monday, april 13th.—this morning was chill, and, worse, it was showery, so that our purposes to see york were much thwarted. at about ten o'clock, however, we took a cab, and drove to the cathedral, where we arrived while service was going on in the choir, and ropes were put up as barriers between us and the nave; so that we were limited to the south transept, and a part of one of the aisles of the choir. it was dismally cold. we crept cheerlessly about within our narrow precincts (narrow, that is to say, in proportion to the vast length and breadth of the cathedral), gazing up into the hollow height of the central tower, and looking at a monumental brass, fastened against one of the pillars, representing a beruffed lady of the tudor times, and at the canopied tomb of archbishop de grey, who ruled over the diocese in the thirteenth century. then we went into the side aisle of the choir, where there were one or two modern monuments; and i was appalled to find that a sermon was being preached by the ecclesiastic of the day, nor were there any signs of an imminent termination. i am not aware that there was much pith in the discourse, but there was certainly a good deal of labor and earnestness in the preacher's mode of delivery; although, when he came to a close, it appeared that the audience was not more than half a dozen people.

the barriers being now withdrawn, we walked adown the length of the nave, which did not seem to me so dim and vast as the recollection which i have had of it since my visit of a year ago. but my pre-imaginations and my memories are both apt to play me false with all admirable things, and so create disappointments for me, while perhaps the thing itself is really far better than i imagine or remember it. we engaged an old man, one of the attendants pertaining to the cathedral, to be our guide, and he showed us first the stone screen in front of the choir, with its sculptured kings of england; and then the tombs in the north transept,— one of a modern archbishop, and one of an ancient one, behind which the insane person who set fire to the church a few years ago hid himself at nightfall. then our guide unlocked a side door, and led us into the chapter-house,—an octagonal hall, with a vaulted roof, a tessellated floor, and seven arched windows of old painted glass, the richest that i ever saw or imagined, each looking like an inestimable treasury of precious stories, with a gleam and glow even in the sullen light of this gray morning. what would they be with the sun shining through them! with all their brilliancy, moreover, they were as soft as rose-leaves. i never saw any piece of human architecture so beautiful as this chapter-house; at least, i thought so while i was looking at it, and think so still; and it owed its beauty in very great measure to the painted windows: i remember looking at these windows from the outside yesterday, and seeing nothing but an opaque old crust of conglomerated panes of glass; but now that gloomy mystery was radiantly solved.

returning into the body of the cathedral, we next entered the choir, where, instead of the crimson cushions and draperies which we had seen yesterday, we found everything folded in black. it was a token of mourning for one of the canons, who died on saturday night. the great east window, seventy-five feet high, and full of old painted glass in many exquisitely wrought and imagined scriptural designs, is considered the most splendid object in the minster. it is a pity that it is partially hidden from view, even in the choir, by a screen before the high altar; but indeed, the gothic architects seem first to imagine beautiful and noble things, and then to consider how they may best be partially screened from sight. a certain secrecy and twilight effect belong to their plan.

we next went round the side aisles of the choir, which contain many interesting monuments of prelates, and a specimen of the very common elizabethan design of an old gentleman in a double ruff and trunk breeches, with one of his two wives on either side of him, all kneeling in prayer; and their conjoint children, in two rows, kneeling in the lower compartments of the tomb. we saw, too, a rich marble monument of one of the strafford family, and the tombstone of the famous earl himself,—a flat tombstone in the pavement of the aisle, covering the vault where he was buried, and with four iron rings fastened into the four corners of the stone whereby to lift it.

