We took Tilla for the first time among the glades in the depth of the Forest. She and I mounted the ponies and proceeded at foot’s pace, accompanied by papa and Arabella walking. We went to Minsted by our favourite forest walk. On emerging from the Forest to the foot of Minstead Hill, we did not enter the village, but turned to the right, re-entered the Forest, and went nearly to the keeper’s lodge; then turned into the Forest at our right, and passed through a long succession of lovely and solitary glades and commons, till we came into our own common on the Lyndhurst road.… In one part we were stopped by a stream, which was dry in summer, but is now very full, deep, and rapid, and runs bubbling and sparkling along through its lovely banks, rugged and winding, fringed with trees and shrubs. The Forest is now filled with streams like this, and most beautiful they are. We followed its course a long time, looking for a place to cross, and hesitating at many spots, for fear my pony should lie down in the water; at last, while papa was looking out for another ford at a distance, Tilla and I encouraged one another, and splashed through, shouting with laughter.

… Of all these, by far the most interesting to me was the number for last month of the Penny Magazine, which I have been longing to see, for I knew it was to contain my [236] articles. I seized it, but before I had opened it, papa, also in great glee, took it into his own hands, and looked into it while I poured out the tea. My brothers and sisters, too, and even Tilla, were all watching anxiously, and I believe all were delighted to see in the title-page the words, “Account of a Young Cuckoo,” and “The Golden-Crested Wren.” My feelings were very odd at this moment; I can hardly explain them. So I am actually in print, have actually begun my career as an authoress! I say career, for I fully hope to follow it up. And I have begun it, too, at the age of seventeen, for though I am now eighteen, my birthday had not taken place when these little articles were published. It seems to me very odd. Three articles of mine are now in print—those which I have mentioned, and two anecdotes, and I shall soon see some more. At night, when I went into Tilla’s room, she very coolly said, “Emily, if you ever become a very clever woman, and distinguish yourself, I shall certainly write your life, and this night shall enter into it!” “Oh, Tilla!” I said, shouting with laughter, “what a ludicrous idea! That’s taking it for granted that I am to die first!” “But I may write your life while you are alive, may I not? I am determined to do it.”

… When I had got into bed, I lay awake for some time, watching the snug appearance of the chamber. The chintz curtains of the windows and bed, the firelight dancing on the ceiling, the prints over the chimney-piece and on all the walls—all looked the picture of comfort. The fireplace is opposite my bed, so I watched the smoke going up the chimney, illuminated by an occasional spark, and sometimes an aspiring flame. It is particularly pleasant to lie awake musing when the room is cheerfully lighted with the fire, and I did so to-night with indescribable enjoyment, thinking of—of—all sorts of things, wise and foolish, grave and gay.

… So that on the whole I think [237] I have crammed a good deal of fresh information into my pate to-day, and it is very encouraging for me to know that without any trouble I shall retain nearly all of it. Nevertheless, as often happens with me, in the middle of my reading, the conviction of the utter hopelessness of ever learning a millionth part of all I ought to learn, and of the littleness of what I have already learnt, suddenly darted into my mind so forcibly, that it cast a gloom over me, and, in a melancholy and desponding fit, I felt for a time inclined to give up altogether the gigantic task of acquiring knowledge, and I seriously debated whether I should not do so. But the thought that by cultivating my mind I might render myself some day useful to others finally decided the question; otherwise, had only my own gratification been concerned, I doubt whether I might not have come to a different determination. And this is no new story with me; my despondency at times is almost overpowering.

