t in't, Ambition!'

Edgeworth, whom I think you remember at Cambridge, is come to live in
town: and I see him often at the Museum. The want of books chiefly drove
him from Italy: besides that he tells me he likes a constant change of
scenes and ideas, and would be always about if he could. He is a very
original man I think, and throws out much to be chewed and digested: but
he is deficient in some elements that must combine to govern my love and
admiration. He has much imagination of head, but none of heart: perhaps
these are absurd distinctions: but I am no hand at these definitions. His
great study is metaphysics: and Kant is his idol. He is rather without
company in London, and I wish much to introduce him to such men as I
know: but most of your Apostolic party who could best exchange ideas with
him are not in town. He is full of his subjects, and only wants
opponents to tilt at. . . .

The life of Coleridge {32} is indeed an unsatisfactory thing: I believe
that everybody thinks so. You seem to think that it is purposely
unsatisfactory, or rather dissatisfactory: but it seems to me to proceed
from a kind of enervation in De Quincey. However, I don't know how he
supports himself in other writings. . . .

To fill up my letter I send you a sonnet of C. Lamb's, out of his Album
Verses--please to like it--'Leisure.'

_To John Allen_.

MANCHESTER, _May_ 23, 1835.

DEAR ALLEN,

I think that the fatal two months have elapsed, by which a letter shall
become due to me from you. Ask Mrs. Allen if this is not so. Mind, I
don't speak this upbraidingly, because I know that you didn't know where
I was. I will tell you all about this by degrees. In the first place, I
staid at Mirehouse till the beginning of May, and then, going homeward,
spent a week at Ambleside, which, perhaps you don't know, is on the
shores of Winandermere. It was very pleasant there: though it was to be
wished that the weather had been a little better. I have scarce done
anything since I saw you but abuse the weather: but these four last days
have made amends for all: and are, I hope, the beginning of summer at
last. Alfred Tennyson staid with me at Ambleside: Spedding was forced to
go home, till the last two days of my stay there. I will say no more of
Tennyson than that the more I have seen of him, the more cause I have to
think him great. His little humours and grumpinesses were so droll, that
I was always laughing: and was often put