I hope, my dear H., that you touch’d at Loo Choo, That abode of a people so gentle and true, Who with arms and with money have nothing to do. How calm must their lives be! so free from all fears Of running _in_ debt, or of running _on_ spears! Oh dear! what an Eden!--a land without money! It excels e’en the region of milk and of honey, Or the vale of Cashmere, as described in a book Full of musk, gems, and roses, and call’d “Lalla Rookh.” But, of all the enjoyments you have, none would e’er be More valued by me than a chat with Acerbi, Of whose travels--related in elegant phrases-- I have seen many extracts, and heard many praises, And have copied (you know I let nothing escape) His striking account of the frozen North Cape. I think ’twas in his works I read long ago (I’ve not the best memory for dates, as you know,) Of a warehouse, where sugar and treacle were stored, Which took fire (I suppose being made but of board) In the icy domains of some rough northern hero, Where the cold was some fifty degrees below zero. Then from every burnt cask as the treacle ran out, And in streams, just like lava, meander’d about, You may fancy the curious effect of the weather, The frost, and the fire, and the treacle together. When my _first_ for a moment had harden’d my _last_, My _second_ burst out, and all melted as fast; To win their sweet prize long the rivals fought on, But I quite forget which of the elements won. But a truce with all joking--I hope you’ll excuse me, Since I know you still love to instruct and amuse me, For hastily putting a few questions down, To which answers from you all my wishes will crown; For you know I’m so fond of the land of Corinne That my thoughts are still dwelling its precincts within, And I read all that authors, or gravely or wittily, Or wisely or foolishly, write about Italy; From your shipmate John Evelyn’s amusing old tour, To Forsyth’s _one_ volume, and Eustace’s _four_, In spite of Lord Byron, or Hobhouse, who glances At the classical Eustace, and says he romances. --Pray describe me from Venice, (don’t think it a bore,) The literal state of the famed Bucentaur, And whether the horses, that once were the sun’s, Are of bright yellow brass, or of dark dingy bronze; For some travellers say one thing, and some say another, And I can’t find out which, they all make such a pother. Oh! another thing, too, which I’d nearly forgot, _Are_ the songs of the gondoliers pleasing or not? These are matters of moment, you’ll surely allow, For Venice must interest all--even now.