GE Journal, Richmond, [26? July 1857]
Title
GE Journal, Richmond, [26? July 1857]
Title
GE Journal, Richmond, [26? July 1857]
Sender
Ge Journal
Recipient
U
Date(s)
- 1857-07-26
Place
Richmond
Letter Content
GE Journal, Richmond, [26? July 1857]
MS: Yale. Extracts published: Cross, I, 444-448.
Recollections of Jersey. 1857
It was a beautiful moment when we came to our lodgings at Gorey. The orchards were all in blossom -- and this is an island of orchards. They cover the slopes; they stretch before you in shady, grassy, indefinite extent through every other gateway by the road side; they flourish in some spots almost close to the sea. What a contrast to the Scilly Isles! There you stand on the hills like a sparrow on the house top; here you are like the same sparrow when he is hopping about on the branches with green above him, green below, and green all round. Gorey stands on Grouville Bay, where the grand old castle of Mont Orgueil stands and keeps guard on a fine rocky promontory overlooking the little harbour, dotted with fishing craft. The other "limb" of the bay is formed by the St. Clement Reefs, which stretch their desultory length far out into the sea, one of them forming the site of a martello tower. Similar towers are placed at intervals almost all round the bay. There is an immense belt of sand laid bare at low water, but it is so uneven and consequently wet, that except towards St. Clement's reefs, one can get no nice walking on the beach. As some compensation, there is a charming piece of common or down, where you can have the quietest easiest walking, with a carpet of minute wild flowers that are not hindered from flourishing by the sandy rain of the coast. I delighted extremely in the brownish green softness of this undulating common, here and there varied with a patch of bright green fern -- all the prettier for two little homesteads set down upon it with their garden fence and sheltering trees. It was pretty in all lights, but especially the evening light to look round at the castle and harbour, the village, and the scattered dwellings peeping out from among trees on the hill. The castle is built of stone which has a beautiful pinkish grey tint, and the bright green ivy hangs oblique curtains on its turreted walls, making it look like a natural continuation or outgrowth of the rocky and grassy height on which it stands. Then the eye wanders on to the right and takes in the church standing halfway down the hill, which is clothed with a plantation, and shelters the little village with its cloud of blue smoke; still to the right, and the village breaks off, leaving nothing but meadows in front of the slope that shuts out the setting sun and only lets you see a hint of the golden glory that is reflected in the pink eastern clouds.
The first lovely walk we found inland was the Queen's Farm Valley, where a broad strip of meadow and pasture lies between two high slopes covered with woods and ferny wildness. Pursuing the road to the right as we entered the valley from Gorey, we first ascended a little and saw the grassy flat, with a water-mill, a little pool, a farm-house, and farther on a pasture with tethered cows lying below us; then we began to descend always by the wood side, with the birds singing and the sun-light shimmering in the boughs above us, the curious fresh green Euphorbia inviting our attention on the bank close by us, until we came quite to the depth of the valley, and winding our way along a narrow path with a clear musical brook running between banks fringed with long grasses and fern, stopping to pat the mild cows tethered with a view to those long grasses, we reached at last a perfect pond -- on one side overhung by the outermost bows of the hanging wood, on another bordered by a meadow with its tall grasses, on another by the narrow footpath edged with young oaks. A current ran through the pond, making a river between the tiny forests of white blossoms that covered almost all the rest of the surface. When we first saw this valley it was in the loveliest spring-time: the woods were a delicious mixture of red and tender green and purple. We have watched it losing that spring beauty, passing into the green and flowery luxuriance of June, and now into the more monotonous summer tint of July.
When the blossoms fell away from the orchards my next delight was to look at the grasses mingled with the red sorrel; then came the white umbelliferous plants making a border or inner frame for them along the hedgerows and streams. Another pretty thing here is the luxuriance of the yellow iris that covers large pieces of moist ground with its broad blades. Everywhere there are tethered cows, looking at you with meek faces -- mild eyed, sleek fawn-coloured creatures, with delicate downy udders.
