the window—and the room where they sat was especially suited to such a night. It was very large, and the black oak wainscoting was set in every variety of carvings, where the arms of the family were repeated in every size. Time had darkened, rather than destroyed, the colours of the painted ceiling: the subject was Aurora leading out the horses of the Sun, while the Hours scattered flowers around; the whole encircled by the once bright clouds, whose, morning tints had long disappeared, but the figures were still distinct; and the eye gazed till they seemed rather some fantastic creation of its own than merely painting. A huge black screen, worked in gold, hid the door; and the fantastic gilded Chinese people that covered it, with their strange pagodas—their round heads like little gold balls, yet with an odd human likeness—the foreign palm-trees—the uncouth boats,—seemed like caricatures of humanity called up by some enchanter, and left there in a fit of mingled mirth and spleen. Placed in Gothic arches of carved oak, thousands of books were ranged around—many whose ponderous size and rich silver clasps told of past centuries; and between, placed on altar-like stands of variegated marble, were bronze busts of
