Wycherly, the comedian, married a girl of eighteen when he was verging on eighty. Shortly after, Providence was pleased, in its mercy to the young woman, to call the old man to another and a better world. But, ere he took his final departure from this, he summoned his young wife to his bedside, and announced to her that he was dying; whereupon she wept bitterly. Wycherly lifted himself up in the bed, and gazing with tender emotions on his young, weeping wife, said, "My dearest love, I have a solemn promise to exact from you before I quit you forever here below. Will you assure me my wishes will be attended to by you, however great the sacrifice you may be called on to make?" Horrid ideas of Suttees, of poor Indian widows being called on to expire on funereal pyres, with the bodies of their deceased lords and masters, flashed across the brain of the poor

woman.

With a convulsive effort and desperate resolution, old Wycherly's young wife gasped out an assurance that his commands, however dreadful they might be, should be obeyed. Then Wycherly, with a ghastly smile, said, in a low and solemn voice," My beloved wife, the parting request I have to make of you is that when I am gone (here the poor young woman sobbed and cried most vehemently)-when I am in my cold grave-(Mrs. Wycherly tore her hair)—when I am laid low—(the disconsolate wife roared with grief)-when I am no longer a heavy burden and a tie on you- ('Oh, for Heaven's sake!' exclaimed Mrs. Wycherly, what am I to do?')—I command you, my dear young wife

(said the old, dying comedian)—on pain of incurring my malediction, never to marry an old man again." Mrs. Wycherly dried her eyes, and, in the most fervent manner, promised that she never would; and that faithful woman kept her word for life.

The Marquis de Boissy (Hilaire E. O. Rouillé) is one of the new nobility of France, who owe their coronets to their own merits and successes in military, political, stock-jobbing, or mercantile speculations. The marquis is a large landed proprietor, who recommended himself to the notice of the late Marshal Soult by his industrial efforts, and long-continued endeavors to improve the condition of the humbler classes in the district of

Viezzon à Lignières, in which his property is situated—the chateau and territory of Castelnau, near Charost, six leagues from Bourges.

The marquis se montre assez souvent à la tribune de la chambre de Paris. He was wont to appear there a little-trop souvent, for the tranquillity of his friend and patron, Marshal Soult.

His merits have been fortunate enough to be appreciated by the present ruler of France; he has been honored with the title and functions of a senator.

Madame la Marquise is still a most fascinating woman, conscious of her power to please, and calculated to succeed in her efforts, as well as by the external attraits of appearance and deportment. Brilliant talents she has no claim to; but she has considerable conversational talents, and a large share of keen observation and insight into character, and of cleverness and naïveté, mingled with simplicity. She is well versed in Italian. and French literature, has read much, and to some purpose. She writes fluently, and though not very correctly in English and French, expresses herself fully and forcibly, gracefully, and with facility.

When reference is made to Byron, and her intimate relations with him, she seems half proud, half ashamed of her liaison, and the conflicting feelings come strangely into contact in her conversation. But one feeling predominates over every other in relation to her former friend and admirer-one of unalterable fidelity and unchangeable constancy in her attachment to him, and devotion to his memory.

LETTERS FROM LADY BLESSINGTON TO LA CONTESSA GUICCIOLI.

To Madame Guiccioli, in Italy:

"Seamore Place, London, Aug. 19, 1833. "MY DEAR MADAME GUICCIOLI,-I have learned with deep regret the affliction that has fallen on your domestic circle-an affliction which few are so calculated to feel in all its bitterness as yourself. While I was accusing you of forgetting your friends in England, which would be indeed ungrateful, as they do not cease to remember you with affection, you were in grief, and absorbed too much by the recollection of what you had lost to be blamed for forgetting the friends who still remain. Alas! chère amic, it is not until we have lost those we loved that we feel all their value. Memory feeds on grief, and

calls up looks and voices that we can see or hear no more on earth, but that, brought back by memory, have power to make us forget for a few moments the painful present in the happier past.

"I do not seek to offer you vain consolation because I too well know its inefficiency, and you have been too highly tried in affliction not to have learned its bitter lesson-submission.

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I hope we shall see you in England next year; you have left behind you too agreeable an impression for those who have had the pleasure of knowing you not to desire to see you here again; and among your friends, no one more anxiously desires it than myself. London has been very full, but not very gay this season. Our Opera has been brilliant, and offered a galaxy of talent such as we never had before. Pasta, Malibran, Tamburini, Rubini, Donzelli, and a host of minor stars, with a corps de ballet, with Taglioni at their head, who more than redeemed their want of excellency. I did not miss a single night, and was amply repaid by the pleasure I received.

"You are so kind as to wish me to tell you of myself, and therefore I must play the egotist. My health has been good, and I have written a political novel, which appeared in June, with the reception of which I have had every reason to be satisfied, and for which I got a good sum.

"I am now coming forth with a very beautiful work, called The Book of Beauty;' I say beautiful, as it is to be embellished with fine engravings from beautiful female portraits, illustrated by tales in prose and verse, to which many of my literary friends have kindly contributed. You see, my dear countess, that I have not been idle since I saw you; but the truth is, I like occupation, and find it the best cure for banishing painful retrospections.

