I see in the last Atlas a notice of the first Concert of the Societa
Armonica--there were you to be found of course seated in black velvet
waistcoat (for I hope you remember these are dress concerts) on one of
the benches, grumbling at most of the music. You had a long symphony of
Beethoven's in B flat--I forget how it goes, but doubtless there was much
good in it. The overture to Egmont is also a fine thing. The Atlas
(which is the best weekly critic of Music and all other things that I
know of) gives great [Greek text] to the Societa Armonica: especially
this season, as the Directors seem determined to replace Donizetti and
Mercadante by Mozart and Rossini, in the vocal department. A good change
doubtless. I hear no music now: except that for the last week I have
been staying with Spring Rice's mother in-law Mrs. Frere, {58} one of the
finest judges of Music I know. She was a very fine singer: but her voice
fails now. We used to look over the score of Don Giovanni together, and
many a mystery and mastery of composition did she shew me in it. Now
then there is enough of Music. I wish you would write me a letter, which
you can do now and then if you will take it into your head, and let me
know how you and my dear old Morton are, and whether you dine and smoke
together as heretofore. If you won't write, tell him to do so: or make
up a letter between you. What new pictures are there to be seen? Have
you settled yet whether spirit can exist separately from matter? Are you
convinced of the truth of Murphy's Almanac this year? Have you learned
any more Astronomy? I live on in a very seedy way, reading occasionally
in books which every one else has gone through at school: and what I do
read is just in the same way as ladies work: to pass the time away. For
little remains in my head. I dare say you think it very absurd that an
idle man like me should poke about here in the country, when I might be
in London seeing my friends: but such is the humour of the beast. But it
is not always to be the case: I shall see your good physiognomy one of
these days, and smoke one of your cigars, and listen to Morton saying
fine and wild things, 'startling the dull ear of night' with paradoxes
that perhaps are truisms in the world where spirits exist independent of
matter. You two men have made great commotion in my mind, and left your
marks upon it, I can tell you: more than most of the books I read. What
is Alfred about, and where is he? Present my homage to him. Don't you
rather rejoice in the pickle the King of the French finds himself in? I
don't know why, but I have a sneaking dislike of the old knave. How he
must pine to summon up Talleyrand's Ghost, and what a Ghost it must be,
wherever it is!
_To John Allen_.
[28 _April_, 1839.]