NOVEMBER. 
THE CHRYSANTHEMUM—DECLINING YEARS. 
‘ Thou hast a tale of bygone hours, 
A tale of withered Summer flowers, 
To pensive thought, perchance, addressed.’ 
EEORE we came in sight of the little town of Wrington, 
we entered an avenue thickly bordered with luxuriant 
evergreens, which led directly to the cottage of Barley 
Wood. As we drew nearer the dwelling, a thick hedge of 
roses, jessamine, woodbine and clematis, fringed the 
smooth and sloping lawn on one side—on the other, 
laurel and laurustinus were in full and beautiful verdure; 
from the shrubbery the ground ascends, and is well wooded by flowery 
larch, dark cypress, spreading chestnut, and some lordly forest trees. 
Amid this melange, rustic seats and temples occasionally peep forth; 
and two monuments are particularly conspicuous—the one to the 
memory of Porteus, the other to the memory of Locke. 
I was much struck by the air of affectionate kindness with which 
the old lady welcomed me to Barley Wood; there was something of 
courtliness about it—at the same time the courtliness of the vieille cour, 
which one reads of, but so seldom meets. Her dress was of light grey 
Venetian silk; a yellow, richly-embroidered crape shawl enveloped her 
shoulders; and a pretty net cap, tied under her chin with white satin 
riband, completed the costume. Her figure is singularly petite ; but to 
have any idea of the expression of her countenance, you must imagine 
the small withered face of a woman in her seventy-seventh year, and 
imagine also (shaded but not obscured by long and perfectly white 
eyelashes) eyes dark, brilliant, flashing and penetrating; sparkling from 
object to object with all the fire and energy of youth, and smiling 
welcome on all around. 
When I first entered the room, Lady S- and her family were 
there; they soon prepared to depart; but the youngest boy—a fine 
