TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

  Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.

  Bold text is denoted by =equal signs=.

  Handwriting on frontispiece and images on pages 62, 260, 300, and 386
  appears to be original to the images, and has been retained in captions.

  Footnote anchors are denoted by [number], and the footnotes have been
  placed at the end of the chapter.

  Original cover has the title “The Life and Friendships of Mary Russell
  Mitford”, which did not reflect the title on the titlepage.

  Some minor changes to the text are noted at the end of the book.


                         MARY RUSSELL MITFORD

[Illustration: MY COTTAGE in “OUR VILLAGE”.
                                            _M R Mitford_
 MISS MITFORD’S COTTAGE AT THREE MILE CROSS.

  (_From a lithograph published by_ MR. LOVEJOY,
   _of Reading, while Miss Mitford was in residence_.)
]




                             MARY RUSSELL
                               MITFORD

                    The Tragedy of a Blue Stocking

                                  By
                            W. J. ROBERTS

         (Author of “_The Love Story of Empress Josephine_,”
             “_Literary Landmarks of Torquay_,” _etc._).

         ILLUSTRATED FROM PHOTOGRAPHS BY THE AUTHOR AND FROM
                        CONTEMPORARY PICTURES.


                        LONDON: ANDREW MELROSE
                  3 YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C.
                                 1913




                             Dedication.


                                 _To_

                       CONSTANCE, LADY RUSSELL,

                        _of Swallowfield Park,
         I Dedicate this Book as a slight token of Gratitude
                  For the Help and Encouragement she
                    has so graciously afforded me
                         in its Compilation_.

                           _W. J. ROBERTS_

                               LONDON,
                            _March, 1913_.




                               PREFACE


No figure in the gallery of Early Victorian writers presents a
character so charming or so tenderly pathetic as that of Mary Russell
Mitford. Added to these characteristics is the fact that her life
was, in reality, a tragedy brought about by her blind devotion
and self-sacrifice to an object which we are forced to regard as
altogether unworthy.

Miss Mitford’s name is not a familiar one to this generation and it
is with the desire to alter this that the following pages have been
written. It would be impossible, within the compass of a book of this
size, to show forth Miss Mitford’s life in its entirety: what we have
done has been to select from the records of her life and work such
incidents and such friendships as seemed to us to portray her most
faithfully. Whether we have succeeded must be left to the reader to
judge.

In the compilation of the book many sources of information have been
drawn upon and the author desires to acknowledge his indebtedness to
all who have so kindly helped him in his labours. Chief among these
has been Lady Russell of Swallowfield, who, in addition to supplying
much material, has made the author still further indebted by her
acceptance of the dedication of the book. Miss Rose G. Kingsley has
also to be thanked for copies of letters written by Miss Mitford to
her father, Charles Kingsley, who lies buried at Eversley, in the
neighbourhood with which the book deals largely.

To Miss Josephine M. H. Fairless, Messrs. G. A. Poynder, W. Smith,
T. Rowland Kent, H. T. Pugh, J. J. Cooper, J.P., and Alderman J.
W. Martin (all of Reading) the author’s best thanks are tendered,
as also to the Rev. J. Henry Taylor, of Canterbury (Miss Mitford’s
“Little Henry”), the Rev. Alexander A. Headley, Rector of New
Alresford, Mr. Bertram Dobell, the well-known bibliophile of London,
Mr. W. H. Greenhough, Chief Librarian to the Borough of Reading,
and W. H. Hudson, Esq.—the last named for his very kind loan of the
pencil sketch of Miss Mitford which figures in this book.

                                                W. J. ROBERTS.

  _London, 1913._




                              CONTENTS


  CHAP.                                                           PAGE

  I      EARLY DAYS IN ALRESFORD                                    11

  II     LYME REGIS AND TRAGEDY’S SHADOW                            23

  III    READING AND SCHOOL DAYS AT CHELSEA                         35

  IV     SCHOOLDAYS AND MISS ROWDEN’S INFLUENCE                     48

  V      READING                                                    66

  VI     BERTRAM HOUSE                                              80

  VII    THE TRIP TO NORTHUMBERLAND                                 92

  VIII   LITERATURE AS A SERIOUS AND PURPOSEFUL OCCUPATION         112

  IX     THE FIRST BOOK                                            124

  X      A YEAR OF ANXIETY                                         140

  XI     LITERARY CRITICISM AND AN UNPRECEDENTED COMPLIMENT        157

  XII    DWINDLING FORTUNES AND A GLEAM OF SUCCESS                 172

  XIII   LITERARY FRIENDS AND LAST DAYS AT BERTRAM HOUSE           184

  XIV    THE COTTAGE AT THREE MILE CROSS                           198

  XV     A BUSY WOMAN                                              209

  XVI    “GOD GRANT ME TO DESERVE SUCCESS”                         221

  XVII   _Our Village_ IS PUBLISHED                                234

  XVIII  MACREADY AND _Rienzi_                                     246

  XIX    A SLAVE OF THE LAMP                                       259

  XX     MACREADY’S RESERVATION AND LORD LYTTON’S PRAISE           274

  XXI    A GREAT SORROW                                            287

  XXII   “THE WORKHOUSE—A FAR PREFERABLE DESTINY”                  299

  XXIII  MY OLDEST AND KINDEST FRIEND                              313

  XXIV   VARIOUS FRIENDSHIPS                                       327

  XXV    THE STATE PENSION                                         339

  XXVI   DEATH OF DR. MITFORD                                      353

  XXVII  LOVE FOR CHILDREN AND LAST DAYS AT THREE MILE CROSS       367

  XXVIII SWALLOWFIELD AND THE END                                  379




                        LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                               TO FACE
                                                                  PAGE

  My Cottage in “Our Village”                           _Frontispiece_

  Mary Russell Mitford at the age of three                          20

  “Kendrick View,” Reading                                          40

  Doctor Mitford (from a painting by Lucas)                         62

  Mary Russell Mitford (from a drawing by Slater)                  102

  “Our Village” in 1913                                            198

  Woodcock Lane, Three Mile Cross                                  210

  Mary Russell Mitford (from a painting by Miss Drummond)          226

  The old Wheelwright’s Shop at “Our Village”                      236

  Miss Mitford’s Cottage at Three Mile Cross in 1913               242

  Mary Russell Mitford (from a painting by Haydon)                 260

  Mary Russell Mitford (from a painting by Lucas)                  290

  Miss Mitford (from a sketch in _Fraser’s Magazine_)              300

  Mary Russell Mitford (from a drawing by F. R. Say)               322

  Miss Mitford in 1837 (from Chorley’s _Authors of England_)       328

  Mary Russell Mitford (from a painting by Lucas)                  334

  A View in Swallowfield Park                                      340

  Mr. George Lovejoy, Bookseller, of Reading                       364

  The “House of Seven Gables,” on the road to Swallowfield         370

  Miss Mitford’s Cottage at Swallowfield (from a contemporary
  engraving)                                                       374

  Miss Mitford’s Cottage at Swallowfield in 1913                   380

  Mary Russell Mitford (from a painting by Lucas)                  384

  Mary Russell Mitford (from a pencil sketch)                      386

  Swallowfield Churchyard                                          388




                              CHAPTER I

                       EARLY DAYS IN ALRESFORD


Within the stained but, happily, well-preserved registers of the
Church of St. John the Baptist, New Alresford, Hampshire, is an entry
which runs thus:—

 No. 211.

 George Midford of this parish, Batchelor, and Mary Russell of the
 same, Spinster. Married in this Church by Licence this Seventeenth
 day of October in the Year One Thousand Seven Hundred and
 Eighty-five by me, Will Buller,[1] Rector.

  This Marriage was     {George Midford,
  solemnized between us {Mary Russell.

  In the presence of {Jno. Harness,
                     {Elizabeth Anderson.

It is a prosaic enough entry and yet, as we shall endeavour to prove,
it marked the beginning of a tragedy composed of the profligacy and
wicked extravagance of one of its signatories, of the foolish,
docile acquiescence of the other, and of the equally foolish and
docile, but incomprehensible, infatuation for the profligate one
which Mary Russell Mitford, the child of this union, made the guiding
principle of her life.

George Midford—or Mitford, as he subsequently spelt his name—was the
son of Francis Midford, Esq., of Hexham (descended from the ancient
house of Midford,[2] of Midford Castle, near Morpeth), and of his
wife Jane, formerly Miss Jane Graham, of Old Wall in Westmoreland,
related to the Grahams of Netherby.

He was born at Hexham, November 15, 1760, received his early
education at Newcastle School, studied for the profession of medicine
at the University of Edinburgh, and was for three years a house pupil
of the celebrated John Hunter, in London.

At the conclusion of his studies young Midford, or Mitford as we
shall henceforth speak of him, went on a visit to a relative—Dr.
Ogle, then Dean of Winchester—through whom he obtained an
introduction to Miss Mary Russell, then living alone in the adjacent
town of Alresford.

Mary Russell was an heiress—ten years the senior of George Mitford,
being then in her thirty-sixth year—and just recovering from a recent
bereavement in the death of her mother.

She was the daughter of Dr. Richard Russell, a lineal descendant
of the ducal family of Bedford, Vicar of Overton and Rector of
Ash—parishes adjoining each other and near to Whitchurch in
Hampshire—who, as a widower, married Miss Dickers, the daughter of a
Hampshire gentleman of considerable property, in the year 1745.

Childless by his first wife, the offspring of this second marriage
was a son and two daughters.

Of these the son and elder daughter died in childhood, leaving Mary,
who was born June 7, 1750, the sole heiress to the property of her
parents.

Dr. Russell eventually resigned the Vicarage of Overton, but
continued both his ministrations and residence at Ash, where he died
in 1783, aged eighty-eight years.

At his death his widow and daughter—the latter then thirty-three
years of age—removed to a pleasant and commodious house in the
Broad Street of that old-world and peaceful township of Alresford,
a town the houses of which, save the inns, bear no distinguishing
name and number, the staid and sober life of whose inhabitants was
only relieved by the mild excitements of market-day or by the noisy
passage of the mail-coach as, with clatter of hoof-beats and blast
of horn, it rattled gaily through, on its passage from London to
Winchester or vice versa.

Mrs. Russell only survived her husband for a little more than two
years and died on March 8, 1785, leaving her daughter with a fortune
of £28,000 in cash, in addition to house and land property. In the
admirable introduction to _The Life and Letters of Mary Russell
Mitford_ (published 1870, and contributed by the Editor, the Rev. A.
G. L’Estrange) we have a pen-portrait of Mary Russell at this period
of her life which, in the absence of any other form of portraiture,
we cannot do better than quote.

 “In addition to these attractions [her inheritance] she had
 been carefully educated by her father; and to the ordinary
 accomplishments of gentlewomen in those days had united no
 slight acquaintance with the authors of Greece and Rome. She was
 kind-hearted, of mild and lady-like manners, of imperturbable
 temper, home-loving, and abounding in conversation, which flowed
 easily, in a soft and pleasant voice, from the sources of a full
 mind. Her figure was good, slight, active, and about the middle
 height; but the plainness of the face—the prominent eyes and
 teeth—the very bad complexion—was scarcely redeemed by the kind and
 cheerful expression which animated her countenance.”

To this excessively plain but undoubtedly charming and accomplished
woman was the young surgeon introduced, “being easily persuaded by
friends more worldly wise than he to address himself to a lady who,
although ten years his senior, had every recommendation that heart
could desire—except beauty.”

She certainly had every recommendation that the heart of George
Mitford could desire, for “though a very brief career of dissipation
had reduced his pecuniary resources to the lowest ebb, he was not
only recklessly extravagant, but addicted to high play.”

A few months later they were married.

“She, full of confiding love, refused every settlement beyond two
hundred a year pin-money, out of his own property, on which he
insisted”—words written by Mary Russell Mitford, many years after,
and which would contradict our statement of her father’s pecuniary
embarrassment, were they not discounted by the words of the Rev.
William Harness, who, writing on the matter to a friend, says: “I
hear that when Mitford was engaged to his wife she had a set of
shirts made for him, lest it should be said that ‘she had married a
man without a shirt to his back!’ Of course the story is not true;
but it expressed what folk thought of his deplorable poverty and
the impossibility of his making that settlement on her, for which
my father was trustee, out of funds of his own, as Miss Mitford
suggests.”

And so they were married, the bride being given away by her trustee,
Dr. John Harness, then living at Wickham, some few miles south of
Alresford.

Had the confiding wife misgivings, we wonder? Or was it the
excitement natural to such a momentous event in her life that
caused the little hand to be so tremulous as it signed the nervous
characters, Mary Russell, beneath the bold hand of her lord and
master, on that eventful October 17, 1785?

Henceforth, had she but known, she would have need of all the comfort
she might wring from those fatalistic words, “Che Sarà, Sarà,” the
motto of the Bedfords, whose ancestry she took such pride in claiming.

It had already been decided that Alresford should witness the
commencement at least of the surgeon’s professional career, and
seeing that the house in Broad Street was commodious and, what was
more to the point, well-furnished, there was no need to make a fresh
home, and it was there they set up housekeeping together.

That the young man had good intentions is fairly evident, for he
continued his studies and, in the course of a year or so, took his
degree in medicine which permitted him to practise as a physician.

Thirteen months later a son was born to them, but did not survive. In
the Baptismal Register of New Alresford Church is the entry:—

 “Francis Russell, son of George and Mary Midford, was privately
 baptized on the 12th, but died on the 23rd of November, 1786.”

It is important that this entry should be placed on record, for
while, in after years, Miss Mitford speaks of herself as the only
survivor of three children, _two sons having died in infancy_, it
has been stated in print that “Mary Russell Mitford was their only
child.” On the other hand, although careful search has been made, no
record of the baptism or burial of a third child has been discovered
in the Alresford registers, and we can only assume, therefore, that
this child must have died at birth and on a date subsequent to that
of his sister.

Sufficient for us, however, is the entry in these same registers:—

 “Mary Russell, daughter of George and Mary Midford, baptized
 February 29, 1788”—

the child having been born on December 16, 1787.

Of these early days we have, fortunately, a picture left by the child
herself. “A pleasant home, in truth, it was,” she writes. “A large
house in a little town of the north of Hampshire—a town, so small,
that but for an ancient market, very slenderly attended, nobody would
have dreamt of calling it anything but a village.[3] The breakfast
room, where I first possessed myself of my beloved ballads, was a
lofty and spacious apartment, literally lined with books, which, with
its Turkey carpet, its glowing fire, its sofas, and its easy chairs,
seemed, what indeed it was, a very nest of English comfort. The
windows opened on a large old-fashioned garden, full of old-fashioned
flowers, stocks, roses, honeysuckles and pinks; and that again led
into a grassy orchard, abounding with fruit-trees. What a playground
was that orchard! and what playfellows were mine! Nancy [her maid],
with her trim prettiness, my own dear father, handsomest and
cheerfullest of men, and the great Newfoundland dog, Coe, who used
to lie down at my feet, as if to invite me to mount him, and then to
prance off with his burthen, as if he enjoyed the fun as much as we
did. Most undoubtedly I was a spoilt child. When I recollect certain
passages of my thrice-happy early life, I cannot have the slightest
doubt about the matter, although it contradicts all foregone
conclusions, all nursery and schoolroom morality, to say so. But
facts are stubborn things. Spoilt I was. Everybody spoilt me—most of
all the person whose power in that way was greatest: the dear papa
himself. Not content with spoiling me indoors, he spoilt me out. How
well I remember his carrying me round the orchard on his shoulder,
holding fast my little three-year-old feet, whilst the little hands
hung on to his pig-tail, which I called my bridle (those were days
of pig-tails), hung so fast, and tugged so heartily, that sometimes
the ribbon would come off between my fingers, and send his hair
floating and the powder flying down his back. That climax of mischief
was the crowning joy of all. I can hear our shouts of laughter now.”

A pretty picture this, and one to which, as she wrote of it, the
tired old woman looked back as on one of the few oases in a life
which, despite certain successes, was nothing short of a desert of
weariness and of struggle with poverty.

But apart from this boisterous love of play, the little girl early
developed a passion for reading, fostered and encouraged, no doubt,
by that “grave home-loving mother,” who “never in her life read
any book but devotion,” in whose room, indeed, it was matter for
astonished comment to find the works of Spenser.

At the age of three, little Mary showed a remarkable precocity of
intellect, and even before she had reached that early age her father
was accustomed to perch her on the breakfast-table to exhibit her
one accomplishment to admiring guests, “who admired all the more,
because, a small puny child, looking far younger than I really was,
nicely dressed, as only children generally are, and gifted with an
affluence of curls, I might have passed for the twin sister of my own
great doll.”

On such occasions she would be given one or other of the Whig
newspapers of the day—the _Courier_ or _Morning Chronicle_—and, to
the delight of her father and the wonder of the guests, would prattle
forth the high-seasoned political pronouncements with which those
journals were filled.

Following this display there was, of course, reward; not with
sweetmeats, however, “too plentiful in my case to be very greatly
cared for,” but by the reading of the “Children in the Wood” by
mother from _Percy’s Reliques_, “and I looked for my favourite ballad
after every performance, just as the piping bullfinch that hung in
the window looked for his lump of sugar after going through ‘God save
the King.’ The two cases were exactly parallel.”

But one day “the dear mamma” was absent and could not administer the
customary reward, with the result that papa had to read the “Children
in the Wood,” though not before he had searched the shelves to find
the, to him, unfamiliar volumes. Following which search and labour he
was easily constrained by the petted child to hand over the book to
Nancy, that she might read extracts whenever called upon. And when
Nancy, as was inevitable, waxed weary of the “Children in the Wood,”
she gradually took to reading other of the ballads; “and as from
three years old I grew to be four or five, I learned to read them
myself, and the book became the delight of my childhood, as it is now
the solace of my age.”

[Illustration: Mary Russell Mitford at the age of three.

(From a Miniature.)]

With a child so apt it is not surprising that we find no record of
a governess or tutor during these early years—that is, so far as
general education was concerned; but there was one item of special
education which the fond papa did insist upon, an insistence which
was the cause of much grief to and some disobedience from the spoilt
girl.

“How my father, who certainly never knew the tune of ‘God save the
King’ from that of the other national air, ‘Rule, Britannia,’ came
to take into his head so strong a fancy to make me an accomplished
musician I could never rightly understand, but that such a fancy did
possess him I found to my sorrow! From the day I was five years old,
he stuck me up to the piano, and, although teacher after teacher had
discovered that I had neither ear, nor taste, nor application, he
continued, fully bent upon my learning it.”

Nevertheless, she did not learn it and, as we shall see later, this
fixed idea of her father’s gave place to another equally futile.

Chief of her playmates at this time was William Harness, the son of
her mother’s trustee. He would be brought over from Wickham in the
morning, and after a day of romps, be taken back in his father’s
carriage late in the afternoon. Although two years the junior of
Mary, William was her constant and boon companion, and remained to be
her friend and counsellor through life, although his counsels were,
at times, very wilfully disregarded.

Mutually genial of temperament, they sympathized with each other’s
tastes and pursuits, particularly as these related to Literature and
the Drama. On one point only did they disagree, and its subject was
“dear papa.” By a sort of intuition the boy must have, even in those
early days, come to regard the handsome, bluff, genial, loud-voiced
surgeon with something akin to suspicion, a suspicion which was
maintained and fully justified in the years to come.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] Then also Dean of Exeter and, subsequently, Bishop of that
Diocese.

[2] Derived from the situation of the Castle keep, which lies between
the fords of the river Wansbeck, Northumberland.

[3] Many years afterwards, when appointed to the See of Winchester,
the late Bishop Thorold alluded to it as one of a number of
Town-Villages which he said he found so peculiarly distinctive a
feature of Hampshire.




                             CHAPTER II

                   LYME REGIS AND TRAGEDY’S SHADOW


The picture, given us by Miss Mitford herself, of those early days
in the Hampshire home, is one from the contemplation of which we are
loth to drag ourselves.

Again and again in her _Recollections_ we note how the memory was
drawn upon to conjure up some pleasant scene from the past. Of
the town itself her vision is of “a picturesque country church
with yews and lindens on one side, and beyond, a down as smooth
as velvet, dotted with rich islands of coppice, hazel, woodbine,
hawthorn and holly reaching up into the young oaks, and overhanging
flowery patches of primroses, wood-sorrel, wild hyacinths, and wild
strawberries. On the side opposite the church in a hollow fringed
with alders and bulrushes, gleamed the bright clear lakelet, radiant
with swans and water-lilies, which the simple townsfolk were content
to call the Great Pond.”

Fortunately for us the hand of Time has touched this old town gently.
It is true the picturesque country church has, by sheer force of
decay begotten of a hoary antiquity, given place to one not less
picturesque on the old site; but the peaceful aspect of the streets
and inns remains, together with that commodious house in the Broad
Street which, excepting one slight internal alteration, differs in
nothing from the house which Miss Mitford knew in her childhood, the
place of her birth.

With steep-pitched roof and painted front, its old dormer-windows
look out with a certain grave dignity befitting the windows of a
house which enshrines such a tender memory, on the town “through
whose streets streamed Cavaliers and Roundheads after the battle
of Cheriton,” on the downs where, a full hundred and twenty years
ago, the little mistress was wont fearlessly to ride on her father’s
favourite blood-mare, seated on a specially-contrived pad and
enclosed so fondly by that same father’s strong and loving arm.

Specially privileged and greatly esteeming the privilege, we have
wandered through the rooms of this house; seen the breakfast room
round which were ranged the books of Grandpa Russell’s library; seen
the curiously contrived sash-window—the like of which we have never
seen in any house before or since—fashioned so cunningly that its
entire height slides upward into a recess quite out of sight; stepped
through the opening thus made on to the flagged pathway leading by
quaint outbuildings and stable to the garden and orchard beyond,
where, as we have already noted, took place those dashing rides on a
human mount, with a powdered, beribboned pig-tail in lieu of reins.

Small wonder is it that we looked on these things with something akin
to reverence, and certainly with pity in our heart as we recalled how
shamefully those idyllic days were to end.

With a strong preference for country sports and occupations, with
a gay and careless temper which all the professional etiquette
of the world could never tame into the staid gravity proper to a
doctor of medicine, and with that insidious canker, the love of
gambling, slowly devouring any manliness he may have possessed, Dr.
Mitford gradually frittered away the whole of his wife’s fortune,
save a matter of £3,500 in the funds, which, being in the hands of
trustees, was beyond his reach. Generous to a degree, and with a
blind confidence and belief in her husband’s affection, Mrs. Mitford
would not permit any part of her property to be settled on herself,
and was therefore, to some extent, to blame for the catastrophe which
followed.

Thus, in a few short years of married life—at the most nine—we
find this professional man forced to sell furniture and portions
of his library in order to meet current expenses and ease the
clamours of his creditors; forced, indeed, from very shame, to
quit the self-contained and therefore intolerant town where bitter
tongues were wagging and scornful fingers pointing, and to take
up a residence in a distant seaside town, where, if he ever hoped
to retrench and reform, and had he but given the matter a moment’s
consideration, he was scarcely likely to achieve his object.

It was to Lyme Regis they went—this unduly optimistic, noisy,
sportsman-practitioner, with his uncomplaining still trustful wife
and their six-year-old daughter, wide-eyed and wondering why this
sudden flight. The true import of this removal was not to be hidden
from this remarkably intuitive child. “In that old, historical town,”
she writes in one of her reminiscent moods, “that old town so finely
placed on the very line where Dorsetshire and Devonshire meet, I
spent the eventful year when the careless happiness of childhood
vanished, and the troubles of the world first dimly dawned upon my
heart—felt in its effects rather than known—felt in its chilling
gloom, as we feel the shadow of a cloud that passes over the sun on
an April day.” Strangely-sad words these, expressing the thoughts of
a child at an age when, not strong enough to help and too young to
be confided in, it can do nothing but mark the change, questioning
the mother’s furtive tear while, rendered more sensitive by reason of
its own impotence, it shudders in the cold atmosphere of vague yet
ill-concealed suspicion and mistrust.

Yet, mark the improvidence of this unstable man; the house he took
in Lyme Regis was, “as commonly happens to people whose fortunes are
declining, far more splendid than that we had inhabited, indeed the
very best in the town.”

The house still stands with its “great extent of frontage,
terminating by large gates surmounted by spread eagles.” It is now
known as “The Retreat,” and is in the Broad Street of Lyme, proudly
pointed to by the inhabitants as the house once rented by the great
Lord Chatham for the benefit of his son’s—William Pitt’s—health, and,
twenty years later, by the Mitford family.

Lyme Regis is the embodiment of much that is interesting,
historically and politically, but particularly to us by reason of
its literary associations. Of “The Retreat” we have, fortunately, a
description written by Miss Mitford herself.

“An old stone porch, with benches on either side, projected from
the centre, covered as was the whole front of the house, with tall,
spreading, wide-leaved myrtle, abounding in blossom, with moss-roses,
jessamine, and passion-flowers. Behind the building, extended round a
paved quadrangle, was the drawing-room, a splendid apartment, looking
upon a little lawn surrounded by choice evergreens, the bay, the
cedar and the arbutus, and terminated by an old-fashioned greenhouse
and a filbert-tree walk. In the steep declivity of the central garden
was a grotto, over-arching a cool, sparkling spring, whilst the
slopes on either side were carpeted with strawberries and dotted with
fruit trees. One drooping medlar, beneath whose branches I have often
hidden, I remember well.”

This great house, with its large and lofty rooms, its noble
oaken staircases, its marble hall, long galleries and corridors,
was scarcely the house which a man anxious to mark time in an
unpretentious fashion was likely to choose. Nor, had he stopped
for one moment to consider, would he have chosen Lyme Regis as a
retreat, for it was then practically at the height of its fashionable
prosperity, with its gay Assembly Rooms, the resort of those on
whom Bath and Brighthelmstone were beginning to pall, and who were
henceforth to divide their patronage between this Dorsetshire
rendezvous and that other, just awakened, resort still further
westward round the coast and destined, in the slow course of a
century, to become the imperiously aristocratic Torquay.

