madlle Contat (the Predecessor of Mars) was learning under Préville and his Wife for the Stage, she gesticulated too much, as Novices do. So the Prévilles confined her Arms like ‘une Momie’ she says, and then set her off with a Scene. So long as no great Passion, or Business, was needed, she felt pretty comfortable, she says: but when the Dialogue grew hot, then she could not help trying to get her hands free; and that, as the Prévilles told her, sufficiently told her when Action should begin, and not till then, whether in Grave or Comic. This anecdote (told by Contat herself) has almost an exact counterpart in Mrs. Siddons’ practice: who recited even Lear’s Curse with her hands and arms close to her side like an Egyptian Figure, and Sir Walter Scott, [149a] who heard her, said nothing could be more terrible. . . .
The Egyptian Mummy reminds me of a clever, dashing, Book we are reading on the subject, by Mr. Zincke, Vicar of a Village [149b] near Ipswich. Did you know, or do you believe, that the Mummy was wrapt up into its Chrysalis Shape as an Emblem of Future Existence; wrapt up, too, in bandages all inscribed with ritualistic directions for its intermediate stage, which was not one of total Sleep? I supposed that this might be a piece of ingenious Fancy: but Cowell, who has been over to see me, says it is probable.
I have brought my Eyes by careful nursing into sufficient strength to read Molière, and Montaigne, and two or three more of my old ‘Standards’ with all my old Relish. But I must not presume on this; and ought to spare your Eyes as well as my own in respect of this letter.
Woodbridge, Jan. /73.
My dear Pollock,
I have not been reading so much of my Gossip lately, to send you a good little Bit of, which I think may do you a good turn now and then. Give a look at ‘Egypt of the Pharaohs’ by Zincke, Vicar of a Parish near Woodbridge; the Book is written in a light, dashing (but not Cockney pert) way, easily looked over. There is a supposed Soliloquy of an English Labourer (called ‘Hodge’) as contrasted with the Arab, which is capital.
Do you know Taschereau’s Life of Molière? I have only got that prefixed to a common Edition of 1730. But even this is a delightful serio-comic Drama. I see that H. Heine says the French are all born Actors: which always makes me wonder why they care so for the Theatre. Heine too, I find, speaks of V. Hugo’s Worship of Ugliness; of which I find so much in --- and other modern Artists, Literary, Musical, or Graphic. . . .
What, you tell me, Palgrave said about me, I should have thought none but a very partial Friend, like Donne, would ever have thought of saying. But I’ll say no more on that head. Only that, as regards the little Dialogue, [150] I think it is a very pretty thing in Form, and with some very pretty parts in it. But when I read it two or three years ago, there was, I am sure, some over-smart writing, and some clumsy wording; insomuch that, really liking the rest, I cut out about a sheet, and substituted another, and made a few corrections with a Pen in what remained, though plenty more might be made, little as the Book is. Well; as you like this little Fellow, and I think he is worth liking, up to a Point, I shall send you a Copy of these amended Sheets.
My dear Pollock,
7¼ p.m. After a stroll in mine own Garden, under the moon—shoes kicked off—Slippers and Dressing Gown on—A Pinch of Snuff—and hey for a Letter—to my only London Correspondent!
And to London have I been since my last Letter: and have seen the Old Masters; and finished them off by such a Symphony as was worthy of the best of them, two Acts of Mozart’s ‘Così.’ You wrote me that you had ‘assisted’ at that also: the Singing, as you know, was inferior: but the Music itself! Between the Acts a Man sang a song of Verdi’s: which was a strange Contrast, to be sure: one of Verdi’s heavy Airs, however: for he has a true Genius of his own, though not Mozart’s. Well: I did not like even Mozart’s two Bravuras for the Ladies: a bad Despina for one: but the rest was fit for—Raffaelle, whose Christ in the Garden I had been looking at a little before. I had thought Titian’s Cornaro, and a Man in Black, by a Column, worth nearly all the rest of the Gallery till I saw the Raffaelle: and I couldn’t let that go with the others. All Lord Radnor’s Pictures were new to me, and nearly all very fine. The Vandykes delightful: Rubens’ Daniel, though all by his own hand, not half so good as a Return from Hunting, which perhaps was not: the Sir Joshuas not first rate, I think, except a small life Figure of a Sir W. Molesworth in Uniform: the Gainsboro’s scratchy and superficial, I thought: the Romneys better, I thought. Two fine Cromes: Ditto Turners: and—I will make an End of my Catalogue Raisonnée. . . .
I suppose you never read Béranger’s Letters: there are four thick Volumes of these, of which I have as yet only seen the Second and Third: and they are well worth reading. They make one love Béranger: partly because (odd enough) he is so little of a Frenchman in Character, French as his Works are. He hated Paris, Plays, Novels, Journals, Critics, etc., hated being monstered himself as a Great Man, as he proved by flying from it; seems to me to take a just measure of himself and others, and to be moderate in his Political as well as Literary Opinions.
I am hoping for Forster’s second volume of Dickens in Mudie’s forthcoming Box. Meanwhile, my Boy (whom I momently expect) reads me Trollope’s ‘He knew he was right,’ the opening of which I think very fine: but which seems to be trailing off into ‘longueur’ as I fancy Trollope is apt to do. But he ‘has a world of his own,’ as Tennyson said of Crabbe.
