Holyhead, December 15th, 1828.

Dear and faithful Friend,

You have often called me child-like, and no praise is more grateful to me. Yes, Heaven be praised, dear Julia! children we shall both remain, so long as we live, though a hundred wrinkles sat upon our brows. But children are fond of play, are rather ‘inconsequent,’ and are ever on the watch for pleasure: ‘C’est lÀ l’essentiel.’ Thus then you must judge of me, and never expect much more from me. Do not therefore reproach me with wandering about without an object. Good Heaven! has not Parry, with his object, been obliged to sail three times to the north pole, and at last return without attaining it? Has not Napoleon for twenty years heaped victory on victory to pine away at last on St. Helena, because he had attained his object too early and too well? And what is generally the object of men? Not one of them can give an exact and definite account of it. The ostensible aim is always merely a part of the whole, often only the means to an end; and even the real and ulterior end frequently changes its form and its motives as these change their aspect. Thus it was with me. People have also collateral objects, which often seem the principal ones, because they do better to announce. Thus again it was with me. ‘Au bout du compte’ I am satisfied,—and what can one have more?

Neptune must have a peculiar affection for me, for whenever he gets me in his power he keeps me as long as he can. The wind was directly contrary, and blew with great violence. On the sea and on high mountains the lucky principle in me becomes extremely feeble. I scarcely ever had a favourable wind at sea; nor a clear sky, when I had climbed thousands of feet nearer to it.

Yesterday evening at eleven o’clock I quitted Dublin in a post-chaise in a beautiful clear moonlight night. The air was mild and balmy as in summer. I recapitulated the last two years, and called up all their events in review before me. The result did not displease me. I have erred here and there, but I find my mind on the whole become firmer and clearer. In detail I have also gained and learned some things. I have not impaired my physical machine: and lastly, I have imprinted many an agreeable picture in the volume of my memory. I feel my good spirits and my enjoyment of life ten times stronger than they were in the morbid state of mind in which I quitted you; and as this is of more value than all external things, after giving myself patient audience, I looked forward into the unknown future with cheerfulness, and relished the present with delight. The present consisted in the furious driving of the half-drunk postilions: we went along a lofty embankment, or causeway, close to the sea, in the pale moonlight, ‘hop, hop, hop, dahin im sausenden Gallop,’ till we reached a very handsome inn at Howth, where I slept. A magnificent Newfoundland dog of enormous size gave me his company at tea, and again in the morning at breakfast. Perfectly white with a black face, the colossal creature looked like a polar bear, who in a fit of absence had put on the head of one of his black relatives. I wanted to buy him, but the host would not part with him on any terms.

