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[388] summer wind, and rejoice in the glory of the winter sunsets. The central point of the house, henceforward, was the large, sunny room, with three long balconied windows, where, at once, and without hesitation, his valuable and increasing collection of books was established.

Trusting to simple lines, just proportions, and harmony of subdued colors in furnishing this library, Mr. Ticknor succeeded in producing the effect he sought, of a dignified, cheerful home for himself and his books. When his friend Allston, the artist, —a man of fastidious taste and an acute sense of harmony of color,—first entered the room, he expressed the most unlimited approval.

Ten years later, on receiving a description of this room,—for which she had asked,—Miss Edgeworth wrote in her animated and sympathetic manner:—

Who talks of Boston in a voice so sweet? Who wishes to see me there? to show me their home, their family, their country? I have been there, . . . . have sate 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. . . . .

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 sympathizing.

But, my dear madam, ten thousand books, about ten thousand books, do you say this library contains? My dear Mrs. Ticknor Then I am afraid you must have double rows, and that is a plague. . . . . Your library is thirty-four by twenty-two, you say. But, to be sure, you have not given me the height, and that height may make out room enough. Pray have it measured for me, that I may drive this odious notion of double rows out of my head.

The portrait of Sir Walter Scott, to which Miss Edgeworth

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