London, Sept. 7th, 1827.

Dear friend,

I am, as you know, not strong in remembering anniversaries and the like; but I know full well that to-morrow is the day on which I left my poor Julia alone in B——. A year has rolled over us, and we insects are still creeping on in the old track. But we love each other as much as ever, and that is the main thing. We shall work our way in time through those great heaps under which we are now forced to toil so wearily; and perhaps reach the fresh grass and the beautiful flowers on which the morning has scattered her diamonds, and the gay sunbeams dance glittering in the wet crystal. ‘Soyez tranquille, nous doublerons encore un jour le Cap de bonne espÉrance.’

For some days I have written nothing about my sayings and doings, because they amounted only to this,—that I worked and wrote daily with B——, dined with L—— at the Travellers’ Club, and went to bed. Yesterday we had the company of another German at dinner, Count ——, who is come to buy horses. He seems to have a good deal of money, and is young enough to enjoy it; ‘au reste,’ the perfect picture of a good-natured country gentleman (Landjunker,)—of a truth, a most happy sort of man:—I only wish I were one.

As to your opinion about parks, I must remark that the extent of them, especially when properly rounded, can never be great enough. Windsor park is the only one which has fully satisfied me as a whole, and the reason for that is its enormous size. It realizes all I would have;—a pleasant tract of country, within the bounds of which you can live and do what you like, without privation or constraint; hunt, fish, ride, drive, without ever feeling cramped; in which you never see a point, except just at the entrance-gates, at which you remark, Here is a boundary; and to which all the beauties of the surrounding country to the remotest distance have been rendered tributary by a cultivated taste.

In other respects you are right: one must not throw away good and bad together; and it is better to conceal many defects and limitations of the ground by skilfully-planned paths and plantations, than to make disproportionate sacrifices to them.

My horses are safe on board, and sail to-day; though the beautiful Hyperion behaved like mad, dashed the box in which he was enclosed into pieces like glass, and burst all the halters and straps that confined him. He was within an inch of falling into the river, and will probably give them a good deal of trouble on the passage, though we have bound him like a wild beast. One can’t blame the poor animal for being frightened when the crane, like a giant’s arm, seized him and bore him into the air. Many, however, take it very quietly, for even among horses there are Stoics.

There is nothing which needs really detain me now in London; but Lady —— is still here in the solitude,—and she is so attractive. To quit such a friend were a sin,—the more so, as I have not the least idea of falling in love with her. But is not the true unmixed friendship of a charming woman something very sweet? I have often remarked how men destroy all friendship with women, because they always think it incumbent on them to play the adorer; they thus alarm their delicacy, and check at once that unsuspecting confidence and ease which might otherwise subsist between them. I am well contented with the mere friendship of an amiable woman, especially when I can read it in her soft blue eyes, hear it from a mouth of pearl and coral, and feel it in the kind pressure of a velvet hand. To this portrait you have only to add the innocent look of a dove, long dark-brown curling hair, a slender form, and the most beautiful English complexion, and you have Lady —— before your eyes.

Doncaster, Sept. 16th.

I might almost have dated from London, so rapidly have I skimmed over these hundred and eighty miles; and yet I have had time to get a sight of two celebrated houses of the time of Elizabeth, though a transient one.

The first, Hatfield, which belonged to herself, and which she frequently inhabited, is less magnificent than the second, Burleigh House, which was built by her great minister Cecil. Hatfield is built of brick; only the eyebrows of the windows, the corners, &c. are of stone. The proportions are good and grand. There is nothing remarkable in the park and garden, but a fine avenue of oaks, which are reported to have been planted by the Queen herself.

I could only see the outside of Burleigh House; for though the family were all absent, the ‘chÂtelaine’ was in no way to be moved to desecrate the sabbath by showing the house to a foreigner. I regretted this the more, because there is a fine collection of pictures. The ancient park is full of the finest trees; but the water, both here and at Hatfield, stagnant and muddy. The house itself is in a confused style, Gothic below, and with chimneys like Corinthian pillars. The great statesman must have had a very corrupt taste in art.

