[Feb., 1881.]

My dear Mrs. Kemble:—

As you generally return a Salute so directly, I began to be alarmed at not hearing from you sooner—either that you were ill, or your Daughter, or some ill news about Mr. Leigh. I had asked one who reads the Newspapers, and was told there had been much anxiety as to the Cunard Ship, which indeed was only just saved from total Wreck. But all is well so far as you and yours are concerned; and I will sing ‘Gratias’ along with you.

Mowbray Donne wrote to tell me that he and his had provided for some man to accompany our dear old Friend in his walks; and, as he seems himself to like it, all is so far well in that quarter also.

I was touched with the account of Carlyle’s simple Obsequies among his own Kinsfolk, in the place of his Birth—it was fine of him to settle that so it should be. I am glad also that Mr. Froude is charged with his Biography: a Gentleman, as well as a Scholar and ‘Writer of Books,’ who will know what to leave unsaid as well as what to say.

Your account of ‘The Cup’ is what I should have expected from you: and, if I may say so, from myself had I seen it.

And with this Letter comes my Sophocles, of which I have told you what I expect you will think also, and therefore need not say—unless of a different opinion. It came here I think the same Day on which I wrote to tell you it had not come: but I would not send it until assured that all was well with you. Such corrections as you will find are not meant as Poetical—or rather Versifying—improvements, but either to clear up obscurity, or to provide for some modifications of the two Plays when made, as it were, into one. Especially concerning the Age of Œdipus: whom I do not intend to be the old man in Part II. as he appears in the original. For which, and some other things, I will, if Eyes hold, send you some printed reasons in an introductory Letter to Mr. Norton, at whose desire I finished what had been lying in my desk these dozen years.

As I said of my own Æschylus Choruses, I say of old Potter’s now: better just to take a hint from them of what they are about—or imagine it for yourself—and then imagine, or remember, some grand Organ piece—as of Bach’s Preludes—which will be far better Interlude than Potter—or I—or even (as I dare think) than Sophocles’ self!

And so I remain your ancient Heretic,

Little G.

The newly printed Part II. would not bear Ink.