and now the guide led us into the vestry, where there was a good fire burning in the grate, and it really thawed my heart, which was congealed with the dismal chill of the cathedral. here we saw a good many curious things,—for instance, two wooden figures in knightly armor, which had stood sentinels beside the ancient clock before it was replaced by a modern one; and, opening a closet, the guide produced an old iron helmet, which had been found in a tomb where a knight had been buried in his armor; and three gold rings and one brass one, taken out of the graves, and off the finger-bones of mediaeval archbishops,—one of them with a ruby set in it; and two silver-gilt chalices, also treasures of the tombs; and a wooden head, carved in human likeness, and painted to the life, likewise taken from a grave where an archbishop was supposed to have been buried. they found no veritable skull nor bones, but only this block-head, as if death had betrayed the secret of what the poor prelate really was. we saw, too, a canopy of cloth, wrought with gold threads, which had been borne over the head of king james i., when he came to york, on his way to receive the english crown. there were also some old brass dishes, in which pence used to be collected in monkish times. over the door of this vestry were hung two banners of a yorkshire regiment, tattered in the peninsular wars, and inscribed with the names of the battles through which they had been borne triumphantly; and waterloo was among them. the vestry, i think, occupies that excrescential edifice which i noticed yesterday as having grown out of the cathedral.

after looking at these things, we went down into the crypts, under the choir. these were very interesting, as far as we could see them; being more antique than anything above ground, but as dark as any cellar. there is here, in the midst of these sepulchral crypts, a spring of water, said to be very pure and delicious, owing to the limestone through which the rain that feeds its source is filtered. near it is a stone trough, in which the monks used to wash their hands.

i do not remember anything more that we saw at the cathedral, and at noon we returned to the black swan. the rain still continued, so that s——- could not share in any more of my rambles, but j——- and i went out again, and discovered the guildhall. it is a very ancient edifice of richard ii.'s time, and has a statue over the entrance which looks time-gnawed enough to be of coeval antiquity, although in reality it is only a representation of george ii. in his royal robes. we went in, and found ourselves in a large and lofty hall, with an oaken roof and a stone pavement, and the farther end was partitioned off as a court of justice. in that portion of the hall the judge was on the bench, and a trial was going forward; but in the hither portion a mob of people, with their hats on, were lounging and talking, and enjoying the warmth of the stoves. the window over the judgment-seat had painted glass in it, and so, i think, had some of the hall windows. at the end of the hall hung a great picture of paul defending himself before agrippa, where the apostle looked like an athlete, and had a remarkably bushy black beard. between two of the windows hung an indian bell from burmah, ponderously thick and massive. both the picture and the bell had been presented to the city as tokens of affectionate remembrance by its children; and it is pleasant to think that such failings exist in these old stable communities, and that there are permanent localities where such gifts can be kept from generation to generation.

at four o'clock we left the city of york, still in a pouring rain. the black swan, where we had been staying, is a good specimen of the old english inn, sombre, quiet, with dark staircases, dingy rooms, curtained beds,—all the possibilities of a comfortable life and good english fare, in a fashion which cannot have been much altered for half a century. it is very homelike when one has one's family about him, but must be prodigiously stupid for a solitary man.

we took the train for manchester, over pretty much the same route that i travelled last year. many of the higher hills in yorkshire were white with snow, which, in our lower region, softened into rain; but as we approached manchester, the western sky reddened, and gave promise of better weather. we arrived at nearly eight o'clock, and put up at the palatine hotel. in the evening i scrawled away at my journal till past ten o'clock; for i have really made it a matter of conscience to keep a tolerably full record of my travels, though conscious that everything good escapes in the process. in the morning we went out and visited the

manchester cathedral,

a particularly black and grimy edifice, containing some genuine old wood carvings within the choir. we stayed a good while, in order to see some people married. one couple, with their groomsman and bride's-maid, were sitting within the choir; but when the clergyman was robed and ready, there entered five other couples, each attended by groomsman and bride's-maid. they all were of the lower orders; one or two respectably dressed, but most of them poverty-stricken,—the men in their ordinary loafer's or laborer's attire, the women with their poor, shabby shawls drawn closely about them; faded untimely, wrinkled with penury and care; nothing fresh, virgin-like, or hopeful about them; joining themselves to their mates with the idea of making their own misery less intolerable by adding another's to it. all the six couple stood up in a row before the altar, with the groomsmen and bride's-maids in a row behind them; and the clergyman proceeded to marry them in such a way that it almost seemed to make every man and woman the husband and wife of every other. however, there were some small portions of the service directed towards each separate couple; and they appeared to assort themselves in their own fashion afterwards, each one saluting his bride with a kiss. the clergyman, the sexton, and the clerk all seemed to find something funny in this affair; and the woman who admitted us into the church smiled too, when she told us that a wedding-party was waiting to be married. but i think it was the saddest thing we have seen since leaving home; though funny enough if one likes to look at it from a ludicrous point of view. this mob of poor marriages was caused by the fact that no marriage fee is paid during easter.