York, Sept. 17th.

Doncaster races are the most frequented in England, and the course is far preferable to any in the country for elegance, fitness, and commodious sight of the whole. The view of the race is more agreeable, and less brief and transient; for from the lofty and elegant stand you distinctly overlook the whole course from beginning to end. The horses run in a circle, and the same point serves as starting-post and goal. The concourse of people, of handsome women and fashionable company, was extraordinary. All the great neighbouring nobility came in their gala equipages,—a very interesting sight to me, because I thus learned one sort of state observed here in the country, which is very different from that in town. The most distinguished equipage was that of the Duke of Devonshire, and I describe his train to you as a notice for M——. The Duke’s party were seated in a full-bodied carriage drawn by six horses, the harness and hammercloth of moderate richness, and the coachman in intermediate livery, flaxen wig, and boots. The carriage was escorted by twelve outriders: namely, four grooms mounted on horses of different colours, with light saddles and bridles, four postillions on carriage-horses exactly like those in the carriage, with harness-reins, and postillions’ saddles; lastly, four footmen in morning jackets, leathern breeches and top-boots, with saddle-cloths and holsters embroidered with the Duke’s arms. The order of the train was as follows: first, two grooms; then two postillions; then the carriage with its six beautiful horses which the coachman drove from the box, a postillion riding the leader. On the left rode a footman; another somewhat further back on the right; behind the carriage two more postillions, then two grooms, and lastly, two more footmen. The little fellow who rode the leader was the only one in full state livery,—yellow, blue, black and silver, with a powdered wig,—rather a theatrical dress, with the arms embroidered on his left sleeve.

The St. Leger race, which took place to-day, has probably caused many a sleepless night, for enormous sums have been lost. A little mare, which was so lightly esteemed that the bets were fifteen to one against her, was in first of twenty-six horses that ran. An acquaintance of mine won nine thousand pounds, and had he been unsuccessful, would have lost hardly as many hundreds. Another is said to have lost nearly every thing he had, and, as it is asserted, through the trickery of the owner of one of the horses.

Immediately after the races, which with their animated crowd and thousand equipages afforded me a most striking exhibition of English wealth, I drove further north, towards some object yet unknown to myself, and arrived at one o’clock in the morning at this city of York. During the whole ride I read by my lamp Madame de Maintenon’s Letters to the Princess des Ursins, which entertained me extremely. Many passages are remarkably illustrative of the manners of her age. The incognito Queen of course understands court-life to the very bottom; and often reminded me strongly of a good friend of yours, especially by her manner of affecting complete ignorance of all that was passing, and of undervaluing her own influence. She however shows great mildness and prudence, and such extraordinary tact and good-breeding in all she says and does, that one is constrained to think her more amiable than history represents her. It is indeed always a bad thing to let an old woman govern, whether in petticoats or breeches; but it was easier then than now, for all ranks of people were obviously far more like great ‘naÏfs’ children. They even made war in that spirit. Nay, they regarded Almighty God as a Louis the Fourteenth in the highest ‘potenz;’ and, like true courtiers, when they were ‘in articulo mortis,’ they left their earthly king in a moment,—taking no further notice of him,—to devote themselves exclusively to that mightier Ruler, whom they had hitherto neglected as too distant. One can distinctly perceive in these old ‘MÉmoires,’ that those who had been tolerably successful at Court went out of the world with considerable confidence in their ‘savoir faire’ in heaven; while those who were in disgrace suffered much greater fear of death, and severer stings of conscience. It is quite impossible, now, to represent to oneself such a Court or such an existence, faithfully; but perhaps for our particular class, it was not such a bad state of things. I fell into many reflections on this eternal change in human affairs; and at length breathed upon by that invisible spirit which pervades the Whole, turned with loving greetings to the brilliant star of eve, which from endless years had looked down upon all this struggle with pitying tolerance and untroubled peace.

September 19th.

