S OME justly admired Authors having condescended to glean a few stray thoughts from these Letters, which have remained dormant a great many years; I have been at length emboldened to lay them before the public. Perhaps, as they happen to contain passages which persons of acknowledged taste have honoured with their notice, they may possibly be less unworthy of emerging from the shade into daylight than I imagined. Most of these Letters were written in the bloom and heyday of youthful spirits and

Passage to Ostend.—The Capuchin church.—Ghent.—Quiet and Content, the presiding deities of Flanders.—Antwerp.—The Place de Meir.—Silence and solitude of the town, contrasted with the tumult and uproar of London. Ostend, 21st June, 1780. W E had a rough passage, and arrived at this imperial haven in a piteous condition. Notwithstanding its renown and importance, it is but a scurvy place—preposterous Flemish roofs disgust your eyes when cast upwards—swaggering Dutch skippers and mongrel smugglers

Bolsano.—Indications of approaching Italy.—Fire-flies.—Appearance of the Peasantry.—A forest Lake.—Arrive at Borgo di Volsugano.—Prospect of Hills in the Venetian State.—Gorgeous Flies.—Fortress of Covalo.—Leave the country of crags and precipices and enter the territory of the Bassanese.—Groves of olives and vines.—Classic appearance of Bassano.—Happy groups.—Pachierotti, the celebrated singer.—Anecdote of him. July 29, 1780. W E proceeded over fertile mountains to Bolsano. It was here first th

T HE following letters, written during a second excursion, are added, on account of their affinity to some of the preceding. First day of Summer.—A dismal Plain.—Gloomy entrance to Cologne.—Labyrinth of hideous edifices.—Hotel of Der Heilige Geist. Cologne, 28th May, 1782. T HIS is the first day of summer; the oak leaves expand, the roses blow, butterflies are on the wing, and I have spirits enough to write to you. We have had clouded skies this fortnight past, and roads like the slough of Despo

Determination to visit the Grande Chartreuse.—Reach the Village of Les Echelles.—Gloomy region.—The Torrent.—Entrance of the Desert.—Portal of the consecrated Enclosure.—Dark Woods and Caverns.—Crosses.—Inscriptions. Gray’s sublime Ode on the Grande Chartreuse had sunk so deeply into my spirit that I could not rest in peace on the banks of the Leman Lake till I had visited the scene from whence he caught inspiration. I longed to penetrate these sacred precincts, to hear the language of their fal

Revisit the trees on the summit of Saleve.—Pas d’Echelle.—Moneti.—Bird’s-eye prospects.—Alpine flowers.—Extensive view from the summit of Saleve.—Youthful enthusiasm.—Sad realities. I had long wished to revisit the holt of trees so conspicuous on the summit of Saleve, and set forth this morning to accomplish that purpose. Brandoin an artist, once the delight of our travelling lords and ladies, accompanied me. We rode pleasantly and sketchingly along through Carouge to the base of the mountain, t

PREFACE TO PORTUGUESE LETTERS. Portugal attracting much attention in her present convulsed and declining state, it might not perhaps be uninteresting to the public to cast back a glance by way of contrast to the happier times when she enjoyed, under the mild and beneficent reign of Donna Maria the First, a great share of courtly and commercial prosperity. March 1, 1834....

Detained at Falmouth.—Navigation at a stop.—An evening ramble. Falmouth, March 6, 1787. T HE glass is sinking; the west wind gently breathing upon the water, the smoke softly descending into the room, and sailors yawning dismally at the door of every ale-house. Navigation seems at a full stop. The captains lounging about with their hands in their pockets, and passengers idling at billiards. Dr. V—— has scraped acquaintance with a quaker, and went last night to one of their assemblies, where he k

Embark on the Tagus.—Aldea Gallega.—A poetical postmaster.—The church.—Leave Aldea Gallega.—Scenery on the road.—Palace built by John the Fifth.—Ruins at Montemor.—Reach Arroyolos. Wednesday, Nov. 28th, 1787. T HE winds are reposing themselves, and the surface of the Tagus has all the smoothness of a mirror. The clouds are dispersing, for it rained heavily in the night, and the sun tinging the distant mountains of Palmella. Charming weather for crossing to Aldea Gallega, that self-same village i