wever, I doat on. I still purpose to read Miss Evans: but my
Instincts are against her--I mean, her Books.

What have you done with your Memoirs? Pollock is about to edit
Macready's. And Chorley--have you read him? I shall devour him in
time--that is, when Mudie will let me.

I wonder if there are Water-cresses in America, as there are on my tea-
table while I write?

What do you think of these two lines which Crabbe didn't print?

'The shapeless purpose of a Soul that feels,
And half suppresses Wrath, {39} and half reveals.'

My little bit of Good News about our Friend is the only reason and
Apology for this Letter from

Yours ever and always
E. F.G.

XVI.

LOWESTOFT: _Febr._ 10/74.

DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,

A Letter to be written to you from the room I have written to you before
in: but my Letter must wait till I return to Woodbridge, where your
Address is on record. I have thought several times of writing to you
since this Year began; but I have been in a muddle--leaving my old
Markethill Lodgings, and vacillating between my own rather lonely
Chateau, and this Place, where some Nieces are. I had wished to tell you
what I know of our dear Donne: who Mowbray says gets on still. I suppose
he will never be so strong again. Laurence wrote me that he had met him
in the Streets, looking thinner (!) with (as it were) keener Eyes. That
is a Portrait Painter's observation: probably a just one. Laurence has
been painting for me a Copy of Pickersgill's Portrait of Crabbe--but I am
afraid has made some muddle of it, according to his wont. I asked for a
Sketch: he _will_ elaborate--and spoil. Instead of copying the Colours
he sees and could simply match on his Palette, he _will_ puzzle himself
as to whether the Eyebrows were once sandy, though now gray; and wants to
compare Pickersgill's Portrait with Phillips'--which I particularly
wished to be left out of account. Laurence is a dear little fellow--a
Gentleman--Spedding said, 'made of Nature's very finest Clay.' {40} So
he is: but the most obstinate little man--'incorrigible,' Richmond called
him; and so he wearies out those who wish most to serve and employ him;
and so has spoiled his own Fortune.

Do you read in America of Holman Hunt's famous new Picture of 'The Shadow
of Death,' which he has been some seven Years painting--in Jerusalem, and
now exhibits under theatrical Lights and accompaniments? This does not
induce me to believe in H. H