wolds for miles, and over the deer-park and
beech-woods. Sometimes on a very clear
day I can also distinguish an opaque cloud
hanging low down in the west,—a cloud
issuing from those Stockbridge mill
chimneys. It is very silent up here, but not
lonely, and it is furnished according to my
own whim; a Turkey carpet on the stone-
floor, a heavy old table with drawers, some
plain comfortable easy-chairs, a couch, and
dwarf book-cases fitted into the walls, and
crimson draperies for the windows,—not
very hermit-like, I think. Indeed, I like
personal comfort and luxury in a quiet way:
glitter and grandeur oppress me. Here I
do my business, make my plans, and dream
what I will do some day by way of benefiting
my fellow-creatures. I spend a great deal of
time in dreaming.

In all this time I have never heard from
Alice; I cannot conceive what has become
of her; it is now eighteen months since she
left me at Miss Thoroton's, promising to
write,—I don't understand her failing in her
promises.

January the tenth.—Sir Edward Singleton
is done with at last. He rode over from
Mr. Napier's at Burley this morning,
proposed in due form, and departed a rejected
man. I am relieved that is over, as it had
to happen; now, I shall be delivered from
the smooth flatteries of his mother and the
burden of his presence wherever I go. He
professed a good amount of lumbering,
honest affection, but as I knew privately he
cared not a sou for me, I did not commiserate
him in the smallest degree. When he
was gone, Grannie came up to me curious
and anxious. She was disappointed at the
issue, and said she had thought for some
time past that I was relenting towards the
poor gentleman, and asked if I did not mean
to reconsider it. I said No, decidedly No!

February the fifteenth.—Cousin Jane is
going to be married to Mr. Scrope, the
rector at Burnshead. This will be, what
folks call, a most suitable and equal
marriage, and I am glad of it; even Cousin
Henry, who is generally so more than hard
to please, expresses himself fully satisfied.
Jane proposes, half in jest and half in earnest,
that, as a matter of course, I shall make
them a wedding present. I shall in my
munificence give them a new church—why
should I not? Whatever sum Wastelands,
that Johnson wants to buy for the erection
of his new mill and cottages, brings in, shall
go to Burnshead for the church. Uncle
Henry says that with the fine timber upon
it, and the water-power, it is worth from
four to five thousand pounds for building
land. I wish it were a mile or two further
from Ferndell; I like Stockbridge at a
distance, but have no desire to see it walking
up to my park gates. Jane is to be married
in April.

May the twentieth.—To-day we laid the
foundation-stone of Burnshead church. It is
to be built upon a beautiful knoll at the back
of the village, which it will overlook. The
grave-yard is to slope down to the pasture-
fields, which are divided from it by the
beck. I intend to be buried there myself
some day. I stayed with Grannie at the
rectory for a week, and enjoyed it. Since
Jane was married, she has quite lost her
fussy old-maidish ways, and has bloomed
into a very pleasing, sensible, active wife.
Her house, old and inconvenient as it is,
looks exquisitely clean and pretty; but, I
think, I must give them a new rectory too.
Mr. Scrope is a very good man, and sets
immense store by Jenny, as he calls her. I have
a nook in my eye, not far from the church,
where the new rectory would look charming;
the garden is almost ready made, for the
trees there are beautiful. Next year I will
! improve the schools.

September the seventeenth.—Ferndell is
loveliest in the early autumn; there can be
nothing lovelier than the view from the south
window of my tower. There are the red and
yellow tints in the woods, and the golden
fields of ripe corn still uncut. Yesterday I
rode for the first time since we left Burnbank,
and I took the Stockbridge road; I
wanted to see with my own eyes if all the
reports we hear about the people are true.
It was perfectly quiet: indeed, there were
fewer idle folks about than usual. Burton
told me they met on the Marsh every
evening; but I could not go so far, because
Grannie would have fidgeted if I had been
long away, and within six miles of Stockbridge
I returned home. Mr. Scrope tells
me that the reports are much exaggerated,—
they always are in these cases.

December the seventh.—The strike, which
was only partial in the autumn, is now general
throughout Stockbridge; it is very
lamentable, for the people cannot but suffer,
and suffer greatly in this inclement season.
I pity the people, and the masters too; both
have their grievances, but I do think they
might be accommodated readily enough, but
for these speechifying demagogues who,
while calling themselves the working man's
friends, are in fact his bitterest enemies.
They ought to be drummed out of the
county with all possible speed and ignominy!
I heard one of them myself yesterday holding
forth on the Marsh to several hundreds
of hollow-faced men and haggard women.
It was pinching cold; but they stood
patiently, drinking in his rant as if it was
gospel truth. Burton begged me not to go
near, lest I should be insulted; but I rode
round to where I could hear the speaker,
and nobody took any notice of me; I
supposed that I must be personally known to
many amongst the crowd. The fellow saw
me—a low, black-browed man he was—
nature had writ him villain on his face,—
and he forthwith launched into a philippic