Academy reported of it much as I expected. One of them said the Story had been dramatised before: I wonder why. What reads lightly and gracefully in Boccaccio’s Prose, would surely not do well when drawn out into dramatic Detail: two People reconciled to Love over a roasted Hawk; about as unsavoury a Bird to eat as an Owl, I believe. No doubt there was a Chicken substitute at St. James’, but one had to believe it to be Hawk; and, anyhow, I have always heard that it is very difficult to eat, and talk, on the Stage—though people seem to manage it easily enough in real Life.
By way of a Christmas Card I sent Carlyle’s Niece a Postage one, directed to myself, on the back of which she might [write] a few words as to how he and herself had weathered the late Cold. She replied that he was well: had not relinquished his daily Drives: and was (when she wrote) reading Shakespeare and Boswell’s Hebrides. The mention of him reminds me of your saying—or writing—that you felt shy of ‘intruding’ yourself upon him by a Visit. My dear Mrs. Kemble, this is certainly a mistake (wilful?) of yours; he may have too many ordinary Visitors; but I am quite sure that he would be gratified at your taking the trouble to go and see him. Pray try, weather and flannel permitting.
I find some good Stuff in Bagehot’s Essays, in spite of his name, which is simply ‘Bagot,’ as men call it. Also, I find Hayward’s Select Essays so agreeable that I suppose they are very superficial.
At night comes my quaint little Reader with Chambers’ Journal, and All [the] Year Round—the latter with one of Trollope’s Stories [171]—always delightful to me, and (I am told) very superficial indeed, as compared to George Eliot, whom I cannot relish at all.
Thus much has come easily to my pen this day, and run on, you see, to the end of a second Sheet. So I will ‘shut up,’ as young Ladies now say; but am always and sincerely yours
E. F.G.
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