wayside shrine put up to the memory of some mediaeval well-dressed
saint with a nimbus at the back of her head, and a trailing cloak
and veil. . . . Here, after all, is the same sentiment, only
translated into nineteenth-century language; uses corrogated iron
sheds, and cups of tea, and oakum matting. 'Mr. Palmer, he bought
the place,' says the landlady, 'he made it into a Temperance Hotel,
and built the Temperance Hall in the garden.' . . . .

No romantic marble shrine, but a square meeting-house of good
intent, a tribute not less sincere because it is square, than if it
were drawn into Gothic arch and curve. It speaks, not of a holy and
mythical saint, but of a good and warm-hearted woman; of a life-long
penance borne with charity and cheerfulness; of sweet fancies and
blessings which have given innocent pleasure to many generations!

VII.

There is a note, written in a close and pretty writing, something
between Sir Walter Scott's and Mrs. Browning's, which the present
writer has possessed for years, fastened in a book among other early
treasures:--

Thank you, dearest Miss Priscilla, for your great kindness. I
return the ninth volume of [illegible], with the four succeeding
ones, all that I have; probably all that are yet published. You
shall have the rest when I get them. Tell dear Mr. George (I must
not call him Vert-Vert) that I have recollected the name of the
author of the clever novel 'Le Rouge et le Noir' (that is the right
title of the book, which has nothing to do with the name); the
author's name is Stendhal, or so he calls himself. I think that he