Another favorite walk of ours was round by Mont Orgueil along the coast. Here we had the green or rocky slope on one side of us and on the other the calm sea stretching to the coast of France, visible on all but the murkiest days. 935 But the murky days were not many during our stay, and our evening walks round the coast usually showed us a peaceful, scarcely rippled sea, plashing gently on the purple pebbles of the little scalloped bays. There were two such bays within the boundary of our sea-side walk in that direction, and one of them was a perpetual wonder to us in the luxuriant verdure of meadows and orchards and forest trees that sloped down to the very shore. No distressed look about the trees, as if they were ever driven harshly back by the wintry winds -- it was like an inland slope suddenly carried to the coast.
As for the inland walks, they are inexhaustible. The inland is one labyrinth of delicious roads and lanes, leading you by the most charming nooks of houses with shady grounds and shrubberies -- delightful farm homesteads -- and trim villas.
It was a sweet, peaceful life we led here -- good creatures, the Amys, our host and hostess, with their nice boy and girl and the little white kid, the family pet. No disagreeable sounds to be heard in the house, no unpleasant qualities to hinder one from feeling perfect love to these simple people.
We have had long rambles and long readings. But our choice of literature has been rather circumscribed in this out of the way place. The life of George Stephenson 936 has been a real profit and pleasure. I have read Draper's Physiology 937 aloud, for grave evening hours, and such books as Currer Bell's "Professor," 938 Mde d'Auney's Mariage en Province 939 and Miss Ferrier's "Marriage" 940 for lighter food. The last, however, we found ourselves unable to finish, notwithstanding Miss Ferrier's high reputation. I have been getting a smattering of botany from Miss Catlow and from Dr. Thomson's little book on Wild Flowers, 941 which have created at least a longing for something more complete on the subject.
Our only carriage expedition here has been to Bouley Bay, 942 one delicious evening when the sea was glassy smooth. The coast there is an agreeable contrast to that on the Gorey side of the island -- tall hills with curving slopes, and perpendicular indentations making dark shadows on the soft green. We came back by Rozel Bay, also pretty.
An amusing episode for us in our quiet life was the Gorey Races which happened on the 15th and 16th of July. We strolled about the ground and saw a little of Jersey human nature between the races -- men at the gambling tables, and the crowd round a company of mounte-banks.
On the 24th we left this green island -- a sweet spot in our memories, while our memories last.
MS: Yale. Extracts published: Cross, I, 444-448.
Recollections of Jersey. 1857
It was a beautiful moment when we came to our lodgings at Gorey. The orchards were all in blossom -- and this is an island of orchards. They cover the slopes; they stretch before you in shady, grassy, indefinite extent through every other gateway by the road side; they flourish in some spots almost close to the sea. What a contrast to the Scilly Isles! There you stand on the hills like a sparrow on the house top; here you are like the same sparrow when he is hopping about on the branches with green above him, green below, and green all round. Gorey stands on Grouville Bay, where the grand old castle of Mont Orgueil stands and keeps guard on a fine rocky promontory overlooking the little harbour, dotted with fishing craft. The other "limb" of the bay is formed by the St. Clement Reefs, which stretch their desultory length far out into the sea, one of them forming the site of a martello tower. Similar towers are placed at intervals almost all round the bay. There is an immense belt of sand laid bare at low water, but it is so uneven and consequently wet, that except towards St. Clement's reefs, one can get no nice walking on the beach. As some compensation, there is a charming piece of common or down, where you can have the quietest easiest walking, with a carpet of minute wild flowers that are not hindered from flourishing by the sandy rain of the coast. I delighted extremely in the brownish green softness of this undulating common, here and there varied with a patch of bright green fern -- all the prettier for two little homesteads set down upon it with their garden fence and sheltering trees. It was pretty in all lights, but especially the evening light to look round at the castle and harbour, the village, and the scattered dwellings peeping out from among trees on the hill. The castle is built of stone which has a beautiful pinkish grey tint, and the bright green ivy hangs oblique curtains on its turreted walls, making it look like a natural continuation or outgrowth of the rocky and grassy height on which it stands. Then the eye wanders on to the right and takes in the church standing halfway down the hill, which is clothed with a plantation, and shelters the little village with its cloud of blue smoke; still to the right, and the village breaks off, leaving nothing but meadows in front of the slope that shuts out the setting sun and only lets you see a hint of the golden glory that is reflected in the pink eastern clouds.