this ended the memorable things of our tour; for my wife and j——- left manchester for southport, and i for liverpool, before noon.

april 19th.—on the 15th, having been invited to attend at the laying of the corner-stone of

mr. browne's free library,

i went to the town hall, according to the programme, at eleven o'clock. there was already a large number of people (invited guests, members of the historical society, and other local associations) assembled in the great hall-room, and one of these was delivering an address to mr. browne as i entered. approaching the outer edge of the circle, i was met and cordially greeted by monckton milnes, whom i like, and who always reminds me of longfellow, though his physical man is more massive. while we were talking together, a young man approached him with a pretty little expression of surprise and pleasure at seeing him there. he had a slightly affected or made-up manner, and was rather a comely person. mr. milnes introduced him to me as lord ———. hereupon, of course, i observed him more closely; and i must say that i was not long in discovering a gentle dignity and half-imperceptible reserve in his manner; but still my first impression was quite as real as my second one. he occupies, i suppose, the foremost position among the young men of england, and has the fairest prospects of a high course before him; nevertheless, he did not impress me as possessing the native qualities that could entitle him to a high public career. he has adopted public life as his hereditary profession, and makes the very utmost of all his abilities, cultivating himself to a determined end, knowing that he shall have every advantage towards attaining his object. his natural disadvantages must have been, in some respects, unusually great; his voice, for instance, is not strong, and appeared to me to have a more positive defect than mere weakness. doubtless he has struggled manfully against this defect; and it made me feel a certain sympathy, and, indeed, a friendliness, for which he would not at all have thanked me, had he known it. i felt, in his person, what a burden it is upon human shoulders, the necessity of keeping up the fame and historical importance of an illustrious house; at least, when the heir to its honors has sufficient intellect and sensibility to feel the claim that his country and his ancestors and his posterity all have upon him. lord ——— is fully capable of feeling these claims; but i would not care, methinks, to take his position, unless i could have considerably more than his strength.

in a little while we formed ourselves into a procession, four in a row, and set forth from the town hall, through james street, lord street, lime street, all the way through a line of policemen and a throng of people; and all the windows were alive with heads, and i never before was so conscious of a great mass of humanity, though perhaps i may often have seen as great a crowd. but a procession is the best point of view from which to see the crowd that collects together. the day, too, was very fine, even sunshiny, and the streets dry,—a blessing which cannot be overestimated; for we should have been in a strange trim for the banquet, had we been compelled to wade through the ordinary mud of liverpool. the procession itself could not have been a very striking object. in america, it would have had a hundred picturesque and perhaps ludicrous features,—the symbols of the different trades, banners with strange devices, flower-shows, children, volunteer soldiers, cavalcades, and every suitable and unsuitable contrivance; but we were merely a trail of ordinary-looking individuals, in great-coats, and with precautionary umbrellas. the only characteristic or professional costume, as far as i noticed, was that of the bishop of chester, in his flat cap and black-silk gown; and that of sir henry smith, the general of the district, in full uniform, with a star and half a dozen medals on his breast. mr. browne himself, the hero of the day, was the plainest and simplest man of all,—an exceedingly unpretending gentleman in black; small, white-haired, pale, quiet, and respectable. i rather wondered why he chose to be the centre of all this ceremony; for he did not seem either particularly to enjoy it, or to be at all incommoded by it, as a more nervous and susceptible man might have been.

