. . . I had a long letter from Morton the other day--he is still luxuriating at Venice. Also a letter from Frederic Tennyson, who has been in Sicily, etc., and is much distracted between enjoyment of those climates and annoyance from Fleas. These two men are to be at Rome together soon: so if any one wants to go to Rome, now is a good time. I wish I was there. F. Tennyson says that he and a party of Englishmen fought a cricket match with the crew of the Bellerophon on the _Parthenopaean hills_ (query about the correctness of this--I quote from memory), and _sacked_ the sailors by 90 runs. Is not this pleasant?--the notion of good English blood striving in worn out Italy--I like that such men as Frederic should be abroad: so strong, haughty and passionate. They keep up the English character abroad. . . . Have you read poor Carlyle's raving book about heroes? Of course you have, or I would ask you to buy my copy. I don't like to live with it in the house. It smoulders. He ought to be laughed at a little. But it is pleasant to retire to the Tale of a Tub, Tristram Shandy, and Horace Walpole, after being tossed on his canvas waves. This is blasphemy. Dibdin Pitt of the Coburg could enact one of his heroes. . . . _To F. Tennyson_. IRELAND, _July_ 26, 1841. MY DEAR FREDERIC, I got your letter ten days ago in London on my way here. We have incessant rain, which is as bad as your sciroccos; at least it damps my energies very much. But people are accustomed to it in Ireland: and my uncle (in whose house I am staying) is just set off with three of his children--on horseback--cantering and laughing away in the midst of a hopeless shower. I am afraid some of us are too indolent for such things.