vated a taste as that of its owner, I was ever ready to lay down the books, in which I made progress by skipping formidable intervals. Sir Walter Scott's earlier works had appeared, and already effected a revolution in the region of romance. By making the passion of love subsidiary to historic lore, his powerful genius was able to throw into the shade that class of works which had so long made it their basis and integral element, while at the same time they emasculated it by minute and puerile delineations.
Among my occupations, at this period, were visits to my pensioners, which assumed somewhat of a valedictory character. These were not numerous, for habits of industry, and the circumstance of having no foreigners among us, forbade the growth of absolute penury. Those who needed aid were principally such as age or sickness had impaired, and for whom a well-conducted alms-house furnished a comfortable asylum. Still there were a few, to whom the proud memory of better days rendered this retreat an object of disgust, and who preferred to suffer privation rather than enter it. One of these was an antiquated spinster, known by the familiar sobriquet of Aunt Renie, her original name being the poetical one of Irene. She seemed to have fallen much within my own province, a prejudice being in prevalence that she felt vastly above her condition. She kept a single chamber at a low rent, in which was some old-fashioned furniture; and contributions to her