… I also learnt by heart, by reading once over, all that I did not know perfectly of my favourite poem, Spenser’s “Hymn of Heavenly Love.” I remember the delight I felt when I first dived into Spenser’s treasures. I was barely twelve years old, and my attention was first led to him by meeting a few verses of this hymn quoted in Bowdler’s “Selections.”49 I think I relished it as much even then as I do now; the greediness with which I devoured “Mother Hubbard’s Tale” and some of his Eclogues. I really think it hardly possible for a child to delight more in poetry than I always did; at the age of ten I could say every syllable of Montgomery’s “Wanderer of Switzerland,” a poem in six parts; and at twelve I knew almost the whole of “Rokeby,”50 though I had made no attempt at learning it. It would be very interesting to me to look back and trace the progress of my fondness for poetry, and the gradual change of my taste; I think I could do this in some measure, and I shall try it some day.

… After luncheon I took Tilla’s likeness, while Arabella read to her the second volume of “Devereux.” It is very disagreeable to hear one’s own work, and “Devereux” in particular sinks amazingly thereby in my estimation. I am quite ashamed of such a trumpery tale; my next, if I ever write another, shall be better, I hope. The style is absurdly florid, and the language of some of the characters is too sentimental.

… Papa has met Blanco White at Oxford,51 and describes him as a light-haired, light-complexioned, singularly ugly man, and till he speaks not pleasing, but in conversation highly agreeable. His friends are all devotedly fond of him. How melancholy and how strange that a man like him should not merely have fallen, but relapsed, into Socinian errors! Papa read to us his touching letter to Charles Butler on the subject of Æneas Macdonald’s brutal speech. Tilla listened attentively, and when it was ended, remarked, “I do not envy the feelings of Butler when he read that letter.”

[Here comes a story of grief, the news of the death of a beloved friend.]

How could papa bear it as he did! It is wonderful, for I believe he has lost in Benjamin more than all of us have. It is a loss nothing can replace—nothing, nothing. We have talked of little else all day; our thoughts are—— Oh dear, I cannot write, I cannot compose my ideas. I ought to have taken example from the extraordinary firmness and self-possession of my poor father, but I could not. I wept till I was weary with weeping, and till night, ever and anon my tears burst forth, and would flow. I went to bed, and thought, as I extinguished my candle and found myself in darkness and silence, “We have one friend less in the world.”

… When we returned to mamma’s room, I was struck with the silence—only papa was speaking, [239] and he said, in a tone that quivered, and [with] a look of unutterable misery, “As for me, there were one or two people in the world whom I cared about, and now I have lost one who was more than a brother to me, and whom nothing can ever replace.”

… I finished the “Fair Maid of Perth.”52 Dwining is overdone; he is too intensely wicked, too exquisitely horrible, for possibility. He is the portrait of a fiend, not a mortal. One cannot enter into or remotely imagine his feelings, and therefore one does not watch his villainy with that sort of interest one usually feels in the progress of crime.

The Duckworths are going to town in about a week. We shall miss them much, for they are the only neighbours we like, and we do like them extremely.

… The “Adventures of a Younger Son” is a very amusing book.53 It is hardly a novel, but a slightly connected series of rambling adventures, with descriptions of scenery, and sketches of savage nations in various parts of Asia, threaded together on a very slender string of story. What amuses me exceedingly is that in the plan, the style of many parts, some of the incidents, and especially the character of the hero, it bears a most striking resemblance to my own tale “Devereux.” In reading many parts I could hardly believe that I had not myself written them. There is more of story and of character in mine, but mine is much shorter, though I doubt whether it will be when finished. Were I ever to publish “Devereux” nobody would believe that it was not a grossly servile imitation of the “Adventures of a Younger Son.”

For the last few days we have received the Morning Herald or Morning Post from Lord Teignmouth, to acquaint us with his progress in the election for Marylebone now going forward.

The post brought papa a letter and two newspapers; these last we instantly opened and eagerly examined, but they only gave us the state of the poll down to three o’clock. While we were trying to find it, it was perceived that the letter, which had been thrown down disregarded, was from Charlotte Shore, Lord Teignmouth’s sister. It was not franked. “Then that settles it,” said papa; “he’s not elected.” Mamma broke the seal; there were but two lines: “My dear Tom, all’s well; Charles is member for Marylebone.” Then came delight and exultation. We are highly pleased, though Lord Teignmouth’s politics are not exactly ours, as he is a Conservative—a very moderate and liberal one, however. But what is of most importance is that he is a man of the highest principle and the strictest honour and integrity. So now papa has two first cousins in the House of Commons.

