very sincere praise is not the way to conciliate
him. About Christmas I wrote him, relying on it that I should be most
likely to secure an answer if I expressed dissent from some other work of
his; and my expectation was justified by one of the fullest answers he
had written to me for many a day and year.

I read in one of my Papers that Tennyson had another Play accepted at the
Lyceum. I think he is obstinate in such a purpose, but, as he is a Man
of Genius, he may surprise us still by a vindication of what seem to me
several Latter-day failures. I suppose it is as hard for him to
relinquish his Vocation as other men find it to be in other callings to
which they have been devoted; but I think he had better not encumber the
produce of his best days by publishing so much of inferior quality.

Under the cold Winds and Frosts which have lately visited us--and their
visit promises to be a long one--my garden Flowers can scarce get out of
the bud, even Daffodils have hitherto failed to 'take the winds,' etc.
Crocuses early nipt and shattered (in which my Pigeons help the winds)
and Hyacinths all ready, if but they might!

My Sister Lusia's Widower has sent me a Drawing by Sir T. Lawrence of my
Mother: bearing a surprising resemblance to--The Duke of Wellington. This
was done in her earlier days--I suppose, not long after I was born--for
her, and his (Lawrence's) friend Mrs. Wolff: and though, I think, too
Wellingtonian, the only true likeness of her. Engravings were made of
it--so good as to be facsimiles, I think--to be given away to Friends. I
should think your mother had one. If you do not know it, I will bring
the Drawing up with me to London when next I go there: or will send it up
for your inspection, if you like. But I do not suppose you will care for
me to do that.

Here is a much longer letter than I thought for; I hope not troublesome
to your Eyes--from yours always and sincerely

LITTLEGRANGE.

I have been reading Comus and Lycidas with wonder, and a sort of awe.
Tennyson once said that Lycidas was a touchstone of poetic Taste.

LXXIII.

WOODBRIDGE: _March_ 28, [1880.]

MY DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,

No--the Flowers were not from me--I have nothing full-blown to show
except a few Polyanthuses, and a few Pansies. These Pansies never throve
with me till last year: after a Cartload or two of Clay laid on my dry
soil, I suppose, the year before. Insomuch that one dear little Soul has
positively h