When you talk of two idle men not taking the trouble to keep up a little
intercourse by letters, you do not, in conscience, reflect upon me; who,
you know, am very active in answering almost by return of post. It is
some six months since you must have got my last letter, full of most
instructive advice concerning my namesake; of whom, and of which, you say
nothing. How much has he borrowed of you? Is he now living on the top
of your hospitable roof? Do you think him the most ill-used of men? I
see great advertisements in the papers about your great Grimsby Railway.
. . . Does it pay? does it pay all but you? who live only on the fine
promises of the lawyers and directors engaged in it? You know England
has had a famous winter of it for commercial troubles: my family has not
escaped the agitation: I even now doubt if I must not give up my daily
two-pennyworth of cream and take to milk: and give up my Spectator and
Athenaeum. I don't trouble myself much about all this: for, unless the
kingdom goes to pieces by national bankruptcy, I shall probably have
enough to live on: and, luckily, every year I want less. What do you
think of my not going up to London this year; to see exhibitions, to hear
operas, and so on? Indeed I do not think I shall go: and I have no great
desire to go. I hear of nothing new in any way worth going up for. I
have never yet heard the famous Jenny Lind, whom all the world raves
about. Spedding is especially mad about her, I understand: and, after
that, is it not best for weaker vessels to keep out of her way? Night
after night is that bald head seen in one particular position in the
Opera house, in a stall; the miserable man has forgot Bacon and
philosophy, and goes after strange women. There is no doubt this lady is
a wonderful singer; but I will not go into hot crowds till another Pasta
comes; I have heard no one since her worth being crushed for. And to
perform in one's head one of Handel's choruses is better than most of the
Exeter Hall performances. I went to hear Mendelssohn's Elijah last
spring: and found it wasn't at all worth the trouble. Though very good
music it is not original: Haydn much better. I think the day of
Oratorios is gone, like the day for painting Holy Families, etc. But we
cannot get tired of what has been done in Oratorios more than we can get
tired of Raffaelle. Mendelssohn is really original and beautiful in
_romantic_ music: witness his Midsummer Night's Dream, and Fingal's Cave.
I had a note from Alfred three months ago. He was then in London: but is
now in Ireland, I think, adding to his new poem, the Princess. Have you
seen it? I am considered a great heretic for abusing it; it seems to me
a wretched waste of power at a time of life when a man ought to be doing
his best; and I almost feel hopeless about Alfred now. I mean, about his
doing what he was born to do. . . . On the other hand, Thackeray is
progressing greatly in his line: he publishes a Novel in numbers--Vanity
Fair--which began dull, I thought: but gets better every number, and has
some very fine things indeed in it. He is become a great man I am told:
goes to Holland House, and Devonshire House: and for some reason or
other, will not write a word to me. But I am sure this is not because he
is asked to Holland House. Dickens has fallen off in his last novel,
{238} just completed; but there are wonderful things in it too. Do you
ever get a glimpse of any of these things?
As to public affairs, they are so wonderful that one does not know where
to begin. If England maintains her own this year, she must have the
elements of long lasting in her. I think People begin to wish we had no
more to do with Ireland: but the Whigs will never listen to a doctrine
which was never heard of in Holland House. I am glad Italy is free: and
surely there is nothing for her now but a Republic. It is well to stand
by old kings who have done well by us: but it is too late in the day to
_begin_ Royalty.
If anything could tempt me so far as Italy, it would certainly be your
presence in Florence. But I boggle about going twenty miles, and _cui
bono_? deadens me more and more.
July 2. All that precedes was written six weeks ago, when I was obliged
to go up to London on business. . . . I saw Alfred, and the rest of the
scavans. Thackeray is a great man: goes to Devonshire House, etc.: and
_his_ book (which is capital) is read by the Great: and will, I hope, do
them good. I heard but little music: the glorious Acis and Galatea; and
the redoubtable Jenny Lind, for the first time. I was disappointed in
her: but am told this is all my fault. As to naming her in the same
Olympiad with great old Pasta, I am sure that is ridiculous. The
Exhibition is like most others you have seen; worse perhaps. There is an
'Aaron' and a 'John the Baptist' by Etty far worse than the Saracen's
Head on Ludgate Hill. Moore is turned Picture dealer: and that high
Roman virtue in which he indulged is likely to suffer a Picture-dealer's
change, I think. Carlyle writes in the Examiner about Ireland: raves and
foams, but has nothing to propose. Spedding prospers with Bacon. Alfred
seemed to me in fair plight: much dining out: and his last Poem is well
liked I believe. Morton is still at Lisbon, I believe also: but I have
not written to him, nor heard from him. And now, my dear Frederic, I
must shut up. Do not neglect to write to me sometimes. Alfred said you
ought to be in England about your Grimsby Land.
_To E. B. Cowell_.
[? 1848.]