ankard and a pipe and see both these
phases at once through the windows that open upon either. But through
all these delightful places they talk of leading railroads: a sad thing,
I am sure: quite impolitic. But Mammon is blind.

I went a week ago to see Luton, Lord Bute's place; filled with very fine
pictures, of which I have dreamt since. It is the gallery in England
that I most wish to see again: but I by no means say it is the most
valuable. A great many pictures seemed to me misnamed--especially
Correggio has to answer for some he never painted.

I am thinking of going to Naseby for a little while: after which I shall
return here: and very likely find my way back to Norfolk before long. At
all events, the middle of October will find me at Boulge, unless the
Fates are very contrary.

_To Samuel Laurence_. {75}

BOULGE HALL, WOODBRIDGE,
_Nov_. 9/40.

DEAR LAURENCE,

. . . We have had much rain which has hindered the sporting part of our
company: but has not made much difference to me. One or two sunshiny
days have made me say within myself, 'how felicitously and at once would
Laurence hit off an outline in this clear atmosphere.' For this fresh
sunlight is not a mere dead medium of light, but is so much vital
champagne both to sitter and to artist. London will become worse as it
becomes bigger, which it does every hour.

I don't see much prospect of my going to Cumberland this winter: though I
should like to go snipe-shooting with that literary shot James Spedding.
Do you mean to try and go up Skiddaw? You will get out upon it from your
bedroom window: so I advise you to begin before you go down to breakfast.
There is a mountain called Dod, which has felt me upon its summit. It is
not one of the highest in that range. Remember me to Grisedale Pike; a
very well-bred mountain. If you paint--put him not only in a good light,
but to leeward of you in a strong current of air. . . .

Farewell for the present.

_To F. Tennyson_.

LONDON, _Jan_. 16, 1841.

DEAR FREDERIC,

I have just concluded, with all the throes of imprudent pleasure, the
purchase of a large picture by Constable, of which, if I can continue in
the mood, I will enclose you a sketch. It is very good: but how you and
Morton would abuse it! Yet this, being a sketch, escapes some of
Constable's faults, and might escape some of your censures. The trees
are not splashed with that white sky-mud, which (according to Constable's
theor