It is certainly a tradition in the family to welcome travellers!  I thought of the various memoirs I had read, of the travellers arriving from the North and the South and the West; of Scott and Lockhart, of Pictet, of the Ticknors, of the many visitants who had come up in turn; whether it is the year 14, or the year 94, the hospitable doors open kindly to admit them.  There were the French windows reaching to the ground, through which Maria used to pass on her way to gather her roses; there was the porch where Walter Scott had stood; there grew the quaint old-fashioned bushes with the great pink peonies in flower, by those railings which still divide the park from the meadows beyond; there 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