letters. He had been at college with Mr. Frank Edgeworth, who had succeeded to the estate, and had now in 1828 come to stay with him. The host had been called away, but the guest describes his many hostesses: "Edgeworth's mother, aged seventy-four; his sister, the great Maria, aged seventy-two; and another cousin or something. All these people were pleasant and kind, the house pleasant, the grounds ditto, a good library, so here I am quite at home, but surely must go to England soon." One can imagine Fitzgerald sitting in the library with his back to the window and writing his letters and reading his thirty-two sets of novels, while the rain is steadily pouring outside, and the Great Authoress (so he writes her down) as busy as a bee sitting by chattering and making a catalogue of her books. "We talk about Walter Scott, whom she adores, and are merry all day long," he says. "When I began this letter I thought I had something to say, but I believe the truth was I had nothing to do."
Two years later Mr. Fitzgerald is again there and writing to Frederick Tennyson: "I set sail from Dublin to-morrow night, bearing the heartfelt regrets of all the people of Ireland with me." Then comes a flash of his kind searching lantern: "I had a pleasant week with Edgeworth. He farms and is a justice, and goes to sleep on the sofa of evenings. At odd moments he looks into Spinoza and Petrarch. People respect him very much in these parts." Edward Fitzgerald seems to have had a great regard for his host; the more he knows him the more he cares for him; he describes him "firing away about the odes of Pindar." They fired noble broadsides those men of the early Victorian times, and when we listen we still seem to hear their echoes rolling into the far distance. Mr. Fitzgerald ends his letter with a fore-
