ting sunshine, and here is nothing but
thickness and sleet'; and towards the conclusion of the same letter we
find the following: 'Perhaps you have not heard that Edward has a good
chance of escaping his lawsuit. His opponent "knocks under." The terms
of agreement are not quite settled.'

There can, we think, be little doubt that both passages--the depressed
and the hopeful--refer to a claim over Edward's Hampshire property made
by some of the heirs-at-law of the former Knight family whom the
Brodnaxes of Godmersham had succeeded. Unfortunately, the cheerful
forecast contained in the second passage did not prove to be in
accordance with the facts. The lawsuit hung on for three years and was
then compromised by Mr. Knight's paying a large sum of money.[288]

Perhaps the claim also had its influence in producing the one
unflattering estimate of Jane which we shall have to lay before the
reader.

Miss Mitford was a convinced--but apparently a reluctant--admirer of her
genius; and she dwells without disguise on what she considers the want
of taste in _Pride and Prejudice_, though even here she adds that Miss
Austen 'wants nothing but the _beau ideal_ of the female character to be
a perfect novel writer.'

In another letter she refers to her mother's unfavourable reminiscences
of Jane Austen as a husband-hunter; although Mrs. Mitford's remark must
(as we have already pointed out[289]) have been based on an entire
misrepresentation, owing to Jane's youthful age at the time when that
lady could have known her.

* * * * *

She proceeds thus:--

A friend of mine who visits her now, says that she
has stiffened into the most perpendicular,
precise, taciturn piece of 'single blessedness'
that ever existed, and that, till _Pride and
Prejudice_ showed what a precious gem was hidden
in that unbending case, she was no more regarded
in society than a poker or a fire-screen, or any
other thin, upright piece of wood or iron that
fills the corner in peace and quietness. The case
is very different now: she is still a poker--but a
poker of whom every one is afraid. It must be
confessed that this silent observation from such
an observer is rather formidable. Most writers are
good-humoured chatterers--neither very wise nor
very witty; but nine times out o