I caught a train on to Fowey, which I reached about 5. There I found a brougham and two fiery chestnuts waiting for me, and after some plunging at the train away went my steeds, and we turned almost at once into the drive. There is no park to Plâce that I could see, but the drive is sui generis! You keep going through cuttings in the rock, so that it has an odd feeling of a drive on the stage in a Fairy Pantomime. On your right hand the cliff is tapestried, almost hidden, by wild-flowers and ferns in the wealthiest profusion! Unluckily the wild garlic smells dreadfully, but its exquisite white blossoms have a most aërial effect, with pink campion, Herb Robert, etc., etc. On the left hand you have perpetual glimpses of the harbour as it lies below—oh, such a green! I never saw such before—"as green as em-er-âld!"—and the roofs of the ancient borough of Fowey!—I hope by next mail to have photographs to send you of the place. It perpetually reminded me of the Ancient Mariner. As to Plâce (P. Castle they call it now), the photographs will really give you a better idea of it than I can. You must bear in mind that the harbour of Fowey and a castle, carrying artillery, have been in the hands of the Treffrys from time immemorial.... We went over the Church, a fine old Church with a grand tower, standing just below the Castle. The Castle itself is chiefly Henry VI, and Henry VII. I never saw such elaborate stone carving as decorates the outside. There are beautiful "Rose" windows close to the ground, and the Lilies of France, of course, are everywhere. The chief drawing-room is a charming room, hung with pale yellow satin damask, and with beautiful Louis Quinze furniture. The porphyry hall is considered one of the sights, the roof, walls, and floor are all of red Cornish porphyry....

Frimhurst, May 10, 1881.

I have been into the poor old Camp. I will tell thee. Did you ever meet Mr. F., R.E.? a young engineer of H.'s standing, and his chief friend. A Lav-engro (Russian is his present study) with a nice taste in old brass pots and Eastern rugs, and a choice little book-case, and a terrier named "Jem "—the exact image of dear old "Rough." He asked us to go to tea to see the pictures you and I gave to the Mess and so forth. So the General let us have the carriage and pair and away we went. It is the divinest air! It was like passing quickly through balm of body and mind. And you know how the birds sing, and how the young trees look among the pines, and the milkmaids in the meadows, and the kingcups in the ditches, and then the North Camp and the dust, and Sir Evelyn Wood's old quarters with a new gate, and then the racecourse with polo going on and more dust!—and then the R.E. theatre (where nobody has now the spirit to get up any theatricals!), and the "Kennêl" (as Jane Turton called it) where I used to get flags and rushes, and where Trouvé, dear Trouvé! will never swim again! And then the Iron Church from which I used to run backwards and forwards not to be late for dinner every evening, with the "tin" roof that used to shake to the "Tug of War Hymn,"—and then more dust, and (it must be confessed) dirt and squalor, and back views of ashpit and mess-kitchens and wash-houses, and turf wall the grass won't grow on, and rustic work always breaking up! and so on into the R.E. Lines! Mr. F. was not quite ready for us, so we drove on a little and looked at No. 3. N. Lines. T.'s hut is nearly buried in creepers now. An Isle of Man(do you remember?) official lives there, they say; but it looked as if only the Sleeping Beauty could. Our hut looks just the same. Cole's greenhouse in good repair. But through all the glamour of love one could see that there is a good deal of dirt and dust, and refuse and coal-boxes!!!

Then a bugle played!—

"The trumpet blew!"

I think it was "Oh come to the Orderly Room!" We went to the Mess. The Dining-Room is much improved by a big window, high pitched, opposite the conservatory. It is new papered, prettily, and our pictures hang on each side of the fireplace. Mr. G. joined us and we went into the Ante-Room. Then to the inevitable photo books, in the window where poor old Y. used to sit in his spotless mufti. When G. (who is not spirituel) said, turning over leaves for the young ladies, "that and that are killed" I turned so sick! Mac G. and Mac D.! Oh dear! There be many ghosts in "old familiar places." But I have no devouter superstition than that the souls of women who die in childbed and men who fall in battle go straight to Paradise!!! Requiescant in Pace.

Then to tea in Mr. F.'s quarters next to the men. Then—now mark you, how the fates managed so happy a coincidence—G. said casually, "I saw Mrs. Jelf in the Lines just now!" I nearly jumped out of my boots, for I did not know she had got to England. Then F. had helped to nurse Jelf in Cyprus and was of course interested to see her, so out went G. for Mrs. J., and anon, through the hut porch in she came—Tableau—!

Then I sent the girls with Messrs F. and G. to "go round the stables," and M. and Jem and I remained together. Jem went to sleep (with one eye open) under the table, and the sun shone and made the roof very hot, and outside—"The trumpets blew!"

It was an afternoon wonderfully like a Wagner opera, thickset with recurring motifs....