usic but two concerts at Jullien's a fortnight ago; very dull, I
thought: no beautiful new Waltzes and Polkas which I love. It is a
strange thing to go to the Casinos and see the coarse whores and
apprentices in bespattered morning dresses, pea-jackets, and bonnets,
twirl round clumsily and indecently to the divine airs played in the
Gallery; 'the music yearning like a God in pain' indeed. I should like
to hear some of your Florentine Concerts; and I do wish you to believe
that I do constantly wish myself with you: that, if I ever went anywhere,
I would assuredly go to visit the Villa Gondi. I wish you to believe
this, which I know to be true, though I am probably further than ever
from accomplishing my desire. Farewell: I shall hope to find out your
Consul and your portrait in London: though you do not give me very good
directions where I am to find them. And I will let you know soon whether
I have found the portrait, and how I like it.

_To John Allen_.

BEDFORD, _Dec._ 13/49.

MY DEAR OLD ALLEN,

. . . I am glad you like the Book. {252a} You are partly right as to
what I say about the Poems. For though I really do think some of the
Poems very pretty, yet I think they belong to a class which the world no
longer wants. Notwithstanding this, one is sure the world will not be
the worse for them: they are a kind of elder Nursery rhymes; pleasing to
younger people of good affections. {252b} The letters, some of them, I
like very much: but I had some curiosity to know how others would like
them.

_To W. B. Donne_.

19 CHARLOTTE ST., FITZROY SQUARE,
LONDON.
[18 _Jan_. 1850.]

DEAR DONNE,

. . . After I left Richmond, whence I last wrote to you, I went to
Bedford, where I was for five weeks: then returned to spend Christmas at
Richmond: and now dawdle here hoping to get some accursed lawyers to
raise me some money on what remains of my reversion. This they _can_ do,
and _will_ do, in time: but, as usual, find it their interest to delay as
much as possible.

I found A. Tennyson in chambers at Lincoln's Inn: and recreated myself
with a sight of his fine old mug, and got out of him all his dear old
stories, and many new ones. He is re-publishing his Poems, the Princess
with songs interposed. I cannot say I thought them like the old vintage
of his earlier days, though perhaps better than other people's. But,
even to you, such opinions appear blasphemies. A. T. is now gone on a
visit into Leicestershire