As some bells in a church hard by are making a great holiday clanging in the summer afternoon, I am reminded somehow of a July day, a garden, and a great clanging of bells years and years ago, on the very day when George IV. was crowned.  I remember a little boy lying in that garden reading his first novel.  It was called the “Scottish Chiefs.”  The little boy (who is now ancient and not little) read this book in the summer-house of his great grandmamma.  She was eighty years of age then.  A most lovely and picturesque old lady, with a long tortoise-shell cane, with a little puff, or tour, of snow-white (or was it powdered?) hair under her cap, with the prettiest little black-velvet slippers and high heels you ever saw.  She had a grandson, a lieutenant in the navy; son of her son, a captain in the navy; grandson of her husband, a captain in the navy.  She lived for scores and scores of years in a dear little old Hampshire town inhabited by the wives, widows, daughters of navy captains, admirals, lieutenants.  Dear me!  Don’t I remember Mrs. Duval, widow of Admiral Duval; and the Miss Dennets, at the Great House at the other end of the town, Admiral Dennet’s daughters; and the Miss Barrys, the late Captain Barry’s daughters; and the good old Miss Maskews, Admiral Maskew’s daughter; and that dear little Miss Norval, and the kind Miss Bookers, one of whom married Captain, now Admiral Sir Henry Excellent, K.C.B.?  Far, far away into the past I look and see the little town with its friendly glimmer.  That town was so like a novel of Miss Austen’s that I wonder was she born and bred there?  No, we should have known, and the good old ladies would have pronounced her to be a little idle thing, occupied with her silly books and neglecting her housekeeping.  There were other towns in England, no doubt, where dwelt the widows and wives of other navy captains; where they tattled, loved each other, and quarrelled; talked about Betty the maid, and her fine ribbons indeed! took their dish of tea at six, played at quadrille every night till ten, when there was a little bit of supper, after which Betty came with the lanthorn; and next day came, and next, and next, and so forth, until a day arrived when the lanthorn was out, when Betty came no more:  all that little company sank to rest under the daisies, whither some folks will presently follow them.  How did they live to be so old, those good people?  Moi qui vous parle, I perfectly recollect old Mr. Gilbert, who had been to sea with Captain Cook; and Captain Cook, as you justly observe, dear Miss, quoting out of your “Mangnall’s Questions,” was murdered by the natives of Owhyhee, anno 1779.  Ah! don’t you remember his picture, standing on the seashore, in tights and gaiters, with a musket in his hand, pointing to his people not to fire from the boats, whilst a great tattooed savage is going to stab him in the back?  Don’t you remember those houris dancing before him and the other officers at the great Otaheite ball?  Don’t