No, indeed! this was no move the wisdom of which was calculated
to inspire in the breast of Harness, the trustee, any restoration
of confidence, for those long galleries and corridors were, quite
naturally, “echoing from morning to night with gay visitors, cousins
from the North, and the ever-shifting company of the watering-place.”

It was a strange place wherein a laughter-loving child should be sad.
“Yet sad I was,” she says. “Nobody told me, but I felt, I knew, I
had an interior conviction, for which I could not have accounted,
that, in the midst of all this natural beauty and apparent happiness,
in spite of the company, in spite of the gaiety, something was wrong.
It was such a foreshowing as makes the quicksilver in the barometer
sink whilst the weather is still bright and clear.”

How pitiful it all seems! how strangely pathetic when, side by side
with that description of the insistent shadow, we set the written
indictment of him who was the cause of all the trouble—pathetic
because, though an indictment, it is done so gently and breathes the
very spirit of forgiveness.

“Then ... he attempted to increase his resources by the aid of cards,
(he was, unluckily, one of the finest whist-players in England), or
by that other terrible gambling, which assumes so many forms, and
bears so many names, but which even when called by its milder term
of _Speculation_, is that terrible thing gambling still; whatever
might be the manner of the loss—or whether, as afterwards happened,
his own large-hearted hospitality and too-confiding temper were alone
to blame—for the detail was never known to me, nor do I think it was
known to my mother; he did not tell and we could not ask. How often,
in after-life, has that sanguine spirit, which clung to him to his
last hour, made me tremble and shiver.”

Herein, perhaps, we may divine the reason for the otherwise
incomprehensible move from Alresford, where the cost of living would
be cheap[4] as compared with the high prices obtaining at fashionable
Lyme! Nevertheless, although the influence of the brooding shadow was
insistent, these days at Lyme Regis were not without their excitement
and pleasures.

“One incident that occurred there—a frightful danger—a providential
escape—I shall never forget,” says Miss Mitford in her _Recollections_.

A ball at the Rooms was about to take place, and a party of
sixteen or more persons dressed for it had assembled in the
Mitford dining-room for dessert, when suddenly the heavy plaster
ornamentation of the ceiling crashed down in large masses upon the
folk seated beneath. Fortunately the only damage was to the flowers
and feathers of the ladies, the crystal and china, and the fruits and
wines of the dessert, together with a few scratches on the bald head
of a venerable clergyman.

“I, myself,” she continues, “caught instantly in my father’s arms, by
whose side I was standing, had scarcely even time to be frightened,
although after the danger was over, our fair visitors of course
began to scream.”

But it was in the planning and carrying out of excursions in the
neighbourhood that Dr. Mitford showed to greater advantage, giving
full play to those characteristics which, as opposed to his general
selfishness, endeared him then and always to children. Hand in hand
with his little daughter, vivacious and inquiring, the two would
sally forth in quest of glittering spars and ores, of curious shells
and seaweeds and of the fossils which abounded in the Bay, the
collection to be finally carried home and laid out in a certain dark
panelled chamber which, after the book-room, was the most favoured
spot in all the house to the little girl.

Sometimes these excursions would take them towards Charmouth, at
others to the Pinny cliffs, where, “about a mile and a half from
the town, an old landslip had deposited a farm-house, with its
outbuildings, its garden, and its orchard, tossed half-way down
amongst the rocks, contrasting so strangely its rich and blossoming
vegetation, its look of home and comfort, with the dark rugged masses
above, below and around.”

At other times they would pace together that quaint old pier, the
Cob, or ascend the hill to Up-Lyme, whence they might watch the waves
swirling in sheets of green and spumey white in the Bay below.

Very happy, on such occasions, was the child, although the
indefinable shadow dogged her, now vague, now portentous.

At last, and little more than a twelvemonth after their removal
to Lyme, there was a hurried flitting, following short and stormy
interviews with landlords, lawyers and others.

One fateful night “two or three large chests were carried away
through the garden by George and another old servant.” Everything
was to be sold so that everybody might be paid. Save a few special
favourites among the books, the library was left for disposal by
auction, and a day or two after, Mrs. Mitford and the child, with
Mrs. Mosse, the housekeeper and a maid-servant, left Lyme and its
shadow for London and a shadow of more sinister bearing.

Dr. Mitford had gone before, leaving the little party to travel
post in a hack chaise. The journey was full of discomfort to the
distressed women. At Dorchester, where they had hoped to stay the
night, they found the town so full of soldiers, breaking camp, that
there was no accommodation for them, nor was there chaise or horses
wherewith to pursue the journey. Finally, after searching all over
the place, they were able to obtain a lift in a rough tilted cart
without springs which bumped and jolted them over eight rough miles
to a small place whence they might hope to proceed in the morning.

“It was my mother’s first touch of poverty; it seemed like a final
parting from all the elegances and all the accommodations to which
she had been used. I never shall forget her heart-broken look when
she took her little girl upon her lap in that jolting caravan, nor
how the tears stood in her eyes when we were turned altogether into
our miserable bed-room when we reached the roadside ale-house where
we were to pass the night, and found ourselves, instead of the tea we
so much needed, condemned to sup on stale bread and cheese.”

The next day they resumed their journey, and at length reached a
dingy comfortless lodging on the Surrey side of Blackfriars Bridge,
where, with the cause of all the trouble, they found a refuge from
pressing creditors within the rules of the King’s Bench. Here, like a
certain historic figure whose exploits were to be inimitably recorded
later, Dr. Mitford waited for something to turn up, beguiling the
time by visits to Guy’s Hospital, where his friend and fellow-pupil,
Dr. Babington, was one of the physicians, and by performing odd jobs
for, and being generally useful to the notorious “Dr. Graham”—a
famous quack who throve amazingly at the expense of a gullible and
doubtless sensually-minded public.[5]

With her fortune gone and with only the tattered but eloquent
remnants of respectability left to her, can we wonder that the
educated and refined daughter of an eminent divine should wear a
heart-broken look and weep bitter tears? Her spirit was broken, and
even Hope seemed to have deserted her!


FOOTNOTES:

[4] The only two entries in the rate-books of Alresford, relating to
payments made by “George Mitford—Surgeon,” are, under an assessment
at 9_d._ in the pound, made in 1787—7_s._; and, under an assessment
at 4½_d._ in the pound, made in 1790—5_s._

[5] Dr. Graham’s “Celestial Bed” for sterile couples is numbered
among the astounding frauds of the early nineteenth century. To
his “Temple”—first in the Adelphi and later, as he grew wealthy
and more daring, to Schomberg House in Pall Mall—there thronged
a heterogeneous mass of people, some taking him and his nostrums
seriously, while others—the bulk, it is suggested—paid large sums for
admission to view Emma Lyon, afterwards Lady Hamilton, pose, in scant
drapery, as the Goddess of Hygiene. Not the least of this charlatan’s
astounding achievements are his obscene and blasphemous pamphlets on
the most delicate subjects, which he circulated broadcast among the
class to which he knew they would appeal.




                             CHAPTER III

                 READING AND SCHOOL DAYS AT CHELSEA


Dr. Mitford’s spirit was a sanguine one; he could not believe that
Dame Fortune intended to frown on him and his for ever. With much to
commend it in a general way, the possession of such a spirit may yet
be a menace, a positive danger. To a man of Dr. Mitford’s character
it was a danger. It led him into the rashest of speculations; it
launched him upon the wildest of wild schemes and left him, nearly
always, a loser.

On one occasion, however, Fortune smiled on him in so dramatic a
fashion that thereafter his belief in himself could never be shaken.

It happened some long time after the family had been settled in the
dingy London apartments and, in accordance with his usual practice,
the Doctor had taken his little daughter to walk about London—a
never-failing source of delight to her, both then and in later life.

“One day”—her own description of the event is so expressive and
circumstantial—“he took me into a not very tempting-looking place,
which was, as I speedily found, a lottery-office. It was my birthday,
and I was ten years old. An Irish lottery was upon the point of being
drawn, and he desired me to choose one out of several bits of printed
paper (I did not then know their significance) that lay upon the
counter.

“‘Choose which number you like best,’ said the dear papa, ‘and that
shall be your birthday present.’

“I immediately selected one, and put it into his hand; No. 2,224.

“‘Ah!’ said my father, examining it, ‘you must choose again. I want
to buy a whole ticket; and this is only a quarter. Choose again, my
pet.’

“‘No, dear papa, I like this one best.’

“‘Here is the next number,’ interposed the lottery-office keeper,
‘No. 2,223.’

“‘Ay,’ said my father, ‘that will do just as well. Will it not, Mary?
We’ll take that.’

“‘No!’ returned I obstinately; ‘that won’t do. This is my birthday,
you know, papa, and I am ten years old. Cast up _my_ number, and
you’ll find that makes ten. The other is only nine.’

“My father, superstitious like all speculators, struck with my
pertinacity and with the reason I gave, which he liked none the less
because the ground of preference was tolerably unreasonable, resisted
the attempt of the office-keeper to tempt me by different tickets,
and we had nearly left the shop without a purchase, when the clerk,
who had been examining different desks and drawers, said to his
principal:—

“‘I think, sir, the matter may be managed if the gentleman does not
mind paying a few shillings more. That ticket, 2,224, only came
yesterday, and we have still all the shares: one half, one quarter,
one eighth, two sixteenths. It will be just the same if the young
lady is set upon it.’

“The young lady was set upon it, and the shares were purchased.

“‘The whole affair was a secret between us, and my father, whenever
he got me to himself, talked over our future twenty thousand
pounds—just like Alnaschar over his basket of eggs.

“Meanwhile time passed on, and one Sunday morning a face that I had
forgotten, but my father had not, made its appearance. It was the
clerk of the lottery-office. An express had just arrived from Dublin,
announcing that No. 2,224 had been drawn a prize of twenty thousand
pounds, and he had hastened to communicate the good news.”

Twenty thousand pounds! Dame Fortune was indeed rewarding the
optimist. Dr. Mitford was nothing if not magnanimous, and although
he had presented the lottery ticket as a birthday present to his
daughter, and although it was due to her persistence only that the
winning number, 2,224, had been chosen, he at once claimed the
success as his own, and, when informing his friends, added that he
should settle the whole amount on his daughter.

No trace of any such settlement can be discovered; if it was made it
was speedily annulled and in the course of a very few years it had
been all squandered in the Doctor’s own reckless fashion.

“Ah, me!” reflects Miss Mitford. “In less than twenty years what was
left of the produce of the ticket so strangely chosen? What? except
a Wedgwood dinner-service that my father had made to commemorate the
event with the Irish harp within the border on one side, and his
family crest on the other!”

The infinite possibilities of twenty thousand pounds were not
lost on the Doctor. Forthwith he moved with his wife, child and
few belongings to Reading, then a fairly prosperous and eminently
respectable town, swarming “with single ladies of that despised
denomination which is commonly known by the title of old maids.”

At the period of which we are now writing its commerce was
practically confined to trading in the products of the rural
districts surrounding it—principally in malt, corn and flour. Being
on the direct coach-road from London to the West of England, it was,
naturally, a great and important centre for the carrying trade, as
witness whereof the many quaint old inns still standing. An air of
prosperity pervaded the streets, for the ancient borough was just
beginning to rouse itself from the lethargy into which it had drifted
when its staple trade, the manufacture of cloth, dwindled and died
scarcely a century before.

“Clean, airy, orderly and affluent; well paved, well lighted,
well watched; abounding in wide and spacious streets, filled with
excellent shops and handsome houses,” is Miss Mitford’s description
of it, and she might have added that it was once again comporting
itself in the grand manner as was proper to a town whose origin is
lost in the mists of antiquity, but whose records, from the twelfth
century at least, are records of great doings of both Church and
State.

In Miss Mitford’s day there were still many picturesque examples of
fifteenth-century domestic architecture bordering the streets, while
the ruined magnificence of the Great Abbey, with its regal tomb of
Henry I before the High Altar, lent it a touch of dignity the like of
which few other provincial towns could assume.

The move from London to Reading took place in 1797, and the house
they inhabited was a new and handsome red-brick structure on the
London Road, fortunately still standing, and now known as “Kendrick
View.” Here, with his phaeton, his spaniels and greyhounds, Dr.
Mitford proceeded to enjoy himself with, apparently, no regard
whatever for the future. The swarms of old maids excelled in
arranging card-parties to which, by inviting the wives, they managed
to secure the presence and company of the husbands. At these parties
the Doctor was an ever-welcome guest, for, as we have already noted,
he was one of the finest whist-players of his time. Everything he
did was performed on a lavish scale. His greyhounds, for instance,
were the best that money could procure—no coursing meeting either in
the neighbourhood or the country for many miles round was considered
complete unless the Mitford kennel was represented, nor, as the
Doctor was impatient of defeat, did he consider the meeting a success
unless the Mitford kennel carried all before it.

Meanwhile, and when not engaged in the mild excitements of cribbage
and quadrille, Mrs. Mitford paced the garden at the rear of the
house, “in contented, or at least uncomplaining, solitude,” for even
now, she could never be certain whether, at any moment, the hazardous
life her husband was leading might not plunge them once again into a
miserable poverty; “a complaining woman uncomplaining.”

Their daughter’s education now became a matter of moment, for she
was in her eleventh year. Accordingly, she was entered as a boarder
at the school kept by M. St. Quintin, a French _émigré_, at 22, Hans
Place, Sloane Street, then almost surrounded by fields, and even now,
although much altered, a pleasant enough situation.

[Illustration: “Kendrick View,” Reading, where the Mitfords lived,
1797-1805]

M. St. Quintin and his wife enjoyed a reputation of no ordinary
character, and before venturing on the Hans Place establishment had
built up a good connection and secured an equally good name, in the
conduct of the Abbey School at Reading in a house adjoining what is
known to have been the Inner Gateway of the famous Abbey. In this
Abbey School—though not under the tuition of Monsieur and Madame
St. Quintin—Jane Austen received much of her education, as did also
another famous author, Mrs. Sherwood.

Their reputation in Reading was, doubtless, the deciding factor
in favour of sending Mary Mitford to them in London, and that the
decision was a happy one there can be no question.

Little Mary, from her very early years, had not enjoyed the best
of health. As is common with precocious children, she was somewhat
scrofulous; coupled with this she was further disadvantaged by being
short and fat. Nor was she pretty. Her portrait, painted when she
was three years old, while it depicts an intelligent face, shows
nothing of the beauty usual in children of that age. On the other
hand, we have it on the authority of those who knew her well, that
whatever defects of form and feature she may have suffered were
amply compensated by the winsome smile, the gentle temper, keen
appreciation of life and all it had to give, and by the silver-toned
voice, all of which endeared her to those who came under the spell
of her personality.

She was essentially the child of her parents, combining the
quiet acquiescent nature of her mother with all the optimistic
characteristics of her father; and although, happily, she never gave
evidence of emulating her father in his selfishness or those other
worse attributes of character which he sometimes displayed, the fact
has to be recorded that, occasionally, here and there, among the
originals of her letters to her father is to be detected a certain
coarseness of thought and expression which go to prove that even she
was not altogether proof against the influence of this unwise parent.

Monsieur St. Quintin’s establishment was well calculated to interest
the observant child, and of her schoolmaster and his associates she
has given us an amusing and picturesque description.

“He had been secretary to the Comte de Moustiers, one of the last
Ambassadors, if not the very last, from Louis Seize to the Court of
St. James’s. Of course he knew many emigrants of the highest rank,
and, indeed, of all ranks; and being a lively, kind-hearted man, with
a liberal hand and a social temper, it was his delight to assemble
as many as he could of his poor countrymen and countrywomen around
his hospitable supper-table. Something wonderful and admirable it
was to see how these Dukes and Duchesses, Marshals and Marquises,
Chevaliers and Bishops, bore up under their unparalleled reverses!
How they laughed and talked, and squabbled, and flirted,—constant
to their high heels, their rouge, and their furbelows, to their old
liaisons, their polished sarcasms, their cherished rivalries! For the
most part, these noble exiles had a trifling pecuniary dependency;
some had brought with them jewels enough to sustain them in their
simple lodgings in Knightsbridge or Pentonville; to some a faithful
steward contrived to forward the produce of some estate, too small to
have been seized by the early plunderers; to others a rich English
friend would claim the privilege of returning the kindness and
hospitality of by-gone years.”

Many of them eked out a precarious living by teaching languages,
fencing, dancing and music; while some, like Monsieur St. Quintin,
were fortunate in being able to found and carry on an educational
establishment on a somewhat large scale.

Although shy and awkward, home-sick and lonely, little Mary soon
found much in the Hans Place establishment to interest and amuse
her. Like all other similar establishments, it contained an element
of exclusiveness fostered by the snobbish half-dozen great girls
who, being “only gentlemen’s daughters, had no earthly right to
give themselves airs.” These the little country girl did not take
seriously enough to give her cause for trouble. But she noticed
them, nevertheless, and watched with youthful contempt their
successful attempts to ostracize other less-favoured girls than
themselves. Her memories of such incidents are epitomized very
charmingly in her _Recollections_, wherein she records the pathetic
story of Mademoiselle Rose, and the triumph over her tormentors of
the neglected, snubbed and shy poor Betsy. It reads almost like
a “moral tale,” but is saved from the general mediocrity of such
effusions by its honest ring of indignation, of sweet girlish
sympathy with the suffering of her fellow-pupil and governess, and of
denunciation of the thoughtless ones.

Mademoiselle Rose was the granddaughter of an aged couple among the
_émigrés_ who gathered at Madame St. Quintin’s supper parties. They
bore noted names of Brittany and had possessed large estates, but
now having lost these and their two sons and been driven from their
country, they were dependent on the charity of others, and on what
their granddaughter Rose could earn by straw-plaiting to make into
the fancy bonnets then in vogue. Mademoiselle Rose deserves to live
in our minds, she was so brave. “Rose!” says Miss Mitford; “what a
name for that pallid drooping creature, whose dark eyes looked too
large for her face, whose bones seemed starting through her skin, and
whose black hair contrasted even fearfully with the wan complexion
from which every tinge of healthful colour had flown!” Even when
she accompanied her grandparents to the supper parties she always
brought her work, and rarely put it down during the whole evening,
so ceaseless was the toil by which she laboured to support the aged
couple now cast upon her duty and her affection.

At length it became necessary to find some other means of income
apart from the straw-plaiting, and so Mademoiselle Rose was installed
as a governess in the St. Quintin establishment, “working as
indefatigably through our verbs and over our exercises as she had
before done through the rattle of the tric-trac[6] table and the
ceaseless chatter of French talk,” now and again putting in a word
for her straw-plaits which in these new circumstances had to be made
during a scanty leisure, and her insistent desire for the sale of
which she made no effort to conceal.

At this juncture arrived Betsy, a child of nine, the daughter of a
cheese-merchant in the Borough, and therefore considered as fair game
by the vulgar and vain daughters of gentlemen. She came with her
father, who although he stayed but five minutes, was so typical a
John Bull in voice and bearing that the elegant French dancing-master
who received him shrugged himself almost out of his clothes with
ill-concealed disgust. “I rather liked the man,” says Miss Mitford;
“there was so much character about him, and, in spite of the
coarseness, so much that was bold and hearty.”

The disgust of the dancing-master was not lost upon him, for his
parting injunction to the mistress of the establishment was “to take
care that no grinning Frenchman had the ordering of his Betsy’s
feet. If she must learn to dance, let her be taught by an honest
Englishman.”

The conduct of both parent and dancing-master was a cue indeed for
the gentlemen’s daughters, of which they quickly took advantage, to
the great discomfort of poor Betsy, who, discarding Mary Mitford’s
advances, sought and found silent comfort with Mademoiselle Rose.
It was only silent comfort she obtained, the comfort of suffering
souls in sympathy with each other, for neither knew the other’s
language, and the only solace they obtained was in working together
over the straw-plaits, in which Betsy quickly became adept. By some
means the child was made aware of Mademoiselle Rose’s story, which
had then become more poignant by reason of the fact that, although
an opportunity had presented itself, by arrangement with the First
Consul, for the re-admission of her grandparents to France and
possibly for the ultimate recovery of some of their property, it
could not be grasped, as they were all too poor to bear the expense.
So poor Rose sighed over her straw-plaits, and submitted. Shortly
afterwards Betsy was summoned home and begged permission to take
one of Rose’s bonnets to show her aunt, with a view to purchase, a
request which was granted. Two hours later Betsy reappeared in the
schoolroom together with her father. The scene which ensued must be
told in Miss Mitford’s own words.

“‘Ma’amselle,’ said he, bawling as loud as he could, with the
view, as we afterwards conjectured, of making her understand
him—‘Ma’amselle, I have no great love for the French, whom I take to
be our natural enemies. But you’re a good young woman; you’ve been
kind to my Betsy, and have taught her how to make your fallals; and,
moreover, you’re a good daughter, and so’s my Betsy. She says that
she thinks you’re fretting because you can’t manage to take your
grandfather and grandmother back to France again; so, as you let her
help you in that other handiwork, why you must let her help you in
this.’ Then throwing a heavy purse into her lap, catching his little
daughter up in his arms, and hugging her to the honest breast where
she hid her tears and her blushes, he departed, leaving poor Mdlle.
Rose too much bewildered to speak, or to comprehend the happiness
that had fallen upon her, and the whole school the better for the
lesson.”


FOOTNOTES:

[6] A game resembling backgammon.




                             CHAPTER IV

               SCHOOLDAYS AND MISS ROWDEN’S INFLUENCE


In both the conduct of his establishment and its curriculum, M.
St. Quintin was very thorough, and no doubt it was to this quality
that he owed the large measure of his success as a schoolmaster.
He himself taught the pupils French, history, geography, and a
smattering of science, the scope of which was limited for the very
obvious reason that the tutor knew little of the subject. He was ably
seconded by Miss Rowden, the Fanny Rowden who subsequently endeared
herself greatly to her precocious pupil and, in course of time,
succeeded M. St. Quintin, upon his retirement, as mistress of the
school. She was responsible for the general course of study, being
assisted by special finishing masters for Italian, music, dancing and
drawing. In all of these, save that of music, Mary Mitford became a
proficient pupil, so proficient indeed that she often nonplussed her
teachers by her intelligent questionings.

“Our treasure,” wrote Mrs. Mitford to her husband whilst she was on
a short visit to the school, “was much amused yesterday morning. In
her astronomical lecture, she not only completely posed Miss Rowden,
but M. St. Quintin himself could not reconcile a contradiction which
she had discovered in the author they were perusing. You cannot have
an idea of the gratification the dear little rogue feels in puzzling
her instructors.”

In the month previous to this she had again successfully carried the
day against her tutor in an English composition of which the subject
was “The Advantage of a Well-educated Mind.” In examining this M.
St. Quintin observed a word which struck him as needless, and he was
about to erase it when the pupil in her pretty, meek way, an artless
manner of which she seems to have made good use in her childhood,
urged that it should be left standing. The tutor was immediately
perplexed and appealed to Miss Rowden, who gave judgment in favour of
the pupil, suggesting that in the event of the disputed participle
being dismissed, the whole sentence would need complete alteration.
On a more deliberate view of the subject, St. Quintin agreed to
the retention of the word and “with all the liberality which is so
amiable a point in his character, begged our daughter’s pardon,”
wrote the proud mother.

The year 1802 found her the winner of the prize for both French and
English composition, and so keen was her desire for knowledge that
two months later she wrote home to her mother the information: “I
have just taken a lesson in Latin; but I shall, in consequence, omit
some of my other business. It is so extremely like Italian, that I
think I shall find it much easier than I expected.” For this, Miss
Rowden was immediately responsible, so emulous was the child of her
governess; indeed, Miss Rowden’s influence on the little girl was
undoubtedly far-reaching and must have laid the foundation of all
her love for literature which was so marked a characteristic of Miss
Mitford’s life. Truly, Miss Rowden had in the child a wonderfully
receptive soil in which to plant the seeds of learning—we must not
forget the early precocious years and their association with _Percy’s
Reliques_ and kindred mental exercises—but she was a wise woman, and
fostered and encouraged her pupil to an extent which would demand
a tribute of praise from the most superficial historian of Miss
Mitford’s life. The fact that Miss Rowden was at this time diligently
reading Virgil was sufficient stimulus to her pupil to study to the
same end, hence the letter home announcing her decision. On this
occasion it would appear that Mrs. Mitford entertained a doubt as
to the wisdom of the proposal, and consulted her husband, with the
result that a letter on the subject was forthwith despatched to Hans
Place.

“Your mother and myself,” wrote the Doctor, “have had much
conversation concerning the utility of your learning Latin, and we
both agree that it is perfectly unnecessary, and would occasion you
additional trouble. It would occupy more of your time than you could
conveniently appropriate to it; and we are more than satisfied with
your application and proficiency in everything.”

In this, as in most other matters at this period of her life, the child
had her own way, and the Latin lessons were continued—advantageously,
as the sequel will show.

On the whole, her life at Hans Place was of the happiest, although,
of course, the early days were touched with the miseries of
home-sickness which are the common lot of all children in similar
circumstances.

“I was scarcely less happy,” she wrote in the after years, “in the
great London school than at home; to tell the truth, I was well
nigh as much spoilt in one place as in the other; but as I was a
quiet and orderly little girl, and fell easily into the rules of the
house, there was no great harm done, either to me or to the school
discipline.”

Nevertheless, there is a lonely touch in one of her early letters
home from Hans Place. It is dated September 15, 1799, and after
thanking the dear papa for certain parcels just received, goes on
to state: “My uncle called on me twice while he stayed in London,
but he went away in five minutes both times. He said that he only
went to fetch my aunt, and would certainly take me out when he
returned. I hope that I may be wrong in my opinion of my aunt; but
I again repeat, I think she has the most hypocritical drawl I have
ever heard. Pray, my dearest papa, come soon to see me. I am quite
miserable without you, and have a thousand things to say to you.”

A year later—November 30, 1800—she wrote exuberantly in her pocket
book: “Where shall I be this day month? At home! How happy I shall
be, and shall be ready to jump out of my skin for joy.”

Of her inability to master music, due to her absolute lack of taste
for it, we have already spoken. Her first attempts were made on the
piano at the age of five, and so determined was her father in the
matter that, waiving all objections, he insisted on her continuing to
practise right up to the date of her removal to the school in Hans
Place and for some years after.