In the night I had a strange dream:—I found myself entangled in political affairs, in consequence of which my person was watched and my life threatened. My first escape from death was at a great hunting party, in which four or five disguised huntsmen fell upon me in the thickest part of the wood, and fired upon me, but did not hit me. The next thing was an attempt to poison me: and I had already swallowed a green powder, which had been given to me as medicine, when the Duke of Wellington came in, and said to me very coolly, “It’s nothing; I have just taken the same, here is the antidote.” After taking this, the usual operation of an antidote followed. (Probably this was from anticipation of my voyage.) In a short time I was better than before.—I set out, and was soon near the end of my journey, when I was attacked by robbers, who pulled me out of my carriage, and dragged me through brambles and ruins to a very high narrow wall, along the top of which we hastily stepped, while it seemed to totter under our feet. We walked on and on, and it seemed to have no end; and besides the fear, I was tormented by gnawing hunger, from which the robbers suffered equally. At last they called out to me that I must find them something to eat, or they would kill me. Just then I thought I heard a soft voice whisper “Show them that door.” I looked up, and saw a high building like an abbey, overgrown with ivy and overshadowed by black pines, without door or window, except a ‘porte cochÈre’ of bronze, shut, and of colossal height. With sudden determination I exclaimed, “Fools! why do you ask food of me, when the great storehouse is before you?” “Where?” growled the captain. “Open that gate,” replied I. As soon as the band perceived it, all rushed upon it, the captain foremost;—but before they could touch it, the huge gates slowly and silently unclosed themselves. A strange sight presented itself. We looked into a vast hall which appeared to us of endless length; the roof overarched our heads at a giddy height; all around was magnificently adorned with gold, and with beautiful bas-reliefs and pictures, which seemed to have life and motion. On either side against the wall was ranged an interminable row of grim-looking wooden figures, with faces rudely painted, clad in gold and steel, with drawn sword and lance, and mounted upon stuffed horses. In the middle the vista was closed by a gigantic black steed, bearing a rider thrice as big and as terrible as the rest. He was cased from top to toe in black iron. As if inspired, I cried out, “Ha, Rudiger! is it thou! venerable ancestor, save me!” The words echoed like a loud thunder-clap in a hundred peals along the vaulted roof; and we thought we saw the wooden figures and their stuffed horses roll their eyes horribly. We all shuddered;—when suddenly the gigantic knight flourished aloft his terrible battle-sword like a lightning-flash, and in an instant his steed with fearful bounds and curvetings was close upon us; when a clock struck with awful sound, and the giant stood again a motionless statue before us. Overpowered by terror, we all took to flight as quickly as our legs would carry us. To my shame I must confess I did not remain behind. I had reached an old wall, but fear turned my feet to lead. I now perceived a side door, and was going to attempt to get through it, when a frightful voice yelled in my ear “Half past seven.” I was ready to sink on the earth from terror,—a strong hand grasped me,—I opened my eyes bewildered, and my Irish servant stood before me—to announce to me that if I did not get up immediately, the steam-packet would infallibly sail without me.—You see, dear Julia, as soon as I set out on my travels, adventures await me, though but in my sleep. I found the people occupied in getting on board a handsome carriage, stuffed with I think even more comforts and superfluities than I take with me when I travel in this manner. The valet and servants were busy, alert, and respectful; while a young man of about twenty, with light hair carefully curled, and very elegantly dressed in deep mourning, sauntered up and down the deck with all the indolence of an English ‘man of fashion,’ taking not the smallest notice of his property or what his people were doing. As I afterwards learned, he had just succeeded to an estate of 20,000l. a year in Ireland, and was now going abroad to spend it. He was hastening to Naples; and appeared such a good-natured young fellow that even sea-sickness did not put him out of humour. While talking with him, I thought—reflecting upon the difference between us, ‘VoilÀ le commencement et la fin!’ One whom the world sends forth, and says ‘Partake of me;’ and the other whom she calls home, and says ‘Digest me.’ May Heaven only preserve my stomach in good order for the operation! But these melancholy thoughts arose only from the ‘qualms’ of the steam-boiler and the sea; and after a little reflection I rejoiced in the sight of this young creature, so rich in hopes, as much as if the illusions had been my own.

This evening I intend to proceed with the mail, and hope that a good dinner will put an end to the nausea left by the long transit.

Shrewsbury, Dec. 16th, Evening.

Things did not turn out so well as I expected: the dinner was by no means good, but on the contrary, vile; and the voyage left me a ‘migraine,’ with which I was obliged to set out at midnight. Fortunately we were but two in the comfortable four-seated coach, so that each had a whole side to himself. I slept tolerably; and the air and gentle motion had so beneficial an effect, that at seven, when I waked, my head-ache was nearly gone. The Holyhead mail is bound to go two German miles in an hour, all stoppages included.[155] We arrived here to breakfast, and I staid to see the city. I visited first the castle, the greater part of which is of extreme antiquity: it is built of red stone: the inside is somewhat modernized. The view from the old ‘keep,’ on which there is now a summer-house, over the river Severn and a rich and fertile valley, is very beautiful and cheerful. Close by is the prison, in which I saw the poor devils at work in the treadmill. They were all dressed in yellow cloth, like so many Saxon postilions, to whose phlegm this exercise would often be advantageous. From this new-fashioned establishment for education I wandered, (travelling back eight hundred years in a minute,) to the remains of an old abbey, of which only the church is in good preservation and in use. The painted windows in this, as in almost all the churches in England, were destroyed by Cromwell’s fanatics, but are here remarkably well restored with newly-painted glass. The founder of the abbey, Roger Montgomery, (first Earl of Shrewsbury and one of William the Conqueror’s followers,) lies buried in the church under a fine monument. Near him lies a Templar, exactly like the one at Worcester, except in the colouring. He lies with his legs crossed in the manner which distinguishes the tombs of his order. The Earl of Shrewsbury not only built and endowed the abbey, but died within its walls as a monk, in expiation of his sins. Thus did the elasticity of the human mind soon find means to lay spiritual curb and bridle on the rough power of the knights.

