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it　is　not　any　embellishing　of　effects；　or　exaggeration　of　facts；　but　the　reality　of　a　true　and　very　present　feeling。　。　。　　'The　narrow　line　of　clouds　which　a　few　minutes　ago　lay　like　long　vapouring　streaks　along　the　horizon；　now　lighted　with　a　golden　splendour；　that　the　eye　can　scarcely　endure；　those　still　softer　clouds　which　floated　above；　wreathing　and　curling　into　a　thousand　fantastic　forms　as　thin　and　changeful　as　summer　smoke；　defined　and　deepened　into　grandeur；　and　hedged　with　ineffable；　insufferable　light。　　Another　minute　and　the　brilliant　orb　totally　disappears　and　the　sky　above　grows；　every　moment；　more　varied　and　more　beautiful；　as　the　dazzling　golden　lines　are　mixed　with　glowing　red　and　gorgeous　purple；　dappled　with　small　dark　specks；　and　mingled　with　such　a　blue　as　the　egg　of　the　hedge…　sparrow。　。　。　。　　To　look　up　at　that　glorious　sky；　and　then　to　see　that　magnificent　picture　reflected　in　the　clear　and　lovely　Loddon　water；　is　a　pleasure　never　to　be　described；　and　never　to　be　forgotten。　　My　heart　swells；　and　my　eyes　fill　as　I　write　of　it；　and　think　of　the　immeasurable　majesty　of　nature　and　the　unspeakable　goodness　of　God；　who　has　spread　an　enjoyment　so　pure；　so　peaceful；　and　so　intense　before　the　meanest　and　lowliest　of　His　creatures。'

But　it　is　needless　now　to　go　on　praising　'Our　Village；'　or　to　recount　what　a　success　was　in　store　for　the　little　book。　　Certain　books　hold　their　own　by　individual　right　and　might；　they　are　part　of　everybody's　life　as　a　matter　of　course。　　They　are　not　always　read；　but　they　tacitly　take　their　place　among　us。　　The　editions　succeeded　editions　here　and　in　America；　artists　came　down　to　illustrate　the　scenes。　　Miss　Mitford；　who　was　so　delighted　with　the　drawings　by　Mr。　Baxter；　should　have　lived　to　see　the　charming　glimpses　of　rural　life　we　owe　to　Mr。　Thomson。　　'I　don't　mind　'em；'　says　Lizzy　to　the　cows；　as　they　stand　with　spirited　bovine　grace　behind　the　stable　door。　'Don't　mind　them　indeed！'

I　think　the　author　would　assuredly　have　enjoyed　the　picture　of　the　baker；　the　wheelwright　and　the　shoemaker；　each　following　his　special　Alderney　along　the　road　to　the　village；　or　of　the　farmer　driving　his　old　wife　in　the　gig。　。　。　。　　One　design；　that　of　the　lady　in　her　pattens；　comes　home　to　the　writer　of　these　notes；　who　has　perhaps　the　distinction　of　being　the　only　authoress　now　alive　who　has　ever　walked　out　in　pattens。　　At　the　age　of　seven　years　she　was　provided　with　a　pair　by　a　great…great…aunt；　a　kind　old　lady　living　at　Fareham；　in　Hampshire；　where　they　were　still　in　use。　　How　interesting　the　little　circles　looked　stamped　upon　the　muddy　road；　and　how　nearly　down　upon　one's　nose　one　was　at　every　other　step！

But　even　with　all　her　success；　Miss　Mitford　was　not　out　of　her　troubles。　　She　writes　to　Mr。　Harness　saying：　　'You　cannot　imagine　how　perplexed　I　am。　　There　are　points　in　my　domestic　situation　too　long　and　too　painful　to　write　about；　the　terrible　improvidence　of　one　dear　parent；　the　failure　of　memory　and　decay　of　faculty　in　that　other　who　is　still　dearer；　cast　on　me　a　weight　of　care　and　fear　that　I　can　hardly　bear　up　against。'　　Her　difficulties　were　unending。　　The　new　publisher　now　stopped　payment；　so　that　even　'Our　Village'　brought　in　no　return　for　the　moment；　Charles　Kemble　was　unable　to　make　any　offer　for　'Foscari。'　　She　went　up　to　town　in　the　greatest　hurry　to　try　and　collect　some　of　the　money　owing　to　her　from　her　various　publishers；　but；　as　Mr。　Harness　says；　received　little　from　her　debtors　beyond　invitations　and　compliments。　　She　meditates　a　novel；　she　plans　an　opera；　'Cupid　and　Psyche。'

