Your letter found me poring over Harrington's Oceana: a long-shelved book--its doctrine of Government I am no judge of: but what English those fellows wrote! I cannot read the modern mechanique after them. 'This free-born Nation lives not upon the dole or Bounty of One Man, but distributing her Annual Magistracies and Honours with her own hand is herself King People.' Harrington must be a better writer than Milton. One finds books of this kind in these country houses: and it is pleasant to look them over at midnight in the kitchen, where I retire to smoke. . . . Farewell till I see you one of these days. _To S. Laurence_. DUBLIN, _July_ 11/43 MY DEAR LAURENCE, We got here this morning; most of us sick, but not I: not evidently sick, I mean. Here the sun shines, and people go about in their cars or stand idle, just the same as ever. 'Repeal' is faintly chalked on a wall here and there. I have been to see a desperate collection of pictures by the Royal Academy: among them old unsaleables by Maclise and Uwins. What I write for however is to say that the first volume of Titmarsh's Ireland is at 39 Portland Place; and that I wish you would ask for it there and get it. Keep the two volumes for a time. It is all true. I ordered a bath here when I got in: the waiter said it was heated to 90 degrees, but it was scalding: he next locked me up in the room instead of my locking him out. Keep an eye on the little Titian, and I shall really make the venture of borrowing 30 pounds to invest 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.