Woodbridge: June 23, [1880.]

My dear Mrs. Kemble,

You smile at my ‘Lunacies’ as you call my writing periods; I take the Moon as a signal not to tax you too often for your inevitable answer. I have now let her pass her Full: and June is drawing short: and you were to be but for June at Leamington: so—I must have your answer, to tell me about your own health (which was not so good when last you wrote) and that of your Family; and when, and where, you go from Leamington. I shall be sorry if you cannot go to Switzerland.

I have been as far as—Norfolk—on a week’s visit (the only visit of the sort I now make) to George Crabbe, my Poet’s Grandson, and his two Granddaughters. It was a very pleasant visit indeed; the people all so sensible, and friendly, talking of old days; the Country flat indeed, but green, well-wooded, and well-cultivated: the weather well enough. [188a]

I carried there two volumes of my SÉvignÉ: and even talked of going over to Brittany, only to see her Rochers, as once I went to Edinburgh only to see Abbotsford. But (beside that I probably should not have gone further than talking in any case) a French Guide Book informed me that the present Proprietor of the place will not let it be shown to Strangers who pester him for a view of it, on the strength of those ‘paperasses,’ as he calls her Letters. [188b] So this is rather a comfort to me. Had I gone, I should also have visited my dear old Frederick Tennyson at Jersey. But now I think we shall never see one another again.

Spedding keeps on writing Shakespeare Notes in answer to sundry Theories broached by others: he takes off copies of his MS. by some process he has learned; and, as I always insist on some Copy of all he writes, he has sent me these, which I read by instalments, as Eyesight permits. I believe I am not a fair Judge between him and his adversaries; first, because I have but little, if any, faculty of critical Analysis; and secondly, because I am prejudiced with the notion that old Jem is Shakespeare’s Prophet, and must be right. But, whether right or wrong, the way in which he conducts, and pleads, his Case is always Music to me. So it was even with Bacon, with whom I could not be reconciled: I could not like Dr. Fell: much more so with ‘the Divine Williams,’ who is a Doctor that I do like.

It has turned so dark here in the last two days that I scarce see to write at my desk by a window which has a hood over it, meant to exclude—the Sun! I have increased my Family by two broods of Ducks, who compete for the possession of a Pond about four feet in diameter: and but an hour ago I saw my old Seneschal escorting home a stray lot of Chickens. My two elder Nieces are with me at present, but I do not think will be long here, if a Sister comes to them from Italy.

Pray let me hear how you are. I am pretty well myself:—though not quite up to the mark of my dear SÉvignÉ, who writes from her Rochers when close on sixty—‘Pour moi, je suis d’une si parfaite santÉ, que je ne comprends point ce que Dieu veut faire de moi.’ [190]

But yours always and a Day,
Littlegrange.