became the husband of Mary Chaworth. It is not
for us to speculate wherefore Destiny entangled the threads in that web
of existence which originally seemed to have woven the fates of Byron
and Mary Chaworth together. We are ignorant of spiritual laws, and know
little of the origin whence come those strange attractions, mind to
mind, heart to heart, which make or mar the life-experiences of us all.

Had events been ordered otherwise, Byron might have been a better and
happier man, but the world would never have received the gift of "Childe
Harold." Alas, that the soul must be ploughed and harrowed, and the
precious seed trodden in, before it can give forth its fairest-flowers
or its immortal fruit!

When we had last heard of Annesley Hall, it was ruinous and desolate,
and we knew not in what condition it might now be found. Passing through
an avenue of ancient oaks, the road winds down to an old picturesque
gate-house, and, leaving the carriage, we walked onward. Looking through
the arch of entrance, we saw as in a picture, nay, as in the poet's
dream, "the venerable mansion," sitting quietly in autumn sunshine on
its old terrace. To gray walls and peaks clung a climbing plant, its
leaves red with touch of frost, contrasting deliciously with green ivy,
and putting a bit of color into darker hues of stone-work. As we passed
beyond the gate, we saw that the mansion had been, restored and repaired
by careful hands guided by tasteful eyes and loving hearts. Above the
hall-door was a bay-window, which instinct told us belonged to the
"antique oratory," but we walked onward to the terrace, with its stone
balustrade, inclosing a bright flower-garden. On the other side of the
house stretches the lawn and park, with deer feeding quietly in the
distance. No human form appeared; all was silent and peaceful. We walked
thoughtfully on the old terrace, recalling the images of the poet and
the Lady of Annesley; but looking up at the ancient sun-dial on one of
the gables, we perceived that its shadow fell deeper and deeper with the
declining day, telling us, as it had told many before, how time waited
not, and reminding us that we, also were travellers. Passing again round
the mansion, and casting a wistful look within, we saw a woman sitting
at a low window, sorting fruit. We approached, and asked if strangers
were permitted to see the Hall. She replied gently, that it was not "a
show-house." We pleaded our cause successfully, however