London, April 26th.

Dearest Bimbo,—You have made us pass some very anxious hours, as the telegraph which I sent off at seven this morning will have testified, though it will also have surprised and perhaps alarmed you until you read its contents. The fact is, I thought it odd that we did not hear from you, yesterday at all events, as I felt sure you would have written immediately on getting our joint note from Boulogne, Wednesday, and certainly on the following day. However, I felt sanguine that on going to dine at 79, I should find that Ad. had heard from you, but, on the contrary, I found her full of anxiety at no letter, imagining every species of cause for your silence, which she said was so very unlike you, that I directly caught the same state of worry, and we determined that I should telegraph the first thing this morning to know if you were ill, or if anything had happened. I never slept all night, and of course had worked myself, with her assistance, into a wretched state of anxiety about you—when at nine your letter arrived, and a blessed relief it was. I should not probably have been in such a state, had Adelaide not been convinced that illness or some catastrophe had prevented your writing, because, she said, your wont was to do so immediately on parting with her, and she could account for it in no other way. In short, dear Fay, we were very foolish; but I assure you our folly met its own punishment by the anxiety, and which spoilt our "Eli" entirely. Poor Fay! I daresay you little thought that we were tormenting ourselves about you, and I, for one, shall try and not do so any more. Your letter is like yourself—dear and kind. With regard to the enclosure, my opinion is that you would not do wisely or handsomely by Colnaghi to withdraw your picture from his keeping, unless he wished to get rid of it to make room for the supposed exhibition of drawings; moreover, my own opinion is that you would not do well to exhibit at the Crystal Palace. I have no faith in that institution, and I think it will be a pity to rob your studio of the "Pan" and "Venus" for that purpose; but as I do not consider myself a good judge of these matters or competent to advise you, I think I should be very much guided by what other artists of the same standing as yourself think and do in the matter, and before deciding or answering Mr. Magwood, I should write to Buckner or any one else competent to advise you and ask their opinion. I don't know what Sister Adelaide will say, but I have sent her your letter and the enclosure, and she will probably write to you on the subject. You are too dear and nice about my mother. I fear that before you come she will have left London, and I don't think you would like to paint her, because her sweet face is entirely hidden by the shade she is obliged to wear over her poor eyes; but you know whether I should like her portrait painted by you! But, dear Fay, you are too lavish of your time on others, and do not think enough of yourself. Here I was interrupted by a visit from Adelaide, overjoyed at hearing all is well with you, and agreeing entirely with me in re C. Palace, Colnaghi, &c. She says if C. wishes the picture to be removed, it is for him to express that wish and not you, that a better order of people go to him than those who frequent the C.P., that he is well-disposed towards you, and that it is advisable you should keep him as your friend.

We think Mogford's reference useless, being a foreigner, and we are certain that unless Millais and others of the same class exhibit at the C.P., you had best have nothing to do with it. I took Ad. up to your room, and she says you will be comfy in it; and she saw your nice face, patted it, and said, "Dear Fay, but it looks so sad!" She thinks both drawings will be better for a slight gilt rim, but I won't put it on without your leave. I am so glad you are leading a wholesome life, and getting the b. who planted you, rather than dawdle proudly, and be without a good moddle. I have nothing to say, dear Bimbo, and you will have had enough of me. I am very bad with an ulcerated throat, cough, and inflamed bronchia, and altogether below par. I have seen hardly anybody since I came. Adelaide would have been pleased with "Eli," had she been in a vein where pleasure was possible. Pauline sang to perfection the lovely music allotted to her. And now, dearest Bimbo, God bless you. Write very often, if only a line, as it is comfortable to hear that all is well with you—that is always the news I most wish to get; and tell me how the pictures progress, and your real state of mind about them.—Your old and loving Babbo,

H.

I send back Mogford. Penelope B. (Bentinck) tells me that the great judge, George, condescends to approve "Romeo" mightily!!

London, Monday, April 28th.

