L LET me explain at the outset my reasons for naming the spot from which I am now writing, "Waldegrave Cottage." It is said, and with considerable show of truth, that the writer is a descendant of the Earl of Waldegrave, who died in England many years since, leaving large possessions. That some of his descendants came to this country, and lived and died here is well known. At least, three of their tomb-stones may still be seen in Trinity Church-yard, in the City of New York. They stand to the north of the Church, about fifty feet west of the iron railing on Broadway. One of them is quite modern and in a good state of preservation. It is to the memory of George Walgrave who died in 1785, and his wife, Magdalen, who died in 1821—the former, aged sixty-two years, and the latter, ninetynine years. Their daughter, Magdalen, was married to my great-grandfather, Warner, on the second day of February, 1771. She died January 2d, 1814, and her remains, with those of her husband and some of their descendants, are interred George in the family vault immediately in front of the Emmet Monument, in St. Paul's Church-yard. Over this vault stands a chaste granite monument to the memory of his daughter, Sarah Firman Williams, and in the interior of the Church, near the west entrance, may be seen marble tablets to the memory of her husband, who died in 1825, and her son, Effingham Warner, who died in 1796. My greatgrandmother was always spoken of as a beautiful woman and as possessing graces and accomplishments of a rare and high order-and this is my reason for calling this place "Waldegrave Cottage.” I came here about one year since, having previously resided for some twelve years or more in the far-famed City of Brooklyn; not that I was dissatisfied with it, for Brooklyn is a most charming and attractive city, with all its noble churches, distinguished preachers and hospitable homes, and pleasant friends. But I felt that a change from city to country would prove beneficial to our health; nor have we been disappointed. Norwalk, which is now a city of considerable size, having fourteen thousand inhabitants, is pleasantly located near Long Island Sound, and lies amid valleys and sloping hills, from which many elegant residences overlook the waters of the Sound. Our home, which is a beautiful and tasteful structure, lies on one of the principal avenues of the town. We have many of the comforts to be found in a city -gas of superior quality, pure soft water from the lakes near New Canaan; besides, a fine lawn is in front of the house, and a garden in the rear. A favorite horse takes us to ride every day. Indeed, the drives in this country are charming-some of them leading through the back country to Stamford, with its fine residences, New Canaan, with its little Gothic towers rising so gracefully among the trees; and some leading toward the water. At times we drive near the pleasant Summer home of Dr. Alonzo Clark, or the palatial residences of the Hoyts, with their fine grounds, near Stamford. At other times we drive through Westport, a pleasant village, and pass the beautiful and perfect little gem of a church built by Winslow, the New York banker; or drive a little further on, to the splendid seat and grounds of Morris Ketchum; or extend the ride still further to Greenfield Hill, formerly the residence of Dwight, the eminent scholar and divine, who was once President of Yale College. By following on the road still further which leads to New Canaan, we come to the quiet inland village of Bedford, in the State of New York. In this town the writer spent the days of his |