ive' are getting into general use now, and
Donne has begun with _aesthetics_ and _exegetical_ in Kemble's review.
Kemble himself has written an article on the Emperor Nicholas which must
crush him. If you could read it, no salvos of _mortalletti_ could ever
startle you again. And now my paper is almost covered: and I must say
Good bye to you. This is Sunday March 21--a fine sunny blowing day. We
shall dine at one o'clock--an hour hence--go to Church--then walk--have
tea at six, and pass rather a dull evening, because of no picquet. You
will be sauntering in St. Peter's perhaps, or standing on the Capitol
while the sun sets. I should like to see Rome after all. Livy's lies
(as the aesthetics prove them to be) do at least animate one so far--how
far?--so far as to wish, and not to do, having perfect power to do.

Oh eloquent, just, and mighty Theory of Mortaletti!

_To W. H. Thompson_.

BOULGE HALL, WOODBRIDGE,
_March_ 26/41.

MY DEAR THOMPSON,

. . . I had a long letter from Morton the other day--he is still
luxuriating at Venice. Also a letter from Frederic Tennyson, who has
been in Sicily, etc., and is much distracted between enjoyment of those
climates and annoyance from Fleas. These two men are to be at Rome
together soon: so if any one wants to go to Rome, now is a good time. I
wish I was there. F. Tennyson says that he and a party of Englishmen
fought a cricket match with the crew of the Bellerophon on the
_Parthenopaean hills_ (query about the correctness of this--I quote from
memory), and _sacked_ the sailors by 90 runs. Is not this pleasant?--the
notion of good English blood striving in worn out Italy--I like that such
men as Frederic should be abroad: so strong, haughty and passionate. They
keep up the English character abroad. . . . Have you read poor Carlyle's
raving book about heroes? Of course you have, or I would ask you to buy
my copy. I don't like to live with it in the house. It smoulders. He
ought to be laughed at a little. But it is pleasant to retire to the
Tale of a Tub, Tristram Shandy, and Horace Walpole, after being tossed on
his canvas waves. This is blasphemy. Dibdin Pitt of the Coburg could
enact one of his heroes. . . .

_To F. Tennyson_.

IRELAND, _July_ 26, 1841.

MY DEAR FREDERIC,

I got your letter ten days ago in London on my way here. We have
incessant rain, which is as bad as your sciroccos; at least it damps my
energies very much. But people are accu