while below them the mists gathered in dark masses, so that on one side they could see no more of the green earth, but only gloomy, lurid clouds. Presently the thunder rolled among the clouds, the lightning flashed, and after a fearful tempest the clouds fell in heavy hail and rain, and left the air clear again. The green earth shone and glistened in the sun as if the storm had refreshed it; everywhere but in one spot where there was fearful desolation. A village had been struck by the lightning and the fields, and the crops round it ravaged and destroyed by the hail and wind. Some of the cottages and corn stacks were on fire, and the inhabitants might be seen wandering abont as if overwhelmed by their misfortune.

The children mourned over this havoc; but they said "those other villages all round are not hurt, and their fields seem fresher and greener. Their people will go and help those poor villagers and give them all they want and comfort them."

Their mother smiled mournfully and answered,-" I hope they will, but we are not sure of it. If people would so help one another, there would not be much suffering; but they have not yet learned the true lesson of love. In the wide world there is always somewhere evil and pain, but always there is so much good and power that if men would help one another in the true spirit of love, the good would overcome the evil. They learn this lesson slowly, but they are learning it."

The children grieved that they were weak and far off, and could not help. But while they lamented, a sound of piteous bleating was heard near, and their mother pointed to where a lamb was caught in a thicket, a short distance below them. They scrambled down steep places, and through thorns, and set it free, and it ran swiftly to join the flocks that were returning towards the ruined village; and their mother comforted them by saying, "the shepherd will not have the grief of missing one of his lambs to-night, besides all the other losses there."

And now another change came. A bright rainbow appeared in the mists that hung over the earth below the mountain, and every object appeared in new and glowing colours-violet, gold, orange, crimson, blue, green. The ruined village was bathed in violet light. The mother told her children that all this beauty came out of the same elements that made the storm, and she said "the bright colours are like the sympathy that wakens in man's heart; and the violet light is like the patience that sorrow teaches."

She said again,- -"The great world is like this portion of it that is now under your eyes. You see rich valleys and uplands on one side, and rocky arid plains on others. Thriving towns and rich mansions in some directions, and poor huts and ruined cottages in others. So it is all over the earth. There are countries enjoying delicious climates and full of riches and plenty, and other countries in frozen regions sterile and poor, and there is every variety of country and climate between, producing wealth and good gifts. If you could see the whole, you would feel that if each would help all and all help each, none would want; for whatever is good for man is produced somewhere on the earth, and if disasters or ruin overwhelm any portion of it, there are abundance of prosperous portions to help, if only sympathy and love could light up in man's heart like the bright rainbow in the mists left by the storm."

She said also, "the great world is like what you see under your eyes in this respect also that it is thickly peopled in some parts, and lying waste and empty in others. It has always been so, and it is so still. There are countries full of life and progress, and there are wide tracts thinly peopled by wandering tribes, and others without people at all. Some of these are the richest and most beautiful parts of the earth, bearing splendid trees and glorious fruits and flowers, among

which only wild beasts roam. What is called History teaches whatever is known of the events that have happened in those countries which are inhabited, and in which the people have had enough intelligence to preserve any records or accounts of past events. What is called the History of the World is therefore a history of only a small part of it. Even now we know nothing of what is happening in our own time in wide countries that were once the most advanced, and in others whose inhabitants are still in a savage state. Changes are always going on, and there is much evil and sorrow mixed with the good and happiness, because men have not yet learned to love one another, and the strong have generally crushed the weak, instead of helping them. But when you learn history and hear of violence, cruelty and suffering, you must remember the violet light over the ruined village. You will always find some goodness and greatness to rejoice in.

""Tis always morning somewhere in the world." * As she spoke, the evening was drawing on. The earth in its daily round was bearing them away from the sunlight, and the slanting rays were filling the transparent veil with golden glory. All the mountain side was radiant, and the whole view was taking new aspects of beauty. They sat silently admiring and wondering at the loveliness. Meanwhile the quiet flocks, with their fleeces glowing like gold in the bright beams, cropped the grass, and never raised their eyes to look around.

