I had known more of life and change, I should
have been a happier man. But from my
earliest days the vanity of life, and the virtue
of keeping aloof from temptation, were
instilled into me. "A rolling stone gathers no
moss," was the first proverb which I heard
from my father's mouth. These principles,
implanted early, took deep root, though,
perhaps, in an unfavourable soil. Living also
under the same roof with my father, I felt
alarmed at every whispering of my own
inclinations which was opposed to his wishes,
and strove to subdue them, as if I were
struggling with the evil portion of my nature.
Thus, in course of time, I became what I am;
not a misanthrope, thank God, but a timid
and somewhat melancholy man. We had no
mirth-making in our household, except at
Christmas-time, when we feasted in good
earnest. My father loved at that time to
display a rough hospitality. We had generally
two or three nights of merry-making, at
which were both young and old people—all
carvers or the children of carvers—and after
his death I continued the custom. Often, as
I sat with my happy friends about me, some
sweet young woman would give me a sly hit
upon my obdurate determination to die an old
bachelor; little thinking that her heedless
words could give me pain, though they cut
me deeply, and set me looking at the fire with
a thoughtful face. I might have married,
perhaps, if I had found a partner; my income
was not large, but many men run the risk of
a family with less means to support one than
I had; but, somehow, I found myself at forty-
five years of age unmarried, slim, and prim—
the very type of an old bachelor. It was not
from indifference, for I was by nature
sensitive and affectionate. For women I had a
kind of reverence. I pictured them to myself
all that is noble and good: yet, in their
presence, I only looked upon them timidly,
speaking little, but thinking of them, perhaps,
long afterwards when they were gone.

One result of my reputation for gravity
was a number of executorships which had
been imposed upon me by deceased friends.
Any one would have thought that there was
a conspiracy abroad to overwhelm me with
proofs of confidence. My stock of mourning
rings is considerable. The expression,
"Nineteen guineas for his trouble," had to me an
old familiar sound with it. At length, I was
obliged to hint to any old carver who waxed
sickly, that my duties in that way were
already as much as I could fulfil. There was,
however, an old grocer of my acquaintance,
named Cawthorne, who would make me
executor of his will, in spite of my
remonstrances, relieving my scruples by assuring
me that he had named another friend for my
colleague, who, it was understood, was to
undertake, if we survived him, the greater part
of the duties, including the guardianship of
his daughter Lucy. We did survive him;
and the other executor entered upon his
office, seldom troubling me except when
absolutely necessary. Thus he went on for some
years. The daughter had become a fine young
woman of nineteen, with blue eyes and fair
hair, rippled like the sunlight upon waters
touched by a light wind. I saw her often in
the house when he was taken ill, and thought
her very beautiful. I fancied, sometimes, how
she would look robed in pure white, and
holding in her hand an olive branch, as I had
seen some angels carved in stone. I have
met her ascending the stairs with a candle in
her hand, the light striking upward, like a
glory on her face, and she seemed to me not
to mount from step to step, but slowly to
ascend without a movement of the feet. My
feeling with regard to her almost amounted
to a superstitious awe; for I seldom spoke
many words to her, and I think, at first, she
thought me harsh and cold. At length her
guardian died, and although I had known
from the first that in that event his duty
would devolve upon me, the fact seemed to
take me by surprise. I could hardly believe
that henceforth, for some time, she would
look to me as her sole protector. However,
in it short time, the affairs of my deceased
colleague were set in order, and she came to
reside with me in the old hall.

She soon forgot her first antipathy, and we
became good friends together. I took her
over the old place, and showed her the library
and the paintings, and everything there that
was quaint and curious. We had a garden at
the back of the Hall, in which she sat at work
on fine days. It was not large, but it was,
nevertheless, a garden, and in the midst of
London. It was planted with shrubs, and
contained two or three large trees, as well as a
rustic seat upon a grass-plot; though the grass
was not very thriving, on account of the trees
shutting out the sun and air. However, sitting
here, the back of the Hall had a picturesque
look, half covered with the great
leaves of a fig-tree nailed against the wall,
and with its worn stone steps guarded on
each side by an aloe in a green tub. This was
her favourite place. She worked or read
there in the morning, and in the afternoon
she taught two little nieces of the housekeeper
to read and write. Sometimes, in the evening,
I got an old book from the library, and
read to her, and made her laugh at its quaintness.
I remember one translation of a Spanish
novel in folio, printed in the seventeenth
century, which amused her very much. The
translation occupied one half of the book, and
the prefaces the other. There was the Translator's
"Apology for his labour;" "A declaration
for the better understanding of the
book;" an address "To the learned Reader;"
another "To the discreet and courteous
Reader;" and another "To the vulgar Reader,"
with some others; and, finally, the Spanish
novel itself was ushered in by a number of verses
in English and Latin, laudatory of the book and
the translator, by celebrated men of the period.