Sophocles are abominable. I find that I get at him
best from a literal version in French prose, and I have
half a mind to do the ' Philoctetes ' into English from
that source, declaring, of course, in the Preface that I
know nothing at all of Greek.

God bless you, my dear friend ! I hope to hear a
better account of both your invalids. Kindest regards

from all.

Ever yours,

M. E. I\I.



142 LIFE OF MARY RUSSELL MIT FORD.



CHAPTER VII.

Letters for 1822.

To Sib William Elfokd, Bichham, Plymouth.

Three Mile Cross, Jan. 3, 1822.
This is the first real absolute letter (notes that are
dated " Tuesday morning " and " Wednesday evening,"
and so forth, don't count in this case) — the first genuine
letter that I have sat down to write in 1822, and it
shall be addressed to one of the kindest and best of my
correspondents. Your very long and delightful letter
gives the best possible proof of health and spirits, and I
assure you, my dear Sir William, it is quite a consola-
tion to think of a dear friend who is well and happy.

Have you read the ' Pirate ?' And do you like it ? I
think you will say " No " to both questions. You have
not probably yet had time to read it, and you have heard
enough of the story to be pretty sure that you shall not
like it. I don't at all. There is a great deal too much
about Zetland superstitions and Zetland manners and
Zetland revelry, and there is an old witch who would of
herself be enough to spoil the finest tiling that ever was
written. What a fancy the Great Unknown has for a
witch! I verily believe this Noma is the ninth or
tenth of that species which he has produced, and of all
of them she is the worst — by far the worst. He has
given her a poem in prose to recite, after the fashion of



AMEBICAN MANNEBS. 143

Ossian, Chateaubriand, and those sort of peoj^le. iVnd
there is such a quantity of her too ! Altogether the
'Pirate' is perliaps nearly on a par with the later
works, for there has been nothing very great since
' Ivanhoe ' (notwil^hstanding the beauty of one or two
scenes in the ' Monastery ') — nothing like ' The Anti-
quary,' and ' Waverley,' and ' Guy Mannering,' and ' Old
Mortality ;' the ' Antiquary ' being, to my taste, the one
and unrivalled of them all. I thoroughly agree with
you, for your reasons and others, as to the certainty of
the books being written by Sir W. Scott.

Yes, the second volume of the ' Sketch Book ' is cer-
tainly a little heavy, a little mawkish, and a little un-
faithful in the English details. Mr. Washington Irving
is excellent in humour, and in old Dutch colonists and
other American diversities, but he must not meddle
with us proud English. I wish he would give an
American novel, with all the peculiarities of that ridicu-
lous country. We have a fine specimen of New York
manners close by. A rich friend of ours was taken in
by Mr. Birkbeck's fine plausible lies (there's a fine illus-
tration of my system for you ; that book of Birkbeck's
seemed as true as ' Eobinsou Crusoe !'), and, intending
to embark some 20,000Z. or 3O,000Z. in Illinois, sent
out a son of seventeen to reconnoitre. Mr. Fearon's
fine 'Antidote' and other accounts soon determined
him to keep his money in England ; but the son stayed
on, not in Illinois — that disagreed with him — but in
New York, and is only lately returned — a very good
sort of young man, I believe, but the most complete
Transatlantic coxcomb that ever eyes beheld. He is
solemn, smooth, and smirking — smiling like Malvolio,
though not, like him, cross-gartered — sujjerficial as a
newspaper or a review — talking in a strange, outlandish



144 LIFE OF MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.

jargon, half of it too fine for common wear, and half too
coarse — a mixture of tissue and sackcloth — gallant to a
distressing degree ; he never sees you seated but he
cants an ottoman under your feet, or standing or walk-
ing but he claps a chair down behind you, so that the
singer at a piano sometimes finds herself blockaded by
a double row of seats. His cloakings and shawlings are
^^•orse than any cold, and he walks in a dancing step.

Jan. 9.