Dear good Fay,—Cartwright was wrong about the telegraph, but as our anxiety was removed by your letter, I did not expect you to send me one. Knowing how likely you were to write, supposing you to be well, you may imagine that we were not a little anxious at getting no sign of life from you, in return for our daily letters, and I never could have guessed that the Boulogne letter would only have reached you on Saturday! However, all is well that ends well, but we passed a very disagreeable day and night, and it was because we did not think you capable of putting off writing that we fussed and worried ourselves about you—foolishly, dear Fay, no doubt. I am very seedy and confined to the house by throat, bronchia, unceasing cough, swelled glands, bad eyes—and should not inflict myself and ailments upon you, but that it is a solace and a comfort to causer avec "mon petit dernier"—a cognomen which smiles upon me—and made me smile. Sister Adelaide tea'd with me last night en tête à tête. Fanny was grand, and would not come in, though she dropped her sister at my door, because (she said) I had not said to her that I wished for her! I was so little en train that I was not sorry to have only Adelaide, and we did more than once say how we wished Fay was eating the muffin destined for the proud Fanny. Adelaide has just been here, and brought me your dear letter. I don't see any present prospect of the fire of my affliction being extinguished or allowed to grow dim, so you may make your mind easy on that score, excellent Fay. I feel for your loneliness, and know what a contrast it must present with the sweet fellowship we have held together so unceasingly for those last two months. The only thing you gain by the loss of your people is more time, and a later repast. I don't doubt poor Mamma being unhappy at leaving you, her true and only Benjamin, and for an indefinite time. I can judge by what I felt at parting with mon petit dernier, and with the hope of so soon greeting him again. No, Fay, I won't have the Charley drawing, and I won't have you do anything more for any one but yourself, knowing as I do all the things you have on hand—and à propos of that, I must tell you that I have endeavoured to put another iron in the fire in re fresco. I asked Lady Abercorn, who is my dearest friend, to speak to Lord Aberdeen (her father-in-law) who is on the Committee of Taste, or whatever it is called, first about your picture at Colnaghi's and then of you generally as desirous of painting in fresco, and as of one whose studies have been that way directed, in whom I take a great interest; but I made her understand that it was no job I wanted done, or that I asked any favour, but merely I wished it to be known that Leighton, a very rising artist, would like to be employed in that line, if an occasion presented itself. Lady A. understood me exactly and being very sympathetic immediately conceived an interest for my petit dernier (I wish you were my son, Fay!) and said if she did not see Lord Aberdeen very soon she would write to him. Neither I nor Adelaide know where Windsor and Newton live, so you had best write straight to him to send the colours you want. I think I must put just a baguette d'or on the drawings, and when you see them on my walls I don't think you will disapprove. With regard to Cartwright, Adelaide says Jules Sartoris has got a place called Tusmore. I should advise him to lose no time in advertising it both in the newspaper and by different agents in town and country. I should think it was a place sure to be let, from its convenient distance from London and other advantages. There is no news here.

London, May 6th.

Dearest Fay,—Your letter is a relief and a comfort. It is both to me to see you take this disagreeable business so manfully, so wisely, and to think that instead of being cast down, your energies will only be aroused by this stupid and unjust criticism. In this case it may, then, well be said, "Sweet are the uses of adversity." As to all the other papers, I can't pretend to say what they may have written, but the Leader is one of no repute, and, as Ruskin said to Adelaide this morning, it don't really signify what they write; in the long run talent and genius must prevail, as yours will, dear Fay, if it please God to grant you, as I fervently pray, health and strength. She is going to write to you, and will tell you all Ruskin said, and also what she thinks of the Exhibition in general and your picture in particular, which, I hear, is infamously placed—that is, in so bad a light that only Orpheus is visible. Passing, I must tell you that Edward (Sartoris) came to see me yesterday, and the first thing he said on entering the room was, "Well, I don't think Leighton's picture looks bad. Orpheus's drapery is too yellow, but it don't look amiss at all." This was rather much for him, eh? He likes "Autumn Leaves," and he praised the "Leslie" (which Adelaide says is all very well, but "slaty"). Landseer is beautiful—but E. (Edward Sartoris) was sous le charme, having sat next him at dinner at Marochetti's, when he told me L. was as much aux petits soins for him as if he had been the loveliest of females. I am so glad about the models, and if I don't hear from you as often shall know why. I am also glad you dine with Cartwright and Co., but how you can dandle a nasty, doughy, puffy, bread-and-butter smelling thing called a baby! Pah! a baby is my horror and aversion. Never do it again—not even by your own. I could not have dandled even my Bimbo without a grimace. Well done! old hideous ——; if she promise not to act herself, I'll take a box for her next benefit. She is the âme damnée of Macready, so that her verdict surprises me. I expect she will begin imitating her, and have Medea translated—horrible idea! Read Ellesmere's speech; it is very pretty, and the whole debate is interesting, but Derby and Co. don't cut a good figure at all. I am getting better now, and dined with my parent yesterday, but can't go out in daytime for fear of eyes and throat, the wind is so cold. Of course I read your letter to Ad. (Adelaide Sartoris). (I think you had best now write straight to her, because as I am soon hoping to be out, and have no one to send so far, your letters will get to her quicker and more surely by post.)

