in one of the Chapels, we were shown the sexton's chair, more than a thousand years old, in which were crowned James VI., Richard III., and some other sovereigns. In another place we were shown the robes King James was crowned in, and some things older than the chair. Underneath the church we saw the pillars of the old Norman church, over which the present one was built. There is one circular window called the Marygold, twenty-seven feet in diameter, and also one called the "five Sisters." It is in five divisions, and was painted or copied from the embroidery of five sisters, (each division being different,) painted at their expense and given to the Minster. It is nearly as high as the large one I before mentioned, but not so wide. I cannot call this a description; it is merely a catalogue of wonders. It would be impossible, I think, for any one without more than mortal gifts to give a satisfactory description of this immense and elaborate pile. It has no rival in the kingdom. There is here a museum containing the Roman antiquities and remains that have been dug up in various parts, and around the city. Near the museum are the ruins of St. Mary's Abbey, only one side remaining perfect, with the Gothic arched windows and large pillars formed from small ones united. There are broken pillars and parts of the walls, so that you can trace the extent of what was the interior-within which are the stumps of trees, some twelve or fifteen feet in circumference, that have grown and decayed, since the Abbey has been deserted and a ruin. It seemed very strange when we entered York by railroad, to pass under the walls with a steam engine, but I suppose wonders will never cease. We crossed the Ouse in a -row boat used to ferry passengers over, and then walked around the walls, quite a circuit, passing over Micklegate bar, on which used to be stuck the heads of traitors and those slain in war, and then crossing the river again, visited York

CLIFFORD'S TOWER.

15

Castle, now a prison for capital offenders, and like every thing else here, it is the picture of neatness itself. The building is round, and half of it is divided into wards with paved courts or yards between, in which the prisoners take their exercise together. They are allowed to converse with each other, and there is a schoolmaster who comes every day to set them copies, and they amuse themselves in reading and writing, having no work to do but to keep themselves and their apartments clean. The cells in which they sleep are quite roomy, more so than our state-rooms in the ship, the sides, top and bottom of them are each one solid stone, and the door plates of iron, and bolts and locks to make them fast. The prison relics were rather disgusting than interesting, consisting of various instruments with which crimes have been committed, and plaster busts of famous murderers. We were shown the skull of the man whom Eugene Aram murdered, and the different irons usedto confine the famous Dick Turpin.

There is little left of the old Castle, the present one being built upon its fragments. The Clifford's Tower of Ivanhoe, where Isaac the Jew of York was confined, is enclosed in a wall to preserve it, and which you ascend by a winding stair to the top, where you can walk round and have a fair view of the city, the Minster, the Abbey ruins, the walls and the country beyond. I gathered some sweet wall flowers and ivy growing between the stones, as a memento of Clifford Tower, and descending, we wended our way homewards. The inn, after the old English fashion, has a place for loaded carriages and wagons to drive to in the rear to unload, where were the post-boys, ostlers, and grooms, all busy in their different occupations, the stables extending some distance on either side in the rear.

They have a very comfortable way at the inns here. Having no public drawing room, you are shown into a parlor whch

you have to yourself; and when they set a table for you, the lady traveller not only pours the tea, but makes it on the table, on which they always place the caddy; and a boiling kettle simmers on the hob of the grate. The waiter, when he has placed all on the table, retires, and you have it all to yourself, quite like home. And they give you in England such fine bread and butter, hot muffins for tea and breakfast, fresh eggs, delicious tea, and for dinner the juciest lamb and mutton, and the "roast beef of England." I think we have as good beef, but we have no Cheshire cheese, and the cream cheese (what we call pot cheese) is here most exquisite. I have certainly realized the comfort of an English inn. Every thing about York bears the stamp of age. The structure, material, and color of the houses, the narrow and irregular streets, all betoken an age gone by. The second story projects over the lower, and if there is one above, that projects over the second, so that in a narrow street you may almost shake hands across it from the upper windows. The side walks are only wide enough for one, and the red-tiled roofs, in ridges with troughs between, all look strange, and I begin to feel very antique myself. I fancy when I look in the glass, I have grown old, and certainly feel older than I did, having lived a year in the past week; I know not what is yet before me, yet I feel a great regret in leaving York.

