bon, vol. xi. or xii.), and send it to him to bring out without

a name.

Mr. Davison has taken to the "Lady's Magazine," and promises, if not "indemnity for the past, security for the future." I told you, I believe, that the late editor had run away upward of forty pounds in my debt, after having, chiefly by my articles, increased the sale of the magazine from two hundred and fifty to two thousand. However, I hope Mr. Davison will go on, for he is sure pay; and that sort of drudgery is heaven when compared with Covent Garden. In the mean time there is one thing which, to so old and kind a friend, I venture to mention. My father has at last resolved partly, I believe, instigated by the effect which the terrible feeling of responsibility and want of power has had on my health and spirits—to try if he can himself obtain any employment that may lighten the burden. He is, as you know, active, healthy, and intelligent, and with a strong sense of duty and of right. I am sure that he would fulfill to the utmost any charge that might be confided to him; and if it were one in which my mother or I could assist, you may be assured that he would have zealous and faithful coadjutors. For the management of estates or any country af fairs he is particularly well qualified; or any work of superintendence which requires integrity and attention. If you should hear of any such, either in Devonshire or elsewhere, would you mention him, or at least let me know? The addition of two or even one hundred a year to our little income, joined to what I am, in a manner, sure of gaining by mere industry, would take a load from my heart of which I can scarcely give you an idea. It would be every thing to me; for it would give me what, for many months, I have not had—the full command of my own powers. Even “Julian" was written under a pressure of anxiety which left me not a moment's rest. I am, however, at present, quite recovered from the physical effects of this tormenting affair, and have regained my flesh and color, and almost my power of writing prose articles; and if I could but recover my old hopefulness and elasticity, should be again such as I used to be in happier days. Could I but see my dear father settled in any employment, I know I should. Believe me ever, with the truest affection, very gratefully yours, M. R. M.

P.S.-The Duke of Glo'ster went once, if not twice, to see "Julian." You know him, I believe.

To B. R. HAYDON, ESQ.

Three-mile Cross, May 29, 1823. MY DEAR SIR,-I have no words to say how deeply we feel your situation. Oh! it is a dishonor to the age and to the country, as well as a grief to you and to those who love you. But it can not last-that, thank Heaven! is impossible. Parliament, or the king, or the public, must do the duty which they owe to the great artist, the excellent man, whose pure and admirable character has never given them an excuse for the neglect of his genius. Be assured that it can not last. Have you thought of my proposal of an appeal to the king? It can do no harm; and eloquently as you write, I am sure that it would touch him. Pray think of this. It is terrible to think of you amongst these men, bearing, as you say, "the mark on their countenance." It is like an imprisoned antelope-a caged eagle. But it can not last, thank Heaven! And you will come out a free and a happy man, with fresh cause to love your sweet wife and your noble art. Pray try the king; I have great confidence in his kindly nature. Surely Sir W. Knighton, your townsman, can not refuse to present an appeal to him. Do try.

I am inclosing a number of notes for the twopenny post to a friend in Parliament, and shall add this. The direction is heartbreaking.* but it can not last, I am sure of that. Pray let me know how you are, and, above all, the moment that any thing is done for your release. God bless you, my dear friend! Most faithfully and admiringly yours,

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.

To SIR WILLIAM ELFORD, Bickham, Plymouth.

Three-mile Cross, August 21, 1823. I hasten, my dear and kind friend, to reply to your very welcome letter. I am quite well now, and if not as hopeful as I used to be, yet less anxious, and far less depressed than I ever expected to feel again. This is merely the influence of the scenery, the flowers, the cool yet pleasant season, and

* The direction was, "B. R. Haydon, Esq., Historical Painter, King's Bench Prison."

the absence of all literary society; for our prospects are not otherwise changed. My dear father, relying with a blessed sanguineness on my poor endeavors, has not, I believe, even inquired for a situation; and I do not press the matter, though I anxiously wish it, being willing to give one more trial to the theatre. If I could but get the assurance of earning for my dear father and mother a humble competence I should be the happiest creature in the world. But for these dear ties I should never write another line, but go out in some situation as other destitute women do. It seems to me, however, my duty to try a little longer; the more especially as I am sure separation would be felt by all of us to be the greatest of all evils.

