d during his Life, but which I will
copy out for you if you have not seen it. Hawthorne seems to me the most
of a Man of Genius America has produced in the way of Imagination: yet I
have never found an Appetite for his Books. Frederic Tennyson sent me
Victor Hugo's 'Toilers of the Sea,' which he admires, I suppose; but I
can't get up an Appetite for that neither. I think the Scenes being laid
in the Channel Islands may have something to do with old Frederic's
Liking. . . .

The Daily News only tells me of Crisises in France, Floods in Italy,
Insubordination of London Policemen, and Desertion from the British Army.
So I take refuge in other Topics. Do look for 'Objects of Art' among
them.

Which are you for

Noi leggiavamo }
or } un giorno per diletto? {146a}
Noi leggevamo }

WOODBRIDGE: _Nov._ 28 [1872].

'Multae Epistolae pertransibunt et augebitur Scientia.' Our one Man of
Books down here, Brooke, {146b} had told me that the old Editions on the
whole favoured 'legg_ia_vamo.' Now I shall tell him that the Germans
have decided on 'leggevamo.' But Brooke quotes one Copy (1502) which
reads 'leggev_am_,' which I had also wished for, to get rid of a fifth
(and superfluous) _o_ in the line. I suppose such a plural is as
allowable as

Noi andav_am_ per lo solingo Piano, etc.

What is all this erudite Enquiry about? I was talking with Edwards one
night of this passage, and of this line in particular, which came into my
head as a motto for a Device {146c} we were talking of; and hence all
this precious fuss.

But I want to tell you what I forgot in my last letter; what Dickens
himself says of his 'Holyday Romance' in a letter to Fields.

_July_ 25, 1867.

'I hope the Americans will see the joke of Holyday Romance. The
writing seems to me so much like Children's, that dull folk (on _any_
side of _any_ water) might perhaps rate it accordingly. I should like
to be beside you when you read it, and particularly when you read the
Pirate's Story. It made me laugh to that extent that my people here
thought I was out of my wits: until I gave it to them to read, when
they did likewise.'

One thinks, what a delightful thing to be such an Author! Yet he died of
his work, I suppose.

WOODBRIDGE, _Jan_, 5/73.

MY DEAR POLLOCK,

I don't know that I have anything to tell you, except a Story which I
have already written to Donne and to Mrs. Kemble, all the way to Rome,
out o