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96 under the eaves of a stately grove that veils Edgbaston Hall and its park and pool from the road. Then it is completely netted to the very top of its tower with ivy. Hardly a square inch of its bare walls can be seen at a few rods distance. No garden summer-house or bower could be greener from bottom to top. Robed thus by nature in the best vestment she could weave for a sanctuary, it seems to have a more sacred consecration to the worship of God than an archbishop could give to it. One might well feel that Nature joined in the prayers and psalms and spiritual songs within; and it may be hoped that the congregation recognize her presence and participation in their devotions. In the little churchyard, which looks like a hopefully-sculptured doorstone of eternity, sleeps the dust of a sister of Washington Irving, who was the wife of one of the fathers of the town—the venerable Henry Van Wart.

A mile or two further in a westerly direction is the parish church of Harborne, which only lacks the ivy surplice to be even more attractive than that of Edgbaston. It drew me to that rural suburb, and has become as home-like and dear to me as the church of my native village in America. In situation it conforms religiously with the Fourth Commandment. It retires meditatively from the six days' labour, and all its