My present occupation is a great secret. I will tell it to you in strict confidence. It is the boldest attempt ever made by woman, which I have undertaken at the vehement desire of Mr. Macready, who confesses that he has proposed the subject to every dramatic poet of his acquaintance—that it has been the wish of his life-and that he never met with any one courageous enough to attempt it before. In short, I am engaged in a grand historical tragedy on the greatest subject in English story-Charles and Cromwell. Should you ever have suspected your poor little friend of so adventurous a spirit? Mr. Macready does not mean the author to be known, and I do not think it will be found out, which is the reason of my requesting so earnestly your silence on the subject. Macready thinks that my sex was, in great part, the occasion of the intolerable malignity with which "Julian" was attacked. They, at least, can not call this a melodrame. My wish is to do strict poetical justice, in the best sense of the word, to both the men and both their causes. What is your opinion of Cromwell? Mine is, that he was a man acting under an intense conviction of the justice of his cause, and little scrupulous as to the means employed in its furtherance. His domestic character appears, in the old memorials and letters and State papers which I have been consulting, to have been delightful and amiable past expression. I shall give only the short time of Charles's being in town before his execution, not at all varying from history, except by bringing in the queen and giving Cromwell a Royalist daughter. Do you think I shall succeed? Macready

says he is sure of it. But I fear, I greatly fear. He himself will probably have no power at all next season, since I find they have engaged Mr. Young.

Pray, my dear friend, if you should hear of any situation that would suit my dear father, do not fail to let me know, for that would be the real comfort, to be rid of the theatre and all its troubles. Any thing in the medical line, provided the income, however small, were certain, he would be well qualified to undertake. I hope there is no want of duty in my wishing him to contribute his efforts with mine to our support. God knows, if I could, if there were any certainty, how willingly, how joyfully, I would do all; but that there is not. Pray forgive this long detail, and the apparent vanity with which I have spoken of my tragedies, casting off all the usual circumlocutions, and writing my very thoughts; but I have learned to know myself too well for vanity-my weakness, my impatience, my many faults. If I were better, more industrious, more patient, more consistent, I do think I should succeed; and I will try to be so. I promise you I will, and to make the best use of my poor talents. Pray forgive this egotism; it is a relief and a comfort to me to pour forth my feelings to so dear and so respected a friend; and they are not now so desolate, not quite so desolate, as they have been. God grant me to deserve success! Ever, my dearest and kindest friend, most gratefully and affectionately yours, M. R. MITFORD.

Pray forgive the sad stupidity of this letter. Since I have become a professed authoress, woe is me! A washerwoman hath a better trade. I am but a shabby correspondent. Pray forgive it, and continue to think of me with your old invaluable kindness.

To B. R. HAYDON, ESQ., Paddington Green.

Three-mile Cross, August 24, 1823. Pray are you a cricketer? We are very great ones—I mean our parish, of which we, the feminine members, act audience, and "though we do not play, o'erlook" the balls. When I wrote to you last I was just going to see a grand match in a fine old park near us, Bramshill, between Hampshire, with Mr. Budd, and All England. I anticipated great pleasure from so grand an exhibition, and thought, like a

simpleton, the better the play the more the enjoyment. Oh, what a mistake! There they were-a set of ugly old men, white-headed and bald-headed (for half of Lord's was engaged in the combat, players and gentlemen, Mr. Ward and Lord Frederick, the veterans of the green), dressed in tight white jackets (the Apollo Belvedere could not bear the hideous disguise of a cricketing jacket), with neckcloths primly tied round their throats, fine japanned shoes, silk stockings, and gloves, instead of our fine village lads, with their unbuttoned collars, their loose waistcoats, and the large shirt-sleeves which give an air so picturesque and Italian to their glowing, bounding youthfulness: there they stood, railed in by themselves, silent, solemn, slow-playing for money, making a business of the thing, grave as judges, taciturn as chessplayers—a sort of dancers without music, instead of the glee, the fun, the shouts, the laughter, the glorious confusion of the country game. And there were we, the lookers-on, in tents and marquees, fine and freezing, dull as the players, cold as this hard summer weather, shivering and yawning and trying to seem pleased, the curse of gentility on all our doings, as stupid as we could have been in a ball-room. I never was so much disappointed in my life. But every thing is spoilt when money puts its ugly nose in. To think of playing cricket for hard cash! Money and gentility would ruin any pastime under the sun. Much to my comfort (for the degrading my favorite sport into a "science," as they were pleased to call it, had made me quite spiteful), the game ended unsatisfactorily to all parties, winners and losers. Old Lord Frederick, on some real or imaginary affront, took himself off in the middle of the second innings, so that the two last were played without him, by which means his side lost, and the other could hardly be said to win. So be it always when men make the noble game of cricket an affair of bettings and hedgings, and, may be, of cheatings.

And now God bless you! Kindest regards and best wishes from all. Ever yours, M. R. MITFORD.

To B. R. HAYDON, ESQ., 8 Paddington Green.

[Fragment.]

October, 1823.

I have a sneaking kindness for portraits. I do not mean