door leads you into a noble
room, now called the drawing-room, where stands a very fine organ. Out
of both the dining-room and drawing-room you pass up a staircase
contained in an old square tower; two sides of each of them, opening on
the quadrangle, lead into a gallery running round it, and into which all
the bed-rooms open.

But I need not go into further detail. Altogether it is truly a fine old
mansion. Its only constant occupant is Mrs. Aubrey, the mother of Mr.
Aubrey, in whose library we are now seated. She is a widow, having
survived her husband, who twice was one of the county members, about
fifteen years. Mr. Aubrey is her first-born child, Miss Aubrey her last;
four intervening children rest prematurely in the grave--and the grief
and suffering consequent upon all these bereavements have sadly shaken
her constitution, and made her, both in actual health, and in
appearance, at least ten years older than she really is--for she has, in
point of fact, not long since entered her sixtieth year. What a blessed
life she leads at Yatton! Her serene and cheerful temper makes every one
happy about her; and her charity is unbounded, but dispensed with a just
discrimination. One way or another, almost a fourth of the village are
direct pensioners upon her bounty. You have only to mention the name of
Madam Aubrey, the lady of Yatton, to witness involuntary homage paid to
her virtues. Her word is law; and well indeed it may be. While Mr.
Aubrey, her husband, was, to the last, somewhat stern in his temper and
reserved in his habits, bearing withal a spotless and lofty character,
_she_ was always what she still is, meek, gentle, accessible,
charitable, and pious. On his death she withdrew from the world, and has
ever since resided at Yatton--never having quitted it for a single day.
There are in the vicinity one or two stately families, with ancient
name, sounding title, and great possessions; but for ten miles round
Yatton, old Madam Aubrey, the squire's mother, is the name that is
enshrined in people's kindliest and most grateful feelings, and receives
their readiest homage. 'Tis perhaps a very small matter to mention, but
there is at the hall an old white mare, Peggy, that for these twenty
years, in all weathers, hath been the bearer of Madam's bounty.
Thousands of times hath she carried Jacob Jones (now a pensioned
servant, whose hair is as white as Peggy's) all over the estate, and
also oft beyond it, with comfortable