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“Thoughts that wander through eternity” start here, and we think of the sublime silences of unpeopled centuries which these sunken, lidless eyes in this ponderous rocky brow of nature must have seen the secrets of. Before the one furnished with pictures, seats, and table, there is a pallisading parallel with the river, and over this, when the sun is descending, if he can, let the visitor of Corby give himself time to hang and muse till he hears nothing, sees nothing, not even the faces and voices of his friends, but this everlasting pageant of natural harmony and vision. From the steps also of the other cave, in the perpetual twilight of depending branches, there is a magnificent view. But our friends have nearly all left us to our tranced speechless musings, and we, though loath, must on. One moment however we must have standing at the green pond by the somewhat dilapidated Nelson, to look up at the rocky heights dripping with ceaseless waters. It is a semicircle of rock shelving up to an immense height, on the top of which is a ruined fane, containing fragments of tritons and nymphs, whose broken faces still wear, amidst decay and ruin, the grotesque smile or serene grandeur of their art birth. This cascade and decorations, together with the steps leading to the heights on which they stand, were formerly introduced as “improvements,” but are now, perhaps wisely, abandoned to ruin, in which state they certainly have a better effect. We could linger amid these scenes for hours—but there are the kind waving hands of our friends from above. We greet each other kindly, gladness is at the very core of our hearts. Nature has cheered and comforted us; we have come