The playhouse, to which I resorted when satiated with rural rambles, or when bad weather forbade it, was a spacious garret covering the whole upper story of the mansion. In one corner was a heavy, old-fashioned carved beaufet, upon whose curving shelves I displayed my toys so as to make the best appearance, and arranged my dolls according to their degrees of aristocracy. A spirit of order, and love of having every thing in its place, grew with this exercise.
Immense trunks were in that garret. Untold treasures I supposed them to contain; but rummaging was in those days forbidden to children. One of them was open and empty, and lined with sheets of printed hymns. I stretched myself within its walls, and perused those hymns, being able to read at three years old. Afterwards, I grieve to say that I made use of that hiding-place for a more questionable purpose. Finding a borrowed copy of the "Mysteries of Udolpho" in the house, and perceiving that it was sequestrated from childish hands, I watched for intervals when it might be abstracted unobserved, and, taking refuge in my trunk, like the cynic in his tub, revelled among the tragic scenes of Mrs. Ratcliffe; finding, however, no terror so formidable as an approaching footstep, when, hiding the volume, I leaped lightly from my cavernous study. It was the first surreptitious satisfaction and not partaken without remorse. Yet the fas-
