re than she said, while Anna Maria often
said more than she felt; they were a delightful contrast, and yet the
harmony between them was complete; and one of the happiest days we ever
spent, while trembling on the threshold of literature, was with them at
their pretty road-side cottage, in the village of Esher, before the
death of their venerable and dearly-beloved mother, whose rectitude and
prudence had both guided and sheltered their youth, and who lived to
reap with them the harvest of their industry and exertion. We remember
the drive there, and the anxiety as to how those very "clever ladies"
would look, and what they would say; we talked over the various letters
we had received from Jane, and thought of the cordial invitation to
their cottage--their "mother's cottage"--as they always called it. We
remember the old white friendly spaniel who looked at us with blinking
eyes, and preceded us up-stairs; we remember the formal, old-fashioned
courtesy of the venerable old lady, who was then nearly eighty--the blue
ribbons and good-natured frankness of Anna Maria, and the noble courtesy
of Jane, who received visitors as if she granted an audience; this
manner was natural to her; it was only the manner of one whose thoughts
have dwelt more on heroic deeds, and lived more with heroes than with
actual living men and women; the effect of this, however, soon passed
away, but not so the fascination which was in all she said and did. Her
voice was soft and musical, and her conversation addressed to one person
rather than to the company at large, while Maria talked rapidly to every
one, or _for_ every one who chose to listen. How happily the hours
passed! we were shown some of those extraordinary drawings of Sir
Robert, who gained an artist's reputation before he was twenty, and
attracted the attention of West and Shee[C] in his mere boyhood. We
heard all the interesting particulars of his panoramic picture of the
Storming of Seringapatam, which, the first of its class, was known half
over the world. We must not, however, be misunderstood--there was
neither personal nor family egotism in the Porters; they invariably
spoke of each other with the tenderest affection--but unless the
conversation was _forced_ by their friends, they never mentioned their
own, or each other's works, while they were most ready to praise what
was excellent in the works of others; they spoke with pleasure of their
sojourns in London; while their mother sai