To C. T. Newton

Denmark Hill, 11th January, '57.

My dear Newton,—You oughtn't to have been so long in writing to me; but I am glad to know of your being well, and having so much in your power; and I sincerely trust you may do all that you hope, and encourage the Government in this sending of ships to pick up what they can get—yes, and even to entice fulfilment of the old nursery rhyme, “Five—six—Picking up sticks,” or, as we might read it in your case, “bricks.” I should think this must reward you for a dull year or two at the British Museum. I don't much care for adventures, myself, but I had always a turn for digging and for the sea, and the idea of a digging cruise would be very pleasant to me, if I were in your place; —in fact, I suppose the idea wouldn't be unpleasant to anybody; but there are dark sides to digging, as to every other pleasure in this world. I began digging under the Mont Blanc this last summer, and went on till my back ached not a little and till my arms wouldn't lift pickaxe. I made no very serious impression on Mont Blanc, but a little on some geological theories—and a great deal on myself—in giving me acuter sympathies with those who have to dig all day long.

I am occupied at present chiefly in my old way concerning Turner —and most likely shall continue to be so, as the adjudgment of all his sketches to the nation puts it in my power to study him far more fully and easily than formerly.