March 30/73.
My dear Pollock,
. . . You have never told me how you thought him [Spedding] looking, etc., though you told me that your Boy Maurice went to sit with him. It really reminds me of some happy Athenian lad who was privileged to be with Socrates. Some Plato should put down the Conversation.
I have just finished the second volume of Forster’s Dickens: and still have no reason not to rejoice in the Man Dickens. And surely Forster does his part well; but I can fancy that some other Correspondent but himself should be drawn in as Dickens’ Life goes on, and thickens with Acquaintances.
We in the Country are having the best of it just now, I think, in these fine Days, though we have nothing to show so gay as Covent Garden Market. I am thinking of my Boat on the River. . . .
You say I did not date my last letter: I can date this: for it is my Birthday. [153] This it was that made me resolve to send you the Photos. Hey for my 65th year! I think I shall plunge into a Yellow Scratch Wig to keep my head warm for the Remainder of my Days.
* * * * *
In September 1863 Mr. Ruskin addressed a letter to ‘The Translator of the Rubaiyat of Omar,’ which he entrusted to Mrs. Burne Jones, who after an interval of nearly ten years handed it to Mr. Charles Eliot Norton, Professor of the History of Fine Art in Harvard University. By him it was transmitted to Carlyle, who sent it to FitzGerald, with the letter which follows, of which the signature alone is in his own handwriting.
* * * * *
Chelsea, 14 April, 1873.
Dear FitzGerald,
Mr. Norton, the writer of that note, is a distinguished American (co-editor for a long time of the North American Review), an extremely amiable, intelligent and worthy man; with whom I have had some pleasant walks, dialogues and other communications, of late months;—in the course of which he brought to my knowledge, for the first time, your notable Omar Khayyam, and insisted on giving me a copy from the third edition, which I now possess, and duly prize. From him too, by careful cross-questioning, I identified, beyond dispute, the hidden ‘Fitzgerald,’ the Translator;—and indeed found that his complete silence, and unique modesty in regard to said meritorious and successful performance, was simply a feature of my own Edward F.! The translation is excellent; the Book itself a kind of jewel in its way. I do Norton’s mission without the least delay, as you perceive. Ruskin’s message to you passes through my hands sealed. I am ever your affectionate
T. Carlyle.
5 Cheyne
Row, Chelsea,
18 April 1873.
Dear Norton,
It is possible Fitzgerald may have written to you; but whether or not I will send you his letter to myself, as a slight emblem and memorial of the peaceable, affectionate, and ultra modest man, and his innocent far niente life,—and the connexion (were there nothing more) of Omar, the Mahometan Blackguard, and Oliver Cromwell, the English Puritan!—discharging you completely, at the same time, from ever returning me this letter, or taking any notice of it, except a small silent one.
FitzGerald to Carlyle.
(Enclosed in the preceding.)
[15 April 1873.]
My dear Carlyle,
Thank you for enclosing Mr. Norton’s Letter: and will you thank him for his enclosure of Mr. Ruskin’s? It is lucky for both R. and me that you did not read his Note; a sudden fit of Fancy, I suppose, which he is subject to. But as it was kindly meant on his part, I have written to thank him. Rather late in the Day; for his Letter (which Mr. Norton thinks may have lain a year or two in his Friend’s Desk) is dated September 1863.
Which makes me think of our old Naseby Plans, so long talked of, and undone. I have made one more effort since I last wrote to you; by writing to the Lawyer, as well as to the Agent, of the Estate; to intercede with the Trustees thereof, whose permission seems to be necessary. But neither Agent nor Lawyer have yet answered. I feel sure that you believe that I do honestly wish this thing to be done; the plan of the Stone, and Inscription, both settled: the exact site ascertained by some who were with me when I dug for you: so as we can even specify the so many ‘yards to the rear’ which you stipulated for: only I believe we must write ‘to the East—or Eastward’—in lieu of ‘to the rear.’ But for this Change we must have your Permission as well as from the Trustees theirs.
I am glad to hear from Mr. Norton’s Letter to you that you hold well, through all the Wet and Cold we have had for the last six months. Our Church Bell here has been tolling for one and another of us very constantly. I get out on the River in my Boat, and dabble about my five acres of Ground just outside the Town. Sometimes I have thought you might come to my pleasant home, where I never live, but where you should be treated with better fare than you had at Farlingay: where I did not like to disturb the Hostess’ Economy. But I may say this: you would not come; nor could I press you to do so. But I remain yours sincerely, I assure you,
E. F. G.
P.S. Perhaps I had better write a word of thanks to Mr. Norton myself: which I will do. I suppose he may be found at the address he gives.
To C. E. Norton.
Woodbridge, April 17/73.
