doing; no, I think you will be glad that I made your present give me the greatest possible sum of pleasure. Take into account the pride I felt in saying, Mr. Ticknor sent me these books.
I am ashamed to see that I have come so far in a second sheet, and in spite of all the wonderings at what can Maria be about?
Sense in my next.
In answer to a letter from Mr. Ticknor, describing to her his library, in which the only picture was one of Sir Walter Scott, Miss Edgeworth wrote a reply, of which a portion has been published, but which contains besides an able parallel, or rather contrast, between Washington and Napoleon, worthy of preservation for its own sake, and as a testimony to her unimpaired powers.
"Who talks of 'Boston' in a voice so sweet"? ! Who wishes to see me there ? and to shew me their home, their family, their country? I have been there—at Boston? "Yes—and in Mr. and Mrs. Tick- nor's happy beautiful home." I have been up "the slope of the Boston Hill-side" have seen "the 50 acres of public park" in all its verdure with "its rich and venerable trees," its gravelled promenade surrounding it with those noble rows of venerable elms on either side. I have gone lip the hill-side and the steps profusely decked with luxuriant creepers,—I have walked into Mr. and Mrs. Ticknor's house as I was desired,—have seen the three rooms opening into one another, have sat in the library too—and thought,—and thought it all charming! Looking into the country as you know the windows all do, I saw down through "the vista of trees" to the quiet bay and "the beautiful" hills beyond, and I " watched the glories of the" setting sun lighting up country and town, "trees, turf, and water!"—an Italian sun not more gorgeously attended than this "New England luminary" setting or rising. I met Sir Walter Scott in Mr. Ticknor's library with all his benign calm expression of countenance, his eye of genius and his mouth of humor—such as he was before the life of life was gone, such as genius loved to see him, such as American genius has given him to American friendship, immortalized in person as in mind. His very self I see feeling, thinking, and about to speak—and to a friend to whom he loved to speak—and well placed and to his liking he seems in this congenial library—presiding and sympathising. But my dear Madam, Ten thousand books, "about ten thousand books" do you say this library contains? My dear Mrs. Ticknor! Then I am
