, the
object of her first letter was to press upon my notice the poems of a
young friend of hers, and she was constantly saying good words for
unfledged authors who were struggling forward to gain recognition. No
one ever lent such a helping hand as she did to the young writers of her
country.

The recognition which America, very early in the career of Miss Mitford,
awarded her, she never forgot, and she used to say, "It takes ten years
to make a literary reputation in England, but America is wiser and
bolder, and dares say at once, 'This is fine.'"

Sweetness of temper and brightness of mind, her never-failing
characteristics, accompanied her to the last; and she passed on in her
usual cheerful and affectionate mood, her sympathies uncontracted by
age, narrow fortune, and pain.

A plain substantial cross marks the spot in the old churchyard at
Swallowfield, where, according to her own wish, Mary Mitford lies
sleeping. It is proposed to erect a memorial in the old parish church to
her memory, and her admirers in England have determined, if a sufficient
sum can be raised, to build what shall be known as "The Mitford Aisle,"
to afford accommodation for the poor people who are not able to pay for
seats. Several of Miss Mitford's American friends will join in this
beautiful object, and a tablet will be put up in the old church
commemorating the fact that England and America united in the tribute.

LETTERS, 1848-1849.

Three-mile Cross, December 4, 1848.

Dear Mr. Fields: My silence has been caused by severe illness. For
more than a twelvemonth my health has been so impaired as to leave
me a very poor creature, almost incapable of any exertion at all
times, and frequently suffering severe pain besides. So that I have
to entreat the friends who are good enough to care for me never to
be displeased if a long time elapses between my letters. My
correspondents being so numerous, and I myself so utterly alone,
without any one even to fold or seal a letter, that the very
physical part of the task sometimes becomes more fatiguing than I
can bear. I am not, generally speaking, confined to my room, or even
to the house; but the loss of power is so great that after the short
drive or shorter walk which my very skilful medical adviser orders,
I am too often compelled to retire immediately to bed, and I have
not once been well enough to go out of an evening during the ye