And now another change came. The light fadedthe sun was hid from their sight-the world below was shrouded in darkness. But one after another the stars appeared above, and soon the wide expanse was studded with their pure lights. They shone through the transparent veil of air, now of a deep blue. The children stood hand in hand, in the still night, and the mother said,

"In the morning the vine leaves close to your eyes hid the distant view which stretched out there, though you did not see it. The beautiful world was spread out before you when you stood on the hill; and wider still it spread, and you saw the blue sea beyond from this rocky height; and then we thought of all that was beyond and out of our range of sight on the great globe,-lands and seas, and oceans.

Now all are hid in darkness. We cannot see what is near any more than what is far off. The present has become the unseen. But we see above and all round, these stars, which were there all day, but which were hid from us by the light that was present and the world that was nearer to our eyes, just as the distant view was hid by the vine leaves.

These stars are other worlds and other suns rolling in space. Remember how the present world and the nearer light hid them from your eyes, and learn to send your thoughts onward into what is, but is unseen."

She said again, "When the lovely sunset filled your hearts with wonder and admiration, you saw that the quiet flocks fed on, and did not raise their eyes to it. The spirit of beauty which is shed from all forms and colours into your hearts is unfelt by them. That spirit of beauty is shed again upon you from these stars, and tells you of their Creator-the Infinite Spirit, present, but invisible, because Spirit is hid from our eyes by the great universe, as the stars were hid by the light of the sun.'

The children knelt beside their mother, but they covered their faces and said,

"God is great and we cannot see him. We are as nothing before him."

Then the mother said in a soft voice, "Remember Him who told us that He was the Way, the Truth, and the Life. He told us also, that the Infinite Spirit who was His Father and our Father, His God and our God, is Love."

The children raised their faces and prayed, and the first words of their prayer were "Our Father."

This beautiful line is taken from "Orion" by R. H. Horne

VISITS TO REMARKABLE PLACES.

BY WILLIAM HOWITT.

VISIT TO EDGEWORTHSTOWN.-MISS EDGEWORTH. EDGEWORTHSTOWN lies in the county of Longford, about sixty-six miles W.N.W. of Dublin. As this place was not far out of my way, in the Autumn of 1845, when I visited Laracor, the one-time residence of Swift, and Lismore," The Deserted Village" of Goldsmith, I halted there for the night, in order to have the pleasure of seeing Miss Edgeworth. My way by the celebrated Hill of Tara, and the old town of Trim, led me amongst some of the most venerable ruins and renowned antiquities of Ireland. These I do not here pause to notice. A few miles drive from Trim, in a car brought me out upon the highway from Dublin to Longford, where I met the mail as I had agreed, and mounting it, soon found myself leaving the cultivated country, and advancing into a somewhat dreary, level, and boggy one. From about nine in the morning till three in the afternoon our drive continued through this kind of country. The farther we went the more Irish it became. The country in the immediate neighbourhood of Dublin was varied and beautiful. Farther on it was more monotonous, but still well-farmed and cultivated, with decent farming villages, and fine trees. But now the whole landscape became bare moorland, and extremely flat and uninteresting. The cottages degenerated from stone to mud. They then got to have wicker-work chimneys, and then no chimneys at all. There was a hole in the ridge of the roof, but much oftener out of the side for the escape of the smoke; and sometimes this hole was in the wall instead of the roof; sometimes neither chimney nor window was to be seen, but the smoke was rolling out of the door. Pigs, geese, hens, and asses, were walking in and out of the houses, as coolly as the people. By almost every cabin were two goats with their legs tied, and yoked together by a cord. They were the cows of these particular families. Then there were several enormous black and white pigs basking on the dunghill, which is, throughout reland, placed plump before the door; or they wer wallowing in its wetter depths. Besides these crea ures, there was sure to be a little dog with a little cloghung round his neck. This I was told was instead of a muzzle, and was required by the police, as the clog supposed, if the dog run, to get between his

legs, and impede his motions: but it is commonly tied up so cleverly short, that it is no inconvenience at all, and the dog generally rushes out to have a look at the passing car, and then goes and lies down with great satisfaction, no doubt persuaded that he has rendered a great public service, and driven horse, car, and traveller quite away from the village.

