I have gone through Homer's Iliad--sorry to have finished it. The accounts of the Zoolu people, with Dingarn their king, etc., {64} give one a very good idea of the Homeric heroes, who were great brutes: but superior to the Gods who governed them: which also has been the case with most nations. It is a lucky thing that God made Man, and that Man has not to make God: we should fare badly, judging by the specimens already produced--Frankenstein Monster Gods, formed out of the worst and rottenest scraps of humanity--gigantic--and to turn destructively upon their Creators-- 'But be ye of good cheer! I have overcome the world--' So speaks a gentle voice. I found here a Number of Tait's Magazine for August last, containing a paper on Southey, Wordsworth, etc., by De Quincey. Incomplete and disproportioned like his other papers: but containing two noble passages: one, on certain years of his own Life when Opium shut him out from the world; the other, on Southey's style: in which he tells a truth which is obvious, directly it is told. Tait seems to be very well worth a shilling a month: that is the price of him, I see. You have bought Carlyle's Miscellanies, have you not? I long to get them: but one must wait till they are out of print before the Dublin booksellers shall have heard of them. Now here is really a very long letter, and what is more, written with a pen of my own mending--more consolatory to me than to you. Mr. Macnish's inscription {65} for Milton is-- His lofty spirit was the home Of inspirations high, A mighty temple whose great dome Was hidden in the sky. Who Mr. Macnish is, I don't know. Didn't he write some Essays on Drunkenness once? or on Dreams? Farewell for the present, my dear Sir. We shall soon shake hands again. Ever yours, E. FITZGERALD. _To John Allen_. BOULGE, WOODBRIDGE, [4 _April_, 1840] MY DEAR ALLEN, . . . The country is now showing symptoms of greenness and warmth. Yesterday I walked (not a common thing for me) eleven miles; partly over a heath, covered with furze bushes just come out into bloom, whose odour the fresh wind blew into my face. Such a day it was, only not so warm as when you and I used to sit on those rocks overlooking the sea at Tenby, just eight years ago. I am afraid you are growing too good a Christian for me, Master Allen, if you know what I mean by that. Don't be alarmed however. I have just read the first number of Dickens' new work {66a}: it does not promise much, I think. Love to all Coram Street. {66b} _To Frederic Tennyson_. THE CORPORATE TOWN OF BEDFORD, _June_ 7, 1840. DEAR FREDERIC,