. . . 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 returned home, the sun
sinking red.
(_A pen and ink sketch_.)
This is not like Pool-a-Phooka.
_To F. Tennyson_.
IRELAND, _August_ 31/43.