though not pretty separately, are so when collected and in their own scenery; which is also exactly the case with the fox-hunters' scarlet coats.

I had seen nothing of the park before, beyond the cricketground, and never could have had such a guide to its inmost recesses-the very heart of its sylvan solitudes-as the fox. The house a superb structure of Elizabeth's day, in proud repair is placed on so commanding an eminence that it seemed meeting us in every direction, and harmonized completely with the old English feeling of the park and the sport. You must see Bramshill. It is like nothing hereabout, but reminds me of the grand Gothic castles in the north of England-Chillingham, Alnwick, etc. It was the residence of Prince Henry, James the First's eldest son, and is worthy his memory. It has a haunted room, shut up and full of armor; a chest where they say a bride hid herself on her weddingday, and the spring-lock closing, was lost and perished, and never found until years and years had passed (this story, by the way, is common to old houses; it was told me of the great house at Malsanger); swarms with family pictures; has a hall with the dais; much fine tapestry; and, in short, is wanting in no point of antique dignity. The Duke of Wellington went to look at it as adjoining his own estate and suiting his station; but he, unwilling, I believe, to lose the interest of so much capital, made the characteristic reply that Strathfieldsaye was good enough for the duchess, and that he saw nothing to admire at Bramshill except Sir John's pretty housekeeper. I am sure Sir John is much fitter for the master of Bramshill, with his love of cricket, his hospitality, and his fox-hounds, than the duke with all his fame. God bless you! Tell me when you come, and how long you stay. Ever yours, in galloping fox-hunter's haste, M. R. M.

To MISS JEPHSON, Binfield Park.

Three-mile Cross, Dec. 11, 1829. MY DEAREST EMILY,-My horoscope turns out singularly true-one part curiously true. I have been very much entertained and interested by it, and so will you be, when our astrologer explains it to you in May in the greenhouse, for it is not easy to tell in writing, or rather it would be puzzled

and long. The misfortune to my greenhouse had not occurred when you were here: the snow got into the tube or chimney, and generated a vapor intolerably thick and nauseous. We have cured the evil by a larger cap to the chimney, but the plants are greatly injured, and that is vexatious, for, till that misadventure, they continued to look as well as when you saw them. However, May will repair all evils, month of delight as it is!

Many thanks for the charming story of Napoleon, so charmingly told. I have heard a great many delightful traits of him lately, a friend of ours having purchased the château of Madame la Maréchale de le Febvre, Duchesse de Dantzig, near Paris. She lived there twenty-seven years, and is quite a chronicle of the imperial court and camp-talks of war as if she fought by her husband's side in all his campaignsand is a woman of remarkable courage and vigor of mind and body. Her late husband's room is fitted up as an armory, full of curious weapons, and contains an urn with the heart of her son, who was killed in Russia.

By the way, my astrologer showed me the other day a horoscope of the young Napoleon. He says there is no promise of success as a warrior, but much triumphing over ladies' hearts. The father, I believe, was a great conqueror in both ways.

Did I ever show you some lines which I wrote on my picture? Probably not. They were printed in the "Friendship's Offering" (one of the annuals for this year), and have been transcribed into half the newspapers in the kingdom, and will, I hope, be, as I intended, of service to the young artist; but why I mention them is because I should like you -whose praise of me always pleases-to see what is said of them in "Blackwood's Magazine" for this month. It is in an article called "Monologue on the Annuals." In general, I care very little for praise; but this pleased me and touched me, and so it will you. The lines were written under very genuine feelings of their truth, and were occasioned by Mr. Lucas having asked a mutual friend for a scrap of my writing, which I gave him in that form. There are two or three mistakes in "Blackwood's" copy, which looks as if it were transcribed from memory. The date also is wrong, and they have said the "Forget-me-not," instead of the "Friendship's

Offering." But you'll forgive the mistakes, and also my vanity in directing you to it, when you read the article. Ever affectionately yours,

To B. R. HAYDON, ESQ., Burwood Place.