Besides these canine guardians of the peace, two or three policemen were, as everywhere in Ireland, generally in sight, in close jacket and trousers of olive green, with broad, black belts round their waists with a large gilt buckle, a little box like a cartouche box, and a bayonet appended. Over one door in each village was invariably a black board like a little coffin lid with a crown upon a cypher, and surrounded by the words, POLICE STATION.

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Rags and dirt became more plentiful at every step. There was a most amazing display of trousers without legs; waistcoats without buttons; and coats which are not patched, they are a matting of patches, all loose at one end; being a rude imitation of feathers. The true Irishman in his grey frieze short, bob-tailed coat, breeches, (he is faithful to breeches in spite of all changes) and his funny little hat with narrow and slouched brim, was there in abundance. The old women swarmed round us at every stopping, and promised heaven and earth to us for a halfpenny. Grope out the copper, your honour, and the Lord surround you with his blessings. Drop us a little sixpence or a little fourpenny bit, and we'll divide it faithfully, and the childer will be a praying for you as they peel the taties. Divide the money, your honour, and the Lord divide heaven with ye."-" Now don't be a pushing me wid my poor arm," said a woman at one place to a man at her elbow, showing an arm wrapped in bandage no doubt to excite pity, and the thing said to catch your attention,-"I'm not pushing you," said the man."No,I know ye ai'nt," replied the woman with the politeness of a Frenchwoman, "but I am only afeard lest ye should."--" Indulge your fatherly feelings towards the poor babby whose father's at sea," exclaimed another, holding up a child towards one of the passengers.-"I have nothing," replied the gentleman, and out of nothing, nothing can come."-"The Lord created the world out of nothing, your honour," replied the quick-witted woman.-"But I'm not the Lord," said the traveller."-"Your honour's one of the Lord's creation."-" And so are you," retorted the man, "and if that gives you any power of creating

the other had robbed the one-but no caps nor money were there to be seen-and then both the men were more astonished than ever. But I was by that time far across the fields, blessing your reverence for the true words ye had said to me, for, true enough, Providence had dropped something in my way all at once. And now your reverence sees that I dress decently as any boy of them all, and go to the chapel every Sunday; and often I bless the day that I met your reverence as I did."

This story, which reminded me of something like it somewhere in "The Arabian Nights," elicited much merriment; and no one seemed to think anything of the morality of it. It was a capital joke; and illustrated the coachman's saw-" That it is hard trusting anyone in this world."

And so we arrived at Edgeworthstown. The town is, indeed, a tolerable village, but of a considerably better aspect; of stone houses with white-washed walls, glass windows, and, many of them, slate roofs. The Edgeworths' house is near the entrance from Dublin. It stands on the right hand, at perhaps two hundred yards distance from the road in its park, well wooded, and with a fine rich turf. It lies too, higher than the country in general, and therefore above the bog, and being well wooded, and encircled with a thick belt of trees, you walk in the park, which is a mile round, and forget all the dreary wastes around. The house is large, a fitting squire's house, and looks lordly and imposing as

you pass.

At the only inn in Edgeworthstown I desired them to let me have a beefsteak, but found that no such thing was to be had. A mutton chop was the highest point in the culinary department to be reached. The waiter said, that no cattle were killed in Edgeworthstownthey got their meat from Longford, and that seldom more than mutton was wanted. This would have astonished a traveller in England in any place dignifying itself with the name of town, but in Ireland we soon cease to be astonished at anything but the general poverty. Having got such a luncheon as the inn afforded, I walked up to the hall. Here I found a very cordial reception. In the true Irish spirit of hospitality, Mrs. Edgeworth was anxious that I should transfer myself at once from the village inn to her ample mansion, where there was as much abundance as in any English house of the same pretensions.

I found the ladies sitting in a large and handsome library, busy writing letters. These ladies consisted of Mrs. Egeworth, the widow of Lovell Edgeworth; Miss Edgeworth, and Mrs. Francis Edgeworth, the wife of the Frank of Miss Edgeworth's tale.

