to get it back
ever again.

I am glad you and Mrs. Carlyle happen to be in a milder part of England
during this changeable and cold season. Yet, for my own sake, I shall be
sorry to see the winter go: with its decided and reasonable balance of
daylight and candlelight. I don't know when I shall go to London,
perhaps in April. Please to remember me to Mrs. Carlyle.

_To S. Laurence_.

GELDESTONE HALL, BECCLES.

[_June_ 20, 1847.]

MY DEAR LAURENCE,

I have had another letter from the Bartons asking about your advent. In
fact Barton's daughter is anxious for her Father's to be done, and done
this year. He is now sixty-three; and it won't do, you know, for grand-
climacterical people to procrastinate--nay, to _proannuate_--which is a
new, and, for all I see, a very bad word. But, be this as it may, do you
come down to Woodbridge this summer if you can; and that you can, I doubt
not; since it is no great things out of your way to or from Norwich.

The means to get to Ipswich are--A steamboat will bring you for five
shillings (a very pretty sail) from the Custom House to Ipswich, the
Orwell steamer; going twice a week, and heard of directly in the fishy
latitudes of London Bridge. Or, a railroad brings you for the same sum;
if you will travel third class, which I sometimes do in fine weather. I
should recommend _that_; the time being so short, so certain: and no
eating and drinking by the way, as must be in a steamer. At Ipswich, I
pick you up with the washerwoman's pony and take you to Woodbridge. There
Barton sits with the tea already laid out; and Miss about to manage the
urn; plain, agreeable people. At Woodbridge too is my little friend
Churchyard, with whom we shall sup off toasted cheese and porter. Then,
last and not least, the sweet retirement of Boulge: where the Graces and
Muses, etc.

I write thus much because my friends seem anxious; my friend, I mean,
Miss Barton: for Barton pretends he dreads having his portrait done;
which is 'my eye.' So come and do it. He is a generous, worthy, simple-
hearted, fellow: worth ten thousand better wits. Then you shall see all
the faded tapestry of country town life: London jokes worn threadbare;
third rate accomplishments infinitely prized; scandal removed from Dukes
and Duchesses to the Parson, the Banker, the Commissioner of Excise, and
the Attorney.

Let me hear from you soon that you are coming. I shall return to Boulge
the end of this week.