KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



259 



THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY,— 

 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 



It would be superfluous for us to 

 dwell upon our predilection for all that is 

 touching and natural. Our eye is fur ever 

 roving abroad in search of sentiments har- 

 monising with our own ; and whenever we hud ■ 

 them, we " book " them at once. 



This premised, let us register in the 

 columns of Our Own, a graphic sketch by- 

 Grace Greenwood, of that noblest and very 

 best of women— Mary Russell Mitford, 

 whose health, all who love her will regret to 

 hear, is on the decline. 



" We left the rail." says Grace Greenwood 

 (in her "Haps and Mishaps 11 ), " and took an 

 open carriage at Reading, a quaint old place, 

 containing some venerable abbey ruins. 

 ' Three Mile Cross,' the immortal ' Our Vil- 

 lage ' of the sketches, is sume miles from this 

 town ; but the poetess does not now reside 

 there, having removed to a simple little cot- 

 tage at Swallowfield, a mile or two away. 



11 We drove through ' Our Village,' how- 

 ever, and passed her old home ; and every 

 held, and lane, and house, and shop, was 

 familiar to my eye. The birds in the trees 

 seemed singing her name over and over, and 

 the wild roses in the hedges were breathing 

 of her. I gazed down her favorite walks ; 

 half cheating myself with the hope that I 

 should see her strolling under the green 

 shadows, with her lovely little friend Lucy, 

 and her beautiful greyhound Mayflower. I 

 looked longingly over toward Aberleigh, and 

 sighed that she who had made those lovely 

 rural scenes the haunts of charmed fancy, 

 and places of quiet delight and refreshment for 

 thousands, could herself roam over them and 

 rejoice in them no more. 



'' 1 knew quite well when we were near 

 Miss Mitford'* home, by our encountering a 

 group of her picturesque proteges, the gip- 

 sies, who were lounging on the turf at the 

 entrance of a lane, sunning themselves. A 

 careless, lazy-looking set of vagabonds were 

 they ; scarcely deigning to turn their faces 

 toward us as we passed ; though one dusky 

 damsel fired up at us with her gleaming eyes, 



from 

 locks 



the ambush of her black straggling 



" We were pained to find Miss Mitford, 

 who has been in a feeble state of health for 

 some years pasc, Buffering from an attack of 

 illness more than usually severe. Yet she 

 did not look ill; her tine expressive face was 

 irradiated with pleasant smiles, and she re- 

 tained her kind sympathetic manner, and 

 cheerful, charming spirits to the full. Miss 

 Mitford talks delightfully, with graphic de- 

 scription of places and persons, free dashes at 

 character, and a rich delicious humor which 

 you relish like a dainty flavor. She has the 



joyous outgushing laugh of a child, and her 

 kindly eyes flash from under her noble brow, 

 and snowy soft hair, with all the vivacity of 

 girlhood. 



" No complaining could have been half so 

 touching as her cheerful resignation when 

 she was told that she must not go with us to 

 drive, a pleasure to which she had been 

 looking forward. Feeling that she had over- 

 exerted herself in conversation, we left her 

 for an hour or two, while we visited Strath- 

 fieldsaye, the noble country seat of the Duke 

 of Wellington, and drove through the exten- 

 sive and beautiful grounds. The park is one 

 of the finest in England, but the house is 

 neither grand nor picturesque. Tt was with 

 real sorrow at my heart that I parted with 

 Miss Mitford that evening. The excitement 

 of the morning had worn off, and she looked 

 pale and sad. I grieved to leave her with 

 only her maid and man-servant — devoted 

 though they be — feeling that she, whose heart 

 was so rich in tenderest affections, should 

 have the near love and anxious care of at 

 least a sister or brother ever about her 

 steps. 



" My lips quivered painfully under her 

 parting kiss, though receiving it as the bene- 

 diction of one of God's angels. I never shall 

 forget the deep melodious fervor of her ' God 

 bless you ! ' bestowed on her well-beloved 



friend Mr. F , nor her last smile cast on 



us both, as she stood in her door, looking 

 after us as we drove away. Yet I was much 

 comforted in my sadness by the thought, that 

 ever, while England boasts a pure literature 

 and a virtuous people, while her quiet country 

 lanes stretch out their lovely vistas of 

 greenery, while her hawthorn hedges blossom 

 through the pleasant land, will the name of 

 Mary Russell Mitford be cherished and 

 revered." 



We are quite charmed with these plain and 

 simple annals of one who is so universally 

 beloved. A child of nature like Miss Mit- 

 ford, endowed with a heart full of the best 

 feelings that man can ever know, and gifted, 

 moreover, with rare ability to impart those 

 feelings to others, is hardly to be met with 

 once in a century. She will ever live in her 

 writings ; and win many hearts, let us hope, 

 not yet in existence, to follow the pursuits 

 in which she has so greatly delighted. 



She may die happy ; for her life has been 

 spent profitably. Enjoying life herself, has 

 been the means of her making others joyful. 

 No good people are ever selfish. They live 

 — not for themselves but for society. 



Some may doubt this, and laugh at our 

 sentiments ; but we still stick to our text. 

 A good man or woman have their reward 

 within. 



What a pity it is that " good people " are 

 so very scarce ! 