I have just been reading Lord Byron's plays. The
' Two Foscari ' was, of course, the first object with me.
But he has taken up the business just where I left it
off, so that his play does not at all clash with mine.
The Doge is well executed, I think ; but young Foscari,
notwithstanding good speeches, is utterly imbecile — an
ultra-sentimentalist, who clings, no one knows why or
wherefore, with a love-like dotage, to the country, which
has disgraced and exiled and tortured, and finishes by
killing him ; and his wife, Marina, is a mere scold.
Both that and ' Sardanapalus ' are miserably wire-drawn
and spun out. One is really quite tired in reading
' them. ' Cain ' is of a higher strain, and yet, though
there is nothing in it bolder than Milton has put into
the mouth of his Satan, one is somehow shocked at
Lucifer's speeches in 'Cain,' which never happens in
' Paradise Lost.' The impression is different. I don't
know why, but it is so. Altogether, it seems to me that
Lord Byron must be by this time pretty well con-
vinced that the drama is not his forte. He has no sj)irit
of dialogue — no beauty in his groupings — none of that
fine mixture of the probable m ith the unexpected which
constitutes stage effect, in tlie best sense of the
word. And a long series of laboured speeches and set



WA VEELEY NO VELS. 145

antitlieses will very ill compensate for the want of that
excellence which we find iu Sophocles and in Shake-
speare, and which you will call Nature, and I shall call
Art.

Pray, do you ever paint animals ? We have a grey-
hound, called May Flower, of excelling grace and sym-
metry — just of the colour of the May blossom — like
marble witli the sun upon it ; and she kills every hare
she sees — takes them up in the middle of the back,
brings them in her mouth to my father, and lays them
down at his feet. I assure you she is quite a study
while bringing the hares — the fine contrast of colour —
her beautiful position, head and tail up, and her long-
neck arched like that of a swan — with the shade shift-
ing upon her beautiful limbs, and her black eyes really
emitting light! I wish you could see May Flower.
Farewell, my dear friend. I have only room to say
how much

I am always yours,

M. E. MlTFORD.

To Sib William Elford, BickJiam., PJijmonth.

Three Mile Cross, Jan. 9, 1822.

I met with a great curiosity about a month ago
— a lady who had never read, scarcely heard of, the
Scotch novels. She was called by all Beading " a re-
markably clever, sensible, accomplished woman " (you
know that, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, ladies
of this character are eminently foolish), educated her
daughters, talked Italian, read Latin, and understood
thorough bass. She came into a friend's house where I
was calling, and, finding the 'Pirate' on the table,
poured out at once this ostentatious ignorance. You
never saw anybody so proud of not knowing what all

VOL. II. L



146 LIFE OF MART RUSSELL MITFORD.

the world knows — never ! She actually looked down
upon ns, till I thought my friend was going to be
ashamed, and make apologies for having read these
glorious books. She took heart, however (my friend),
and the lady visitor began to inquire what the Scotch
novels were — " ' Waverley ?' " She had heard of ' Wa-
verley.' " ' The Scottish Chiefs ?' " " Oh, no ! certainly
not the ' Scottish Chiefs ' " — and why we praised them ;
and at last, hearing that there was nothing very con-
taminating for her daughters, and that, at all events, as
they would infallibly catch the disorder some day or
other, they might as well be inoculated under her
own eye, she consented to borrow this ' Waverley,' of
which she had heard, and which we, moreover, assm'ed
her was historical. She returned it in a day or two
with a short critique, intimating that there was much
trash in the book, but that some parts were tolerable.
I think of cultivating her acquaintance ; besides, I want
to see the Misses (they are grown up). I wonder what
form vanity takes in them, and what they say about
' Waverley !'

I do not know the author of ' Valerius.' Eeport
gives it to Mr. Lockhart, the son-in-law of Sir W. Scott,
author of ' Peter's Letters,' and reputed editor of Black-
wood's very amusing and naughty magazine. I think it
is his by the style, wliich is like that of ' Peter's Letters.'

I hope you are all well.

I am ever most affectionately yours,

M. K. M.

To Sir William Elford, Bickham, Plymouth.

Three Mile Cross, March 2, 1822.

In all the variety of letters and modes of letters whicli
we have at different times sent to one another, pray did



MILMAN'S POEMS. 147

we ever try that fine classical thing a fragment? If
not, I hav^e the pleasure of bepinning the practice most
Pindaricall}^ in the middle of a subject. " Kuin seize
thee, ruthless king " is not a finer instance of abruptness.
I was talking, I believe, of Mr. Milman's new poem,
the ' Martyr of Antioch.' I know that you don't read
much of things printed in uneven lines, and I fancy
that nine-tenths of Mr. Milman's readers care as little
for poetry as you do ; only that very few have the
honesty to say so. They read him for fashion, for the
honour and glory of reading a poem, and the soberer
credit of reading a good book. It's a sort of union of
sermon and romance — a Sunday evening amusement
which mammas tolerate and papas smile upon. So,
the book sells ; and it ought to sell, for it is full of
splendid passages, with only one faux pas. All the
heathen persons, odes, and descriptions are worth a
million of the Christian hymns and people. Indeed,
Mr. Milman has a fine sense of classical beauty. He
would make a glorious thing of some old Grecian story !
By-the-by (coming back to our eternal theme, the
author of ' Waverley '), I heard a day or two back from
the young American traveller of whom I have, I think,
elsewhere made honourable mention, that Captain Scott
is much suspected, by those who are most with him in
Canada, of having at least some share in the novels.
He is certainly eternally writing ; and if that be not
the subject, no one can guess what it is. Adieu, my
dear friend.

