ing to say of myself but what you have heard from me
for years. Only that my (now one year old) friend Bronchitis has thus
far done but little more than to keep me aware that he has not quitted
me, nor even thinks of so doing. Nay, this very day, when the Snow which
held off all winter is now coming down under stress of N.E. wind, I feel
my friend stirring somewhat within.

Enough of that and of myself. Mowbray gives me a very good report of
you--Absit Nemesis for my daring to write it!--And you have got back to
something of our old London Quarters, which I always look to as better
than the new. And do you go to even a Play, in the old Quarters also?
Wright, who was with me at Christmas, was taken by Macmillan to see 'Much
Ado,' and found, all except Scenery, etc. (which was too good) so bad
that he vowed he would never go to see Sh. 'at any of your Courts' again.
Irving without any Humour, Miss Terry with simply Animal Spirits, etc.
However, Wright did intend once more to try--Comedy of Errors, at some
theatre; but how he liked it--I may hear if he comes to me at Easter.

Now this is enough--is it not?--for a letter: but I am as always

Sincerely yours,

E. F.G.

CXI.

WOODBRIDGE: _April_ 12, [1883.]

MY DEAR MRS. KEMBLE:

I do not think you will be sorry that more than a Moon has waxed and
waned since last I wrote to you. For you have seen long enough how
little I had to tell, and that nevertheless you were bound to answer. But
all such Apologies are stale: you will believe, I hope, that I remain as
I was in regard to you, as I shall believe that you are the same toward
me.

Mowbray Donne has told me two months ago that he could not get over the
Remembrance of last May; and that, acting on Body as well as Mind, aged
him, I suppose, as you saw. Mowbray is one of the most loyal men toward
Kinsman and Friend.

Now for my own little Budget of News. I got through those Sunless East
winds well enough: better than I am feeling now they both work together.
I think the Wind will rule till Midsummer: 'Enfin tant qu'il plaira a
Dieu.' Aldis Wright was with me for Easter, and we went on our usual
way, together or apart. Professor Norton had sent me his Carlyle-Emerson
Correspondence, which we conned over together, and liked well on either
side. Carlyle should not have said (and still less Norton printed) that
Tennyson was a 'gloomy' Soul, nor Thackeray 'of inordinate Appetite,'
neither of which say