R ALLEN,

. . . I have now been home about three weeks, and, as you say, one sees
indications of lovely spring about. I have read but very little of late;
indeed my eyes have not been in superfine order. I caught a glimpse of
the second volume of Southey's Life and Letters; interesting enough. I
have also bought Emerson's 'Representative Men,' a shilling book of
Bohn's: with very good scattered thoughts in it: but scarcely leaving any
large impression with one, or establishing a theory. So at least it has
seemed to me: but I have not read very carefully. I have also bought a
little posthumous volume of Ebenezer Elliott: which is sure to have fine
things in it.

I believe I love poetry almost as much as ever: but then I have been
suffered to doze all these years in the enjoyment of old childish habits
and sympathies, without being called on to more active and serious duties
of life. I have not put away childish things, though a man. But, at the
same time, this visionary inactivity is better than the mischievous
activity of so many I see about me; not better than the useful and
virtuous activity of a few others: John Allen among the number.

_To F. Tennyson_.

PORTLAND COFFEE HOUSE, LONDON.
_April_ 17/50.

MY DEAR FREDERIC,

You tell me to write soon: and this letter is begun, at least, on the day
yours reaches me. This is partly owing to my having to wait an hour here
in the Coffee room of the Portland Hotel: whither your letter has been
forwarded to me from Boulge. I am come up for one week: once more to
haggle with Lawyers; once more to try and settle my own affairs as well
as those of others for a time. . . .

I don't think of drowning myself yet: and what I wrote to you was a sort
of safety escape for my poor flame . . . It is only idle and well-to-do
people who kill themselves; it is ennui that is hopeless: great pain of
mind and body 'still, still, on hope relies': the very old, the very
wretched, the most incurably diseased never put themselves to rest. It
really gives me pain to hear you or any one else call me a philosopher,
or any good thing of the sort. I am none, never was; and, if I pretended
to be so, was a hypocrite. Some things, as wealth, rank, respectability,
I don't care a straw about; but no one can resent the toothache more, nor
fifty other little ills beside that flesh is heir to. But let us leave
all this.

I am come to London; but I do not go to Operas or Plays: and have sc