traveling in Switzerland, how anxious Sismondi was to see the whole of his fine play; and that a similar message arrived by the same post from Lord Holland, etc. All this is intensely gratifying. Never was man more mistaken than you are, as to his feeling toward yourself. He always speaks of you with enthusiasm-admires, respects, esteems, and loves you. I am sure of this. But I can quite understand that there is something in his manner which makes you doubt it. I sometimes doubt myself whether he likes me, until I find him not only persevering in all manner of kindness, but coming to me and clinging to my society in a way that no one does who does not love one. It is manner. His abord, though soft and gentle, is at once too smooth and too cold. He does not know how to shake hands (shall I offer to teach him?), and has a way of stopping serious talk by some out-of-season jest -some mere play upon words, which, to me who love above all things good faith and simplicity in conversation, is more provoking than I have words to tell. Are not these the things that have made you doubt his regard? Unless you have stronger reasons do not give him up. Mr. Haydon dined with us on Saturday, and was most kind to young Edmund Havell, who dined here to meet himinstructing him to finish the portrait of a boy as if he had been his own son. We had great talk of his fresco, which I saw when I was in town. It resists any wet, like china; being done upon wet mortar and drying in. Only peculiar colors (earths) can be used. It seems to me very extraordinary that the first English artist who has made the attempt should have succeeded on his first trial. No depth can be given-no shadow. Still there are a certain class of subjects, chiefly from the Greek mythology, where only light and air are required for the background, which will be beautiful-an Assembly of the Gods, for instance, the Deification of Psyche, Aurora and the Hours, the Car of Venus, the Chariot of the Sun. It can not be retouched; so that only a man as certain of his drawing as Mr. Haydon could succeed. The subject of his present sketch is Uriel; and it is exquisitely bright, light, and ethereal—a presence. I should like you to see it. In these days of railways and steam-engines, a restored art, a new medium of beauty is worth lookVOL. II.-H ing at. Haydon himself is a very brilliant person, full of talent and fire and conversational power. His lectures are splendid things. In this year's "Keepsake" is a very fine poem, “Upper Austria," by my friend Mr. Kenyon, composed because, from feelings of giddiness, he feared his head was attacked. He composed these verses (not writing them until the poem of four hundred or five hundred lines was complete) as a test. It turned out that the stomach was deranged, and he was set to rights in no time. God bless you, my ever dear and kind friend! Most faithfully and affectionately yours, M. R. MITFORD. TO SIR WILLIAM ELFORD, The Priory, Totnes. Three-mile Cross, Oct. 20, 1835. MY DEAR FRIEND,-One change Lady Adams* must expect in sending her eldest hope to a public school-that he who went a boy will return a man; for any thing so precocious as the young gentlemen who emerge from Eton, Harrow, and Westminster (I know less of William of Wykeham's disciples) one shall seldom see on a summer's day. Nevertheless, although the change be at first a little startling, I believe that it wears away, and that the lads turn out no worse than their shy, bashful, awkward predecessors of thirty years ago. Yes, the rose beetle is of a burnished golden green. It comes in hot summers, and only in hot summers, in company with tribes of glowworms and flights of small blue butterflies, and death's-head moths and large green dragon-flies, and the thrice-beautiful Sphinx ligustri, or, as the common people prettily call it, the bee-bird. Another characteristic of this hot, dry summer has been the manner in which the large humble-bees (vulgarly dumbledoms) have forced open, torn apart, the buds of my geraniums; an operation I never saw them perform before. Another novelty of this season has been, that the splendid new annual, the Salpiglossis picta, has, after the first crop of blossoms, produced perfect seed without flower petals, a proof (if any were needed) that the petals which constitute the beauty of a flower are not necessary to its propagation. * Sir William Elford's daughter. I am again suffering from nervous rheumatism in the face. It came on with the change of the weather first, as it did last year; and I suppose that nothing but a continued residence in a hot climate (which is out of the question with me) would remove it. My father, I thank Heaven, is well, and joins me in kindest regards to all near Totnes. Ever, my dear friend, very faithfully yours, M. R. MITFORD. CHAPTER XII. LETTERS FOR 1836. To the REV. WILLIAM HARNESS, London. Three-mile Cross, Feb. 4, 1836. MY DEAR FRIEND,─We rejoice to find you so much recovered. My father was in town last week to dispose of a novel (I mean, to make an agreement for one, for it is not yet nearly written), and called at your house, where he saw the two Maries, but missed you. He has agreed with Saunders & Otley for £700 (seven hundred), a liberal price as times go. It is to be printed by September. I shall try my very best. Mr. H. F. Chorley is doing a life-literary life and correspondence of poor Mrs. Hemans, partly for the benefit of her boys. I know him only by correspondence, and by the introduction of my admirable friend Mary Howitt; but she speaks so highly of him, and his own letters so completely confirm the impression, that I feel assured that I have not done amiss in referring him either to you or Mr. Milman for the account of "The Vespers of Palermo." I never in my life saw any letters so thoroughly full of good feeling, rightminded and high-minded, as those of this very clever young man. If you can help him to any letters of Mrs. Hemans, I am sure you will. How are the Milmans? and dear Mr. Kenyon, how is he? you hear of the Queen Adelaide let me know; and believe me ever most faithfully yours, If M. R. MITFORD. To MISS JEPHSON, Castle Martyr, Ireland. Three-mile Cross, April 29, 1836. Yes, my dear love, the anemones are doubtless mine, for mine of the same seed sown at the same time are in full bloom. They are hardly red enough to please me, for I like them to be of the brightest colors, and most of mine are pale, of very pretty shades, pink and lilac and white, and some red and crimson, and many purple; but not the blaze of scarlet that I like in anemones. I want them to look like an old window of stained glass, or like my own geraniums in their summer glow, for there is nothing so bright as they are—except in the garden of Aladdin, where the blossoms were of rubies and amethysts and so you would say if you saw them in June. By the way, there is a most beautiful poem on the blue anemone in poor Mrs. Hemans's posthumous volume, which I have just received from her sister, Mrs. Hughes (the composer of the "Captive Knight," and other songs of hers), together with a very interesting letter. On her dying bed Mrs. Hemans used to recur to my descriptions of natural scenery, and meant if she had lived to have inscribed to me a volume of prose recollections, which she intended to have published. This would have been a very high honor; but perhaps there is a quiet, sad, serene, gratification in the private consciousness of such an intention, even more gratifying than the public distinction, and certainly more pure. She was a charming woman; and so is my friend Mary Howitt. By the way, I had a most gratifying letter from her the other day, with an account of Mr. O'Connell's visit to Nottingham. She speaks of Mrs. O'Connell with enthusiasm, as exactly fit for the wife of such a man. I always thought highly of her, because we heard so little about her. You will know what I mean. Ever, my dear love, most faithfully yours, M. R. M. P.S.-I am going to town (56 Russell Square) the 20th of next month, and shall stay a week or ten days. TO DR. MITFORD, Three-mile Cross. Wednesday night. 56 Russell Square, MY VERY DEAREST Father,—On arriving here, I found every thing very comfortable, and every body seemingly de lighted to see me, although much disappointed not to see you, whom it seems they had expected. At dinner we had Mr. Stanfield, the painter, who is charming, and talks of coming to take my country; Mr. Chorley, who is also charming; Mr. Sergeant Goulbourn, stupid enough; some other lawyers (names unknown), ditto, ditto; Mr. Crosse (or some such name), a very nice young man of your sessions, an old scholar of Dr. Valpy's (do you know whom I mean?); William Harness and his sisters; some sisters, nieces, and cousins of Mrs. Talfourd, and last and best, Erskine Perry, who is charming. And, indeed, Stanfield and Mr. Chorley were equally charming. Oh, dear me! what a pleasant thing it is to have five or six such men talking to one all the evening. How different from the country! Dear William Harness is getting quite strong upon his feet; he is, of course, as delightful and affectionate as ever. He does not go to see "Ion" to-morrow, but joins us at supper, where, by the way, there will not be above sixty people. Mr. Wordsworth and Mr. Landor dine with us, and Milman, Proctor, Rogers, etc. All the poets and leading literati in town sup here. I found a note from Lady Meux, informing me that her cousin, Marianne Skerrett, is still in Naples, and inviting me to go and see her ladyship either in town or at Theobalds, where she now is for this week of recess. She is a near connection and friend of the Broughams, you know. Thursday morning. Mrs. Trollope and her son have been here—she looking exceedingly well; and Mr. Blewitt, a little delicate person; and Mr. Kenyon (God bless him !), who is coming for me to-morrow to show me the giraffes, etc., and who is more charming than ever. I am expecting, amongst other persons, Miss Jane Porter and the Countess Montalembert, who was Miss Forbes; and I close this letter for fear of a tribe of people coming. We are quite well; I trust that you are so. Ever most affectionately yours, M. R. MITFORD. TO DR. MITFORD, Three-mile Cross. 56 Russell Square, May 26, 1836. Mr. Wordsworth, Mr. Landor, and Mr. White dined here. I like Mr. Wordsworth of all things; he is a most venerable |