rning for two months, I think; but he never writes me a word.
Hydropathy has done its worst; he writes the names of his friends in
water. . . . I spent two days in London with old Morton about five weeks
ago; and pleasant days they were. The rogue bewitches me with his wit
and honest speech. He also staid some while at Park House, while Alfred
was there, and managed of course to frighten the party occasionally with
some of his sallies. He often writes to me; and very good his letters
are all of them.

When do you mean to write me another? Morton told me in his last that he
had heard from Brotherton you were gone, or going, to Naples. I dare say
this sheet of mine will never get to your hands. But if it does, let me
hear from you. Is Italy becoming stale to you? Are you going to Cairo
for fresh sensations? Thackeray went off in a steamboat about the time
the French were before Mogadore; he was to see those coasts and to visit
Jerusalem! Titmarsh at Jerusalem will certainly be an era in
Christianity. But I suppose he will soon be back now. Spedding is yet
in his highlands, I believe, considering Grouse and Bacon.

I expect to run up to London some time during the winter just to tell
over old friends' faces and get a sup of music and painting. I have
bought very few more pictures lately; and [heard] no music but
Mendelssohn's M. Night's Dream. The overture, which was published long
ago, is the best part; but there is a very noble triumphal march also.

Now I feel just in the same fix as I did in that sheet of paper whose
fate is uncertain. But if I don't put in a word more, yet this shall go,
I am determined. Only consider how it is a matter of necessity that I
should have nothing to say. If you could see this place of Boulge! You
who sit and survey marble palaces rising out of cypress and olive. There
is a dreadful vulgar ballad, composed by Mr. Balfe, and sung with the
most unbounded applause by Miss Rainforth,

'I dreamt that I dwelt in marble Halls,'

which is sung and organed at every corner in London. I think you may
imagine what kind of flowing 6/8 time of the last degree of imbecility it
is. The words are written by Mr. Bunn! Arcades ambo.

I say we shall see you over in England before long: for I rather think
you want an Englishman to quarrel with sometimes. I mean quarrel in the
sense of a good strenuous difference of opinion, supported on either side
by occasional outbursts of spl