The city is very remarkable, from its numerous ancient houses of the most extraordinary form and architecture. I frequently stood still in the streets to sketch one in my pocket-book: this always collected a crowd about me, who stared at me astonished, and not unfrequently disturbed me. The English ought not to wonder, therefore, if the same thing happens to them in Turkey and Egypt.

Hereford, Dec. 17th.

It cannot be denied that after being deprived of it for some time, one returns to ‘English comfort’ with increased relish. Change, however, is the soul of life, and gives to every thing in its turn a fresh value. The good inns, the neatly served ‘breakfasts and dinners,’ the spacious, carefully warmed beds, the civil and adroit waiters, struck me, after Irish deficiencies, very agreeably, and soon reconciled me to the higher prices. At ten in the morning I left Shrewsbury again in the mail, and reached Hereford at eight in the evening. As it was not cold I got outside, and gave my place within to my servant. Two or three ordinary sort of men, and a pretty animated boy of eleven, were my companions. The conversation was furiously political. The boy was the son of a man of considerable landed property, and was travelling home from school, a hundred miles off, to spend his Christmas holidays. This custom of throwing children so early on their own resources, unquestionably gives them through life that feeling of independence and self-reliance which the English possess above all other nations, and especially above the Germans. The joy and vivacious restlessness of the child as he approached his home, both touched and delighted me. There was something so natural and so intense in it, that I involuntarily thought of my own childhood,—of that invaluable, and at the time unvalued, happiness which we know only in retrospect.

Monmouth, Dec. 18th.

To-day, dear Julia, I have once more had one of those romantic days which I have long been deprived of; one of those days whose varied pictures delight one like fairy tales in childhood. I am indebted for it to the celebrated scenery of the river Wye, which even in winter asserted its claim to be considered one of the most beautiful parts of England.

Before I quitted Hereford I paid a very early visit to the cathedral, in which I found nothing remarkable except a handsome porch. I was near being too late for the mail, which in England waits for nobody. I literally caught it flying, but used it only for the thirteen miles from Hereford to Ross, which we traversed in an extremely short time, though with four blind horses. At Ross I hired a boat, sent it forwards five miles to Goderich Castle, and took my way thither on foot. My road lay first through a churchyard, on an eminence commanding a beautiful view; then through a rich luxuriant country like that on Lake Lugano, to the ruin, where I found the little boat with two rowers and my Irishman already waiting. I had to cross the river, which is here rather impetuous, in order to reach the hill crowned with the old castle.—The ascent on the slippery turf was arduous enough. As I entered the lofty archway, a blast of wind took my cap off my head, as if the spirit of the place would teach me respect to the shade of its knightly possessor. The awe and admiration could not be enhanced, however, with which I wandered through the dark passages and the spacious courts, and climbed the crumbling staircase. In summer and autumn the Wye is never free from visitors; but as it probably never entered the head of a methodical Englishman to make a tour in winter, the people are not at all prepared for it, and during the whole day I found neither guide nor any sort of help for travellers. The ladder, without which it is impossible to reach the top of the highest tower, was not forthcoming; it had been removed to winter quarters. With the help of the boatmen and my servant I constructed a Jacob’s-ladder, by means of which I scrambled up. From the battlements you overlook a boundless stretch of country:—the robber knights who inhabited this fortress had the advantage of seeing travellers on the road at many miles distance. After I had duly grubbed into every hole and corner, and descended the hill on the other side, I breakfasted with great enjoyment in the boat, while it was rapidly borne along on the swift current. The weather was beautiful, the sun shone bright,—a very rare occurrence at this season,—and the air was as warm as in a pleasant April day with us. The trees had indeed no leaves; but as their branches were extremely thick, and they were intermixed with many evergreens, and the grass was even greener and brighter than in summer, the landscape lost much less in beauty than might have been imagined. The soil is uncommonly fruitful; the gentle hills are clothed from top to bottom with wood and copse; few ploughed fields, chiefly meadows interspersed with trees, while every bend of the winding stream presents a church, a village, or a country house, in a succession of the most varied pictures. For some time we hovered on the boundaries of three counties,—Monmouth on the right, Hereford on the left, and Gloucester before us. In a picturesque spot, opposite to iron-works whose flames are visible even by day, stands a house, one-half of which bears the stamp of modern times, the other half that of gray antiquity. This is the place in which Henry the Fifth passed his childhood, under the care of the Countess of Salisbury. Lower down in the valley stands the little humble church in which he was christened and she was buried. Agincourt and Falstaff, knightly times, and the creations of Shakspeare, occupied my fancy, till Nature, older and greater than all, soon made me forget them: for now our little bark glided into the rocky region, where the foaming stream and its shores assume the grandest character. These are craggy and weather-beaten walls of sandstone, of gigantic dimension, perpendicular or overhanging, projecting abruptly from amid oaks, and hung with rich festoons of ivy. The rains and storms of ages have beaten and washed them into such fantastic forms, that they appear like some caprice of human art. Castles and towers, amphitheatres and fortifications, battlements and obelisks, mock the wanderer, who fancies himself transported into the ruins of a city of some extinct race. Some of these picturesque masses are often loosened by the action of the weather, and fall thundering from rock to rock with a terrific plunge into the river, which is here extremely deep. The boatmen showed me the remains of one of these blocks, and the monument of an unfortunate Portuguese whom it buried in its fall. This extraordinary formation reaches for nearly eight miles, to within about three of Monmouth, where it terminates in a solitary colossal rock called the Druid’s Head. Seen from a certain point it exhibits a fine antique profile of an old man sunk in deep sleep. Just as we rowed by, the moon rose immediately above it, and gave it a most striking effect.