The first lovely walk we found inland was the Queen's Farm Valley, where a broad strip of meadow and pasture lies between two high slopes covered with woods and ferny wildness. Pursuing the road to the right as we entered the valley from Gorey, we first ascended a little and saw the grassy flat, with a water-mill, a little pool, a farm-house, and farther on a pasture with tethered cows lying below us; then we began to descend always by the wood side, with the birds singing and the sun-light shimmering in the boughs above us, the curious fresh green Euphorbia inviting our attention on the bank close by us, until we came quite to the depth of the valley, and winding our way along a narrow path with a clear musical brook running between banks fringed with long grasses and fern, stopping to pat the mild cows tethered with a view to those long grasses, we reached at last a perfect pond -- on one side overhung by the outermost bows of the hanging wood, on another bordered by a meadow with its tall grasses, on another by the narrow footpath edged with young oaks. A current ran through the pond, making a river between the tiny forests of white blossoms that covered almost all the rest of the surface. When we first saw this valley it was in the loveliest spring-time: the woods were a delicious mixture of red and tender green and purple. We have watched it losing that spring beauty, passing into the green and flowery luxuriance of June, and now into the more monotonous summer tint of July.
When the blossoms fell away from the orchards my next delight was to look at the grasses mingled with the red sorrel; then came the white umbelliferous plants making a border or inner frame for them along the hedgerows and streams. Another pretty thing here is the luxuriance of the yellow iris that covers large pieces of moist ground with its broad blades. Everywhere there are tethered cows, looking at you with meek faces -- mild eyed, sleek fawn-coloured creatures, with delicate downy udders.
Another favorite walk of ours was round by Mont Orgueil along the coast. Here we had the green or rocky slope on one side of us and on the other the calm sea stretching to the coast of France, visible on all but the murkiest days. 935 But the murky days were not many during our stay, and our evening walks round the coast usually showed us a peaceful, scarcely rippled sea, plashing gently on the purple pebbles of the little scalloped bays. There were two such bays within the boundary of our sea-side walk in that direction, and one of them was a perpetual wonder to us in the luxuriant verdure of meadows and orchards and forest trees that sloped down to the very shore. No distressed look about the trees, as if they were ever driven harshly back by the wintry winds -- it was like an inland slope suddenly carried to the coast.
As for the inland walks, they are inexhaustible. The inland is one labyrinth of delicious roads and lanes, leading you by the most charming nooks of houses with shady grounds and shrubberies -- delightful farm homesteads -- and trim villas.
It was a sweet, peaceful life we led here -- good creatures, the Amys, our host and hostess, with their nice boy and girl and the little white kid, the family pet. No disagreeable sounds to be heard in the house, no unpleasant qualities to hinder one from feeling perfect love to these simple people.
We have had long rambles and long readings. But our choice of literature has been rather circumscribed in this out of the way place. The life of George Stephenson 936 has been a real profit and pleasure. I have read Draper's Physiology 937 aloud, for grave evening hours, and such books as Currer Bell's "Professor," 938 Mde d'Auney's Mariage en Province 939 and Miss Ferrier's "Marriage" 940 for lighter food. The last, however, we found ourselves unable to finish, notwithstanding Miss Ferrier's high reputation. I have been getting a smattering of botany from Miss Catlow and from Dr. Thomson's little book on Wild Flowers, 941 which have created at least a longing for something more complete on the subject.
Our only carriage expedition here has been to Bouley Bay, 942 one delicious evening when the sea was glassy smooth. The coast there is an agreeable contrast to that on the Gorey side of the island -- tall hills with curving slopes, and perpendicular indentations making dark shadows on the soft green. We came back by Rozel Bay, also pretty.
An amusing episode for us in our quiet life was the Gorey Races which happened on the 15th and 16th of July. We strolled about the ground and saw a little of Jersey human nature between the races -- men at the gambling tables, and the crowd round a company of mounte-banks.
On the 24th we left this green island -- a sweet spot in our memories, while our memories last.
Citation
Ge Journal, GE Journal, Richmond, [26? July 1857], Complete George Eliot Letters(2026), George Eliot Archive, edited by Beverley Park Rilett. https://GeorgeEliotArchive.org, Accessed September 7, 2026. https://georgeeliotarchive.org/items/show/91937