BOOKS.

MISS XITFORD'S RECOLLECTIONS OF I LITERARY LIFE.* Taman Recollections of Miss Mitford are not a regular autobiogra- phy ; but something more varied, probably more attractive. Books and authors are the real subjects of the writer, around which she weaves a variety of personal reminiscences, sketches of characters, and pictures of landscapes or in-door scenes, interspersed here and there with direct family or biographical information. It is the matter and manner of " Our Village," chastened, matured, varied, extended, and made more real by the restraint which actual persons and facts impose upon the most exuberant imagi- nation. Sixty-five years have passed over the writer without dimming her eye, depressing or souring her spirits, lessening her vivacity of mind or geniality of feeling. She has still as keen a relish for the simple or cultivated beauties of English scenery as when she first looked upon village nature and village life with a view to describe them. Her zest for them is still as keen, her power of painting as firm and distinct, but richer, and more mel- lowed by time. The widespread sympathy with all that lives, and all that is looked upon, from the peer to the peasant, from the stately park to the retired lane or the cottager's homely garden, is as warm and fresh as in "life's morning march." Time may have touched her hair ; rheumatism—as she hints, and the grand climacteric, may have taken some of her litheness of limb ; but her heart is an evergreen, her anima flourishing in perpetual youth. In saying that books and persons are the real subjects of Miss Mitford, the proposition might almost be limited to books ; since they are the means to introduce all the other matters. She begins, for example, with Percy's " Reliques " ; for that was the earliest book of which she has'a distinct recollection, or rather of its ballad the Children in the Wood. In connexion with that book, she pours out a charming picture of her infancy, of her pre- cocity in reading,- of the pride of her father (who spoiled her) in her accomplishment, and of the old house in a small country- town in which she passed her childhood ; a maturer criticism on the literary influence of the work, with quotations of her favourite ballads, rounding and enlarging the more personal topics. Au- thors of all kinds, singly or arranged in classes, follow ; generally, like Percy, embracing some event or some inward feeling in Miss Mitford's hie, frequently with a sketch of the author himself, and a criticism on his works with quotations. More rarely the name is little more than used to introduce the reminiscences of the " reminiscent," as Mr. Butler used to say ; or the works are the occasion of a regular criticism—an article, in fact. The range of Miss Mitford is wide, and often takes in authors who are half forgotten—overlooked in the modern whirl of new in- ventions, endless publications, and rapid movement. Such are An- sted of the " Pleader's Guide," Holcroft, Herrick, Withers, Love- lace, and the better-known names of Cowley and Ben Jonson- though the writings of these two may not be more read by the pub- lic at large. Sometimes the reader is introduced to contemporaries, whose merits in Miss Mitford's judgment have not met with their deserved fame, or authors of whose life she has something to tell. Then we are carried across the waters and presented to our Trans- atlantic cousins and their poets, with occasionally a prose writer ; the introduction being accompanied by anecdotes connected with the author through Miss Mitford's acquaintance with him or with some common Mends. Scenes where the writers have been read, and sometimes occurrences which prevented their reading on that occasion, are described with the minuteness, the brightness, the charm, that distinguished similar things in "Our Village," though, as we have already observed, more sobered and chastened in style. Those who are read in British literature since the days of Elizabeth may frequently find the quotations needless ; personal partiality, or the genial kindness of Miss Mitford's criticisms, may introduce the reader to some luminaries whose light had not yet reached him ; but the book is an attractive medley of pleasant criticism, personal anecdotes, memories of the past, and charming descrip- tion, enriched by the spirit of biography, and relieved by gems of literature, the larger portion of which will be new to the mass of readers.

" Miss Blamire," the once popular writer of a few popular songs, will indicate the manner in which Miss Mitford hangs all sorts of things on a seemingly slender peg. Dr. Mitford appears to have been a bit of a gallant ; he had flirted in youth with a lady who subsequently married a certain Dr. Blamire, "probably " a nephew of the poetess. In after life, the parties meet in Hampshire, when the Mitfords were on a visit to no less a person than William Cobbett. The story of the meeting is nicely told—quite a little bit of comedy, and at the end Miss Blamire is considered as a poetess ; but the practical interest of that paper is the picture of Cobbett as a host. Dr. Mitford, a man of a temper as genial and catholic as his gifted daughter, without her pru- dence—" No man's enemy but his own ''—had struck up an ac- quaintance with Cobbett, through their love of field-sports ; and

hence the visit.

