Bredfield. He was very fond, I think, of my Father; though they had
several coolnesses which I believe were all my Father's fault, who
took fancies that people disliked him or were bored by him. E. F. G.
had in his cottage an old woman to wait on him, Mrs. Faiers; a very
old-fashioned Suffolk woman. He was just as careful not to make her
do anything as he was afterwards with Mrs. Howe. {149} He would never
ring the bell, if there was one, of which I am not sure. Sometimes he
would give a little dinner--my Father, Brooke, B. Barton,
Churchyard--everything most hospitable, but not comfortable.

'In 1846 and 1847 he does not seem to have come much to Bredfield.
Perhaps he was away a good deal. He was often away, visiting his
mother, or W. Browne, or in London, or at the Kerriches'. In 1848,
1849, and 1850 he was a great deal at Bredfield, generally dropping in
about seven o'clock, singing glees with us, and then joining my Father
over his cigar, and staying late and often sleeping. He very often
arranged concerted pieces for us to sing, in four parts, he being
tenor. He sang very accurately but had not a good voice.

'While E. F. G. was at Boulge, he always got up early, eat his small
breakfast, stood at his desk reading or writing all the morning, eat
his dinner of vegetables and pudding, walked with his Skye terrier,
and then often finished the day by spending the evening with us or the
Bartons. He did not visit with the neighbouring gentlefolks, as he
hated a set dinner party.'

_To F. Tennyson_.

BOULGE, WOODBRIDGE, _February_ 24/44.

MY DEAR FREDERIC,

I got your letter all right. But you did not tell me where to direct to
you again; so I must send to the Poste Restante at Florence. I have also
heard from Morton, to whom I despatched a letter yesterday: and now set
about one to you. As you live in two different cities, one may write
about the same things to both. You told me of the Arno being frozen, and
even Italian noses being cold: he tells me the Spring is coming. I tell
you that we have had the mildest winter known; but as good weather, when
it does come in England, is always unseasonable, and as an old proverb
says that a green Yule makes a fat kirk-yard, so it has been with us: the
extraordinary fine season has killed heaps of people with influenza,
debilitated others for their lives long, worried everybody with colds,
etc.