All at home are well, and one is more anxious to see you than she ought.
Aug. 16, 1824.—Saw Penshurst. The road from Tunbridge Wells is a beautiful preparation for seeing this interesting castle. It winds on the upper lines of some very high ground; and looks down on wide vales of the most delightful verdure and richness. Penshurst disappoints at first sight. The building has little beauty, is entirely seen before you enter the grounds, and is not a hundred yards from the entrance gate. Can this be Penshurst? is the first question; but when within its walls, touch after touch increases its dignity. Its great antiquity, the recollections and portraits of Sir Philip Sidney, of Algernon Sidney, of Sacharissa, of Queen Elizabeth, her presents, her needlework, her chair, the variety of paintings, the beauty of the surrounding park, and the singular union of dignity and cheerfulness in all the old rooms of the Castle, give it a heartfelt charm of no common order.
TO MRS. HAYGARTH.
Sevenoaks, Sept. 4, 1824.
I am not surprised you are pleased with the neighbourhood of Chepstow, where art has spoiled nature so little, and where sudden and overgrown opulence has not laid its heavy paw. What beautiful banks, what rich verdure, what winding ways, unfolding such unexpected thickets, with their tangled luxuriance of hanging branches and fantastically twisted roots, into which Faust has taught us to put a sort of life. Then the houses are so English, with the shade of Queen Elizabeth, hovering about so many of those old mansions which bear the impress of her time. I was not well enough to see Knowle, and have profited but little by my absence from town. I, however, visited Penshurst, a volume in itself, and Summerhill, one of the pleasantest places I have seen, as fresh as Fairy Land, with slopes and walks of exquisite beauty.