The next morning my landlady did me the honour to drink coffee with
me, but helped me very sparingly to milk and sugar. It was Sunday,
and I went with my landlord to a barber, on whose shop was written
"Shaving for a penny." There were a great many inhabitants
assembled there, who took me for a gentleman, on account, I suppose,
of my hat, which I had bought in London for a guinea, and which they
all admired. I considered this as a proof that pomp and finery had
not yet become general thus far from London.
You frequently find in England, at many of the houses of the common
people, printed papers, with sundry apt and good moral maxims and
rules fastened against the room door, just as we find them in
Germany. On such wretched paper some of the most delightful and the
finest sentiments may be read, such as would do honour to any writer
of any country.
For instance, I read among other things this golden rule on such an
ordinary printed paper stuck against a room door, "Make no
comparisons;" and if you consider how many quarrels, and how much
mischief arise in the world from odious comparisons of the merits of
one with the merits of another, the most delightful lessons of
morality are contained in the few words of the above-mentioned rule.
A man to whom I gave sixpence conducted me out of the town to the
road leading to Castleton, which was close to a wall of stones
confusedly heaped one upon another, as I have before described. The
whole country was hilly and rough, and the ground covered with brown
heath. Here and there some sheep were feeding.
I made a little digression to a hill to the left, where I had a
prospect awfully beautiful, composed almost entirely of naked rocks,
far and near, among which, those that were entirely covered with
black heath made a most tremendous appearance.
I was now a hundred and seventy miles from London, when I ascended
one of the highest hills, and all at once perceived a beautiful vale
below me, which was traversed by rivers and brooks and enclosed on
all sides by hills. In this vale lay Castleton, a small town with
low houses, which takes its name from an old castle, whose ruins are
still to be seen here.
A narrow path, which wound itself down the side of the rock, led me
through the vale into the street of Castleton, where I soon found an
inn, and also soon dined. After dinner I made the best of my way to
the cavern.
