rounded by a well-stocked and pleasant
garden, devoid of ornament, but highly suggestive of comfort and
convenience--such a house as our forefathers used to build fifty years
ago, when comfort was not sacrificed to appearance, and when the owner
had more to do with the design than the architect.

Robert Evans, the father of the renowned authoress, was bailiff to Lord
Howe and to Sir Roger Newdigate--father of the present M. P. of that
name, who is such an earnest champion of Protestantism as it is
reflected in the Church of England, and who has made such earnest but as
yet fruitless endeavors to have a bill passed for the periodical
visitation and inspection of the monastic and conventual institutions of
Great Britain. Her brother, Isaac P. Evans, still occupies that
responsible position, and resides in the old homestead. The country
around Mrs. Lewes's early home is rich in historic associations. Not far
away is Bosworth Field, and in another direction are the ruins of Astley
Castle, within whose strong walls Lady Jane Grey passed a portion of her
brief, chequered life. Near the castle stands--or stood--a tree in which
her father, the duke of Suffolk, took refuge when pursued by the
emissaries of the sanguinary queen. A small table used by him while
concealed in the huge hollow trunk is still preserved.

There are several very ancient churches in the vicinity of the residence
where George Eliot passed her early days. The parish church of Nuneaton,
to which she alludes in her _Scenes of Clerical Life_, is a grand
structure, six hundred years old, with a massive embattled tower
containing a chime of eight melodious bells; and Coton (Shepperton)
Church, which in her girlhood she attended with her parents, is perhaps
still more ancient, as it is certainly more weatherbeaten and venerable
in appearance. The writer's parents have often seen the future authoress
sitting in the antiquated, high-peaked family pew and taking part with
grave attention in the service.

In Atteborough, a village in the same neighborhood, there resided an
eccentric character named Joe Liggens. He had received a university
education, but, lacking application and industry, had chosen no pursuit
in life, and passed his time in lounging around his native village and
frequenting the tap-room of its alehouse, where, surrounded by an
admiring crowd, he puffed away at his long pipe, removing it from his
lips only when he deigned to express an opinion upon