Ever most affectionately yours,

M. K MiTFORD.



148 LIFE OF MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.

To SiE William Elfoed, Bkhliam, Plymouth.

Three Mile Cross, April 12, 1822.

I thank you very mueli, my dear Sir William, for
your very kind and entertaining letter. The story of
the housemaid and the picture is delicious ; and I enter
into it the more thoroughly, from having lately rescued
some blotted papers of my own from the flings of an
animal of that species. My dramatic scene looked, as
she said, such a ' tatterdemalion piece of scribble,' that
she clawed it up in her paw, mucli as a monkey would
seize on an open letter, and was actually proceeding to
light a fire withal, when I snatched my precious manu-
script from her devouring fangs. I wish you had seen
the look of contem|)t with which this damsel of ours —
a ci-devant schoolmistress — looked at my composition !
I dare say she would have whipped any one of her
scholars that wrote only half as ill.

Now, what shall I talk about? We have got Mrs.
Opie's new novel of 'Madeline ' in the house, but I have
not opened it yet. One knows the usual ingredients of
her tales just as one knows the component parts of a
plum-pudding. So much common sense (for the flour) ;
so much vulgarity (for the suet) ; so much love (for the
sugar) ; so many songs (for the plums) ; so much wit (for
the spices) ; so much fine binding morality (feu- the
eggs) ; and so much mere mawkishness and insipidity
(for the milk and water wherewith the said pudding is
mixed up). I think she has left off being pathetic — at
least I have left out that quality in my enumeration.
Yet she is a very clover woman, and a good-natured
woman; and though my exceeding fastidiousness wilh
respect to style and elegance and graceiulness in wriiing
deprives me of any pleasure in her works, there are a



' FOSCARi: 149

great many very good judges who admire her writings
greatly. I hope you won't tell her this by way of a
compliment, though I have lately met with a misad-
venture which would go near to tying one's pen d(jwn
to its good behaviour all one's life. A discreet corre-
spondent of mine (female, of course) inquired my opinion
of a recent publication. I wrote her a very fair cha-
racter of the work (which I did not very much admire)
— a fair and candid character, with just enough of sweet
to flavour the sour (like sugar in mint sauce). It was
not a sweeping, knock-me-down critique — but a light,
airy, neatly-feathered shaft — whose censure looked
almost like praise. So much the worse for me. My
goose of a correspondent took it for complimentary ;
and, by way of recommending me to the author of the
cut-up work, fairly read him the passage out of my
letter, and then in her rej)ly gravely told me what she
had done ! Of course she will never get any but how-
d'ye-do letters from me again as long as she lives.

To confess the truth, my dear friend, I am so
thoroughly out of heart about ' Foscari ' that I cannot
bear even to think or speak on the subject. Neverthe-
less the drama is my talent — my only talent — and 1
mean to go on and improve. I will improve — that is
my fixed determination. Can you recommend me a
good subject for an historical tragedy ? I wish you
would think of this, and if you have none in your own
mind, ask any likely person. It should have two pro-
minent male parts — ^and I should prefer an Italian story
in the fourteenth, fifteenth, sixteenth, or seventeenth
century, as affording most scope, and being less liable
to blame for any deviation from truth in the plot than
any well-known incident in the greater States. I once
thought of our Charles the First. He and Cromwell



150 LIFE OF MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.

would form two very finely-conti'astecl characters — but
the facts are too well known. Farewell, my dear
friend.

Ever most sincerely and affectionately yours,

M. R. illTFORD.

To Sib William Elfoed, Bickham, Plymouth.

Three Mile Cross, April 28, 1822.