A short time afterwards we passed through a narrow part of the stream between two shores wooded to their summits, till we came in sight of a large bare plateau of rock, called King Arthur’s Plain;—the fabulous hero is said to have encamped here. In half an hour we reached Monmouth, a small ancient town, in which Henry the Fifth was born. A lofty statue of him adorns the roof of the town-hall; but nothing remains of the castle in which he first saw the light, save an ornamented Gothic window, and a court in which turkeys, geese and ducks were fattened. This would have been more suitable to the birth-place of Falstaff.

I went into a bookseller’s shop to buy a ‘Guide,’ and unexpectedly made the acquaintance of a very amiable family. It consisted of the old bookseller, his wife, and two pretty daughters, the most perfect specimens of innocent country girls I ever met with. I went in just as they were at tea; and the father, a very good-natured man, but unusually loquacious, for an Englishman, took me absolutely and formally prisoner, and began to ask me the strangest questions about the Continent and about politics. The daughters, who obviously pitied me—probably from experience—tried to restrain him; but I let him go on, and surrendered myself for half an hour ‘de bonne grÂce,’ by which I won the good-will of the whole family to such a degree, that they all pressed me most warmly to stay some days in this beautiful country, and to take up my abode with them. When I rose at length to go, they positively refused to take any thing for the book, and ‘bongrÉ, malgrÉ,’ I was forced to keep it as a present. Such conquests please me, because their manifestation can come only from the heart.

Chepstow, Dec. 19th.

As I was dressed early, and after a rapid breakfast was going to set out, I discovered, not without a disagreeable surprise, that my purse and pocket-book were missing. I remembered perfectly that I laid them before me in the coffee-room last night; that I was quite alone, and that I dined and wrote to you there; that I referred to the notes in my pocket-book for my letter, and used my purse to pay the boatmen. It was clear, therefore, that I must have left it there, and the waiter have taken possession of it. I rang for him, recapitulated the above facts, and asked, looking earnestly at him, if he had found nothing? The man looked pale and embarrassed, and stammered out that he had seen nothing but a bit of paper with writing on it, which he believed was still lying under the table. I looked, and found it in the place he mentioned. All this appeared to me very suspicious. I made some representations to the host, a most disagreeable-looking fellow, which indeed contained some implied threats: but he answered shortly, That he knew his people; that a theft had not occurred in his house for thirty years, and that my behaviour was very offensive to him;—that if I pleased, he would immediately send to a magistrate, have all his servants sworn, and his house searched. But then, added he with a sneer, you must not forget that all your things, even to the smallest trifle, must be examined too; and if nothing is found on any of us, you must pay the costs and make me a compensation. ‘Qu’allai-je faire dans cette galÈre?’ thought I, and saw clearly that my best way was to put up with my loss—about ten pounds—and to depart. I therefore took some more bank-notes out of my travelling-bag, paid the reckoning, which was pretty moderate, and thought I distinctly recognised one of my own sovereigns in the change he gave me:—it had a little cut over George the Fourth’s eye. Persuaded that host and waiter were partners in one concern, I shook off the dust of my feet, and stepped into the postchaise with the feelings of a man who has escaped from a den of thieves.

