The other lad was somewhat taller than Tom, awkwardly and plainly
dressed, but with a highly-developed Byronic turn-down collar, and
long black curling locks. He was certainly handsome, as far as the
form of his features and brow; and would have been very handsome,
but for the bad complexion which at his age so often accompanies a
sedentary life, and a melancholic temper. One glance at his face
was sufficient to tell that he was moody, shy, restless, perhaps
discontented, perhaps ambitious and vain. He held in his hand a volume
of Percy's Reliques, which he had just taken down from Thurnall's
shelves; yet he was looking not at it, but at the landscape.
Nevertheless, as he looked, one might have seen that he was thinking
not so much of it as of his own thoughts about it. His eye, which was
very large, dark, and beautiful, with heavy lids and long lashes,
had that dreamy look so common among men of the poetic temperament;
conscious of thought, if not conscious of self; and as his face
kindled, and his lips moved more and more earnestly, he began
muttering to himself half-aloud, till Tom Thurnall burst into an open
laugh.

"There's Jack at it again! making poetry, I'll bet my head to a China
orange."

"And why not?" said his father, looking up quietly, but reprovingly,
as Jack winced and blushed, and a dark shade of impatience passed
across his face.

"Oh! it's no concern of mine. Let everybody please themselves. The
country looks very pretty, no doubt, I can tell that; only my notion
is, that a wise man ought to go out and enjoy it--as I am going to