is
a million of persons in the land fully up to it, one has the less call to
repent in that respect. I confess that Mr. Reynolds is a better sight to
me than old rouged Lady Morgan and all such.

I hope it will not be long before I visit you at Bramford. In the mean
while believe me with best regards to all your family, yours ever very
truly,

EDWARD FITZGERALD.

19 CHARLOTTE ST., ETC.
_Saturday_.

DEAR MRS. CHARLESWORTH,

I received your last packet just as I was setting off for Suffolk. I
sent part of it to Carlyle. I enclose you what answer he makes me this
morning. If Miss Charlesworth will take the pains to read his dispatch
of Gainsboro' Fight, and can possibly rake out some information on the
doubtful points, we shall help to lay that unquiet spirit of history
which now disturbs Chelsea and its vicinity. Please to keep the paper
safe: for it must have been a nuisance to write it.

I lament your renewed misfortune: but I cannot wonder at it. These
things are not got rid of in a year. Isabella is in England with her
husband, at Hastings.

Believe me yours ever thankfully,

E. FITZGERALD.

BOULGE, _May_ 7/44.

_To F. Tennyson_.

BOULGE, WOODBRIDGE,
_May_ 24/44.

MY DEAR FREDERIC,

I think you mean never to write to me again. But you should, for I enjoy
your letters much for years after I have got them. They tell me all I
shall know of Italy, beside many other good things. I received one
letter from you from Florence, and as you gave me no particular
direction, I wrote to you at the Poste Restante there. I am now inditing
this letter on the same venture. As my location is much more permanent,
I command you to respond to me the very day you get this, warmed into
such faint inspiration as my turnip radiance can kindle. You have seen a
turnip lantern perhaps. Well, here I continue to exist: having broken my
rural vegetation by one month in London, where I saw all the old
faces--some only in passing, however--saw as few sights as possible,
leaving London two days before the Exhibition opened. This is not out of
moroseness or love of singularity: but I really supposed there could be
nothing new: and therefore the best way would [be] to come new to it
oneself after three or four years absence. I see in Punch a humorous
catalogue of supposed pictures; Prince Albert's favourite spaniel and
bootjack, the Queen's Macaw with a Muffin, etc., by Landseer, etc., in
which I recognize Thackeray'