On ye 20th we went with Marsh to see Castle Howard.[219] The road lies over bleak and dreary moors, which may have charms to a sportsman’s eye, but can afford nothing but wearisome disgust to the traveller. The _château_ is a magnificent pile, surrounded with the appropriate ornaments of woods and gardens, etc., but the sight of a country residence inspires me with gloom. I feel escaped from some misfortune when I get out of its precincts. The most conspicuous object by way of decoration from the windows and terraces of the mansion is the Mausoleum intended for the sepulchre of the family. To my fancy I had as lief have my rooms hung round with death’s heads and cross-bones, as behold in moments of recreation that perpetual _mementi mori_ [_sic_], and I have always entered into the feelings that actuated Louis XIV. when he left St. Germains and built Versailles, because the pleasantest apartments looked towards St. Denis, the last resting-place of the Royal bones of ye Bourbons. I never could approve the necessity of inculcating an eternal view of death; we daily feel that it is inevitable from the frequent derangement of our fragile bodies, and as it neither makes us wiser or happier to be in expectation of the event and certainly embitters enjoyments, I disapprove of the system. The opposite extreme is ridiculous, and the great Empress of Russia showed her own littleness in forbidding mourning and the sight of funerals, especially as she was so prodigal of the lives of her subjects. Almost all the principal apartments are decorated with a full-length portrait of the pompous possessor in the most stately attitudes, in robes of ye Peerage, Viceroyalty, and Knighthood, etc.; whereas his wife, who was one of the prettiest women of her time, is only once represented in a small picture, in which he, by-the-bye, is again the principal object. Not to be scandalous, I could not, however, help remarking the _recherche_ of French luxury in the apartments dedicated to the use of Ly. S., and called hers by name. We returned and dined at York, and proceeded from thence to Knaresborough, where we saw the Dripping Well, which is a small stream issuing from the side of a calcareous hill. The water, like that at Terni, incrusts whatever is exposed to its action with a calcareous texture around it, commonly called petrifaction.