Chapter IV: 27 Feb., 1872

DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,

Had I anything pleasant to write to you, or better Eyes to write it with, you would have heard from me before this. An old Story, by way of Apology--to one who wants no such Apology, too. Therefore, true though it be there is enough of it.

I hear from Mowbray Donne that you were at his Father's Lectures, {10a} and looking yourself. So that is all right. Are your Daughters--or one of them--still with you? I do not think you have been to see the Thanksgiving Procession, {10b} for which our Bells are even now ringing--the old Peal which I have known these--sixty years almost--though at that time it reached my Eyes (_sic_) through a Nursery window about two miles off. From that window I remember seeing my Father with another Squire {10c} passing over the Lawn with their little pack of Harriers--an almost obliterated Slide of the old Magic Lantern. My Mother used to come up sometimes, and we Children were not much comforted. She was a remarkable woman, as you said in a former letter: and as I constantly believe in outward Beauty as an Index of a Beautiful Soul within, I used sometimes to wonder what feature in her fine face betrayed what was not so good in her Character. I think (as usual) the Lips: there was a twist of Mischief about them now and then, like that in--the Tail of a Cat!--otherwise so smooth and amiable. I think she admired your Mother as much as any one she knew, or had known.

And (I see by the Athenaeum) Mr. Chorley is dead, {11} whom I used to see at your Father's and Sister's houses. Born in 1808 they say: so, one year older than yours truly E. F.G.--who, however, is going to live through another page of Letter-paper. I think he was a capital Musical Critic, though he condemned Piccolomini, who was the last Singer I heard of Genius, Passion, and a Voice that told both. I am told she was no Singer: but that went some way to make amends. Chorley, too, though an irritable, nervous creature, as his outside expressed, was kind and affectionate to Family and Friend, I always heard. But I think the Angels must take care to keep in tune when he gets among them.

This is a wretched piece of Letter to extort the Answer which you feel bound to give. But I somehow wished to write: and not to write about myself; and so have only left room to say--to repeat--that I am yours ever sincerely

E. F.G.