entertained the idea of becoming the tenant; since a year later Lord Edward, who had, as he expressed it, got an under-gardener to help Tim-the said under-gardener being himself-gave up his labours in disgust, reflecting that they would only benefit "that vile Lord W., and the aide-de-camps, chaplains, and all such followers of a Lord Lieutenant."

For a year, however, Frescati continued to be available as a place of resort whenever Dublin or Dublin society proved wearisome. Lord Edward and his wife were meantime weighing the rival merits of the various residences which were competing for the honour of becoming their permanent home.

A small house in the county of Wicklow, in the midst of beautiful country, and offering the advantages of trees and sea and rocks, presented at first most attractions. But alternatives were not wanting. Leinster Lodge was at their service; and Mr. Conolly, to whose trimming policy Lord Edward had adverted, was desirous of presenting a small house possessed by him at Kildare, ready furnished for use, to his wife's favourite nephew.

Lord Edward, hesitating to accept a gift of such magnitude, also confessed that Wicklow offered other advantages beside those of beauty over either Kildare or Leinster Lodge.

"I own," he said impatiently, "I like not to be Lord Edward FitzGerald, the County of Kildare member,'-to be bored with 'this one is your brother's friend,' That man voted voted against him.'

I am a little ashamed when I reason and say to myself Leinster Lodge would be the most profitable. Ninety persons out of a hundred would choose it, and be delighted to get it. It is, to be sure, in a good country; plentiful, affords everything a person wants; but I do like mountains and rocks, and pretty views and pretty hedges and pretty cabins-ay, and a pleasanter people."

It was more than a year before it was finally decided to accept Mr. Conolly's offer of Kildare Lodge, and in the meantime life went on pleasantly at Frescati. There was no time for writing letters, so he tells his mother; it was all occupied by talk, and the day was over before they knew where they were. Pamela had taken a fit of growing-was she, after all, right, and Madame de Genlis wrong, and had Lord Edward married a wife of fifteen? She dressed flower-pots besides, and worked at her frame, while the birds sang and the windows stood open and the house was full of the scent of flowers, and Lord Edward sat in the bay window writing to his dearest mother, with her last dear letter to his wife before him, "so you may guess how I love you at this moment.

Picture after picture gives the same description of the life that went on at quiet Frescati, as if no such things as politics and fierce clashing passions existed.

"I am amusing myself dressing the little beds about the house. . . . The little mound of earth that is round the bays and myrtle before the house I have planted with tufts of gentianellas and primroses and

lily of the valley, and they look beautiful, peeping out of the dark evergreen: close to the root of the great elm I have put a patch of lily of the valley."

So the letter proceeds, with the trivial details that go to complete the picture, and the fond personalities of perfect familiarity. There is to be a meeting at Malvern soon, but not yet, and a sketch of the Duchess herself is introduced, tenderly touched in. He wants to be with her, but particularly in the country. "I long for a little walk with you, leaning on me, or to have a long talk with you, sitting out in some pretty spot, of a fine day, with your long cane in your hand, working at some little weed at your feet, and looking down, talking all the time. I won't go on in this way, for I should want to set out directly, and that cannot be." So it goes on, till love from "the dear little pale pretty wife (Pamela had not been well), ends the letter of the future leader of a conspiracy which might, but for his death-such is the opinion of one well qualified to pronounce upon the subject1-have involved the greater part of Ireland in bloodshed. Close upon thirty as he was, he was still a boy at heart, with not a little of the winning grace of childhood, the childhood that to some favoured natures adheres through life, clinging round him.

It was not till the summer of 1794 that the household was finally established in the cottage given by Mr. Conolly. It was in every way conveniently

1 W. E. H. Lecky.