This time ten years—a month ago—we were all lounging about in the hayfield before your Mother’s House at Rushmere. I do not forget these things: nor cease to remember them with a sincere, sad, and affectionate interest: the very sincerity of which prevents me from attempting to recreate them. This I wish you and yours, who have been so kind to me, to believe.
I am going to run again to the Coast of Norfolk—as far as Wells—to wander about Holkham, if the Weather permit. We have had too much Wind and Wet to make such excursions agreeable: for, when one reached the Places by Sea, the Rain prevented one’s going about on Shore to look about. But now that there has been rather a better look-out of Weather for the last few Days, and that—
δεινωντ' αημα πνευματων εκοίμισε
στένοντα ποντον— [86]
I shall try again for two or three Days. How do you translate δεινων here?
Ever yours, E. F. G.
Lowestoft still! Septr. 4 [1866].
My dear Cowell,
Still here, you see! Till the end of last week I had my Kerrich people here; I am now expecting my Brother Peter again: he has lately lost his capital Wife, and flies about between Ireland and England for Company and Diversion of Thought. I am also expecting Mowbray Donne over from Yarmouth this week.
I wonder if you ever would come over here, and either Bed and Board in my little Ship, or on Shore? Anyhow, do write me a line to tell me about yourself—yourselves—and do not think I am indifferent to you.
I have been reading Euripides (in my way) but, as heretofore do not take greatly to him. He is always prosy, whereas (except in the matter of funeral Lamentations, Condolence, etc., which I suppose the Greek Audience expected—as I suppose they also expected the little sententious truism at the end of every Speech), except in these respects, Sophocles always goes ahead, and makes his Dialogue act in