have an opportunity of having them brought down here one day. And I have
promised them nearly all to people hereabout.

Barton is out of health; some affection of the heart, I think, that will
never leave him, never let him be what he was when you saw him. He is
forced to be very abstemious . . . but he bears his illness quite as a
man; and looks very demurely to the necessary end of all life. {243}
Churchyard is pretty well; has had a bad cough for three months. I
suppose we are all growing older: though I have been well this winter,
and was unwell all last. I forget if you saw Crabbe (I mean the Father)
when you were down here.

You may tell Mr. Hullah, if you like, that in spite of his contempt for
my music, I was very much pleased, with a duett of his I chanced to
see--'O that we two were maying'--and which I bought and have forced two
ladies here to take pains to learn. They would sing nicely if they had
voices and were taught.

_Fragment of Letter to J. Allen_.

I see a good deal of Alfred, who lives not far off me: and he is still
the same noble and droll fellow he used to be. A lithograph has been
made from Laurence's portrait of him; _my_ portrait: and six copies are
given to me. I reserve one for you; how can I send it to you?

Laurence has for months been studying the Venetian secret of colour in
company with Geldart; and at last they have discovered it, they say. I
have seen some of Laurence's portraits done on his new system; they seem
to be really much better up to a certain point of progress: but I think
he is apt, by a bad choice of colours, to spoil the effect which an
improved system of laying on the colours should ensure. But he has only
lately begun on his new system, of which he is quite confident; and
perhaps all will come right by and by.

I have seen Thackeray three or four times. He is just the same. All the
world admires Vanity Fair; and the Author is courted by Dukes and
Duchesses, and wits of both sexes. I like Pendennis much; and Alfred
said he thought 'it was quite delicious: it seemed to him so _mature_,'
he said. You can imagine Alfred saying this over one's fire, spreading
his great hand out.

_To F. Tennyson_.

BOULGE, WOODBRIDGE, _June_ 19, 1849.

MY DEAR OLD FREDERIC,

I often think of you: often wish to write to you--often intend to do
so--determine to do so--but perhaps should not do so for a long time, but
that this sheet of thin paper happens to come unde