one corner stood a console-table, with chilly Parian ornaments on top, and underneath a pile of heavy books; Wordsworth, Moore, the poems of Frances Sargent Osgood,—no lack of variety here,—"The Lady of the Lake," and Byron in an embossed brown binding, with closely printed double columns, well calculated to dim the keenest sight in Christendom. Not that mysterious and malignant mountain which rose frowning from the sea, and drew all ships shattered to its feet, was more irresistible in its attraction than this brown, bulky Byron. I could not pass it by! My dusting never got beyond the table where it lay; but sitting crumpled on the floor, with the enchanted volume on my lap, I speedily forgot everything in the world save only the wandering Childe,
or "The Corsair," or "Mazeppa," or "Manfred," best loved of that dark group. Perhaps Byron is not considered wholesome reading for little girls in these careful days when expurgated editions of "The Vicar of Wakefield" and "Paul and Virginia" find favor in our nurseries. On this score I have no defense to
