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Algiers.—They are delighted by the news (of the birth of Isabel Alice Pollock). Is eager to see the baby and hear more about her. Approves the choice of name.

(With an envelope.)

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Transcript

Algiers. 26th June 1876

My dear Georgie

We have just had Fred’s letter & we are very delighted. I went to the post office & when I saw a letter in Fred’s handwriting I longed to open it, & rushed back to Willi under a blazing sun & was rewarded by hearing the news read aloud. I am so very very glad for you both & hope the sweet little thing will bring you all the happiness you can desire. We were always thinking of you about the time you said but you see the young lady had arrived beforehand. I can’t help thinking how happy you must be, dear Georgie, & can quite fancy I see you. Is’nt† the top of its head nice to kiss, & don’t you long to cuddle it up & hug it in a manner that would be certain death to it? I like calling a baby “it” better than him or her, {1} it seems to describe a baby so well. I would give anything to see my little niece & to nurse it & shall come and call on her the moment we arrive almost in Town & do hope it will still be in long petticoats. I hope you got your Nurse in time, I know you were ready in other ways. Do make Fred when he has time or Emmie when she comes to see you write a proper account. If she is dark or fair, what colour eyes & how you look as a Mamma & if she had good lungs & if the clothes are all too big (as mine were) &c. &c. I wonder if anyone was disappointed at a boy not appearing. I know you were not for you told me once how you should like a little daughter. We must have a grand meeting of our babies when we come home, that baby of ours is quite aged now though. I should like to give you a good kiss & tell you how glad we are for you. I never was so pleased at anyone having a baby in all my life before. I am sure Mrs Deffel is delighted also. Isabel Alice is a charming name. My pretty little sister in the Convent is called Isabel. Only fancy when Isabel & Ethel are grown up & go to balls & their fathers are bald & their mothers old! I have written to tell Ethel about it, but think Smut ought to be told somehow, he wd be so pleased & now he cries about the house & misses us & his little sister sadly. It is rather wicked of you to have your first baby when we are so {2} far away, I should have enjoyed it so much. I know Fred nurses it to perfection, Willi has already planned its education. take† great care of yourself & kiss the little darling for me & now goodbye—I am so thankful it is all over—

Yours always affectionately
Lucy Clifford

[Added on the envelope by W. K. Clifford:] Don’t write to Gibraltar—we shall go from Oran to Malaga if we can.

[Direction on envelope, in the hand of W. K. Clifford:] F. Pollock Esqre | 12 Bryanston St | London W [In the top left-hand corner:] Angleterre

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The envelope was postmarked somewhere in Algeria, 1876 (only part of the mark is visible), stamped ‘Marseille a Lyon’ on 29 June 1876, and postmarked at London, W., on 23 June 1876.

{1} Comma supplied.

{2} Blotted, perhaps intentionally.

† Sic.

11 Portsea Place, Connaught Square, London, W.—Describes a recent dream about her husband.

(With an envelope, marked 'May 1879' and ‘If I die give this to F. Pollock | July 79.’)

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Transcript

17th May 1879
11 Portsea Place
Connaught Square. W.
London

I wish to write down a dream or what I think to be a dream concerning my husband W. K. Clifford.

I wish to say first that the night at Madeira he died—some hours later when I was in the next room I heard a voice by my side which I cannot even be certain was his voice, say “Darling”. I started up saw & heard nothing more but I told Miss Emma Stead, who was in the room, of it immediately. She will confirm what I say. She lives at Ovingdean Rectory Brighton. I attached no importance to this only regarding it as an outcome of my overstrung state of mind.

