bler, pointing to the splendid god of the silver bow-" dress! Look at Apollo !" These plays would have annoyed me exceedingly on these accounts but for the interest I took in this boy.

I had a letter from Mr. Haydon yesterday, containing an anecdote of Sir Walter Scott, which I will transcribe for you in the very words of our great painter. "A friend of mine has been spending some time with Sir W. Scott. He (Sir Walter) is liable to perpetual intrusion of every kind. A stupid chattering fellow got at him by a letter and staid a week. He was a sad bore, and my friend and another young dog were obliged to retire to a window to avoid laughing. Sir Walter hobbled up to them and said, ' Come, come, young gentlemen, I assure you it requires no small talent to be a decided bore. Be more respectful!' I like this; there is the geniality of the Unknown in it." I like it too, and so I hope will you, although it has hardly left me room to say that my father and mother are both better, and both send their kindest remembrances. Adieu, my very dear friend.

Believe me always, most affectionately yours,

M. R. MITFORD.

Fragment of a letter to R. B. HAYDON, ESQ., 8 Paddington Green.

Three-mile Cross, Oct. 28, 1824. No! no! no! not wild about all those boys, only about one of them. The boys generally did the thing surprisingly well. We had a pretty Alcestis, and a very magnificent Hercules, but it was Admetus only that showed such extraordinary genius. The part, you know, is odiously mean and selfish, and cowardly and complaining; every thing that a woman likes least. The boy is not at all handsome-pale and short, and fair and old-looking-not at all the lad to catch a woman's eye. Nothing but genius, that life-pulse genius, could have inspired me with the enthusiasm which I did feel, and do feel, on his account. Some of the things which he did (things which, to my certain knowledge, nobody there could have taught him) were as grand and fine as any thing that Kean does in Othello, perhaps finer, for they were as passionate, as intense, but more chaste. He is unspoilt by the exaggeration of a great theatre. I am sure of his being so very

great, not only by the impression which he made on me and Mr. Talfourd, but by the dissimilar effect on some wiseacres of my acquaintance, whose blame is praise. It is a fine thing to have two or three fools of whose folly one is so certain that it is a standard. Say the reverse of what they say, and you must be right. I wish you had seen this boy Richard

son.

I heartily agree with you in admiration of the "Agamemnon" of Eschylus. He was perhaps the most wonderful of the three great poets, although Sophocles seems to me the most perfect. His "Philoctetes," besides the fine romance of the first scene, moves one to deeper pity and livelier indignation than any play I ever read out of Shakspeare. One hates Ulysses with a heartiness that does one good, but he is a very detestable person always, even in Homer. Euripides has exquisite scenes, but only scenes-no whole play, like the "Philoctetes," or the "Edipus," or the "Antigone," -nothing that approaches in situation to the "Prometheus." Yet there are beautiful scenes, too, in "Euripides," especially those two of Phædra in the "Hippolitus."

I once thought of writing a tragedy on the story of Francesca of Rimini, and using those two scenes, and I still would do so if we had a great tragic actress- -one who could give an intense and fervid personification of passionate, unhappy, but yet pure love. All this seems very blue, but although I have no knowledge of Greek, I have read these plays very often in translations, both French and English. And, setting aside the immense power of that most extraordinary language, whose interfusing quality seems quite unapproached by any modern tongue-setting this aside, I do not hesitate to say that there is more in one scene of Shakspeare than in all the Greek drama put together. And yet there is more in the Greek drama than in the French, the Italian, the Spanish, or (setting aside Shakspeare) the English.

TO SIR WILLIAM ELFORD, Bickham, Plymouth.

Three-mile Cross, Nov. 9, 1824.

I begin my answer, my dear and valued friend, as soon as I receive your welcome letter, although I may probably not have an opportunity of sending it off for some days. My father and mother, to commence with that which, as most inter

esting to me will be most acceptable to you, are better than they have been. He is much older for his terrible illness, but otherwise quite recovered, and my dear mother has had a cold, but has not suffered another attack of her dreadful complaint. This has set me a little free from the nervousness which used to beset me whenever a breath of air blew upon her, to her great annoyance. I am most grateful for these blessings, as you may well believe.

First, let me tell you that I am very much gratified by your kind friend Mr. Cranstoun's approbation, and that I will take heed, if I write another volume-if I Our-Village-it again-I will try to profit by his criticism.

By the way, you will be glad to hear that our dear friend Mr. Haydon has now made up his mind to portrait painting, has plenty of employment, and is going on well. He has sold his "Silenus," and, in short, will prosper now, I trust in God! He is a most delightful person, and, above all, a capital correspondent, writing me two or three letters for one tiny note.

