grass-plot. The singular foundation of Prior's
College, or "Prior's Spital," as old people
called it, was told to me in very early childhood,
before I rightly understood the words,
when I heard them only with a childish
wonderment; so that long after, in life, a
habit of repeating them without direct
reference to their meaning had taken from
the words all power, but that of awakening
the vague sensation with which they were
connected in my childhood. Yet now, as I
repeat them, they have to me many meanings,
which other ears know not of. Manifold
associations belong to them. I remember
now, more distinctly than any other day in
that early time of my life, an afternoon,
when I stood at the gate, as I have often
done since. A voice behind me startled me
by inquiring what the building was intended
for. I turned, and replied immediately, " It
is for the reception of one hundred blind
men." The inquirer was a stranger. His
clothes were dusty, and he looked tired; and
when he had peeped over the gate, and looked
up at the sculptured shield, he passed on.
I felt that afternoon, more strongly than I
had felt before, the charm that was for me
in that ancient place. I stayed there until
dusk, and then walked away, repeating to
myself, mechanically, the answer I had
given to the stranger. Many occurrences
which have wrought changes in my mind,
more easily traceable at the time, must have
passed from my recollection since then; and
yet that day seems to me, as it were, the
opening of my life, and all beyond it as the
shady back-ground of a scene which has never
faded from my memory. And, indeed, the
influence of that day upon my subsequent
life, if difficult to trace, is only so because the
impression which it left was deeper. I know
that to my interest in the old College, in my
childhood, which brought me that way
whenever I had an opportunity, and to the awe
with which I heard some stories respecting
it, I owe much of what I became, and am.

It was long before I ventured to pass in at
the gate, for I knew no one there; although,
probably, none would have interfered with
me, if I had passed in. But I was timid; and
the glimpses I caught from without of its
inmates walking to and fro, or sitting in shady
angles of the walls, and a certain feeling of
awe I had in the thought that the place was
inhabited almost entirely by aged and blind
men, restrained me. I preferred to loiter
under the trees; to peep in occasionally over
the gate; to look up at the carving of arms,
and at the loophole windows in the wall along
the street.

One day, an old gentleman, whom I had
sometimes remarked there, as not being
blind like the other inmates of the College,
seeing me as usual at the gate, bade me
enter. His manner was so sharp that I
half feared that he was going to reprimand
me for lingering about there so often; but, to
my surprise, he only asked me my reason for
doing so. I do not remember what I said to
him; but I recollect that he seemed to be
inclined to be friendly to me, and led me over
the building. It was a different place to what
I thought it from the outside. I looked
round the quadrangle; at the square windows
with little diamond panes; at the great
sun-dial with a Latin inscription; at the curious
leaden rain-spouts, ornamented with grinning
faces of animals; at the sloping tiled roofs,
greyer than the stone walls, under which the
swallows built their nests in a close row.
We passed through a little doorway in the
further corner of the quadrangle into a
passage, from which my conductor showed
me a great hall, which had once been used
as a schoolroom, though now it was the place
where the inhabitants of the College came
together for prayers. He showed me also
a ruined archway at the back, covered with
ivy, which led into the gardens of the College.
Afterwards, we visited some of the blind men,
and talked with them. They occupied the
building on three sides of the quadrangle.
My conductor lived on the other side. The
entrance to his abode was by an oaken door
in the corner. The name of Alison was
under the knocker, on an oval brass plate,
although much polishing had almost
obliterated the letters. I observed that the
windows on that side were much larger than
the others, and were of stained glass, in the
shape of a pointed arch. I remember saying
to my guide, " Is that a chapel, too, sir?"

"No, youngster," he replied, " that is the
library."

"Do blind people want a library, sir? " I
asked him, innocently.

The old gentleman looked at me with some
sternness, and then said, " It is not for the
blind people, youngster. Old Prior, a mercer
in King Henry the Sixth's time, founded here,
not only a hospital for blind men, but a
library for men who were willing to turn the
blessed gift of sight to good account. The old
mercer's gift, however, is half buried here,
and most of the books are very old."

He knocked at the door, and we were
admitted by a very old woman, whom I
afterwards knew to be his housekeeper. He led me
afterwards into the library. It was a long
and narrow room, lined from end to end with
books. Half way between the ceiling and the
ground was a narrow gallery; at the farther
end of the room, in a corner, stood a table
with several massive inkstands; against the
wall, stood an upright desk and stool. The
place was made rather dark by the stained
glass windows, and there was a faint smell
from the leathern binding, but the books
were not dusty, and the oaken floor was
polished smooth as glass.

"And are all these real books, sir?" I asked;
for the ribbed leathern backs, and the red
labels of the old folios looked so fresh and
shining, that I was reminded of a draught