gradually destroyed the furniture. I loved to rove about the wide,
waste chambers in bad weather, and listen to the howling of the wind,
and the banging about of the doors and window-shutters. I pleased
myself with the idea how completely, when I came to the estate, I would
renovate all things, and make the old building ring with merriment,
till it was astonished at its own jocundity.

The chamber which I occupied on these visits was the same that had been
my mother's, when a girl. There was still the toilet-table of her own
adorning; the landscapes of her own drawing. She had never seen it
since her marriage, but would often ask me if every thing was still the
same. All was just the same; for I loved that chamber on her account,
and had taken pains to put every thing in order, and to mend all the
flaws in the windows with my own hands. I anticipated the time when I
should once more welcome her to the house of her fathers, and restore
her to this little nestling-place of her childhood.

At length my evil genius, or, what perhaps is the same thing, the muse,
inspired me with the notion of rhyming again. My uncle, who never went
to church, used on Sundays to read chapters out of the Bible; and Iron
John, the woman from the lodge, and myself, were his congregation. It
seemed to be all one to him what he read, so long as it was something
from the Bible: sometimes, therefore, it would be the Song of Solomon;
and this withered anatomy would read about being "stayed with flagons
and comforted with apples, for he was sick of love." Sometimes he would
hobble, with spectacle on nose, through whole chapters of hard Hebrew
names in Deuteronomy; at which the poor woman would sigh and groan as
if wonderfully moved. His favorite book, however, was "The Pilgrim's
Progress;" and when he came to that part which treats of Doubting
Castle and Giant Despair, I thought invariably of him and his desolate