There are certainly some talents in me which it is a pity to think of

* * * * * * *

Now all this is lost and thrown away (for one always serves oneself badly,) like many better things:—for example, a wondrously beautiful tree in some American wilderness, which every spring decks itself in vain with the richest foliage and the most fragrant blossoms, where no human being can gladden his senses and his spirit by its sweetness. Such an existence we call useless. What amiable egotism!—and under its unjust sentence I too must suffer, for those above-mentioned virtues of mine are just as useless;—nay, my whole person would probably be so, were I not of substantial use to the post-boys and waiters, who take my money; and valuable to you, my kind friend, (‘je m’en flatte au moins,’) on other grounds. So that I do not live in the world absolutely and utterly for nothing; and, as on the other hand I hurt nobody, my account stands tolerably fair after striking a balance.

This whole day I have been wandering about the town. I began with the cathedral, which may be compared to that of Milan for the richness of its ornaments, as well as for its size. The founder was Archbishop Scrope, (one of Shakespeare’s personages,) whom Henry the Fourth beheaded as a rebel in 1405. He lies buried in the church; and in the chapter-house is a table covered with a piece of tapestry belonging to him, and embroidered with his arms. It is still in tolerable preservation. The windows in the church are chiefly of old stained glass, only here and there repaired with new. The carving in stone is everywhere admirable, and has all the delicacy and elegance of carved wood, representing all sorts of foliage, animals, angels, &c. One of the great windows is not less than seventy-five feet high and thirty-two broad. That at the other end represents, by its strange stone ramifications, the veins of the human heart, and, with its blood-red glass, produces a curious effect. One of the side windows is remarkable for being painted in imitation of embroidery; it is like a gay carpet. In the choir is an old chair in which several Kings of England were crowned. I sat down in it, and found it, for stone, very comfortable; I dare say I should have thought it still more so if it had been the preparation for a throne.

Near the church is a very pretty Gothic library, the arrangements of which appeared to me very well contrived. Every book has three numbers on the back. At the top, that of the shelf, then that of the compartment, and below, its own number; so that it can be found in a moment. The numbers are on pretty little labels, and do not at all deform the books. In one corner is a very light and convenient staircase leading to the gallery, which runs about midway round the room.

The alphabetical catalogue is arranged as follows:

Page 20.

This will suffice to make it clear to you; and as I know by experience what a difficult matter the arranging of a library is, and how many are the ways of doing it, I send you this scheme, as very well suited to a small collection of books.

I could not get a sight of any of the rare books or manuscripts kept here, as the librarian was absent. In a corner I found a very curious drawing of the procession at the great Marlborough’s funeral. It is almost incredible how totally the dresses and customs have altered even since that time. The aged clerk who conducted me about, said he remembered when a boy to have seen soldiers with long bag-wigs like those in the picture.

About three-quarters of a mile from the Minster, on a hill near to the town, are the romantic ruins of St. Mary’s Abbey, overgrown with trees and ivy. The people here have the not very praiseworthy project of erecting a public building on the same hill: they have even begun to dig the foundation; in doing which they have come upon some of the most beautiful remains of the old abbey, as perfect as if executed yesterday. I saw several exquisite capitals still in the earth, and in a neighbouring house, admirable bas-reliefs which have been deposited there while the work is going on. We crossed the river Ouse in a boat, and continued our walk along the top of the old city wall,—a picturesque but rather impracticable way. The surrounding country is very fresh and green; and the numerous Gothic towers of the town give great diversity and beauty to the prospect. After a quarter of an hour’s walk, we reached the Micklegate, from which the old barbican has been pulled down, but which has otherwise retained its original form. The gorgeous arms of York and England glittered upon it with knightly splendour.