The music-master at Hans Place was Mr. Hook, the father of Theodore
Hook, and a composer of songs for the Vauxhall Gardens. He was, so we
learn, an instructor of average ability, smooth-faced, good-natured
and kindly, but although these commended him to Miss Mitford they
aroused no enthusiasm in her for his art. So he, like many others
who had preceded him in the thankless task of trying to teach little
Mary her notes, was promptly told by the hasty father—who, unlike
his daughter, was not struck by Mr. Hook’s appearance or manner—that
he was no good and must be replaced by some one more competent. This
some one promptly appeared in the person of Herr Schuberl, at that
time engaged in the special tuition of two of Mary’s schoolfellows.
He was an impatient, irritable, but undoubtedly able man, and before
long amply avenged Mr. Hook, by refusing to have anything more to do
with the impossible pupil.

This dismissal was, of course, hailed by the child with great
glee, for she began to entertain the hope that the incident would
put a stop for ever to the attempts being made in regard to her
musical education. But her joy was short-lived; her father was too
pertinacious to be so easily turned from his purpose, and believing
that the failure of his child was due to incompetent teachers and to
his own choice of instrument, he decreed that she must learn the harp.

Apart from any other consideration, this decision had an advantage in
that it was supposed to afford the child an opportunity of learning
what was then designated as an “elegant accomplishment.” So, a harp
was installed at the school, being placed for the convenience of
the tutor and pupil in the principal reception-room, an apartment
connected with the entrance-hall by a long passage and two double
doors, the outer pair of which were covered in green-baize and swung
to with a resounding bang when let go by the person who had opened
them.

Being a reception-room, it was handsomely fitted up with shelves
upon which reposed a number of nicely-bound books, chiefly of French
plays and classics. To this room was the unwilling pupil sent each
morning to practise alone the exercises previously set her by the
“demure little Miss Essex,” the new music mistress; “sent alone,
most comfortably out of sight and hearing of every individual in the
house.”

But there was little of harp-practice, for before long “I betook
myself to the book-shelves, and seeing a row of octavo volumes
lettered _Théâtre de Voltaire_, I selected one of them and had
deposited it in front of the music-stand, and perched myself upon
the stool to read it in less time than an ordinary pupil would have
consumed in getting through the first three bars of ‘Ar Hyd y Nos.’
The play upon which I opened was ‘Zaïre.’ ‘Zaïre’ is not ‘Richard the
Third,’ any more than M. de Voltaire is Shakespeare: nevertheless,
the play has its merits. I proceeded to other plays—‘Œdipe,’
‘Mérope,’ ‘Alzire,’ ‘Mahomet,’ plays well worth reading, but not so
absorbing as to prevent my giving due attention to the warning doors,
and putting the book in its place, and striking the chords of ‘Ar Hyd
y Nos’ as often as I heard a step approaching; or gathering up myself
and my music, and walking quietly back to the school-room as soon as
the hour for practice had expired.”

All of which was, of course, very naughty, and scarcely what
the dear papa, blissfully ignorant away in Reading, would have
desired! But worse was to follow. In time Voltaire was exhausted,
and, hunting along the shelves, the omnivorous Miss came upon the
comedies of Molière, which plunged her at once into the gaieties
of his delightful world, blotting out all thought of present
things—harp, music-books, and lessons—and even demure little Miss
Essex vanished into thin air along with “Ar Hyd y Nos.” Fascinated
by the tribulations of “Sganarelle” or the lessons of the “Bourgeois
Gentilhomme,” she was at length caught by none other than M. St.
Quintin, who found her laughing till she cried over the apostrophes
of the angry father to the galley in which he is told his son has
been taken captive. “Que diable alloit-il faire dans cette galère!”
an apostrophe which, as she quaintly wrote, “comes true with regard
to somebody in a scrape during every moment of every day, and was
never more applicable than to myself at that instant.”

M. St. Quintin could not chide, for, apart from his own adoration of
Molière, an adoration he did not extend to music, he was convinced
that no proficiency in any art could be gained without natural
qualifications and sincere goodwill. So he joined in the tearful
laughter, and when he could compose himself, complimented rather
than rebuked the pupil upon her relish for the comic drama. More
than this, he spoke plainly to the dear papa, with the result that
the harp and Miss Essex went together, that music was henceforth
abandoned, and the event crowned with the gift of a cheap edition of
Molière for the wayward little maid’s own reading.

These were the foundations skilfully laid and built upon by Miss
Rowden. They marked the beginnings of a distinct and strong literary
taste and a passion for the Drama which, had she and her father but
known at the time, were to furnish and equip her for the stern battle
of life in which she was to engage, a battle for the bare necessities
of life for herself and the provision of luxuries for the careless
and thriftless parent upon whom she doted and spent herself.

In August, 1802—she would then be fifteen years of age—she writes
to her father: “I told you that I had finished the _Iliad_, which I
admired beyond anything I ever read. I have now begun the _Æneid_,
which I cannot say I admire so much. Dryden is so fond of triplets
and alexandrines, that it is much heavier reading; and though he is
reckoned a more harmonious versifier than Pope, some of his lines
are so careless that I shall not be sorry when I have finished it.
I shall then read the _Odyssey_. I have already gone through three
books, and shall finish it in a fortnight ... I am now reading
that beautiful opera of Metastasio, _Themistocles_; and when I have
finished that, I shall read Tasso’s _Jerusalem Delivered_. How you
would dote on Metastasio; his poetry is really heavenly,” a letter
which, apart from the excusable conventional school-girl gush of its
closing words, is not only remarkable for its style, but for its
display of a critical faculty really astounding in a girl of fifteen.

Later, in the same month, she wrote to her mother: “I am glad my
sweet mamma agrees with me with regard to Dryden, as I never liked
him as well as Pope. Miss Rowden had never read any translation of
Virgil but his, and consequently could not judge of their respective
merits. If we can get Wharton’s _Æneid_, we shall finish it with
that. After I have read the _Odyssey_, I believe I shall read Ovid’s
_Metamorphoses_. I shall be very glad of this, as I think they are
extremely beautiful.... I am much flattered, my darlings, by the
praises you bestowed on my last letter, though I have not the vanity
to think I deserved them. It has ever been my ambition to write like
my darlings, though I fear I shall never attain their style.”

A week later, she followed this with another in similar strain: “M.
St. Quintin was perfectly delighted with my French on Saturday.
Signor Parachiretti is sure that I shall know Italian as well as I do
French by Christmas. I know you will not think it is through vanity
that I say this, who should not say it; but I well know you like
to hear that your darling is doing well, and I consult more your
gratification than false modesty in relating it to you. I went to the
library the other day with Miss Rowden, and brought back the first
volume of Goldsmith’s _Animated Nature_. It is quite a lady’s natural
history, and extremely entertaining. The style is easy and simple,
and totally free from technical terms, which are generally the
greatest objection to books of that kind. I am likewise reading the
_Odyssey_, which I even prefer to the _Iliad_. I think it beautiful
beyond comparison.”

These few extracts from the letters not only serve to show the
singular thirst for knowledge which the child possessed, but also
indicate the perfect understanding which existed between the mother
and child, resembling, as the Rev. A. G. L’Estrange justly remarks,
“those of one sister to another.”

In return Mrs. Mitford retailed all the gossip and news of Reading,
giving the eager child the fullest accounts of the dinners and
suppers and card-parties which formed a regular interchange of
courtesies between neighbours in that town a century ago. These
accounts, only intended by the fond mother, as we may properly
suppose, to bridge the distance between school and home, were
carefully stored away in the wonderful memory of their recipient,
there to rest until, many years after, they were revivified and
placed on record for all time—as we hope—in the pages of _Belford
Regis_, the work which, quite apart from _Our Village_, has endeared
its writer to all ardent Reading lovers in that it affords them a
true and living picture of the ancient borough as it was in the
opening years of the nineteenth century.

In regard to this correspondence between the mother and daughter,
it has been elsewhere remarked that “no word of advice, moral or
religious, is ever mingled,” and the question: “Was this wisdom?”
is answered by the querist himself that, ruling out the possibility
of carelessness or indifference as the motives which actuated Mrs.
Mitford and “knowing what a devoted daughter Mary Mitford became, we
may be well induced to believe that her mother’s silence on these
more serious arguments originated in deep reflection; and that she
had judiciously determined simply to attach and amuse her child by
her correspondence, and trusted to the impressive persuasion of her
example for the inculcation of higher things.”[7]

With every desire to pay the sincerest tribute to the learned editor
in his difficult task, we are inclined to disagree with him as to the
wisdom of Mrs. Mitford’s plan. If by “example” we are to understand
that the Christian virtues of forbearance with a selfish and
overmastering father and fortitude in adversity are intended, then
we agree that Mary Russell Mitford well learned her lesson, but—and
herein is the basis of our disagreement—had mother and daughter been
less content, for the sake of peace, to pander to the every whim and
caprice of Dr. Mitford, much, if not all, of the miserable poverty
of later years would have been avoided, and the tragedy of Miss
Mitford’s life, with its last days of spiritual doubts and fears,
been averted. The result on her father’s career may be speculative,
but we are inclined to hope that had the two women more boldly
asserted their claims to consideration, the good that was in Dr.
Mitford and which is to be found in all men, would have been roused,
and the cruel selfishness of his life been checked if not altogether
effaced.

These letters from home undoubtedly gave the fullest details of the
daily occurrences, and must occasionally have tickled the schoolgirl
immensely, if we may judge by one of the replies which they evoked.

“I really think,” she wrote, “that my dearly-beloved mother had
better have the jack-asses than the horses. The former will at least
have the recommendation of singularity, which the other has not;
as I am convinced that more than half the smart carriages in the
neighbourhood of Reading are drawn by the horses which work in the
team,” a reply, the whimsicality of which is only equalled by its
pertness, when we remember that the smart carriages alluded to must
have been the conveyances of the county gentry whose estates in the
neighbourhood and whose lineage were not altogether insignificant. At
the same time it is a reply—and for this reason is quoted—which marks
the outcropping of that characteristic which Miss Mitford possessed
and to which she often gave expression—an abiding distaste for
anything approaching snobbery or self-assertion.

We have now come to the year 1802, a red-letter year in the child’s
life, inasmuch as its close was to witness the termination of her
school career and that it brought to her the news that her father
had purchased a house in the country, with land attached, where he
intended to set up a small farm as a hobby and, generally, to live
the life of a country gentleman. It is certain that the child would
receive with pleasure the news of this projected change of residence,
for despite the attractions which her school-life in London had for
her, the interest she always displayed in matters pertaining to the
country, with its free and open life, its close associations with
flowers and animals, and its comparative freedom from restraint,
could leave no doubt in the minds of those who knew her as to the
choice she would make between life in town or country, were such a
choice offered her.

Nevertheless, she was undoubtedly happy at Hans Place, enjoying to
the full the companionship and affection bestowed upon her by Miss
Rowden, and the deference of M. St. Quintin, who regarded her not
only as a prodigy but as a distinct credit to his establishment. Nor
was this all, for her keen sense of humour and quick perception of
the ludicrous side of life, found plenty of scope for their display
in a school where the tutors were of mixed nationality and the
scholars were drawn from various classes of society.

There is evidence of this in a letter which she wrote, some ten years
later, to one of her favourite correspondents, Sir William Elford,
wherein she describes a _contretemps_ into which the French governess
precipitated herself, mainly through over-zeal in her attempts to
correct the untidy habits of her charges and, incidentally, in the
hope of discomposing and so scoring off the dancing-master, whom she
did not like.

[Illustration: _3 Mile † May 10ᵗʰ 1839
G Mitford_
Doctor Mitford.
(From a painting by John Lucas, 1839.)]

It was the custom to signalize the break-up of a term by the
performance of a Drama such as Hannah More’s “Search after
Happiness,” in which Mary Mitford once took the part of Cleora; or
by a ballet, on which occasions “the sides of the school-room were
fitted up with bowers, in which the little girls who had to dance
were seated, and whence they issued at a signal from M. Duval, the
dancing-master, attired as sylphs or shepherdesses, to skip or glide
through the mazy movements which he had arranged for them, to the
music of his kit.” Doubtless the exhibitions proper were carried out
with the utmost decorum by all concerned, seeing that a critical
public, consisting of fond parents, would be assembled, ready to
note, and later to comment upon, any lapse in deportment or manners.
It was, however, in the rehearsals that opportunities for fun
occurred, and one such occasion forms the basis of the description
which we now quote.

“Madame,” was a fine majestic-looking old woman of sixty, but with
all the activity of sixteen and the fidgety neatness of a Dutchwoman.
She had, for days, been murmuring against the untidy habits of the
young ladies, and had threatened to make a terrible example of those
who left their belongings lying about.

“A few exercise books found out of place were thrown into the fire,
and a few skipping-ropes (one of which had nearly broken Madame’s
neck by her falling over it in the dark) thrown out of the window.
This was but the gathering of the wind before the storm.” The storm
itself broke on the dancing-day and when all the pupils, dressed for
the occasion, were assembled in the room. Then, to the consternation
of all, Madame appeared and bidding the young ladies follow her,
commenced a rummage all over the house.

“Oh! the hats, the tippets, the shoes, the gloves, the books, the
music, the playthings, the workthings, that this unlucky search
discovered thrown into holes, and corners, and everywhere but where
they ought to have been! Well, my dear Sir, all this immense quantity
of litter was to be fastened to the person and the dress of the
unfortunate little urchin to whom it belonged.”

The task of apportioning the articles to the delinquents was a severe
one for the governess, to whose inquiries the only reply obtainable
was “Ce n’est pas à moi,” with the result that she had left on her
hands a large quantity of hats, gloves and slippers the ownership of
which no one would acknowledge. But there were many other articles
which refused to be thus abandoned, and the result was a decorative
effect more novel than elegant. Dictionaries were suspended from
necks _en médaillon_, shawls were tied round the waist _en ceinture_,
and loose pieces of music were pinned to the dancing frocks _en
queue_. “I escaped,” says the merry recorder of the incident, “with a
good lecture and a pocket-handkerchief fastened to my frock, which,
as it was quite clean, was scarcely perceptible.”

Unfortunately for Madame, the dancing-master was not due for an
hour, the interval having to be devoted to the drill-sergeant, whose
astonishment, when he arrived and viewed the odd habiliments of the
pupils, may well be imagined. And to make matters more disconcerting
for Madame and more amusing for the culprits, she could not speak a
word of English, while the sergeant knew no word of French; so, as
drill could not be performed by a squad so hampered by extraneous
accoutrements, the sergeant ordered their removal, and Madame, we may
well imagine, retired discomfited.


FOOTNOTES:

[7] The Rev. A. G. L’Estrange’s Introduction to _The Life of Mary
Russell Mitford_, related in a Selection from Her Letters to Her
Friends. 3 vols., 1870.




                              CHAPTER V

                               READING


The new place of residence which Dr. Mitford acquired early in the
year 1802, was known as Grazeley Court, a rambling Elizabethan
structure of one-time importance, but which, at the time of Dr.
Mitford’s purchase, had fallen into sad decay. Originally built for
a country gentleman the place had for some reason been abandoned,
slowly degenerating until at length it was divided into a number of
tenements occupied by agricultural labourers, for which reason and
its supposed defective title the doctor was able to secure it and an
adjoining eighty acres at the bargain price of a few hundred pounds.

As we have already noted, the Doctor had a certain predilection
for country sports and pursuits, although at the same time he was
always glad to embrace any and every opportunity afforded him for
the display of his peculiar skill at cards with their concomitant
excitements and hazards. In these circumstances it is difficult to
understand why the residence at Reading should have been given up,
bearing in mind its convenience as a centre for Town and the clubs
as well as for the coursing grounds of Hampshire and Oxfordshire.
Possibly the real reason was that the Doctor had been indulging in
that frankness of speech which his daughter named in conjunction with
a rashness of action, as one of his unfortunate characteristics;
or, it may be, that this was the occasion, to which Miss Mitford
refers in her _Recollections_, when he “got into some feud with that
influential body the corporation.”

In any case the purchase was effected, and the Doctor at once threw
himself with zest into the labour of making the house habitable
according to his own ideas. The situation was ideal. Three miles
southwards out of Reading by the Basingstoke road, and one mile to
the westward of that important thoroughfare, from which point it
was reached by pleasant, overhung by-lanes, the Court occupied the
centre of a large garden, at that time overgrown with rank weeds,
which gave on to a narrow lane over which was afforded an extensive
view to the south. First came a stretch of common, picturesquely
dotted with patches of brake and clumps of wild roses intermingled
with honeysuckle; in the middle distance were sundry peeps at the
snug hamlet of Grazeley, and beyond these were the outlying billowy
woodlands which were then, as now, so delightful a feature of the
neighbouring countryside.

As might be expected of a house built amid such surroundings in
Elizabeth’s day—rumour named it as of later Jacobean origin—it had
a certain romantic character. We read of its “old sitting-room,
with its large sunny oriel window, and its small walls wainscoted
in small carved panels, and of the large oaken staircase, with a
massive balustrade and broad low steps; of expansive fireplaces, with
highly architectural chimney-pieces adorned with old-fashioned busts
and coats-of-arms. Above all, there were two secret rooms, in which
priests and cavaliers had been known to hide, and which could be well
secured by inward fastenings; the one in a garret, where a triangular
compartment of the wall pushed in and gave entrance to a chamber
in the roof; the other, where the entire ceiling of a large light
closet could be raised, and access obtained to a place of concealment
capable of containing six or seven fugitives.”

Such a house, in these our own times, would be eagerly snapped up
were it in the market, and any amount of inconvenience suffered
by its owner rather than destroy the most insignificant mark of
antiquity. Possibly similar houses were less rare in Dr. Mitford’s
day; very probably romanticism made no appeal to him, for he quickly
made up his mind to rase the whole building to the ground and erect
another according to his own design and taste. His daughter, then at
school, hearing of the purchase and of her father’s decision, added
to it the weight of her fifteen years of wisdom by expressing the
hope, in a letter to her mother, that “you will be obliged to take
down your house at the farm as it will be much better to have it
all new together,” but she altered her opinion later on, as did her
parents, when it was too late to stop the work of demolition.

If we may hazard a guess, we suspect that this purchase afforded
the Doctor an outlet for that restlessness which was one of his
characteristics, and gave him an opportunity for another prodigal
expenditure of money. The scheme was an imposing one. A new site was
chosen somewhat further back from the road than that of the older
one. The garden was cleared and remodelled—no one could have objected
to that, as it was sadly in need of attention—but the old wild hedge,
with its delightfully rustic tangle of thorns over which scrambled
a profusion of eglantines, honeysuckles and blackberries, had to
give place to a severe and imposing piece of park paling, and the
garden-space, once so open and affording so expansive a view across
country, was converted into a plantation which, while it effectually
screened the inhabitants from the gaze of the curious passer-by as
effectually obstructed the magnificent outlook which was so pleasant
a feature of the place. All this was done that there might be
massive gates with a devious carriage-drive up to the door.

From start to finish it was decreed that no expense was to be spared
in making the new house something to be wondered at and admired by
the County. Thus on April 29, 1802, the first brick was laid with the
ceremony due to the illustrious event. Mrs. Mitford, who had been
easily persuaded, as indeed was usual, to take the same view as her
husband, gave a full account of the proceedings in a letter which she
despatched next day to her daughter at Hans Place.

“Yesterday we passed the day at our farm in order to lay the first
brick. I insisted on Toney [Miss Mitford’s pet greyhound] being
present, and as her dear little mistress was not there, she was to
be, as far as she could, your substitute by putting her little paw on
the brick which you should have laid had you been present. I trust
you will think this was no bad idea. All the bells in Reading were
ringing when we left home on this important business; but, not to
arrogate too much to ourselves, and to confess the truth, I believe
it was Mr. J. Bulley’s generosity which called forth their cheeriest
sounds. However, from whatever cause arising, we had the full benefit
of the peal.

“We got to our rural retreat about half-past nine, both the
men-servants attending us on horseback. At ten o’clock your old
Mumpsa [the child’s pet name for her mother] laid the first brick,
and placed under it a medal struck in commemoration of the centenary
of the Revolution of 1688. Your darling father then placed another
for himself, and a third for his beloved treasure, which he made
Toney put her foot upon; and after the little rogue had done so, you
would have laughed to have seen how she wagged her tail, and nodded
her head upon it, as much as to say she was very proud of being
admitted to have, not a finger, but a foot, in the business. The
men worked merrily on until two o’clock, and then repaired to the
public-house, where two legs of mutton, and bread, beer, and potatoes
were provided for them. There they enjoyed themselves for the rest of
the day, and this morning cheerily resumed their labours.”

Having thus impressed the natives, including the landlord of “The
Bell,” with a sense of the importance of the new owner about to come
among them, Dr. Mitford completed the business by substituting the
name “Bertram House” for that of “Grazeley Court,” the reason for
which, did the curiosity of the neighbouring aristocracy cause them
to inquire, was to be discovered in the fact that he was a scion
of the Mitfords of Bertram Castle, Bertram being the original and
ancient name of the family.

Judging by the very scant records of this period at our command,
it would appear that the erection of Bertram House, and its
completion to Dr. Mitford’s satisfaction, must have occupied nearly
four years. This would give Miss Mitford a clear three years of
life among the mild excitements which Reading then offered before
taking up residence at Grazeley in a district which she was to
immortalize—the term surely needs no justification for its use—and in
which she was destined, save for a few notable occasions when duty or
considerations of health called her away for short periods, to live
out her life to the end.

Her introduction to the gaieties of this respectable Borough took
place in the August of 1803, when she would be nearly sixteen. The
occasion was the annual Race Ball, at which function it was the
time-honoured custom of the race-steward to dance with the young
ladies then making their début, an ordeal almost as trying to the
débutante in those prim and decorous days as a presentation at Court,
especially if the steward happened to be a total stranger to her.
Writing to her mother, towards the end of her school career and
commenting on this, Miss Mitford added—possibly to gain courage from
the inditing—“I think myself very fortunate that Mr. Shaw Lefevre[8]
will be steward next year, for by that time I shall hope to know him
well enough to render the undertaking of dancing with him much less
disagreeable.” In this connexion we venture to suggest that on this
occasion Mr. Shaw Lefevre would have full hands, when we remember
that even at this comparatively early date Miss Mitford’s figure
had already assumed generous proportions and that she was short of
stature into the bargain.

Naturally enough, the conclusion of school life and the re-commencement
of life at home afforded the young girl the fullest opportunities for
observing, noting and commenting on persons and events, a pastime
in which she delighted. Her pictures of the Reading of her day are
notable alike for their quaint fancies as for their fidelity. Her
picture of the town—which she disguises under the name of Belford
Regis—as viewed from the southern heights of Whitley, is one to which
all true lovers of the old town turn with pleasure even to-day.

“About this point,” she says, “is perhaps to be seen the very best
view of Belford, with its long ranges of modern buildings in the
outskirts, mingled with picturesque old streets; the venerable towers
of St. Stephen’s [St. Mary’s] and St. Nicholas [St. Laurence’s];
the light and tapering spire of St. John’s [St. Giles’]; the huge
monastic ruins of the abbey; the massive walls of the county gaol;
the great river winding along like a thread of silver; trees and
gardens mingling amongst all; and the whole landscape enriched and
lightened by the dropping elms of the foreground, adding an elusive
beauty to the picture, by breaking the too formal outline and
veiling just exactly those parts which most require concealment.
Nobody can look at Belford from this point, without feeling that it
is a very English and very charming scene; and the impression does
not diminish on further acquaintance.”

Continuing, she compares the old romantic structures in which our
ancestors delighted—now, unhappily, nearly all demolished—with, what
she calls, the handsome and uniform buildings which are now the
fashion; and she remarks on the rapid growth which the town was then
making, “having recently been extended to nearly double its former
size.” What would she have said, we wonder, could she have foreseen
the Reading of to-day with its palatial polished-granite-fronted
business emporiums controlled from the Metropolis by great limited
liability companies whose insatiable appetites are devouring,
as their policy of grab is choking, the life from the old-time
burgesses; burgesses who gloried in their town and whom their town
took pleasure in honouring; men whose places are now filled by
battalions of shopmen whose fixity of tenure is so doubtful as to
preclude them from taking any part or interest, however slight, in
the town which shelters them? And, in regard to the extension which
she names with so much pride, how she would gasp with astonishment
had she been told that Whitley, from which she viewed the pleasant
scene, would be turned into dreary streets of uniformly built
villas, never deviating by so much as half a brick from the monotony
of the usual “desirable residence”; that the old limits of the
town, beyond which she could easily descry the panoramic revel of
field and meadow, would be extended for nearly two miles each way,
almost indeed to her beloved “Our Village,” and that the population
of 16,000—each unit placidly pursuing its fairly prosperous
calling—would be transformed, seventy years later, into a struggling,
perspiring, more or less harassed army of 88,000, the majority not
daring, though they would not admit the stern impeachment, to call
their bodies their own.

“The good town of Belford,” she later remarks, “swarmed of course
with single ladies ... and was the paradise of ill-jointured widows
and portionless old maids. They met on the tableland of gentility,
passing their mornings in calls at each other’s houses, and their
evenings in small tea-parties, seasoned with a rubber or a pool,
and garnished with the little quiet gossiping (call it not scandal,
gentle reader!) which their habits required.... The part of the
town in which they chiefly congregated, the lady’s _quartier_,
was one hilly corner of the parish of St. Nicholas, a sort of
highland district, all made up of short rows, and pigmy places, and
half-finished crescents, entirely uncontaminated by the vulgarity
of shops,” chosen, it is suggested, “perhaps because it was cheap,
perhaps because it was genteel—perhaps from a mixture of both
causes.” A kindly satire this, and interesting because it points so
conclusively to a certain backwater near the Forbury, and under the
shadow of the church of St. Laurence, which will be easily recognized
by many who remember how it retained its character as a settlement
for prim old ladies, of the kind described by Miss Mitford, until
within quite recent times.

