a turn of the river, that looks exactly like a seaport in miniature.  The opposite shore is a most delicious meadow, bounded by Richmond Hill, which loses itself in the noble woods of the park to the end of the prospect on the right, where is another turn of the river, and the suburbs of Kingston as luckily placed as Twickenham is on the left:  and a natural terrace on the brow of my hill, with meadows of my own down to the river, commands both extremities.  Is not this a tolerable prospect?  You must figure that all this is perpetually enlivened by a navigation of boats and barges, and by a road below my terrace, with coaches, post-chaises, waggons, and horsemen constantly in motion, and the fields speckled with cows, horses, and sheep.  Now you shall walk into the house.  The bow-window below leads into a little parlour hung with a stone-colour Gothic paper and Jackson’s Venetian prints, which I could never endure while they pretended, infamous as they are, to be after Titian, &c., but when I gave them this air of barbarous bas-reliefs, they succeeded to a miracle:  it is impossible at first sight not to conclude that they contain the history of Attila or Tottila, done about the very aera.  From hence, under two gloomy arches, you come to the hall and staircase, which it is impossible to describe to you, as it is the most particular and chief beauty of the castle.  Imagine the walls covered with (I call it paper, but it is really paper painted in perspective to represent) Gothic fretwork:  the lightest Gothic balustrade to the staircase, adorned with antelopes (our supporters) bearing shields; lean windows fattened with rich saints in painted glass, and a vestibule open with three arches on the landing-place, and niches full of trophies of old coats of mail, Indian shields made of rhinoceros’s hides, broadswords, quivers, longbows, arrows, and spears—­all supposed to be taken by Sir Terry Robsart in the holy wars.  But as none of this regards the enclosed drawing, I will pass to that.  The room on the ground-floor nearest to you is a bedchamber, hung with yellow paper and prints, framed in a new manner, invented by Lord Cardigan; that is, with black and white borders printed.  Over this is Mr. Chute’s bedchamber, hung with red in the same manner.  The bow-window room one pair of stairs is not yet finished; but in the tower beyond it is the charming closet where I am now writing to you.  It is hung with green paper and water-colour pictures; has two windows; the one in the drawing looks to the garden, the other to the beautiful prospect; and the top of each glutted with the richest painted glass of the arms of England, crimson roses, and twenty other pieces of green, purple, and historic bits.  I must tell you, by the way, that the castle, when finished, will have two-and-thirty windows enriched with painted glass.  In this closet, which is Mr. Chute’s college of Arms, are two presses with books of heraldry and antiquities, Madame Sevigne’s Letters, and any French books