You must be very careful, and take time to weigh well and consider the subjects of your future pictures. I think the Mermaid might be both interesting and effective well carried out, and you might also perhaps paint some subject from some one of the Italian poets—Tasso, Ariosto, Boccaccio—for your own satisfaction. God bless you! my dear boy. I am longing to see you again already. Tell me how the models answer and how you get on. Don't call Brackley de. They are removed to the Meurice. If you don't find them, write to her and offer to go with her (saying at my suggestion) to the Louvre.—Love your old Babbo,

H.

1856, Hatchford, Thursday.

My dear Boy,—I do sympathise with your disgust at the same time that I think you have acted very légèrement about your pictures, and, in fact, taken no trouble or heed about them. You should have seen to it all yourself before you left London, or have given directions to Watts, to which he would have attended, instead of leaving him in total ignorance as to what you meant or wished, and which picture or if both were to go. I kept perpetually telling you to see after this business and to be more exact in it, but you see now the consequence of not attending to things more carefully. You had better write a curt letter to Greene, reminding him that you had given written directions (as you say) that it was your "Pan" that was to be removed, and that you made no mention of the "Venus" (what has he done with her?), and again asking him (since he had not replied to the query) whether he had got the "Romeo." I shan't be in London until to-morrow night late, and as you are to be there on Monday there will be no use in my going to Greene, but I can do so on Saturday if you wish it. I have had an answer from Ellesmere's secretary, to whom I wrote to go and see if your pictures were well hung, to say that the Exhibition only opens in first week of September,[58] but that he has a friend who is an influential member of the hanging committee, and that he will speak to him in favour of yours being put into a good light. I heard from Adelaide yesterday that she will be in town on Monday and will dine us. I hoped you would have stayed (and she too) all Tuesday and gone away on Wednesday morning, so that we might have spent two evenings together, and I am disappointed. I shall go to Scotland on Wednesday, and am sorry to have settled to do so. I suppose you know Alfred Sartoris marries Miss Barrington—an alliance which will enchant Aunt ——, as the young lady is "The Honourable," and allied to several marquesses and earls.—Addio, caro, your ever affectionate      H.

P.S.—Write again by all means to Greene asking what has become of the "Venus," and also whether the "Romeo" has or not been sent to Manchester—whether you employ him or not, you have a right to know what he has done with your property. Write a line to Queen Street to-morrow to say at what time you will be there on Monday that I may not be out of the way.

Rain has come, but it is still deliciously warm and fine in the intervals.

London, August 26, 1856.

