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eet high. So now goodbye for the present. GLOUCESTER, _Augst_. 29/47. MY DEAR BARTON, . . . After I wrote to you at Exeter, I went for three days to the Devonshire coast; and then to Lusia's home in Somersetshire. I never saw her look better or happier. De Soyres pretty well; their little girl grown a pretty and strong child; their baby said to be very thriving. They live in a fine, fruitful, and picturesque country: green pastures, good arable, clothed with trees, bounded with hills that almost reach mountain dignity, and in sight of the Bristol Channel which is there all but Sea. I fancy the climate is moist, and I should think the trees are too many for health: but I was there too little time to quarrel with it on that score. After being there, I went to see a parson friend in Dorsetshire; {222} a quaint, humorous man. Him I found in a most out-of- the-way parish in a fine open country; not so much wooded; chalk hills. This man used to wander about the fields at Cambridge with me when we both wore caps and gowns, and then we proposed and discussed many ambitious schemes and subjects. He is now a quiet, saturnine, parson with five children, taking a pipe to soothe him when they bother him with their noise or their misbehaviour: and I!--as the Bishop of London said, 'By the grace of God I am what I am.' In Dorsetshire I found the churches much occupied by Puseyite Parsons; new chancels built with altars, and painted windows that officiously displayed the Virgin Mary, etc. The people in those parts call that party 'Pugicides,' and receive their doctrine and doings peacefully. I am vext at these silly men who are dishing themselves and their church as fast as they can. _To F. Tennyson_. [LEAMINGTON, 4 _Sept._ 1847.] MY DEAR FREDERIC, I believe I must attribute your letter to your having skipped to Leghorn, and so got animated by the sight of a new place. _I_ also am an Arcadian: have been to Exeter--the coast of Devonshire--the Bristol Channel--and to visit a Parson in Dorsetshire. He wore cap and gown when I did at Cambridge--together did we roam the fields about Granchester, discuss all things, thought ourselves fine fellows, and that one day we should make a noise in the world. He is now a poor Rector in one of the most out-of-the-way villages in England--has five children--fats and kills his pig--smokes his pipe--loves his home and cares not ever to be seen or heard of out of it. I was a
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