“Of the public amusements of the town, as I remember it at bonny
fifteen,” she continues, “these were sober enough. Ten years before,
clubs had flourished; and the heads of houses had met once a week
at the _King’s Arms_ for the purpose of whist-playing; whilst the
ladies, thus deserted by their liege lords, had established a
meeting at each other’s mansions on club-nights, from which, by way
of retaliation, the whole male sex was banished,” save one. “At the
time, however, of which I speak, these clubs had passed away; and the
public diversions were limited to an annual visit from a respectable
company of actors, the theatre being, as is usual in country places,
very well conducted and exceedingly ill attended; to biennial
concerts, equally good in their kind, and rather better patronised;
and to almost weekly incursions from itinerant lecturers on all
the arts and sciences, and from prodigies of every kind, whether
three-year-old fiddlers or learned dogs. There were also balls in
their spacious and commodious townhall, which seemed as much built
for the purposes of dancing as that of trying criminals. Public balls
there were in abundance; but at the time of which I speak they were
of less advantage to the good town of Belford than any one, looking
at the number of good houses and of pretty young women, could well
have thought possible.”

These few extracts—space forbids a larger selection—are sufficient,
we think, to prove how keen was the observing eye and how critical
was the mind of Miss Mitford at this time when,—to use her own
phrase—“I was a very young girl and, what is more to the purpose, a
very shy one, so that I mixed in none of the gaieties,” a statement
which seems to lend support to the current saying that “the onlooker
sees most of the game.”

So far we have dealt with the Reading life as dating from 1797, but
it is important to note that Miss Mitford speaks of a short residence
in the town when she was but four years of age, and this would give
us the year 1791. Unfortunately no proof for or against this is
available, so far as we know, and we should scarcely have thought
it worthy of mention but for another statement which she makes in
her _Recollections_ the authenticity of which it would be well to at
least, attempt to clear up.

The statement has reference to the interest which Samuel Taylor
Coleridge evinced in one of her earliest literary efforts,
_Christina; or, The Maid of the South Seas_, when it was being
prepared for press at about the year 1811. This interest she ascribes
to “Mr. Coleridge’s kind recognition of my father’s exertions” in his
behalf and relates to that romantic period of the poet’s life when,
in the December of 1793, he suddenly enlisted as a common soldier
in the 15th Light Dragoons under the _nom de guerre_ of “Silas
Tomkyn Cumberbatch.” We have it on good authority that on December
4, 1793, he was sent, with other raw recruits, to be drilled with
his regiment, then garrisoned at Reading, from which date until his
discharge on April 10, 1794, he clearly proved his unfitness for the
calling of a man-at-arms.

The story of his discharge has been variously related, but all are
agreed that his identity was revealed by his being overheard by
certain of his officers reciting Greek lines, to say nothing of
the polish which, scholar as he was, he could not disguise. The
circumstance was sufficiently unique in those days—the gentleman
ranker was a growth of later date—to occasion inquiries, and these
resulted in communications with his friends, who came, identified,
and bought him out. One of these officers was Captain Ogle, eldest
son of that Dean of Winchester to whom, as we have noted in the
earliest chapter of this book, Dr. Mitford was on the visit which
resulted in his introduction to Miss Russell.

Miss Mitford’s account of the event is somewhat circumstantial, for
she relates that as Dr. Ogle was on a short visit to the Mitfords,
the opportunity of calling upon his father was gladly embraced by
the son, who, in the course of conversation, recorded the unusual
incident of the learned recruit, with the result that “one of the
servants waiting at table” was “induced to enlist in his place,” and
the “arrangement for his [Coleridge’s] discharge took place at my
father’s house at Reading.”

The dates relative to Coleridge’s enlistment and discharge are
incontrovertible, therefore in view of the lack of evidence to
support the idea of the Mitfords being in Reading in 1794, we are
inclined to doubt—as others have doubted—the authenticity of Miss
Mitford’s narrative, suggesting rather, that having heard this
romantic story, many years after—possibly from the lips of Captain
Ogle himself—she readily assumed, with the licence of literary folk
in general, that the incident took place as she recorded it.


FOOTNOTES:

[8] He represented Reading in Parliament, 1802-1820.




                             CHAPTER VI

                            BERTRAM HOUSE


Bertram House was at last finished and the beginning of 1806 saw the
Mitfords in residence. In the matter of furnishing the Doctor had
spared no expense, everything being new and of the latest pattern,
in fact the best that a fashionable London upholsterer could supply.
Of the pictures we know that the walls were well covered and that
the collection included a Gainsborough, a pair of female heads by
Greuze, and a portrait of the Doctor by Opie. We have already seen,
in Mrs. Mitford’s description of the stone-laying ceremony, that they
were attended by “the two men-servants on horseback”; this hints
at a fairly complete retinue having been installed at the Reading
house, but it was considerably augmented when the arrangements were
completed at Grazeley. Appearances counted for much in the district
and the Doctor was not the man to let slip such a grand opportunity
for ostentatious display.

His hospitality was profuse and indiscriminate, resulting in a
house-warming which extended over quite a lengthy period. As an
incentive—had he need of one—Dr. Mitford had recently been appointed
as one of the County magistrates, a tribute of appreciation from the
Whigs, of whose cause he was an earnest partizan, which gave him an
immediate rise in social status.

In time, of course, the family settled down to a more or less ordered
form of life, so ordered indeed that the Doctor created as many
excuses as possible to cover his frequent journeys to Town and his
clubs. There was sport in plenty to be had in the neighbourhood,
and of this the Doctor took full advantage, being a familiar figure
around the countryside with his gun and spaniels. Then, too, there
were the coursing meetings—the famous meetings at Ilsley and private
matches arranged between friends—none of which were considered
complete unless the Doctor were present or his famous kennel
represented. Throughout Miss Mitford’s letters, occasionally to her
father and often to friends, there are frequent references to the
greyhounds whose names, in accordance with a custom prevalent then
and still fashionable, all began with the letter M in token of their
ownership. Thus, to name only a few, we have Mia, Manx, Marmion (a
notable dog this, with an equally notable son of the same name),
Mogul, Miller, Moss-Trooper, and Mopy. For all of these Miss Mitford
ever exhibited the greatest affection, and in those cases where a
spaniel grew too old to follow the gun or a greyhound too stiff to
be matched, an asylum under Miss Mitford’s immediate eye and care was
immediately provided, and the creature was henceforth looked upon as
her own.

Taking advantage of this motherliness to dumb animals her father
frequently handed over to her some specially valuable dog from whose
later exploits as a courser he expected much. Apparently, however,
the real reason for the supposed gift was not disclosed, with the
result that when the dog was eventually removed the little mistress
gave vent to her annoyance in no measured tones.

“It is a most extraordinary thing,” she says in one communication
to her father, “that I never can have a dog that I like but you
immediately take it from me and burthen me with the care of some
detestable brute whom you in your eternal caprice fancy a good one.
Observe, however, that in giving up my own darling Mordor, I bargain
that that sulky, ungrateful, mangy beast Marmion shall be sent off as
soon as you come home, and that I shall again have my sweet Marian to
pet and comfort me.”

This was not, of course, a serious outburst, but merely the explosion
of what she doubtless considered a truly righteous indignation, for,
although she was no sportswoman, her love for her father gave her an
interest in his pursuits, and she shared with him to the full the joy
of triumph and the sorrow of defeat, while to disparage the Mitford
kennel was to offer her a personal affront. On the other hand, she
was quick to convey to the Doctor any item of praise which she
overheard or might have addressed to her. “We called yesterday at the
Fawcetts’, and the old General said he had kept greyhounds and seen
many thousands, but had never had an idea of perfect and consummate
beauty until he saw her” [a reference, in a letter to her father, to
Mia, one of the hounds].

She had a strong dislike to equestrian exercise—the rides of babyhood
across the Alresford downs with her father could not count in this
connexion—and although every inducement was offered her to ride, an
inglorious fall from a donkey quickly settled her convictions as to
her horsemanship, and her one and only riding-habit was forthwith
converted into a winter-gown. Strictly speaking, the greater portion
of her time was spent at home with her mother, receiving visitors or
lying for hours at a time on the sofa, where she would devour a great
quantity of books at a pace which, having regard to the extraordinary
knowledge she imbibed from her reading, was truly astonishing.[9] At
other times the little green chariot, their favourite equipage, would
be ordered out, calls would be returned and the drive be possibly
extended to Reading, where there would always be plenty of shopping
to do and calls to be made on the old neighbours and friends who
would have the latest news from Town or the latest gossip of their
immediate circle to retail.

With a desire to augment his income, which must have been seriously
depleted by the building operations and by the subsequent reckless
expenditure on the household, the Doctor now began to indulge in
a series of hazardous enterprises, which, with all a gambler’s
insistence, he pursued intently the while they dragged him deeper
and deeper into the mire. One of these was an extensive speculation
in coal in which he engaged with a brother of M. St. Quintin. For
this he supplied the whole of the capital in expectation of a return
of £1,500 a year, but the whole thing was a failure and, with the
exception of about £300, the capital was lost. Another Frenchman,
a man of ingenious ideas but no money wherewith to put them to
practical use, found a ready supporter in the Doctor, who was induced
to advance £5,000 on the strength of a paper scheme. This man was
the Marquis J. M. F. B. de Chabannes, and his scheme, a supposed
improved method for the lighting and heating of houses, was embodied
in a booklet which he published in 1803 with the comprehensive
title of _Prospectus d’un Projet pour la Construction de Nouvelles
Maisons, Dont tous les calculs de détails procureront une très-grande
Economie, et beaucoup de Jouissances_. Unfortunately for its
promoters, the scheme did not catch on with the public, the Marquis
returned to France and the deluded Doctor continued for years to
spend good money in the hope of recovering that which was irrevocably
lost by suing the Marquis in the French courts, efforts which were
all vain.

Meanwhile his fever for gambling grew apace and his absences from
home were more and more frequent and prolonged, and the two women,
being left much to themselves, conceived the notion of arranging
and copying out for the press a collection of verses composed
by the reverend father of Mrs. Mitford, Dr. Russell. They took
considerable pains with this, to which was added a special preface
by Mrs. Mitford, and when the packet was ready it was forwarded to
Dr. Mitford, in Town, with a request that he should find a publisher
and get as much as he could for it. Unfortunately, the sanguine
editors were disappointed, for no publisher sufficiently enterprising
could be found to accept the manuscript, although sundry extracts
did subsequently find a certain publicity within the pages of the
_Poetical Register_.

Following closely upon this effort, and in the May of 1806, Miss
Mitford went for a few days on a visit to London as the guest of
Monsieur and Madame St. Quintin, her old schoolmaster and his wife.
A short round of festivities had been arranged for her benefit,
including a visit to the Exhibition of Water Colours, evenings at
the theatres and, what appears to have been a great treat for the
impressionable Miss, some hours of two days which were spent at
Westminster Hall looking on at the trial of Lord Melville[10] and
listening to the speeches, and for which the Doctor, then in Town
and staying at _Richardson’s Hotel_ in Covent Garden, had procured
tickets. She had now been absent from London for over three years
and, no doubt, extracted a great deal of pleasure from her visit
and its reunion with Fanny Rowden and Victoire St. Quintin, M. St.
Quintin’s sister, with both of whom, together with the Doctor, the
round of sight-seeing was enjoyed.

Mrs. Mitford stayed at home, but was kept well-posted in all the news
by the inevitable letters, full of critical details, from her dutiful
daughter. From one of these, dated from Hans Place, May 12, 1806, we
quote:—

“I have much to tell you, but it can scarcely be compressed within
the bounds of a letter. On Thursday, after I wrote, Miss Ayrton, Miss
Carp, papa, and I went to the Exhibition. There are some uncommonly
fine pictures, and it is even better worth seeing than last year.
In the evening, Victoire, Miss A. and myself went with papa to the
play to see _The Provoked Husband_ and _The Forty Thieves_. Miss
Duncan in Lady Townley is most admirable. I do not much admire
Elliston as her husband. The _Forty Thieves_ is a very magnificent
spectacle, but nothing more; for the language and music are equally
vulgar and commonplace. On Friday morning we went to Oxford Street.
I was extravagant enough to give half a guinea for a dress skirt
for myself, which I wore the next day to the trial. We were rather
disappointed in Mr. Romilly.[11] The speech in itself was beautiful
beyond description; but he wants animation, and drops his voice at
the end of every sentence.... Miss Rowden, papa, and I are going to
see _Henry the Eighth_ to-night, and we are going to Westminster Hall
to-morrow.... I shall hope to return Thursday or Friday; for, though
I am greatly amused here, I am never quite happy without my dear,
dear mother.”

Two days later this was followed by a still more characteristic
effusion. The second day at Westminster Hall decided her that: “Mr.
Romilly is charming and interesting; but my first and greatest
favourite is Mr. Whitbread. Mr. Plumer is rather an inelegant
speaker, though very animated. I have promised papa to write some
verses to Mr. Whitbread. He has even superseded Mr. Fox in my good
graces. I did not tell you, I believe, that I had the happiness of
seeing Mr. Fox mount his horse on Saturday. I shall never again
contend for his beauty. He was obliged to lean on two people, and
looked so sallow and pale in the face, and so unwieldy in person,
that I am obliged to yield our long-disputed point.” Rather hard
on poor Mr. Fox, whom, hitherto, this exuberant young person had
worshipped as a hero, even to the extent of removing her watch-stand
from the head of her bed that it might give place to a bust of this
gentleman which the Doctor had sent from Town. On this occasion
it was a case of “Off with the old love and on with the new” in
double-quick time, for, continuing, she says: “To make me amends
my new favourite is what even you would call exquisitely handsome;
a most elegant figure, and a voice which I could listen to with
transport, even if he spoke in an unknown language. Mr. Plumer
attacked him with the most virulent irony and ridicule; and Mr. W.
stood with his face turned towards him and leant upon the desk,
smiling the whole time, with the most fascinating good humour. You
know I am always an enthusiast; but at present it is impossible to
describe the admiration I feel for this exalted character.”

We quote these extracts with no thought of ridiculing the ardent
partisan, but as a fore-shadowing of that enthusiasm and that quick
impressibility which ever seemed to dominate Miss Mitford’s life;
characteristics which often led her into excesses of transport at
the discovery, or supposed discovery, of some noble trait in the
characters of those who came within her ken, only to be as quickly
repented of; often giving unintentional pain to others and resulting
in an infinitude of trouble and annoyance to herself. Despite this
temperamental defect, however, and while her friends looked on amazed
at her infidelity, there was one to whom she remained unwaveringly
faithful to the end, though this object of her great affection was
the least worthy of all who came into her life.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Whitbread, favoured man, was the immediate recipient of some
verses from his ardent admirer. They reached him, ten days after
his Westminster display of elegance and fortitude, through Dr.
Mitford, to whom they were posted from Bertram House under cover of
the following ingenuous letter: “May 24, 1806.—I claim great merit,
my dear darling, in sending you the enclosed lines, for I am not
satisfied with them; but I would sooner mortify my own vanity by
sending you bad verses, than break my promise by withholding them.
I have called them impromptu to excuse their incorrectness; and
though some may suspect them to be an impromptu _fait à loisir_, you
must not betray the secret. From a perfect consciousness of my own
enthusiasm, I have been so much afraid of saying too much, that I
have fallen into the opposite fault and said too little. However, I
had rather be thought anything but a flatterer, though it be in my
opinion impossible to flatter Mr. Whitbread; for what language can
equal his merits? Do not impute the faults and deficiencies in these
lines to my laziness; for I assure you they cost me an infinite deal
of trouble; but they are not good enough to show, and I had rather
you would return them to me immediately. At all events, let me know
how you like them, and what you have done with them.”

Not to be misled by the feigned artlessness of his daughter’s
concluding sentences, the Doctor, as we have said, passed on the
verses to Mr. Whitbread, who was pleased to acknowledge and eulogise
them; and since they deserve it we give them below:—

 IMPROMPTU ON HEARING MR. WHITBREAD DECLARE IN WESTMINSTER HALL, ON
 FRIDAY, MAY 16, 1806, THAT HE “FONDLY TRUSTED HIS NAME WOULD DESCEND
 WITH HONOUR TO POSTERITY.”

    The hope of Fame thy noble bosom fires,
    Nor vain the hope thy ardent mind inspires;
    In British breasts, whilst Purity remains,
    Whilst Liberty her blest abode retains,
    Still shall the muse of History proclaim
    To future ages thy immortal name.
    And while fair Scotia weeps her favoured son,
    By place corrupted and by power undone,
    England with pride her upright patriot sees,
    And Glory’s brightest wreath to him decrees.


FOOTNOTES:

[9] A list kept as a check on the Circulating Library account for the
years 1806 to 1811 inclusive, is a sufficient indication of this, the
number for one month alone totalling fifty-five volumes and ranging
through Fiction, Belles-Lettres, Travel and Biography.

[10] Impeached for malversation in his office as Treasurer of
the Navy. The trial lasted sixteen days. Whitbread led for the
Impeachers; Plumer—afterwards Master of the Rolls—ably defended and
secured his acquittal.

[11] Sir Samuel Romilly, Solicitor-General.




                             CHAPTER VII

                     THE TRIP TO NORTHUMBERLAND


With a proper and increasing pride in his clever daughter, the Doctor
now conceived the idea of taking her with him on an extended trip
into Northumberland, thereby affording her some acquaintance with
the scenes amidst which his family had lived for generations, a trip
which would serve the double purpose of impressing the girl with a
sense of the importance of her ancestors and present relations and of
introducing her to the latter who, although they must have heard of
her, had never yet seen her.

The journey was begun on Saturday, September 20, 1806, the first
stage, that from Reading to London being by coach. From London they
travelled in the carriage of Nathaniel Ogle, who personally conducted
them to his own place in Northumberland, from which they were to
make their various excursions in the district. Mrs. Mitford did not
accompany them, but was kept well informed, as usual, by her daughter.

The first letter is dated from Royston, September 21: “We had a very
long interval between the parting from my most beloved darling
and the leaving Reading. The coach was completely full; and it was
fortunate papa had secured a place on the box, where he continued
during the whole journey. The company in the inside had the merit of
being tolerably quiet; and I do not remember any conversation which
lasted longer than a minute. I, certainly, ought not to complain of
their silence, as I was more than equally taciturn, and scarcely
spoke during the whole way. I was quite low-spirited, but never less
fatigued by travelling. Both Mr. Joy and Dr. Valpy[12] met us before
we left Reading, and M. St. Quintin and Victoire met us at the Bath
Hotel. As soon as Victoire left me, I retired to bed, under the
idea of pursuing our journey early in the morning. It was, however,
half-past ten before Mr. Ogle got up, and we did not leave town till
twelve. We employed the interval in going to the bookseller’s for
a Cobbett, and bought a _Cary’s Itinerary_, an edition of _Peter
Pindar_, and a few plays. The Edition of P. P. which we bought cheap,
remains in town; but the others are our travelling companions. We
went by Enfield to see Mary Ogle, and finding them at dinner we dined
at Mrs. Cameron’s; we then changed horses at Waltham Cross; again at
Wade’s Mill; and are just arrived here, where we sleep to-night. Mr.
Ogle is extremely pleasant, and the carriage very convenient. We
went the two first stages on the box of the barouche. I need not tell
you, my dearest darling, that we felt nothing so much as the loss of
your society; and I have wished myself at home fifty times in the
last twenty-four hours, to be again with my dear mamma.”

Apart from the interest which, in these days, is always attached
to an old-time account of stage-travel the letter is interesting
by reason of the variety of literature purchased for perusal on
the journey. The Cobbett referred to would probably be _Cobbett’s
Political Register_ (then being issued in parts), and intended for
the Doctor’s personal reading; he being not only an admirer but an
intimate friend of the outspoken reformer. _Cary’s Itinerary_ was,
of course, the well-known road-book and constant companion of all
who travelled in stage-coach days; though why Miss Mitford was not
content with her dainty, green-leather-covered copy of _Bowles’
Post-Chaise Companion_ in two vols.—now a valued possession of the
author’s—is difficult to understand, unless it was overlooked in the
hurry and excitement of departure. _Peter Pindar’s Works_, then just
completed in five vols., would be a valuable addition to the library
at home, but the purchase of the plays is significant, proving
the influence which Fanny Rowden had exercised on the mind of her
pupil, inculcating a taste for the Drama which was to be of lasting
importance.

The next letter is written from Little Harle Tower—a small place
about fourteen miles from Morpeth—and is dated Sunday Evening,
September 28.—

“I arrived here with Lady Charles,[13] about two hours since, my
dearest mamma; and I find from papa that in his letter to you
to-night he never mentioned that the irregularity of the post,
which _never_ goes oftener than three times a week from hence, will
prevent our writing again till Wednesday, when we go to Sir William
Lorraine’s, and hope to get a frank from Colonel Beaumont, whom we
are to meet there. It is only by Lord Charles going unexpectedly
to Morpeth that I am able to write this, merely to beg you not to
be alarmed at not hearing oftener. I imagine papa has told you all
our plans, which are extremely pleasant. Lord and Lady Charles stay
longer in the country on purpose to receive us, and have put off
their visit to Alnwick Castle that they may take me there, as well as
to Lord Grey’s, Colonel Beaumont’s, and half a dozen other places.”

The reference in this letter to a “frank” is one which frequently
occurs in Miss Mitford’s correspondence. It was, as Sir Rowland Hill
once said, an “expedient for saving postage”—“discreditable shifts”
another writer called them. In the days before the institution of
Penny Postage—an event which put an end to “franking”—Members of
Parliament enjoyed the privilege of having their letters delivered
and despatched free of charge. To secure this, members had merely to
write their names on the covers to ensure free passage through the
post, and frequently furnished their friends with packets of franks
which were placed aside for use as occasion required. This latter
expedient was, of course, a flagrant abuse of the privilege, and in
one year it was computed that, had postage been paid on the franked
correspondence, the revenue would have been increased by £170,000!
In an endeavour to check this abuse it was enacted that the whole
superscription must be in the handwriting of the Member, and that
the frank was only available on the date (which it was necessary
to name) which was on the cover. While the regulation certainly
diminished the quantity of franking it did not put an end to the use
of the privilege by other than Members, to whom it became the custom
to despatch an accumulated batch of letters, intended for a number
of people, with explicit instructions as to their destinations.
The annoyance caused to Members, and the general confusion which
sometimes resulted from this practice, may be better imagined than
described. Miss Mitford herself gives us an amusing account of the
troubles and trials of those who both used and abused the franking
privilege, in her sketch on “The Absent Member,” in _Belford Regis_.

In the next letter which Miss Mitford wrote we have a record of
some amusing table-talk, essentially feminine in character and
which, undoubtedly, greatly impressed the observant young person who
overheard it. It is addressed still from Little Harle Tower, dated
October 3, and after a short description of the scenery, and the
mud—which caused her to beg to be excused from such excursions in the
future—she relates an account of a dinner at Sir William Lorraine’s
at which Colonel and Mrs. Beaumont were of the party.—

“Mrs. B. was so polite as to express great regret that, as she was
going from home, she could not see us at her house, but hoped, when
next we came to Northumberland, we should come to see them at Hexham
Abbey. She is a very sweet woman.... Mrs. B. told Lady Charles that
they received last year a hundred thousand pounds from their lead
mines in Yorkshire; and they never make less than eighty thousand,
independent of immense incomes from their other estates. Mrs. B.
was dressed in a lavender-coloured satin, with Mechlin lace, long
sleeves, and a most beautiful Mechlin veil. The necklace she wore
was purchased by her eldest son, a boy of eleven, who sent it from
the jeweller’s without asking the price. It is of most beautiful
amethysts; the three middle stones are an inch and a half long and
an inch wide; the price was nine hundred guineas. Mrs. B. wished to
return it; but the Colonel not only confirmed the purchase, but
gave his son some thousands to complete the set of amethysts by
a bandeau and tiara, a cestus for the waist, armlets, bracelets,
brooches, sleeve-clasps, and shoe-knots. All these she wore, and I
must confess, for a small dinner-party appeared rather too gaily
decorated, particularly as Lady Lorraine’s dress was quite in the
contrary extreme. I never saw so strong a contrast ... Colonel
Beaumont is generally supposed to be extremely weak, but I sat next
him at dinner, and he conducted himself with infinite propriety and
great attention and politeness; yet when away from Mrs. Beaumont, he
is (they say) quite foolish, and owes everything to her influence.”
Added to this cryptic description—cryptic because, read it how we
will, we cannot be sure that there is not a subtle touch of sarcasm
in the words—is a shrewd observation on another visitor whom she
calls Mr. M.

“I told you I was not enamoured of Mr. M., and I will now describe
him to you.... He is an oddity from affectation; and, I often think,
no young man affects singularity when he can distinguish himself
by anything better. He affects to despise women, yet treats them
with great respect; and he makes the most extraordinary exertions
to provoke an argument, from which he generally escapes by some
whimsical phrase.”

The letter concludes with a long list of festivities which are to
take place in honour of her visit. Following on these, they journeyed
to Kirkley, Mr. Ogle’s seat, whither it was originally intended
they should travel direct but were deterred from so doing by the
hospitality offered _en route_. As a matter of fact their stay at
Kirkley was a short one, due to the same cause which had prevented
their earlier arrival.

The only letter addressed from Kirkley is dated Wednesday morning,
October 8:—

“We arrived here on Monday at about three o’clock; received with
great glee by the Squire, and, after taking a short walk in the
garden, returned to dress. We had some time to wait for Lord and
Lady Charles, who did not arrive before half-past five or near six,
and even then undressed. They had been detained by the axle-tree
breaking down, and the detestable roads. Without their waiting to
dress, we immediately sat down to dinner and spent a most delightful
day. In the evening we found a manuscript play which had been sent
last year for Mr. Sheridan’s perusal.[14] It is taken from a very
striking story in the _Canterbury Tales_, of which I have forgotten
the title.... I read it aloud to the ladies, and the gentlemen
played billiards, and occasionally visited us. The play, which bears
the name of ‘Sigendorf,’ is really extremely interesting, and much
better, as to language, than most modern productions. Sheridan had
never looked at it, and Mr. Ogle lent it to Lady Charles.

“Yesterday morning, after a long walk, Lord and Lady C. left us. We
had an excellent dinner, and amused ourselves in the evening with the
‘Liber Veritatis,’ which is, as you may remember, a very expensive
collection of two hundred of Claude Lorraine’s sketches, published by
Boydell.