A letter from Lord Teignmouth; it was his first frank, and in a few hurried words announced the triumph of the Conservative cause.

A letter from Henry Warren, dated Poole, informing us that he hoped to see us to-day! which surprised us not a little.… He made his appearance at the hall door about two o’clock, wrapped up in a great-coat which rather disguised his handsome face. I hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry. To see him, hear him, and talk to him did most forcibly remind me of past times and old scenes in Devonshire, when I little thought I should see him here. I was much pleased at being able to introduce him to mamma and my sisters. I was also very glad that he made a favourable impression on all, as indeed he does everywhere, and no wonder. For some other reasons, his coming rather annoys me, and very much surprises me too. But let that pass; he is a very pleasant guest, and his company, during the couple of days he proposes to spend here, will be agreeable to all.

Our conversation at dinner turned to the New Forest roads, and thence to Calcutta roads, the country about Calcutta (where Mr. Warren has been), tigers, tiger-hunts, Indian affairs, Indian trade, the East India Company, and the slave-trade, on which a great deal of very interesting conversation passed between papa and Mr. Warren.

Mr. Henry Warren left us early this morning, returning to Poole and to the revenue cutter, on board which he had accepted the situation of first mate. He has spent most of his time since in cruising off the British coast. This led him into our neighbourhood, by bringing him to Poole.

… There was a sort of fairy beauty in the scenery of the lovely Forest; the blue sky glowed through the delicate embroidered veil of the leafless sprays with extraordinary lustre. The lights and shades, the variety of tints and distances, the purity of the atmosphere, I have never seen surpassed. My heart quite bounded with delight, as we roved from one glade to another, and every minute discovered new beauties in each. We very soon got into a succession of glades and thickets quite new to us, although so close to the house, and we ran about shouting to each other, sometimes plunging in a shady hollow; sometimes standing on a grassy ride or terrace, and looking down on commons gleaming with sunshine and embedded in wood; sometimes following the course of a little rugged, winding stream, now dark in shadow, now sparkling in the sunbeams; sometimes looking down long bright vistas, varied with endless forms of fantastic foliage. Numbers of pretty yellow butterflies were flying about in all directions; the deer were grazing in the heathy openings or half hidden among the trees; the deep calm was interrupted only by the coal-tits answering one another, the “clear joyous notes” of the ox-eye, the soft warble of the robin, and the occasional songs of thrush, hedge-sparrow, and chaffinch.

… At dinner, talking of the weather, and late and early seasons, led to the hawthorn, thence very naturally to Glastonbury, thence to the body of King Arthur there deposited. Then a long talk about King Arthur and the authorities for his existence. Then the body of Edward I. in Westminster Abbey. Then Shakespeare’s dust at Stratford-on-Avon. This suggested Warwick and its castle, and lastly followed a long conversation about Battle Abbey and the Websters.

… On returning I stepped into the garden, and took a peep at the little family with which my rabbits (whom I have named Vincent and Wowski) have presented me. There I saw them, wrapped up in such a quantity of fur that I think Wowski must have half stripped herself in behalf of her young ones. A singular instinct of nature.

… I finished Racine’s “Esther,”54 which I have been reading at odd times. I do not think it possesses much merit besides elegance; there is neither character, passion, nor incident. Only compare it with the last drama I have read, Massinger’s “Duke of Milan”! How powerful the latter, how tame the former!

