the old English
country gentleman; rusticated a little by living almost entirely on
his estate, and something of a humourist, as Englishmen are apt to
become when they have an opportunity of living in their own way. I
like his hobby passing well, however, which is, a bigoted devotion to
old English manners and customs; it jumps a little with my own humor,
having as yet a lively and unsated curiosity about the ancient and
genuine characteristics of my "father land."

There are some traits about the Squire's family, also, which appear to
me to be national. It is one of those old aristocratical families,
which, I believe, are peculiar to England, and scarcely understood in
other countries; that is to say, families of the ancient gentry, who,
though destitute of titled rank, maintain a high ancestral pride; who
look down upon all nobility of recent creation, and would consider it
a sacrifice of dignity to merge the venerable name of their house in a
modern title.

This feeling is very much fostered by the importance which they enjoy
on their hereditary domains. The family mansion is an old manor-house,
standing in a retired and beautiful part of Yorkshire. Its inhabitants
have been always regarded, through the surrounding country, as "the
great ones of the earth;" and the little village near the Hall looks
up to the Squire with almost feudal homage. An old manor-house, and an
old family of this kind, are rarely to be met with at the present day;
and it is probably the peculiar humour of the Squire that has retained
this secluded specimen of English housekeeping in something like the
genuine old style.

I am again quartered in the panelled chamber, in the antique wing of
the house. The prospect from the window, however, has quite a
different aspect from that which it wore on my winter visit. Though
early in the month of April, yet a few warm, sunshiny days have drawn
forth the beauties of the spring, which, I think, are always most
captivating on their first opening. The parterres of the old-fashioned
garden are gay with flowers; and the gardener has brought out his
exotics, and placed them along the stone balustrades. The trees are
clothed with green buds and tender leaves. When I throw open my
jingling casement, I smell the odour of mignonette, and hear the hum
of the bees from the flowers against the sunny wall, with the varied
song of the throstle, and the cheerful notes of the tuneful little
wren.

While sojournin