ABSTRACT
After I had written to you last, I set forth, unknowing and almost unheeding whither. The wild and mountainous line of country called Cleveland18 attracted me, not so much by any beauty I expected to find there, as because there is something congenial to the state of my mind in the appearance of desolate and uncultivated nature. Still all is green, green and smiling. Even among the black swamps and rough knolls of the wolds, the hands of May have scattered tender grasses and fairy flowers. The banks of the Esk,19 along which I afterwards travelled, were adorned with all that makes river scenery pleasing; but as it was not of pleasing objects I was in search, I bent my way towards the sea-shore, and have set up my rest at a farmhouse about three miles from Whitby, the Dunus sinus of the Romans,20 and between that town and Robin Hood’s Bay.21
