lotte, while we thread every "alley green and bosky dell" in these boundless glades. Roads are not of the slightest consequence. We can go as we like -on foot, in the carriage, or on horseback;-the elastic sward is like a scarce moistened sponge, and diversified every where with streaks of velvet moss; and if one did not find here and there a fallen tree or a huge branch broken off by the wind and left to decay as it fell, you might easily fancy yourself in one of our own sylvan parks, the proud boast of English wealth. "Vert and venison are here in abundance; and we can dispense with enclosure, since fences of any sort would be sadly in the way of such insatiable rangers.

My plans and projects of all sorts are of course at a dead stand for the present; I mean the execution of them, for as to the projects themselves, a certain degree of fever only warms them into more luxuriant life. I have never woven such splendid webs as during the fever which follows what is called a slight ague. At such times imagination is often exalted and memory excited to a surprising degree, while reason still remains lord of the ascendant, and makes grave remarks and draws sober inferences, as the wild pageants flit by. At some such moment I had a distinct recollection of having seen, years ago, some mention of the manufacture of indigo from oak saw-dust, somewhere in France, I think, - but further I cannot go. Will you, who have access to references of all sorts, find out for

me what it is I am thinking of? the piles of that humble material which now meet my eye every where, make me feel not a little curious on the subject.

You may thank or blame the ague for this ladylike letter. Such moonlight as this would have been irresistible, but that with moonlight comes dew, and with dew dampness, and with dampness certain associations no wise pleasant to one who has been for weeks either trembling on the verge of ague, or popping in—

Like your friend,

T. SIBTHORPE.

11*

126

LETTER IX.

Mr. Sibthorpe to Mr. Williamson.

MY DEAR WILLIAMSON,

November 15.

DIDN'T I say something, in one of my late letters, about an October landscape? I had not yet seen a November one in the forest. Since the splendid coloring of those days has been toned down by some hard frosts, and all lights and shades blended into heavenly harmony by the hazy atmosphere of the delicious period here called "Indian summer," Florella and I have done little else but wander about, gazing in rapture, and wishing we could share our pleasure with somebody as silly as ourselves. If the Indians named this season, it must have been from a conviction that such a sky and such an atmosphere must be granted as an encouraging sample of the far-away Isles of Heaven, where they expect to chase the deer forever unmolested. If you can imagine a view in which the magnificent coloring of Tintoretto has been softened to the taste of Titian or Giorgione, and this seen through a transparent veil of dim silver, you may form some notion of our November landscape.

It may have been the effect of this Arcadian scenery, which seems made for painters and poets, and which ought to purify the thoughts and exalt

the imagination of every thing endowed with soul, - it may have been this, more than the simple reality that gave so touching a character to a funeral service that I have just witnessed in our neighborhood. I have seen, as you know, much of this world's splendid pageantry, never more lavishly bestowed than in doing honor to the senseless dust; I have gazed and listened while royalty was inurned amid the thundering of cannon, and the spirit-quelling tones of music, like the voice of the everlasting grave warning the sons of men of their inevitable destiny; but no splendid rites ever possessed the solemnity which seemed to preside over that hushed assembly of plain men and women gathered from far and near, at the call of sympathy alone sympathy in the fate of a man who had no claim to their especial regard beyond that of having needed their assistance while he lived.

He was a man not remarkable in any way; an easy commonplace insignificant sort of person, whose lot had been like that of many such characters a series of misfortunes unaverted by any vigorous effort of his own, and gradually breaking down his spirit, and leaving him at last to be provided for-first by the kindness of individuals, and latterly by the public-so that at the time of his death, he was neither more nor less than a town pauper. He had been long ill, and had left a large family utterly destitute, and now the concourse assembled at his funeral exceeded all

customary gatherings, and the sympathy was deep and general. It was not regret, for his condition in life was fixed beyond hope, and he was supposed to be quite prepared for a change of worlds. Death had come not in the hideous skeleton form with which he is endowed by vulgar superstition, but as a merciful and soft-voiced angel, sent to bear the soul from pain, and care, and humiliation, to happiness and repose.

It was pure human sympathy not hollow show not venal parade - but a touching recognition of a common nature and interest a spontaneous vibration of the public heart-strings at the thought that a man-a brother-God's image shrined in clay, one who had acquired respectability by misfortune, and awakened affection by needing kindness was at last gathered to his rest. I despair of giving you an idea of what seemed to me to be the all-pervading expression of the scene, but I may confess that even I, though but little given to shedding unaccountable tears, found myself betrayed into a softness somewhat in unison with the many sobs which attested the pity of the crowd.

The discourse which was delivered over the body was solemn and earnest, and I found much that was appropriate and likely to be useful, but to me the effect, as a whole, was marred by the attempt to frighten people into piety, by means of the mere bodily terrors of the last hour; an at