re
spread the branches of the century-old trees. Only last winter they told
us the storms came and swept away a grove of Beeches that were known in
all the country round, but how much of shade, of flower, still remain!
The noble Hawthorn of stately growth, the pine-trees (there should be
NAMES for trees, as there are for rocks or ancient strongholds). Mr.
Edgeworth showed us the oak from Jerusalem, the grove of cypress and
sycamore where the beautiful depths of ground ivy are floating upon the
DEBRIS, and soften the gnarled roots, while they flood the rising banks
with green.

Mr. and Mrs. Edgeworth brought us into the house. The ways go upstairs
and downstairs, by winding passages and side gates; a pretty domed
staircase starts from the central hall, where stands that old clock-case
which Maria wound up when she was over eighty years old. To the right
and to the left along the passages were rooms opening from one into
another. I could imagine Sir Walter's kind eyes looking upon the scene,
and Wordsworth coming down the stairs, and their friendly entertainer
making all happy, and all welcome in turn; and their hostess, the
widowed Mrs. Edgeworth, responding and sympathising with each. We saw
the corner by the fire where Maria wrote; we saw her table with
its pretty curves standing in its place in the deep casements. Miss
Edgeworth's own room is a tiny little room above looking out on the back
garden. This little closet opens from a larger one, and then by a narrow
flight of stairs leads to a suite of ground-floor chambers, following
one from another, lined with bookcases and looking on the gardens. What
a strange fellow-feeling with the past it gave one to stand staring at
the old books, with their paper backs and old-fashioned covers, at the
gray boards, which were the liveries of literature in those early
days; at the first editions, with their inscriptions in the author's
handwriting, or in Maria's pretty caligraphy. There was the PIRATE in
its original volumes, and Mackintosh's MEMOIRS, and Mrs. Barbauld's
ESSAYS, and Descartes's ESSAYS, that Arthur Hallam liked to read;
Hallam's CONSTITUTIONAL HISTORY, and Rogers's POEMS, were there
all inscribed and dedicated. Not less interesting were the piles of
Magazines that had been sent from America. I never knew before how many
Magazines existed even those early days; we took some down at hazard and
read names, dates, and initials. . . . Storied urn and monumental bust
do