and won, Napoleon is on his way to St. Helena; London is in a frenzy
of rejoicings, entertainings, illuminations. To Mary Mitford the
appearance of 'Waverley' seems as great an event as the return of
the Bourbons; she is certain that 'Waverley' is written by Sir
Walter Scott, but 'Guy Mannering,' she thinks, is by another hand:
her mind is full of a genuine romantic devotion to books and belles
lettres, and she is also rejoicing, even more, in the spring-time of
1816. Dr. Mitford may be impecunious and their affairs may be
threadbare, but the lovely seasons come out ever in fresh beauty and
abundance. The coppices are carpeted with primroses, with pansies
and wild strawberry blossom,--the woods are spangled with the
delicate flowers of the woodsorrel and wood anemone, the meadows
enamelled with cowslips. . . . Certainly few human beings were ever
created more fit for this present world, and more capable of
admiring and enjoying its beauties, than Miss Mitford, who only
desired to be beautiful herself, she somewhere says, to be perfectly
contented.

III.

Most people's lives are divided into first, second and third
volumes; and as we read Miss Mitford's history it forms no exception
to the rule. The early enthusiastic volume is there, with its hopes
and wild judgments, its quaint old-fashioned dress and phraseology;
then comes the second volume, full of actual work and serious
responsibility, with those childish parents to provide for, whose
lives, though so protracted, never seem to reach beyond their
nurseries. Miss Mitford's third volume is retrospective; her
growing infirmities are courageously endured, there is the certainty
of success well earned and well deserved; we realise her legitimate