I finished “Britannicus,” and, for that school of dramatic writing (which it is not fair to compare with the English), I pronounce it a beautiful play. Some passages in it, especially that between Nero and Barrhus, Act iv. scene 3, I admire very much. But the French and English drama are so totally different, and I so infinitely prefer the latter, that I am hardly a competent judge of Racine. His elegance, his harmonious versification, etc., are merits, but they are not the kind of merit for which I have been accustomed to look. A reader of Shakespeare and Massinger, who admires their painting of character, their knowledge of human nature, their unstudied eloquence, their copiousness of incidents, and who [243] is familiar with their wildness, irregularities, rough diction, and disregard of rhythm, is not likely to be much enchanted with a writer who is exactly the reverse of all this, and whose beauties are quite of the opposite kind.

Having finished this, I took a rather different kind of book with me into the garden, the Penny Cyclopædia,55 and sat reading it under the laurel hedge. I fixed on the article “France,” and read the portions entitled “Its History” and the “State of France before the Revolution,” which last interested me very much. I had not before a distinct idea of the enormous oppressions and grievances of which the French had reason to complain.…

The hawthorns are beginning to show their leaves; the park is in some parts carpeted with wood-anemones, primroses, and ivy-leaved ranunculus; the forest filled with butterflies; bats fly in the twilight, the gnats buzz at night, the woodpecker laughs loud and long, swallows are beginning to appear—welcome, welcome, these signs of coming spring! I only wish now to hear the sweet liquid notes of the willow-wren, and the clear, joyous echoing cry of the little chiff-chaff. And when I look upwards, instead of my glance being stopped by a thick leafy screen, I gaze at the deep blue sky through the embroidered veil of the delicate tracery of naked sprays which still reminds me that we have but just escaped from winter.

I have been for some days so busy with the needle that I have not had much time to devote to study. However, I have managed to read in the Cyclopædia to-day the lives of the great Elector of Brandenburg and all the Kings of Prussia up to the present one; to look over again the history of Este; and to continue the life of Napoleon. Being very much fatigued with my walk, I was obliged to lie down, and while on my bed I read, or rather skimmed, the reigns of Louis XIII., XIV., and XV. in Eyre Evan Crowe’s “History of France,”56 for the sake of getting a good [244] general view of those times. I also continued exercising myself in dates, and learning new ones.

Mackworth* finished reading with me the first vol. of the “Siècle de Louis XIV.” It is an interesting history, and written in an easy, sprightly style.

[On April 14 she went with a younger sister to Worthing to pay a long-looked-for visit to her beloved friends the Warrens. Here she stayed till May 17, then paid a five days’ visit at Bevis Mount, near Southampton.]

The weather prevented my going to church, and I had some long delightful conversations with Mary. She is truly an enchanting being, and converses most beautifully; it is a privilege to hear her, and to watch her changing, lovely countenance, full of the expression of intellect and goodness, is quite an engrossing pleasure. On whatever she talks, she talks well; her grace of manner, felicity of language, and extreme softness add a charm to the originality of her thoughts and the beauty of her ideas and feelings. But especially the one thing needful is the great engrossing business of her life, the study and delight of her mind. Oh, I wish I had a little time, only to mention the subjects on which we talked, and then all her valuable observations would remain fixed in my mind. But as it is, I am sure I shall forget very few.

And now at last I have seen the three cousins.… We had expected them to dinner to-day, and were anxiously waiting for their arrival. Mary had told us how excessively shy they were, how frightened and silent they would be, and we had had no end of fun and merriment beforehand. Mary said she would put three chairs for them in a row, and would ask them how long they meant to be shy, for that I would minute them, and speak [245] to them at the end of that time. At last they came; we rushed laughing to the window, and watched the carriageful pouring into the house. We shook hands with them, and then they all walked silently to the window in dreadful confusion, turning their backs upon everybody else; I stood amazed and bewildered, Mary laughing heartily. We made an attempt to unbend them, by taking them to our room to prepare for dinner; it was all in vain—we could hardly extract a sentence from them. The face of affairs improved, however, by-and-by, thanks to Mary, who is the life and soul of everything.… It is very ludicrous for these girls to be afraid of us, for we are but pigmies compared with them; they are great tall girls whom I am frightened to look at.

