e, and the splashing of buckets.
A few newspapers lie on the table--stray sheets of to-day that have
fluttered up the hill, bringing news of this bustling now into a past
serenity. The librarian sits stitching quietly in a window. An old lady
comes in to read the news; but she has forgotten her spectacles, and
soon goes away. Here, instead of asking for 'Vice Versa,' or Ouida's
last novel, you instinctively mention 'Plays of the Passions,' Miss
Burney's 'Evelina,' or some such novels; and Mrs. Barbauld's works are
also in their place. When I asked for them, two pretty old Quaker
volumes were put into my hands, with shabby grey bindings, with fine
paper and broad margins, such as Mr. Ruskin would approve. Of all
the inhabitants of this bookshelf Mrs. Barbauld is one of the most
appropriate. It is but a few minutes' walk from the library in Heath
Street to the old corner house in Church Row where she lived for a time,
near a hundred years ago, and all round about are the scenes of much of
her life, of her friendships and interests. Here lived her friends and
neighbours; here to Church Row came her pupils and admirers, and, later
still, to the pretty old house on Rosslyn Hill. As for Church Row, as
most people know, it is an avenue of Dutch red-faced houses, leading
demurely to the old church tower, that stands guarding its graves in the
flowery churchyard. As we came up the quiet place, the sweet windy drone
of the organ swelled across the blossoms of the spring, which were
lighting up every shabby corner and hillside garden. Through this
pleasant confusion of past and present, of spring-time scattering
blossoms upon the graves, of old ivy walks and iron bars imprisoning
past memories, with fragrant fumes of lilac and of elder, one could
picture to oneself, as in a waking dream, two figures advancing from the
corner house with the ivy walls--distinct, sedate--passing under the old
doorway. I could almost see the lady, carefully dressed in many fine
muslin folds and frills with hooped silk skirts, indeed, but slight
and graceful in her quick advance, with blue eyes, with delicate sharp
features, and a dazzling skin. As for the gentleman, I pictured him a
dapper figure, with dark eyes, dressed in black, as befitted a minister
even of dissenting views. The lady came forward, looking amused by my
scrutiny, somewhat shy I thought--was she going to speak? And by the
same token it seemed to me the gentleman was about to interrupt