the site of the projected edifice is on one of the streets bordering on st. george's hall; and when we came within the enclosure, the corner-stone, a large square of red freestone, was already suspended over its destined place. it has a brass plate let into it, with an inscription, which will perhaps not be seen again till the present english type has grown as antique as black-letter is now. two or three photographs were now taken of the site, the corner-stone, mr. browne, the distinguished guests, and the crowd at large; then ensued a prayer from the bishop of chester, and speeches from mr. holme, mr. browne, lord ———, sir john pakington, sir henry smith, and as many others as there was time for. lord ——— acquitted himself very creditably, though brought out unexpectedly, and with evident reluctance. i am convinced that men, liable to be called on to address the public, keep a constant supply of commonplaces in their minds, which, with little variation, can be adapted to one subject about as well as to another; and thus they are always ready to do well enough, though seldom to do particularly well.

from the scene of the corner-stone, we went to st. george's hall, where a drawing-room and dressing-room had been prepared for the principal guests. before the banquet, i had some conversation with sir james kay shuttleworth, who had known miss bronte very intimately, and bore testimony to the wonderful fidelity of mrs. gaskell's life of her. he seemed to have had an affectionate regard for her, and said that her marriage promised to have been productive of great happiness; her husband being not a remarkable man, but with the merit of an exceeding love for her.

mr. browne now took me up into the gallery, which by this time was full of ladies; and thence we had a fine view of the noble hall, with the tables laid, in readiness for the banquet. i cannot conceive of anything finer than this hall: it needs nothing but painted windows to make it perfect, and those i hope it may have one day or another.

at two o'clock we sat down to the banquet, which hardly justified that name, being only a cold collation, though sufficiently splendid in its way. in truth, it would have been impossible to provide a hot dinner for nine hundred people in a place remote from kitchens. the principal table extended lengthwise of the hall, and was a little elevated above the other tables, which stretched across, about twenty in all. before each guest, besides the bill of fare, was laid a programme of the expected toasts, among which appeared my own name, to be proposed by mr. monckton milnes. these things do not trouble me quite as much as they used, though still it sufficed to prevent much of the enjoyment which i might have had if i could have felt myself merely a spectator. my left-hand neighbor was colonel campbell of the artillery; my right-hand one was mr. picton, of the library committee; and i found them both companionable men, especially the colonel, who had served in china and in the crimea, and owned that he hated the french. we did not make a very long business of the eatables, and then came the usual toasts of ceremony, and afterwards those more peculiar to the occasion, one of the first of which was "the house of stanley," to which lord ——— responded. it was a noble subject, giving scope for as much eloquence as any man could have brought to bear upon it, and capable of being so wrought out as to develop and illustrate any sort of conservative or liberal tendencies which the speaker might entertain. there could not be a richer opportunity for reconciling and making friends betwixt the old system of society and the new; but lord ——— did not seem to make anything of it. i remember nothing that he said excepting his statement that the family had been five hundred years connected with the town of liverpool. i wish i could have responded to "the house of stanley," and his lordship could have spoken in my behalf. none of the speeches were remarkably good; the bishop of chester's perhaps the best, though he is but a little man in aspect, not at all filling up one's idea of a bishop, and the rest were on an indistinguishable level, though, being all practised speakers, they were less hum-y and ha-y than english orators ordinarily are.

i was really tired to death before my own turn came, sitting all that time, as it were, on the scaffold, with the rope round my neck. at last monckton milnes was called up and made a speech, of which, to my dismay, i could hardly hear a single word, owing to his being at a considerable distance, on the other side of the chairman, and flinging his voice, which is a bass one, across the hall, instead of adown it, in my direction. i could not distinguish one word of any allusions to my works, nor even when he came to the toast, did i hear the terms in which he put it, nor whether i was toasted on my own basis, or as representing american literature, or as consul of the united states. at all events, there was a vast deal of clamor; and uprose peers and bishop, general, mayor, knights and gentlemen, everybody in the hall greeting me with all the honors. i had uprisen, too, to commence my speech; but had to sit down again till matters grew more quiet, and then i got up, and proceeded to deliver myself with as much composure as i ever felt at my own fireside. it is very strange, this self-possession and clear-sightedness which i have experienced when standing before an audience, showing me my way through all the difficulties resulting from my not having heard monckton milnes's speech; and on since reading the latter, i do not see how i could have answered it better. my speech certainly was better cheered than any other; especially one passage, where i made a colossus of mr. browne, at which the audience grew so tumultuous in their applause that they drowned my figure of speech before it was half out of my mouth.

