My acquaintance with Mary Russell Mitford began in rather a singular manner. It must have been in 1852 that a gentleman, whom we often saw, talked more than ever of Miss Mitford, whom he had long known, both personally and by a very voluminous correspondence. He spoke of her always with the affectionate admiration so becoming in one of a younger generation who revered those whom he looked on as leaders in the past. At this time Miss Mitford was three or four years past sixty, and resided in the cottage at Swallowfield, made famous by her occupation of it Physically, she was old and infirm for her age, but her mental faculties seemed but little impaired. She was engaged in the good work of writing a book of recollections, with the view of making some little provision thereby for her two old servants. The mutual—I beg pardon, common—friend to whom I have alluded must have spoken to Miss Mitford of me with some kindliness, for the authoress sent me gracious messages; and by-and-by it was intimated to me that she would be very happy to accept the dedication of a novelette of mine on the eve of publication. This intimation led to a correspondence, which grew more and more cordial; for Miss Mitford wrote charming letters in all but the great essential, legibility. Not only was her handwriting crabbed and imperfect, but she was parsimonious of paper, writing usually on half sheets, and habitually turning the envelopes of letters which she herself received, making them do duty a second time.