In an adjoining field a Roman tomb was discovered fifteen years ago, and the owner who found it, now exhibits it in his cellar. The arch, of Roman brick, is perfectly fresh: the skeleton, lying in a stone coffin beneath, is pronounced by anatomists to be that of a young woman; and, (which is saying a good deal at the end of two thousand years,) she has still ‘des beaux restes,’—splendid teeth, and a beautifully formed skull. I examined the organs carefully, and found all the most desirable qualities; to such a degree, indeed, that I could not help regretting making her acquaintance two thousand years too late, or I should certainly have married her. A better organized cranium I shall never find—that’s certain. She does not seem to have been rich, for nothing was found in her coffin but two glass bottles,—very curious things in themselves, more perfect and more like our glass than any I ever saw, except at Pompeii. It is distinguishable from ours only by its silvery shine, and exhibits no mark of having been blown, though no means have been discovered of concealing such marks in any of our uncut glass. The British Museum has offered the possessor a large sum for these glasses. He finds it, however, more advantageous to show the curiosities himself, at a ‘thaler’ of our money a-head.

We returned to the Micklegate, and proceeded with still more difficulty along the crumbling wall, till, after half an hour’s scrambling, we came to a beautiful ruin called Clifford’s Tower. This ancient fortress plays a part in English history. On one occasion a thousand Jews were burnt alive in it,—having no Rothschild then to save them. At last, about a century ago, being used as a magazine for gunpowder, it was blown up, and has ever since been abandoned to the eating tooth of Time. But time not only destroys, but builds up: and thus as the ruins decayed, ivy, in which thousands of sparrows nestle, curled itself around them like thick tresses; and in the centre of the tower is a large nut-tree, which overtops the roofless walls. The hill or mound on which the ruin stands, was constructed by the Romans; and a man who lately dug to a considerable depth in search of treasure, found almost the whole foundation of it composed of bones of men and horses. Such is the earth—the universal grave and cradle.

From ruins and death I proceeded to the living dead, who pine at the foot of the hill—the poor prisoners in the county jail. Externally their dwelling appears a palace. The interior has a very different aspect; and my heart ached for the poor devils who were to sit the whole winter through till March, in cells, which are clean, it is true, but chill and damp, only on suspicion; with the pleasant prospect, perhaps, of being hanged at the end. If they are acquitted, they have no indemnification to expect. In the court in which the debtors were allowed to walk, were two horses, a she-goat, and an ass. In all the rooms and cells I visited, I observed the greatest cleanliness and order. But the strangest peculiarity of this prison, was a sort of thieves’ wardrobe, arranged with real elegance, like the wardrobe of a theatre. A jailor, whose head was considerably overloaded with drink, stammered out the following explanation:

“Here you see the wigs of the famous Granby, which disguised him so, that for ten years he could never be caught. He was hanged here in 1786.—Here is the stake with which George Nayler was knocked down two years ago on the road to Doncaster. He was hanged here last spring.—Here is Stephen’s ‘knock-down,’ with which he killed six people at once. He was hanged here likewise two years ago.—Here are the enormous iron leg-bolts, the only things that would hold Fitzpatrick. He escaped seven times out of the strongest prisons: but these leg-bolts, which I fastened on him myself, were a little too heavy for him. (They were complete beams of iron, which a horse could hardly have dragged along.) He did not wear them long, for two months afterwards, on the first of May,—a beautiful morning ’twas,—he was sent to another world.—Here are the machines with which Cook coined false money. He was quite the gentleman—hanged in 1810.”

“Pray,” interrupted I, “what sort of a weapon is this immense wooden mallet?”

“Oh!” grinned the old fellow, “that’s innocent enough; that’s only what I break sugar with when I make negus, He, he, he!—only I put it here ready.”

The wardrobe was immediately adjoining his room, and seemed an amateur collection, which owed its rise entirely to his own taste and zeal. How various are the hobby-horses of men!

I am afraid you are already tired of this long walk, dear Julia; but you must follow me a little further; nay, you may even consent to climb from the depth to the highest height. I wished to see the whole panorama of my walk at a glance, and selected for that purpose a Gothic tower of the finest proportions. It is of the most beautiful, elaborate architecture from top to bottom; and behind the transparent tracery I had espied from a distance, with the aid of my opera-glass, ladders which extremely tempted me to mount.

