rous and sanguine; and it having pleased God, somehow or other, to enable me hitherto to provide what was absolutely wanted, he now, I think, relies upon it, just as if it were money in the funds-his only fault, God bless him! But if he could tell how debt presses upon the mind-upon the heart, as if it were a sin, and sometimes, I do believe, makes me ill, when otherwise I should be well-he would be more careful. But men do not change at eighty; and I do think that while he wants me, and for what he wants me, I shall be spared. Finden has not yet paid me.

I am not exceedingly worse, only there is more and more fatigue and severe pain. Yours most affectionately, M. R. MITFord.

ed cream,

TO MISS BARRETT, Torquay.

Three-mile Cross, Sept. 20, 1838.

Ten thousand thanks, my dear young friend, for the cloutthat pastoral luxury, which is so welcome to me, because my father is so fond of it. I am not myself suffered to partake of the delicacy, but what my father enjoys is more than enjoyment to me, and it is mere selfishness that makes it so. I love to feed Flush even, and to see my tame pigeons feed at the window, and the saucy hen tap the glass, if the casement be shut. She likes to come in and to sit on the innermost ledge of the window-sill, and listen and turn her pretty top-knotted head to this side and that while I talk to her. This pleasure I owe to you, having taken to the homely pigeons as a rustic imitation of your doves, and they blend well with my flowery garden.

In spite of his physical debility, Mr. Thatcher is in no common degree manly; and when I say this, and add that he is also mild and gentle, I say more for him than can be said for most of the "pen and ink" people, who are by very far the most effeminate class in existence. If it take nine tailors to make a man, according to my calculation it would take nine authors to make a tailor.

I hope favorably for Miss Landon's marriage. Dr. Buckland had seen (he told me) her husband, a little boyish-looking fair-haired Scotchman, but really thirty-six. He spoke well of him; and a story, which I will tell you, looks liberal and gentlemanly: Mr. Maclean was showing some rings of

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negro workmanship at a party, where he accidentally met Dr. Buckland, and offered him a large and heavy one. "Not that," said Dr. Buckland, unwilling to accept so valuable a present; give me one of the small and slight ones, for my wife or daughter." Upon which Mr. Maclean forced three rings upon him, the original and two of the slighter fabric. This looked well. The rings I saw, and they were beautiful. The things that go under Lady Stepney's title* were all written over by Miss Landon, or the grammar and spelling would have disgraced a lady's maid. This is a want of self-respect which one can not pardon; and, coupled with other facts of a similar nature, they explain my distaste toward her as a sister authoress.

Did I tell you that I have had accounts of Joanna Baillie, who was seventy-six on the 11th of this month? She is losing her memory, and conscious of her loss. Heaven bless you, my ever dearest! Let me hear soon, soon. Ever yours,

M. R. MITFORD.

CHAPTER XV.

LETTERS FOR 1839 AND 1840.

TO MISS JEPHSON, Castle Martyr, Ireland.

Three-mile Cross, March 1, 1839.

MY DEAREST EMILY,-Poor dear Lady Dacre has written me the most affecting letter I ever read. Mrs. Sullivan was all that is good, and Lady Dacre's love for her was like that of Madame de Sevigné for Madame de Grignan. Poor Mrs. Dupuy, too, is in equal distress for the loss of Mrs. Blagrave. Lady Sidmouth, Lady Morton tells me, is worse instead of better since her sojourn in town, where she has put herself under the care of Dr. Chambers and Sir Benjamin Brodie. I fear that my sweet Miss Barrett is no better at Torquay. The Milmans have lost their favorite child, a girl, whose little hand was always in her father's. Mrs. Milman's mother is also dead. In short, Death is busy around us. I am doubly thankful to have had my beloved father spared to me. If I could but give my whole life to him, reading to

*In the Annual.

him, driving out with him, playing cribbage with him, never five minutes away from him, except when he is asleep (for this is what makes him happy), it would be the breath of life to me; for the complete and child-like dependence which he has upon my love to supply to him food and rest and amusement is the most endearing of all ties. I love him a million times better than ever, and can quite understand that love of a mother for her first-born, which this so fond dependence produces in the one so looked to.

How entirely I sympathize in all the troubles of that tremendous storm. To me the fall of an oak always seems like death. Flush is his master's darling, and certainly the prettiest and merriest and most affectionate little creature that ever lived. We thought he would have died of grief during my father's illness; he would not eat, and passed his whole life at the chamber door.

My father's love to you. He is so well! Ever yours, M. R. MITFORD.

TO MISS BARRETT, Torquay.

Three-mile Cross, May 28, 1839.

