Merivale. The former is just
recovering of the water cure, looking blue: the latter, Merivale, is just
recovering from--Marriage!--which he undertook this Midsummer, with a
light-haired daughter of George Frere's. Merivale lives just on the
borders of Suffolk: and a week before his marriage he invited me to meet
F. Pollock and his wife at the Rectory. There we spent two easy days,
and I heard no more of Merivale till three weeks ago when he asked me to
meet Thompson just before Christmas. . . . Have you seen Merivale's
History of Rome, beginning with the Empire? Two portly volumes are out,
and are approved of by Scholars, I believe. I have not read them, not
having money to buy, nor any friend to lend.

I hear little music but what I make myself, or help to make with my
Parson's son and daughter. We, with not a voice among us, go through
Handel's Coronation Anthems! Laughable it may seem; yet it is not quite
so; the things are so well-defined, simple, and grand, that the faintest
outline of them tells; my admiration of the old Giant grows and grows:
his is the Music for a Great, Active, People. Sometimes too, I go over
to a place elegantly called _Bungay_, where a Printer {265} lives who
drills the young folks of a manufactory there to sing in Chorus once a
week. . . . They sing some of the English Madrigals, some of Purcell,
and some of Handel, in a way to satisfy me, who don't want perfection,
and who believe that the _grandest_ things do not depend on delicate
finish. If you were here now, we would go over and hear the Harmonious
Blacksmith sung in Chorus, with words, of course. It almost made me cry
when I heard the divine Air rolled into vocal harmony from the four
corners of a large Hall. One can scarce comprehend the Beauty of the
English Madrigals till one hears them done (though coarsely) in this way
and on a large scale: the play of the parts as they alternate from the
different quarters of the room.

I have taken another half sheet to finish my letter upon: so as my
calculation of how far this half-quire is to spread over Time is
defeated. Let us write oftener, and longer, and we shall not tempt the
Fates by inchoating too long a hope of letter-paper. I have written
enough for to-night: I am now going to sit down and play one of Handel's
Overtures as well as I can--Semele, perhaps, a very grand one--then,
lighting my lantern, trudge through the mud to Parson Crabbe's. Before I
take my pen ag