Woodbridge: May 22, [1879.]

My dear Mrs. Kemble,

I must thank you for your letter; I was, beforehand, much of your Opinion; and, unless I hear very different advice from the two others whom I have consulted—Spedding, the All-wise—(I mean that), and Aldis Wright, experienced in the Booksellers’ world, I shall very gladly abide by your counsel—and my own. You (I do believe) and a few friends who already know Crabbe, will not be the worse for this ‘Handybook’ of one of his most diffuse, but (to me) most agreeable, Books. That name (Handybook), indeed, I had rather thought of calling the Book, rather than ‘Readings’—which suggests readings aloud, whether private or public—neither of which I intended—simply, Readings to oneself. I, who am a poor reader in any way, have found it all but impossible to read Crabbe to anybody. So much for that—except that, the Portrait I had prepared by way of frontispiece turns out to be an utter failure, and that is another satisfactory reason for not publishing. For I particularly wanted this Portrait, copied from a Picture by Pickersgill which was painted in 1817, when these Tales were a-writing, to correct the Phillips Portrait done in the same year, and showing Crabbe with his company Look—not insincere at all—but not at all representing the writer. When Tennyson saw Laurence’s Copy of this Pickersgill—here, at my house here—he said—‘There I recognise the Man.’

If you were not the truly sincere woman you are, I should have thought that you threw in those good words about my other little Works by way of salve for your dictum on this Crabbe. But I know it is not so. I cannot think what ‘rebuke’ I gave you to ‘smart under’ as you say. [151a]

If you have never read Charles Tennyson (Turner’s) Sonnets, I should like to send them to you to read. They are not to be got now: and I have entreated Spedding to republish them with Macmillan, with such a preface of his own—congenial Critic and Poet—as would discover these Violets now modestly hidden under the rank Vegetation of Browning, Swinburne, and Co. Some of these Sonnets have a Shakespeare fancy in them:—some rather puerile—but the greater part of them, pure, delicate, beautiful, and quite original. [151b] I told Mr. Norton (America) to get them published over the water if no one will do so here.

Little did I think that I should ever come to relish—old Sam Rogers! But on taking him up the other day (with Stothard’s Designs, to be sure!) I found a sort of Repose from the hatchet-work School, of which I read in the AthenÆum.

I like, you know, a good Murder; but in its place—

‘The charge is prepared; the Lawyers are met—
The Judges all ranged, a terrible Show’ [152]—

only the other night I could not help reverting to that sublime—yes!—of Thurtell, sending for his accomplice Hunt, who had saved himself by denouncing Thurtell—sending for him to pass the night before Execution with perfect Forgiveness—Handshaking—and ‘God bless you—God bless you—you couldn’t help it—I hope you’ll live to be a good man.’

You accept—and answer—my Letters very kindly: but this—pray do think—is an answer—verily by return of Post—to yours.

Here is Summer! The leaves suddenly shaken out like flags. I am preparing for Nieces, and perhaps for my Sister Andalusia—who used to visit my Brother yearly.

Your sincere Ancient
E. F.G.