THE NOVELIST

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ISABEL.


Several years ago I took up my abode at the retired village of D----.
I had chosen this residence on account of its sequestered situation,
as solitude was, at that time, more accordant to my feelings than the
bustle of a populous town. At no great distance from my habitation
stood the Castle of D----, an ancient Gothic structure, sinking fast
into decay. The last of its original possessors had been dead more
than half a century, and it was the property of a gentleman who
resided on the continent. The interior of the mansion spoke loudly
of desolation and ruin: the state apartments were despoiled of their
magnificent decorations, and scarcely a vestige remained of their
former splendour. An aged female domestic was the sole inhabitant of
this deserted pile. Born in the service of the family of D----, she
had survived the last of its race, and remained a solitary relic of
that illustrious house. It was the business of old Alice to show the
castle to strangers; and I soon became a favourite with her, from the
interest I appeared to take in the fate of its former inhabitants. The
gallery was our chief resort; and, finding me a willing listener, my
ancient companion delighted to inform me of all tradition had supplied
her with, respecting the mighty warriors and stately dames, whose
portraits still hung on the walls, smiling, as if in mockery of the