My dearest Fay,—I have just got your letter of Saturday 23rd from Frankfort, and as you state therein that you were to leave that place on Monday, and that the letters which I sent to Malet for you could only reach him on that morning, it is next to certain that they will not have reached you. I requested him, in the event of your having left Frankfort, or in his failing to find you out, to send them on to the p. restante at Venice, and you will probably find them there together with this letter, but I think it best also to send you the originals for fear of accident, as it is desirable that you should write to Mr. Harrison yourself.[59] In the meanwhile, I have told him that when I knew your address I would apprize him of it, and in a few days I shall write and say that you are at Venice; but I don't think he will write to you any more, but that he will expect to know when you are likely to return. Having got so far, it of course is out of the question that you should think of, or for a moment be expected to return on purpose, and I think it most likely you will be able to get Watts to go and look at the picture, in case the matter should be pressing; but I think it will be best that you offer to return to England before you settle at Paris, and whenever your present tour (which I told Mr. Harrison was one for artistic purposes) shall be ended. It will be a great bore having to come back even then, on purpose. I am sorry you did not get the letters at Frankfort; on the whole though, perhaps they would only have worried you and have made you hesitate as to returning, and which perhaps you might have thought shorter and less troublesome than having to come back by-and-bye. However, it is very probable you may get Watts to do what is necessary, and that you may be saved the expense and bore of another journey here in the autumn. Adelaide and I contemplated the possibility of your coming over at once from Frankfort, and we both deprecated the idea, though we privately said how intensely glad we should be to see you—selfish as it might be; and it was arranged that I was to telegraph to her to Tunbridge where she is gone to-day. Thanks, you dear boy, for your letter just received. I can understand your pleasure at finding yourself in your old haunts again, with your old friend and master to whom you owe so much. It is a great comfort to me to find that he likes your drawings, though I never doubted his doing so. I was amused by your account of the Pimp and Ballerina, whose modesty seems to have attracted you more than that of the Russian Princess. Since writing to you last I have done but little. I am come into town this morning expecting to find Ffrench, but he has not turned up. I saw Sister A.[60] yesterday on her way through, but my visit was spoilt by the —— Girls and Cigala, who (as he never made love to me) appears to me merely a bon sabreur and horse fancier. You know my opinion of the young ladies, who, par parenthèse, adore you. I am still at H. (Holland) House, and shall remain there until Friday, when I come to dine with Adelaide, and shall then go to Hatchford until I repair to Worsley—my sister will be established there before long. Yesterday, Ellesmere's secretary sent me a letter to say that the gent. of the hanging committee "would take care that Mr. Leighton's pictures were placed in the most favourable position."[61] So let us hope for the best. I must tell you that Vic. is come home, and is now opposite to me, and that she looks admirably well. We have had heaps of people at H. House at dinner almost every day. Marochetti came yesterday. He is full of the subject of colouring statues, and has just taken to Osborne two busts which the Queen was to present to-day to P. Albert for his birthday. Marochetti traite d'imbéciles all the English sculptors who cannot yet take in this "undoubted fact." He says Gibson is the only one who admits it, but even he will not go Marochetti's lengths. Watts is (you know) at Malvern, and the doctor thought him decidedly better before he went, and that he may get into tolerable health. I think he is to be at Malvern three weeks. John Leslie's wedding is at this moment proceeding; he has almost settled to buy Lady C. Lascelles' house at Campden Hill, which will be a capital position for his studio, and another Sunday lounge for you next year. Next year! (eheu fugaces!) a long time to wait to see you again under my roof, you very dear boy. I always think this dispersing time so melancholy. I wonder if I shall hear from you before Venice. Oh yes, of course, you will write wherever you stop. Mind and tell me about your studies, and what you see and do—above all things take care of your health, and don't catch fever by working in the sun, &c. Charles says he can't think where your hat box can be—he is in ecstasies with your old trousers, which have come out brand new and a capital fit! You would be quite envious if you could see them.

Good-bye, best of Fays. I shall send this letter off and write another in a few days. I will mark outside the dates of my letters (and pray, mind and always date yours—you never do) so that you will know which to open first. God bless you, you dear good fellow.—Love your fond old,

Babbo.

London, Thursday, August 28.

Dearest Fay,—One line to say that this afternoon your letter of Sunday with the enclosed for Harrison reached me. It is a relief to me that you got the letters, and I think your answer does very well, but as it had no cover, and that I was obliged to send it in my own name to Harrison, I added, what you had better have done, that if necessary you could easily come over the beginning of November, and I rather hope they will accept that offer, as by that time the Court will have returned from Scotland (perhaps to Windsor though), and you might have a chance of being brought into contact with Albert, and you would jabber good German to him and win his heart, which may be valuable to you. With regard to Watts, he said he should be too happy to do anything for you, but he wished you to be thrown with Albert. He (Watts) is better and has left Malvern. I got yesterday the Manchester Guardian, with a sort of preliminary list of the pictures which are to be opened to the private view to-morrow. They were not then all hung, but they mention the "Romeo" as in a conspicuous place—a sombre picture, but the Romeo and Juliet finely conceived—or something to that effect. You shall hear all about it. I have got little Ffrench till Saturday, when I go to Hatchford and he home. I expect Adelaide to-morrow—we dine with her, and I fear shall have ——, which will be a potent bore. There is of course no other news. Penelope Bentinck has produced a huge boy, and is quite well. John Leslie's marriage went off without any tears, and he made a very good "neat and appropriate."

God bless you, my very dear boy—you are not so fond of me as I am of you—be sure of it. Take care of yourself, and write to and love your old

Babbino.

