IT was worth while being a girl twenty-five years ago, if only for the pleasure of reading Barbara's History when it was first given to the world. It is rarely that a book brings so much real delight as did that to the young people at the time it was published. It was so fascinating from the very first line to the very last; it was so sweet and pure; just the record of a girl's life, who wasn't a wonderful girl in any way, but was just the every-day sort of girl, such as we know scores of. It was the humanity in the book that made it so attractive; that gave it the power which all understood, but none could explain. No other novel has ever been to me quite what this was. Charles Auchester and a sweet English story, St. Olave's, came the nearest to sharing my regard with it, but, much as I liked these books, they were not the first in my regard. That place of honor was given to Barbara's History. I have wondered quite recently whether the woman would echo the opinion of the child, and I have been intending to try the experiment, by reading the story again with my own young daughter, who is just the age that I was when I first became acquainted with Miss Amelia B. Edwards through her book, and gave her the warm devotion which girls so often give to the women who write books for them. From that time I treasured everything that came to me of or by Miss Edwards. Looking over a book of quotations which I kept about the time I read Barbara's History, I find scraps of poetry, by Miss Edwards, gathered from the English papers, which friends from across the water were in the habit of sending to my mother.

      There was one in particular in which I delighted. There was a thread of pathetic sadness running through it, and a healthy, hearty, rosy girl of fifteen dearly loves this sad and hopeless kind of poems. This one was called "Deserted." I think it must have been written to set to music, at the time when Miss Edwards was making a special study of this art, for there is a musical flow, a perfectness of rhythm, that suggests melody. It is essentially a singing poem, and that is a quality which so few verses possess. I will give one stanza as an illustration of what I mean. See if the lines do not fairly sing themselves.

"As the river flowed then, the river flows still, In ripple and foam and spray,  On by the church and round by the hill,  And under the sluice of the old burnt mill, And out to the fading day.  But I love it no more; for delight grows cold  When the song is sung, and the tale is told, And the heart is given away!"

I dare say Miss Edwards herself has written finer poetry than this, but nothing more musical.

      Long before she came among us, Miss Edwards was our friend. She must have felt the sympathy and affection that went over the ocean from all our hearts to her when we knew her only as the writer of verses. But she has proven herself so genuine a friend to us in the most valuable way. I have before me, as I write, a letter written by her to the Rev. William C. Winslow, of Boston, in reply to one he had written her about America getting her "fair share" of antiquities found. It is full of the generous spirit which she has so openly expressed ever since she has been in the country, and this letter was written even before she thought of coming.

      "Now, first of all," she says, "let me say that you have no need to press for a 'fair' share of the results. You have always had that — and more. You have the gem of all our discoveries in the Colossus. We have kept nothing in England to compare with that piece, — and thus you will, I feel confident, have not only the best, but all the best, we have got. I have sent up a full statement of the American claim, — not merely on the score of dollars, but labor, — setting forth your immense exertions, and reminding the Committee of the 250 articles, reviews, etc., which you wrote on the Fund in 1885. I feel sure you will not have anything to complain of. And next year, I imagine, our results will be very good indeed."

      How the promise was kept may be readily seen from the description given in this magazine by Dr. Winslow, on the Egyptian collection in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.

      Miss Edwards's biography has been so often given since her arrival in this country, that a repetition of it may seem superfluous, and yet, as it may have escaped the notice of some persons, it may be well to give a slight résumé of the principal events of her life. To any one who knows her brilliancy of intellect, and her keen, quick wit, the announcement that she is descended on her mother's side from the celebrated Walpole family, of which Horace Walpole was a member, brings no surprise. It is only a perfectly natural way of accounting for her vigorous mentality. Her father was an eminent officer in the Peninsular Campaign, and from him she inherited her practical executive force. She was born in London in 1831, and very early in life gave signs of a remarkable intellect. She wrote stories and poems from the age of four, and at seven years of age had the pleasure of seeing herself in print, a weekly paper printing a poem which she had written, entitled "The Knights of Old." She had a strong musical taste and a fine voice, and she received a superior musical education, intending to make this a profession. But she turned again to her pen. A short story which she wrote and sent to Chambers's Journal was accepted and paid for. That decided her in the choice of a profession, and music was dropped for letters. In 1855 she published her first novel, My Brother's Wife; and that was followed by her others, The Ladder of Life, Hand and Glove, Barbara's History, Half a Million of Money, Miss Carew, Debenham's Son, Monsieur Maurice, In the Days of my Youth, and Lord Brackenbury. Of these the last is undoubtedly the strongest, while Barbara's History, which was her first great success, is the greatest favorite.

