tion in three ballads of a
very striking letter in Napier's "Life and Times of Montrose," by
the young lady who calls herself Mary Maynard. It is really a little
book that ought to make a noise, not too long, full of grace and of
interest, and she has adhered to the true story with excellent
taste, that story being a very remarkable union of the romantic and
the domestic. I am afraid that my other young poet, ----, is dying
of consumption; those fine spirits often fall in that way. I have
just corrected my book for a cheaper edition. Mr. Bentley is very
urgent for a second series, and I suppose I must try. I shall get
you to write for me to Mr. Hector Bossange when you come, for come
you must. My eyes begin to feel the effects of this long confinement
to one smoky and dusty room.

So far had I written, dearest friend, when this day (March 26)
brought me your most kind and welcome letter enclosed in another
from dear Mr. Bennoch. Am I to return Dr. Parsons's? or shall I
keep it till you come to fetch it? Tell the writer how very much I
prize his kindness, none the less that he likes (as I do) my
tragedies, that is, one of them, the best of my poor doings. The
lines on the Duchess are capital, and quite what she deserves; but I
think those the worst who, in so true a spirit of what Carlyle would
call flunkeyism, consent to sign any nonsense that their names may
figure side by side with that of a duchess, and they themselves find
(for once) an admittance to the gilded saloons of Stafford House.
For my part, I well-nigh lost an admirer the other day by taking a
common-sense view of the question. A lady (whose name I never heard
till a week ago) came here to take a house to be near me. (N.B.
There was none to be had.) Well, she was so provoked to find that I
had stopped short of the one hundredth page of ----, and never
intended to read another, that I do think, if we had not discovered
some sympathies to counterbalance that grand difference--As I live,
I have told you that story before! Ah! I am sixty-six, and I get
older every day! So does little Henry, who is at home just now, and
longing to put the clock forward that he may go to America. He is a
boy of great promise, full of sound sense, and as good as good can
be. I suppose that he never in his life told an untruth, or broke a