Men are base.
Mr.Prinsep[97] is here.

Last autumn he made a walking tour into Cornwall with Alfred Tennyson, to tread in the steps of King Arthur.
Tennyson was dreadfully afraid of being recognised and mobbed, and desired to be called 'the other gentleman,' which straightway became convertible now and then into 'the old gentleman,' much to his vexation.

But Mr.Prinsep is in the roses and lilies of youth, and comparatively speaking, of course, the great Laureate was an ancient.

He is in considerable trouble, too by their building a fort in front of his house on the southern coast of the Isle of Wight.

I couldn't help saying that he deserved it for having written 'Riflemen, arm!' It's a piece of pure poetical justice, really.
Here I end.
Write to me, my Isa, and do me good with your tender, warm thoughts.