“We are going in about an hour to Little Harle ... for Mr. Ogle and
papa remain here together. We go to-morrow to Alnwick and return
the same night. To-morrow is expected to be a very full day at the
Castle, on account of the Sessions Ball. The ladies—the married ones
I mean—go in Court dresses, without hoops, and display their diamonds
and finery on the occasion.

“Mr. Ogle is quite a man of gallantry and makes his house extremely
pleasant. We talk of coming to see him again next week, when my
cousin Mary and I are left to keep house alone at Morpeth, and my
uncle and aunt go to Little Harle Tower.”

From Morpeth, on October 11, was despatched a very long letter, too
long indeed for quotation in full, but from which we must give a few
extracts. It begins:—

“In papa’s letter of yesterday, my dearest darling mamma, he promised
that I would write you a long one to-day, and I certainly owe you one
in return for the very entertaining epistle I received yesterday.
After we left Kirkley, we called at Belsay, and saw Lady Monck and
the little Atticus, who was born at Athens fifteen months since.
He is a very fine boy, very like Sir Charles. Belsay is a very old
castle, and its eccentric possessor has done all he possibly could
desire to render it still more _outré_ by stopping up the proper
road, and obliging us to approach this fine specimen of Gothic
architecture through the farm-yard. We arrived at Little Harle to
dinner; and you would have been greatly amused at my having my hair
cut by Lord Charles’s _friseur_, who is by occupation a joiner, and
actually attended with an apron covered with glue, and a rule in his
hand instead of scissors. He, however, performed his office so much
to my satisfaction, that I appointed him to dress my hair the next
morning for my visit to Alnwick. While I was thus employed, Lady
Swinburne called on purpose to see me. Lady Charles said I was out
walking. She is, you know, niece to the Duke of Northumberland, and I
regretted not seeing her.

“Thursday morning we rose early and prepared for our visit. I wore
my ball gown, and Lady C. lent me a beautiful necklace of Scotch
pebbles, very elegantly set, which had been presented to her by the
Duchess of Athole, with brooches and ornaments to match. I kept my
front hair in papers till I reached Alnwick.... I would not attempt
a description of Alnwick Castle, my dear mamma, but I must tell you
it is by no means so very princely a residence as I had imagined.
The entrance is extremely striking. After passing through three massy
gateways, you alight and enter a most magnificent hall, lined with
servants, who repeat your name to those stationed on the stairs;
these again re-echo the sound from one to the other, till you find
yourself in a most sumptuous drawing-room of great size, and as
I should imagine, forty feet in height. This is at least rather
formidable; but the sweetness of the Duchess soon did away every
impression but that of admiration. We arrived first, and Lady Charles
introduced me with particular distinction to the whole family; and
during the whole day I was never, for one instant, unaccompanied by
one of the charming Lady Percys, and principally by Lady Emily, the
youngest and most beautiful. We sat down sixty-five to dinner, and I
was within three of the Duchess.... After dinner, when the Duchess
found Lady Charles absolutely refused to stay all night, she resolved
at least that I should see the castle, and sent Lady Emily to show
me the library, chapel, state bed-rooms, etc. This dear, charming
Duchess is generally thought very proud; and Lord Charles says he
never knew her so attentive to any young person before.... At nine we
went to the Ball; and the room was so bad, and the heat so excessive,
that I determined, considering the long journey we had to take, not
to dance, and refused my cousin Mitford of Mitford, Mr. Selby,
Mr. Alder, and half a dozen more whose names I have forgotten. At
half-past ten we took leave of the Duchess and her amiable daughters,
and commenced our journey homeward, after a most delightful visit.”
On the journey they lost their way and did not arrive at Morpeth
until seven o’clock in the morning. The letter concludes:—“Seventy
miles, a splendid dinner, and a ball all in one day! Was not this a
spirited expedition, my darling? Papa is to be very gay this week
with Nat [Nathaniel Ogle]. He left us to-day in excellent health and
spirits.”


[Illustration: Mary Russell Mitford.

(From a drawing by Joseph Slater.)]

Despite the temporary absence of the Doctor, the gay doings of
this triumphal march continued, of which the fullest accounts were
dispatched to the delighted mother alone at Bertram House.

These brought letters in return giving, as usual, all the news of the
farm and of the progress of events in Reading, which at that time
was being engrossed by the Greek Plays, performed with remarkable
ability by the boys of the Grammar School under the direction of Dr.
Valpy, and by the excitement consequent upon the near approach of a
Parliamentary election. In reference to this Miss Mitford wrote to
her mother, possibly with a sense of foreboding, for she knew her
father’s every weakness:—“I only hope Mr. Shaw Lefevre will be well
enough to canvass for himself, without requiring papa’s presence,
which would be rather inconvenient at present.”

Doctor Mitford was still enjoying his gay week with Nathaniel
Ogle, the arrangement being that upon his return to Morpeth and his
daughter he was to conduct her to Hexham, the place of his birth.
Meanwhile a short programme of sight-seeing had been mapped out for
Miss Mitford, which would occupy the interval remaining before the
father and daughter had arranged to meet. Unfortunately, however,
the Doctor, upon receipt of an intimation from Mr. Shaw Lefevre’s
agent, hurried off to Reading at a moment’s notice, without so much
as an apology to his host and with only a hastily scribbled note to
his daughter in which he offered no suggestions as to what she should
do, practically leaving her to her own devices both in excusing his
erratic behaviour and as to finding the means of returning home.

Nathaniel Ogle was furious, the friends in Northumberland were
amazed, while Miss Mitford was both distracted and indignant. Between
her tears she at once wrote off to her father at Reading, rebuking
him with such dignity that, had he possessed any sense of propriety
he must, upon reading it, have been thoroughly ashamed.

“It is with great reluctance, my dearest darling, that I am compelled
to say that I never have experienced so disagreeable a surprise as in
receiving your letter yesterday. What could possibly influence you
to prefer Mr. Lefevre’s paltry vanity of being at the head of the
poll (for of his election he was certain) to Nat Ogle’s friendship
and your daughter’s comfort? Lady Charles leaves Little Harle on
the 4th. On the 1st she is obliged to bring me to Morpeth; and _she_
says that she shall be miserable in the idea of leaving me there, for
your uncle, you well know, is in a state which must be dreadful to
any one, and to a visitor most particularly so. You must have seen,
before you left Morpeth, that your uncle’s faculties were very much
decayed; and Mary says that his fits of passion are such as to give
you the idea of being in a hospital for lunatics.

“Is this a time for me to stay, or my aunt to receive me with any
comfort? If you need any other motive to return, I must tell you that
Mr. Ogle is extremely offended at your leaving him in this manner;
and nothing but your _immediately_ coming back can ever excuse you to
him.

“I now implore you to return, and I call upon mamma’s sense of
propriety to send you here directly. Little did I suspect that my
father, my dear, beloved father, would desert me in this manner, at
this distance from home. Every one is surprised. They had thought
that your parental affection was the strongest sentiment of your
heart, and little thought it would yield so entirely to your
_friendship_ for any one. I expect no answer but a personal one, for
it is utterly impossible that you should have any motive to detain
you so strong as those I have given you for your return.

“I have had a charming excursion, but I am a great deal too much
discomposed to give you any particulars of it.... Pray return, my
dear papa. You and mamma have ever my warmest affection, but _you_
are rather out of favour at present; yet I am still fondly my Ittey
boy’s own

                                                      “M. R. MITFORD.”

Two days later she received a letter from her father to say that he
had set out for Bertram House which called forth a protest, this
time to her mother, to whom she expressed surprise at her father’s
singular behaviour.

 “Happy as you must always be to see that dear, that most beloved of
 men, I am persuaded that upon this occasion you would not be pleased
 at his arrival. It has left me in a most awkward situation, and Mr.
 Ogle, whom I have just left, is extremely offended at his departure.
 In the name of goodness, dearest mamma, persuade my own darling to
 come back again directly.... It is surely a very odd thing for a
 young woman to be left in this strange manner. I hope you will be
 able to prevail upon papa to return immediately, or he will lose a
 very excellent and very attached _old friend_, and do no material
 service to the _new one_, for whose sake he seems to forget all
 other things and persons.... Much as I love him, it is not from a
 capricious affection, but from an unfeigned sense of propriety, that
 I desire his return. Heaven bless you, my dearest, best mamma! I am
 ever, with the fondest affection, your and my dear runaway’s own

                                                “MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.

 “_If papa happens to open this letter, he must remember it is meant
 for mamma, and he must not read it._”

It must be evident, from these letters, that Miss Mitford very
keenly felt the thoughtless conduct of her father, not only on
account of her own predicament, but because it was creating a very
bad impression as to the Doctor’s own character on the Northumbrian
relatives and friends.

Fortunately the father’s absence did not put a complete stop to the
programme of excursions, although it did much to mar the pleasure
of them for at least one member of the party. Details of these
excursions were embodied in a succession of further letters to Mrs.
Mitford and included an account of a narrow escape from death upon
a very steep hill; a visit to Lord Tankerville at Chillingham,
where the proud owner personally drove up his famous herd of wild
white cattle for his visitor’s benefit; a journey to Chevy Chase,
and another dinner at Alnwick Castle. In one of these letters Miss
Mitford again reverts to her father’s escapade saying, “there never
was so hare-brained a thing done as his running off in this manner,”
concluding with “it is impossible to describe how much I long to see
my mother, my own darling mother. Nothing can exceed the affection
which I am treated with here, or the pains they take to amuse me; but
if I stay three weeks longer without seeing you I shall be absolutely
miserable. I must never marry, that is certain, for I never should be
able to support an absence of three months from my beloved parents.”

A week went by but still the Doctor did not arrive, with the result
that Miss Mitford wrote to her mother suggesting that one of the
maids be sent off at once to bear her company in the coach to London.
The letter plainly indicates that she was not only growing desperate
but low-spirited. “Do you know, my dear mamma, that in spite of my
little boy having so entirely forsaken and forgotten me (for I have
never received even a note from him since his departure), I could not
leave the country without seeing his native place, which Lady Charles
assures me has no other recommendation than _that_, as it is perhaps
the ugliest town in England. My cousin is so good as to promise to
take me there to-morrow if it is a fine day.

“I hope you, my dear mamma, gave him a good scolding for coming
without me, for every one else seems to have forgotten me. I think I
might slip out of the world now very quietly, without being regretted
even by my dog or any one but my darling mamma. Luckily I have no
mind to try the experiment.”

The promised visit to Hexham took place the next day.

“We dined at a very wretched inn, for I must confess, in spite of
the prepossession I felt in favour of my dear Ittey’s native town,
that Hexham is a shocking gloomy place. After dinner I had the
pleasure of visiting the house where my darling was born. It has
been an extremely good one, and still retains a very respectable
appearance; but it is now divided, and on one side of the street
door, which still remains, is a collar maker’s shop, and on the
other a milliner’s. We entered the latter and purchased three pairs
of Hexham gloves, one for papa, one for my dearest mamma, and one
for Ammy. I thought that, both as a memorial of the town and of the
house, you would like that better than any other trifle I could
procure. Our return was very tedious and disagreeable; but I was
gratified on my arrival by finding a letter from papa, directed to
Morpeth, in which he promises to be there as to-day. I cannot think,
my darling, why you did not send him off on Wednesday, for the eating
and drinking, and bawling at the Election will do him more harm than
twenty journeys. Gog, he says, is very ill. God forgive me, but I do
not pity him. He deserves some punishment for endeavouring to play
such a trick upon papa and me.”

Gog was the Mitfords’ nick-name for Mr. Shaw Lefevre, on whom in her
anxiety to find an excuse for her father’s inexplicable conduct,
Miss Mitford strove to fasten the blame for the whole incident. Her
complaint was that, in a letter which arrived after her father’s
departure, he had “pretended with great quietness and a profusion of
thanks to decline papa’s kind offer of coming to his assistance at
the time he must have known that his agent had sent for him, and that
he would already be in Reading when his letter arrived here: and to
fancy any one would be deceived by so flimsy a trick is not a little
degrading to our understandings.”

Dr. Mitford returned on November 2, after an absence of exactly
twelve days, and just in time to throw himself, with his accustomed
abandon, into the turmoil of the Morpeth and Newcastle elections,
which closely followed each other during the month. At the end of
November, he and his daughter, and Mr. Ogle, with whom he had made
his peace, travelled to London together, and so home.

Thus ended the first and only visit Miss Mitford ever paid to the
North. In reality it was little short of a triumphal tour for her,
made memorable by the excessive kindness which every one seemed
determined to lavish upon her. Apart from the period she spent at
school, it ranks as the outstanding event of her life and would have
been entirely free from any shadow whatsoever but for the incident in
which her father was the central and culpable figure.

With a readiness to overlook and condone all his faults—and they
were many—she seems to have both forgiven and forgotten the episode,
content to dwell only on the brighter memories with which the holiday
abounded.

“Years, many and changeful, have gone by since I trod those northern
braes; they at whose side I stood, lie under the green sod; yet
still, as I read of the Tyne or of the Wansbeck, the bright rivers
sparkle before me, as if I had walked beside them but yesterday. I
still seem to stand with my dear father under the grey walls of that
grand old abbey church at Hexham, whilst he points to the haunts of
his boyhood. Bright river Wansbeck! How many pleasant memories I owe
to thy mere name!”

It is one of her old-age memories of those wonderful two months in
the fall of 1806, and although, as we know, her father was not by her
side as she describes, the picture may well stand as a fitting close
to the chapter.


FOOTNOTES:

[12] Rev. Richard Valpy, D.D., equally famous as a Greek scholar and
as Head-Master of Reading Grammar School.

[13] Lady Charles Aynsley, a wealthy first-cousin of the Doctor’s.

[14] Richard Brinsley Sheridan. His second wife was a Miss Ogle, and
a cousin of Dr. Mitford. Miss Mitford thought her “a vain woman.”




                            CHAPTER VIII

          LITERATURE AS A SERIOUS AND PURPOSEFUL OCCUPATION


Except for very brief intervals, when the Reading races or some
coursing meeting engaged his attention, Dr. Mitford was rarely to be
found at home, with the result that the “farm” was left very much
to the men, with such supervision as Mrs. Mitford might care, or be
able, to give it. Money was getting scarce at Bertram House and the
Doctor therefore resorted, more than ever, to the Clubs, in the hope
that his skill at cards might once again tempt the fickle Goddess
at whose shrine he was so ardent a votary. Nathaniel Ogle was his
crony and between them they went the round of the gaming-tables with
results which proved that either the Doctor’s powers were on the wane
or that he was being subjected to frequent frauds.

It is a regrettable fact, but must be recorded, that both Mrs. and
Miss Mitford appear to have been fully cognizant of his habits;
whether they knew the extent of his losses, or realized what these
losses meant with regard to their future comfort is a debatable
point, although from what we are able to gather from the scant
records at our command we incline to the belief that Mrs. Mitford
was scarcely capable of either controlling or influencing a husband
of Dr. Mitford’s temperament. Both by birth and upbringing she
was absolutely unfitted for the task. Doubtless she had made her
feeble remonstrances, but these proving of no avail she resigned
herself to a policy of _laissez-faire_, in the belief, possibly,
that whatever happened, their condition could never be as bad as in
the black days which followed the flight from Lyme Regis and her
husband’s confinement within the King’s Bench Rules. If under similar
conditions a man might claim extenuating circumstances by urging his
wife’s apathy, then Dr. Mitford would assuredly be entitled to our
mercy, if not to our sympathy; but, happily, the world has not yet
sunk so low as to condone a man’s misdemeanours on such a ground, so
that Dr. Mitford stands condemned alone.

A series of letters addressed to him during 1807, to the care of
“Richardson’s Hotel,” or the “Star Office” in Carey Street, convey
some idea of the anxiety which his prolonged absence was occasioning
his wife and daughter at home, while at the same time they give him
tit-bits of domestic news.

“As lottery tickets continue at so high a price, had you not better
dispose of yours, for I am not sanguine with respect to its turning
out a prize, neither is mamma; but consult your better judgment. I
think you have to deal with a slippery gentleman. You would do well
to introduce a rule, that whoever introduces a gentleman should be
responsible for him; that is, supposing that you mean to continue to
play there; though my advice has always been, that you should stick
to Graham’s, where, if you have not an equal advantage, you have
at least no trouble, and know your society. You have always gained
more there, on an average, than with chance players like the Baron,
or at inferior clubs, like the one you now frequent.... I need not
say, my darling, how much we long again to see you, nor how greatly
we have been disappointed when, every succeeding day, the journey to
Reading has been fruitless. The driver of the Reading coach is quite
accustomed to be waylaid by our carriage.” The letter from which
this is an extract is dated February 11, 1807, and begins with a
lament over a caged owl, found dead that morning, and gives news of
the expansion of a hyacinth which “I fear, if you do not hasten to
return, you will lose its fresh and blooming beauty.”

The next letter dated February 15, records the sudden drooping and
destruction of the hyacinth and contains a plea that the Doctor will
not waste money on the purchase of a fur cap for his daughter, a gift
he contemplated making after seeing his kinswoman, Mrs. Sheridan,
in a similar head-dress. “Mrs. Sheridan’s dress is always singular
and fantastic,” continues the letter, “but even if this masculine
adornment be fashionable, the season is so far advanced that it would
be impossible to wear it above a month longer.”

But it must not be thought that these were the only topics touched
upon in the correspondence between father and daughter. Some of the
letters reveal an extraordinary interest in Politics which must,
surely, have been unusual among women a century ago. They also
clearly indicate that the same critical faculty which was applied
to literature by Miss Mitford was also focussed on men and manners.
“What Grattan may be when speaking upon so interesting a subject as
places and pensions, I know not; but when he was brought in last
Parliament to display his powers upon the Catholic question (which
is, I admit, to party men a subject of very inferior importance),
the House was extremely disappointed. If I remember rightly, he was
characterized as a ‘little, awkward, fidgetty, petulant speaker’; and
the really great man who then led the Opposition easily dispensed
with his assistance.... I perfectly agree with you as to the great
merit of Lord Erskine’s very eloquent speech; and, as he was against
the Catholic question, his opinions will have more weight with the
country than those of any other of the ex-ministers. I always
thought Lord Sidmouth a very bad speaker. His sun is set, never, I
hope, to rise again!”

Of Shaw Lefevre she evidently entertained a poor opinion and appears
to have been unable to forgive or forget his supposed complicity in
the plot to bring the Doctor to Reading during Election time.

“Mr. Lefevre sported some intolerably bad puns, which were, I
suppose, intended for our entertainment; but they did not discompose
my gravity.” This was after a visit he and his wife had paid to
Bertram House, on which occasion he must have had a chilly reception
from one, at least, of the ladies. She continues: “I believe that
he has no inclination to meet you, and was glad to find you were in
town. Little minds always wish to avoid those to whom they are under
obligations, and his present ‘trimming’ in politics must conspire to
render him still more desirous not to meet you, till he has found
which party is _strongest_. That will, I am of opinion, decide which
he will espouse.... In short, the more I know of this gentleman the
more I am convinced that, under a roughness of manner, he conceals
a very extraordinary pliancy of principles and a very accommodating
conscience. He holds in contempt the old-fashioned manly virtues
of firmness and consistency, and is truly ‘a vane changed by every
wind.’ If he votes with the Opposition to-day, it will only be
because he thinks them likely to be again in power; and it will, I
really think, increase my contempt for him, if he does not do so.”
Had poor Mr. Lefevre been anxious to propitiate his little critic,
and had he seen the concluding sentence of her letter as above,
he must surely have been nonplussed as to the course of conduct
necessary to achieve that end!

During this year it is certain that Miss Mitford began seriously to
think of authorship in the light of something more than a dilettante
pastime and the scribbling of heroic verses to the notable men whom
her father was constantly meeting as he gadded about town. Doubtless
the haunting fear of impending disaster had much to do with this,
though possibly she conveyed no hint to her parents as to the real
cause of her diligence. “We go out so much that my work does not
proceed so fast as I could wish” is the burden of a letter she wrote
towards the end of May, “although,” she adds, “I am very happy I have
seen Lord Blandford’s, my darling, as I should, if I had not, always
have fancied it something superior.”

Lord Blandford’s was the estate known as “Whiteknights Park,” still
existing on the southern heights overlooking Reading. During the
twelfth century the land maintained a house which was attached to
the Hospital for Lepers founded by Aucherius, the second Abbot of
Reading Abbey. It was purchased in 1798 by the Marquis of Blandford
(subsequently Duke of Marlborough) who spent a considerable sum in
having the grounds laid out in the landscape style. Miss Mitford
was not only disappointed but severely criticised the whole scheme,
whilst of the lake she wrote: “and the piece of water looks like a
large duck pond, from the termination not being concealed.” With the
perversity of her sex—and it was a habit from which she was never
free—her later descriptions of the place are quite eulogistic and she
refers to

    “These pure waters, where the sky
     In its deep blueness shines so peacefully;
     Shines all unbroken, save with sudden light
     When some proud swan majestically bright
     Flashes her snowy beauty on the eye;”

and she closes the Sonnet with—

    “A spot it is for far-off music made,
     Stillness and rest—a smaller Windermere.”

During this period she was also busily occupied in transcribing
the manuscripts of her old friend and governess, Fanny Rowden, and
was most anxious for the success of that lady’s recently-published
poem entitled _The Pleasures of Friendship_. With an excess of zeal
which ever characterized her labours for those she loved, she was
continually urging her father to try and interest any of his friends
who might be useful, and to this end suggested that the poem be
shown to Thomas Campbell and to Samuel Rogers. Of Samuel Rogers she
confesses that she can find no merit in his work, except “polished
diction and mellifluous versification,” but at the same time records
her own and her mother’s opinion that Miss Rowden’s poem is a “happy
mixture of the polish of Rogers and the animation of Campbell,” with
whose works it must rank in time.

With the exception of a short period during the year 1808 the Doctor
was still to be found in London. This exception was caused by the
Reading Races at which the Doctor was a regular attendant. On this
particular occasion young William Harness, son of Mrs. Mitford’s
trustee and then a boy at Harrow, was of the party. He went in
fulfilment of an old promise, but the pleasure of his visit was
considerably lessened by the fact that he noticed how greatly altered
was the Mitford’s mode of living. It is recorded in his _Life_ that
“a change was visible in the household; the magnificent butler had
disappeared; and the young Harrow boy by no means admired the Shabby
Equipage in which they were to exhibit themselves on the race-course.”

No hint of this state of things is to be found in the letters of the
period, nor can we trace even the vestige of a murmur in them from
the mother and daughter who must have been torn with anxiety. Here
and there, however, there is a suspicion of disappointment at the
long absence of the Doctor and his failure to fulfil promises of
certain return. Nearly every letter contains some phrase indicative
of this, such as: “I hope Mr. Ogle will not long detain you from us”;
“Heaven bless you, my beloved! We long for your return, and are ever
most fondly,” etc.; or,—“I have myself urged a request to be favoured
with the second canto [of Miss Rowden’s poem] by your worship’s
return; which felicity, as you say nothing to the contrary, we may,
I presume, hope for on Thursday”; to which was added, by way of
reminder of their many disappointed attempts to meet him in Reading,
“but you must expect, like all deceivers, not to be so punctually
attended to this time as before.”

Miss Mitford was never the one to sit about the house, crying and
moping over wreckage, the naturally corollary to which would have
been an upbraiding of the wrecker, and from such an outrageous
action—she would have so considered it—she ever refrained. Rather
she preferred to apply herself more strenuously to her literary
work wherein she might not only absorb herself but be laying the
foundation of a career which, in time, she trusted might resuscitate
their diminished fortunes and ensure a regular competence.

Her most ambitious effort, at this period, was, as she described
it when submitting it to her father in London, “a faint attempt to
embalm the memory of the hero of Corunna.” This, we are given to
understand, was written under “mamma’s persuasions,” although the
writer considered it far above her powers. “I fancy I am more than
usually dissatisfied,” she goes on to write, “from the comparison
I cannot avoid making between these and the exquisitely beautiful
performance I have lately been engaged in examining,” a kindly
reference of course to Miss Rowden’s work.

The poem is dated February 7, 1809, is entitled “To the Memory of
Sir John Moore,” and is signed “M. R. M.” It consists of thirty-four
lines, too long to quote here, but we cannot refrain from giving the
concluding stanzas because, in view of subsequent events, they have a
peculiar literary significance:—

    “No tawdry, ’scutcheons hang around thy tomb,
     No hired mourners wave the sabled plume,
     No statues rise to mark the sacred spot,
     No pealing organ swells the solemn note.
       A hurried grave thy soldiers’ hands prepare;
     Thy soldiers’ hands the mournful burthen bear;
     The vaulted sky to earth’s extremest verge
     Thy canopy; the cannon’s roar thy dirge!
       Affections sorrows dew thy lowly bier,
     And weeping Valour sanctifies the tear.”

This, as we have shown, was written in 1809. On April 19, 1817,
eight years later, there appeared in the _Newry Telegraph_ (a small
tri-weekly, published in Ulster), under the simple head of “Poetry,”
what Byron called “the most perfect ode in the language”—“The Burial
of Sir John Moore.” This poem was variously ascribed to Byron,
Campbell and a number of others, and it was not until the year
1823 that it became known that the real author was the late Rev.
Charles Wolfe, the curate of Ballyclog, in Tyrone, who had just
died of consumption at the early age of thirty-two. Under ordinary
circumstances there could be nothing remarkable in the fact of a
notable occurrence, such as the burial of a nation’s hero, inspiring
two poets, at different dates, to choose it as a theme. In this case
it is, however, very singular that the hurried, rough burial of the
hero should have resulted in phrases almost identical in thought if
not in word, especially as it was almost impossible for Mr. Wolfe to
have seen Miss Mitford’s work. As a literary curiosity we subjoin the
verses of Mr. Wolfe to which we refer:—

    “Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
       As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;
     Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,
       O’er the grave where our hero we buried.

     We buried him darkly at dead of night,
       The sods with our bayonets turning;
     By the struggling moonbeams misty light
       And the lantern dimly burning.

     No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
       Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
     But he lay like a warrior taking his rest
       With his martial cloak around him.

