I agree with you in thinking the _MS. de Sainte-Helene_ a magnificent performance. My father was strongly of opinion that it was not written by Buonaparte himself, and he grounded this opinion chiefly upon the passages relative to the Duc d'Enghien: _c'était plus qu'un crime, c'était une faute_; no man, he thought, not even Nero, would, in writing for posterity say that he had committed a crime instead of a fault. But it may be observed that in the Buonaparte system of morality which runs through the book, nothing is considered what we call a crime, unless it be what he allows to be a fault. His proof that he did not murder Pichegru is, that it would have been useless. Le _cachet de_ Buonaparte is as difficult to imitate as _le cachet de Voltaire._ I know of but three people in Europe who could have written it: Madame de Staël, Talleyrand, or M. Dumont. Madame de Staël, though she has the ability, could not have got so plainly and shortly through it. Talleyrand has _l'esprit comme un démon_, but he could not for the soul of him have refused himself a little more wit and wickedness. Dumont has not enough audacity of mind. _To_ MRS. STARK. [Footnote: Daughter of Mr. Bannatyne, of Glasgow.] SPRING FARM, N.T. MOUNT KENNEDY, _June_ 1818. I am, and have been ever since I could any way command my attention, intent upon finishing those Memoirs of himself which my father left me to finish and charged me to publish. Yet I have accepted an invitation to Bowood, from Lady Lansdowne, whom I love, and as soon as I have finished I shall go there. As to Scotland, I have no chance of getting there at present, but if ever I go there, depend upon it, I shall go to see you. Never, never can I forget those happy days we spent with you, and the warmhearted kindness we received from you and yours: those were "sunny spots" in my life. _To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH. BOWOOD, _Sept._ 1818. I will tell you how we pass our day. At seven I get up--this morning at half-past six, to have the pleasure of writing to you, my dearest mother, be satisfied I never write a word at night: breakfast is at half after nine, very pleasant: afterwards we all _stray_ into the library for a few minutes, and settle when we shall meet again for walking, etc.: then Lady Lansdowne goes to her dear dressing-room and dear children, Dumont to his attic, Lord Lansdowne to his out-of-door works, and we to our elegant dressing-room, and Miss Carnegy to hers. Between one and two is luncheon: happy time! Lady Lansdowne is so cheerful, polite, and easy, just as she was in her walks at Edgeworthstown: but very different walks are the walks we take here, most various and delightful, from dressed shrubbery and park walks to fields with inviting paths, wide downs, shady winding lanes, and happy cottages--not _dressed_, but naturally well placed, and with evidence in every part of their being suited to the inhabitants.