in it. Tell Rochard you must have it. I
may never be able to get a bit of Titian in my life again: and I shall
doubtless learn to admire it properly in time.

_To F. Tennyson_.

HALVERSTOWN, KILCULLEN, IRELAND.
[? _July_ 1843.]

DEAR FREDERIC . . .

. . . You would rave at this climate which is wetter far than that of
England. There are the Wicklow hills (mountains we call them) in the
offing--quite high enough. In spite of my prejudice for a level, I find
myself every day unconsciously verging towards any eminence that gives me
the freest view of their blue ranges. One's thoughts take wing to the
distance. I fancy that moderately high hills (like these) are the
ticket--not to be domineered over by Mont Blancs, etc. But this may be
only a passing prejudice.

We hear much less of Repeal here than in London: and people seem amused
at the troops and waggons of gunpowder that are to be met now and then
upon the roads. . .

_To Bernard Barton_.

BALLYSAX, {142a} KILCULLEN,
_August_, 17/43

MY DEAR BARTON,

. . . That old Suffolk comes over here sometimes, as I say; and greets
one's eyes with old familiar names: Sales at Yoxford, Aldeburgh, etc.,
regattas at Lowestoft, and at Woodbridge. I see Major Moor {142b}
turning the road by the old Duke of York; the Deben winding away in full
tide to the sea; and numberless little pictures of this kind.

I am going the day after to-morrow to Edgeworth's, for a week, it may be
a fortnight before I set sail for England. Where shall I pitch my tent?
that is the question. Whither shall those treasures of ancient art
descend, and be reposited there for ever?

I have been looking over the old London Magazine. Lamb's papers come in
delightfully: read over the Old China the night you get this, and
sympathize with me. The account of the dish of green pease, etc., is the
true history of lawful luxury. Not Johnson nor Adam Smith told so much.
It is founded not on statistics but on good humanity.

We have at last delightful weather, and we enjoy it. Yesterday we went
to Pool-a-Phooka, the Leap of the Goblin Horse. What is that, do you
suppose? Why, a cleft in the mountains down and through which the river
Liffey (not very long born from the earth) comes leaping and roaring.
Cold veal pies, champagne, etc., make up the enchantment. We dabbled in
the water, splashed each other, forded the river, climbed the rocks,
laughed, sang, eat, drank, and were roasted, and re