           *       *       *       *       *

     But half of our heavy task was done
       When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
     And we heard the distant and random gun
       That the foe was sullenly firing.

     Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
       From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
     We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone—
       But we left him alone with his glory.”

Having given these two quotations we might properly leave the matter,
but for another curious incident which occurred in 1852 when, being
engaged in preparing for the press her _Recollections of a Literary
Life_, Miss Mitford had her attention drawn to a French poem which
she considered had either been translated from Mr. Wolfe’s poem and
applied to some other hero, or that Mr. Wolfe, seeing this French
poem,[15] had translated it and applied it as an ode on the burial
of Sir John Moore. As to which was the better poem of the two, she
unhesitatingly declared in favour of the French.


FOOTNOTES:

[15] “Les Funerailles de Beaumanoir.” Quoting this poem in his
_Reliques_, Father Prout (Rev. Francis Mahony) says: “Nor is it
necessary to add any translation of mine, the Rev. Mr. Wolfe having
reproduced them on the occasion of Sir John Moore’s falling at
Corunna under similar circumstances.”




                             CHAPTER IX

                           THE FIRST BOOK


Monsieur St. Quintin’s venture as a schoolmaster was so successful
that he was able, towards the close of the year 1808, to retire in
favour of Miss Rowden, who continued to conduct the school with as
much ability and spirit as had her predecessor. When matters were
settled she invited Miss Mitford up to town to enjoy the sights
and participate in a round of social functions. These were fully
described in letters to her mother beginning on May 20, 1809,
and ending on June 4. They tell of an “elegant dinner” to M. St.
Quintin on the occasion of his birthday and of an inspection of Miss
Linwood’s exhibition, which consisted of copies, in needlework,
from celebrated pictures of both ancient and modern masters. This
exhibition was remarkable in every way and was extremely popular for
a number of years. Miss Mitford describes it as having been fitted up
at “a most immense expense; upwards of five thousand pounds. It is
indeed very superb.” The lighting and arrangement were so cleverly
carried out that visitors were frequently deceived and quite believed
that they were gazing on original oil-paintings instead of needlework
copies.

“I was at Hamlet’s” [the jewellers] “yesterday with Fanny, and
summoning to my aid all the philosophy of a literary lady, contrived
to escape without purchasing anything—but it was a hard trial. The
newest fashion is beautiful. Sets of precious stones of all colours,
and even gold and diamonds intermixed—without the slightest order
or regularity. The effect is charming, but the price is enormous.”
Like a moth at a candle-flame Miss Mitford hovered about Hamlet’s
once more and was, apparently, not philosophic enough to avoid the
inevitable singeing, for in the next letter she confesses—“Alas!
I boasted too soon about Hamlet’s, and was seduced into spending
half-a-guinea on a ruby clasp,” a purchase which evidently gave
her pleasure, for she wore this clasp on every possible occasion
afterwards, and was always careful to see that it was fastened in
position when she had her portrait painted.

Then there were more dinner-parties at the St. Quintin’s and at Dr.
Harness’s, varied by visits to the Exhibition of Water Colours and
to the Haymarket Theatre to see _A Cure for the Heartache_ and _The
Critic_.

“Yesterday we went to the play. Emery’s acting was delightful.
The ‘gods’ were so vociferous for the second act of _The Critic_
that the performers were obliged to cut off some of the exquisite
dialogue in the first. What a delightful thing it would be to have a
playhouse without galleries! These very people, who curtailed some
of the finest writing in the English language, encored five stupid
songs!”

Sunday afternoon found the party walking among the fashionables
in Kensington Gardens, with the honour of an introduction to Lord
Folkestone, “papa’s friend,” who was all affability. “The people
absolutely stopped to look at him; and well they might; for,
independent of his political exertions, the present race of young men
are such a set of frights, that he, though not very handsome, might
pass for an Apollo amongst them.”

Miss Mitford was now in her twenty-second year and was, doubtless,
being quizzed by mamma as to the state of her heart. The matter
does not appear to have been a subject for serious contemplation
with her; indeed the question of love she appears to have regarded
with something like amused contempt. What she describes as “a most
magnificent entertainment” was a ball at Mr. Brett’s, at Brompton,
to which she was invited, following a sumptuous repast at another
house. The ball was most impressive. “There were five splendid rooms
open in a suite, and upwards of three hundred people. The supper was
most elegant; every delicacy of the season was in profusion; and the
chalked floors and Grecian lamps gave it the appearance of a fairy
scene, which was still further heightened by the beautiful exotics
which almost lined these beautiful apartments,” all of which, they
were told, had come from Mr. Brett’s own hot-house and conservatory.
Her partners were numerous, handsome, and also “elegant,” but “I do
assure you, dear mamma, I am still heart-whole; and I do not think
I am in much danger from the attractions of Bertram Mitford”—her
cousin, and a young man upon whom both the Doctor and Mrs. Mitford
looked with considerable favour as a probable and very desirable
son-in-law.[16]

For ourselves, after reading between the lines of Miss Mitford’s
life, we strongly suspect that if young William Harness had been able
to overcome his prejudice against the Doctor, and proposed to his
old playmate, he would have been accepted. “Mr. Harness was never
married,” says his friend and biographer, the Rev. A. G. L’Estrange,
“but I have heard that there was some romance and disappointment in
his early life. In speaking of celibacy, he was wont to say, ‘There
is always some story connected with it.’” Whether this romance and
disappointment was connected with Miss Mitford is a matter upon
which we cannot speak with certainty, but we are prepared to assert,
upon the first-hand authority of one who knew Miss Mitford most
intimately and was in the closest relationship with her, that, after
her father (who was always first), William Harness was the one man of
her life—and this not merely because of their similarity of tastes
and pursuits upon which marriage might have set a crown of greater
value than either ever achieved, or could have achieved alone—the man
to whom she regularly turned for sympathy and counsel in the years
which followed her parents’ death, and to whom her thoughts were
constantly turning when her end was near.

Speaking generally, we shall find that whenever Miss Mitford writes
of Love in her correspondence, she does so half-disparagingly, a
matter of significance to all who recognize what dissemblers women
are on such a topic! M. St. Quintin’s birthday was, also, the
birthday of his sister Victoire, who was at this time languishing
for love of a fickle young man. “Victoire was in no spirits to enjoy
it,” wrote Miss Mitford. “Her lover has just gone into the country
for six months without coming to any declaration. Of course it is
all off; and she only heard this dismal news the night before. I
doubt not but she will soon get over it, for she is quite accustomed
to these sorts of disappointments.” A week later the topic was
again referred to. “‘The winds and the waves,’ says the sagacious
Mr. Puff, ‘are the established receptacles of the sighs and tears
of unhappy lovers.’ Now, my dear mamma, as there is little wind in
this heated atmosphere, and as the muddy waters of the Thames would
scarcely be purified by the crystal tears of all the gentle lovers
in the metropolis, it would almost seem that my evil destiny has
fixed on me to supply their place; for, from the staid and prudent
lover of fifty, to the poor languishing maiden of twenty-five, I am
the general confidante, and sighs and blushes, hopes and fears, are
‘all poured into my faithful bosom.’ It is inconceivable how that
mischievous little urchin deadens all the faculties. Mary Mitford
[her cousin] was bad enough, but even she was more rational than
Victoire at this moment.” Thus Miss Mitford on the love-affairs of
others.

This London visit, which resulted, we are told, in “a total
destruction of gloves and shoes, and no great good to my lilac
gown,” was brought to an end in a perfect whirl of festivities and
sight-seeing. “As you and I do not deal in generalities,” wrote Miss
Mitford to her mother, “I will give you my account in detail.... On
Friday evening I dined at the St. Quintin’s, and we proceeded [to
the Opera House] to take possession of our very excellent situation,
a pit box near to the stage and next the Prince’s.... Young is an
admirable actor; I greatly prefer him to Kemble, whom I had before
seen in the same character (Zanga in _The Revenge_). His acting,
indeed, is more in the style of our favourite Cooke, and he went
through the whole of his most fatiguing character with a spirit which
surprised every one. A curious circumstance happened—not one of the
party was provided with that article, so essential to tragedy, yclept
a handkerchief; and had not papa supplied the weeping beauties with
this necessary appendage, they would have borne some resemblance to
a collection of blurred schoolboys. To me, you know, this was of no
consequence, for I never cry at a play; though few people, I believe,
enter more warmly into its beauties.... The dancing of Vestris is
indeed perfection. The ‘poetry of motion’ is exemplified in every
movement, and his Apollo-like form excels any idea I had ever formed
of manly grace. Angiolini is a very fine dancer, but her figure by no
means equals Vestris’s, and I had no eyes for her while he remained
upon the stage.... It was one o’clock before we returned; and at ten
the next morning Fanny and I set out to make our round of visits in
a very handsome landau barouche.” These visits are then described,
and the hope expressed that she will meet Cobbett, a meeting to
which she was looking forward. Continuing, she writes:—“To-morrow
we go first to Bedlam; then to St. James’ Street to see the Court
people; and then I think I shall have had more than enough of sights
and dissipation. You cannot imagine, my dearest mamma, how much I
long to return home, and to tell you all the anecdotes I have picked
up, and pet my poor deserted darlings. I would have given up any
pleasure I have partaken here to have seen the dear bullfinches eat
their first strawberries. Did I tell you that the high and mighty
Countess D’Oyerhauser called on me immediately after her return from
Bath? She sets up for a _femme savante_, attends the blue-stocking
meetings at Lady Cork’s, and all the literary societies where she can
find or make an entrance. She is, therefore, in raptures at finding a
fresh poetess, and we are going there this evening. I must tell you
a good trait of this literary lady, who can scarcely speak a word
of English. She was to meet Scott on Tuesday, and wanted to borrow
a _Marmion_, that she might have two or three lines to quote in the
course of the evening.”

Upon her return home Miss Mitford devoted herself assiduously to her
literary work, polishing many of her earlier poems in preparation
for a volume which it was proposed should be published early in
the following year. Many of these had politics for their theme and
were written in honour of the political friends of her father, such
as Colonel Wardle, Cobbett and Fox, while others were devoted to
portraying her love for flowers and animals. To her father, still
in London, and now to be found at the _Bath Hotel_ in Arlington
Street, was given the duty of arranging the volume for publication,
and, taken altogether the little volume put both father and daughter
in a great flurry. It was decided to call the volume _Miscellaneous
Poems_, which settled, a discussion arose as to whom it should be
dedicated. Various names were suggested to be at last discarded in
favour of the Hon. William Herbert, the third son of the first Earl
of Carnarvon, and afterwards Dean of Manchester. He was himself an
author of distinction with a leaning to the poetry of Danish and
Icelandic authors, some of whose works he had translated. At first
the Doctor objected to certain adulatory poems addressed to himself,
but the objections were promptly met with an entreaty that nothing
should be curtailed or omitted. “I speak not only with the fondness
of a daughter, but with the sensibility (call it irritability, if
you like it better) of a poet, when I assure you that it will be
impossible to omit any of the lines without destroying the effect of
the whole, and there is no reason, none whatever, excepting _your
extreme modesty_, why any part of them should be suppressed.”

A few days later the poet wrote off in a frenzy of “excitement”
because she could not compose the “advertisement” which it was
usual to prefix to works of this kind—a sort of apology which most
people skipped and which might therefore be omitted without hurt
to the volume. “It is usual,” she urged, “for people to give some
reasons for publishing, but I _cannot_, you know, for the best of
all possible reasons—because I have none to give.” The matter was
eventually settled, to be followed by disputes as to the “quantity of
verses” which the Doctor thought necessary to a proper sized volume.
He was for asking the opinion of literary friends such as Campbell,
but to this his daughter strongly objected. “If you had known your
own mind respecting the quantity of poetry necessary for the volume,
I should never have thought of writing this _immoral_ production. As,
however, I am by no means desirous of having it hawked about among
your canting friends, I shall be much obliged to you to put your copy
into the fire. You need not fear my destroying my own, for I think
too well of it.... I am not angry with you, though extremely provoked
at those canting Scotchmen. If any of my things are worth reading, I
am sure that poor tale is; and who reads a volume of poems to glean
moral axioms? So that there is nothing offensive to delicacy, or good
taste, it is sufficient; and I never should think of writing a poem
with a sermon tacked to its tail.”

At length the volume was printed, at a cost of £59 for 500 copies.
This work was entrusted to A. J. Valpy, the nephew of Dr. Valpy,
who had just set up as a printer in London and required immediate
payment for the job. Both the author and her father thought the sum
excessive, especially as it included an item of £4 for alterations
which the printer called “Errata,” much to Miss Mitford’s annoyance,
she claiming that they were misprints and not, therefore, chargeable
to her. Much bickering ensued, and the young printer was separately
threatened with a horsewhipping from the Doctor and with boxed ears
from Miss Mitford.

The publication of this book afforded the Doctor a very good excuse
for prolonging his stay in the metropolis, for he could now plead
that his daughter’s welfare as an author demanded it. That he did
exert himself in her behalf is certain, for we find her sending him
“ten thousand thanks for the management of the Reviews,” although
“I am sadly afraid of not being noticed in the _Edinburgh_, the
volume is so trifling.” This was followed by a further “ten thousand
thanks for your attention to my commissions, and, above all, for the
books,” in which was included Crabbe’s poem, _The Borough_, just
published, and which drew from Miss Mitford the exuberant statement
“it is a rich treat ... with all the finish and accuracy of the
Dutch painters,” while, “in the midst of my delight, I feel a sort
of unspeakable humiliation, much like what a farthing candle (if it
could feel) would experience when the sun rises in all his glory
and extinguishes its feeble rays.” Miss Mitford was an impulsive
creature, and in three days’ time, after she had had an opportunity
of thoroughly digesting _The Borough_, she wrote:—“Crabbe’s poem is
too long and contains too gloomy a picture of the world. This is real
life, perhaps; but a little poetical fairyland, something to love and
admire, is absolutely necessary as a relief to the feelings, among
his long list of follies and crimes. Excepting one poor girl weeping
over the grave of her lover, there is not one chaste female through
the whole book. This is shocking, is it not, my darling? I dare say
he is some _crabbed_ old bachelor, and deserves to be tossed in a
blanket for his contempt of the sex.” It was shocking of the critic
too, for, ignoring her atrocious pun on the poet’s name, she made a
very bad guess in quoting him as a bachelor, seeing that, as was well
known, he was not only a happy father, but very fond of the society
of the ladies.

It is pleasant to note that the Hon. William Herbert accepted the
Dedication of the volume, which drew from him an appreciation in
verse composed of most flattering sentiments, in which he paid a
tribute to not only Miss Mitford’s ability as a poet, but to her
political leanings, in describing which he contrived to include a
compliment to her father. He also hinted that the fair writer would
find a worthy subject for her pen in the recent British Expedition
to Copenhagen, a subject about which much controversy raged. These
verses were dated March 29, 1810, inscribed “To Miss Mitford,” and
began:—

    “Fair nymph, my Arctic harp unstrung,
     Mute on the favourite pine is hung;
     No beam awakes the airy soul
     Which o’er its chords wild warbling stole.”

After much more in this strain, he concluded

    “Thou tuneful maid, thy ardent song
     Shall tell of Hafnia’s bitter wrong:
     My pen has force with magic word
     To blast the fierce-consuming sword.
     For not poetic fire alone
     Is thine to warm a breast of stone;
     But thou hast quaffed the purest rays
     That round the patriot’s forehead blaze.”

This, of course, inspired a reply by return. It is dated March 31,
1810, and, after paying homage to “the gifted bard,” Miss Mitford
concluded with the modest lines:—

    “For me—unskilful to prolong
     The finely modulated song—
     Whose simple lay spontaneous flows
     As Nature charms, or feeling glows,
     Wild, broken, artless as the strains
     Of linnets on my native plains,
     And timid as the startled dove,
     Scared at each breeze that waves the grove;
     Still may that trembling verse have power
     To cheer the solitary hour,
     Of Spring’s life-giving beauties tell,
     Or wake at friendship’s call the spell.
     Enough to bless my simple lays,
     That music-loved Herbert deigned to praise.”

In a letter to her father she confesses that although Mr. Herbert
did her great honour in thinking her adequate to deal with the
Copenhagen subject, she had no faith in her powers to do so, adding,
“And to tell you the truth (which I beg you will not tell him), I do
not think I would write upon it even if I could. Cobbett would never
forgive me for such an atrocious offence; and I would not offend him
to please all the poets in the world.”

The little volume was greeted very cordially by the reviewers and
secured its author a good deal of compliment from her father’s
political friends when she occasionally ran up to town at this time
to give her father the chance of showing her off. But while grateful
to the reviewers, she took exception to some of the conclusions they
drew from the political verses in the book. “How totally reviewers
have mistaken matters,” she wrote to her father, “in attributing
my political fancies to you! They would have been more correct if
they had asserted a directly contrary opinion; for Cobbett is your
favourite because he is mine,”—a doubtful compliment to the father
but quite characteristic of the daughter.

It was well that Miss Mitford had so much that was congenial and
engrossing wherewith to occupy her at this time, for the shadow was
again hovering over the home at Bertram House, and creditors were
beginning to be unpleasant in their demands and threats. Hints of the
existing state of things were conveyed to the Doctor from time to
time and must have caused great anxiety to Mrs. Mitford, who did not
share her husband’s and her daughter’s optimism.

“Do not forget that, if the tax money be not paid early this week,
you will be reported as a defaulter; and your friends the ministers
would take great delight in popping you up.” This was contained
in a letter of March 17, 1810. A week later a letter addressed to
the Doctor at the Mount Coffee House, states:—“A letter came from
Thompson Martin this morning which, knowing the hand, mamma opened.
It was to request you would let him take the choice of your pictures
[in payment of taxes]. I wrote a note to say, generally, that you
had been in town for the last two months, and were still there; but
that you would probably return next week to attend the Grand Jury,
and would undoubtedly take an early opportunity of calling upon him.
Was not this right? You will collect from this that we have received
a summons from the under-sheriff, which was given over the pale to
William this morning.” There is also, in a letter of May 10, 1810, a
suggestion of further trouble of a pecuniary nature, although it is
difficult to say to what it refers. “And now let me give you a little
serious advice, my dear son and heir. If those people do not give
you a secure _indemnity_, stir not a finger in this business. Let
them ‘go to the devil and shake themselves,’ for I would not trust
one of them with a basket of biscuits to feed my dogs. They have no
more honour between them all than you ‘might put on the point of a
knife, and not choke a daw withal,’ so comfort yourself accordingly;
treat them as you would lawyers or the king’s ministers, or any other
fraternity of known rogues and robbers.”

No matter how optimistic Miss Mitford may have been, we cannot bring
ourselves to believe that she was not harassed by the importunate
creditors, or that her work did not suffer in consequence. One effect
of it all was, of course, to make her re-double her efforts to write
something which would bring money into the family coffers.


FOOTNOTES:

[16] Writing in 1818 to her friend, Mrs. Hofland, she jokingly refers
to an American—“a sort of lover of mine some seven or eight years
ago—and who, by the way, had the good luck to be drowned instead of
married”; but in this she is scarcely to be taken seriously.




                              CHAPTER X

                          A YEAR OF ANXIETY


While her first book was passing through the press, Miss Mitford paid
a series of hurried visits to London, and it was during the course
of one of these visits that she was introduced to a gentleman of
wide sympathy and of great culture and ability. This was Sir William
Elford, one of her father’s friends, although the friendship was not
of that character which would blind the one to the other’s faults
and failings. He was a Fellow of the Royal and Linnæan Societies, an
exhibitor in the Royal Academy, and Recorder of Plymouth, for which
borough he was representative in Parliament for a number of years. At
the time of this introduction he was well over sixty, a man of an age
therefore with whom Miss Mitford was not so likely to be reserved as
with one of fewer years. As a result of this meeting a correspondence
was started which continued for many years, during which time Sir
William encouraged his young friend to write freely to him on any and
every topic which interested her. It is a remarkable and interesting
correspondence, as the occasional extracts we propose to give will
prove, although, when he came to bear his share in editing these
letters, the Rev. William Harness spoke of them as possessing “hardly
any merit but high, cold polish, all freshness of thought being lost
in care about the expression”; and again, “I like all the letters to
Sir W. Elford, which (except when she forgets whom she is writing to
and is herself again) are in conventional English and almost vulgar
in their endeavour to be something particularly good.” Nevertheless,
he confessed later “the letters improve as I go on. Even those to Sir
W. Elford get easier and better, as she became less upon punctilio
and more familiar with him; in fact, as—with all her asserted
deference—she felt herself more and more his superior in intellect
and information.”

The first letter was dated London, May 26, 1810, and was addressed to
Sir William Elford, Bart., Bickham, Plymouth.

  “MY DEAR SIR,—

 “Your most kind but too flattering letter followed me here two days
 ago, and I gladly avail myself of your permission to express my
 heartfelt gratitude for the indulgence with which you have received
 the trifling volume I had the honour to send you.

 “For the distinguished favour you mean to confer on me” [a present
 of a landscape painted by himself], “I cannot sufficiently thank
 you. Highly valuable it will doubtless be in itself, and I shall
 consider it inestimable as a proof of your good opinion. Indeed, Sir
 William, your praise has made me very vain. It is impossible not to
 be elated by such approbation, however little I may have deserved it.

 “Will you not think me an encroacher if, even while acknowledging
 one favour, I sue for another? Much as I have heard of your charming
 poetical talent, I have never seen any of your verses, and, if it
 be not too much to ask, I would implore you to send me at least a
 specimen. Forgive this request if you do not comply with it, and
 believe me, dear Sir, with great respect,

                             “Your obliged and grateful
                                            “MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.”

This was not a bad beginning, although the “high, cold polish” is
unmistakable. Her request was at once complied with, and emboldened
by her success Miss Mitford plunged forthwith into a series of
literary discussions which ran, more or less steadily, throughout
the whole of this lengthy correspondence. The second letter—a
characteristic one—is particularly interesting because it touches on
her taste and predilection for country sights and sounds and which
found the fullest expression in the one notable work by which she is
remembered.

“You are quite right in believing my fondness for rural scenery to
be sincere; and yet one is apt to fall into the prevailing cant upon
those subjects. And I am generally so happy everywhere, that I was
never quite sure of it myself, till, during the latter part of my
stay in town, the sight of a rose, the fragrance of a honeysuckle,
and even the trees in Kensington Gardens excited nothing but
fruitless wishes for our own flowers and our own peaceful woodlands.
Having ascertained the fact, I am unwilling to examine the motives;
for I fear that indolence of mind and body would find a conspicuous
place amongst them. There is no trouble or exertion in admiring a
beautiful view, listening to a murmuring stream, or reading poetry
under the shade of an old oak; and I am afraid that is why I love
them so well.

“It is impossible to mention poetry without thinking of Walter Scott.
It would be equally presumptuous in me either to praise or blame _The
Lady of the Lake_; but I should like to have your opinion of that
splendid and interesting production. Have you read a poem which is
said to have excited the jealousy of our great modern minstrel, _The
Fight of Falkirk_?” [by Miss Holford.] “I was delighted with the
fire and genius which it displays, and was the more readily charmed,
perhaps, as the author is a lady; which is, I hear, what most
displeases Mr. Scott.

“I enclose you _Robert Jeffery’s Lament_, altered according to your
suggestions.... This little poem is not inscribed to you, because I
am presumptuous enough to hope that at some future period you will
allow me to usher a book into the world under your auspices. A long
poem is to me so formidable a task that I fear it will scarcely be
completed by next year (it is now indeed hardly begun)—but when
finished, I shall make a new demand upon your kindness, by submitting
it to your criticism and correction. I am quite ashamed of this
letter. A lady’s pen, like her tongue, runs at a terrible rate when
once set a-going.”

Having inveigled Sir William into a discussion of Scott versus Miss
Holford, the attack was renewed in a subsequent letter wherein the
“extraordinary circumstance” is noted that “the _dénouement_ of
_Marmion_ and that of _The Lay of the Last Minstrel_ both turn on the
same discovery, a repetition which is wonderful in a man of so much
genius, and the more so as the incident is, in itself, so stale, so
like the foolish trick of a pantomime, that to have used it once was
too often.”

Fortunately, or unfortunately, the correspondents found themselves
agreed as to the respective merits of Miss Edgeworth, Miss Baillie
and Mrs. Opie, “three such women as have seldom adorned one age and
one country” ... although with regard to Miss Edgeworth “perhaps you
will think that I betray a strange want of taste when I confess
that, much as I admire the polished satire and nice discrimination
of character in the _Tales of Fashionable Life_, I prefer the homely
pathos and plain morality of her _Popular Tales_ to any part of her
last publication.”

At her father’s suggestion Miss Mitford was now—the beginning of
the year 1811—devoting herself to the production of the long poem
which she mentioned in her second letter to Sir William Elford. Its
subject was the incidents on Pitcairn Island following the Mutiny
of the _Bounty_, which had been revealed in 1808 by Captain Folger.
During the progress of its composition the Dedication to Sir William
Elford was submitted to that gentleman for his approval, drawing from
him the very kind and flattering request that it should be couched
in less formal language; “he says that he perfectly comprehends
the honour I have done him by my description; but that he wishes
the insertion of some words to show that we are _friends_; for to
be considered the friend of the writer of that poem appears to him
a higher honour than any he could derive from the superiority of
station implied in my mode of dedication.” The matter was eventually
settled to the satisfaction of all. Meanwhile as each canto of the
work was completed it was submitted first to Sir William and then to
Coleridge, both of whom took great pains in giving it a final touch
of polish, especially the latter, who prepared it for the press.