After a stout walk,—in the course of which we came to another old gate, called the Nobles’ Gate, which was built up fifty years ago and is now re-opened to serve as a passage to the new cattle-market,—we at length reached the desired tower, a part of the oldest church in York. I had some trouble in finding the clerk, a black man, more like a coal-heaver than a servant of the church,—but full of goodwill. I asked him if one could get up to the fine galleries at the top. “That I don’t know,” replied he, “for I never went up, though I have been clerk these ten years. There are only old ladders, and some are broken at the top, so that I don’t think it possible.” This was enough to fire my adventurous soul; and I hastened up the worst, darkest, narrowest, and most decayed winding staircase you can imagine. We soon reached the ladders; we climbed them without halting, and came to the first landing-place. But here the clerk and the ‘laquais de place’ hesitated to proceed. A high and certainly very frail-looking ladder, wanting many staves, led to a small square hole at the top (where, for a space of about six feet, the staves were entirely gone;) through this you reached the roof. I was determined not to go back ‘re infectÂ,’ so I scrambled up, reached the edge of the opening with my hands, and swung myself up with some little difficulty. The view was indeed magnificent, and I exactly attained my chief end,—to see the noble Minster, (which is so miserably encumbered by houses below,) perfectly free in all its colossal majesty, like a line-of-battle ship among boats. The wind, however, blew so terribly around my elevated post, and all seemed in such a decaying state, that I could almost fancy the whole tower rocked in the blast. By degrees I grew uncomfortable in this continued storm. I began my descent, but found that far more difficult than the ascent, as is generally the case in such places. But one must not stay to think, if one begins to feel what the English call ‘nervous.’ Holding fast by my hands, therefore, I let my feet drop like feelers in search of the highest stave, and very glad was I when I found it. On my arrival at the bottom I was as black as the clerk.

Meanwhile it was the time of evening service in the Minster, where a fine organ and well-selected music in so noble a building, promised me a delightful resting-place. I hastened thither, and dreamed away a delicious half-hour under the influence of sweet sounds and melancholy; while this vast organ,—the tyrant of music, as Heinze calls it,—rolled pealing through the immense aisles, and the sweet voices of children, like the breath of spring, lulled the awe-struck soul again to peace.

Almost in the twilight I visited the town-hall, where the Lord Mayor (only London and York have Lord Mayors) holds his court three times a week, and where the sessions are held every three months. It is an old and handsome Gothic building. Near it are two rooms for the barristers and attorneys (obern und untern Advocaten.) In the upper room the Lord Mayor’s arms are emblazoned in modern painted glass,—for every tradesman has arms here. One can generally discover from them what is the calling of the possessor. The mottos, however, are less business-like, and seem to me to affect too noble an air.

I have now established the proper balance, that is to say, my hands are as tired of writing as my feet of walking. It is time to give the stomach some work to do. If I were Walter Scott, I would give you the bill of fare; but as it is, I don’t venture. Instead of it I shall subjoin a word upon my after-dinner reading, which will be furnished again by Madame de Maintenon.

It really touched me to see how vividly the poor woman paints the melancholy uniformity, the bitter ‘gÊne’ of her life: and how often and heartily she longs, with a force and a sincerity that cannot be mistaken, for her dismissal from this stage, which, as she says, “worse than all others, lasts from morning till night.” Amidst all her power and splendour, she still seems to regard death as the most desirable of things: and indeed, after the long endless void,—after the sacrifice of every personal feeling and inclination year after year, one can imagine the mortal weariness of the spirit, longing for its release. This explains the religious mania that took possession of her, which was also characteristic of the childishness of the age. Had a woman of Madame de Maintenon’s talents lived at a later period, Molinistes and Jansenistes would hardly have succeeded in extorting a smile of contempt from her; but in her time it was otherwise. Still she is in her way a great woman, as Louis the Fourteenth is, in his, a great king—in a little age. It was precisely because it was little that it formed little things,—Court, society, &c.—to far greater perfection than ours; and thence to the imaginative mind, which contemplates with pleasure the Perfect in every thing, great or small, must ever present an attractive picture.

