standing in a retired and beautiful part of Yorkshire. Its inhabitants
have been always regarded, through the surrounding country, as "the
great ones of the earth;" and the little village near the Hall looks
up to the Squire with almost feudal homage. An old manor-house, and an
old family of this kind, are rarely to be met with at the present day;
and it is probably the peculiar humour of the Squire that has retained
this secluded specimen of English housekeeping in something like the
genuine old style.

I am again quartered in the panelled chamber, in the antique wing of
the house. The prospect from the window, however, has quite a
different aspect from that which it wore on my winter visit. Though
early in the month of April, yet a few warm, sunshiny days have drawn
forth the beauties of the spring, which, I think, are always most
captivating on their first opening. The parterres of the old-fashioned
garden are gay with flowers; and the gardener has brought out his
exotics, and placed them along the stone balustrades. The trees are
clothed with green buds and tender leaves. When I throw open my
jingling casement, I smell the odour of mignonette, and hear the hum
of the bees from the flowers against the sunny wall, with the varied
song of the throstle, and the cheerful notes of the tuneful little
wren.

While sojourning in this strong-hold of old fashions, it is my
intention to make occasional sketches of the scenes and characters
before me. I would have it understood, however, that I am not writing
a novel, and have nothing of intricate plot, or marvellous adventure,
to promise the reader. The Hall of which I treat, has, for aught I
know, neither trap-door, nor sliding-panel, nor donjon-keep; and
indeed appears to have no mystery about it. The family is a worthy,