old;

the new one. It is true, it was very but then it was comfortable and convenient. It had heavy buttresses, and similar appurtenances of ancient edifices; but there was a picturesque look about its old grey walls, which pleased me, who am fond of painting, and John Chaloner, who is fond of poetry. Moreover, a fine rose tree ran up one side of the old portico, and a thick honey-suckle twined with the ivy on the other. I and John used to watch the sun set behind the mountains, as we sat in that portico nursing my two little sisters, Grace and Catherine, drawing woodbines and roses through their shining curls. I have often stood in the same spot since ;the blue mountains are still there, but the sun does not seem to linger on them so brightly as he was wont. John Chaloner was of the same opinion when we watched it go down a few months since. But, to confess the truth, the eyes of both of us were filled with tears; and, as

my sister Grace observed to me afterwards, that was sufficient to spread a mist over the noon-day sun itself.

We had a large garden intersected by a broad walk of soft green-sward. This led us to the grounds belonging to the Priory, which covered many acres of ground. The Priory was then inhabited only by an old steward and an ancient house-keeper, who had grown grey in the service of the family. John and I were very much favoured by them; insomuch, that they permitted us to turn over the old books of the library, and read them as often as we pleased. The dim light entered through two oldfashioned painted windows, chequering the floor with a variety of colours, and making a sort of twilight in the room, which, experience has since convinced me, is very favourable to study and to reflection. John and I mused many hours. away in the deep recesses of those windows. Once we tried the effect of

Those

A boy

more light, by opening them; but the charm of the place was dissolved, and we did not repeat the experiment. were very happy hours to us. must be placed in very cruel circumstances to be otherwise than happy. But we were eminently so; we roamed about whither our fancies led us; and whether we ran along the quiet valleys, or climbed the lofty hills, or traced the course of a capricious river, our hearts were always full. We were not so fond of boisterous mirth as, I have had occasion to remark, is usual in boys; but our happiness was not the less deep, because it was quiet. John's home was distant about two miles; but that did not prevent our having daily intercourse. But the Priory was so much beloved by us, that John came to me more frequently than I went to him. There were, in the picture-gallery, one or two good landscapes, which had not been removed with the other valuable paintings. I stood

gazing upon them for hours, till every tint and form had entered into my mind. I thought I could make something like them, and John Chaloner contributed his savings, until we had gained enough to purchase materials for the attempt. It was made, and after so many trials as

the

would have checked enthusiasm less than mine, something not monstrous was produced. This was a victory that could not be enjoyed with moderation; memory of it warms my heart still. John Chaloner has told me, that that picture hangs in his chamber opposite to his bed, even now. His first look falls on it every morning; and his first feelings are those which made him happy when a boy. For my part, I have not been behind hand with him. Memory suggests to me every evening the first production of his muse, in a description of sun-set. I once thought of inserting it here; but I shall not, for the credit of John's poetical talents. Moreover, as my manuscript

will be carefully conned by him, I doubt not that he would efface the lines.

The library at the Priory often had an additional occupant. This was a tall, grave, middle-aged man, who pored over the largest folios to be found on the shelves, and took little notice either of John or myself. At first, his presence was a restraint upon us; but his silence, and the habit of seeing him there daily, restored our thoughts to their usual freedom; and we read or mused, or even talked, as we were wont. He was so absorbed by his book, that we never dreamed of his hearing us;his pale face had become familiar to us; and there was a kindly look in his large, clear, grey eye, that caused a feeling of affection to spring up in our hearts, and made us gradually more silent, lest, perhaps, we should interrupt him as he read. The poet, Mr. William Wordsworth, has given a better description of him than my poor ability can pretend to