Last week, I cannot now fix the date but I think it was Thursday night, {1} I went to bed, as usual sleeping with Ethel. After a time I dreamt, first I was with my husband at Madeira & heard him talk to me of the visitors staying in the hotel, then in a field somewhere else where I lost sight of him. All this proves that my mind was not clear & also that I was certainly not awake, on the other hand I was very restless all night & feel certain I was not sound asleep. Then came the 3rd dream. I cannot be certain of the order of these 3 dreams. I am not certain it was a dream, I have been trying ever since to realize whether I was awake or asleep. I thought I was lying down, I was conscious of Ethel being beside me. I do not know where I was lying but my distinct impression is that I realized I was lying in the little bed as I actually was. I looked up & saw my husband standing by my side (the right side—on the other was Ethel) {2}. I am only conscious of having seen his face distinctly & I dimly remember a hand. I knew perfectly that he was dead. He looked pale & ill & worn & thin & sad. I put my arms up as if to put them round his neck. They brought his face down to mine. I do not remember my arms touching anything only that he stooped within them. He half turned his face so that I only kissed the left hand corner of his forehead. It was chilly—it did not feel natural. I said longingly “You have found me now, you will come often?” He answered “No, only this once”. I asked “Why?” A look of sadness & pain passed over his face & he looked away from me as he said “It would make a difference”. Then I said & I felt my face get hot & red with eagerness & as it did a momentary remembrance so keen I almost saw it, of the red face of a friend who had called on me recently passed before my eyes (I mention this to show my state of mind). I said “Tell me shall I come soon—will be† be long—shall I come to you again”. He answered thoughtfully “I cannot tell, you are among the Middle Shadows”. That is all. How he went I do not know. I know nothing more. His voice was low & sad. But it was not in a whisper. I know nothing more. I did not I think dream again but slept till fairly early morning.

I feel afraid to tell this. I doubt even if it would be believed, it might be laughed at. I can not be at [all] {3} sure that it is anything more than a dream but it has made a great impression on me.

Lucy Clifford

P.S. One think† more as I saw almost the red face of my friend I remember a swift thought darting thought perhaps it is all a dream, it made me doubt the other for a moment at the moment.

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Black-edged paper and envelope.

{1} Comma supplied, in place of a full stop.

{2} ‘the right side … Ethel’ interlined; brackets supplied.

{3} This word was omitted by mistake.

† Sic.

(Two short notes, each of which apparently accompanied an unidentified item, with an envelope, marked ‘For Ethel & Alice Clifford when they are of age | L. C. | January 1879’.)

26 Colville Road, Bayswater, W.—Aunt Francis (sic) died this morning. Lucy would have gone to her (Granny) straight away, but is not fit to get up yet. Agnes and ‘our baby’ (Ethel or Margaret) will come and see her tomorrow.

(Dated Thursday.)

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Transcript

26 Colville Road, Bayswater | W
Thursday

My dear Granny

I am sorry to have the worst news to tell you of poor Aunt Francis†. She died this morning. Lucy would have gone off to you directly, but I would not let her, because she is really not fit to get up at all yet, though she will come down stairs a little in the afternoon. I write this for her as she is waiting to go to sleep. Don’t be unhappy about her, she will be all right if she keeps quiet, but she may do herself a lasting injury if she gets about too soon. And don’t fret about anything, dear old Dovey, we will both come and see you as soon as we can.

Your loving grandson
Willi

Agnes and our baby are going to see you tomorrow.

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Black-edged paper.

Hotel Washington Irving, Granada.—On the 15th they leave for Cordova, Alicante, and Barcelona. They are ‘quite mad about everything Moorish’. Refers to the Pollocks’ forthcoming visit to Exeter, and discusses their children.

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Transcript

Hotel Washington Irving
Granada. Spain.—
4th August 76

My dear Georgie

The old man has written all the news this time. We leave here on the 15th for Cordova, stay there a day or two & then depart for Alicante & Barcelona but shall not stay long at either place so I hardly know our next address. I should so like to know what the babies say to each other. Do make them rub noses & kiss each other. Of course they will be delighted to see you at Exeter & Alice will receive much attention.—We are very happy here & quite mad about everything Moorish. I often think what terrible people we shall be to ask to dine when we return for if we only get a chance we talk about the Moors by the yard & here we argue & talk together & read up about them to such an extent that there will be no contradicting us on any point soon. The old man won’t get rid of his cough. he has seen two Drs but they neither seem to think him worse.

Ethel’s nose was a source of great anxiety to me for a long time. But I am assured that a baby’s nose is always doubtful—Mamma says mine was flat. It is quite the reverse now, so I should make myself easy about Alice.—I do hope you’ll have a nice time at Clovelly. You must want a change. Do tell me how Ethel looks, they will tell you where to write at Exeter if we have not told you ourselves. I have no time for more. Much love to you both and to the sweet thing.

Your affectionate
Lucy