      But it is in her works of travels that Miss Edwards is at her best. She brings such a spirit of enthusiastic enjoyment to this work that she fascinates her readers and holds them spellbound by the beauty of her description and the rich results of her research. Many of her books are illustrated by herself, and a story told of her when she was a girl of fourteen is of decided interest, as showing the many-sidedness of her genius. At this time she sent a short story to The Omnibus, a periodical edited by the celebrated caricaturist, the late George Cruikshank. On the back of her manuscript she had drawn caricatures of her principal characters, which showed a cleverness that so delighted the great humorist that he called at once to see his unknown contributor. Fancy his surprise on being presented to a child. Recovering from his astonishment he offered to train her in his special work, but she declined his offer. Later on, for her own satisfaction, and as a recreation from her literary work, she studied art under the best masters. The advantage of this training she has reaped in being able to make her own illustrations of her books.

      It is as an Egyptologist and a lecturer that America has been called to give her special welcome; and it has given it royally. Her lectures have been well attended, and she has charmed her audiences, just as she has the individuals with whom she has come in contact. As a woman she is simple and earnest in her manner; free from anything like affectation, cordial and kind, and entertaining to the point of fascination. All this she carries into her lectures, and a fresh charm is given by her voice, which is music itself. It is not hard, nor is it pitched high, but it is beautifully clear, and has a carrying quality, which makes it possible for every one in her audience to hear distinctly any word she utters. She speaks with deliberation, but without the suggestion of slowness. This deliberation is quite marked, after the haste and impetuosity of American speakers. Her articulation is fine, and her enunciation simply perfect. Not a word, not a syllable is lost. Every sentence stands out crystal clear, sparkling in all its luminousness. She indulges neither in rhetorical flourishes nor in gesture; her manner is high-bred and exquisitely quiet, but her beautifully modulated voice expresses perfectly every emotion. It is a delight to listen to her, and there is real regret when she ceases talking. Her lecture tour through the country has been one triumphal journey. She returns to the East to say good-bye to her American friends, which they all hope from their hearts she will make au revoir.

      One of the most striking features of her visit has been the loving way in which she has been welcomed by women. Her own sex has risen to do her honor. Led off by the New England Woman's Press Association in their breakfast to her at the Parker House, in November, when the men and women most eminent in learning and letters were bidden to meet her, other associations of women have made her their special guest, and given receptions for her. At Detroit, in addition to the reception given her at the Art Museum, a committee, representing the leading ladies of that city, sent her a magnificent basket of flowers with the following verses, written by one of their number:—

"How shall we greet the scholar, when she brings The mystic learning of the ancient Nile,  Or tells the story of those mighty kings Whose statues o'er the vanished centuries smile? "Will she who reads the hieroglyphs of time Regard the brief thoughts of our little day,  Or, steeped in sunshine of that rainbow clime, Care for our Northern winter, cold and gray? "Well may we ask, and yet take heart of grace. 'Tis not alone the scholar whom we meet;  With equal skill her pen or brush can trace Nature's fair scenes or fancy's visions sweet. "Though now she offers us the lotus bloom, The scent of England's roses still is there;  May not the Western blossoms, too, find room In the bright wreath fame weaves for her to wear?"

This recognition by the women of the country has been specially grateful to Miss Edwards, and she carries away with her the kindliest feeling towards the women of America.

      In personal appearance Miss Edwards is a tall, fine-looking woman, with silvery hair brushed straight back from her forehead, kindly gray eyes, a fresh complexion, and a clear-cut, very expressive mouth. She has a most genial, winning, and cordial manner, and is a charming conversationalist. Something of this may be seen in her picture; but the radiant face, as it is lighted up with a smile, can never be caught by the photographer. A humorous description given of herself to a friend and admirer who had never seen her, must close this short and inadequate paper on the most wonderful and most lovable woman that the century has seen. She writes:—

      Well, it is an attractive picture that is painted, even if she is making fun of herself, and one that will be appreciated by every one who has looked into the brave, honest, fearless eyes, — "curious" though they may be, — and caught the echo of the "hearty" ringing laugh.