… I shall always have the image in my mind of the happy smiling circle round the table or the fire; I shall still seem to hold dear Mary’s hand in mine, to watch the play of her speaking features, to hear her sweet and changing tones; I shall remember her cap with its long lace strings in the morning, and a black ringlet straying over each cheek, and her crimson shawl and gauze handkerchief, and in the evening her beautifully formed head, undisguised by a cap, and adorned with the long clustering curls, which once grew there; her white throat, and the ample folds of her many coloured Grecian scarf—these are pictures I shall always see.

… Oh, it was delicious. It was the first evening walk I have had for seven or eight months, and it seemed to me like paradise. There was just breeze enough to temper the heat of the descending sun; the sky was cloudless, the birds singing joyously, the air scented with wallflowers and primroses; the shrubs were tinted with the fresh green foliage of May. And oh, the soft, soft, cool green turf! I ran about it as if I was still a child; I stooped down and pressed it with my hand; I quite loved it, for it [246] reminded me of spring and Woodbury. I rushed about hither and thither, unable to control my delight; I took off my bonnet, and stood still to let the air blow through my hair and cool my face. I almost felt as if I were once more in the enjoyment of health and strength, in the woods and meadows of my own dear Woodbury. Mary, too, could not resist the temptation of sitting down on the shady grass. I think she was as happy as I was.

… While we were conversing, out ran A., saying that a box had come for me from Bartley by coach, with some Greek words written on the direction card. I went in to see, and was mightily amused to find that, by way of sending me news that my last letter had arrived, without breaking the post-office regulation which forbids sending letters in parcels, papa had written on the outside the short Greek sentence, εξεστι σοὶ μένειν ὅσον σοὶ ἂν δοκῆ χρόνον (“It is permitted you to stay as long as you think right”).

… Deep dells and dingles, filled with the thickest and most varied foliage, winding paths round wooded hills covered with flowers, ascents and descents, views of the rich and hilly distant country now and then bursting through breaks in the thickest, peeps of the little Arun wandering amongst the meadows at our feet, ornamental shrubberies, and wild natural luxuriance of vegetation, cool green shade and chequered light, and the clear sky appearing far, far above through the “delicate leafy veil,” spread over us by ancient and lofty trees,—oh, how all these varied beauties made my heart bound with joy! And the brilliant freshness of the young fresh foliage, and the blended songs of blackcap, golden wren, and yellow wren—how I longed for some one to share the delight I felt in drinking in their melody! There was no one who could do so, and I wished for mamma, the only person on earth who can quite enter [247] into my feelings on hearing the warbling of these summer birds.

… We got out of the carriage and clambered about the gorse and heath, mounting the highest ridges to see all that was to be seen. As I stood looking—could I believe my ears?—a few notes of the nightingale rose up from the woods below. I listened again; I heard the “swift jug-jug,” and, unable to control my delight, sprang up into the air. I had not heard the nightingale (by reason of illness) since 1835, and its sound set my heart throbbing famously.

… Alas, the day of departure from dear, happy Worthing! What a dreamlike year will this have been to me! I had a restless, wakeful night; my thoughts were too busy for sleep, and I rose early, to pen a few lines of my journal, and to finish packing. After breakfast I snatched a few minutes’ conversation with Mary; the tears fell fast from my eyes as we talked of parting. H. W. was long before he made his appearance; when he entered the drawing-room, I had on my bonnet. His manner was sad and thoughtful; I was anxious to read his face, but dared not look up and meet his eyes. We sat a little while in the drawing-room, waiting for the coach. I had the honour of being the one topic of conversation, for nothing was said but to exhort and command me, with threats and entreaties, to take care of myself, and not to fancy I was strong and overwork myself either in mind or body. I mocked at their preaching, declaring it was nonsense to make me an invalid, and that I could do like other people. I am not quite sure whether this is quite honest, but this I know, that, small as my strength is, I think it is all I shall ever have, and I may as well use it to its full extent. I hate being invalided.

