was in all she said and did.  Her voice was soft and musical, and her conversation addressed to one person rather than to the company at large, while Maria talked rapidly to every one, or for every one who chose to listen.  How happily the hours passed!—­we were shown some of those extraordinary drawings of Sir Robert, who gained an artists reputation before he was twenty, and attracted the attention of West and Shee[2] in his mere boyhood.  We heard all the interesting particulars of his panoramic picture of the Storming of Seringapatam, which, the first of its class, was known half over the world.  We must not, however, be misunderstood—­there was neither personal nor family egotism in the Porters; they invariably spoke of each other with the tenderest affection—­but unless the conversation was forced by their friends—­they never mentioned their own, or each other’s works, while they were most ready to praise what was excellent in the works of others; they spoke with pleasure of their sojourns in London; while their mother said, it was much wiser and better for young ladies who were not rich, to live quietly in the country, and escape the temptations of luxury and display.  At that time the “young ladies” seemed to us certainly not young:  that was about two-and-twenty years ago, and Jane Porter was seventy-five when she died.  They talked much of their previous dwelling at Thames Ditton, of the pleasant neighborhood they enjoyed there, though their mother’s health and their own had much improved since their residence on Esher hill; their little garden was bounded at the back by the beautiful park of Claremont, and the front of the house overlooked the leading roads, broken as they are by the village green, and some noble elms.  The view is crowned by the high trees of Esher Place; opening from the village on that side of the brow of the hill.  Jane pointed out the locale of the proud Cardinal Wolsey’s domain, inhabited during the days:  of his power over Henry VIII., and in their cloudy evening, when that capricious monarch’s favor changed to bitterest hate.  It was the very spot to foster her high romance, while she could at the same time enjoy the sweets of that domestic converse she loved best of all.  We were prevented by the occupations and heart-beatings of our own literary labors from repeating this visit; and in 1831, four years after these well-remembered hours, the venerable mother of a family so distinguished in literature and art, rendering their names known and honored wherever art and letters flourish, was called HOME.  The sisters, who had resided ten years at Esher, left it, intending to sojourn for a time with their second brother, Doctor Porter, (who commenced his career as a surgeon in the navy) in Bristol; but within a year the youngest, the light-spirited, bright-hearted Anna Maria died; her sister was dreadfully shaken by her loss, and the letters we received from her after this bereavement, though containing the