Lowestoft: May 16/75

Dear Mrs. Kemble,

I have been wishing to send you Carlyle’s Norway Kings, and oh! such a delightful Paper of Spedding’s on the Text of Richard III. [74] But I have waited till I should hear from you, knowing that you will reply! And not feeling sure, till I hear, whether you are not on your way to England Eastward ho!—even as I am now writing!—Or, I fancy—should you not be well? Anyhow, I shall wait till some authentic news of yourself comes to me. I should not mind sending you Carlyle—why, yes! I will send him! But old Spedding—which is only a Proof—I won’t send till I know that you are still where you were to receive it—Oh! such a piece of musical criticism! without the least pretence to being Musick: as dry as he can make it, in fact. But he does, with utmost politeness, smash the Cambridge Editors’ Theory about the Quarto and Folio Text of R. III.—in a way that perhaps Mr. Furness might like to see.

Spedding says that Irving’s Hamlet is simply—hideous—a strong expression for Spedding to use. But—(lest I should think his condemnation was only the Old Man’s fault of depreciating all that is new), he extols Miss Ellen Terry’s Portia as simply a perfect Performance: remembering (he says) all the while how fine was Fanny Kemble’s. Now, all this you shall read for yourself, when I have token of your Whereabout, and Howabout: for I will send you Spedding’s Letter, as well as his Paper.

Spedding won’t go and see Salvini’s Othello, because he does not know Italian, and also because he hears that Salvini’s is a different Conception of Othello from Shakespeare’s. I can’t understand either reason; but Spedding is (as Carlyle [75a] wrote me of his Bacon) the ‘invincible, and victorious.’ At any rate, I can’t beat him. Irving I never could believe in as Hamlet, after seeing part of his famous Performance of a Melodrama called ‘The Bells’ three or four years ago. But the Pollocks, and a large World beside, think him a Prodigy—whom Spedding thinks—a Monster! To this Complexion is the English Drama come.

I wonder if your American Winter has transformed itself to such a sudden Summer as here in Old England. I returned to my Woodbridge three weeks ago: not a leaf on the Trees: in ten days they were all green, and people—perspiring, I suppose one must say. Now again, while the Sun is quite as Hot, the Wind has swerved round to the East—so as one broils on one side and freezes on t’other—and I—the Great Twalmley [75b]—am keeping indoors from an Intimation of Bronchitis. I think it is time for one to leave the Stage oneself.

I heard from Mowbray Donne some little while ago; as he said nothing (I think) of his Father, I conclude that there is nothing worse of him to be said. He (the Father) has a Review of Macready—laudatory, I suppose—in the Edinburgh, and Mr. Helen Faucit (Martin) as injurious a one in the Quarterly: the reason of the latter being (it is supposed) because Mrs. H. F. is not noticed except just by name. To this Complexion also!

Ever yours,
E. F.G.

Since writing as above, your Letter comes; as you do not speak of moving, I shall send Spedding and Carlyle by Post to you, in spite of the Loss of Income you tell me of which would (I doubt) close up my thoughts some while from such speculations. I do not think you will take trouble so to heart. Keep Spedding for me: Carlyle I don’t want again. Tired as you—and I—are of Shakespeare Commentaries, you will like this.