Tell me all about your studies, as they interest me, and don't forget to put me up to some pretty cheap gilt-moulding for my frame.

Adelaide was pleased and touched at your seeing about her pictures. Fay, she is devotedly attached to you—you may be sure of it.

Hatchford, September 9.

My dearest Fay,—I am going to begin a letter to you which I can only send when I know where to direct to you, for after Venice (from whence I have not heard from you yet) you have given me no address. I hope to hear that you got all mine sent to that place, and particularly the one enclosing a copy of Phipps' letter to me in which he tells me it is the Queen's wish that you come over here on your return to Paris. I got your letter from Meran on Thursday last, and I sent it off to Adelaide by that post, enjoining her to let me have it back by the next, since which I have never had a line from her, and at last grew so alarmed that I wrote to Anne to ask what had happened, and that I could not but fear Ad. had been sent for to Edward[62] in Ireland. To this letter I got no reply, and I have been in great suspense and anxiety till this morning, when sure enough my surmise proved correct, and I got a few lines from Adelaide herself from Muckross, whither she arrived on Saturday, having left Warnford the day before, they having sent for her. She has, I do not doubt, written to you and told you that she found him neither dead or dying, but in a low, bilious fever, having been in bed a week, and the doctor not giving much hope of a speedy recovery. She, however, intends to move him as soon as it is possible, but it may be some time first, and of course their plans are more or less uncertain, and mine of meeting them in London at an end, as I shall be gone to Worsley before they can be in town. It is, however, a mercy that this illness is not even more serious than it is. When I heard his account of himself as I passed through London, I wondered that she was not more alarmed, but I did not tell her how serious the case appeared to me, and as it has proved; and when I did not hear from her, I immediately guessed what had occurred. She found Fordwich there, and says the place appeared a Paradise, and now that she is easy about Edward, perhaps she won't mind spending the time there instead of Warnford. Only, the boy was to go to Eton on the 11th, and I don't know how they will manage that. I have written to Ad. to-day, and have sent her a volume I received this morning from Fanny Kemble. The letter would interest you, but is too bulky to send. She speaks of you in a way that pleases me and would gratify your vanity in every respect, and describes you as one of the most interesting people she ever met, and hopes that your art may be an unceasing source of fame, profit, and delight to you. I will keep the letter and show it to you when I have the happiness of seeing you, my dear Fay. When Sarah leaves her she is to begin reading in the West, and I suspect that will answer better to her than the girl's society! Dear Fay, my sister writes to me that she and Brackley went into Manchester to see your pictures. I will transcribe what she says: "They are pretty well placed, but the 'Romeo' is so dark a picture it is difficult to see, and the lighting of the gallery has something of the defect of that at B. House. The 'Pan' and 'Venus' seem to me to be very good pictures. B. considers them improper. I like the 'Pan' the best. There are not many good pictures in the Exhibition." To this I replied that I was much diverted by Brackley's prudishness, but that if such personages were to be painted, it was not possible to clothe them in crinoline or in green gauze drawers such as Bomba imposed upon his Ballerina. It makes me so sick, all that cant about impropriety, but there is so much of it as to make the sale of "nude figures" very improbable, and therefore I hope you will turn your thoughts entirely to well-covered limbs, and paint no more Venuses for some time to come. I trust you will devote all your energies to the Romeo, Dalilah and Syren, and if you have any spare time, that you will do our Friar Lawrence. I forget if I told you that Miss Kaye saw your portrait of yourself, and says it is quite a libel on your physiognomy. Why did you make yourself so pinched and sad-looking, Fay?

