My dear Laurence,
We got here this morning; most of us sick, but not I: not evidently sick, I mean. Here the sun shines,
and people go about in their cars or stand idle, just the same as ever. ‘Repeal’ is faintly chalked on a wall here and there. I have been to see a desperate collection of pictures by the Royal Academy: among them old unsaleables by Maclise and Uwins.
What I write for however is to say that the first volume of Titmarsh’s Ireland is at 39 Portland Place; and that I wish you would ask for it there and get it. Keep the two volumes for a time. It is all true. I ordered a bath here when I got in: the waiter said it was heated to 90°, but it was scalding: he next locked me up in the room instead of my locking him out.
Keep an eye on the little Titian, and I shall really make the venture of borrowing £30 to invest in it. Tell Rochard you must have it. I may never be able to get a bit of Titian in my life again: and I shall doubtless learn to admire it properly in time.
To F. Tennyson.
Halverstown, Kilcullen, Ireland.
[? July 1843.]
Dear Frederic . . .
. . . You would rave at this climate which is wetter far than that of England. There are the Wicklow hills (mountains we call them) in the offing—quite high enough. In spite of my prejudice for a level, I find myself every day unconsciously verging
towards any eminence that gives me the freest view of their blue ranges. One’s thoughts take wing to the distance. I fancy that moderately high hills (like these) are the ticket—not to be domineered over by Mont Blancs, etc. But this may be only a passing prejudice.