At　last；　better　times　began　to　dawn；　and　she　receives　150　pounds　down　for　a　new　novel　and　ten　guineas　from　Blackwood　as　a　retaining　fee。　　Then　comes　a　letter　from　Charles　Kemble　giving　her　new　hope；　for　her　tragedy；　which　was　soon　afterwards　produced　at　Covent　Garden。

The　tragedies　are　in　tragic　English；　of　course　that　language　of　the　boards；　but　not　without　a　simplicity　and　music　of　their　own。　　In　the　introduction　to　them；　in　some　volumes　published　by　Hurst　and　Blacket　in　1854；　Miss　Mitford　describes　'the　scene　of　indescribable　chaos　preceding　the　performance；　the　vague　sense　of　obscurity　and　confusion；　tragedians；　hatted　and　coated；　skipping　about；　chatting　and　joking；　the　only　very　grave　person　being　Liston　himself。　Ballet…girls　walking　through　their　quadrilles　to　the　sound　of　a　solitary　fiddle；　striking　up　as　if　of　its　own　accord；　from　amid　the　tall　stools　and　music…desks　of　the　orchestra；　and　piercing；　one　hardly　knew　how；　through　the　din　that　was　going　on　incessantly。　　Oh；　that　din！　　Voices　from　every　part；　above；　below；　around；　and　in　every　key。　　Heavy　weights　rolling　here　and　falling　there。　　Bells　ringing；　one　could　not　tell　why；　and　the　ubiquitous　call…boy　everywhere。'

She　describes　her　astonishment　when　the　play　succeeds。　　'Not　that　I　had　nerve　enough　to　attend　the　first　representation　of　my　tragedies。　I　sat　still　and　trembling　in　some　quiet　apartment　near；　and　thither　some　friend　flew　to　set　my　heart　at　ease。　　Generally　the　messenger　of　good　tidings　was　poor　Haydon；　whose　quick　and　ardent　spirit　lent　him　wings　on　such　an　occasion。'

We　have　the　letter　to　her　mother　about　'Foscari；'　from　which　I　have　quoted；　and　on　the　occasion　of　the　production　of　'Rienzi'　at　Drury　Lane　（two　years　later　in　October　1828）；　the　letter　to　Sir　William　Elford　when　the　poor　old　mother　was　no　longer　here　to　rejoice　in　her　daughter's　success。

Miss　Mitford　gratefully　records　the　sympathy　of　her　friends；　the　warm…hearted　muses　of　the　day。　　Mrs。　Trollope；　Miss　Landon；　Miss　Edgeworth；　Miss　Porden；　Mrs。　Hofland；　Mrs。　Opie；　who　all　appear　with　their　congratulations。

Miss　Mitford　says　that　Haydon；　above　all；　sympathised　with　her　love　for　a　large　canvas。　　The　Classics；　Spain；　Italy；　Mediaeval　Rome；　these　are　her　favourite　scenes　and　periods。　　Dukes　and　tribunes　were　her　heroes；　daggers；　dungeons；　and　executioners　her　means　of　effects。

She　moralises　very　sensibly　upon　Dramatic　success。　　'It　is　not；'　she　says；　'so　delicious；　so　glorious；　so　complete　a　gratification　as；　in　our　secret　longings；　we　all　expect。　　It　does　not　fill　the　heart；it　is　an　intoxication　followed　by　a　dismal　reaction。'　　She　tells　a　friend　that　never　in　all　her　life　was　she　so　depressed　and　out　of　spirits　as　after　'Rienzi；'　her　first　really　successful　venture。　　But　there　is　also　a　passing　allusion　to　her　father's　state　of　mind；　to　his　mingled　irritation　and　sulkiness；　which　partly　explains　things。　Could　it　be　that　the　Doctor　added　petty　jealousy　and　envy　to　his　other　inconvenient　qualities？　　His　intolerance　for　any　author　or　actor；　in　short；　for　any　one　not　belonging　to　a　county　family；　his　violent　annoyance　at　any　acquaintances　such　as　those　which　she　now　necessarily　made；　would　naturally　account　for　some　want　of　spirits　on　the　daughter's　part；　overwrought；　over…taxed；　for　ever　on　the　strain；　her　work　was　exhausting　indeed。　　The　small　pension　she　afterwards　obtained　from　the　Civil　List　must　have　been　an　unspeakable　boon　to　the　poor　harassed　woman。