To render a service to future travellers, I stopped the chaise, and went to inform my friend the bookseller of my mishap. The surprise and concern of all were equal. In a few minutes the daughters began to whisper to their mother, made signs to one another, then took their father on one side; and after a short deliberation, the youngest came up to me and asked me, blushing and embarrassed, “Whether this loss might not have caused me a ‘temporary embarrassment,’ and whether I would accept a loan of five pounds, which I could restore whenever I returned that way;” at the same time trying to push the note into my hand. Such genuine kindness touched me to the heart: it had something so affectionate and disinterested, that the greatest benefit conferred under other circumstances would perhaps have inspired me with less gratitude than this mark of unaffected good-will. You may imagine how cordially I thanked them. “Certainly,” said I, “were I in the slightest difficulty, I should not be too proud to accept so kind an offer; but as this is not in the least degree the case, I shall lay claim to your generosity in another way, and beg permission to be allowed to carry back to the Continent a kiss from each of the fair girls of Monmouth.” This was granted, amid much laughter and good-natured resignation. Thus freighted, I went back to my carriage. As I had gone yesterday by water, I took my way to-day along the bank of the river to Chepstow. The country retains the same character,—rich, deeply-wooded and verdant: but in this part it is enlivened by numerous iron-works, whose fires gleam in red, blue, and yellow flames, and blaze up through lofty chimneys, where they assume at times the form of huge glowing flowers, when the fire and smoke, pressed down by the weight of the atmosphere, are kept together in a compact motionless mass. I alighted to see one of these works. It was not moved, as most are, by a steam-engine, but by an immense water-wheel, which again set in motion two or three smaller. This wheel had the power of eighty horses; and the whirling rapidity of its revolutions, the frightful noise when it was first set going, the furnaces around vomiting fire, the red-hot iron, and the half-naked black figures brandishing hammers and other ponderous instruments, and throwing around the red hissing masses, formed an admirable representation of Vulcan’s smithy.

About midway in my journey the country changed, as it did yesterday, into a stern rocky region. In the centre of a deep basin, encompassed by mountains of various forms, we descried immediately above the silver stream the celebrated ruins of Tintern Abbey. It would be difficult to imagine a more favourable situation, or a more sublime ruin. The entrance to it seems as if contrived by the hand of some skilful scene-painter to produce the most striking effect. The church, which is large, is still almost perfect: the roof alone and a few of the pillars are wanting. The ruins have received just that degree of care which is consistent with the full preservation of their character; all unpicturesque rubbish which could obstruct the view is removed, without any attempt at repair or embellishment. A beautiful smooth turf covers the ground, and luxuriant creeping plants grow amid the stones. The fallen ornaments are laid in picturesque confusion, and a perfect avenue of thick ivy-stems climb up the pillars and form a roof over-head. The better to secure the ruin, a new gate of antique workmanship, with iron ornaments, is put up. When this is suddenly opened, the effect is most striking and surprising. You suddenly look down the avenue of ivy-clad pillars, and see their grand perspective lines closed, at a distance of three hundred feet, by a magnificent window eighty feet high and thirty broad: through its intricate and beautiful tracery you see a wooded mountain, from whose side project abrupt masses of rock. Over-head the wind plays in the garlands of ivy, and the clouds pass swiftly across the deep blue sky. When you reach the centre of the church, whence you look to the four extremities of its cross, you see the two transept windows nearly as large and as beautiful as the principal one: through each you command a picture perfectly different, but each in the wild and sublime style which harmonizes so perfectly with the building. Immediately around the ruin is a luxuriant orchard. In spring, how exquisite must be the effect of these gray venerable walls rising out of that sea of fragrance and beauty! A Vandal lord and lord lieutenant of the county conceived the pious design of restoring the church. Happily, Heaven took him to itself before he had time to execute it.