[A visit to a grand house followed, from which we extract a few lines.]

Oh, what a contrast to the quiet, [248] comfortable little (comparatively) house at Worthing is this great, grand mansion, with its huge rooms, spacious halls, long pillared passages, and endless doors and windows. Our bedroom here would hold three of those at Park Crescent, and the bed is the great-grandfather of all beds. To my great comfort, none of the family were visible on our arrival, and we went up into our room to dress for dinner. We kept dinner waiting, and at last crept down to the big library. There we found assembled the whole awful party of strangers and demi-strangers.… The evening passed on. Mrs. —— is most kind.… Of course I cannot expect any of that affectionate cordiality on which I lived at Worthing, but I miss it most painfully. The tears came often into my eyes. I am chilled at thus emerging from amongst friends who loved me so dearly, to plunge into a circle of strangers who care for me not at all. Meantime I was half dead with fatigue, and had no kind Mary to place me on the sofa, where I dared not in this grand house place myself. At last they discovered that I was “tired,” and hurried me off to bed.

[Ease came after a time and some enjoyment, but she was homesick. On May 21 she returned to Bartley Lodge.]

I must not forget that the first sound that met my ear as we drove through the first park gate was the “jug-jug” of a nightingale close to us, and my heart bounded with delight.… I very soon got mamma into her room, alone, and there I gave her the whole history.

[A visit to Jersey took place from May 25 to June 27.]

… I must not forget that I took one short last walk round the garden, gave one look at the crimson buds of the rhododendrons and the young foliage of our four favourite oaks, and then re-entered the house with a feeling of regret for all that I was going to leave. When it was twilight, I went into the drawing-room, which was empty; I sat in solitude at the open window, and listened earnestly to the hurrying [249] notes of a nightingale in the Forest. And as I listened and looked, oh, how melancholy I felt! how I longed and longed to enjoy those sweet notes a little longer! For three years I have been entirely debarred from hearing them, and now I have only been able to catch a few passing sounds before they are again silenced by summer. Oh, if I could but have spent May in the Forest!

… We sat down under a seat under a shady bank, and overlooked the beautiful bay and crowded town below. While here, my ear was caught by a song quite new to me. I listened and listened. It was a rich and varied note, with an occasional resemblance to parts of the linnet’s and blackcap’s, and I could not conceive by what bird it was uttered. I commenced a search for it, and after staring up amongst the tops of the trees for some time, I spied the bird in a small sycamore, and I feel almost sure it was the blue-throated robin, which in England is exceedingly rare, and I had never before seen. I could distinguish, at all events, its small head, red breast, and blue round the head and throat. I am quite rejoiced at having added this very uncommon bird to those I know.

From what I have seen of it, I think I should not like the society of St. Helier’s at all. It is split into two furious parties, the professedly religious and those not so, who have no intercourse whatever with each other, and, I suppose, hate each other cordially. There are also tests and badges of parties, which I abhor of all things, and if one of the religious party were in any one point to neglect one of these, all Jersey would be in uproar. And all the conversation, all the ideas, of the religious party, seem to me to be pervaded throughout with the essential spirit of gossip and scandal. Everything that everybody does, bad or indifferent, but seldom good, is talked about everywhere, exaggerated, misrepresented, and commented on by all [250] parties. People are continually calling here, and from not one have I heard anything but the most frivolous gossip.

… I stooped and drank the salt water, for I love everything connected with the sea. Its sight, sound, smell, even taste, all have charms for me—of association, at all events. I longed to run and jump about among the rocks, and on the shingles below.…

… The most foreign-looking objects are the stone cottages and the pretty picturesque wells by the wayside, arched over with rough stone, and often fringed with fern and flowers and ivy. All the scenery is very pretty, but on a very tiny scale; the hills and valleys are often lovely, but always diminutive, and the grey rocks that sometimes peep out from furze and heath are but imitations of rocks. There is an abundance of rich wood, but none of anything like fine timber; we passed the largest tree in the island, a beautiful and picturesque old ilex. Orchards, now in full bloom, are everywhere to be seen. The lanes are sweetly pretty; they are Devonshire lanes in miniature.