"He had at that time a large house at Batley, with a lawn and gardens sweeping down to the Bursledon river, which divided his (Mr. Cobbett's) territories from the beautiful grounds of the old friend where we had been originally staying, the great squire of the place. His own house—large, high, massive, red, and square, and perched on a considerable eminence- • Recoliectimer or a Literary Life ; or Books, Places, and People. By Mary Rus- sell Mitford, Author of " Oar Village," "Belford Regis," &c. In three volumes. Published by Bentley. always struck me as being not unlike its proprietor. It was filled at that time almost to overflowing. Lord Cochrane was there ; then in the very height of his warlike fame, and as unlike the common notion of a warrior as could be. A gentle, quiet, mild young man, was this burner of French fleets and cutter-out of Spanish vessels, as one should see in a summer-day. He lay about under the trees reading Selden on the Dominion of the Seas, and letting the children (and children always know with whom they ma, take liberties) play all sorts of tricks with him at their pleasure. His ships sur- geon was also a visitor, and a young midshipman, and sometimes an elderly lieutenant, and a Newfoundland dog; fine sailor-like creatures all. Then there was a very learned clergyman, a great friend of Mr. Gifford of the ' Quarterly,' with his wife and daughter ; exceedingly ("lever persons. Two literary gentlemen from London and ourselves completed the actual party ; but there was a large fluctuating series of guests for the hour or guests for the day, of almost all ranks and descriptions, from the earl and his countess to the farmer and his dame. The house had room for all, and the hearts of the owners would have had room for three times the number.

"I never saw hospitality more genuine, more simple, or more thoroughly successful in the great end of hospitality—the putting everybody completely at ease. There was not the slightest attempt at finery, or display, or gentili- ty. They called it a farm-house, and everything was in accordance with the largest idea of a great English yeoman of the old time. Everything was excellent—everything abundant—all served with the greatest nicety by trim waiting damsels ; and everything went on with such quiet regularity that of the large circle of guests not one could find himself in the way. I need not say a word more in praise of the good wife, very lately dead, to whom this admirable order was mainly due. She was a sweet motherly woman, realis- ing our notion of one of Scott's most charming characters, Ailie Dinmont, in her simplicity, her kindness, and her devotion to her husband and her children.

" At this time William Cobbett was at the height of his political reputa- tion ; but of politics we heard little, and should, I think, have beard no- thing, but for an occasional red-hot patriot, who would introduce the subject, which our host would fain put aside, and got rid of as speedily as possible. There was something of Dandie Dinmont about him, with his unfailing good- humour and good spirits, his heartiness; his love of field-sports, and his liking for a foray. He was a tall stout mintAldrand sunburnt, with a bright smile, and an air compounded of the soldier Sind the farmer, to which his habit of wearing an eternal red waistcoat contributed not a little. He was, I think, the most athletic and vigorous person that I have ever known. No- thing could tire him. At home in the morning, he would begin his active day by mowing his own lawn ; beating his gardener Robinson, the best mower except himself in the parish, at that fatiguing work.

" For early rising, indeed, he had an absolute passion; and some of the poetry that we trace in his writings, whenever ho speaks of scenery or of rural objects, broke out in his method of training his children into his own matutinal habits. The boy who was first down stairs was called the Lark for the day, and had, amongst other indulgences, the pretty privilege of making his mother's nosegay and that of any lady visitors. Nor was this the only trace of poetical feeling that he displayed whenever ho de- scribed a place, were it only to say where such a covey lay, or such a hare was found sitting, you could see it, so graphic, so vivid, so true was the pic- ture. He showed the same taste in the purchase of his beautiful farm at Botley, Fairthorn ; even in the pretty name. To be sure, he did not give the name ; but I always thought that it Unconsciously influenced his choice in the purchase. The beauty of the situation certainly did. The fields lay along the .Bursledon river, and might have been shown to a foreigner as a specimen of the richest and loveliest English scenery. In the cultivation of his garden, too, he displayed the same taste. Few persons excelled him in the management of vegetables, fruits, and flowers. His green Indian corn, his Carolina beans, his water-melons, could hardly have been exceeded at New York. His wall-fruit was equally splendid ; and much as flowers have been studied since that day, I never saw a more glowing or a more fragrant autumn garden than that at Botley, with its pyramids of hollyhocks, and its masses of China-asters, of cloves, of mignionette, and of variegated geranium. The chances of life soon parted us, as, without grave faults on either side, people do lose sight of one another ; but I shall always look back with plea- sure and regret to that visit."

The following is a pretty picture of rural scenery, with a touching but ennobling bit of domestic struggle, from " the short and simple annals of the poor." It is connected with a long but agreeable story of a family stick ; the nominal literary subject being Syd- ney's " Arcadia " and Isaac Walton's "Angler," which are not lost sight of either.