From Tintern Abbey the road rises uninterruptedly to a considerable height above the river, which is never wholly out of sight. The country reaches the highest degree of its beauty in three or four miles, at the Duke of Beaufort’s villa called the Moss House. Here are delightful paths, which lead in endless windings through wild woods and evergreen thickets, sometimes on the edge of lofty walls of rock, sometimes through caves fashioned by the hand of Nature, or suddenly emerge on open plateaus to the highest point of this chain of hills, called the Wind-cliff, whence you enjoy one of the most extensive and noble views in England.

At a depth of about eight hundred feet, the steep descent below you presents in some places single projecting rocks; in others, a green bushy precipice. In the valley, the eye follows for several miles the course of the Wye, which issues from a wooden glen on the left hand, curves round a green garden-like peninsula rising into a hill studded with beautiful clumps of trees, then forces its foaming way to the right, along a huge wall of rock nearly as high as the point where you stand, and at length, near Chepstow Castle, which looks like a ruined city, empties itself into the Bristol Channel, where ocean closes the dim and misty distance.

On this side of the river, before you, the peaked tops of a long ridge of hills extend along nearly the whole district which your eyes commands. It is thickly clothed with wood, out of which a continuous wall of rock festooned with ivy picturesquely rears its head. Over this ridge you again discern water,—the Severn, five miles broad, thronged with a hundred white sails, on either shore of which you see blue ridges of hills full of fertility and rich cultivation.

The grouping of this landscape is perfect: I know of no picture more beautiful. Inexhaustible in details, of boundless extent, and yet marked by such grand and prominent features, that confusion and monotony, the usual defects of a very wide prospect, are completely avoided. Piercefield Park, which includes the ridge of hills from Wind-cliff to Chepstow, is therefore without question the finest in England, at least for situation. It possesses all that Nature can bestow; lofty trees, magnificent rocks, the most fertile soil, a mild climate favourable to vegetation of every kind, a clear foaming stream, the vicinity of the sea, solitude, and, from the bosom of its own tranquil seclusion, a view into the rich country I have described, which receives a lofty interest from a ruin the most sublime that the imagination of the finest painter could conceive,—I mean Chepstow Castle. It covers five acres of ground, and lies close to the park on the side next the town, though it does not belong to it.

England is indebted to Cromwell for almost all her ruined castles, as she is to Henry the Eighth for her crumbling churches and religious houses. The former were destroyed with fire and sword; the latter only suppressed, and left to the corroding tooth of time, and the selfishness and wantonness of man. Both agents have been equally efficacious; and these two great men have produced an effect they did not contemplate, but which resembles that of their persons,—a picturesque one. I strolled through the park on foot, and let the carriage follow by the high road: I reached the ruin at the verge of twilight, which increased the awful grandeur of its appearance. The castle contains several extensive courts, and a chapel; a part of it is in good preservation. Large nut and yew-trees, orchards and beautiful turf, adorn the interior; trailing plants of all kinds festoon the walls. In the least ruinous part of the castle lives a woman with her family, who pays the Duke of Beaufort, the possessor, a rent, for permission to show the ruins to strangers, of whom she consequently demands a shilling. You see that in England, ‘on fait flÈche de tout bois,’ and that an English nobleman with an income of sixty thousand a year, neither disdains to take the widow’s mite, nor to lay strangers under regular contribution. To be sure there are some little German sovereigns who unfortunately do much the same.

Satisfied with the employment of my day, as well as tired with climbing, and soaked with rain which had fallen within the last hour, I hastened to my inn, my dishabille, and my dinner,—I felt something unusual in the pocket of my dressing-gown. I pulled it out surprised; and with shame I saw—my purse and pocket-book. It but now occurred to me that I had slipped them into this unaccustomed place from the fear of leaving them on the table.

This shall serve as a lesson to me for the future, never to draw any unfavourable conclusions merely from the embarrassment and confusion of an accused person. The bare thought that others could suspect them may produce the same symptoms in men of irritable nerves and a quick sense of honour, as the consciousness of guilt in others. You will trust to the heart you know so well, that I instantly despatched a letter to my friend the bookseller, exculpating the host and waiter, and enclosing two pounds as some compensation to the latter, which I begged him to deliver with my sincere apologies.—I ate my dinner with more relish after I had atoned for my offence to the best of my power.

Your faithful

L——.