ernard Barton_.

19 CHARLOTTE ST., RATHBONE PLACE,
_Jany_. 4/45.

DEAR BARTON,

Clawed hold of by a bad cold am I--a London cold--where the atmosphere
clings to you, like a wet blanket. You have often received a letter from
me on a Sunday, haven't you? I think I used to write you an account of
the picture purchases of the week, that you might have something to
reflect upon in your silent meeting. (N.B. This is very wrong, and I
don't mean it.) Well, now I have bought no pictures, and sha'n't; but
one I _had_ bought is sent to be lined. A Bassano of course; which
nobody will like but myself. It is a grave picture; an Italian Lord
dictating to a Secretary with upturned face. Good company, I think.

You did not tell me how you and Miss Barton got on with the Vestiges. I
found people talking about it here; and one laudatory critique in the
Examiner sold an edition in a few days. I long to finish it. I am going
in state to the London Library--_my_ Library--to review the store of
books it contains, and carry down a box full for winter consumption. Do
you want anything? eh, Mr. Barton?

I went to see Sophocles' tragedy of Antigone done into English two nights
ago. And yesterday I dined with my dear old John Allen who remains whole
and intact of the world in the heart of London. He dined some while ago
at Lambeth, and the Lady next him asked the Archbishop if he read Punch.
Allen thought this was a misplaced question: but I think the Archbishop
ought to see Punch: though not to read it regularly perhaps. I then
asked Allen about the Vestiges--he had heard of it--laughed at the idea
of its being atheistical. 'No enquiry,' said he, 'can be atheistical.' I
doubt if the Archbishop of Canterbury could say that. What do you think
of Exeter? Isn't he a pretty lad?

_To W. B. Donne_.

BOULGE, _Jan_. 29/45.

MY DEAR DONNE,

. . . A. T. has near a volume of poems--elegiac--in memory of Arthur
Hallam. Don't you think the world wants other notes than elegiac now?
Lycidas is the utmost length an elegiac should reach. But Spedding
praises: and I suppose the elegiacs will see daylight, public daylight,
one day. Carlyle goes on growling with his Cromwell: whom he finds more
and more faultless every day. So that _his_ paragon also will one day
see the light also, an elegiac of a different kind from Tennyson's; as
far apart indeed as Cromwell and Hallam.

Barton comes and sups with me to-morrow, and George Cra