Sept. 20th.

This morning I devoted to the gleanings, and visited the ancient church of All Saints, where I found some admirable painted glass, though in very bad preservation. There was a Virgin and Child, of a beauty and sweetness of expression of which Raphael would not have needed to be ashamed. I then went to another old church, St. Mary’s, where there is a strange gateway on which a number of hieroglyphics and the signs of the zodiac are beautifully carved in stone. As I had been introduced to the Archbishop of York in London, I wrote him a note yesterday, and begged to be allowed to pay my respects to him. He returned a most polite answer, begging me to pass some days at his house. I however declined his invitation to more than a dinner, and drove to his country-house at five o’clock. I found a beautifully kept, luxuriant pleasure-ground, and stately old Gothic structure in a peculiar style, which pleased me much. It was not very large, but perfectly elegant; and at the four corners of the flat roof stood four colossal eagles with out-stretched wings. Instead of the heavy battlements, which have a good effect only in enormous masses, a beautiful sort of open-work ornament in stone, at once rich and light, ran round the roof as a parapet. That the interior corresponded in magnificence with the exterior you may conclude from the ecclesiastical rank and wealth of the possessor. The venerable Archbishop, still a very hale active man, conducted me about, and showed me his kitchen-gardens and hot-houses, which are remarkably fine. They were as neat as the most elegant drawing-room,—a thing which it would be impossible to make our gardeners understand. Not a trace of disorder or dirt, of boards and tools lying about, dunghills near the paths, or the like. On the walls were the choicest fruit-trees arranged in symmetrical lines; among them currant-bushes which had attained to such a growth by the removal of all the small under-branches, that they were twelve feet high, and loaded to excess with bunches like small grapes. In the hot houses, in which pines and grenadillas (a West-Indian fruit in the form of a little melon, and with a flavour like that of a pomegranate,) grew luxuriantly, was a different sort of vine in every window: all were thick-hung with fruit. The fruit-trees on the walls were covered with nets, and at a later season are matted, so that one may pluck ripe fruit till January. One part of the garden was full of ripe strawberries of a peculiar kind, and His Grace assured me he had them in the open air till January. He pointed out to me the Norman cress as a new vegetable of remarkably fine flavour, and told me it might be cut in the snow.

The multitude of flowers still in blossom which edged the beds of the kitchen-garden was striking. I know that this climate is favourable to gardeners, nevertheless they must excel ours in the management of flowers.

In the pleasure-ground I saw larches not only of enormous size, but as thick in foliage as pines, and their pendent branches extending twenty feet over the turf. I heard here, for the first time, that it is thought very beneficial to trees of this tribe[69] to touch the moist earth with their branches, for that they draw great nourishment in that way.

A dinner worthy of an Archbishop closed this agreeable evening. I have told you that the wives of English Bishops do not share their husband’s titles. The wife of the Archbishop of York is however, a ‘Lady in her own right;’ and what is more, a very agreeable woman. She has ten sons and three daughters.

Scarborough, Sept. 21st.

I forgot to tell you a droll story that was related yesterday; the strongest instance of ‘distraction’ (except that of the self-decapitating Irishman,) you ever heard. Lord Seaford said, that his uncle, the old Earl of Warwick, who was famous for fits of absence, travelled up to London one evening from Warwick Castle on important business, which he settled to his satisfaction the following day, and returned again in the night. He had hardly reached home, when he fainted. All the family were alarmed, and asked his valet if his Lord had been ill in London. “No,” replied the man, “he has been very well: but I really believe that he has forgotten to eat ever since he was away.” This was actually the case, and a plate of soup soon restored His Lordship to his accustomed health.

I write to you from a sea bathing place that has the reputation of being very beautiful. As yet I know nothing about it, for it was pitch dark when I arrived. In the morning I hope to enjoy the best possible view, for I am lodged in the fourth story, the house being choke-full.