"Mr. Bulwer set off yesterday for Italy, and will visit Rome and Naples. I saw Mr. Moore three days ago, and he inquired very kindly for you; and I saw Campbell lately, who does not forget you. I wish you would send me a little Italian tale, in prose or verse, for my book. I know you could if you would, but I fear you are too idle. I trust you go on with the Memoirs you promised to write. It would amuse and instruct you, and would be highly gratifying to the world. Pray write to me often, and your letters shall be punctually answered.

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Believe me, my dear Countess Guiccioli, your sincere and affectionate friend, M. BLESSINGTON."

To Madame Guiccioli, in London:

"Seamore Place, July - 1835.

“As I have neither seen nor heard from you since Wednesday, I conclude that you have abandoned the project of accompanying me to Anglesea Villa. I regret this very much, as you would have liked the country, which is very beautiful, and the air and sea breezes would have prepared you for the longer journey you intend taking. M. BLESSINGTON."

To Madame Guiccioli, in London:

"October 1835.

"I shall grow superstitious, my dearest friend, for I really had a presentiment that you were either in sickness or in sorrow, and, alas! I find that you are in both. I wish I was near you, for I understand your heart as well as I do my own, and I think I could lighten your sufferings by sharing them. I have great faith in the power of sympathy, and it is in moments of affliction that the presence of a true friend can be of use. I shall be more triste, knowing that you are unhappy and alone, than if I was near you. Be assured that, I feel for you a friendship as warm as it is sincere, and that few people can love you as well, because few can appreciate you as truly as I do.

"My carriage shall be at your door to-morrow at seven o'clock, to bring you to dine with me; but if you wish to take the air, or have any visits to pay, it shall be at your service at any hour you like. We felt so solitary after you left us, and missed so much your fair face and sweet voice, that we were not sorry that letters of business recalled us to London.

"Count D'Orsay charges me with mille amitiés de sa part. Adieu until to-morrow, chère et belle amie. God bless you, prays your affectionate and devoted friend, M. BLESSINGTON."

To Madame Guiccioli, in London:

"November, 1835.

"Well can I share your feelings at the fatal event that has taken place. I too lost two brothers, dear to me as the life-blood that warms my heart, and though years, long years, have passed since then, I remember the blow as if it only yesterday fell on me.

"When such an affliction befalls us, we are apt to forget that those we mourn have only preceded us to the tomb by at most a few years. We shall soon follow them, and be united never more to part, and this thought should console us. Think how quickly passes even the longest life, and be comforted with the certainty of our reunion where there are no more partings and no Heaven bless you, my dearest friend. M. BLESSINGTON."

more tears.

To Madame Guiccioli, in Paris:

"October 9, 1835.

"I am truly grieved, my dearest friend, to hear that you have been so ill. I thought that your silence boded no good, but I tried to think it proceeded from the occupation and consequent fatigue of sight-seeing, which, to a person with so much imagination, and so impressionable as you are, never fails to be as exhausting as it is exciting. How fortunate that you found a skillful doctor! I shall henceforth venerate his name and laud his practice, though I trust you will no more have occasion to try its efficacy.

"Your tour has been a very interesting one, and you had need of such an excitement to lessen the tristesse that had taken possession of you since the melancholy intelligence from Italy. There is but one source of consolation,

my dear friend, under such afflictions, and I have been often, during the last six years, compelled to seek its aid, and this is the recollection that the friends torn from us by death (that ruthless destroyer of the dearest ties) only precede us at most by a few fleeting years to that only sure rendezvous where we shall all meet. Alas! such is our weakness, that we mourn as if they only were condemned to die, and that we were not to follow them. The brevity of life proves the best consolation for the pains that fall to ourselves while in it. But why dwell on the subject to you, who, like myself, have tasted deeply of the cup of affliction, and who are accustomed to its bitterness?

I hope to see you again very soon after your arrival, with the roses of health again blooming on your cheeks. Count D'Orsay charges me with his kindest regards for you. We often think and talk of the pleasant hours passed in your society at Anglesey, when your charming voice and agreeable conversation gave wings to them. I have delivered your message, in a most triumphant tone, as to 'The Life of Napoleon,' by Lockhart. It is delightful to conquer an opponent so obstinate as our friend, and the victory is yours. "M. BLESSINGTON."

To Madame Guiccioli, in London:

"Gore House, July 4th, 1836.

"It gave me great pleasure to hear from you again, for I had begun to think you had forgotten me, a supposition calculated to give pain to one who feels, as I do, a lively affection for you.

"The papers will have informed you of the result of a singular trial. The evidence, though enough to show imprudence, could not satisfy any jury of actual guilt; but the proceedings were of a nature to inflict great pain on any delicate-minded woman's feelings, and to furnish a theme of scandal to the censorious. Nothing can be more calculated to strike at the root of morals than the vile system in England of bringing forward discharged servants, often of bad character, to give evidence against their mistresses. Such should be, in nine cases out of ten, refused belief, and in this case it was so; but the misfortune is, that though the good and virtuous part of society disbelieve, the bad and vicious do not, and as they are the largest party, a poor woman's honor never comes purely out of such trials or from such commentators.

"I see a good deal of your friend, Mr. Trelawney, and like him very much; he is original, clever, and brave; and of how few men can one say so much! Comte D'Orsay charges me with his very kindest regards to you,

To Madame Guiccioli, in Paris :

"M. BLESSINGTON."

"Gore House, October 24th, 1837.

"It gave me very great pleasure, my dear friend, to see your writing again. It appeared a long, long time since you left me, and I anxiously looked for the assurance that you had got through your voyage and journey safely, and