Thursday, April 18th. — Salisbury. By very shaky rail over country which became pretty as we approached the Avon. Went to the White Hart, a good Inn, rather emphatically an inn with a powerful smell of beer and a noise of people going late to bed, but very clean and good attendance.

We were much delighted with Salisbury, especially the Close, with its fine elms, green meadows and old red-brick houses in gardens where the ribes and Pyrus japonica are coming into flower, and the walls are covered with Cape Jessamine. Several have steps and curious old ironwork in railings and gate ways. I was much pleased with a sun-dial on the side of a house, ‘life’s but a walking shadow’.

The Cathedral is very beautiful, a thing of perfection externally. The inside rather painfully bare and plain. We had a curious illustration of the height of organ, a pigeon flying wildly up and down during the service. A very beautiful organ, the fourth sweetest I have heard. The choir-boys wear white frills, we saw them playing football in the Close afterwards, and one round-faced cherub careering about the turf on a bicycle, the frills have a most curious effect. The eggs also have frills at the White Hart. The house is old, but nothing like the five-hundred years which the Inn is said to have existed. The presiding geniuses are certainly cats, especially a very black one with yellow eyes. They supply iced-water, and there is currant-bread at lunch. The cooking is not so handsome as the bill.