ur
Records again: so I need not tell you his opinion of them. He saw your
Uncle in Cato when he was about four years old; and believes that he (J.
P. K.) had a bit of red waistcoat looking out of his toga, by way of
Blood. I tell him he should call on you and clear up that, and talk on
many other points.

Mowbray Donne wrote me from Wales a month ago that his Father was going
on pretty well. I asked for further from Mowbray when he should have
returned from Wales: but he has not yet written. Merivale, who is one of
Donne's greatest Friends, has not heard of him more lately than I.

Now, my dear Mrs. Kemble, I want to hear of you from yourself: and I have
told you why it is that I have not asked you before. I fancy that you
will not be back in England when this Letter reaches Westminster: but I
fancy that it will not be long before you find it waiting on your table
for you.

And now I am going to look for the Dean, who, I hope, has been at Church
this morning: and though I have not done that, I am not the less
sincerely yours

E. F.G.

LXXXI.

WOODBRIDGE: _Octr._ 20, 1880.

MY DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,

I was to have gone to London on Monday with my Italian Niece on her way
homeward. But she feared saying 'Farewell' and desired me to let her set
off alone, to avoid doing so.

Thus I delay my visit to you till November--perhaps toward the middle of
it: when I hope to find you, with your blue and crimson Cushions {197} in
Queen Anne's Mansions, as a year ago. Mrs. Edwards is always in town:
not at all forgetful of her husband; and there will be our Donne also of
whom I hear nothing, and so conclude there is nothing to be told, and
with him my Visits will be summed up.

Now, lose not a Day in providing yourself with Charles Tennyson Turner's
Sonnets, published by Kegan Paul. There is a Book for you to keep on
your table, at your elbow. Very many of the Sonnets I do not care for:
mostly because of the Subject: but there is pretty sure to be some
beautiful line or expression in all; and all pure, tender, noble,
and--original. Old Spedding supplies a beautiful Prose Overture to this
delightful Volume: never was Critic more one with his Subject--or,
Object, is it? Frederick Tennyson, my old friend, ought to have done
something to live along with his Brothers: all who _will_ live, I
believe, of their Generation: and he perhaps would, if he could, have
confined himself to limits not quite so narrow as the