style would not admit half the variety of its imagination.  There is a new screen prefixed to the choir, so airy and harmonious, that I concluded it Wyat’s; but it is by a Windsor architect, whose name I forget.  Jarvis’s window, over the altar, after West, is rather too sombre for the Resurrection, though it accords with the tone of the choirs; but the Christ is a poor figure, scrambling to heaven in a fright, as if in dread of being again buried alive. and not ascending calmly in secure dignity:  and there is a Judass below, T so gigantic, that he seems more likely to burst by his bulk, than through guilt.  In the midst of all this solemnity, in a small angle over the lower stalls, is crammed a small bas-relief, in oak, with the story of Margaret Nicholson, the King, and the Coachman, as ridiculously added and as clumsily executed as if it were a monkish miracle.  Some loyal zealot has broken away the blade of the knife, as if the sacred wooden personage would have been in danger still.  The Castle itself is smugged up, is better glazed, has got some new Stools, clocks, and looking-glasses, much embroidery in silk, and a gaudy, clumsy throne, with a medallion at top of the King’s and Queen’s heads, over their own—­an odd kind of tautology, whenever they sit there!  There are several tawdry pictures, by West, of the history of the Garter; but the figures are too small for that majestic place.  However, upon the whole, I was glad to see Windsor a little revived.

I had written thus far, waiting for a letter, and happily receive Your two from Bologna together; for which I give you a million of thanks, and for the repairs of your coach, which I trust will contribute to your safety:  but I will swallow my apprehensions, for I doubt I have tormented you with them.  Yet do not wonder, that after a year’s absence, my affection, instead of waning, is increased.  Can I help feeling the infinite obligation I have to you both, for quitting Italy that you love, to humour Methusalem?—­a Methusalem that is neither king nor priest, to reward and bless you; and whom you condescend to please, because he wishes to see you once more; though he ought to have sacrificed a momentary glimpse to your far more durable satisfaction.  Instead of generosity, I have teased, and I fear, wearied you, with lamentations and disquiets; and how can I make you amends?  What pleasure, what benefit, can I procure for you in return?  The most disinterested generosity, such as yours is, gratifies noble minds; but how paltry am I to hope that the reflections of your own minds will compensate for all the amusements you give up to

“Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of death!”

I may boast of having no foolish weakness for your persons, as I certainly have not; but

“The soul’s dark cottage, batter’d and decay’d, Lets in new selfishness through chinks that time has made.”

And I have been as avaricious of hoarding a few moments of agreeable society, as if I had coveted a few more trumpery guineas in my strong-box! and then I have the assurance to tell you I am not superannuated!  Oh! but I am!