M. R. M.

Three-mile Cross, Friday, Dec. 12, 1829. MY DEAR FRIEND,-Your very kind letter has given me much pleasure and some pain-pleasure, the greatest and the sincerest, to hear that you are going on so prosperously. What an exhibition it will be! how varied in talent, and how high in either scale!-the "Eucles and the "Punch " Rubens and Hogarth! Be quite assured that my sympathy with you and with art is as strong as ever, albeit the demonstration have lost its youthfulness and its enthusiasm, just as I myself have done. The fact is that I am much changed, much saddened-am older in mind than in yearshave entirely lost that greatest gift of nature, animal spirits, and am become as nervous and good-for-nothing a person as you can imagine. Conversation excites me sometimes, but only, I think, to fall back with a deader weight. Whether there be any physical cause for this, I can not tell. I hope so, for then perhaps it may pass away; but I rather fear that it is the overburden, the sense that more is expected of me than I can perform, which weighs me down and prevents my doing any thing. I am ashamed to say that a play bespoken last year at Drury Lane, and wanted by them beyond measure, is not yet nearly finished. I do not even know whether it will be completed in time to be produced this season. I try to write it, and cry over my lamentable inability, but I do not get on. Women were not meant to earn the bread of a family-I am sure of that-there is a want of strength. I shall, however, have a volume of " Country Stories" out in the spring, and I trust to get on with my tragedy, and bring it out still before Easter.

God bless you and yours! My best love to them all. God bless you, and farewell! Do not judge of the sincerity of an old friendship, or the warmth of an old friend, by the unfrequency or dullness of her letters. When I have any thing pleasant to tell, you shall be the first to hear. Ever M. R. MITFORD.

yours,

TO DOUGLAS JERROLD, ESQ., 4 Augustus Square, Regent's Park. Three-mile Cross, near Reading, Dec. 14, 1829.

Saturday evening.

1829.}

MY DEAR SIR,-I have just received from Mr. Willey your very kind and gratifying note. The plays which you have been so good as to send me* are not yet arrived; but, fearing from Mr. Willey's letter that it may be some days before I receive them, I do not delay writing to acknowledge your polite attention. I have as yet read neither of them, but I know them, and shall be greatly delighted by the merits which I shall find in both; in the first, by that truth of the touch which has commanded a popularity quite unrivalled in our day; in the second, by the higher and prouder qualities of the tragic poet. The subject of "Thomas à Becket" interests me particularly, as I had at one time a design to write a tragedy called "Henry the Second," in which his saintship would have played a principal part. My scheme was full of license and anachronism, embracing the apochryphal story of Rosamond and Eleanor, the rebellious sons—not the hackneyed John and Richard, but the best and worst of the four, Henry and Geoffrey; linking the scenes together as best I might, and ending with the really dramatic catastrophe of Prince Henry. I do not at all know how the public would have tolerated a play so full of faults, and it is well replaced by your more classical and regular drama. I was greatly interested by the account of the enthusiastic reception given by the audiences of "Black-eyed Susan " to a successor rather above their sphere. It was hearty, genial, English--much like the cheering which an election mob might have bestowed on some speech of Pitt, or Burke, or Sheridan, which they were sure was fine, although they hardly understood it.

If I had a single copy of "Rienzi" at hand this should not go unaccompanied. I have written to ask Mr. Willey to procure me some, and I hope soon to have the pleasure of requesting your acceptance of one. In the mean time I pray you to pardon this interlined and blotted note, so very untidy and unladylike, but which I never can help, and to excuse the wafer. Very sincerely yours,

M. R. MITFord. * "Black-eyed Susan" and "Thomas à Becket."

CHAPTER VI.

LETTERS FOR 1830.

To the REV. WILLIAM HARNESS, Heathcote Street, London. Friday, Jan. 2, 1830.

MY DEAR FRIEND,-You will have heard from Mr. Talfourd, whom I begged to inform you of it, of my blessed mother's seizure on Saturday morning. Her exemplary life is now at an end; she passed away easily and quietly at nine this morning. It is a consolation that she revived for a few hours on Sunday, knew us, and blessed us; but the great comfort is in the recollection of her virtues, and the certainty of her present happiness. You knew her, and you know that never lived a more admirable woman. God grant that I might tread in her steps!

We are as well as can be expected under this great affliction; and surrounded by kindness and sympathy. But what a beginning of the new year! God bless you, my dear Mary! Ever yours, M. R. MITFORD.

My blessed Mother's last illness.*

(Written Jan. 10, 1830.)

On Christmas Day, 1829, the dear creature was quite well and cheerful-particularly so-ate a hearty dinner of roast beef. She had eaten a mince-pie for luncheon, and drank our healths and Mr. Talfourd's in a glass of port wine. She read a sermon (one of the fifth volume of Blair's) in the evening, and went to bed quite well and comfortable. The next morning she was quite well and cheerful whilst she and my father were getting up. He went down, and she said she would soon follow. She did not, and, on going to see for her, she was found lying across the steps between her own inner and outer room in our little cottage at Threemile Cross. She spoke with her usual sweetness and pa *We print this paper in extenso, as there is a homely particularity and perfect truthfulness in its details, which to us appears very affecting.