There is a great deal of admirable literature concerning Miss
Mitford, so much of it indeed, that the writer of this little notice
feels as if she almost owed an apology to those who remember, for
having ventured to write, on hearsay only, and without having ever
known or ever seen the author of 'Our Village.' And yet, so vivid
is the homely friendly presence, so clear the sound of that voice
'like a chime of bells,' with its hospitable cheery greeting, that
she can scarcely realise that this acquaintance exists only in the
world of the might-have-beens.

For people who are beginning to remember, rather than looking
forward any more, there certainly exists no more delightful reading
than the memoirs and stories of heroes and heroines, many of whom we
ourselves may have seen, and to whom we may have spoken. As we read
on we are led into some happy bygone region,--such as that one
described by Mr. du Maurier in 'Peter Ibbetson,'--a region in which
we ourselves, together with all our friends and acquaintances, grow
young again;--very young, very brisk, very hopeful. The people we
love are there, along with the people we remember. Music begins to
play, we are dancing, laughing, scampering over the country once
more; our parents too are young and laughing cheerily. Every now
and then perhaps some old friend, also vigorous and hopeful, bursts
into the book, and begins to talk or to write a letter; early sights
and sounds return to us, we have NOW, and we have THEN, in a
pleasant harmony. To those of a certain literary generation who
read Miss Mitford's memoirs, how many such familiar presences and
names must appear and reappear. Not least among them that of her
biographer, Mr. Harness himself, who was so valued by his friends.
Mrs. Kemble, Mrs. Sartoris, Charles Allston Collins, always talked
of him with a great respect and tenderness. I used to think they