your feet downwards went the hill, and then far below stretched the
wooded country till your eye reached the towers of Windsor Castle, far
away on the horizon. It was the view at which Byron was never tired of
gazing, as he lay on the flat tombstone close by--Byron's tomb, as it is
still called--of which he wrote:

"Again I behold where for hours I have pondered,
As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay,
Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wandered,
To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray."

Reader mine, if ever you go to Harrow, ask permission to enter the old
garden, and try the effect of that sudden burst of beauty, as you swing
back the small trap-door at the terrace end.

Into this house we moved on my eighth birthday, and for eleven years it
was "home" to me, left always with regret, returned to always with joy.

Almost immediately afterwards I left my mother for the first time; for
one day, visiting a family who lived close by, I found a stranger sitting
in the drawing-room, a lame lady with, a strong face, which softened
marvellously as she smiled at the child who came dancing in; she called
me to her presently, and took me on her lap and talked to me, and on the
following day our friend came to see my mother, to ask if she would let
me go away and be educated with this lady's niece, coming home for the
holidays regularly, but leaving my education in her hands. At first my
mother would not hear of it, for she and I scarcely ever left each other;
my love for her was an idolatry, hers for me a devotion. [A foolish
little story, about which I was unmercifully teased for years, marked
that absolute idolatry of her, which has not yet faded from my heart. In