On my journey I visited Castle Howard, the seat of Lord Carlisle. It is one of the English ‘show places,’ but does not please me in the least. It was built by Vanbrugh, an architect of the time of Louis the Fourteenth, who built Blenheim in the same bad French taste. That, however, imposes by its mass, but Castle Howard neither imposes nor pleases. The whole park, too, has something to the last degree melancholy, stiff, and desolate. On a hill is a large temple, the burial-place of the family. The coffins are placed around in cells, most of which are still empty; so that the whole looks like a bee-hive, only indeed more silent and tranquil. In the castle are some fine pictures and antiques. Among the former, the celebrated Three Marys of Annibal Carracci is particularly remarkable. This picture represents the dead Christ, behind whom his mother has sunk fainting; the elder Mary hastens to her with a gesture of lamentation, while Mary Magdalene throws herself despairingly on the body. The gradation from actual death to fainting, thence to the subdued grief of age, and lastly, to the living despair of youth, is given with inimitable truth. Every limb in the body of Christ appears truly dead: you see that the vital spirit has utterly quitted this form, so motionless, cold, and stiff. On the contrary, all is life and motion in the beautiful Magdalene, even to the very hair; all is the vigour and fulness of life, excited by the bitterest grief.—Opposite hangs Annibal’s portrait by himself. It has very striking features, but looks more like a ‘highwayman’ than an artist. You, dear Julia, would have been most attracted by a collection of drawings of the Lords and Ladies of the Court of Francis the First,—fifty or sixty portraits: they were painted memoirs. Among the antiques I was amused by a Goose of the Capitol in bronze, which you fancy you hear cackling with its outstretched wings and open bill. A picture of Henry the Eighth, by Holbein, in admirable preservation, is worth mention;—otherwise nothing particularly struck me. The well-known St. John by Domenichino is here, and given out to be an original. If I mistake not, the real one is in Germany.

The park, planted in large stiff masses, is remarkably rich in archways: I passed through about seven before I reached the house. Over a muddy pond, not far from the Castle, is a stone bridge of five or six arches, and over this bridge—no passage. It is only an ‘object;’ and that it may answer this description thoroughly, there is not a tree or a bush near it or before it. It seems that the whole grounds are just as they were laid out a hundred and twenty years ago. Obelisks and pyramids are as thick as hops, and every view ends with one, as a staring termination. One pyramid is, however, of use, for it is an inn.

Sept. 22nd.

If colds and consumptions are frequent in England, it is more to be attributed to the habits of the people than the climate. They have a peculiar predilection for walks on the wet grass; and in every public room there are open windows, so that it is hardly possible to bear the drafts. Even when they are shut the wind whistles through them; for they are seldom substantial, and never double. The climate too, however favourable to vegetation, is dreadful for men. This morning at nine o’clock, I rode out on a hired horse, in beautiful weather and a cloudless sky, and before I had been out an hour the most soaking rain wetted me through and through. At last I reached the village, where, in despair at not finding even a gate-way under which to take shelter, I sprang from my horse, and seeing a cottage door open, went in, and found two old women cooking something over a fire. In England, everything domestic is held so sacred and inviolable, that a man who enters a room without having cautiously announced himself and begged pardon, instantly excites alarm and displeasure. Although the cause of my intrusion ran in pretty obvious streams from my hat and clothes, I was not very cordially received by the old ladies. But what was the rage and horror of my hostesses ‘malgrÉ elles,’ when my steed, whose sagacity would have done honour to Nestor himself, walked in at the door, and before anything could be done to stop him, took his station in the most quiet and decorous manner before the chimney-piece, and with a look of sly, affected stupidity, began to dry his dripping ears at the fire. I thought the women would have died of rage, and I of laughing. I had such compassion for my poor comrade in misfortune, that I did not like to turn him out by force; and so,—they scolding and storming, I trying to appease them with gentle words, and the more approved eloquence of other silver sounds,—we staid, half by force, half by entreaty, till the storm was a little over, and we were a little dried. The drying, however, was of small avail; for, at the entrance to the romantic Forge Valley, storm and rain began afresh. I surrendered myself to my fate, though wholly without defence, and consoled myself with the beauties of the surrounding spot,—a deep, narrow valley, clothed with rich wood, through which a rapid, foaming streamlet took its way. By the side of the brook was a good road. I remarked a pretty and simple way of enclosing a spring between two large blocks of stones set upright, and a third laid across. Through this rude portal the water gushed forth, and bounded on its course.