September 12.—Your letter from Venice of 5th reached me this morning. I feel sure you will not have got my long letter directed there on the 5th and enclosing Phipps' answer, so I had better transcribe it: "It would be very desirable that Mr. L. should run over from Paris when there to see exactly what is the damage done to his picture, and I will have nothing done to it in the meantime, but care shall be taken that the injury shall not be increased. Mr. L. does not state in his letter where an answer would reach him, and if you are in communication with him perhaps you would have the kindness to mention to him what Her Majesty's wishes on this subject are." So, you see, my dear boy, you must come, and perhaps it may not be time so wasted, as I shall try and find out when the Queen comes back from Scotland, so that if possible you may time your arrival accordingly. The P. of Wales is going to see the manufactories at Manchester, and they are going to ask him to Worsley, I believe. Only fancy those brutes at Warnford never sending me Adelaide's letter written to me the morning of her hastening off to Ireland a week ago until to-day! Too bad. She wrote in great distress of mind and evidently hardly expected to find Edward[63] alive, as she did not believe the telegraph which said he was better, thinking that if it were so they would not have sent for her. You dear boy, I am so glad you enjoy your Venice—which is all very pretty no doubt, but I hate stinks and fleas—and they abound there. I hate wobbling in a boat and walking in dirty alleys, so I don't envy you at all. Have you fallen in with either of the new married couples, Wilson or Leslie? Fay, it is well you should come and see me, for I don't think there is much chance of my going to Paris. The Hollands are going to Naples, as the wall of their house at Paris has been damaged by the pulling down of the next house and has to be rebuilt, and I shall have no money to pay for lodging and food. There are long lists of the pictures the Queen and others are to send to the great Manchester Exhibition next year—I think twenty at least from the Royal Galleries, and Ellesmere sends eight or ten. I see that Eastlake is at Rome, so you may fall in with him there. I conclude my next letter must be directed there. You should recollect to give your address d'avance. The second post has just brought me the enclosed, which, as she says she don't write to you, I send (though it will cost a fortune), knowing that it will gladden your eyes to see her hand. She loves you dearly as I do, Fay! Your Meran letters are very pretty, and I wish I could see that place. Good-bye, and God bless you. We have lovely weather—not one bad day since I have been here. Go and see the Villa Salviate. What have you done with Steinle—what heard of Gamba? Love.—Your old loving father,

H.

Muckross, Killarney.

Many thanks. I got a letter too this morning, which I send you with your own—let me have mine back. E. (Edward Sartoris) is certainly a little better, thank God—still in bed though. He hopes perhaps to get off next Saturday—this appears to me nothing short of impossible—Monday I should think the very soonest for such a move. This place is divinely beautiful, I see, but I go out very little, and what with the shock I received before starting, and the fatigue of my rapid journey, and the anxiety about him, I feel incapable of receiving any impression from the place. I seem to acknowledge its beauty, but I cannot get even a momentary enjoyment out of it at present. The hosts are very kind. Herbert always was an excellent fellow. I cannot write to Fay, for with all the delay caused by his letter having had to follow me here, my answer would no longer catch him at Venice, and I do not know where he next pitches his tent. Dear boy! he seems very happy—God bless him and keep him so!

Muckross, Tuesday, 9th.

Hatchford, September 22.

Dearest Fay,—The enclosed reached me to-day having first been sent to Ebury Street.[64] I think it best to send it to you that you may reflect on what you will do, though it seems to me that with the exception of the "Cimabue" you have no picture you could send to this Exhibition. If you wish to be represented by that work, I conclude you would have to ask permission of the Queen to send it there, and this should be done through "The Honourable Colonel Phipps," or Mr. Harrison, his secretary. This permission would of course be granted at once. When Charles told me in my bed this morning that a letter had come for you from Manchester, I fondly hoped it was to announce sale of one or other of your pictures! I wrote yesterday, and have nothing more to say to-day but that I am better, though still seedy. We have got the equinoctial gales with rain. I fancy we, France and England, are going to recall our missions from Naples, if Bomba don't give in, and send squadrons of ships. But what then? I don't suppose we mean to bombard the town. But he will do just enough to give us a pretence for holding our hand, and matters will then resume their ordinary course, and the K. of the two Sicilies be governed just as it was before. Our position is a very ticklish one in this affair. I long to hear whether you saw Pasta—and anything more than the waddle, the red face and beard. Mind and answer my questions. I should tell you that amongst your papers that came from Manchester they sent P. Albert's letter to Ellesmere, and the long prospectus too, but there is no use in forwarding it to you—this will already cost a fortune, but I think it best to send it. When is it you expect to be here? How long do you stay at home?—Addio, carissimo,

H.G.

London, September 29.