Dear Sir,
Two days ago Mr. Carlyle sent me your Note, enclosing one from Mr. Ruskin ‘to the Translator of Omar Khayyám.’ You will be a little surprized to hear that Mr. Ruskin’s Note is dated September 1863: all but ten years ago! I dare say he has forgotten all about it long before this: however, I write him a Note of Thanks for the good, too good, messages he sent me; better late than never; supposing that he will not be startled and bored by my Acknowledgments of a forgotten Favor rather than gratified. It is really a funny little Episode in the Ten years’ Dream. I had asked Carlyle to thank you also for such trouble as you have taken in the matter. But, as your Note to him carries your Address, I think I may as well thank you for myself. I am very glad to gather from your Note that Carlyle is well, and able to walk, as well as talk, with a congenial Companion. Indeed, he speaks of such agreeable conversation with you in the Message he appends to your Letter. For which thanking you once more, allow me to write myself yours sincerely,
Edward FitzGerald.
[5 May, 1873.]
Dear Pollock,
. . . I see that you were one of those who were at Macready’s Funeral. I, too, feel as if I had lost a Friend, though I scarce knew him but on the Stage. But there I knew him as Virginius very well, when I was a Boy (about 1821), and when Miss Foote was his Daughter. Jackson’s Drawing of him in that Character is among the best of such Portraits, surely. I think I shall have a word about M. from Mrs. Kemble, with whom I have been corresponding a little since her return to England. She has lately been staying with her Son-in-Law, Mr. Leigh, at Stoneleigh Vicarage, near Kenilworth. In the Autumn she says she will go to America, never to return to England. But I tell her she will return. . . .
My Eyes have been leaving me in the lurch again: partly perhaps from taxing them with a little more Reading: partly from going on the Water, and straining after our River Beacons, in hot Sun and East Wind; partly also, and main partly I doubt, from growing so much older and the worse for wear. I am afraid this very Letter will be troublesome to you to read: but I must write at a Gallop if at all. . . .
[1873.]
My dear Pollock,
. . . This is Sunday Night: 10 p.m. And what is the Evening Service which I have been listening to? The ‘Eustace Diamonds’: which interest me almost as much as Tichborne. I really give the best proof I can of the Interest I take in Trollope’s Novels, by constantly breaking out into Argument with the Reader (who never replies) about what is said and done by the People in the several Novels. I say ‘No, no! She must have known she was lying!’ ‘He couldn’t have been such a Fool! etc.’
[1873.]
My dear Pollock,
. . . I am very shy of ‘The Greatest Poem,’ The Greatest Picture, Symphony, etc., but one single thing I always was assured of: that ‘The School’ was the best Comedy in the English Language. Not wittier than Congreve, etc., but with Human Character that one likes in it; Charles, both Teazles, Sir Oliver, etc. Whereas the Congreve School inspires no sympathy with the People: who are Manners not Men, you know. Voilà de suffisamment péroré à ce sujet-là. . . . I set my Reader last night on beginning The Mill on the Floss. I couldn’t take to it more than to others I have tried to read by the Greatest Novelist of the Day: but I will go on a little further. Oh for some more brave Trollope; who I am sure conceals a much profounder observation than these Dreadful Denners of Romance under his lightsome and sketchy touch, as Gainboro compared to Denner.
My dear Pollock,
Thank you for the Fraser, and your Paper in it: which I relished very much for its Humour, Discrimination, and easy style; like all you write. Perhaps I should not agree with you about all the Pictures: but you do not give me any great desire to put that to the test.
Max Müller’s Darwin Paper reminded me of an Observation in Bacon’s Sylva; [160] that Apes and Monkeys, with Organs of Speech so much like Man’s have never been taught to speak an Articulate word: whereas Parrots and Starlings, with organs so unlike Man’s, are easily taught to do so. Do you know if Darwin, or any of his Followers, or Antagonists, advert to this?
I have been a wonderful Journey—for me—even to Naseby in Northamptonshire; to authenticate the spot where I dug up some bones of those slain there, for Gurlyle thirty years ago. We are to put up a Stone there to record the fact, if we can get leave of the present Owners of the Field; a permission, one would think, easy enough to obtain; but I have been more than a Year trying to obtain it, notwithstanding; and do not know that I am nearer the point after all. The Owner is a Minor: and three Trustees must sanction the thing for him; and these three Trustees are all great People, all living in different parts of England; and, I suppose, forgetful of such a little matter, though their Estate-agent, and Lawyer, represented it to them long ago.
I stayed at Cambridge some three hours on my way, so as to look at some of the Old, and New, Buildings, which I had not seen these dozen years and more. The Hall of Trinity looked to me very fine; and Sir Joshua’s Duke of Gloucester the most beautiful thing in it. I looked into the Chapel, where they were at work: the Roof seemed to me being overdone: and Roubiliac’s Newton is now nowhere, between the Statues of Bacon and Barrow which are executed on a larger scale. [161] And what does Spedding say to Macaulay in that Company? I never saw Cambridge so empty, but not the less pleasant.
[1873.]