MY DEAR FRIEND,-I should always doubt any preference of mine when opposed to yours, always, even if my ignorance of languages did not make my writing about foreign poetry a very great presumption. French I read just like English, and always shall, and I have a tendency toward the comedies and memoirs, that makes me open a French book with real gusto. And little as I know of Italian, I like the gemlike bits of Ariosto. But after all to be English, with our boundless vistas in verse and in prose, is a privilege and a glory; and you are born among those who make it such, be sure of that. I do not believe, my sweetest, that the very highest poetry does sell at once. Look at Wordsworth! The hour will arrive, and all the sooner if to poetry unmatched in truth and beauty and feeling you condescend to add story and a happy ending, that being among the conditions of recurrence to every book with the mass even of cultivated readers-I do not mean the few.

I once remember puzzling an epicure by adding to an apple tart, in the making, the remains of a pot of preserved pine, syrup and alf, a most unexpected luxury in our cot

tage; such would a bit of your writing be in a book of mine -flavor, sweetness, perfume, and unexpectedness.... Yes, for one year, from eight and a half to nine and a half-I lived-we lived, at Lyme Regis. Our abode was a fine old house in the middle of the chief street; a porch and great gables with spread-eagles distinguish it. It was built round a quadrangle, and the back looked into a garden, which descended by terraces to a small stream, a descent so abrupt that a grotto with its basin and spring formed a natural shelter under the hilly bank, planted with strawberries. Arbutus, passion-flowers, myrtles, and moss-roses abounded in that lovely garden and covered the front of the house; and the drawing-room chimney-piece was a copy of the monument to Shakspeare in Westminster Abbey. How I loved that house! There is an account of a visit to Lyme in Miss Austen's exquisite "Persuasion." Some of the scenery in the back of the Isle of Wight resembles Pinny, but it is inferior. I shall tell dear Lady Dacre of your sympathy. Heaven bless you, my own sweet love. Ever yours,

M. R. MITFORD.

To MISS JEPHSON, Castle Martyr.

Three-mile Cross, May 30, 1839. Have you heard that there has been a report-false of course that Miss Clarke (Lady Morgan's niece) was to be married to Rogers the poet? He is seventy-seven at least. All London believed it for some time; but it is not so.

If you have a single anemone seed to spare, send me some inclosed to Mr. Sergeant Talfourd, M.P. Ever most affectionately yours, M. R. MITFORD. We have an exquisite lithograph of Lucas's portrait of my father.

To DOUGLAS JERROLD, ESQ.

About July, 1839. Your graceful and gracious method of asking for contributions, my dear Mr. Jerrold, could not have been answered by a denial, even if the name of the editor, the striking individuality of the illustrations, and the general power and popularity of the work, had not been such as to insure my read-. iest compliance. Will you have the goodness to tell the pro

prietor, with my compliments, that I accept his terms of five guineas for an article not exceeding eight pages, and will endeavor to approach that length as closely as my usual blundering with regard to the respective quantities of MS. and letter-press will permit. But I shall not be able to send any contributions just yet. It has pleased Messrs. Finden at the eleventh hour to apply to me to edit a fourth volume of their splendid "Tableaux," and to desire that two-thirds at least of the book be written by myself, and until that be fairly out of hand, I can not turn to any other work. Even after that I have another short engagement, which ought to precede yours; but that may perhaps wait until I have furnished you with one article. Has Mr. Hammond really taken Drury Lane? And would he, do you think, like a ghoststory, which upon a large stage would be effective, for an afterpiece? If so, I have one by me. Ever faithfully yours,

M. R. MITFORD.

To the REV. WILLIAM HARNESS, London.

Three-mile Cross, August 2, 1839. MY DEAR FRIEND,-Of all the persons I have ever seen, Daniel Webster most completely answers my notion of a truly great man-good as well as great-with the gentleness and repose of power in his words and in his smile. It really does one good to think that such a man has arisen from among the tillers of the earth, to take his place as a legislator and ruler of nations. Of all Mr. Kenyon's kindnesses, I value none so much as his having brought him and his family here. My father was as much charmed with him as I was. The Sedgwicks are very likable, and there is a freedom from cant about the authoress, which, considering the do-me-good nature of her books, I could not have anticipated. Certainly the Pickwick countenance, as given in the prints, is like our dear friend, and I presume that consciousness has made him throw off his spectacles; but he is, with all his kindness, a great deal too shrewd and clever for that very benevolent and rather simple personage.

The Websters spoke of you with real affection: it was nothing less; and I have a letter from that warm-hearted person, Mrs. Opie, so delighted with Mary! Our best love to you all. Ever, my dear friend, most faithfully yours,

M. R. MITFORD.