. . . I had a long letter from Morton the other day--he is still
luxuriating at Venice. Also a letter from Frederic Tennyson, who has
been in Sicily, etc., and is much distracted between enjoyment of those
climates and annoyance from Fleas. These two men are to be at Rome
together soon: so if any one wants to go to Rome, now is a good time. I
wish I was there. F. Tennyson says that he and a party of Englishmen
fought a cricket match with the crew of the Bellerophon on the
_Parthenopaean hills_ (query about the correctness of this--I quote from
memory), and _sacked_ the sailors by 90 runs. Is not this pleasant?--the
notion of good English blood striving in worn out Italy--I like that such
men as Frederic should be abroad: so strong, haughty and passionate. They
keep up the English character abroad. . . . Have you read poor Carlyle's
raving book about heroes? Of course you have, or I would ask you to buy
my copy. I don't like to live with it in the house. It smoulders. He
ought to be laughed at a little. But it is pleasant to retire to the
Tale of a Tub, Tristram Shandy, and Horace Walpole, after being tossed on
his canvas waves. This is blasphemy. Dibdin Pitt of the Coburg could
enact one of his heroes. . . .
_To F. Tennyson_.
IRELAND, _July_ 26, 1841.