My dear Pollock,
Two or three years ago I had three or four of my Master-pieces done up together for admiring Friends. It has occurred to me to send you one of these instead of the single Dialogue which I was looking in the Box for. I think you have seen, or had, all the things but the last, [162] which is the most impudent of all. It was, however, not meant for Scholars: mainly for Mrs. Kemble: but as I can’t read myself, nor expect others of my age to read a long MS. I had it printed by a cheap friend (to the bane of other Friends), and here it is. You will see by the notice that Æschylus is left ‘nowhere,’ and why; a modest proviso. Still I think the Story is well compacted: the Dialogue good, (with one single little originality; of riding into Rhyme as Passion grows) and the Choruses (mostly ‘rot’ quoad Poetry) still serving to carry on the subject of the Story in the way of Inter-act. Try one or two Women with a dose of it one day; not Lady Pollock, who knows better. . . . When I look over the little Prose Dialogue, I see lots that might be weeded. I wonder at one word which is already crossed—‘Emergency.’ ‘An Emergency!’ I think Blake could have made a Picture of it as he did of the Flea. Something of the same disgusting Shape too. . . . Blake seems to me to have fine things: but as by random, like those of a Child, or a Madman, of Genius. Is there one good whole Piece, of ever so few lines? . . .
What do you think of a French saying quoted by Heine, that when ‘Le bon Dieu’ gets rather bored in Heaven, he opens the windows, and takes a look at the Boulevards? Heine’s account of the Cholera in France is wonderful.
My dear Pollock,
I am wondering in what Idiom you will one day answer my last. [163a] Meanwhile, I have to thank you for Lady Pollock’s Article on American Literature: which I like, as all of hers. Only, I cannot understand her Admiration of Emerson’s ‘Humble Bee’; which, without her Comment, I should have taken for a Burlesque on Barry Cornwall, or some of that London School. Surely, that ‘Animated Torrid Zone’ without which ‘All is Martyrdom,’ etc., is rather out of Proportion. I wish she had been able to tell us that ten copies of Crabbe sold in America for one in England: rather than Philip of Artevelde. Perhaps Crabbe does too. What do you and Miladi think of these two Lines of his which returned to me the other day? Talking of poor Vagrants, etc.,
Whom Law condemns, and Justice with a Sigh
Pursuing, shakes her Sword, and passes by. [163b]
There are heaps of such things lying hid in the tangle of Crabbe’s careless verse; and yet such things, you know, are not the best of him, the distressing Old Man! Who would expect such a Prettyness as this of him?
As of fair Virgins dancing in a round,
Each binds the others, and herself is bound—[163c]
so the several Callings and Duties of Men in Civilized Life, etc. Come! If Lady Pollock will write the Reason of all this, I will supply her with a Lot of it without her having the trouble of looking through all the eight volumes for it. I really can do little more than like, or dislike, Dr. Fell, without a further Reason: which is none at all, though it may be a very good one. So I distinguish Phil-osophers, and Fell-osophers; which is rather a small piece of Wit. And I don’t like the Humble Bee; and won’t like the Humble Bee, in spite of all the good reasons Miladi gives why I should; and so tell her: and tell her to forgive hers and yours always,
E. F. G.
To W. B. Donne.
Alde
Cottage, Aldeburgh.
August 18, [1873].
My dear Donne,
There being a change of servants in Market Hill, Woodbridge, I came here for a week, bringing Tacitus [164] in my Pocket. You know I don’t pretend to judge of History: I can only say that you tell the Story of Tacitus’ own Life, and of what he has to tell of others, very readably indeed to my Thinking: and so far I think my Thinking is to be relied on. Some of the Translations from T. by your other hands read so well also that I have wished to get at the original. But I really want an Edition such as you promised to begin upon. Thirty years ago I thought I could make out these Latins and Greeks sufficiently well for my own purpose; I do not think so now; and want good help of other men’s Scholarship, and also of better Eyes than my own.
I am not sure if you were ever at this place: I fancy you once were. It is duller even than it used to be: because of even the Fishing having almost died away. But the Sea and the Shore remain the same; as to Nero, in that famous passage [165] I remember you pointed out to me: not quite so sad to me as to him, but not very lively. I have brought a volume or two of Walpole’s Letters by way of amusement. I wish you were here; and I will wait here if you care to come. Might not the Sea Air do you good?
To T. Carlyle.
Woodbridge, Septr. 8/73.
My dear Carlyle,
Enclosed is the Naseby Lawyer’s answer on behalf of the Naseby Trustees. I think it will seem marvellous in your Eyes, as it does in mine.
You will see that I had suggested whether moving the Obelisk, the ‘foolish Obelisk,’ might not be accomplished in case The Stone were rejected. You see also that my Lawyer offers his mediation in the matter if wished. I cannot believe the Trustees would listen to this Scheme any more than to the other. Nor do I suppose you would be satisfied with the foolish Obelisk’s Inscription, which warns Kings not to exceed their just Prerogative, nor Subjects [to swerve from] their lawful Obedience, etc., but does not say that it stands on the very spot where the Ashes of the Dead told of the final Struggle.
I say, I do not suppose any good will come of this second Application. The Trouble is nothing to me; but I will not trouble this Lawyer, Agent, etc., till I hear from you that you wish me to do so. I suppose you are now away from Chelsea; I hope among your own old places in the North. For I think, and I find, that as one grows old one returns to one’s old haunts. However, my letter will reach you sooner or later, I dare say: and, if one may judge from what has passed, there will be no hurry in any future Decision of the ‘Three Incomprehensibles.’
I have nothing to tell of myself; having been nowhere but to that Naseby. I am among my old haunts: so have not to travel. But I shall be very glad to hear that you are the better for having done so; and remain your ancient Bedesman,
E. F. G.
The Hill,
Dumfries, N.B.
