“September 22. Showers, but cleared up to a fine morning. Passed over two or three miles of the beautiful forest of Bere, the most picturesque of any we have seen in England, breaking in sweet woodland glades, all around to other hills and valleys, with patches of green-sward and heath; and to the bold ridges, that extend to the sea. A cottage, here and there, under the trees, with its grey curling smoke. As we mount Portsdown hill, views, on the left, towards Chichester and the bay of the sea; on the right, towards Southampton; retrospect of Bere forest in the valley, and ascending among the Hampshire hills most beautifully. Having reached the summit of Portsdown hill, the channel, the blue, high, sweeping ridge of the Isle of Wight, Spithead, Portsmouth, with its long embankments and spacious harbour, spread before our eyes. This view, though very grand, was not so striking as I expected. The hills do not advance near enough to the shore to hang over it, nor are they bold and broken in their shapes. We are not allowed to look down abruptly on the sea and the Isle of Wight; but view the first at four miles distance, after the eye has gradually passed over the flat lands below, and the landlocked harbours, which break the scene with comparative littlenesses. The shipping at Spithead appeared beyond the town, on the left, where a low coast extends to the Chichester river, and towards St. Helens on the main sea. The Isle of Wight rises immediately in front of the picture. Farther is the chalky ridge, that sinks towards the Southampton water, and admits within its concave a tract of low coast, that extends towards the channel. “Descend, and pass through the village of Cosham, at its foot. The road now becomes animated, and shows symptoms of a populous place; carts, coaches, horsemen, private carriages, soldiers, frequent signs and dusty air, instead of the lonely wilderness and breezy freshness of the hills and forest. Pass Portsea bridge, fortified and guarded, and so to Portsmouth, between other fortifications and the deeply-arched gates of the town. The ditches, the turfed embankments, crowned with rows of trees, reminded me of Bommel, in Holland. On the right, a view over the harbour, with huge, black prison-ships moored upon it. Passed through the long dusty old suburbs. The town itself old, level and somewhat mean, except the High-street, and about the seaward ramparts. Drove to the Fountain, a large and good inn, but could hardly get a room to dine in, as a West India and a Lisbon fleet were waiting to sail in a day or two. Went to the ramparts over the sea, crowded with officers of the army and navy, their wives and friends, and many well-dressed people attending to see the guns fired, in honour of the coronation. From this place the shipping at Spithead in front, and the Isle of Wight, with the whole channel, are enchanting. Returned to the Inn.