My dearest Fay,—Here I am, sleeping in London on my way to Worsley to-morrow morning, and I have got my Mère Augusta occupying your room; the first female I have ever housed or fed, and it will be a rehearsal for Sister Ad. I have just missed her, as she went to the station as I left it, but I found a letter from her just returned from putting the boy to school; it is a bore that I missed her, as I shall not see her for an age. Edward has been committing all sorts of follies and is again confined to his room, but is better. He ought to come to London and consult a clever man, or he will be very ill, as he was once before. What a fellow you are never to say a word about Pasta to me! Of course Mrs. Siddons had a magnificent eye and brow—who said she had not?—and was a glorious actress, but I should always have preferred Reston. What did Pasta say of her? You are wrong about P. not being powerful—she was tremendous; her voice was one of immense power—almost coarse at times, but prodigious, and her gestes sublime from grace and strength. Dear Fay, I have measured the frame; it is twelve inches wide and fourteen long. Now do find me a pretty cheap croûte. I have seen no one in London but Lady Shelburne, who said there was no news. She disapproves, like me, of the policy with regard to Naples, and I think we shall find by-and-by a great reaction là dessus. By-the-bye, when at Rome go and hear the opera Verdi has been composing for that place on the story of Adrienne, and tell me all about it. He wrote formerly such pretty melodies, and is a clever fellow. I don't know what Adelaide will do about going to Germany, but I hope give it up, as for many reasons it appears to me at this moment to be a foolish scheme.

Good-night, you dear boy. I can't frank this, as it is late, and I don't know how, so you must pay this time. Write soon, and answer my letters.

I don't quite understand what it is you are doing in Italy except amuse yourself. Is there any other ——? How long will it be before I see you?—Addio, caro caro, tanto tanto,

H.

Hatchford, Wednesday.

My dearest Fay,—In my affliction, I have one consolation—and it is such events as these that prove it—I am rich in friends, more so, much more than I deserve—and amongst them there is no one whose unselfish love I prize more than yours.

Dear Fay, I know you feel for me, and I am grateful.

God bless you for it.—Your affectionate

H.

Athenæum Club, Pall Mall, S.W.,
Friday.

My dear Papa,—I lost last night one of my oldest and dearest friends—Henry Greville; he died without much suffering, and looks this morning calm and beautiful in his rest. You know what I lose in him.—Your affectionate son,

Fred.

The Athenæum.

My dear Johnny,—I write one line in haste to say how sorry I am to hear that your health has been unsatisfactory of late. I earnestly trust you won't disregard your doctor's advice, and that you will, at any sacrifice, do something to recover strength, even though a long sea voyage were necessary. Health is the first thing. Talk it over with Miss Nan; if her love is as sincere as you believe, and I don't for a moment doubt it, she will give you the same advice.

For myself, I begin to think my studio will never be ready. I have not done a stroke of work. I hope at the end of next week I shall be at it again.

In October I am off to Rome.—Yours sincerely,

Fred Leighton.
2 Holland Park Road,
Addison Road, Kensington.

Athenæum Club,
Pall Mall, S.W.

Supposing a proper price were given, should you care to copy (for a man of position) a portrait by Sir William Beechey and one or two by Sir Thomas Lawrence? I am not asking you to do it for a moment, I merely want to know whether you would care to do the work; if so, please let me know what you would ask.

I have seen Mr. Greville to-day, and he begs me to tell you that the Countess Grey will be glad if you can undertake for her, for the sum of £10, a copy of a portrait of Lady Charlotte Greville. The picture is now with the Countess of Ellesmere, Mr. Greville's sister, and shall be sent to you wherever you wish, if you will let me know at once. Is it to go to Great Castle Street? Lady Ellesmere will be extremely obliged if you will not keep the picture a moment longer than you absolutely require it to make a good copy; the portrait is that of her mother, and she is extremely loth to part with it, even for a time. Please send me a line in answer to this, and believe me always.

Thursday.

The picture will be duly sent to you.

I have another matter for your consideration: Mr. Greville wants to know if you can think of any good picture (Sir Joshua or Gainsborough would be best) that would make a good companion to the one he has already bought of you; if you could suggest anything suitable, he would give you the commission. I am very glad you should have encouragement, but I trust you will not flag in your zeal about more important studies.

I send you the money from Mr. Greville for the portrait of his mother. I am very glad you should have this new commission, but you must thank him, not me, for it was entirely his idea and desire. He is indeed one of the kindest and best men possible. I look on him myself as a second father.

To save time, I shall make arrangements for you to work in my studio on the 4 first days of January, if you can manage it. I shall be out of town, and you will have the place all to yourself.

I wish you a happy Xmas and New Year, and remain.

Warnford Court,
Bishops Waltham.