13 Sep., 1873.
Dear FitzGerald,
There is something at once pathetic and ridiculous and altogether miserable and contemptible in the fact you at last announce that by one caprice and another of human folly perversity and general length of ear, our poor little enterprize is definitively forbidden to us. Alas, our poor little ‘inscription,’ so far as I remember it, was not more criminal than that of a number on a milestone; in fact the whole adventure was like that of setting up an authentic milestone in a tract of country (spiritual and physical) mournfully in want of measurement; that was our highly innocent offer had the unfortunate Rulers of the Element in that quarter been able to perceive it at all! Well; since they haven’t, one thing at least is clear, that our attempt is finished, and that from this hour we will devoutly give it up. That of shifting the now existing pyramid from Naseby village and rebuilding it on Broadmoor seems to me entirely inadmissible;—and in fact unless you yourself should resolve, which I don’t counsel, on marking, by way of foot-note, on the now existing pyramid, accurately how many yards off and in what direction the real battle ground lies from it, there is nothing visible to me which can without ridiculous impropriety be done.
The trouble and bother you have had with all this, which I know are very great, cannot be repaid you, dear old friend, except by my pious thankfulness, which I can well assure you shall not be wanting. But actual money, much or little, which the surrounding blockheads connected with this matter have first and last cost you, this I do request that you will accurately sum up that I may pay the half of it, as is my clear debt and right. This I do still expect from you; after which Finis upon this matter for ever and a day. . . .
Good be ever with you, dear
FitzGerald,
I am and remain Yours truly
(Signed) T. Carlyle.
To W. F. Pollock.
[16 Dec. 1873.]
. . . What do you think I am reading? Voltaire’s ‘Pucelle’: the Epic he was fitted for. It is poor in Invention, I think: but wonderful for easy Wit, and the Verse much more agreeable to me than the regularly rhymed Alexandrines. I think Byron was indebted to it in his Vision of Judgment, and Juan: his best works. There are fine things too: as when Grisbourdon suddenly slain tells his Story to the Devils in Hell where he unexpectedly makes his Appearance,
Et tout l’Enfer en rit d’assez bon cœur.
This is nearer the Sublime, I fancy, than anything in the Henriade. And one Canto ends:
J’ai dans mon temps possédé des maîtresses,
Et j’aime encore à retrouver mon cœur—
is very pretty in the old Sinner. . . .
I am engaged in preparing to depart from these dear Rooms where I have been thirteen years, and don’t know yet where I am going. [169]
To John Allen.
Grange
Farm: Woodbridge
Febr: 21/74.
My dear Allen,
While I was reading a volume of Ste. Beuve at Lowestoft a Fortnight ago, I wondered if you got on with him; j’avais envie de vous écrire une petite Lettre à ce sujet: but I let it go by. Now your Letter comes; and I will write: only a little about S. B. however, only that: the Volume I had with me was vol. iii. of my Edition (I don’t know if yours is the same), and I thought you [would] like all of three Causeries in it: Rousseau, Frederick the Great, and Daguesseau: the rest you might not so much care for: nor I neither.
Hare’s Spain was agreeable to hear read: I have forgot all about it. His ‘Memorials’ were insufferably tiresome to me. You don’t speak of Tichborne, which I never tire of: only wondering that the Lord Chief Justice sets so much Brains to work against so foolish a Bird. [170] The Spectator on Carlyle is very good, I think. As to Politics I scarce meddle with them. I have been glad to revert to Don Quixote, which I read easily enough in the Spanish: it is so delightful that I don’t grudge looking into a Dictionary for the words I forget. It won’t do in English; or has not done as yet: the English colloquial is not the Spanish do. It struck me oddly that—of all things in the world!—Sir Thomas Browne’s Language might suit.
They now sell at the Railway Stalls Milnes’ Life of Keats for half a crown, as well worth the money as any Book. I would send you a Copy if you liked: as I bought three or four to give away.
You may see that I have changed my Address: obliged to leave the Lodging where I had been thirteen years: and to come here to my own house, while another Lodging is getting ready, which I doubt I shall not inhabit, as it will entail Housekeeping on me. But I like to keep my house for my Nieces: it is not my fault they do not make it their home.
Ever yours, E. F. G.
Grange
Farm, Woodbridge.
February 26/74.
My dear Laurence,
. . . I am not very solicitous about the Likeness [171] as I might be of some dear Friend; but I was willing to have a Portrait of the Poet whom I am afraid I read more than any other of late and with whose Family (as you know) I am kindly connected. The other Portrait, which you wanted to see, and I hope have not seen, is by Phillips; and just represents what I least wanted, Crabbe’s company look; whereas Pickersgill represents the Thinker. So I fancy, at least.
Little
Grange, Woodbridge.
[July 4/74.]
My dear Laurence,
. . . I am (for a wonder) going out on a few days’ visit. . . . And, once out, I meditate a run to Edinburgh, only to see where Sir Walter Scott lived and wrote about. But as I have meditated this great Enterprize for these thirty years, it may perhaps now end again in meditation only. . . .