after rising from table, lord ——— and i talked about our respective oratorical performances; and he appeared to have a perception that he is not naturally gifted in this respect. i like lord ———, and wish that it were possible that we might know one another better. if a nobleman has any true friend out of his own class, it ought to be a republican. nothing further of interest happened at the banquet, and the next morning came out the newspapers with the reports of my speech, attributing to me a variety of forms of ragged nonsense, which, poor speaker as i am, i was quite incapable of uttering.

may 10th.—the winter is over, but as yet we scarcely have what ought to be called spring; nothing but cold east-winds, accompanied with sunshine, however, as east-winds generally are in this country. all milder winds seem to bring rain. the grass has been green for a month,—indeed, it has never been entirely brown,—and now the trees and hedges are beginning to be in foliage. weeks ago the daisies bloomed, even in the sandy grass-plot bordering on the promenade beneath our front windows; and in the progress of the daisy, and towards its consummation, i saw the propriety of burns's epithet, "wee, modest, crimson-nipped flower,"—its little white petals in the bud being fringed all round with crimson, which fades into pure white when the flower blooms. at the beginning of this month i saw fruit-trees in blossom, stretched out flat against stone walls, reminding me of a dead bird nailed against the side of a barn. but it has been a backward and dreary spring; and i think southport, in the course of it, has lost its advantage over the rest of the liverpool neighborhood in point of milder atmosphere. the east-wind feels even rawer here than in the city.

nevertheless, the columns, of the southport visitor begin to be well replenished with the names of guests, and the town is assuming its aspect of summer life. to say the truth, except where cultivation has done its utmost, there is very little difference between winter and summer in the mere material aspect of southport; there being nothing but a waste of sand intermixed with plashy pools to seaward, and a desert of sand-hillocks on the land side. but now the brown, weather-hardened donkey-women haunt people that stray along the reaches, and delicate persons face the cold, rasping, ill-tempered blast on the promenade, and children dig in the sands; and, for want of something better, it seems to be determined that this shall be considered spring.

southport is as stupid a place as i ever lived in; and i cannot but bewail our ill fortune to have been compelled to spend so many months on these barren sands, when almost every other square yard of england contains something that would have been historically or poetically interesting. our life here has been a blank. there was, indeed, a shipwreck, a month or two ago, when a large ship came ashore within a mile from our windows; the larger portion of the crew landing safely on the hither sands, while six or seven betook themselves to the boat, and were lost in attempting to gain the shore, on the other side of the ribble. after a lapse of several weeks, two or three of their drowned bodies were found floating in this vicinity, and brought to southport for burial; so that it really is not at all improbable that milton's lycidas floated hereabouts, in the rise and lapse of the tides, and that his bones may still be whitening among the sands.

in the same gale that wrecked the above-mentioned vessel, a portion of a ship's mast was driven ashore, after evidently having been a very long time in and under water; for it was covered with great barnacles, and torn sea-weed, insomuch that there was scarcely a bare place along its whole length; clusters of sea-anemones were sticking to it, and i know not what strange marine productions besides. j——- at once recognized the sea-anemones, knowing them by his much reading of gosse's aquarium; and though they must now have been two or three days high and dry out of water, he made an extempore aquarium out of a bowl, and put in above a dozen of these strange creatures. in a little while they bloomed out wonderfully, and even seemed to produce young anemones; but, from some fault in his management, they afterwards grew sickly and died. s——- thinks that the old storm-shattered mast, so studded with the growth of the ocean depths, is a relic of the spanish armada which strewed its wrecks along all the shores of england; but i hardly think it would have taken three hundred years to produce this crop of barnacles and sea-anemones. a single summer might probably have done it.

yesterday we all of us except r——- went to liverpool to see the performances of an american circus company. i had previously been, a day or two before, with j——-, and had been happy to perceive that the fact of its being an american establishment really induced some slight swelling of the heart within me. it is ridiculous enough, to be sure, but i like to find myself not wholly destitute of this noble weakness, patriotism. as for the circus, i never was fond of that species of entertainment, nor do i find in this one the flash and glitter and whirl which i remember in other american exhibitions.

