LXIX.
Woodbridge: Febr: 3/80.
My dear Lady,
I do not think it is a full month since I last taxed you for some account of yourself: but we have had hard weather, you know, ever since: your days have been very dark in London, I am told, and as we have all been wheezing under them, down here, I want to know how you stand it all. I only hope my MS. is not very bad; for I am writing by Candle, before my Reader comes. He eat such a Quantity of Cheese and Cake between the Acts that he could scarce even see to read at all after; so I had to
remind him that, though he was not quite sixteen, he had much exceeded the years of a Pig. Since which we get on better. I did not at all like to have my Dombey spoiled; especially Captain Cuttle, God bless him, and his Creator, now lying in Westminster Abbey. The intended Pathos is, as usual, missed: but just turn to little Dombey’s Funeral, where the Acrobat in the Street suspends his performance till the Funeral has passed, and his Wife wonders if the little Acrobat in her Arms will so far outlive the little Boy in the Hearse as to wear a Ribbon through his hair, following his Father’s Calling. It is in such Side-touches, you know, that Dickens is inspired to Create like a little God Almighty. I have read half his lately published letters, which, I think, add little to Forster’s Account, unless in the way of showing what a good Fellow Dickens was. Surely it does not seem that his Family were not fond of him, as you supposed?
I have been to Lowestoft for a week to see my capital Nephew, Edmund Kerrich, before he goes to join his Regiment in Ireland. I wish you could see him make his little (six years old) put him through his Drill. That is worthy of Dickens: and I am always yours sincerely—and I do hope not just now very illegibly—
Littlegrange.
LXX.
Woodbridge: Febr: 12/80.
My dear Mrs. Kemble:
A week ago I had a somewhat poor account of Donne from Edith D.—that he had less than his usually little Appetite, and could not sleep without Chloral. This Account I at first thought of sending to you: but then I thought you would soon be back in London to hear [of] him yourself; so I sent it to his great friend Merivale, who, I thought, must have less means of hearing about him at Ely. I enclose you this Dean’s letter: which you will find worth the trouble of decyphering, as all this Dean’s are. And you will see there is a word for you which you will have to interpret for me. What is the promised work he is looking for so eagerly? [173] Your Records he ‘devoured’ a Year ago, as a letter of his then told me; and I suppose that his other word about the number of your Father’s house refers to something in those Records. I am not surprised at such an Historian reading your Records: but I was surprised to find him reading Charles Mathews’ Memoir, as you will see he has been doing. I told him I had been reading it: but then that is all in my line. Have you? No, I think: nor I, by the way, quite half, and that in Vol. ii.—where is really
a remarkable account of his getting into Managerial Debt, and its very grave consequences.
I hear that Mr. Lowell is coming Ambassador to England, after a very terrible trial in nursing (as he did) his Wife: who is only very slowly recovering Mind as well as Body. I believe I wrote all this to you before, as also that I am ever yours
E. F.G.
I cannot remember Pangloss in Candide: only a Pedant Optimist, I think, which became the soubriquet of Maupertuis’ Akakia Optimism; but I have not the book, and do not want to have it.