She was twenty-three years old when her first book of poems was
published; so we read in her letters, in which she entreats her
father not to curtail ANY of the verses addressed to him; there is
no reason, she says, except his EXTREME MODESTY why the verses
should be suppressed,--she speaks not only with the fondness of a
daughter but with the sensibility of a poet. Our young authoress is
modest, although in print; she compares herself to Crabbe (as Jane
Austen might have done), and feels 'what she supposes a farthing
candle would experience when the sun rises in all its glory.' Then
comes the Publisher's bill for 59 pounds; she is quite shocked at
the bill, which is really exorbitant! In her next letter Miss
Mitford reminds her father that the taxes are still unpaid, and a
correspondence follows with somebody asking for a choice of the
Doctor's pictures in payment for the taxes. The Doctor is in London
all the time, dining out and generally amusing himself. Everybody
is speculating whether Sir Francis Burdett will go to the Tower.*
'Oh, my darling, how I envy you at the fountain-head of intelligence
in these interesting times! How I envy Lady Burdett for the fine
opportunity she has to show the heroism of our sex!' writes the
daughter, who is only encountering angry tax-gatherers at home. . .
. Somehow or other the bills are paid for the time, and the family
arrangements go on as before.

*Here, in our little suburban garden at Wimbledon, are the remains
of an old hedgerow which used to grow in the kitchen garden of the
Grange where Sir Francis Burdett then lived. The tradition is that
he was walking in the lane in his own kitchen garden when he was
taken up and carried off to honourable captivity.--A.T.R.

Besides writing to the members of her own home, Miss Mitford started