Every five minutes some little lane opens into the road; these lanes are the celebrated Jersey lanes, which are so innumerable and so endlessly complicated. They are extremely narrow, often scarcely broad enough for a wheel-barrow, and look like long hollow tunnels cut through the trees, winding away from the eye. I should like to ramble amongst them, they look so tempting. On either side of our road lay rich wooded country, but little hill, and no sea, for we were quite in the interior.

It was just this time last year, yesterday twelve months, that I was at the picnic I enjoyed so much at Bradley Woods, on the river Teign. Oh, I should like to live that day once more! How very happy was I then, and how clearly do I still remember everything that happened!

We sat down on seats overlooking [251] the beautiful bay, Ellen looking sweetly pretty, with her little slight figure, long ringlets of rich brown, and beautifully pure white complexion, just tinged with the most delicate pink. She is a sweet little creature.…

… How comes it that an occurrence taking place before us often seems perfectly familiar, as if we had known it all long ago? Mary told me a singular instance of this which had happened to herself and her brother Henry. He had returned home after a long absence; it was a summer’s evening, and they took a walk together. They turned down a lane with which Henry was unacquainted; at the end of it was a felled trunk of a tree, on which they sat down conversing on various subjects. At last H. suddenly clapped his hand on Mary’s mouth, and said, “Stop! I will tell you every word you are going to say.” He told her, and then added that the whole walk had seemed perfectly familiar to him—everything they had each said, that very lane, that very trunk, till his heart went pit-a-pat with amazement and perplexity. Again, a scene which we have seen in early infancy, before the days of recollection, will remain in the mind, distinct, but not understood, till in after years it is seen and recognized. Mary says that she was for some years haunted by a scene representing high grey rocks, covered with flowers and foliage, especially mountain-ashes with red berries, all painted with perfect distinctness; but whether it was a real scene, or a creation of the fancy, she could not tell; till, long after, when grown up, she visited Tunbridge Wells, and recognized it in the High Rocks. She had been at Tunbridge Wells when two or three years old, and this spot had dwelt in her mind, though she had no recollection whatever of that period.

The same thing happened to me. I was haunted by a drawing-room with three windows; the arrangement of the room, the door, the furniture—I saw them all distinctly. I [252] saw myself entering, and Richard, then a year or two old, sitting on a footstool, playing with one of my dolls. When eight years old, I went to Bury St. Edmunds, which I had left when three years old, and recognized the room in Mrs. Hall’s house, Northgate Street.

… When we emerged from these, we saw—let me see, I have a vision of cottages and farmhouses, with their picturesque arched stone wells. These we passed, and began to descend a steep road with high wooded banks. Suddenly we entered a very beautiful green valley, narrow, deep, long, and winding, at every turn the hills which enclose it varying their shape. Little narrow gorges filled with wood run down into it between the hills, and at the bottom are wild yellow flags and orchises. This is St. Mary’s Valley, which is about a mile in length. It is one of the sweetest little valleys I have seen anywhere, but it is all in miniature, so that, as we drove through it, it gave me the idea of fairyland, and then I could not help wondering that fairyland should not merely seem so lovely, but so striking. At the last turning of the valley the sea burst on us, and we entered Grève de Lecq, another of the little rocky coves of Jersey, which I am so fond of.

