and too poor to hook on upon), my only relation in the wide world.  This is a desolate view of things; but it explains a degree of clinging to that one most precious parent which people can hardly comprehend.  You can scarcely imagine how fine an old man he is; how clear of head and warm of heart.  He almost wept over your letter to-day, and reads your book with singular delight and satisfaction, in spite of the difference in politics.  He feels strongly, and so, I assure you, do I, your kind mention of me and my poor writings—­a sort of testimony always gratifying, but doubly so when the distinguished writer is a dear friend.  Even in this desolation, your success—­that of your last work [Paris and the Parisians] especially must be satisfactory to you.  I have no doubt that two volumes on Italy will prove equally delightful to your readers, whilst the journey will be the best possible remedy for all that you have suffered in spirits and health.

“I am attempting a novel, for which Messieurs Saunders and Ottley have agreed to give 700_l_.  It is to be ready some time in September—­I mean the MS.—­and I am most anxious upon every account to make it as good as possible, one very great reason being the fair, candid, and liberal conduct of the intended publishers.  I shall do my very best.  Shall I, do you think, succeed?  I take for granted that our loss is your gain, and that you see Mr. Milman and his charming wife, who will, I am sure, sympathise most sincerely in your present[1] affliction.

[Footnote 1:  Mr. Milman had resigned recently the incumbency of a parish in Reading.  My mother’s affliction alluded to was the death of her youngest daughter, Emily.]

“Adieu, my dear friend.  I am tying myself up from letter-writing until I have finished my novel.  While I cannot but hope for one line from you to say that you are recovering.  Letters to me may always be inclosed to Mr. Sergeant Talfourd, M.P., 2, Elm Court, Temple.  Even if he be on circuit, they will reach me after a short delay.  God bless you all.  My father joins heartily in this prayer, with

“Your faithful and affectionate,

“M.R.  MITFORD.”

* * * * *

The next, and last which I have found, is entirely undated, but post-marked 20th April, 1837.

* * * * *

“MY DEAR FRIEND,—­I don’t know when a trifle has pleased me so much as the coincidence which set us a-writing to each other just at the same time.  I have all the north-country superstition flowing through my veins, and do really believe in the exploded doctrine of sympathies.  That is to say, I believe in all genial superstitions, and don’t like this steam-packet railway world of ours, which puts aside with so much scorn that which for certain Shakespeare and Ben Jonson held for true.  I am charmed at your own account of yourself and your doings.  Mr. Edward Kenyon—­(whose