[here follow the visits to lincoln and boston, printed in our old home. —ed.]

may 27th.—we left boston by railway at noon, and arrived in peterborough in about an hour and a quarter, and have put up at the railway hotel. after dinner we walked into the town to see

the cathedral,

of the towers and arches of which we had already had a glimpse from our parlor window.

our journey from boston hitherward was through a perfectly level country,—the fens of lincolnshire,—green, green, and nothing else, with old villages and farm-houses and old church-towers; very pleasant and rather wearisomely monotonous. to return to peterborough. it is a town of ancient aspect; and we passed, on our way towards the market-place, a very ancient-looking church, with a very far projecting porch, opening in front and on each side through arches of broad sweep. the street by which we approached from our hotel led us into the market-place, which had what looked like an old guildhall on one side. on the opposite side, above the houses, appeared the towers of the cathedral, and a street leads from the market-place to its front, through an arched gateway, which used to be the external entrance to the abbey, i suppose, of which the cathedral was formerly the church. the front of the cathedral is very striking, and unlike any other that i have seen; being formed by three lofty and majestic arches in a row, with three gable peaks above them, forming a sort of colonnade, within which is the western entrance of the nave. the towers are massive, but low in proportion to their bulk. there are no spires, but pinnacles and statues, and all the rich detail of gothic architecture, the whole of a venerable gray line. it is in perfect repair, and has not suffered externally, except by the loss of multitudes of statues, gargoyles, and miscellaneous eccentricities of sculpture, which used to smile, frown, laugh, and weep over the faces of these old fabrics.

we entered through a side portal, and sat down on a bench in the nave, and kept ourselves quiet; for the organ was sounding, and the choristers were chanting in the choir. the nave and transepts are very noble, with clustered pillars and norman arches, and a great height under the central tower; the whole, however, being covered with plaster and whitewash, except the roof, which is of painted oak. this latter adornment has the merit, i believe, of being veritably ancient; but certainly i should prefer the oak of its native hue, for the effect of the paint is to make it appear as if the ceiling were covered with imitation mosaic-work or an oil-cloth carpet.

after sitting awhile, we were invited by a verger, who came from within the screen, to enter the choir and hear the rest of the service. we found the choristers there in their white garments, and an audience of half a dozen people, and had time to look at the interior of the choir. all the carved wood-work of the tabernacle, the bishop's throne, the prebends' stalls, and whatever else, is modern; for this cathedral seems to have suffered wofully from cromwell's soldiers, who hacked at the old oak, and hammered and pounded upon the marble tombs, till nothing of the first and very few of the latter remain. it is wonderful how suddenly the english people lost their sense of the sanctity of all manner of externals in religion, without losing their religion too. the french, in their revolution, underwent as sudden a change; but they became pagans and atheists, and threw away the substance with the shadow.

i suspect that the interior arrangement of the choir and the chancel has been greatly modernized; for it is quite unlike anything that i have seen elsewhere. instead of one vast eastern window, there are rows of windows lighting the lady chapel, and seen through rows of arches in the screen of the chancel; the effect being, whoever is to have the credit of it, very rich and beautiful. there is, i think, no stained glass in the windows of the nave, though in the windows of the chancel there is some of recent date, and from fragments of veritable antique. the effect of the whole interior is grand, expansive, and both ponderous and airy; not dim, mysterious, and involved, as gothic interiors often are, the roundness and openness of the arches being opposed to this latter effect.