Mrs. Edgeworth, a very agreeable and intelligent woman, surprised me by her comparative youth as the widow of Miss Edgeworth's father. She appeared not much more than forty, while Miss Edgeworth must be nearly twice that age. So far as age goes, it would have appeared quite in order, if that had been reversed, and Miss Edgeworth had stood as mother, and Mrs. Edgeworth as the daughter-in-law. Till that moment, I was not aware that Miss Edgeworth resided with her mother-in-law, but imagined her the occupant of the family mansion. I soon found, however, that Mrs. Edgeworth was the head of the establishment, and that Miss Edgeworth and Mr. Francis Edgeworth and his family resided with her. Mrs. Francis Edgeworth, a Spanish lady, lively, intelligent, and frank in her manners, surrounded by a troop of charming children, appeared as thoroughly familiar with English literature as if she had spent all her life in Great Britain.

My first impression of Miss Edgeworth was surprise at her apparent age. We read books and imagine their authors always young; but time is never so forgetful. He bears along with him authors as well as other peo

ple.

They may put their works but not themselves into new editions in this world. Miss Edgeworth must, in fact, stand now nearly, if not quite, at the head of British authors in point of years. In person she is small, and at first had an air of reserve; but this in a few minutes quite vanished, and with it at least the impression of a score years in appearance. One would expect from her writings a certain staidness and sense of propriety. All the propriety is there, but the gravity is soon lighted up with the most affable humour, and a genuine love of joke and lively conversation. When I entered, the two other ladies were writing at the library table, Miss Edgeworth at a small table near the fire. The room was a large room, supported by a row of pillars, so as to give views into the grounds on two sides. We were soon engaged in animated conversation on many literary topics and persons; and Miss Edgeworth handed me the last new novel of Miss Bremer, which had been forwarded by me from the author; requesting me to place a written translation under Miss Bremer's autograph inscription of the copy to herself. To do this she put into my hand the silver pen which had been presented to her by Sir Walter Scott.

She then volunteered to show me the gardens and grounds; and this remarkable woman speedily enveloped in bonnet and shawl, led the way with all the lightness and activity of youth. Mrs. Francis soon joined us, and we went the whole circuit of the park, which as I have already said, is a mile. Not far from the house near the foot path, and beneath the trees I observed an urn placed upon a pedestal, and inscribed, "TO HONORA,

1780." Honora Sneyd, the lady affianced to the unfortunate Major Andre, but afterwards married to Mr. Lovel Edgeworth.

We then went into the gardens. The ladies appear to dig and delve a good deal in them themselves. Miss Edgeworth said she had been setting out some geraniums that day, though so late as September. The bogplants appeared wonderfully flourishing, and yet no wonder, when we consider that the whole country is a bog, and that they can supply their beds at no expense.

In our round we came to a little secluded garden, which Mrs. Francis told me they had laid out for her, and her children, and where they had built a little summer-house of heath. It was very retired and pretty. Miss Edgeworth made some enquiries after a gentleman not far from London, and asked me if I knew him, to which I replied, that my only intercourse with him had been a correspondence about a gardener who offered himself to me, and referred to this gentleman as his former employer. That on asking the man why he had left, he said that it was entirely because this gentleman and himself could not agree on the true manner of cultivating a certain rose. That both master and himself were great rose fanciers, and each thought he knew best how to grow them. That in most cases he acknowledged his master's skill and knowledge, but that in this instance he could not. He believed himself right, and his master wrong; and that they grew so warm respecting it, that he gave his master notice to quit, rather than be compelled to murder, as he called it, a fine and unique rose, by an improper mode of treatment. That on referring to the gentleman, he confirmed the account in all its particulars, giving the man a most excellent character, both as a man and a gardener, but so obstinate about this one rose, that he threw up his place a martyr to his system of science, the master having become as obstinate from opposition to a favourite whim, as to let him do it!

This story infinitely diverted Miss Edgeworth, and