Oh ! my dear friend, how very, very sorry we are to
hear of your accident ! And yet, since it is so happily
past, and has been borne with such cheerfulness and
good-humour, it seems almost as much a matter of con-
gratulation as of condolence. Mrs. Dickinson, who is
just returned from town, was here soon after your letter
arrived, and took the warm interest you can so well
imagine in its contents. By-the-way, as a painter, you
should have seen Mrs, Dickinson herself! She was just
a thing for a painter to look at — dressed in a high gown
of rich black satin, made close to her beautiful shape,
with a superb ruff of " Flanders lace," a magnificent
plume of feathers, and a veil that really swam about
her like a cloud. She looked just like the portrait of
some Spanish or Venetian beauty by Velasquez or
Titian. Mr. D. is better — and the little girl " the
very moral " of him. What a strange thing family-like-
ness is! How impossible it seems that a little fair,
blooming, laughing, round-about apple-blossom of a
child should resemble an old weatherbeaten stern-look-
ing man, as shrivelled and yellow as a golden pi{)pin !
I am sorry for it ; I wanted the child to be like her
mother.

Pray, pray, my dear Sir William, do you read ' Black-
wood's Magazine,' and ' John Bull ?' Or do you leave
to me — a Whig — the sole enjoyment of these Tory



' ELI a: 151

iniquities ? To be sure there is in these modest period-
icals a fine, swaggering, bold-faced impudence — a per-
fection of lying and of carrying it off — which is delight-
fully amusing. One should think that it could be only
one man's gift, but the endowment must be general. It
will be a heavy day for me when ' John Bull ' goes to
the shades. I read no other newspaper. And, in my
secret soul (don't tell Mr. Talfourd) though he and I
both write in the 'Loudon' along with the Procters,
the Reyuoldses, and the Charles Lambs, I like ' Black-
\sood's ' better. By-the-by, do you ever see the ' Loudon
Magazine ?' Charles Lamb's articles, signed ' Elia,' are
incomparably the finest specimens of English prose in
the language. The humour is as delicate as Addison's,
and far more piquant. Oh ! how you would enjoy it !
Do borrow^ or hire all the numbers of Taylor and Hessey's
' London Magazine,' and read all Elia's articles, as well
as the ' Table Talks,' and the ' Confessions of an English
Opium Eater,' and the ' Dramatic Sketches,' and tell me
how you like Charles Lamb.

Your very affectionate friend,

M. E. M.

To B. R. Haydon, Esq.

Three Mile Cross, June 13, 1822.
A thousand thanks, my dear sir, for your kind and
delio-htful letter. I felt that I had not deserved it, for
I must have appeared sadly inattentive and undeseiTmg,
by being three days in town without waiting on Mrs.
Haydon. But you know how it happened. When the
morning came I was fit for nothing but to be packed
off home. In fact, a country lady who lives almost
literally in the open air, in green fields or flowery
gardens, is terribly out of her element in London in hot



152 LIFE OF MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.

Aveatber. All the time that I was in Norton Street I
felt just as I suppose that patriarchal larch- tree of Scot-
land must have done when crammed into a garden-pot
and coddled amongst the myrtles and orange-trees of
the Duke of Athole's greenhouse. ... I cannot tell
you, my dear Mr. Haydon, with what pleasure and inte-
rest I read your fresh and glowing account of your
mutual happiness. No wonder that you fear society ;
or, rather, that you fear that fine company which does
not deserve the name of society, and which seems to me
good for notliing but to spoil the mind, the manners,
and the very beauty, of women. For my part, I think
that ladies are now-a-days all alike — all accomplished —
all literary— all artificial — with heads divided between
quadrilles and criticism. If routes and reviews had been
extant in Shakespeare's time we should not have had
the Violas and the Desdemonas.

George Whittaker has given me ' Coeur de Lion,' by
Miss Porden, to review. He let me have it before pub-
lication, so that, happening to meet the fair author that
evening at the house of a mutual friend, and mentioning
to her that I had her new poem, she was in an astonish-
ment past telling (my friend the bookseller having told
her there was not a copy ready), and I do verily believe
takes me for the least in the world of a fibber. She's a
very pleasant young woman, rather affected at first sight
— at least people take her for affected, because she has
a Lord Burleigh-ish way of shaking her head, and uses
more action than is common in an English lady ; but
her conversation is very earnest and natural. She is
ugly of course — all literary ladies are so. I never met
one in my life (except Miss Jane Porter, and she is
rather passee) that might not have served for a scare-
crow to keep the birds from the cherries. It's a pro-



DEESS. 153

digiously strange and disagreeable peculiarity. Tlie
fair vision was here last night, not in black satin but in
white silk (N.B., white silk not half so elegant as black
satin), and the little apple blossom, whom her mamma
does not dress by one half so well as she dresses herself.
Only fancy that poor little girl this hot weather in a
stiff ruffling pelisse of Waterloo-blue silk, all tied up the
front with great bows of ribbons, and a bonnet to match.
She really looked, as I told her mamma, like the woman
in a Dutch weatherglass. Moreover, her spouse has
been here to-day, and I am afraid got soused in the
thunderstorm, owing to his gallantry. He came in a
beautiful pony-chaise and gave me a ride in it before he
went home. I do so love a drive in a ])ony-cliaise ! If
my ' Foscari ' were to succeed, I should be tempted to
keep one myself. You know, everything that I want or
wish I always say " if ' Foscari ' succeeds." I said so the
other day about a new straw bonnet, and then about a
white geranium, and then about a pink sash, and then
about a straw workbasket, and then about a pocket-
book, all in the course of one street. Good-bye, my

dear sir.

