_To Bernard Barton_. [GELDESTONE, _Jan_. 1842.] MY DEAR SIR, You tell my Father you mean to write a Poem about my invisibility--and somehow it seems strange to myself that I have been so long absent from Woodbridge. It was a toss up (as boys say--and perhaps Gods) whether I should go now:--the toss has decided I should not. On the contrary I am going to see Donne at Mattishall: a visit, which having put off a fortnight ago, I am now determined to pay. But if I do not see you before I go to London, I shall assuredly be down again by the latter part of February: when toasted cheese and ale shall again unite our souls. You need not however expect that I can return to such familiar intercourse as once (in former days) passed between us. New honours in society have devolved upon me the necessity of a more dignified deportment. A letter has been sent from the Secretary of the Ipswich Mechanics' Institution asking me to Lecture--any subject but Party Politics or Controversial Divinity. On my politely declining, another, a fuller, and a more pressing, letter was sent urging me to comply with their demand: I answered to the same effect, but with accelerated dignity. I am now awaiting the third request in confidence: if you see no symptoms of its being mooted, perhaps you will kindly propose it. I have prepared an answer. Donne is mad with envy. He consoles himself with having got a Roman History to write for Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopaedia. {99} What a pity it is that only Lying Histories are readable. I am afraid Donne will stick to what is considered the Truth too much. This is a day like May: I and the children have been scrambling up and down the sides of a pit till our legs ache. _Jan_. 24/42. DEAR BARTON, You mistake. The Poacher was bought in his shell--for 3 pounds--did I not name that price? As you desire a packing case, I will order one to day: and I hope you will have him down on Wednesday, just when your Bank work is over, and you will be glad of such good company. One of my friends thought the picture must have been an anticipation of Bill Sykes: put a cap and feathers on his head and you make him Iago, Richard the Third, or any other aristocratic villain. I really think the picture is a very good one of its kind: and one that you will like. {100a} I am going to get my large Constable very lightly framed, and shall bring it down into Suffolk with me to shew you and others. I like it more and more. . . . There is something poetical, and almost heroic, in this Expedition to the Niger--the motives lofty and Christian--the issue so disastrous. Do you remember in A. Cunningham's Scottish Songs {100b} one called 'The Darien Song'? It begins We will go, maidens, go, To the primrose {100c} woods and mourn, etc. Look for it. It applies to this business. Some Scotch young folks went out to colonize Darien, and never came back.