when the chanting came to a close, one verger took his stand at the entrance of the choir, and another stood farther up the aisle, and then the door of a stall opened, and forth came a clerical dignity of much breadth and substance, aged and infirm, and was ushered out of the choir with a great deal of ceremony. we took him for the bishop, but he proved to be only a canon. we now engaged an attendant to show us through the lady chapel and the other penetralia, which it did not take him long to accomplish. one of the first things he showed us was the tombstone, in the pavement of the southern aisle, beneath which mary, queen of scots, had been originally buried, and where she lay for a quarter of a century, till borne to her present resting-place in westminster abbey. it is a plain marble slab, with no inscription. near this, there was a saxon monument of the date 870, with sculpture in relief upon it,—the memorial of an abbot hedda, who was killed by the danes when they destroyed the monastery that preceded the abbey and church. i remember, likewise, the recumbent figure of the prelate, whose face has been quite obliterated by puritanic violence; and i think that there is not a single tomb older than the parliamentary wars, which has not been in like manner battered and shattered, except the saxon abbot's just mentioned. the most pretentious monument remaining is that of a mr. deacon, a gentleman of george i.'s time, in wig and breeches, leaning on his elbow, and resting one hand upon a skull. in the north aisle, precisely opposite to that of queen mary, the attendant pointed out to us the slab beneath which lie the ashes of catharine of aragon, the divorced queen of henry viii.

in the nave there was an ancient font, a venerable and beautiful relic, which has been repaired not long ago, but in such a way as not to lessen its individuality. this sacred vessel suffered especial indignity from cromwell's soldiers; insomuch that if anything could possibly destroy its sanctity, they would have effected that bad end. on the eastern wall of the nave, and near the entrance, hangs the picture of old scarlet, the sexton who buried both mary of scotland and catharine of aragon, and not only these two queens, but everybody else in peterborough, twice over. i think one feels a sort of enmity and spite against these grave-diggers, who live so long, and seem to contract a kindred and partnership with death, being boon companions with him, and taking his part against mankind.

in a chapel or some side apartment, there were two pieces of tapestry wretchedly faded, the handiwork of two nuns, and copied from two of raphael's cartoons.

we now emerged from the cathedral, and walked round its exterior, admiring it to our utmost capacity, and all the more because we had not heard of it beforehand, and expected to see nothing so huge, majestic, grand, and gray. and of all the lovely closes that i ever beheld, that of peterborough cathedral is to me the most delightful; so quiet it is, so solemnly and nobly cheerful, so verdant, so sweetly shadowed, and so presided over by the stately minster, and surrounded by ancient and comely habitations of christian men. the most enchanting place, the most enviable as a residence in all this world, seemed to me that of the bishop's secretary, standing in the rear of the cathedral, and bordering on the churchyard; so that you pass through hallowed precincts in order to come at it, and find it a paradise, the holier and sweeter for the dead men who sleep so near. we looked through the gateway into the lawn, which really seemed hardly to belong to this world, so bright and soft the sunshine was, so fresh the grass, so lovely the trees, so trained and refined and mellowed down was the whole nature of the spot, and so shut in and guarded from all intrusion. it is in vain to write about it; nowhere but in england can there be such a spot, nor anywhere but in the close of peterborough cathedral.

