uage,--
A rose-leaf on the couch of Age."

And Harriet Martineau pays her respects to my friend in this wise: "Miss
Mitford's descriptions of scenery, brutes, and human beings have such
singular merit, that she may be regarded as the founder of a new style;
and if the freshness wore off with time, there was much more than a
compensation in the fine spirit of resignation and cheerfulness which
breathed through everything she wrote, and endeared her as a suffering
friend to thousands who formerly regarded her only as a most
entertaining stranger."

What lovely drives about England I have enjoyed with Miss Mitford as my
companion and guide! We used to arrange with her trusty Sam for a day
now and then in the open air. He would have everything in readiness at
the appointed hour, and be at his post with that careful, kind-hearted
little maid, the "hemmer of flounces," all prepared to give the old lady
a fair start on her day's expedition. Both those excellent servants
delighted to make their mistress happy, and she greatly rejoiced in
their devotion and care. Perhaps we had made our plans to visit Upton
Court, a charming old house where Pope's Arabella Fermor had passed many
years of her married life. On the way thither we would talk over "The
Rape of the Lock" and the heroine, Belinda, who was no other than
Arabella herself. Arriving on the lawn in front of the decaying mansion,
we would stop in the shade of a gigantic oak, and gossip about the times
of Queen Elizabeth, for it was then the old house was built, no doubt.

Once I remember Miss Mitford carried me on a pilgrimage to a grand old
village church with a tower half covered with ivy. We came to it through
laurel hedges, and passed on the way a magnificent cedar of Lebanon. It
was a superb pile, rich in painted glass windows and carved oak
ornaments. Here Miss Mitford ordered the man to stop, and, turning to me
with great enthusiasm, said, "This is Shiplake Church, where Alfred
Tennyson was married!" Then we rode on a little farther, and she called
my attention to some of the finest wych-elms I had ever seen.

Another day we drove along the valley of the Loddon, and she pointed out
the Duke of Wellington's seat of Strathfieldsaye. As our pony trotted
leisurely over the charming road, she told many amusing stories of the
Duke's economical habits, and she rated him soundly for his money-saving
propensities. The furniture in the house she said was a disgrace to th