pipe as he made his solitary rounds. He looked upward and downward,

and had his own thoughts, and told in his own way of what he read in

books and in himself. I often lent him books- good books; and you

may know by the company he keeps. He loved neither the English

governess novels nor the French ones, which he called a mixture of

empty wind and raisin-stalks: he wanted biographies, and

descriptions of the wonders of, the world. I visited him at least once

a year, generally directly after New Year's day, and then he always