may 28th.—i walked up into the town this morning, and again visited the cathedral. on the way, i observed the falcon inn, a very old-fashioned hostelry, with a thatched roof, and what looked like the barn door or stable door in a side front. very likely it may have been an inn ever since queen elizabeth's time. the guildhall, as i supposed it to be, in the market-place, has a basement story entirely open on all sides, but from its upper story it communicates with a large old house in the rear. i have not seen an older-looking town than peterborough; but there is little that is picturesque about it, except within the domain of the cathedral. it was very fortunate for the beauty and antiquity of these precincts, that henry viii. did not suffer the monkish edifices of the abbey to be overthrown and utterly destroyed, as was the case with so many abbeys, at the reformation; but, converting the abbey church into a cathedral, he preserved much of the other arrangement of the buildings connected with it. and so it happens that to this day we have the massive and stately gateway, with its great pointed arch, still keeping out the world from those who have inherited the habitations of the old monks; for though the gate is never closed, one feels himself in a sacred seclusion the instant he passes under the archway. and everywhere there are old houses that appear to have been adapted from the monkish residences, or from their spacious offices, and made into convenient dwellings for ecclesiastics, or vergers, or great or small people connected with the cathedral; and with all modern comfort they still retain much of the quaintness of the olden time,—arches, even rows of arcades, pillars, walls, beautified with patches of gothic sculpture, not wilfully put on by modern taste, but lingering from a long past; deep niches, let into the fronts of houses, and occupied by images of saints; a growth of ivy, overspreading walls, and just allowing the windows to peep through,—so that no novelty, nor anything of our hard, ugly, and actual life comes into these limits, through the defences of the gateway, without being mollified and modified. except in some of the old colleges of oxford, i have not seen any other place that impressed me in this way; and the grounds of peterborough cathedral have the advantage over even the oxford colleges, insomuch that the life is here domestic,—that of the family, that of the affections,—a natural life, which one deludes himself with imagining may be made into something sweeter and purer in this beautiful spot than anywhere else. doubtless the inhabitants find it a stupid and tiresome place enough, and get morbid and sulky, and heavy and obtuse of head and heart, with the monotony of their life. but still i must needs believe that a man with a full mind, and objects to employ his affection, ought to be very happy here. and perhaps the forms and appliances of human life are never fit to make people happy until they cease to be used for the purposes for which they were directly intended, and are taken, as it were, in a sidelong application. i mean that the monks, probably, never enjoyed their own edifices while they were a part of the actual life of the day, so much as these present inhabitants now enjoy them when a new use has grown up apart from the original one.

towards noon we all walked into the town again, and on our way went into the old church with the projecting portal, which i mentioned yesterday. a woman came hastening with the keys when she saw us looking up at the door. the interior had an exceeding musty odor, and was very ancient, with side aisles opening by a row of pointed arches into the nave, and a gallery of wood on each side, and built across the two rows of arches. it was paved with tombstones, and i suppose the dead people contributed to the musty odor. very naked and unadorned it was, except with a few mural monuments of no great interest. we stayed but a little while, and amply rewarded the poor woman with a sixpence. thence we proceeded to the cathedral, pausing by the way to look at the old guildhall, which is no longer a guildhall, but a butter-market; and then we bought some prints of exterior and interior views of the minster, of which there are a great variety on note-paper, letter-sheets, large engravings, and lithographs. it is very beautiful; there seems to be nothing better than to say this over again. we found the doors most hospitably open, and every part entirely free to us,—a kindness and liberality which we have nowhere else experienced in england, whether as regards cathedrals or any other public buildings. my wife sat down to draw the font, and i walked through the lady chapel meanwhile, pausing over the empty bed of queen mary, and the grave of queen catharine, and looking at the rich and sumptuous roof, where a fountain, as it were, of groins of arches spouts from numberless pilasters, intersecting one another in glorious intricacy. under the central tower, opening to either transept, to the nave, and to the choir, are four majestic arches, which i think must equal in height those of which i saw the ruins, and one, all but perfect, at furness abbey. they are about eighty feet high.

i may as well give up peterborough here, though i hate to leave it undescribed even to the tufts of yellow flowers, which grow on the projections high out of reach, where the winds have sown their seeds in soil made by the aged decay of the edifice. i could write a page, too, about the rooks or jackdaws that flit and clamor about the pinnacles, and dart in and out of the eyelet-holes, the piercings,—whatever they are called,—in the turrets and buttresses. on our way back to the hotel, j——- saw an advertisement of some knights in armor that were to tilt to-day; so he and i waited, and by and by a procession appeared, passing through the antique market-place, and in front of the abbey gateway, which might have befitted the same spot three hundred years ago. they were about twenty men-at-arms on horseback, with lances and banners. we were a little too near for the full enjoyment of the spectacle; for, though some of the armor was real, i could not help observing that other suits were made of silver paper or gold tinsel. a policeman (a queer anomaly in reference to such a mediaeval spectacle) told us that they were going to joust and run at the ring, in a field a little beyond the bridge.