You will forgive me, I am sure, for not writing to you to thank you for your letter, received some weeks back; but the fact is I have been so very busy as to make writing a matter of very great difficulty. I heard from your father not long ago that you have been very fortunate in getting capital commissions for portraits where you have been staying. I am very glad indeed to hear it, and trust sincerely that you feel you are progressing as steadily in proficiency as in prosperity. To the commissions you have had in the country, I have one to add here. Mr. Henry Greville wishes you to paint for him a copy of a head of a relation of his—I believe, of poor Lady Ellesmere, his sister, whose recent death has been such a terrible grief to him. You will, I am sure, be glad to undertake this painting, even though it may not in itself be very interesting. The size is a sort of oval kit-cat, not large. He proposes to offer you ten pounds for it.

How is Miss Nan? I hope you have good accounts of her, and that all goes smoothly between you.

I send this to Bath to be forwarded, as I don't know your present whereabouts.

Dear Johnny,—I am just off to Paris, and write one line in hot haste to thank you for yours, and to say that I am delighted to hear you are conscious of progress. Come back as soon as you can conveniently, please, because Mr. Greville has borrowed Lady Ellesmere's portrait for you to copy, and wants to return it as soon as possible to the Duke of Devonshire.

Come and see me when you return, and believe me, with kind regards to Miss Nan,—Yours always,

F.L.

2 Holland Park Road,
Kensington, W.

I want very much, before they have quite disappeared, to get for myself and for a friend a couple of old-fashioned country bumpkins' smocks; you know the sort of thing. Do you chance to know any one in any of the villages about Bath who could pick up a couple? I should like a brown one (NOT a white Sunday one) and a green one, and that they should not be washed—well worn, untidy things. If you saw your way to getting me such garments, I should be very grateful, but don't trouble about it.

If you have leisure to think of anything but Miss Nan just at present, will you do me a favour? Will you get for me a peasant's wide-awake, in shape like the one I painted in your portrait, only really old and soiled and stained; bought, in fact, if possible, off a bumpkin's head? Can you do this for me, and either send it or bring it if you are about to return shortly? I will pay you when we meet.

When is the wedding to be? or is it already over? I wish you all happiness and prosperity, and remain with kind remembrances to Miss (or Mrs.) Nan,—Yours truly,

Fred Leighton.

I hope you can read this; my hands are so cold I can scarcely hold the pen.

Mr. Greville has very kindly desired me to give you another commission, this time a larger one. He wants you to copy from my large picture the group of women carrying flowers, the size of the original.[65] He offers you £25 for it. If you are disposed, as I have no doubt you will be, I would, if I were you, write him a line of thanks for the kind interest he shows in you. In great haste.

One line in a great hurry to say that I am delighted to hear that you have got in to the life school at the Royal Academy, and to thank you for the photo., which is capital.

I have not touched my Venus since you went away. I have been a good deal out of town myself, and have spent most of my time in finishing the two large decorative figures, which have now gone home. I am sorry you did not see them.

Come as soon as you can to begin Mr. Greville's picture.

I leave town Saturday next, and shall not see you till Saturday the 6th July, so I write a line to say that you will set to work by yourself; the maid will light you a fire and give you the key of the studio.

I have written direct to Gatwell to order the canvas, or it would not have been ready in time. You are to paint the group full size. Trace it to get it quite accurate. Put the head of the centre figure, the woman in yellow, about four inches or four and a half inches from the top of the canvas; that will give you all the rest. Leave out the little child sitting. Go slap at the colour, vigorously but NOT quick. The slower you work, if you work with energy, the sooner you get through, and the better the result.

I hope you are enjoying yourself.

Although I certainly think it is a pity to exhibit too soon, nevertheless I think that your particular situation just now does justify you in doing so, as long as you confine yourself to the Suffolk Street Gallery. I sincerely hope you may sell your pictures.

With kind regards to Mrs. Nan and love to my god-child, I am, in haste, yours always,

F.L.

I can't quite make out the price as written in your note, so to avoid mistakes I send blank cheque, which pray fill in yourself.

Just off—good-bye.

26th December.

I have got your note and enclose little cheque. This is as it should be. It is absurd that because I am an old friend, you should be a loser by me in time and pocket.

With a merry Xmas and New Year to you and Nan, I remain, in haste, yours sincerely,

Fred Leighton.