I must however tell you that I am becoming a Farmer! Can you believe in this? I hope we shall both live to laugh over it together. When do you mean to come back? Pray do not let so long a time elapse again without writing to me: never mind a long letter: write something to say you are alive and where. Rome certainly is nearer England than Naples: so perhaps you are coming back. Bring Morton back with you. I will then go to London and we will smoke together and be as merry as sandboys. We will all sit under the calm shadow of Spedding's forehead. People talk of a war with America. Poor dear old England! she makes a gallant shew in her old age. If Englishmen are to travel, I am glad that such as you are abroad--good specimens of Englishmen: with the proper fierte about them. The greater part are poor wretches that go to see oranges growing, and hear Bellini for eighteen-pence. I hope the English are as proud and disagreeable as ever. What an odd thing that the Italians like such martial demonstrations as you describe--not at all odd, probably--their spirit begins and goes off in noise and smoke. It is like all other grand aspirations. So ---'s Epics crepitate in Sonnets. All I ask of you is to write no Sonnets on what you see or hear--no sonnets can sound well after Daddy Wordsworth, ---, etc., who have now succeeded in quite spoiling one's pleasure in Milton's--and they are heavy things. The words 'subjective and objective' are getting into general use now, and Donne has begun with _aesthetics_ and _exegetical_ in Kemble's review. Kemble himself has written an article on the Emperor Nicholas which must crush him. If you could read it, no salvos of _mortalletti_ could ever startle you again. And now my paper is almost covered: and I must say Good bye to you. This is Sunday March 21--a fine sunny blowing day. We shall dine at one o'clock--an hour hence--go to Church--then walk--have tea at six, and pass rather a dull evening, because of no picquet. You will be sauntering in St. Peter's perhaps, or standing on the Capitol while the sun sets. I should like to see Rome after all. Livy's lies (as the aesthetics prove them to be) do at least animate one so far--how far?--so far as to wish, and not to do, having perfect power to do. Oh eloquent, just, and mighty Theory of Mortaletti! _To W. H. Thompson_. BOULGE HALL, WOODBRIDGE, _March_ 26/41. MY DEAR THOMPSON,