Tragedy　seems　to　have　resulted　in　a　substantial　pony　and　a　basket　carriage　for　Miss　Mitford；　and　in　various　invitations　（from　the　Talfourds；　among　the　rest）　during　which　she　is　lionised　right　and　left。　　It　must　have　been　on　this　occasion　that　Serjeant　Talfourd　complained　so　bitterly　of　a　review　of　'Ion'　which　appeared　about　that　time。　　His　guest；　to　soothe　him；　unwarily　said；　'she　should　not　have　minded　such　a　review　of　HER　Tragedy。'

'YOUR　〃Rienzi；〃　indeed！　　I　should　think　not；'　says　the　serjeant。　'〃Ion〃　is　very　different。'　　The　Talfourd　household；　as　it　is　described　by　Mr。　Lestrange；　is　a　droll　mixture　of　poetry　and　prose；　of　hospitality；　of　untidiness；　of　petulance；　of　most　genuine　kindness　and　most　genuine　human　nature。

There　are　also　many　mentions　of　Miss　Mitford　in　the　'Life　of　Macready'　by　Sir　F。　　Pollock。　　The　great　tragedian　seems　not　to　have　liked　her　with　any　cordiality；　but　he　gives　a　pleasant　account　of　a　certain　supper…party　in　honour　of　'Ion'　at　which　she　is　present；　and　during　which　she　asks　Macready　if　he　will　not　now　bring　out　her　tragedy。　　The　tragedian　does　not　answer；　but　Wordsworth；　sitting　by；　says；　'Ay；　keep　him　to　it。'

V。

Besides　the　'Life　of　Miss　Mitford'　by　Messrs。　Harness　and　Lestrange；　there　is　also　a　book　of　the　'Friendships　of　Mary　Russell　Mitford；'　consisting　of　the　letters　she　received　rather　than　of　those　which　she　wrote。　　It　certainly　occurs　to　one；　as　one　looks　through　the　printed　correspondence　of　celebrated　people；　how　different　are　written　from　printed　letters。　　Your　friend's　voice　sounds；　your　friend's　eyes　look　out；　of　the　written　page；　even　its　blots　and　erasures　remind　you　of　your　human　being。　　But　the　magnetism　is　gone　out　of　these　printer's　lines　with　their　even　margins；　in　which　everybody's　handwriting　is　exactly　alike；　in　which　everybody　uses　the　same　type；　the　same　expressions；　in　which　the　eye　roams　from　page　to　page　untouched；　unconvinced。　　I　can　imagine　the　pleasure　each　one　of　these　letters　may　have　given　to　Miss　Mitford　to　receive　in　turn。　　They　come　from　well…known　ladies；　accustomed　to　be　considered。　　Mrs。　Trollope；　Mrs。　Hofland；　Mrs。　Howitt；　Mrs。　S。　C。　Hall；　Miss　Strickland；　Mrs。　Opie；　there；　too；　are　Miss　Barrett　and　Mrs。　Jamieson　and　Miss　Sedgwick　who　writes　from　America；　they　are　all　interesting　people；　but　it　must　be　confessed　that　the　correspondence　is　not　very　enlivening。　　Miss　Barrett's　is　an　exception；　that　is　almost　as　good　as　handwriting　to　read。　　But　there　is　no　doubt　that　compliments　to　OTHER　authoresses　are　much　less　amusing；　than　those　one　writes　or　receives　oneself；　apologies　also　for　not　writing　sooner；　CAN　pall　upon　one　in　print；　however　soothing　they　may　be　to　the　justly　offended　recipient；　or　to　the　conscience…stricken　correspondent。

'I　must　have　seemed　a　thankless　wretch；　my　dear　Miss　Mitford；'　etc。　etc。　　'You；　my　dear　friend；　know　too　well　what　it　is　to　have　to　finish　a　book；　to　blame　my　not　attempting；'　etc。　etc。　　'This　is　the　thirty…ninth　letter　I　have　written　since　yesterday　morning；'　says　Harriet　Martineau。　　'Oh；　I　can　scarcely　hold　the　pen！　　I　will　not　allow　my　shame　for　not　having　written；　to　prevent　me　from　writing　now。'　　All　these　people　seem　to　have　been　just　as　busy　as　people　are　now；　as　amusing；　as　tiresome