Ever most sincerely yours,

M. E. MiTFORD.

To Sir William Elford.

Three Mile Cross, July 31, 1822.

Pray, my dear friend, have you heard the strange
story of Lord Byron's consignment to Mr. ]\rurray ? It
may be in the newspapers, for I do not see them ; but
it came to me in the freshness of MS. from a literary
friend, and I shall tell you the story at a venture. Lord
Byron has sent to Murray's a dead child to be interred
in Harrow Churchyard, in a spot particularly pointed



154 LIFE OF MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.

out, Avitli directions to have a splendid mausoleum
erected over it ; but, if that be not permitted, then a
tablet is to be placed in a part of the church, also indi-
cated, where his eye used to rest when a schoolboy,
with the inscription,

" He shall not come to me,
But I shall go to Mm."

Very appropriate, when one remembers on vvliat occa-
sion David spoke those words.

To Sib William Elford, BickJiam, Plymouth.

Three Mile Cross, Oct. 12, 1822.

My deak Friend,

Since I wrote to you I have been once or twice to
London on the business of my play, which Mr. Charles
Kemble (there is another delightful person ! — I am the
least in the world in love with him — don't tell Mrs.
C. K. — he is the successor to Napoleon in my imagina-
tion) — which Mr. C. Kemble (you will begin to think my
passion not quite disinterested) promises to bring out the
first of the season. Of course nothing can be fixed till
Mr. Macready returns from his Italian tourification,
which will be, I suppose, early in next month. You
shall hear in time to beat up for recruits amongst any
of your play-going London friends ; if a man of your
fashion have such a thing as a play-goer amongst his
acquaintance. Nothing, I believe, is certain in a
theatre till the curtain is fairly drawn up and let down
again ; but, as far as I can see, I have, from the warm
zeal and admirable character of the new manager and
his very clever and kindhearted lady, every reason to
expect a successful cUhut.

During my last stay in town I had the very great



HAYDON'S LAZARUS. 155

pleasure of seeing Mr. Haydou's lovely wife. She is
really a charming woman — splendidly beautiful. I never
saw so fine a piece of natural colouring as is formed by
her dark eyes and hair, and her brilliant complexion —
and with exceedingly sweet and captivating manners.
I admired her so much that I could hardly take my
eyes from her to look at his picture. That is very
grand indeed! The effect of the living eye in the
corpse-like face is miraculous ! I hope and trust it will
produce an immense effect.

I would not delay my news about my play even one
post; and have no M.P. under hand. Wisli for me and
' Foscari.' You have all my kindest and gratefulest
thoughts, though a tremendous pressure of occupation
will not allow me to express them so often as I used to
do. God bless you, my dear friend !

Ever yours,

M. K. MiTFOKD.

Did you ever see a glowworm half way up a high
tree ? We did last night. It was a tall elm, stripped
of large branches almost to the top, as the fashion is in
this country, but the trunk clothed with little green
twigs, upon one of which the glowworm hung like a
lamp, looking so beautiful !

To SiE William Elfobd, BlcJcham, Plymouth.

Three Mile Cross, Nov. 16, 1822.
First, my very dear friend, let me thank you heartily
and sincerely for your very kind and delightful letter.
Secondly, let me pray you to thank Mr. Elford and
your charming daughter for two that have given me
great pleasure. I do not write to them, because when
I have so good a channel for conveying my thanks, it



156 LIFE OF MARY BUSSELL MITFORD.

would be but troubling them. My occupation i?, writing
another tragedy — my amusement is, gardening. I have
now in my little garden one of the most beautiful chry-
santhemums ever seen — worth coming from Bickham to
see, if you be a chrysanthemum fantner. It is a very
large double white flower, almost as pure and splendid
as the double white camellia, and has in the inside a
spot larger than a shilling of the deepest, richest purple.
You never saw anything more magnificent. We imagine
that this extraordinary colouring must have proceeded