To avoid catching cold, if possible, I took a warm salt bath as soon as I arrived, and then proceeded to the ‘Sands,’—that is, the part of the beach left by the tide; a very singular promenade. Saddle-horses, and carriages of all kinds, stand in numbers for hire; and you may ride for miles on the very brink of the waves, over ground like velvet. The old Castle of Scarborough on the one side, and a fine iron bridge connecting two hills on the other, increase the picturesque character of the scene. I rode by the light of the evening sun up to the Castle, from which the view is magnificent, and which is itself an imposing object.

On the highest point of the ruin is an iron machine like a kibble, which serves as a beacon. A large tar-barrel is placed in it and set on fire. It burns like a flaming torch the night through. The Castle stands on a projecting rock, which rises to the height of a hundred and fifty or two hundred feet perpendicular from the sea. Around the Castle its summit is like a bowling-green.

Sept. 23rd.

To-day I rode along the sea-coast to Filey, where there is a celebrated bridge of rocks built into the sea by the hand of Nature. The sea was blue, and covered with sails. At Filey I took a guide. We passed along many strangely-shaped rocks, and came at length to this bridge, which is in fact only a broad reef, running out about three-quarters of a mile into the sea. The detached blocks were thrown about in fantastic groups, and it was necessary to take some care not to slip over their smooth-washed sides. The tide was coming in, and already covered a part of the reefs. After satisfying my curiosity I scrambled back, and took my way through a pleasant field to the nearest inn.

Flamborough Head, Sept. 24th:—Evening.

Distances are calculated quite otherwise here than with us. My respectable old mare, a hired one, brought me here very well, five German miles in two hours. As soon as I arrived, I hired another horse to ride a mile and a half (German) further, to see the light-house and cavern which render Flamborough Head remarkable. The weather was most brilliant, with a good deal of wind, so that I hoped this time to escape a wetting; but I was deceived; for I had scarcely reached the cliffs when I was regaled not only with the ‘obligato’ drenching rain, but also with the accompaniment of a violent tempest. This, however, was an agreeable variety; for thunder and lightning beheld from beetling cliffs overhanging a foaming sea are worth encountering some inconvenience for. The custom-house officer who accompanied me, very civilly brought me an umbrella, seeing the lightness of my dress; but the storm, and the slippery and perilous path at the edge of the precipice rendered it useless. The sea has washed away the rocks in such a manner that many stand like solitary towers or columns in the waves. They looked like huge sea-spirits,—their whiteness rendered more glaring by the inky sky. There are many caverns, to which there is access at low water. It was now high-tide, however, and I was obliged to hire a fishing-boat to take me to the largest of them. Inspired by the fresh breeze, I took an oar for the first time in my life, and rowed heartily: I find the exercise so pleasant that I shall certainly take it as often as possible. The sea was so rough that I could not help thinking we were in some danger, and expressed as much to my companion. He answered me very poetically; “O Sir! do you think life is not as sweet to me as it is to you, because I am only a poor fisherman? As far as the mouth of the cavern there is no danger, but we can’t go in to-day.” I was therefore obliged to content myself with casting a glance into the huge arch-way, whence the foam flew up like smoke, amid the howling and bellowing of the waves. As the fisherman assured me that sea-water never gave cold, I mounted my horse, still dripping from the salt wave, and rode to the light-house. This was the more interesting to me, as I had till now but a very imperfect conception of the construction of these buildings.[70]

An opportunity, which has presented itself, of sending this letter safely to the Embassy, enables me to share my travels with you thus far.

I therefore close it for the present,—always with Scheherezade’s condition of beginning again to-morrow.

‘Sans adieu,’ therefore,

Your L——.