" Well, we at last sat down on our old turf seats, not far from the en- trance of a field where an accident had evidently taken place ; a loaded wag- gon must have knocked against the gate, and spilt some of its topmast sheaves. The sheaves were taken away, but the place was strewed with re- lics of the upset, and a little harvest of the long yellow straw and the rich brown ears remained to tempt the gleaners ; and as we were talking over this mischance, and our own, and I was detailing my reasons for believing that my poor stick had found a watery grave, we became aware of two little girls, who stole timidly and quietly up to the place, and began gladly and thankfully to pick up the scattered corn. "Poor little things, we knew them well! we had known their father, dead of consumption scarcely a month ago : and affecting it was to see these poor children, delicate girls of seven and five years old, already at work to help their widowed mother, and rejoicing over the discovery of these few ears of fallen wheat, as if it were the gold mines of California. A drove of pigs was looming in the distance ; and my little damsel flung down her work, and sprang up at once to help the poor children. She has a taste for helping

ple, has my little maid, and puts her whole heart and soul into such

dnesses. It was worth something to see how she pounced upon every straggling straw, clearing away all round the outside, and leaving the space within fur the little girls. She even hinted to use that my new stick would be an efficient weapon against the pigs; end .I might have found myself en- gaged in another combat, but that the ground was cleared before the drove came near.

" Pleasant it was to see her zealous activity, and the joy and surprise of the little creatures, who, weak, timid, and lonely, had till then only collect- ed about a dozen ears, when they found themselves loaded with more than they could carry. Their faded frocks—not mourning frocks, to wear black every day for a father is too great a luxury for the poor—their frocks were by her contrivance pinned up about them, filled with the golden wheat-ears; and the children went home happy. That home had once been full of com- fort and of plenty ; for John Kemp, a gentleman's servant, had married the daughter of a small farmer, and had set up a little trade as a baker and shop- keeper. Civil, honest, sober, and industrious, the world went well with them for awhile, and the shop prospered. But children came many and fast, their largeredebtor died insolvent, a showy competitor set up next door' and long before John Kemp was attacked by the fatal malady of England which finally carried him off, poverty had knocked hard at his door. The long illness, the death, the funeral, bad still farther exhausted their small means; and now little was left, except that which is best of all, strong

family affection, an unstained name, an humble reliance upon Providence, and those habits of virtuous industry and courage to take the world as it is, which seldom fail to win an honest living. The mother and the elder bro- ther undertook the baking and the shop, the eldest daughter carried round the bread, the two next brothers were working in the fields, and the youngest of all we have seen in their efforts to contribute to the general support. Well, it is a hard trial, but it is a good education, an education that can hardly fail to come to good. Many a rich mother,might be proud of the two gleaners that we have seen this afternoon. They so pleased and so thankful to carry their poor store to that poor home, they carried thither better things than wheat."

The following spirited and slily satirical chant for the season, or any season, is by Dr. Holmes of Boston, an American physician and

" Of poetry though patron god, Apollo patronizes physic.'

The verses and the name are both new to us, but we suspect that the verses are a lucky chef d'reuvre : the Doctor does not shine so much in the heroic line.

"ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL.

This ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good old times, Of joyous days, and jolly nights, and merry Christmas chimes : They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, and true, That dipped their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new.

A Spanish galleon brought the bar—so runs the ancient tale—

'Twos hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail ; And now and then between the strokes, for fear his strength should fail, He wiped his brow, and quaffed a cup of good old Flemish ale.

'Twits purchased by an English squire, to please his loving dame,

Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for the same ; And oft as on the ancient stock another twig was found, 'Twas filled with candle, spiced and hot, and handed smoking round.

But changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan divine, Who used to follow Timothyuktake a little wine,

But hated punch and prelacy; -Ad so it was, perhaps,

He went to Leyden, where ho found conventicles and schnaps.

And then—of course you know what's next—it left the Dutchman's shore, With those that in the Mayflower came, a hundred souls and more, Along with all the furniture to fill their new abodes; To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads.

'Twos on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing dim, When old Miles Standish took the bowl and filled it to the brim; The little captain stood and stirred the posset with his sword, And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about the board.

He poured the fiery Hollands in—the man that never feared—

He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard;

And one by one the muqueteers—the men that fought and prayed—

All drank as 'twere their mother's milk, and not a man afraid.

That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew—

He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldiers' wild halloo;

And there the sachem learned the rule he taught to kith and kin—

"Run from the White man when you find he smells of Hellen& gin."

A hundred years and fifty more had spread their leaves and snows, A thousand rubs bad flattened down each little cherub's nose, When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth or joy, 'Twas mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy.

'Drink, John,' she said, "twill do you good,—poor child, you'll never bear

This working in the dismal trench out in the midnight air;

And if—God bless me !—you were hurt, 'twould keep away the chill.'

So John did drink,—and well he wrought that night at Bunker's Hill!

I tell you there was generous warmth in good old English cheer ; I tell you 'twas a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here. 'Tis but the fool that loves excess : hast thou a drunken soul ?- The bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl !

I love the memory of the past—its pressed yet fragrant flowers, The moss that clothes its broken walls, the ivy on its towers,

Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed,—my eyes grow moist and dim

To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim.

Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me ; The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be : And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin That dooms one to those dreadful words—'My dear, where have you been ? '"

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