The Doctor, still in London and now at 17, Great Russell Street,
Covent Garden, concerned himself with arranging for a publisher.
He had decided that Longmans should have the first refusal of the
honour, but Miss Mitford rather favoured Mr. Murray because “he
is reckoned a very liberal man, and a more respectable publisher
we cannot have. I do not think Longman will purchase it; so, even
if you have taken it there, it is probable Murray may buy it at
last.” Messrs. Rivington produced it eventually under the title of
_Christina: or the Maid of the South Seas_, but not before there
had been an angry outburst at Coleridge for deleting an Invocation
to Walter Scott. Mrs. Mitford was particularly angry and attributed
the action to “a mean, pitiful spirit of resentment to Mr. Scott”
on Coleridge’s part. “Were the poem mine,” she continued with a
vehemence quite unusual with her, “I would have braved any censure as
to what he terms ‘bad lines,’ being convinced he would have thought
them beautiful had they not contained a compliment to Walter Scott.
If our treasure follows my advice, whenever she prints another poem
she will suffer no one to correct the press but herself: it will
save you infinite trouble, and be eventually of great advantage to
her works. It is certainly a most extraordinary liberty Mr. C. has
taken, and will, I hope, be the last he will attempt.” Miss Mitford
did not share her mother’s indignation, although, as she wrote in a
postscript to the above letter, “mamma has played her part well. I
did not think it had been in her. We seem to have changed characters:
she abuses Mr. Coleridge, I defend him, though I must acknowledge I
do not think he would have found so many bad lines in the Invocation
had not the compliment to Walter Scott grated upon his mind. My only
reason for lamenting the omission is that it makes the poem look like
a pig with one ear; but it does not at all signify,” which was quite
true, for _Christina_ enjoyed a considerable popularity both here and
in America, where a call was made for several editions.

This success must have been very gratifying, although any pecuniary
advantage it brought was immediately swallowed up in trying to
discharge the family’s obligations and to provide for present dire
needs. The situation was indeed pitiful, especially for the two
women, who were forced to appear before their friends with a smile at
a time when their hearts were heavy and desolation and ruin seemed
inevitable. A number of letters from Bertram House to Dr. Mitford
in London, during the year 1811, give sufficient indication of the
suffering they were enduring, and this at a time when Miss Mitford
was exercising her mind in the production of a work the failure of
which would have been a disaster. Under date January 21, 1811, she
wrote: “Mr. Clissold and Thompson Martin came here yesterday, my
own darling, and both of them declared that you had allowed Thompson
Martin to choose what he would of the pictures, excepting about a
dozen which you had named to them; and I really believe they were
right, though I did not tell them so. Nothing on earth could be more
perfectly civil than they were; and Martin, to my great pleasure and
astonishment, but to the great consternation of Clissold, fixed upon
the landscape in the corner of the drawing-room, with a great tree
and an ass, painted by Corbould, 1803. It had taken his fancy, he
said; and, though less valuable than some of those you offered to
him, yet, as he did not mean to sell it, he should prefer it to any
other. I told him I would write you word what he said, and lauded the
gods for the man’s foolishness. I have heard you say fifty times that
the piece was of no consequence; and, indeed, as it is by a living
artist of no great repute, it is impossible that it should be of much
value. Of course you will let him have it; and I wish you would write
to inquire how it should be sent.”

These pictures were being taken in liquidation of debts, an incident
sufficient of itself to wound the pride of a woman like Mrs. Mitford.
But, in addition to this, she found herself faced with the problem of
dismissing servants and no money wherewith to settle up their arrears
of wages. It was one of the few occasions on which her too gentle
spirit rose in revolt. Accompanying her daughter’s letter she sent
a note to her husband stating: “I shall depend on a little supply of
cash to-morrow, to settle with Frank and Henry, as the few shillings
I have left will not more than suffice for letters, and such trifles.
As to the cause of our present difficulties, it avails not how they
originated. The only question is, how they can be most speedily and
effectually put an end to. I ask for no details, which you do not
voluntarily choose to make. A forced confidence my whole soul would
revolt at; and the pain it would give you to offer it would be far
short of what I should suffer in receiving it.” A dignified, yet
tender rebuke, showing a remarkable forbearance in a woman so greatly
wronged.

Still worse was to follow, for at the beginning of March Dr. Mitford
was imprisoned for debt and only secured his release by means of
the proceeds of a hastily-arranged sale in town of more of his
pictures, augmented by a loan from St. Quintin. At the same time he
was involved with Nathaniel Ogle, “more hurt at your silence than
at your non-payment,” and was experiencing difficulties in regard
to certain land adjoining Bertram House for which he had long been
negotiating—having paid a deposit—but a transaction which Lord
Shrewsbury, the owner, hesitated to complete in view of the Doctor’s
unreliable position.

At length the anxiety became greater than Mrs. Mitford could bear,
and for a time she was prostrated.

“I am happy,” wrote Miss Mitford, “that the speedy disposal of
the pictures will enable you, as I hope it will, to settle this
unpleasant affair. Once out of debt and settled in some quiet
cottage, we shall all be well and happy again. But it must not be
long delayed; for my dear mother must be spared a repetition of such
shocks.”

Even so, the Doctor gave the waiting women no information regarding
the sale of the pictures or the condition of affairs until Mrs.
Mitford reproved him for his neglect; but the reproof was softened in
her next letter, for she says: “I know you were disappointed in the
sale of the pictures. But, my love, if we have less wealth than we
hoped, we shall not have the less affection; these clouds may blow
over more happily than we have expected. We must not look for an
exemption from all the ills incident to humanity, and we have many
blessings still left us, the greatest of which is that darling child
to whom our fondest hopes are directed.”

Moved at last to desperate action, Dr. Mitford made an endeavour
to sell Bertram House, with the intention of removing to some less
pretentious dwelling, possibly in London. The property, described
as an “Elegant Freehold Mansion and 42 Acres of Rich Land (with
possession),” was put up for sale by auction at Messrs. Robins’, The
Piazza, Covent Garden, on June 22, 1811, but apparently the reserve
was not reached, and no sale was effected. Miss Mitford did her best
to straighten out matters, and indeed showed uncommon aptitude for
business in one whose whole education had been classical. To her
father, then staying at “New Slaughter’s Coffee House,” she wrote on
July 5, “The distressing intelligence conveyed in your letter, my
best-beloved darling, was not totally unexpected. From the unpleasant
reports respecting your affairs, I was prepared to fear it. When
did a ruined man (and the belief is as bad as the reality) ever get
half the value of the property which he is obliged to sell? Would
that Monck” [a near neighbour] “had bought this place last autumn!
At present the best we can do seems to me to be, to relinquish the
purchase of Lord Shrewsbury’s land, and (if it will be sufficient to
clear us, mortgage and all) to sell all we have out of the funds,
and with that, and Lord Bolton’s legacy, and the money in Lord
Shrewsbury’s hands, and the sale of the books and furniture, clear
off our debts and endeavour to let this house. If this can be done,
and we can get from three to four hundred a year for it, we may live
very comfortably; not in a public place, indeed, but in a Welsh or
Cumberland cottage, or in small London lodgings. Where is the place
in which, whilst we are all spared to each other, we should not be
happy? For the sale of the money in the funds, or rather for Dr.
Harness’s consent to it, I think I can be answerable. It will not,
four years hence, be worth a guinea, and it would now nearly clear
the mortgage, and we should retain our only _real_ property. If the
thousand pounds of Lord Bolton, the six hundred of Lord Shrewsbury,
the three hundred at Overton, and the sale of stocks, books, crops
and furniture will clear all the other debts, this may still be done.
If not, we must take what we can get and confine ourselves to still
humbler hopes and expectations. This scheme is the result of my
deliberations. Tell me if you approve of it, and tell me, I implore
you, my most beloved father, the full extent of your embarrassments.
This is no time for false delicacy on either side. I dread no evil
but suspense. I hope you know me well enough to be assured that, if
I cannot relieve your sufferings, both pecuniary and mental, I will
at least never add to them. Whatever those embarrassments may be, of
one thing I am certain, that the world does not contain so proud, so
happy, or so fond a daughter. I would not exchange my father, even
though we toiled together for our daily bread, for any man on earth,
though he could pour all the gold of Peru into my lap. Whilst we are
together, we never can be wretched; and when all our debts are paid,
we shall be happy. God bless you, my dearest and most beloved father.
Pray take care of yourself, and do not give way to depression. I wish
I had you here to comfort you.”

The advertisement in the Reading papers, announcing the sale
of Bertram House, was, of course, something in the nature of a
surprise to the County folk, although, doubtless, some of them were
sufficiently well-informed to know that the Mitfords were in trouble.
“There is no news in this neighbourhood,” wrote Miss Mitford to Sir
William Elford, “excepting what we make ourselves by our intended
removal; and truly I think our kind friends and acquaintances ought
to be infinitely obliged to us for affording them a topic of such
inexhaustible fertility. Deaths and marriages are nothing to it.
There is, where they go? and why they go? and when they go? and
how they go? and who will come? and when? and how? and what are
they like? and how many in family? and more questions and answers,
and conjectures, than could be uttered in an hour by three female
tongues, or than I (though a very quick scribbler) could write in a
week.”

There was a very practical side to Miss Mitford’s nature and, for
a woman, a somewhat uncommon disregard for the conventions, a
disregard which developed with her years. Consequently, what people
thought or said affected her very little, and she devoted her mind
rather to solving difficulties than to wringing her hands over them.
That indolence of mind and body, of which she was self-accused,
she conquered, and though domestic troubles were heaped about her,
she set to work on a new poem which was to be entitled _Blanch of
Castile_.

To her father she wrote: “I wish to heaven anybody would give me
some money! If I get none for _Blanch_, I shall give up the trade in
despair. I must write _Blanch_—at least, begin to write it, soon. I
wish you could beg, borrow, or steal (anything but buy) Southey’s
_Chronicle of the Cid_, and bring it down for me.”... A week or so
later she wrote: “I have now seven hundred lines written; can you
sound any of the booksellers respecting it? I can promise that it
shall be a far superior poem to _Christina_, and I think I can finish
it by November. We ought to get something by it. It will have the
advantage of a very interesting story, and a much greater variety of
incident and character. I only hope it may be productive.”

Throughout the letters of this period it is rather pathetic to notice
the forced optimism of the writer, especially in those addressed to
her father. Sandwiched between reports of progress with _Blanch_ are
the most insignificant details of home, of Marmion’s prowess with a
rabbit; of the _ci-devant_ dairymaid Harriet, who, at the request of
her admirer, William, had consented to leave her place at Michaelmas
to share his fate and Mrs. Adams’s cottage; of Mia’s puppies, and of
the pretty glow-worms which she would so love to show the errant one
had she the felicity to have him by her side.

More than this, it is astounding to gather from her letters to Sir
William Elford that she was keeping up her reading, expressing
herself most decisively regarding Scott’s new poems, the preference
for which in Edinburgh she deems unlikely to extend southward; and
then falling-to at Anna Seward’s letters—The _Swan of Lichfield_—just
published in six volumes and which she finds “affected, sentimental,
and lackadaisical to the highest degree; and her taste is even
worse than her execution.... According to my theory, letters should
assimilate to the higher style of conversation, without the snip-snap
of fashionable dialogue, and with more of the simple transcripts
of natural feeling than the usage of good society would authorize.
Playfulness is preferable to wit, and grace infinitely more desirable
than precision. A little egotism, too, must be admitted; without
it, a letter would stiffen into a treatise, and a billet assume the
‘form and pressure’ of an essay. I have often thought a fictitious
correspondence (not a novel, observe) between two ladies or
gentlemen, consisting of a little character, a little description, a
little narrative, a little criticism, a very little sentiment and a
great deal of playfulness, would be a very pleasing and attractive
work: ‘A very good article, sir’ (to use the booksellers’ language);
‘one that would go off rapidly—pretty, light summer reading for
the watering-places and the circulating libraries.’ If I had the
slightest idea that I could induce you to undertake such a work by
coaxing, by teasing, or by scolding, you should have no quarter from
me till you had promised or produced it.”

How light-hearted! And, moreover, how strangely prophetic was this
promised success for the book written on the lines suggested, when
we remember the unqualified welcome given to a delightful novel, a
few seasons ago, which surely might have been made up from this very
prescription. Had Mr. E. V. Lucas been delving in Mitfordiana, we
wonder, or was _Listeners’ Lure_ but another instance of great minds
thinking the same thoughts?




                             CHAPTER XI

         LITERARY CRITICISM AND AN UNPRECEDENTED COMPLIMENT


“As soon as I have finished _Blanch_ to please myself, I have
undertaken to write a tragedy to please Mr. Coleridge, whilst my poem
goes to him, and to Southey and to Campbell. When it returns from
them I shall, if he will permit me, again trouble my best and kindest
critic to look over it. This will probably not be for some months, as
I have yet two thousand lines to write, and I expect Mr. Coleridge
to keep it six weeks at least before he looks at it.” This extract
is from one of Miss Mitford’s letters to Sir William Elford, dated
August 29, 1811, and it was not until exactly two months later that
she was able to forward the finished poem for Sir William’s criticism.

It was a production of which her father thought little at first,
declaring that the title alone gave him the vapours. Her mother and
the maid Lucy were half-blinded with tears when it was read to them,
but then, as Miss Mitford remarked: “they are so tender-hearted that
I am afraid it is not a complete trial of my pathetic powers.” In
this case Sir William was the first to scan the lines, an arrangement
due possibly to the stress of work then being engaged in by Coleridge
and Campbell—the former with lectures on Poetry and the latter in
the writing of his famous biographical prefaces to his collection of
the poets. Eventually the book was produced in the December of 1812,
news of which, apart from any other source, we glean from a letter of
its author in which she says: “_Blanch_ is out—out, and I have not
sent her to you! The truth is, my dear Sir William, that there are
situations in which it is a duty to give up all expensive luxuries,
even the luxury of offering the little tribute of gratitude and
friendship; and I had no means of restraining papa from scattering
my worthless book all about to friends and foes, but by tying up
my own hands from presenting any, except to two or three very near
relations. I have told you all this because I am not ashamed of being
poor, and because perfect frankness is in all cases the most pleasant
as well as the most honourable to both parties.”

It was fortunate that _Blanch_ was finished, for just as it was on
the point of completion, Miss Mitford was greatly excited over the
prospect of collaborating with Fanny Rowden in the translation of
a poem which would have given both a nice sum in return for their
labours. Unfortunately the project came to naught and the work was
entrusted to a man.

From now, on to the close of the year 1815, there is no record
of any work of Miss Mitford’s, unless we except one or two odes
and sonnets of which she said the first were “above her flight,
requiring an eagle’s wing,” while of the latter she “held them in
utter abhorrence.” Her time really seems to have been taken up
with an occasional visit to London and into Hampshire (where she
inspected her old birthplace, Alresford); with short excursions
into Oxfordshire (within an easy drive out and back from home), and
largely with a voluminous correspondence, chiefly on literary topics,
with Sir William Elford. Fortunately this correspondence was not
wasted labour as she was able to embody a very large proportion of
it in the _Recollections of a Literary Life_. Indeed, had she not
specifically suggested the plan of that work many years later, we
should feel justified in believing that, from the very outset, it was
to such an end that her correspondence and literary criticism were
directed.

Now that a century has passed since the letters were written, it is
interesting to peruse her comments on such writers as Byron, Scott,
Jane Austen and Maria Edgeworth, all of whom were publishing at
that period. “I dislike _Childe Harold_,” she wrote. “Not but that
there are very many fine stanzas and powerful descriptions; but
the sentiment is so strange, so gloomy, so heartless, that it is
impossible not to feel a mixture of pity and disgust, which all our
admiration of the author’s talents cannot overcome. I would rather
be the poorest Greek whose fate he commiserates, than Lord Byron,
if this poem be a true transcript of his feelings. Out of charity
we must hope that his taste only is in fault, and that the young
lordling imagines that there is something interesting in misery and
misanthropy. I the readier believe this, as I am intimate with one of
his lordship’s most attached friends, and he gives him an excellent
character.” The “intimate friend” alluded to was William Harness
who, from the Harrow schooldays onwards, was chief among Byron’s
friends; indeed, Byron expressly desired to dedicate _Childe Harold_
to Harness, and only refrained “for fear it should injure him in his
profession,” Harness being then in Holy Orders while Byron’s name
was associated with orgies of dissipation, to be followed later by
calumnious charges which Harness nobly did his best to refute.

It is a tribute to Miss Mitford’s critical faculty that she found
little difficulty in probing the mystery as to the authorship of
_Waverley_, that “half French, half English, half Scotch, half
Gaelic, half Latin, half Italian—that hotch-potch of languages—that
movable Babel called _Waverley_!” as she termed it. “Have you read
Walter Scott’s _Waverley_?” she writes. “I have ventured to say
‘Walter Scott’s,’ though I hear he denies it, just as a young
girl denies the imputation of a lover; but if there be any belief
in internal evidence, it must be his. It is his by a thousand
indications—by all the faults and by all the beauties—by the
unspeakable and unrecollectable names—by the hanging the clever hero,
and marrying the stupid one—by the praise (well deserved, certainly,
for when had Scotland such a friend! but thrust in by the head and
shoulders) of the late Lord Melville—by the sweet lyric poetry—by
the perfect costume—by the excellent keeping of the picture—by the
liveliness and gaiety of the dialogues—and last, not least, by the
entire and admirable individuality of every character in the book,
high as well as low—the life and soul which animates them all with
a distinct existence, and brings them before our eyes like the
portraits of Fielding and Cervantes.”

She was, however, at fault over _Guy Mannering_, being thrown clear
off the scent by Scott’s cleverness in quoting a motto from his own
_Lay of the Last Minstrel_, an act of which Miss Mitford evidently
thought no author would be guilty: “he never could write _Guy
Mannering_, I am sure—it is morally impossible!”

_Pride and Prejudice_ and _Sense and Sensibility_ she joined with
others in ascribing to any but their real author, but when she
learned that they were Miss Austen’s she let her pen go with a
vengeance.

“_A propos_ to novels, I have discovered that our great favourite,
Miss Austen, is my countrywoman; that mamma knew all her family
very intimately; and that she herself is an old maid (I beg her
pardon—I mean a young lady) with whom mamma before her marriage was
acquainted. Mamma says that she was then the prettiest, silliest,
most affected, husband-hunting butterfly she ever remembers; and
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 or upright piece of wood or iron that fills its 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.” Fortunately this
description was qualified: “After all, I do not know that I can quite
vouch for this account,” especially as the consensus of opinion
regarding Miss Austen is entirely opposed to the above description.

Miss Edgeworth she found too cold and calculating as a writer: “I
never can read Miss Edgeworth’s works without finding the wonderful
predominance of the head over the heart; all her personages are
men and women; ay, and many of them very charming men and women;
but they are all of them men and women of the world. There is too
much knowledge of life, too much hardness of character—too great a
proneness to find bad motives for good actions, too great a contempt
for that virtuous enthusiasm, which is the loveliest rose in the
chaplet of youth; and, to say all in one word, I never take up her
volumes myself without regretting that they were not written by a
man; nor do I ever see a young girl reading them without lamenting
that she will be let into the trick of life before her time.”

Early in the year 1813 a letter was received from Mr. and Mrs. Perry,
inviting Miss Mitford to stay with them at their house in Tavistock
Square. Mr. Perry was then Editor of the _Morning Chronicle_, and
the invitation was gladly accepted, not only because Perry was a
friend of her father’s, but because the latter had assured her
that Tavistock House was the rendezvous for many of the leaders in
the political and literary worlds. During this visit she met Mrs.
Opie—“thinner, paler, and much older, but very kind and pleasant”—and
Thomas Moore,—“that abridgement of all that is pleasant in man,”—with
whom she had the “felicity” of dining frequently. “I am quite
enchanted with him,” she wrote. “He has got a little wife (whom I
did not see) and two little children, and they are just gone into
Wales,[17] where he intends to finish a great poem [_Lalla Rookh_]
on which he is occupied. It is a Persian tale, and he says it will
be his fault if it is not a fine work, for the images, the scenery,
the subject, are poetry itself. How his imagination will revel among
the roses, and the nightingales, and the light-footed Almé!” Mr.
Moore did not forget his little friend and, a year later, gave her
the added pleasure of reading over a part of his manuscript, “and
I hope in a few days to see the whole in print. He has sold it for
three thousand pounds. The little I have seen is beyond all praise
and price,” she wrote enthusiastically. These visits to town were
undoubtedly something more than mere pleasure jaunts, for it is quite
apparent that they were undertaken with a view to keeping the name
and person of Mary Russell Mitford well in the public mind and eye.
Making her headquarters at 33, Hans Place, the residence of Fanny
Rowden’s mother, she spent a whirling fortnight during the summer of
1814, meanwhile keeping Mrs. Mitford well-informed on all details,
however slight. Under date, June 16, 1814, she writes: “Yesterday, my
own dearest Granny, was, I think, the most fatiguing morning I ever
underwent. Stuffed into a conspicuous place, stared at, talked to,
or talked at, by everybody, dying with heat, worn out with flattery,
I really should have wished myself in heaven or somewhere worse,
if I had not been comforted by William Harness, who sat behind me,
laughing at everybody, and more playful and agreeable than any
one I ever remember.” The occasion was the Midsummer Breaking-up
performance at her old school, during which an ode she had composed
for another function was recited.

“We had no exercises,” she continued, “nothing but music and
recitations, which lasted nearly four hours, and did them great
credit. The _March of Mind_ was well repeated, and received, of
course, as verses commonly are in the presence of the authoress.
I was to have presented the prizes; but to my great comfort Lady
Caroline Lamb arrived, and I insisted on giving her my post.” Then
follow particulars of a carefully-planned programme of sight-seeing,
finishing with:—“How little people in the country know of fashions!
I see nothing but cottage bonnets trimmed with a double plaiting,
and sometimes two double plaitings, and broad satin ribbon round
the edge. Gowns with half a dozen breadths in them, up to the knees
before, and scarcely decent behind, with triple flounces, and sleeves
like a carter’s frock, sometimes drawn, at about two inches distant,
and sometimes not, which makes the arms look as big as Miss Taylor’s
body. I like none of this but the flouncing, which is very pretty,
and I shall bring three or four yards of striped muslin to flounce my
gowns and yours. Tell Mrs. Haw, with my love, to prepare for plenty
of hemming and whipping, and not to steal my needles.... I have been
to see Haydon’s picture, and I am enchanted.... I saw, too, in a
print-shop, the beautiful print of ‘Napoleon le Grand,’ of which you
know there were but three in England, and those not to be sold. Oh,
that any good Christian would give me that picture!”

Napoleon Bonaparte was one of her heroes, and she could never bring
herself to adopt the general view of him held by the populace in
this country. Her friend M. St. Quintin wanted her to translate some
epigrams which he had composed against the late Emperor: “Let Mr.
St. Quintin know that he has brought his pigs to the wrong market,”
was her reply to her father, who had offered her the commission. “I
am none of those who kick the dead lion. Let him take them to Lord
Byron, or the editor of _The Times_, or the Poet Laureate, or the
bellman, or any other official character.... I hate all these insults
to a fallen foe.”

Later, when the _Bellerophon_ with Napoleon on board—then on his
way to exile—put into Plymouth, Miss Mitford wrote to Sir William
Elford: “Goodness! if I were in your place, I _would_ see him! I
would storm the _Bellerophon_ rather than not get a sight of him, ay,
and a talk with him too. You and I have agreed to differ respecting
the Emperor, and so we do now in our thoughts and our reasonings,
though not, I believe, much in our feelings; for your relenting is
pretty much the same as my—(what shall I venture to call it?)—my
partiality.... But though I cannot tell you exactly what I would do
with the great Napoleon, I can and will tell you what I would not do
to him. I would not un-Emperor him—I would not separate him from his
faithful followers—I would not ransack his baggage, as one would do
by a thief suspected of carrying off stolen goods—I would not limit
him to allowances of pocket-money to buy cakes and fruit like a great
schoolboy—I would not send him to ‘a rock in the middle of the sea,’
like St. Helena.”

But this is a digression. We left Miss Mitford in London describing
the Hans Place celebrations. The next morning she was taken to the
Freemasons’ Tavern, in Great Queen Street, to attend the meeting of
the Friends against the Slave Trade, where she heard such notables as
Lords Grey and Holland, together with William Wilberforce and Lord
Brougham.

“Lord Grey had all the Ogle hesitation, and my noble patron”
[Holland, to whom her first book was dedicated] “has my habit of
hackering so completely that he scarcely speaks three words without
two stops; but when we can get at his meaning, it is better than
any one’s. My expectations were most disappointed in Brougham, and
most surpassed in Wilberforce. I no longer wonder at the influence
he holds over so large a portion of the ‘religionists,’ as he calls
them; he is a most interesting and persuasive speaker.”

The great day, however, was Friday, June 24, 1814, when the members
of the British and Foreign School Society dined together, at the
Freemasons’ Tavern, on the occasion of their anniversary meeting.
The Marquis of Lansdowne was in the chair, supported by the Dukes
of Kent and Sussex, the Earls of Darnley and Eardley, and several
other eminent persons. Miss Mitford and a party of friends were in
the gallery “to hear splendid speeches and superlative poetry, and to
see—but, alas! not to share—super-excellent eating.” Miss Mitford was
always a great believer in, and supporter of all efforts which were
made to facilitate the education of the people, and on this occasion
her ode on _The March of Mind_, which she had specially composed for
this event, was set to music and sung. “I did not believe my own
ears when Lord Lansdowne, with his usual graceful eloquence, gave my
health. I did not even believe it, when my old friend, the Duke of
Kent, observing that Lord Lansdowne’s voice was not always strong
enough to penetrate the depths of that immense assembly, reiterated
it with stentorian lungs. Still less did I believe my ears when it
was drunk with ‘three times three,’ a flourish of drums and trumpets
from the Duke of Kent’s band, and the unanimous thundering and
continued plaudits of five hundred people.... Everybody tells me such
a compliment to a young untitled woman is absolutely unprecedented;
and I am congratulated and be-praised by every soul who sees me.”

This London visit, in Miss Mitford’s twenty-seventh year, was an
excellent piece of stage-management, and if it was due to the
exertions of her father—and we may properly suppose it was—it stands
as one achievement, at least, to his credit.