… St. Peter’s Valley, which I would on no account have missed. It is much larger than St. Mary’s, being near two miles in length; of much the same character, only that it is heathy on one side, and wooded on the other. It is very winding, so that every ten minutes it appears in an entirely new aspect, with its knolls, and jutting rocks, and woods, and other little dells running down into it; here and there is an overshot watermill, or a picturesque stone cottage. It increases in beauty the whole way, and I hardly know what part I saw with the most delight. It would be more easy to give Miss N——’s opinion. During the morning’s drive her taste had led her to give her principal attention to the bathing-machines, hollow-backed cows, and [253] staring new houses; and in St. Peter’s Valley I heard no exclamations of rapture till we suddenly spied a potato-ground deforming the pretty side of a wooded hill. This was “delightful! Oh, quite delightful! really it gave one double pleasure!”

… The drive home was by a prettier road, through St. Lawrence’s Valley. I do greatly admire the Jersey farmhouses; they are large old stone buildings, frequently covered with vines, and almost always have those pretty, picturesque stone wells, which I am so fond of, arched behind and square in front, with a stone trough before it for the cattle. They are usually covered with grass, mosses, and stonecrops, sometimes with vines, and, when in the hedge-banks, with fern and ivy. These wells, the vines on the cottages, the hedgerow chestnuts, and the gay-coloured tunics of the peasants, are decidedly the most foreign-looking objects in Jersey.

… And so ends our visit to Jersey. How quickly it has flown! It seems in the retrospect as short in space as last night’s dream. I have enjoyed it, and I have also been very unhappy.… When or where shall I meet again those from whom I am just parted? Not, I think, in Jersey… I watched for a long time the receding and lovely shores of Jersey; the bays of St. Aubin’s, St. Brelade’s, and St. Owen, successively passed away from sight, and in the mean time the islands of Sark, Herm, Jethou, and Guernsey came to view on the other side. I could see how completely Sark is shut in by a wall of rugged grey rocks, almost perpendicular. The sea was rough, and rolled in waves of a dull leaden or inky hue.… Alderney by degrees came in sight, and as the others had not yet vanished, we saw all six islands at once, together with a part of the French coast.

The weather constantly became more and more gloomy, the waves blacker and rougher, the horizon more dark and [254] hazy, so that the islands were scarcely distinguishable.… Alderney and France were still in view when we passed the Caskets, a remarkable pile of bare rocks far out at sea, crowned with lighthouses. These, too, passed away into the distance, and for a long time there was no land visible but the faint shadow of Alderney in the mist and rain. Finally, this too vanished, and I was delighted to find myself on the wide waste of waters, entirely out of sight of land.

I was determined to see the sun set in the sea. I found that the whole heaven was covered with clouds, except a broad belt of clear yellow light along the western horizon. Into that the sun was going to descend. I saw his orb, blazing with gold, emerge gradually from the clouds and descend through a sky whose tints became every moment more glorious. Every little speck and cloud was gilded almost too bright to look upon. It began to rain, but we could not lose so grand a sight, and stood under an umbrella, with the heavy drops pattering around us. The sea, which near the vessel was an inky black, became towards the horizon a rich lilac, speckled with the deepest violet; but both colours were interrupted by the long narrowing path of light which was traced across the waters. Each black wave, as it rolled past the vessel, as soon as it reached that bright path, became crowned with golden lustre; but all the ocean on the other side of the steamer was grey, dark, and misty. Happening to turn my head, I saw on the opposite side of the heavens a rainbow, resting on the waters. I never before saw a rainbow at sea. We remained on our seats under an awning, and when it was near eleven o’clock, and we were tired of sitting, we curled ourselves up in our cloaks at opposite ends of the seats, and composed ourselves to sleep.

I have not often passed a more sleepless night. If I ever did drop asleep, I woke directly to ask what lights they were watching, and to beg the [255] stewardess to call me as soon as we were near the Needles. This she did before one o’clock. Unfortunately, there was no moon, but I could distinguish the outlines of three masses of rocks, similar in shape to the prints I had often seen of them. I then returned to my couch, and was more successful in my endeavours after sleep.

When I next woke, it was nearly three o’clock. We had almost reached the Southampton pier, and the various vessels were reflected with beautiful distinctness in the calm, motionless water, silvered with the softened light that precedes the dawn.