LETTERS FROM ROME IOI 







* 



ROME, Feb. 14, 1885. 



MY DEAR FOSTER Voila the preface a work of great 

 labour ! and which you may polish and alter as you like, all but 

 the last paragraph. You see I have caved in. I like your asking 

 to have your own way ' for once." My wife takes the same 

 line, does whatever she pleases, and then declares I leave her no 

 initiative. 



If I talk of public affairs, I shall simply fall a-blaspheming. 

 I see the Times holds out about Gordon, and does not believe he 

 is killed. Poor fellow ! I wish I could believe that his own con- 

 viction (as he told me) is true, and that death only means a 

 larger government for him to administer. Anyhow, it is better 

 to wind up that way than to go growling out one's existence as 

 a ventose hypochondriac, dependent upon the condition of a few 

 square inches of mucous membrane for one's heaven or hell. 



As to private affairs, I think I am getting solidly, but very 

 slowly, better. In fact, I can't say there is much the matter 

 with me, except that I am weaker than I ought to be, and that 



a sort of weary indolence hangs about me like a fog. M is 



wonderfully better, and her husband has taken a house for them 

 at Norwood. If I could be rejoiced at anything, I should be at 

 that; but it seems to me as if since that awful journey when 

 I first left England, " the springs was broke," as that vagabond 

 tout said at Naples. 



It has turned very cold here, and we are uncertain when to 

 leave for Florence, but probably next week. The Carnival is the 

 most entirely childish bosh I have ever met with among grown 

 people. Want to finish this now for post, but will write again 

 speedily. Moseley's proposition is entirely to my mind, and I 

 have often talked of it. The R.S. rooms ought to be house-of- 

 call and quasi-club for all F.R.S. in London. 



Wife is bonny, barring a cold. It is as much as I can do to 

 prevent her sporting a mask and domino ! 



With best love Ever yours, T. H. H. 



HOTEL VICTORIA, ROME, VIA DEI DUE MACELLI, 



Feb. 16, 1885. 



MY DEAR DONNELLY I have had it on my mind to write to 

 you for the last week ever since the hideous news about Gor- 

 don reached us. But partly from a faint hope that his wonderful 

 fortune might yet have stood him in good stead, and partly 

 because there is no great satisfaction in howling with rage, I 

 have abstained. 



