In grey pencil this letter is numbered "41" in the top left of the first leaf
Three Mile Cross
April 12, 1822
April 12th 1822..
Thank you very much, my dear Sir William for your very kind & entertaning letter--the story of the Housemaid & the picture is delicious--& I enter into it the more thoroughly from having lately rescued some blotted papers of my own from the fangs of an animal of that species--I write (like Pope & other great poets) on the backs of letters notes etc (not yours--they are kept untouched--I should as soon write on bank paper)--
so
that, considering the blessed & blotted state of the manuscript my Dramatic Scene for John Valpy's new paper --(the
Museum--Sir--It is not come out yet--will you take it in?--I don't persuade you, mind, for I have not the least notion whether it will be good or bad--always excepting my own articles--&
John will pay me
the same whether you take it or no, which is all that concerns me)--Where were we? Well my dramatic Scene looked as she said such a
"tatterdemallion piece of scribble" that she clawed it up in her paw--much as a monkey would seize on an open letter, & was actually proceeding to light a fire withal when I snatched my precious manuscript from her devouring fangs--I wish you had seen the look of contempt with which this damsel of ours--a cidevant schoolmistress--looked at my composition--I dare say she would have
whipt
whipped
any one of her scholars that wrote only half as ill.
And so you to not like
Sir Andrew Wylie!--Well neither upon recollection do I--for though I was taken very much at the time with the fine
tonic
simplicity of the dialect & the pervading influence of a diverting quiet humour--yet on reflection it is as
you say utterly impossible--& the latter fact in particular falls off terribly--the hero is so unnecessarily let down--& the heroine such a foolish country coquette--And yet there is one trait
in that last part which is exquisite--the giving thanks in the Church for his return home--
Goldsmith never exceeded the effect of that beautiful touch of pathos & simplicity.--I am now reading a very different sort of work--
Horace Walpole's (I beg his pardon)
Lord Orford's Memoires. Have you read these two delicious Quarto's of 550 pages each
of History which ought to be dull inasmuch as it embraces the most uninteresting part of our annals, & which is yet as short & as entertaining as a fairy tale? One's first
feeling in closing that book will be a desire to begin it again. And yet I don't suppose there is much truth in it either. The dear
Horace has in the first place that keen insight into the worst part of chacracter which gives a general prejudice
against human nature--& in the second a particular & safer added prejudice against almost every
individual whom he has occassion to mention. He hates his
Father's enemies--that's of course--he hates his
Father's rivals--he hates his
Father's successors--& he hates those of his
Father's friends--who have deserted him--which considering the avowed principle of buying & selling which his
Robert followed--embraces of course pretty nearly
both houses of
Parliament. Besides this sweeping filial dislike--he has a comfortable set of antipathies on his own account--& really seems to
have hated almost every body. Tant mieux. It whets the razor, & most
easily & keenly does that bright weapon cut. The characters are exquisitely given for piquancy & style--there is an unexpectedness & originality in some of his expressions greater even than
in his letters--& the specimens of speeches give I should imagine a very just as well as lively idea of the speakers--particularly of the great rivals
Pitt &
Fox--(I mean of course the Father's)--one had never--at least I had never so considerable an impression of
Mr. Fox as since reading these
Memoires--(Pooh--
Papa &
Mama are playing at that tedious noisy
courting
game piquet--which makes me so stupid tonight) I meant to say that I never thought the first
Mr. Fox so considerable a
man as since reading these
Memoires.--Well he is a delightful person
Horace Walpole--I hope we shall have some more of his remains--& pray--may I ask--have you, his successor & likeness, composed Memoires of your own time to be put into a sealed box & opened when the first grandson or grand nephew comes of age?--your History will be better
humoured
humored
than
Horace Walpole's (& indeed not being the son of an ousted minister you will not have so many antipathies to disturb you)--but not a whit less amusing. Pray if you do leave a sealed box--do let it be opened before I am ninety.
Now what shall we talk about? We have got
Mrs. Opie's new novel of
Madeline in the house--but I have not opened it yet--I have a good mind to write a critique on it without reading--for I think I can pretty well tell what stuff it is made of--one knows the usual ingredients of her tales--just as one knows the component parts of a plum pudding--so much common sense (for the flour) so much vulgarity (for the suet) so much love (for the sugar)--so many songs (for the plums)--so much wit (for the spices) so much fine binding morality (for the eggs)--& so much mere mawkishness & insipidity (for the milk & water wherewith the said pudding is wet up)--I think she has left
off being pathetic--at least I have left out that quality in my enumeration. Yet she is a very clever woman & a goodnatured woman--& though my exceeding fastidiousness with respect to style & elegance & gracefulness in writing deprives me of any pleasure in her works, yet I know a great many very good judges who admire her writings greatly. I hope you won't tell her this by way of a compliment--though I have lately met with a misadventure which would go near to tying one's pen down to its good behavior all one's life. A discreet correspondent of mine (female of course)
enquired
inquired
my opinion of a recent publication--I wrote her a very fair character of the work (which I did not very much admire)--a fair & candid character--with just enough of sweet to
flavour
flavor
the tone (like sugar in mint sauce)--It was not a sweeping, knock me down
critique--but
a light airy neatly feathered shaft--whose censure looked almost like praise. So much the worse for me. My goose of a correspondent took it for complimentary--& by way of recommending me to the Author of the cutup work fairly read him the passage out of my letter--& then in her reply gravely told me what she had done! There's a pretty friend for you! Of course she will never get any but How d'ye do letters from me again as long as she lives.--
When do you come to Town? And have we any chance of seeing you here?--I have not the slightest idea of being in Town--
Foscari would undoubtedly have been acted this season if
Mr. Harris had continued in the management of
Covent Garden--but since this change of Dynasy we have all to begin again--I don't
think it will at any rate be performed this season--perhaps not at all--I don't
believe it
has even been presented to the new managers yet--though I don't know for it is with
Mr. Talfourd & entirely in his hands. And to confess the truth, my dear friend, I am so thoroughly out of heart about it that I cannot bear even to think or speak on the subject. Nevertheless the Drama is my talent--my only talent--my only talent--& I mean to go on,
& improve.
I will improve. That is my fixed determination. Can you recommend me a good subject for an historical Tragedy? I wish you would think of this, & if you have none in your own mind ask any likely person--It should have
two prominant male parts--& I should prefer an Italian story in the 14
th 15
th 16
th or 17
th Century--as affording most scope--& being less liable to blame for any deviation from the truth in the plot, than any well know
n
Here begins a three-line-long tear that is likely from breaking the letter's seal. incident in the greater states. I once thought of ou
r
Charles the First--He &
Cromwell would form two very finely contrasted Characters--but the facts are too well known.--
Farewell, my dear friend. Kindest regards from my Father & Mother--Ever most sincerely & affectionately yours
M. R. Mitford
Pray write soon. You cannot tell how much I value your letters.
Reading April fifteen 1822
Sir Wm Elford Bart
Bickham
J.B. Monck
Plymouth