My dear Pollock,
I have not been reading so much of my Gossip lately, to send you a good little Bit of, which I think may do you a good turn now and then. Give a look at ‘Egypt of the Pharaohs’ by Zincke, Vicar of a
Parish near Woodbridge; the Book is written in a light, dashing (but not Cockney pert) way, easily looked over. There is a supposed Soliloquy of an English Labourer (called ‘Hodge’) as contrasted with the Arab, which is capital.
Do you know Taschereau’s Life of Molière? I have only got that prefixed to a common Edition of 1730. But even this is a delightful serio-comic Drama. I see that H. Heine says the French are all born Actors: which always makes me wonder why they care so for the Theatre. Heine too, I find, speaks of V. Hugo’s Worship of Ugliness; of which I find so much in --- and other modern Artists, Literary, Musical, or Graphic. . . .
What, you tell me, Palgrave said about me, I should have thought none but a very partial Friend, like Donne, would ever have thought of saying. But I’ll say no more on that head. Only that, as regards the little Dialogue, [150] I think it is a very pretty thing in Form, and with some very pretty parts in it. But when I read it two or three years ago, there was, I am sure, some over-smart writing, and some clumsy wording; insomuch that, really liking the rest, I cut out about a sheet, and substituted another, and made a few corrections with a Pen in what remained, though plenty more might be made, little as the Book is. Well; as you like this little Fellow, and I think he is worth liking, up to a Point, I shall send you a Copy of these amended Sheets.
My dear Pollock,
7¼ p.m. After a stroll in mine own Garden, under the moon—shoes kicked off—Slippers and Dressing Gown on—A Pinch of Snuff—and hey for a Letter—to my only London Correspondent!
And to London have I been since my last Letter: and have seen the Old Masters; and finished them off by such a Symphony as was worthy of the best of them, two Acts of Mozart’s ‘Così.’ You wrote me that you had ‘assisted’ at that also: the Singing, as you know, was inferior: but the Music itself! Between the Acts a Man sang a song of Verdi’s: which was a strange Contrast, to be sure: one of Verdi’s heavy Airs, however: for he has a true Genius of his own, though not Mozart’s. Well: I did not like even Mozart’s two Bravuras for the Ladies: a bad Despina for one: but the rest was fit for—Raffaelle, whose Christ in the Garden I had been looking at a little before. I had thought Titian’s Cornaro, and a Man in Black, by a Column, worth nearly all the rest of the Gallery till I saw the Raffaelle: and I couldn’t let that go with the others. All Lord Radnor’s Pictures were new to me, and nearly all very fine. The Vandykes delightful: Rubens’ Daniel, though all by his own hand, not half so good as a Return from Hunting, which perhaps was not: the Sir Joshuas not first rate,
I think, except a small life Figure of a Sir W. Molesworth in Uniform: the Gainsboro’s scratchy and superficial, I thought: the Romneys better, I thought. Two fine Cromes: Ditto Turners: and—I will make an End of my Catalogue Raisonnée. . . .