Henry Brocken

nd is the L

IAM B

ses of their faces by which to remember what love was then lost to me. Both were youthful at death, but my Aunt Sophia was ever elderly. She was keen, and just, seldom less than kind; but a child was to her something of a little animal, and

old my uncle's library, I know not. Perhaps at the instant it chanced there had fallen a breathless truce between them, a

; the dust I disturbed would very easily fill again the measure that some day shall contain my own; and the small studious thumbmarks that paced, as if my

to be in bed at my hour, however transitory its occupation might be. Indeed, I very well recollect dawn pain

I had yet learned age is disastrous. And it was there, in that cold, bright chamber,

o cast my mind to travel. I doubt if ever Columbu

whit

aried to read, and however wild and faithful and strange and lovely the people of the books, somewhere the former must

er by any chance could be? It was heaven-clear to me, solitary and a dreamer; let me but gain the key, I would soon unlock that Eden garden-door. Somewhere yet, I was sure, Imogen's moun

t's woods in a pale-green tumult of wind, that, quite unwitt

rocus blows. I looked from my window, and the western clouds drew gravely and loftily in the illimitable air towards the whistling house. Strange trumpets

me so glorious!), and rode out (as for how many fruitless seasons I had ridden out!), down the st