It reminded me of the head of Byron, but it expressed deeper sensibility, and the features were even more symmetrically handsome.
Edith, who was as frank and artless as a child, was always talking of her brother, of his brilliant talents, his genius, and peculiarities.
She showed me his letters, which were written with extraordinary beauty and power, though the sentiments were somewhat obscured by a transcendental mistiness belonging to the atmosphere he breathed.
"Ernest never was like anybody else," said Edith; "he is the most singular, but the most fascinating of human beings.

Oh Gabriella, I long to have him come back, that you may know and admire him." Though I knew by ten thousand signs that this absent son was the first object of Mrs.Linwood's thoughts, she seldom talked of him to me.

She often, when Edith was indulging in her enthusiastic descriptions of him, endeavored to change the conversation and turn my thoughts in other channels.
But why do I speak of Ernest Linwood here?
It is premature.

I was about to describe a little part of my experience as a village teacher.
Edith had a beautiful little pony, gentle as a lamb, yet very spirited withal, (for lame though she was, she was a graceful and fearless equestrian,) which it was arranged that I should ride every morning, escorted by a servant, who carried the pony back for Edith's use.

Dr.
Harlowe, who resided near the academy, said I was always to dine at his house, and walk home in the evening.