We have a dispute respecting Lord Byron and Wordsworth which is of great use in these communications. Nothing like a good standing quarrel to which people may fall ding-dong. These two poets are cut and come again, like a goose pie at Christmas. You will guess, of course, that he is all for Byron, I all for Wordsworth. And truly this last book ("The conversations of Lord Byron," as collected by Captain Medwin) gives me no small cause to crow. His infamous libertinism, his intolerable effeminate vanity, his utter want of taste-Wordsworth, Milton, Shakspeare cried down -Dr. Johnson's criticisms, Moore's songs, and his own plays (about the three worst things of their sort in the language) cried up! Truly my dear and very clever adversary is put to his trumps, and forced to say that "I am a woman, and therefore." I have never had any respect for Lord Byron's talents since he failed so egregiously in the drama, and did not find it out. Scott failed in the drama too, but then he made the discovery and drew back, and, accordingly, nobody remembers "Halidon Hill," and every body adores the novels.

Friday, I don't know the day of the month,}

but the last Friday in November.

Since writing the inclosed I have been to town; and am, and have been, hard at work altering a play which I hope to get out within a month at Drury Lane. It is on the subject of Rienzi. Macready is with me heart and soul. His new wife is a pretty, little, gentle creature-very young and very timid. Kindest regards from all. Say every thing for me to dear Miss Elford. Always most affectionately yours, M. R. MITFORD.

To B. R. HAYDON, ESQ., 58 Connaught Terrace, Portman

Square.

Castle Street, Saturday evening, Dec. 20, 1824.

MY DEAR FRIEND,-I am commissioned by Mr. Talfourd to tell you, with his very best compliments, that next Tuesday is fixed for Miss Foote's trial; and that, if you will come here at eight o'clock precisely on that morning in a coach, he will equip you in a spare wig and gown of his own, and take you with him to the court. You had better come in an old black coat and waistcoat,-old, observe, because the powder of the wig will spoil them. Mr. Talfourd could supply you with these articles also, if you think you could get into them. I don't he being a delicate, womanly man, and you a sort of lesser Hercules. If you dislike the masquerade, which I think will be capital fun, he will do all he can to get you in in propria persona. But the court is so small and expected to be so crowded with barristers, that, as the greatest painter in Europe and nothing else, you are likely to be turned out; whereas, as a mere trumpery lawyer whom no one knows, you are safe. At all events you must be here precisely at eight. I am so sorry that I shall not see this famous frolic, being engaged on Monday to dine and sleep at Hampstead; but you must come back in your legal costume, that I may see you. It would be too bad to be in a position in which I should at once lose the personal participation of the fun, and the almost equal gratification of your account of it, which, if I were actually in the country, you would infallibly send me. Ever yours, M. R. M.

CHAPTER III.

LETTERS FOR 1825 AND 1826.

To B. R. HAYDON, ESQ., Connaught Terrace.

Three-mile Cross, Feb. 3, 1825. MY DEAR FRIEND,-If you see Mr. Young, do say how much I am flattered at his ready acceptance of the part, and that it was not withdrawn owing to any disrespect toward him. You may send letters to me through Mr. Monck always. He talks of taking the liberty to call and look at my picture. I am sure you will, if you see him, be pleased with his frankness and originality. He is a great Grecian and a great political economist-a sort of Andrew Marvel in Parliament; living in a lodging close to the House, with an old woman, who cooks him alternately a beefsteak, a mutton chop, or a veal cutlet: he does not indulge in a lamb chop till after Easter. He votes sometimes with one party and sometimes with another, as he likes their measures; respected by all, notwithstanding his independence; and idolized here in the country for his liberality, his cheerfulness, his good-humor, and his unfailing kindness.

God bless you all, my dear friend! Say every thing for me to your loveliest wife, and believe me always, most faithfully yours, M. R. MITFORD.

TO SIR WILLIAM ELFORD, Bickham, Plymouth. Three-mile Cross, Feb. 19, 1825. MY VERY DEAR FRIEND,-I believe that if I could conquer my own predilection for the drama I should do wisely to adhere to the booksellers; for the little prose volume has certainly done its work, and made an opening for a longer effort. You would be diverted at some of the instances I could tell you of its popularity. Columbines and children have been named after Mayflower; stage-coachmen and postboys point out the localities; schoolboys deny the po sibility of any woman's having written the cricket-match without schoolboy help; and such men as Lord Stowell (Sir