[Footnote 99: [Mr. Greville's horse 'Alarm' was first favourite for the Derby, and but for this accident would probably have won the race. It was a painful scene, when the horse was seen rushing wildly, without his rider, across the Downs. Mr. Greville never won the Derby.]] _Wiesbaden, June 22nd._--Bruges and Ghent are both fine old towns, particularly the latter, containing many ancient and curious buildings, and Ghent some very fine modern ones, particularly the new Palais de Justice and the theatre, which, with its saloons, is the most magnificent _salle de spectacle_ I ever saw. But the most remarkable objects are the pictures of Van Eyck and Memling, the merit of which nobody knows who does not go there to look at them. The finest are those by the former master in the hospital of St. John, but there are a great many of both masters at both places. From Ghent I came to Cologne, thence to Coblentz, and then here on Thursday last, this being Sunday. The Rhine, which disappointed me the first time, appeared to the last degree tiresome, and a more languid and uninteresting journey I never made. There is nobody here I know, and I am bored to death. If I were not ashamed, I would throw myself into the steamboat and go home directly. In my whole life I never felt such a painful sensation of solitariness as here, from morning to night having nobody to speak to, and nothing on earth to do. It weighs on my spirits intolerably; the books I read--and I can do nothing else--only half amuse and instruct me; I breathe an atmosphere of languor and sadness. It is only a case of great necessity which can compel one to go through this. I did not know what it was, or I never would have come here, and I am in a hundred minds whether I shall not cut it at once. _London, August 7th._--From the last date at Wiesbaden I never could bring myself to take up my pen to the present moment. The task of writing in this book has become intolerably irksome. At Wiesbaden I had nothing whatever to record; one day told another; no society, no events, and I have an invincible repugnance to converse with myself on paper. Still, though reluctant to go on with this MS. (for journal it is not, and memoirs still less), I am likewise reluctant entirely to abandon a habit of so many years' standing, and thus from time to time I force myself to resume my entries, though languidly, dully, and with a conviction that the pages I write never can be worth reading. This acknowledgement, fully and sincerely made, must be taken once for all as an excuse by any one who may hereafter look into this book; and to the observation they will not fail to make, 'What vapid, useless stuff all this is,' they may consider my voice as replying from the grave, 'I know it is.'