third. In place of all which I dimly saw a small Company of less distinction in all respects; and heard an Opera (Carmen) on the Wagner model: very beautiful Accompaniments to no Melody: and all very badly sung except by Trebelli, who, excellent. I ran out in the middle to the dear Little Haymarket opposite—where Vestris and Liston once were: and found the Theatre itself spoilt by being cut up into compartments which marred the beautiful Horse-shoe shape, once set off by the flowing pattern of Gold which used to run round the house.
Enough of these Old Man’s fancies—But—Right for all that!
I would not send you Spedding’s fine Article [201a] till you had returned from your Visit, and also had received Mrs. Leigh at Queen Anne’s. You can send it back to me quite at your leisure, without thinking it necessary to write about it.
It is so mild here that the Thrush sings a little, and my Anemones seem preparing to put forth a blossom as well as a leaf. Yesterday I was sitting on a stile by our River side.
You will doubtless see Tennyson’s new Volume, [201b] which is to my thinking far preferable to his later things, though far inferior to those of near forty years ago: and so, I think, scarce wanted. There is a bit of Translation from an old War Song which shows
what a Poet can do when he condescends to such work: and I have always said that ’tis for the old Poets to do some such service for their Predecessors. I hope this long letter is tolerably legible: and I am in very truth
Sincerely yours
The Laird of Littlegrange.
LXXXIV.
Woodbridge, Christmas Day, [1880.]
My dear Lady: