of Vittoria Corrombona’s life and death contained in a collection of Italian stories called “Crimes Celebres,” by Stendal, where it keeps company with other tragedies of private life, which during the same century occupied with their atrocious details the tribunals of justice in Rome.  Among the collection is the story from which Mr. Fechter’s melodrama of “Bel Demonio” was taken, the story of the Cenci, and the story of a certain Duchess of Pagliano, all of them inconceivably horrible and revolting.

About the same time that this play of Barry Cornwall’s was given up, a long negotiation between Miss Mitford and the management of Covent Garden came to a conclusion by her withdrawal of her play of “Inez de Castro,” a tragedy founded upon one of the most romantic and picturesque incidents in the Spanish chronicle.  After much uncertainty and many difficulties, the project of bringing it out was abandoned.  I remember thinking I could do nothing with the part of the heroine, whose corpse is produced in the last act, seated on the throne and receiving the homage of the subjects of her husband, Pedro the Cruel—­a very ghastly incident in the story, which I think would in itself have endangered the success of the play.  My despondency about the part of Inez had nothing to do with the possible effect of this situation, however, but was my invariable impression with regard to every new part that was assigned to me on first reading it.  But I am sure Miss Mitford had no cause to regret that I had not undertaken this; the success of her play in my hands ran a risk such as her fine play of “Rienzi,” in those of Mr. Young or Mr. Macready, could never have incurred; and it was well for her that to their delineation of her Roman tribune, and not mine of her Aragonese lady, her reputation with the public as a dramatic writer was confided.

I have mentioned in this last letter a morning visit from Chantrey, the eminent sculptor, who was among our frequenter.  His appearance and manners were simple and almost rustic, and he was shy and silent in society, all which may have been results of his obscure birth and early want of education.  It was to Sir Francis Chantrey that my father’s friends applied for the design of the beautiful silver vase which they presented to him at the end of his professional career.  The sculptor’s idea seemed to me a very happy and appropriate one, and the design was admirably executed; it consisted of a simple and elegant figure of Hamlet on the cover of the vase, and round it, in fine relief, the “Seven Ages of Man,” from Jacques’s speech in “As You Like It;” the whole work was very beautiful, and has a double interest for me, as that not only of an eminent artist, but a kind friend of my father’s.

                                  GREAT RUSSELL STREET, March 7, 1831. 
     MY DEAREST H——­,