You see my address. I only got into it yesterday, though I reached
London on Friday, and hung loose upon it for all that interval. I spent
four days at Cambridge pleasantly enough; and one at Bedford where I
heard my friend Matthews preach.
Last night I appeared at the Opera, and shall do so twice a week till
further notice. Friends I have seen but few; for I have not yet found
time to do anything. Alfred Tennyson was here; but went off yesterday to
consider the sea from the top of Beachy Head. Carlyle gets on with his
book which will be in two big volumes. He has entirely misstated all
about Naseby, after all my trouble. . . .
Did Churchyard see in London a picture at the address I enclose? The
man's card, you see, proclaims 'Silversmith,' but he is 'Pawnbroker.' A
picture hangs up at the door which he calls by 'Williams,' but I think is
a rather inferior Crome; though the figure in it is not like Crome's
figures. The picture is about three feet high by two broad; good in the
distance; very natural in the branching of the trees; heavy in the
foliage; all common to Crome. And it seems painted in that fat substance
he painted in. If C. come to London let him look at this picture, as
well as come and see me.
I have cold, head-ache, and London disgust. Oh that I could look on my
Anemones! and hear the sighing of my Scotch firs. The Exhibition is full
of bad things: there is a grand Turner, however; quite unlike anything
that was ever seen in Heaven above, or in Earth beneath, or in the waters
under the Earth.
The reign of primroses and cowslips is over, and the oak now begins to
take up the empire of the year and wear a budding garland about his
brows. Over all this settles down the white cloud in the West, and the
Morning and Evening draw toward Summer.
[? _May_ 1845.]