I am just finishing Forster’s Dickens: very good, I think: only, he has no very nice perception of Character, I think, or chooses not to let his readers into it. But there is enough to show that Dickens was a very noble fellow as well as a very wonderful one. . . . I, for one, worship Dickens, in spite of Carlyle and the Critics: and wish to see his Gadshill as I wished to see Shakespeare’s Stratford and Scott’s Abbotsford. One must love the Man for that.
To W. F. Pollock.
Little
Grange, Woodbridge.
July 23, [1874].
But I did get to Abbotsford, and was rejoiced to find it was not at all Cockney, not a Castle, but only in the half-castellated style of heaps of other houses in Scotland; the Grounds simply and broadly laid out before the windows, down to a field, down to the Tweed, with the woods which he left so little, now well aloft and flourishing, and I was glad. I could not find my way to Maida’s Grave in the Garden, with its false Quantity,
Ad jănuam Domini, etc.
which the Whigs and Critics taunted Scott with, and Lockhart had done it. ‘You know I don’t care a curse about what I write’; nor about what was imputed to him. In this, surely like Shakespeare: as also in other respects. I will worship him, in spite of Gurlyle, who sent me an ugly Autotype of Knox whom I was to worship instead.
Then I went to see Jedburgh [172] Abbey, in a half ruined corner of which he lies entombed—Lockhart beside him—a beautiful place, with his own Tweed still running close by, and his Eildon Hills looking on. The man who drove me about showed me a hill which Sir Walter was very fond of visiting, from which he could see over the Border, etc. This hill is between Abbotsford and Jedburgh: [173] and when his Coach horses, who drew his Hearse, got there, to that hill, they could scarce be got on.
My mission to Scotland was done; but some civil pleasant people, whom I met at Abbotsford, made me go with them (under Cook’s guidance) to the Trossachs, Katrine, Lomond, etc., which I did not care at all about; but it only took a day. After which, I came in a day to London, rather glad to be in my old flat land again, with a sight of my old Sea as we came along.
And in London I went to see my dear old Donne, because of wishing to assure myself, with my own eyes, of his condition; and I can safely say he looked better than before his Illness, near two years ago. He had a healthy colour; was erect, alert, and with his old humour, and interest in our old topics. . . .
I looked in at the Academy, as poor a show as ever I had seen, I thought; only Millais attracted me: a Boy with a red Sash: and that old Seaman with his half-dreaming Eyes while the Lassie reads to him. I had no Catalogue: and so thought the Book was—The Bible—to which she was drawing his thoughts, while the sea-breeze through the open Window whispered of his old Life to him. But I was told afterwards (at Donne’s indeed) that it was some account of a N. W. Passage she was reading. The Roll Call I could not see, for a three deep file of worshippers before it: I only saw the ‘hairy Cap’ as Thackeray in his Ballad, [174] and I supposed one would see all in a Print as well as in the Picture. But the Photo of Miss Thompson herself gives me a very favourable impression of her. It really looks, in face and dress, like some of Sir Joshua’s Women. . . .
Another Miss Austen! Of course under Spedding’s Auspices, the Father of Evil.
From W. H. Thompson to W. A. Wright.
On 17 July 1883, shortly after FitzGerald’s death, the late Master of Trinity wrote to me from Harrogate, ‘As regards FitzGerald’s letters, I have preserved a good many, which I will look through when we return to College. I have a long letter from Carlyle to him, which F. gave me. It is a Carlylesque étude on Spedding, written from dictation by his niece, but signed by the man himself in a breaking hand. The thing is to my mind more characteristic of T. Carlyle than of James Spedding—that “victorious man” as C. calls him. He seems unaware of one distinguishing feature of J. S.’s mind—its subtlety of perception—and the excellence of his English style escapes his critic, whose notices on that subject by the bye would not necessarily command assent.’
5 Cheyne
Row, Chelsea
6 Nov. 1874.
Dear FitzGerald,
Thanks for your kind little Letter. I am very glad to learn that you are so cheerful and well, entering the winter under such favourable omens. I lingered in Scotland, latterly against my will, for about six weeks: the scenes there never can cease to be impressive to me; indeed as natural in late visits they are far too impressive, and I have to wander there like a solitary ghost among the graves of those that are gone from me, sad, sad, and I always think while there, ought not this visit to be the last?
But surely I am well pleased with your kind affection for the Land, especially for Edinburgh and the scenes about it. By all means go again to Edinburgh (tho’ the old city is so shorn of its old grim beauty and is become a place of Highland shawls and railway shriekeries); worship Scott, withal, as vastly superior to the common run of authors, and indeed grown now an affectingly tragic man. Don’t forget Burns either and Ayrshire and the West next time you go; there are admirable antiquities and sceneries in those parts, leading back (Whithorn for example, Whitterne or candida casa) to the days of St. Cuthbert; not to speak of Dumfries with Sweetheart Abbey and the brooks and hills a certain friend of yours first opened his eyes to in this astonishing world.
I am what is called very well here after my return, worn weak as a cobweb, but without bodily ailment except the yearly increasing inability to digest food; my mind, too, if usually mournful instead of joyful, is seldom or never to be called miserable, and the steady gazing into the great unknown, which is near and comes nearer every day, ought to furnish abundant employment to the serious soul. I read, too; that is my happiest state, when I can get good books, which indeed I more and more rarely can.
