I believe I must attribute your letter to your having skipped to Leghorn,
and so got animated by the sight of a new place. _I_ also am an
Arcadian: have been to Exeter--the coast of Devonshire--the Bristol
Channel--and to visit a Parson in Dorsetshire. He wore cap and gown when
I did at Cambridge--together did we roam the fields about Granchester,
discuss all things, thought ourselves fine fellows, and that one day we
should make a noise in the world. He is now a poor Rector in one of the
most out-of-the-way villages in England--has five children--fats and
kills his pig--smokes his pipe--loves his home and cares not ever to be
seen or heard of out of it. I was amused with his company; he much
pleased to see me: we had not met face to face for fifteen years--and now
both of us such very sedate unambitious people! Now I am verging
homeward; taking Leamington and Bedford in my way.
You persist in not giving me your clear direction at Florence. It is
only by chance that you give the name 'Villa Gondi' of the house you
describe so temptingly to me. I should much like to visit you there; but
I doubt shall never get up the steam for such an expedition. And now
know that, since the last sentence was written, I have been to
Cheltenham, and called at your Mother's; and seen her, and Matilda, and
Horatio: all well: Alfred is with the Lushingtons and is reported to be
all the better for the water-cure. Cheltenham seemed to me a woeful
place: I had never seen it before. I now write from Leamington; where I
am come to visit my Mother for a few days. . . .
All the world has been, as I suppose you have read, crazy about Jenny
Lind: and they are now giving her 400 pounds to sing at a Concert. What
a frightful waste of money! I did not go to hear her: partly out of
contradiction perhaps; and partly because I could not make out that she
was a great singer, like my old Pasta. Now I will go and listen to any
pretty singer whom I can get to hear easily and unexpensively: but I will
not pay and squeeze much for any canary in the world. Perhaps Lind is a
nightingale: but I want something more than that. Spedding's cool blood
was moved to hire stalls several times at an advanced rate: the
Lushingtons (your sister told me) were enraptured: and certainly people
rushed up madly from Suffolk to hear her but once and then die. I rather
doubted the value of this general appreciation. But one cause of my not
hearing her was that I was not in London for more than a fortnight all
the Spring: and she came out but at the close of my fortnight. . . .
. . . You are wrong, as usual, about Moore and Eastlake: all the world
say that Moore had much the best of the controversy, and Eastlake only
remains cock of the walk because he is held up by authority. I do not
pretend to judge which of the two is right in art: but I am sure that
Moore argues most logically, and sets out upon finer principles; and if
two shoemakers quarrelled about the making of a shoe, I should be
disposed to side with him who argued best on the matter, though my eyes
and other senses could not help me to a verdict. Moore takes his stand
on high ground, and appeals to Titian, Michel Angelo, and Reynolds.
Eastlake is always shifting about, and appealing to Sir Robert Peel,
Etty, and the Picture-dealers. {225} Now farewell. Write when you can
to Boulge.
_To S. Laurence_.
[1847.]