University of Virginia Library

My Dear I.—In my last letter from London I informed you that I
was on the eve of quitting town and spending a few weeks in the
country. From the date of my letter you will see that I am at C—
Castle, where it is my intention to sojourn for a month or so before
going into Scotland; and a delightful place of sojourn this is too! My
window commands some of the finest scenery—upland, vale, and
mountain—in all England. The Malverton Hills in the distance—appear,
seen through the blue haze, like purple clouds resting on the
green earth. Parks lawns, castles, and gentlemen's seats, arrest and
please the eye, wheresoever it falls. This English scenery! we have
nothing exactly similar to it in America, there is an old world look to it
that our young land has not. The rich green of the verdure—the oaks,
(that majestic old monarch of England's woods, which ballad, and
legend, and song have made immortal,) the upland and downland
swells—the princely castles—the baronial halls and picturesque villas

that fill the broad land, all give to the landscape a peculiar aspect that
is commonly and best defined as English.

I have now been at Castle C— a little more than a week; and,
what with riding and driving, hunting and fishing, dining and waltzing,
and reading and rambling, with some thirty very respectable ladies
and gentlemen, (most of whom my republican tongue has taught
itself to address as `my lord' and my lady,') to aid and abet in so doing,
passing my time pleasantly enough. At this season all London
is county-mad, as it is at other times town-mad. Noblemen and gentlemen
now turn their `seats' into free hotels for their frends and such
unfortunate wights as, by hook or crook, (owning no house out of
town, nor perhaps in,) can get themselves invited to `pass a week or
two' at some `friend's country-house.' Indeed, living at an English
nobleman's castle in the rusticating season is not very unlike the life
in one of our fashionable hotels at a popular watering place—the
White Sulphur Springs, perhaps, rather than Saratoga. The crowd,
to be sure, is not so great, and the company, of course, is select. But
the mode of killing time is quite similar in both instances—giving,
however, the balance of comforts and advantages to the side of the
noble entertainer. This is a delightful national custom, (if usages
peculiar to the higher classes alone, may strictly be termed national,)
and its tendency is to keep up the open-handed English hospitality,
though with something more style than was known to the olden
time. The good old fashioned hospitality of our fathers, (I say
our, for are they not ours as well as theirs?) is, I think, preserved
in its most delightful simplicity among the gentlemen of the
fox-hunting school, in which class may be found many

I have not given you the name or title of my entertainer. His style is
Francis Livingstone Catesby, Esquire, of C— Castle;—but by
courtesy he is usually called Lord C— of C— Castle, having
married the only daughter and sole heiress of the ancient title and
vast estates of the Earl of C—. There is a romantic story connected
with this young nobleman and his lovely bride, which got into
the American papers at the time of its occurrence, made a little noise,
then was rejected as incredible, and fell into oblivion. I will relate it
to you, and, as you are given to story writing, will put it in the shape
of a tale, as best likely to enlist your attention; and peradventure, one
of these days, it may serve you for a brace of volumes, should you by
any chance, run short for material. You may give it what name you
list—I shall call it simply a Story.