Like yourself I have gone through Spedding, seven long long volumes, not skipping except where I had got the sense with me, and generally reading all of Bacon’s own that was there: I confess to you I found it a most creditable and even surprising Book, offering the most perfect and complete image both of Bacon and of Spedding, and distinguished as the hugest and faithfullest bit of literary navvy work I have ever met with in this generation. Bacon is washed clean down to the natural skin; and truly he is not nor ever was unlovely to me; a man of no culpability to speak of; of an opulent and even magnificent intellect, but all in the magnificent prose vein. Nothing or almost nothing of the ‘melodies eternal’ to be traced in him. Spedding’s Book will last as long as there is any earnest memory held of Bacon, or of the age of James VI., upon whom as upon every stirring man in his epoch Spedding has shed new veritable illumination; in almost the whole of which I perfectly coincided with Spedding. In effect I walked up to the worthy man’s house, whom I see but little, to tell him all this; and that being a miss, I drove up, Spedding having by request called here and missed me, but hitherto we have not met; and Spedding I doubt not could contrive to dispense with my eulogy. There is a grim strength in Spedding, quietly, very quietly invincible, which I did not quite know of till this Book; and in all ways I could congratulate the indefatigably patient, placidly invincible and victorious Spedding.
Adieu, dear F. I wish you a right quiet and healthy winter, and beg to be kept in memory as now probably your oldest friend.
Ever faithfully yours, dear F.,
T. Carlyle.
To W. H. Thompson.
[9 Nov. 1874.]
My dear Master,
I think there can be no criminal breach of Confidence in your taking a Copy, if you will, of C[arlyle]’s Letter. Indeed, you are welcome to keep it:—there was but one Person else I wished to show it to, and she (a She) can do very well without it. I sent it to you directly I got it, because I thought you would be as pleased as I was with C.’s encomium on Spedding, which will console him (if he needs Consolation) for the obduracy of the World at large, myself among the number. I can indeed fully assent to Carlyle’s Admiration of Spedding’s History of the Times, as well as of the Hero who lived in them. But the Question still remains—was it worth forty years of such a Life as Spedding’s to write even so good an Account of a few, not the most critical, Years of English History, and to leave Bacon (I think) a little less well off than when S. began washing him: I mean in the eyes of candid and sensible men, who simply supposed before that Bacon was no better than the Men of his Time, and now J. S. has proved it. I have no doubt that Carlyle takes up the Cudgels because he thinks the World is now going the other way. If Spedding’s Book had been praised by the Critics—Oh Lord!
But what a fine vigorous Letter from the old Man! When I was walking my Garden yesterday at about 11 a.m. I thought to myself ‘the Master will have had this Letter at Breakfast; and a thought of it will cross him tandis que le Prédicateur de Ste Marie soit en plein Discours, etc.’ . . .
If Lord Houghton be with you pray thank him for the first ébauche of Hyperion he sent me. Surely no one can doubt which was the first Sketch.
To Miss Anna Biddell.
12 Marine
Terrace, Lowestoft.
Jan. 18/75.
Dear Miss Biddell,
I am sending you a Treat. The old Athenæum told me there was a Paper by ‘Mr. Carlyle’ in this month’s Magazine; and never did I lay out half-a-crown better. And you shall have the Benefit of it, if you will. Why, Carlyle’s Wine, so far from weak evaporation, is only grown better by Age: losing some of its former fierceness, and grown mellow without losing Strength. It seems to me that a Child might read and relish this Paper, while it would puzzle any other Man to write such a one. I think I must write to T. C. to felicitate him on this truly ‘Green Old Age.’ Oh, it was good too to read it here, with the old Sea (which also has not sunk into Decrepitude) rolling in from that North: and as I looked up from the Book, there was a Norwegian Barque beating Southward, close to the Shore, and nearly all Sail set. Read—Read! you will, you must, be pleased; and write to tell me so.
This Place suits me, I think, at this time of year: there is Life about me: and that old Sea is always talking to one, telling its ancient Story.
Lowestoft. Febr. 2/75.
Dear Miss Biddell,
I am so glad (as the Gushingtons say) that you like the Carlyle. I have ordered the second Number and will send it to you when I have read it. Some People, I believe, hesitate in their Belief of its being T. C. or one of his School: I don’t for a moment: if for no other reason than that an Imitator always exaggerates his Model: whereas this Paper, we see, unexaggerates the Master himself: as one would wish at his time of Life. . . .
I ran over for one day to Woodbridge, to pay Bills, etc. But somehow I was glad to get back here. The little lodging is more to my liking than my own bigger rooms and staircases: and this cheerful Town better (at this Season) than my yet barren Garden. One little Aconite however looked up at me: Mr. Churchyard (in his elegant way) used to call them ‘New Year’s Gifts.’
To E. B. Cowell.
12 Marine
Terrace, Lowestoft.
Feb. 2/75.
My dear Cowell,
. . . I hope you have read, and liked, the Paper on the old Kings of Norway in last Fraser. I bought it because the Athenæum told me it was Carlyle’s; others said it was an Imitation of him: but his it must be, if for no other reason than that the Imitator, you know, always exaggerates his Master: whereas in this Paper Carlyle is softened down from his old Self, mellowed like old Wine. Pray read, and tell me you think so too. It is quite delightful, whoever did it. I was on the point of writing a Line to tell him of my own delight: but have not done so. . . .
