to he was one evening about to quid the recatze, he observed a young lady on the point of faunting. Having procured water he hastened to her support. The striking tigua of the young soldier made a deep impression on the lady. Memoirs of L General Webb. He waited upore the lovely widow the next day, when that favorable unpression was increased, wh had been troduced already by the Captain's elegant appearanc: Memoirs of L General Webb. and polite behaviour had for a day or two, the notion for the book in numbers; it is much too grave and sad for that." . . . "The great Revolution's a-coming, and the man not here who's to head it. I wonder whether he is born, and where he lives. The present writers are all employed as by instinct in unscrewing the old framework of society and getting it ready for the smash." To Lady Stanley he writes about the same time, "I am writing a book of cut-throat melancholy suitable to my state, and have no news of myself or anybody to give you which should not be written on black-edged paper, and sealed with a hatchment." My father used often to go off into the country with his work. for a day or two, and among other places he liked Southborough, near Tunbridge Wells, where he used to stay at an inn and write. The summer when he was busy upon " Esmond," his cousins, Mrs. Irvine and Miss Selina Shakespear, were living on Rustington Common, and he used to go over sometimes and spend the day with them. It was on one of these occasions that he drew the scenes from the life of Lieut.-General Webb here given, and which Miss Shakespear has kept all these years. Meanwhile the Lectures continued their course. He undertook a northern tour, during which, however, he still worked at his book. W. M. T. to MRS. CARMICHAEL-SMYTH. "Saturday, Sunday, Monday.-My dearest mother, I have had a working fit on me for the last many days, and have slaved away without a day's intermission; at home, at Brighton, and regularly since I have been here too. I wish I had six months more to put into the novel: now it's nearly done; its scarce more than a sketch, and it might have been made a durable history, complete in its parts and its whole. But at the end of six months it would want other six. It takes as much trouble as Macaulay's History almost, and he has the vast advantage of remembering everything he has read, whilst everything but impressions-I mean facts, dates, and so forth-slip out of my head, in which there's some great faculty lacking, depend upon it. "I came on Tuesday night. What a comfort to journey four hundred miles in twelve hours, reading a volume of Swift, and |