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side & behind, paths are cut up the rock, forming little terraces & platforms for tables & for prospects. On the lawn in front are pieces of the rock that have been detached from the Undercliff above & rustic seats everywhere around. While Elizabeth is drawing & I am writing letters & this journal we are surrounded & amused by the inmates of our rural abode. Wowski a black Newfoundland dog, who is so particular in his food that he refused to take some of our roast duck yesterday; he feared perhaps that it was stuffed with onions & which might be disagreeable to his lady companion Fanny, a large Blenheim who is fat & barks famously at any ill disposed persons coming up the avenue. Strange is it, that though separated by a wall she can distinguish the rank of the persons who approach the house; but she is now basking with Wowski very quietly in the sun. A cat & her pretty little kittens (the very image of mama) are moving about, the latter not quiet for five minutes & being even more playful than they have the character of. Kind & gentle is she too, for she suffers the little birds to hop up to our feet & a fine large thrush runs about regardless of danger & is seldom out of sight.

Hark! There is the sound of music coming up the avenue! Yes it is an Italian with his stringed barrel organ playing many tunes familiarised to us by old & pleasing recollections. Once playing through his set of 8 will not suffice for us, nor is he satisfied either, for after giving us an hour’s amusement, still is the sweet music of William Tell’s ‘Hunter of the Tyrol’

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