To the Same.
11 Dover Street, Piccadilly,
15 September, 1872.
Here we are back again in our old lodgings, with the nicest of possible landladies, Mrs. Bennett. We spent ten days with the Storys at Crosby Lodge, and while there went to Naworth and Corbie Castles and Lanercost Abbey. Naworth interested me specially as being an old border keep tamed to modern civilities, and I liked the Howards, father and son, more even than their dwelling. On our way north we saw Peterboro, Lincoln, York, Fountain’s Abbey, Ripon, Durham, and Carlisle. My old impression was confirmed, and Durham lords it over all of them in my memory. Again, also, as twenty years ago, the Cumberland people seemed more American in look and manner than other English folk. Our visit with the Storys was very pleasant—for a friendship of forty years’ standing is no common thing—and William is absolutely unchanged. I found that I had grown away from him somewhat, but not in a way to lessen our cordiality, and as always in such cases, I held my tongue on controversial points.
From Cumberland we went right through to Grasmere, lodging at the old Swan Inn (the only one left), which pleased me more than it did Fanny. We drove to Dungeon Ghyll Force and Keswick, and then to Lichfield. Here I had a most amusing evening in the smoking-room, listening to the talk of the city magnates, full of Philisterei, if you will, but with a full Shakespearian flavor and a basis of English good sense that pleased me. From Lichfield through Worcester to Hereford and thence to Gloucester, whose cathedral I liked best on the whole, its centre tower being less squat than the others. But the northern minsters beat ’em.
Thence to Tintern, where we spent four days, doing Ragland meanwhile. From Tintern to Chepstow we took boat down the Wye, and very delightful it was. Thence to Bristol, where we slept, saw St. Mary Radcliffe and the cathedral, and then through to London. The sight of masts at Bristol was a cordial to me, and I thought them the finest trees I had seen in England.
I have not been over well since I have been in England. “Flying gout” I am fain to call it, and I am now drinking Vichy in the hope to make it fly altogether. But it is partly dumps, I fancy, for travelling bores me horribly. I am wretched at not finding a letter from Mabel here, and J. H. and Rowse have vanished, leaving no sign. I shall be all ready to come over so soon as I hear from you. You will find me dull, but honestly willing to brighten. A few days with you will do me infinite good. It is abroad that one truly misses friends. At home one is always expecting them back, and they do half come back in a thousand things that daily recall them. But here!
To the Same.
11 Dover Street, Piccadilly,
20 September, 1872.