I have failed in another attempt at Gil Blas. I believe I see its easy Grace, humour, etc. But it is (like La Fontaine) too thin a Wine for me: all sparkling with little adventures, but no one to care about; no Colour, no Breadth, like my dear Don; whom I shall resort to forthwith.
Lowestoft, Sept. 22, [1878].
My dear Pollock,
You will scarce thank me for a letter in pencil: perhaps you would thank me less if I used the steel pen, which is my other resource. You could very well dispense with a Letter altogether: and yet I believe it is pleasant to get one when abroad.
I dare say I may have told you what Tennyson said of the Sistine Child, which he then knew only by Engraving. He first thought the Expression of his Face (as also the Attitude) almost too solemn, even for the Christ within. But some time after, when A. T. was married, and had a Son, he told me that Raffaelle was all right: that no Man’s face was so solemn as a Child’s, full of Wonder. He said one morning that he watched his Babe ‘worshipping the Sunbeam on the Bedpost and Curtain.’ I risk telling you this again for the sake of the Holy Ground you are now standing on.
Which reminds me also of a remark of Béranger’s not out of place. He says God forgot to give Raffaelle to Greece, and made a ‘joli cadeau’ of him to the Church of Rome.
I brought here some Volumes of Lever’s ‘Cornelius O’Dowd’ Essays, very much better reading than Addison, I think. Also some of Sainte Beuve’s better than either. A sentence in O’Dowd reminded me of your Distrust of Civil Service Examinations: ‘You could not find a worse Pointer than the Poodle which would pick you out all the letters of the Alphabet.’ And is not this pretty good of the World we live in? ‘You ask me if I am going to “The Masquerade.” I am at it: Circumspice!’
So I pick out and point to other Men’s Game, this Sunday Morning, when the Sun makes the Sea shine, and a strong head wind drives the Ships with shortened Sail across it. Last night I was with some Sailors at the Inn: some one came in who said there was a Schooner with five feet water in her in the Roads: and off they went to see if anything beside water could be got out of her. But, as you say, one mustn’t be epigrammatic and clever. Just before Grog and Pipe, the Band had played some German Waltzes, a bit of Verdi, Rossini’s ‘Cujus animam,’ and a capital Sailors’ Tramp-chorus from Wagner, all delightful to me, on the Pier: how much better than all the dreary oratorios going on all the week at Norwich; Elijah, St. Peter, St. Paul, Eli, etc. There will be an Oratorio for every Saint and Prophet; which reminds me of my last Story. Voltaire had an especial grudge against Habakkuk. Some one proved to him that he had misrepresented facts in Habakkuk’s history. ‘C’est égal,’ says V., ‘Habakkuk était capable de tout.’ Cornewall Lewis, who (like most other Whigs) had no Humour, yet tells this: I wonder if it will reach Dresden.
To Mrs. W. H. Thompson.
Little
Grange, Woodbridge.
Sept. 23, [1875].
Dear Mrs. Thompson,
It is very good of you to write to me, so many others as, I know, you must have to write to. I can tell you but little in return for the Story of your Summer Travel: but what little I have to say shall be said at once. As to Travel, I have got no further than Norfolk, and am rather sorry I did not go further North, to the Scottish Border, at any rate. But now it is too late. I have contented myself with my Boat on the River here: with my Garden, Pigeons, Ducks, etc.; a great Philosopher indeed! But (to make an end of oneself) I have not been well all the summer; unsteady in head and feet; the Beginning of the End, I suppose; and if the End won’t be too long spinning out, one cannot complain of its coming too soon. . . .
I had a kindly Letter from Carlyle some days ago: he was summering at some place near Bromley in Kent, lent him by a Lady Derby; once, he says, Lady Salisbury, which I don’t understand. He had also the use of a Phaeton and Pony; which latter he calls ‘Shenstone’ from a partiality to stopping at every Inn door. Carlyle had been a little touched in revisiting Eltham, and remembering Frank Edgeworth who resided there forty years ago ‘with a little Spanish Wife, but no pupils.’ Carlyle would name him with a sort of sneer in the Life of Sterling; [184] could not see that any such notice was more than needless, just after Edgeworth’s Death. This is all a little Scotch indelicacy to other people’s feelings. But now Time and his own Mortality soften him. I have been looking over his Letters to me about Cromwell: the amazing perseverance and accuracy of the Man, who writes so passionately! In a letter of about 1845 or 6 he says he has burned at least six attempts at Cromwell’s Life: and finally falls back on sorting and elucidating the Letters, as a sure Groundwork. . . .
I have this Summer made the Acquaintance of a great Lady, with whom I have become perfectly intimate, through her Letters, Madame de Sévigné. I had hitherto kept aloof from her, because of that eternal Daughter of hers; but ‘it’s all Truth and Daylight,’ as Kitty Clive said of Mrs. Siddons. Her Letters from Brittany are best of all, not those from Paris, for she loved the Country, dear Creature; and now I want to go and visit her ‘Rochers,’ but never shall.