Why do you never write to me? I am sure I wrote last: I constantly am
thinking of you, and constantly wishing to see you. Perhaps you are in
England at this very hour, and do not let me know of it. _When_ I wrote
to you last I cannot remember; whether in Winter or Spring. I was in
London during January and February last, but have been vegetating down
here ever since. Have not been up even to see the Great Exh.--one is
tired of writing, and seeing written, the word. All the world, as you
know, goes in droves: you may be lounging in it this very hour, though I
don't mean to say you are one of a drove. It is because there are so few
F. Tennysons in the world that I do not like to be wholly out of hearing
of the one I know. . . . My own affairs do not improve, and I have seen
more and more of the pitiful in humanity . . . but luckily my wants
decrease. I am quite content never to buy a picture or a Book; almost
content not to see them. One could soon relapse into Barbarism. I do
indeed take a survey of old Handel's Choruses now and then; and am just
now looking with great delight into Purcell's King Arthur, real noble
_English_ music, much of it; and assuredly the prototype of much of
Handel. It is said Handel would not admire Purcell; but I am sure he
adapted himself to English ears and sympathies by means of taking up
Purcell's vein. I wish you were here to consider this with me; but you
would grunt dissent, and smile bitterly at my theories. I am trying to
teach the bumpkins of the united parishes of Boulge and Debach to sing a
second to such melodies as the women sing by way of Hymns in our Church:
and I have invented (as I think) a most simple and easy way of teaching
them the little they need to learn. How would you like to see me, with a
bit of chalk in my hand, before a black board, scoring up semibreves on a
staff for half a dozen Rustics to vocalize? Laugh at me in Imagination.
. . .
Almost the only man I hear from is dear old Spedding, who has lost his
Father, and is now, I suppose, a rich man. This makes no apparent change
in his way of life: he has only hired an additional Attic in Lincoln's
Inn Fields, so as to be able to bed a friend upon occasion. I may have
to fill it ere long. Merivale (you know, surely) is married, and has a
son I hear. He lives some twenty miles from here. . . .
Now, my dear Frederic, this is a sadly dull letter. I could have made it
duller and sadder by telling you other things. But, instead of this, let
me hear from you a good account of yourself and your family, and
especially of my little Godson. Remember, I have a right to hear about
him. Ever yours, dear old Grimsby,