Tuesday, _May_ the something, 1851.

MY DEAR GEORGE,

I am ashamed you should have the trouble of asking me to Merton so often,
and so in vain. I might give you a specious reason for not going now . . .
but I will honestly confess I believe I should not have accompanied
your Father in his Voyage to your house, had the sky been quite clear of
engagement. Why, I cannot exactly say: my soul is not packed up for
Merton yet, though one day it will be; and I have no such idea of the
preciousness of my company as to have any hesitation in letting my
friends wait any length of time before I go to occupy their easy chairs.
The day will come, if we live. I have had a very strong invitation to
Cambridge this week; to live with my old friends the Skrines in Sidney
College. But why should we meet to see each other grown old, etc.? (I
don't mean this quite seriously.) Ah, I should like a drive over
Newmarket Heath: the sun shining on the distant leads of Ely Cathedral.

_To F. Tennyson_.

BOULGE, WOODBRIDGE,
[25 _August_, 1851.]

MY DEAR OLD FREDERIC,

Why do you never write to me? I am sure I wrote last: I constantly am
thinking of you, and constantly wishing to see you. Perhaps you are in
England at this very hour, and do not let me know of it. _When_ I wrote
to you last I cannot remember; whether in Winter or Spring. I was in
London during January and February last, but have been vegetating down
here ever since. Have not been up even to see the Great Exh.--one is
tired of writing, and seeing written, the word. All the world, as you
know, goes in droves: you may be lounging in it this very hour, though I
don't mean to say you are one of a drove. It is because there are so few
F. Tennysons in the world that I do not like to be wholly out of hearing
of the one I know. . . . My own affairs do not improve, and I have seen
more and more of the pitiful in humanity . . . but luckily my wants
decrease. I am quite content never to buy a picture or a Book; almost
content not to see them. One could soon relapse into Barbarism. I do
indeed take a survey of old Handel's Choruses now and then; and am just
now looking with great delight into Purcell's King Arthur, real noble
_English_ music, much of it; and assuredly the prototype of much of
Handel. It is said Handel would not admire Purcell; but I am sure he
adapted himself to English ears and sympathies by means of taking up
Purcell's vein. I wish you were here to cons