Part 9 (1/2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours sincerely E. F.G.

x.x.xIII.

[_October_, 1875.]

DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your sincere old Friend E. F.G.

x.x.xIV.

[Nov. 1875.]

DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,

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

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

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

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