ar enough for all the purposes of
experience; and, that being so, the more fabulous and entertaining the
subsidiary matter is the better. Tell Thackeray not to go into Punch
yet.

_To S. Laurence_.

GELDESTONE HALL, BECCLES.
SUNDAY, _May_ 22/42.

MY DEAR LAURENCE,

. . . I read of the advertisements of sales and auctions, but don't envy
you Londoners while I am here in the midst of _green idleness_, as Leigh
Hunt might call it. What are pictures? I am all for pure spirit. You
have of course read the account of Spedding's forehead landing in
America. English sailors hail it in the Channel, mistaking it for Beachy
Head. There is a Shakespeare cliff, and a Spedding cliff. Good old
fellow! I hope he'll come back safe and sound, forehead and all.

I sit writing this at my bedroom window, while the rain (long-looked for)
patters on the window. I prophesied it to-day: which is a great comfort.
We have a housefull of the most delightful children: and if the rain
would last, and the grass grow, all would be well. I think the rain will
last: I shall prophesy so when I go down to our early dinner. For it is
Sunday: and we dine children and all at one o'clock: and go to afternoon
church, and a great tea at six--then a pipe (except for the young
ladies)--a stroll--a bit of supper--and to bed. Wake in the morning at
five--open the window and read Ecclesiasticus. A proverb says that
'everything is fun in the country.'

My Constable has been greatly admired, and is reckoned quite genuine by
our great judge, Mr. Churchyard. Mr. C. paints himself: (not in _body_
colours, as you waggishly insinuate) and nicely too. He understands
Gainsborough, Constable, and old Crome. Have you ever seen pictures by
the latter? some very fine. He was a Norwich man.

BOULGE HALL, _June_ 19/42.

MY DEAR LAURENCE,

Keep the head of Raffaelle as long as you please. I am glad that one of
the three pictures at all events is worth something. I anticipated that
Morton's friend would spoil them in the carriage: friends always do. Keep
them all, like my other pictures, at your house: and make what use of
them you please. The head of Dante is, I suppose, the same as the one L.
Hunt shewed us engraved in a book: a theatrical one, I thought. . . .
Have you been to any auction-rooms? I have forgot all about them: and
can live very well without pictures. I believe one loses all one's
tastes in the country: and one is not the less happy