been equal to Lely and the best of Sir Godfrey.  There is too a curious portrait of Sir Thomas Pope, the founder of Trinity College, Oxford, said to be by Holbein.  The chapel is new, but in a pretty Gothic taste, with a very long window of painted glass, very tolerable.  The frieze is pendent, just in the manner I propose for the eating-room at Strawberry Hill.  Except one scene, which is indeed noble, I cannot much commend the without-doors.  This scene consists of a beautiful lake entirely shut in with wood:  the head falls into a fine cascade, and that into a serpentine river, over which is a little Gothic seat like a round temple, lifted up by a shaggy mount.  On an eminence in the park is an obelisk erected to the honour and at the expense of “optimus” and 1, munificentissimus” the late Prince of Wales, “in loci amoenitatem et memoriam advent`us ejus.”  There are several paltry Chinese buildings and bridges, which have the merit or demerit of being the progenitors of a very numerous race all over the kingdom:  at least they were of the very first.  In the church is a beautiful tomb of an Earl and Countess of Downe, and the tower is in a good plain Gothic style, ind was once, they tell you, still more beautiful; but Mr. Miller, who designed it, unluckily once in his life happened to think rather of beauty than of the water-tables, and so it fell down the first winter.

On Wednesday morning we went to see a sweet little chapel at Steane, built in 1620 by Sir Thomas Crewe, Speaker in the time of the first James and Charles.  Here are remains of the mansion-house, but quite in ruins:  the chapel is kept up by my Lord Arran, the last of the race.  There are seven or eight monuments.  On one is this epitaph, which I thought pretty enough: 

“Conjux, casta parens felix, matrona pudica; Sara viro, mundo Martha, Maria Deo.”

On another is the most affected inscription I ever saw, written by two brothers on their sister:  they say, “This agreeable mortal translated her into immortality such a day:”  but I could not help laughing at one quaint expression, to which time has given a droll sense:  “She was a constant lover of the best.”

I have been here these two days, extremely amused and charmed indeed.  Wherever you stand you see an Albano landscape.  Half as many buildings I believe would be too many, but such a profusion gives inexpressible richness.  You may imagine I have some private reflections entertaining enough, not very communicable to the company:  the Temple of Friendship, in which, among twenty memorandums of quarrels, is the bust of Mr. Pitt:  Mr. James Grenville is now in the house, whom his uncle disinherited for his attachment to that very Pylades, Mr. Pitt.  He broke with Mr. Pope, who is deified in the Elysian fields, before the inscription for his head was finished.  That of Sir John Barnard, which was bespoke by the name of a bust of my Lord Mayor, was by a mistake of the sculptor done for Alderman Perry.  The