I am now at Durham, and have attended church in the Cathedral to-day (Sunday.) This is another relic of by gone times. It was built in the 11th century, and the body of the patron saint (St. Cuthbert) is entombed here. He was first buried in some other place in the 6th century, but afterwards his body was removed hither and the clothes in which he was interred, being at the time of the removal in a perfect state. His body was again taken up in 1837, when but little remained of the holy Saint Cuthbert. In the Cathedral, are many old monuments; one to the venerable Bede, and se

veral knights in armor reclining, but very much broken and mutilated. On the side of one of the towers, in a niche, is carved a cow, and two milk-maids, connected with which is a legend telling how Durham came by its name. There are some fine buildings connected with the Cathedral, the Dean's Palace, the prebendaries, the Hospital, and old Durham Castle, ten years since converted into a college. They all stand on the banks of the Wier, which are very high and covered on both sides of the narrow river with beautiful woods, through which are fine walks, like our Hoboken, and extending some three miles up the river. The houses in both York and Durham are built with the upper stories projecting over the under. Here in Newcastle-upon-Tyne, (where I am now writing,) the houses are some six or seven stories high, having one wide projecting window in front, the windows in each story jutting a little over the under, having the appearance of high boxes piled on each other. The roads and streets throughout England are all Macadamized as smooth as a floor, and the coaches roll over them at the rate of ten miles an hour. The street in which we are, at Newcastle-upon-Tyne, is called Grey-street, and is lined with buildings on either side like palaces, extending near half a mile, and at the head of it, on a high hill, is a tall monument surmounted with a statue of Earl Grey.

Tuesday. To-day, between Newcastle and Melrose Abbey, we have passed a most delightful country. The English coaches are made to carry sixteen outside and four within, but those who sit inside are shut out entirely from a view of the country. So we took our places on the top, and though it was very cold, with a specimen of the Scotch mist, I did not regret my choice. Four horses to each coach, and a change every six miles, enable them to travel at great speed. We saw many fine places on our way, and then they have such pretty names. There was Belle Cas

tle, Otterbay Tower, Ankram, Rutherford, Ravensworth and Guernsey Place-do they not sound well?

The hedges here are in full bloom, some with white, some pink blossoms, and as thickly clustered as our flowering almond. When we came in sight of the Cheviot hills, the face of the country materially changed from beautifully cultivated fields, to bleak barren moor, extending for miles around, and covered with a thick black bushy grass, which is the Scotch heather. The country here has no fences to divide it, and is only separated from the road by white painted posts, tipped with black, to guide the drivers when the ground is covered with snow. On the tops of the Cheviots are cairns or stones, piled up in a pyramidal form, to serve as land-marks to the shepherds in winter. The sides of these hills, or rather mountains, are dotted over with innumerable flocks of sheep, with their shepherds tending them. They wear a grey woollen cap, a plaid thrown over the shoulders, then brought around the waist, and tied under the left arm, a crook in their hands, and a dog at their feet; and you see frequently circular enclosures of stone wall for sheep folds. This is realizing the romance of story books; but it seems to me more beautiful in reality than I ever dreamed of in imagination.

Before ascending the mountains, is a tract of country very much resembling Connecticut. At the top of the ridge is a white stick, which marks the boundary between England and Scotland. It is sixteen hundred feet above the sea, and very cold, but the view is rich indeed. For here are the Cheviot hills not covered with shrubs and trees like ours, but with grass which feeds the flocks of sheep scattered all over the sides. Those in the distance are enveloped in mist, which gives to them a blue color, and others are cultivated, and exhibit different hues acaccording to the vegetation with which they are clad.