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.

V.

[1872.]

DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,

I set off with a Letter to you, though I do not very well know how I am
to go on with it. But my Reader has been so disturbed by a Mouse in the
room that I have dismissed him--9.30 p.m.--and he has been reading (so
far as he could get on) Hawthorne's Notes of Italian Travel: which
interest me very much indeed, as being the Notes of a Man of Genius who
will think for himself independently of Murray &c. And then his Account
of Rome has made me think of you more than once. We have indeed left off
to-night at Radicofani: but, as my Boy is frightened