Woodbridge: Decr. 6, [1880.]
My dear Lady,
I was surprised to see a Letter in your MS. which could not be in answer to any of mine. But the Photos account for it. Thank you: I keep that which I like best, and herewith return the other.
Why will you take into your head that I could suppose you wanting in Hospitality, or any other sort of Generosity! That, at least, is not a Kemble failing. Why, I believe you would give me—and a dozen others—£1000 if you fancied one wanted it—even without being asked. The Law of Mede and Persian is that you will take up—a perverse notion—now and then. There! It’s out.
As to the Tea—‘pure and simple’—with Bread and Butter—it is the only meal I do care to join in:—and this is why I did not see Mowbray Donne, who has not his Dinner till an hour and a half after my last meal is done.
I should very gladly have ‘crushed a Cup of Tea’ with you that last Evening, coming prepared so to do. But you had Friends coming; and so (as Mrs. Edwards was in the same plight) I went to the Pit of my dear old Haymarket Opera: [200] remembering the very corner of the Stage where Pasta stood when Jason’s People came to tell her of his new Marriage; and (with one hand in her Girdle—a movement (Mrs. Frere said) borrowed from Grassini) she interrupted them with her “Cessate—intesi!”—also when Rubini, feathered hat in hand, began that “Ah te, oh Cara”—and Taglioni hovered over the Stage. There was the old Omnibus Box too where D’Orsay flourished in ample white Waistcoat and Wristbands: and Lady Blessington’s: and Lady Jersey’s on the Pit tier: and my own Mother’s, among the lesser Stars, on the third. In place of all which I dimly saw a small Company of less distinction in all respects; and heard an Opera (Carmen) on the Wagner model: very beautiful Accompaniments to no Melody: and all very badly sung except by Trebelli, who, excellent. I ran out in the middle to the dear Little Haymarket opposite—where Vestris and Liston once were: and found the Theatre itself spoilt by being cut up into compartments which marred the beautiful Horse-shoe shape, once set off by the flowing pattern of Gold which used to run round the house.
Enough of these Old Man’s fancies—But—Right for all that!
I would not send you Spedding’s fine Article [201a] till you had returned from your Visit, and also had received Mrs. Leigh at Queen Anne’s. You can send it back to me quite at your leisure, without thinking it necessary to write about it.
It is so mild here that the Thrush sings a little, and my Anemones seem preparing to put forth a blossom as well as a leaf. Yesterday I was sitting on a stile by our River side.
You will doubtless see Tennyson’s new Volume, [201b] which is to my thinking far preferable to his later things, though far inferior to those of near forty years ago: and so, I think, scarce wanted. There is a bit of Translation from an old War Song which shows what a Poet can do when he condescends to such work: and I have always said that ’tis for the old Poets to do some such service for their Predecessors. I hope this long letter is tolerably legible: and I am in very truth
Sincerely yours
The Laird of Littlegrange.
