it; and will tell me?

If you have not already read--_buy_ Keats' Love-Letters to Fanny Brawne.
One wishes she had another name; and had left some other Likeness of
herself than the Silhouette (cut out by Scissors, I fancy) which dashes
one's notion of such a Poet's worship. But one knows what
misrepresentations such Scissors make. I had--perhaps have--one of
Alfred Tennyson, done by an Artist on a Steamboat--some thirty years ago;
which, though not inaccurate of outline, gave one the idea of a
respectable Apprentice. {134c} But Keats' Letters--It happened that,
just before they reached me, I had been hammering out some admirable
Notes on Catullus {135a}--another such fiery Soul who perished about
thirty years of age two thousand years ago; and I scarce felt a change
from one to other. {135b} From Catullus' better parts, I mean; for there
is too much of filthy and odious--both of Love and Hate. Oh, my dear
Virgil never fell into that: he was fit to be Dante's companion beyond
even Purgatory.

I have just had a nice letter from Mr. Norton in America: an amiable,
modest man surely he must be. His aged Mother has been ill: fallen
indeed into some half-paralysis: affecting her Speech principally. He
says nothing of Mr. Lowell; to whom I would write if I did not suppose he
was very busy with his Diplomacy, and his Books, in Spain. I hope he
will give us a Cervantes, in addition to the Studies in his 'Among my
Books,' which seem to me, on the whole, the most conclusive Criticisms we
have on their several subjects.

Do you ever see Mrs. Ritchie? Fred. Tennyson wrote me that Alfred's son
(Lionel, the younger, I suppose) was to be married in Westminster Abbey:
which Fred, thinks an ambitious flight of Mrs. A. T.

I may as well stop in such Gossip. Snowdrops and Crocuses out: I have
not many, for what I had have been buried under an overcoat of Clay, poor
little Souls. Thrushes tuning up; and I hope my old Blackbirds have not
forsaken me, or fallen a prey to Cats.

And I am ever yours
E. F.G.

LII.

THE OLD (CURIOSITY) SHOP. WOODBRIDGE,
_April_ 16, [1878.]

[Where, by the by, I heard the Nightingale for the first time yesterday
Morning. That is, I believe, almost its exact date of return, wind and
weather permitting. Which being premised--]

DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,

I think it is about the time for you to have a letter from me; for I
think I am nearly as punctual as the Nightingale, though at quicke