We turned into a grass road, bounded on either side by
a high straggling thorn hedge. At its termination was an
irregular cottage with a thatched roof, which projected
over the windows in front. The latter were latticed with
diamond-shaped panes of glass, and were four in number,
one on each side of the door and two just under the roof.
The door was made of two transverse parts, the upper half
of which was open. On one side was a basket-like cage
containing a magpie, and on the other, a cat lay extended
on a bench, dozing in the warmth of the sun. The blue
smoke, curling upwards from a crooked chimney, afforded
proof of some one being within.

We therefore opened a little gate, and proceeded through
a neat garden, in which flowers and vegetables were
intermixed. It had a gay appearance from the pear, apple,
thorn and cherry being all in full bloom. We were received
at the door by a middle-aged woman, with the ruddy glow
of health on her cheeks, and dressed in coarse, plain,
but remarkably neat and suitable, attire. As this was a
cottage selected at random, and visited without previous
intimation of our intention, I took particular notice of
every thing I saw, because I regarded its appearance as
a fair specimen of its constant and daily state.

Mr. Hopewell needed no introduction. His appearance told
what he was. His great stature and erect bearing, his
intelligent and amiable face, his noble forehead, his
beautiful snow-white locks, his precise and antique dress,
his simplicity of manner, every thing, in short, about