Home from these festivities, with the plaudits of the crowd and
the congratulations of her friends still ringing in her ears, she
had once again to face the problem of depleted coffers and how to
set about the task of filling them. Each succeeding year there was
trouble about the payment of taxes. “I do hope, my own dear love,”
runs one of the letters, “that you returned to London yesterday,
and that you have been actively employed to-day in getting money
for the taxes. If not, you must set about it immediately, or the
things will certainly be sold Monday or Tuesday. There is nothing
but resolution and activity can make amends for the time that has
been wasted at Bocking.” This last sentence alludes to the Doctor’s
absence in Northumberland attending to the complicated money matters
of a relative. Just previous to this Mrs. Mitford had written:
“After sending off our letter to you, yesterday, Farmer Smith came
to tell me what a piece of work the parish made with him about our
unpaid rates. They have badgered him most unmercifully about sending
a summons and compelling payment, but he is most unwilling to take
any step that might be productive of uneasiness to you.... You
will be astonished to hear that there is none of the farmers more
outrageously violent than Mr. Taylor, who blusters and swears he
will not pay his rates if they do not exact the immediate payment of
yours.” The rates due at this time were for two years—£46 8_s._ in
all, for which the Doctor had paid £10 on account.

Later on there is a promise of other, though similar trouble, in a
letter to the Doctor addressed in great haste to him, and to three
different localities, as they were not sure of his whereabouts. “I am
sorry to tell you, my dearest father, that Mr. Riley’s clerk has just
been here with a law-paper, utterly incomprehensible; but of which
the intention is to inform you that, if the mortgage and interest
be not paid _before next Monday_, a foreclosure and ejectment will
immediately take place; indeed I am not sure whether this paper of
jargon is not a sort of ejectment. We should have sent it to you but
for the unfortunate circumstance of not knowing where you are. The
clerk says you ought to write to Mr. Riley, and negotiate with him,
and that if the interest had been paid, no trouble would have been
given. Whether the interest will satisfy them now I cannot tell. No
time must be lost in doing something, as next Monday some one will be
put into possession.”

What a sorry plight the mother and daughter must have been in! No
wonder that we read the daughter’s request for “a bottle of Russia
Oil, to cure my grey locks.” And to make matters worse, there was
pending a Chancery Suit in connection with the sale of Bertram
House, which so soured the Doctor that he would have nothing done to
the garden or grounds. The gravel was covered with moss, the turf
lengthened into pasture, and the shrubberies into tangled thickets—a
picture of desolation which only emphasized the misery of the
financial outlook.


FOOTNOTES:

[17] Miss Mitford was wrong in this; Moore went to a cottage near
Ashbourne, in Derbyshire.




                             CHAPTER XII

              DWINDLING FORTUNES AND A GLEAM OF SUCCESS


Miss Mitford’s great and growing affection for the simple delights of
the country is amply proved in some of the letters which she wrote to
Sir William Elford during the years 1812-1815, and in the publication
of her poems on _Watlington Hill_ and _Weston Grove_. Of these two
works _Watlington Hill_ is, on the whole, in praise of coursing,
although it also contains some fine descriptions of scenery which
all who know the locality will recognize and appreciate. The piece
was originally published as a separate poem and dedicated to “James
Webb, Esq., and William Hayward, Esq.,” two coursing friends of her
father’s, the last-named being the owner of the Watlington Farm which
Dr. Mitford made his headquarters whenever a coursing meeting was
in progress in the district. In this form it was published by A.
J. Valpy, but later on was embodied in a volume entitled _Dramatic
Scenes_, and published in 1827, by George B. Whittaker.

_Weston Grove_ is a description of the place of that name, near
Southampton Water, then the seat of William Chamberlayne, Esq.,
M.P.—another friend of the Mitfords—to whom the poem was inscribed.
Neither of these works had a great sale.

In addition to these Miss Mitford made, in 1813, an attempt to
produce a play entitled _The King of Poland_, concerning which
she wrote to her father that “it will be in five acts instead of
three, and runs much more risk of being too long than too short. My
favourite character is a little saucy page ... and who is, I think,
almost a new character on the English stage. We have, it is true,
pages in abundance, but then they commonly turn out to be love-lorn
damsels in disguise. Now mine is a _bona-fide_ boy during the whole
play.”

Late in the year 1815 we find her telling Sir William Elford that she
has “been teased by booksellers and managers, and infinitely more
by papa, for a novel and a play; but, alas! I have been obliged to
refuse because I can only write in rhyme. My prose—when I take pains,
is stiffer than Kemble’s acting, or an old maid’s person, or Pope’s
letters, or a maypole—when I do not, it is the indescribable farrago
which has at this moment the honour of saluting your eyes. This is
really very provoking, because I once—ages ago—wrote four or five
chapters of a novel, which were tolerably lively and entertaining,
and would have passed very well in the herd, had they not been so
dreadfully deficient in polish and elegance. Now it so happens that
of all other qualities this unattainable one of elegance is that
which I most admire and would rather possess than any other in the
whole catalogue of literary merits. I would give a whole pound of
fancy (and fancy weighs light), for one ounce of polish (and polish
weighs heavy). To be tall, pale, thin, to have dark eyes and write
gracefully in prose, is my ambition; and when I am tall, and pale,
and thin, and have dark eyes, then, and not till then, will my prose
be graceful.”

In this outline of qualifications for the writing of graceful
prose Miss Mitford did herself scant justice, as time has proved;
for while her verse is forgotten, it is her prose alone which has
lived and by which she is remembered. Had personal bulk been the
deciding factor, then, assuredly she would have been ruled out, for
in a previous letter to Sir William—with whom, by the way, she was
now on such intimate terms that personal matters of this sort were
freely discussed—she had informed him of the “deplorable increase
of my beautiful person. Papa talks of taking down the doors, and
widening the chairs, and new hanging the five-barred gates, and
plagues me so, that any one but myself would get thin with fretting.
But I can’t fret; I only laugh, and that makes it worse. I beg you
will get a recipe for _diminishing people_, and I will follow it;
provided always it be not to get up early, or to ride on horseback,
or to dance all night, or to drink vinegar, or to cry, or to be
‘_lady-like_ and melancholy,’ or not to eat, or laugh, or sit, or
do what I like; because all these prescriptions have already been
delivered by divers old women of both sexes, and constantly rejected
by their contumacious patient.” And this she supplemented by likening
herself to “a dumpling of a person tumbling about like a cricket ball
on uneven ground, or a bowl rolling among nine-pins.”

Of her prose, we shall find that her earliest descriptive pieces were
contained in the letters sent to Sir William and, although they may
lack the grace of the later finished work written for publication,
they do, at least, prove their author’s possession of “the seeing
eye.”

“I am just returned from one of those field rambles which in the
first balmy days of spring are so enchanting. And yet the meadows,
in which I have been walking, are nothing less than picturesque. To
a painter they would offer no attraction—to a poet they would want
none. Read and judge for yourself in both capacities. It is a meadow,
or rather a long string of meadows, irregularly divided by a shallow,
winding stream, swollen by the late rains to unusual beauty, and
bounded on the one side by a ragged copse, of which the outline is
perpetually broken by sheep walks and more beaten paths, which here
and there admit a glimpse of low white cottages, and on the other by
tall hedgerows, abounding in timber, and strewn like a carpet with
white violets, primroses, and oxlips. Except that occasionally over
the simple gates you catch a view of the soft and woody valleys, the
village churches and the fine seats which distinguish this part of
Berkshire, excepting this short and unfrequent peep at the world, you
seem quite shut into these smiling meads.

“Oh, how beautiful they were to-day, with all their train of callow
goslings and frisking lambs, and laughing children chasing the
butterflies that floated like animated flowers in the air, or hunting
for birds’ nests among the golden-blossomed furze! How full of
fragrance and of melody! It is when walking in such scenes, listening
to the mingled notes of a thousand birds, and inhaling the mingled
perfume of a thousand flowers, that I feel the real joy of existence.
To live; to share with the birds and the insects the delights of
this beautiful world; to have the mere consciousness of _being_, is
happiness.”

That was her picture of Spring. She improved as the year rolled
on, and the next January gave play for her pen in a description of
hoar-frost.

“A world formed of something much whiter than ivory—as white, indeed,
as snow—but carved with a delicacy, a lightness, a precision to
which the massy, ungraceful, tottering snow could never pretend.
Rime was the architect; every tree, every shrub, every blade of
grass was clothed with its pure incrustations; but so thinly, so
delicately clothed, that every twig, every fibre, every ramification
remained perfect; alike indeed in colour, but displaying in form
to the fullest extent the endless, infinite variety of nature.
This diversity of form never appeared so striking as when all the
difference of colour was at an end—never so lovely as when breaking
with its soft yet well-defined outline on a sky rather grey than
blue. It was a scene which really defies description.”

It was during this period, notably in 1812, that Miss Mitford must,
metaphorically speaking, have begun “to feel her feet” in literary
matters. The adulation of her father’s friends in London, backed up
by the reviews, which were, generally, favourable to her work, were
sufficient proof that she had a public and that, in time, she might
hope to secure something like a regular and even handsome income from
her pen. In this she was encouraged by Sir William Elford, who did
all that was possible to impress upon her the necessity for studied
and polished work. To this end he informed her that he was carefully
saving her letters, playfully hinting that they might prove valuable
some day. This may account for the “high, cold, polish” which William
Harness deprecated. The hint was not lost on her and drew from her
an amusing and, as events have proved, prophetic reply: “I am highly
flattered, my dear Sir William, to find that you think my letters
worth preserving. I keep yours as choice as the monks were wont to
keep the relics of their saints; and about sixty years hence your
grandson or great grandson will discover in the family archives some
notice of such a collection, and will send to the grandson of my
dear cousin Mary (for as I intend to die an old maid, I shall make
her heiress to all my property, i.e. my MSS.) for these inestimable
remains of his venerable ancestor. And then, you know, my letters
will be rummaged out, and the whole correspondence be sorted and
transcribed, and sent to the press, adorned with portraits, and
_facsimiles_, and illustrated by lives of the authors, beginning with
the register of their birth, and ending with their epitaphs. Then it
will come forth into the world, and set all the men a-crowing and
talking over their old nonsense (with more show of reason, however,
than ordinary) about the superiority of the sex. What a fine job
the transcriber of my letters will have! I hope the booksellers of
those days will be liberal and allow the poor man a good price for
his trouble; no one but an unraveller of state cyphers can possibly
accomplish it,”—this in allusion to the occasional illegibility of
her handwriting which elsewhere she described as “hieroglyphics,
which the most expert expounders of manuscripts fail to decipher.”

Reference to her manuscripts recalls the trouble some of them
entailed on young Valpy, the printer—really a long-suffering and
estimable young man—and his staff. For a writer so fully aware
of her shortcomings in this matter, as was Miss Mitford, she was
extraordinarily impatient and exacting. Poor Valpy did his best
according to his lights—and these were not inconsiderable—and was
more than usually anxious in the setting-up of Miss Mitford’s work,
seeing that, as she remarked in one of her letters, he had “dandled
me as an infant, romped with me as a child, and danced with me as
a young woman,” but by reason of which, she unkindly concluded, he
“finds it quite impossible to treat me or my works with the respect
due to authorship.”

Judging by the hundreds of Miss Mitford’s letters which we have
handled, full of closely-written and often indecipherable characters,
we are of opinion that she was singularly fortunate in finding a
printer able and willing to ascertain their meaning. Her condolences
with her friend, Sir William, on his “press-correcting miseries”
are, though extravagant, very diverting and, in these days of
trade-unionism, throw an interesting light on the _personnel_ of
Valpy’s little establishment in Tooke’s Court. “I am well entitled
to condole with you, for I have often suffered the same calamity. It
is true that my little fop of a learned printer has in his employ
_three_ regularly-bred Oxonians, who, rather than starve as curates,
condescend to marshal commas and colons, and the little magical
signs which make the twenty-four letters, as compositors; and it
is likewise true, that the aforesaid little fop sayeth—nay, I am
not sure that he doth not swear—that he always gives my works to
his _best hands_. Now, as it is not mannerly for a lady to say ‘you
fib,’ I never contradict this assertion, but content myself with
affirming that it is morally impossible that the aforesaid hands can
have that connection with a head which is commonly found to subsist
between those useful members. Some great man or other—Erasmus, I
believe—says that ‘Composing is Heaven, preparing for publication
Purgatory, and correcting for the press’—what, must not be mentioned
to ‘ears polite.’ And truly, in my mind, the man was right. From
these disasters I have, however, gained something:—‘Sweet are the
uses of adversity’; and my misfortunes have supplied me with an
inexhaustible fund of small charity towards my unfortunate brethren,
the mal-printed authors. For, whereas I used to be a most desperate
and formidable critic on plural or singular, definite and indefinite,
commas and capitals, interrogations and apostrophes, I have now
learnt to lay all blunders to the score of the compositor, and even
carry my Christian benevolence so far that, if I meet with divers
pages of stark, staring nonsense (and really one does meet with such
sometimes), instead of crying, ‘What a fool this man must be—I’ll
read no more of his writing!’ I only say, ‘How unlucky this man has
been in a compositor! I can’t possibly read him until he changes his
printer.’” Nevertheless, and although there might be an occasional
author glad to shelter himself behind such an excuse, the fact
remains that the work which emanated from Valpy’s press is entitled
to the highest encomiums—despite his three Oxonians who, choosing the
better part, preferred to compose type rather than sermons.

There is no record that Miss Mitford published anything from the
year 1812—when _Watlington Hill_ appeared—until 1819, the interval
being occupied with various short trips to London, most of which
were, however, only undertaken at the urgent request of friends who
were keen on offering hospitality and entertainment. But for this
hospitality and the assurance that the visits would entail little
or no expense, it is evident that they could not have been indulged
in. The Chancery suit still dragged its weary length along and the
Doctor continued his lengthy jaunts to town, each trip being followed
by the infliction of fresh privation on his wife and daughter. The
large retinue of servants which had been installed when the family
took possession of Bertram House, had dwindled gradually, until at
last it was represented by one, or, at most, two. There was no lady’s
maid, and the footman had been replaced by a village lad who, when
not waiting at table, had to make himself useful in the garden or
stable—the jobs he was really only fitted for. The carriage-horses
had gone and were replaced by animals which could be commandeered for
farm-work; the result being that, as they were oftenest on the farm,
they were rarely available for use in the carriage, thus curtailing
the pleasure of the ladies, both of whom greatly enjoyed this form
of exercise. Finally, when the carriage required to be repaired and
painted, it was found that there was no money in hand, so it was sold
and never replaced.

Mrs. Mitford had the greatest difficulty in getting sufficient
housekeeping money wherewith to meet their quite modest expenses,
until at last the tradesmen refused to supply goods unless previous
accounts were settled and ready money paid for the goods then
ordered. They were really in the most desperate straits for money—the
daughter actually contemplated the opening of a shop—and in one
letter we are told that Mrs. Mitford begged her husband to send her
a one-pound note, as they were in need of bread! This represented
actual want, and yet, through it all, there was scarcely any
diminution in the kennel, the occupants of which were a source of the
greatest anxiety to Mrs. Mitford, who frequently did not know whither
to turn in order to obtain food for them.

In perusing the letters which were written to the various friends of
the family during this period, it is astonishing to find little or
no evidence of the distress under which the writer suffered. Miss
Mitford’s optimism was remarkable, whilst her belief in her father
was so strong that even when she found that their miserable condition
was due to his losses at the gaming-tables, she only commiserated him
and blamed others for cheating and wronging so admirable a man, an
attitude of mind which her mother shared!

It was towards the end of the year 1818 that she seriously thought of
turning her attention to prose, encouraged by Sir William Elford, who
had been struck by her descriptions of the neighbourhood in which she
lived. She conceived the idea of writing short sketches illustrative
of country scenes and manners, and when she had executed a few of
these to her own and mamma’s satisfaction, they were submitted
to Thomas Campbell as possible contributions to the _New Monthly
Magazine_, of which he was then the Editor. He would have nothing to
do with them, nor did he encourage the writer to try them elsewhere.
Nothing daunted, she offered them to one or two other Editors, but
still met with refusal until she tried the _Lady’s Magazine_, the
editor of which had the good sense not only to accept them but asked
for more. The result to the magazine was that its circulation went up
by leaps and bounds, and the name of Mary Russell Mitford, hitherto
known only to a limited circle, became almost a household word.




                            CHAPTER XIII

           LITERARY FRIENDS AND LAST DAYS AT BERTRAM HOUSE


“What have you been doing, my dear friend, this beautiful autumn?”
wrote Miss Mitford to Sir William Elford, towards the end of 1817.
“Farming? Shooting? Painting? I have been hearing and seeing a
good deal of pictures lately, for we have had down at Reading Mr.
Hofland, an artist whom I admire very much (am I right?), and his
wife, whom, as a woman and an authoress, I equally love and admire.
It was that notable fool, His Grace of Marlborough, who imported
these delightful people into our Bœotian town. He—the possessor of
Blenheim—is employing Mr. Hofland to take views at Whiteknights—where
there are no views; and Mrs. Hofland to write a description of
Whiteknights—where there is nothing to describe.[18] I have been a
great deal with them and have helped Mrs. Hofland to one page of her
imperial quarto volume; and to make amends for flattering the scenery
in verse, I comfort myself by abusing it in prose to whoever will
listen.” The Hoflands were an interesting couple, and Mrs. Hofland,
in particular, became one of Miss Mitford’s dearest friends and most
regular correspondents. She was already an author of some repute
and an extremely prolific writer. In the year 1812 she wrote and
published some five works, including _The Son of a Genius_, which had
a considerable vogue. Previous to her marriage with Hofland she had
been married to a Mr. Hoole, a merchant of Sheffield, who died two
years after their marriage, leaving her with an infant four months
old and a goodly provision in funds invested. Owing to the failure
of the firm which was handling her money, she was left on the verge
of poverty and had a bitter struggle to secure enough to live upon.
A volume of poems which she published in 1805 brought her a little
capital, with which she was enabled to open a boarding-school at
Harrogate; but in this venture she failed, and then took to writing
for a living. In 1808 she married Mr. Hofland, an event which crowned
her troubles for, although outwardly there was no sign of it, there
is every certainty that the overbearing selfishness of Hofland and
his lack of consideration for any but himself, made their home-life
almost unendurable. It will, therefore, be understood why so much
sympathy came to exist between Miss Mitford and her friend, seeing
that they were both suffering from an almost similar trouble,
although the matter was seldom mentioned between them.

Mrs. Hofland was an extremely pious woman, and she was also something
of a busybody, though possibly one whose interest in the affairs
of others was never unpleasant enough to cause trouble. Hearing of
the Elford correspondence, she twitted Miss Mitford with having
matrimonial designs in that quarter, which drew from the latter the
clever retort: “The man is too wise; he has an outrageous fancy for
my letters (no great proof of wisdom that, you’ll say), and marrying
a favourite correspondent would be something like killing the goose
with the golden eggs.”

Another of the notables who came prominently into Miss Mitford’s life
at this period was young Thomas Noon Talfourd, the son of a Reading
brewer. He had been educated at the Reading Grammar School under
Dr. Valpy, and “began to display his genius by publishing a volume
of most stupid poems before he was sixteen.” The description is, of
course, Miss Mitford’s. Nevertheless, he who wrote such detestable
poetry, “wrote and talked the most exquisite prose.” Upon leaving
school he was sent “to Mr. Chitty a-special-pleading; and now he has
left Mr. Chitty and is special pleading for himself—working under
the Bar, as the lawyers call it, for a year or two, when he will be
called; and I hope, for the credit of my judgment, shine forth like
the sun from behind a cloud. You should know that he has the very
great advantage of having nothing to depend on but his own talents
and industry; and those talents are, I assure you, of the very
highest order. I know nothing so eloquent as his conversation, so
powerful, so full; passing with equal ease from the plainest detail
to the loftiest and most sustained flights of imagination; heaping
with unrivalled fluency of words and of ideas, image upon image and
illustration upon illustration. Never was conversation so dazzling,
so glittering. Listening to Mr. Talfourd is like looking at the sun;
it makes one’s mind ache with excessive brilliancy.”

Miss Mitford’s prophecy as to Talfourd’s future was more than
fulfilled, and he came, at length, not only to illumine the legal
profession but to shed a considerable lustre on literature and the
drama.

A year or two after the writing of the eulogy just quoted, Talfourd
was in Reading in a professional capacity and caused a mild sensation
by his masterly and eloquent pleading. Miss Mitford went, with her
father, to hear him, and was so moved that she wrote the following
sonnet:—

  “ON HEARING MR. TALFOURD PLEAD IN THE ASSIZE-HALL
          AT READING, ON HIS FIRST CIRCUIT,

_March, 1821._

    Wherefore the stir? ’Tis but a common cause
    Of cottage plunder: yet in every eye
    Sits expectation;—murmuring whispers fly
    Along the crowded court;—and then a pause;—
    And then a clear, crisp voice invokes the laws,
    With such a full and rapid mastery
    Of sound and sense, such nice propriety,
    Such pure and perfect taste, that scarce the applause
    Can be to low triumphant words chained down
    Or more triumphant smiles. Yes, this is he,
    The young and eloquent spirit, whose renown
    Makes proud his birth place! a high destiny
    Is his; to climb to honour’s palmy crown
    By the strait path of truth and honesty.”

During the year 1817, Sir William Elford lost his wife. She was a
most estimable woman, and although her husband had, occasionally,
called on the Mitfords—turning aside, for that purpose, from the
main road which ran through Reading—in his journeys from the west to
London, she had never made their acquaintance and only knew of them
by repute and what she gathered from the voluminous correspondence
which passed between her husband and his literary friend. News
of this lady’s death drew from Miss Mitford a charming letter of
condolence which must have proved to Sir William how large a place
he held in her thoughts: “Your very touching letter, my dear friend,
brought me the first intelligence of the dreadful loss you have
experienced. I had not even any idea of danger, or surely, most
surely, I should never have intruded on you those letters whose
apparently heartless levity I am now shocked to remember. I write
now, partly in pursuance of your own excellent system, to avoid,
as much as may be, prolonging and renewing your sorrow, and partly
to assure you of our sincere and unaffected sympathy. We had not,
indeed, the happiness of a personal acquaintance with Lady Elford,
but the virtues of the departed are best known in the grief of the
survivors. To be so lamented is to have been most excellent. And the
recollected virtue, which is now agony, will soon be consolation. God
bless and comfort you all!

“I hope soon to hear a better account both of yourself and your
daughters; but do not think of writing out of form or etiquette.
Write when you will, and what you will, certain that few, very few,
can be more interested in your health or happiness than your poor
little friend.”

From this date the correspondence between the two underwent a
considerable change in tone and feeling. It became less stilted,
suggesting to the unbiassed reader the idea that the existence of
Lady Elford had, hitherto, forced the young person at Bertram House
to mind her P’s and Q’s, “which I detest having to do.” She may,
possibly, have adopted this freer style of writing in the hope of
diverting Sir William from thinking of his bereavement. In any case
the happier style of writing thus begun was never abandoned, and the
consequence was that, thereafter, they contained more of that life
and spirit which her friend Harness thought so characteristic of her
writings when she let her words drop without any premeditation, at
the prompting of her emotions.

“I have lately heard a curious anecdote of Mr. Coleridge,” she
writes, “which, at the risk—at the certainty—of spoiling it in
the telling, I cannot forbear sending you. He had for some time
relinquished his English mode of intoxication by brandy and water
for the Turkish fashion of intoxication by opium; but at length the
earnest remonstrance of his friends, aided by his own sense of right,
prevailed on him to attempt to conquer this destructive habit. He put
himself under watch and ward; went to lodge at an apothecary’s at
Highgate, whom he cautioned to lock up his opiates; gave his money
to a friend to keep; and desired his druggist not to trust him. For
some days all went on well. Our poet was ready to hang himself; could
not write, could not eat, could not—incredible as it may seem—could
not talk. The stimulus was wanting, and the apothecary contented.
Suddenly, however, he began to mend; he wrote, he read, he talked,
he harangued; Coleridge was himself again! And the apothecary began
to watch within doors and without. The next day the culprit was
detected; for the next day came a second supply of laudanum from
Murray’s, well wrapped up in proof sheets of the _Quarterly Review_.”

As a foil to this she tells, in the next letter, a story of Haydon
the painter—poor, embittered disappointed Haydon, who, later, killed
himself—which she had just heard from Mrs. Hofland. “He was engaged
to spend the day at Hampstead, one Sunday, with some of the cleverest
unbelievers of the age ... and being reproached with coming so late,
said with his usual simplicity, ‘I could not come sooner—I have been
to church.’ You may imagine the torrent of ridicule that was raised
upon him. When it had subsided, ‘I’ll tell ye what, gentlemen,’
said he, ‘I knew when I came amongst ye—and knowing this it is not,
perhaps, much to my credit that I came—that I was the only Christian
of the party; but I think you know that I will not bear insult, and
I now tell you all that I shall look upon it as a personal affront
if ever this subject be mentioned by you in my hearing; and now to
literature, or what you will!’”

During 1818 Miss Mitford paid another short visit to the Perrys at
Tavistock House in Tavistock Square, evidently arranged with the idea
of keeping their young friend well before the public. “The party
to-day consists of the Duke of Sussex, Lord Erskine, and some more.
I don’t want to dine with them and most sincerely hope we shall not,
for there is no one of literary note; but I am afraid we shall not
be able to get off.” They did not get off, and Miss Mitford “had the
honour of being handed into the dining-room by that royal porpoise,
the Duke of Sussex, who complained much of want of appetite, but
partook of nearly every dish on the table.” Concerning this lack of
appetite, she subsequently wrote to Sir William Elford: “Never surely
did man eat, drink, or swear so much, or talk such bad English. He
is a fine exemplification of the difference between speaking and
talking; for his speeches, except that they are mouthy and wordy and
commonplace, and entirely without ideas, are really not much amiss.”
While on this visit she must have heard from some candid friend of
Mr. Perry’s the following story of Hazlitt’s revenge and, later,
detailed it with great delight—for she dearly loved a joke, even at
the expense of her friends.

Hazlitt had been contributing a series of articles, on the English
Stage, to various newspapers, particularly to the _Morning
Chronicle_, of which, it will be remembered, Perry was the Editor.
Unfortunately Hazlitt’s “copy” came pouring in at the very height
of the advertisement season, much to Perry’s disgust, who used
“to execrate the d—d fellow’s d—d stuff.” But it was good “copy,”
although the Editor had no idea that its writer was a man of genius,
and having “hired him as you’d hire your footman, turned him off
with as little or less ceremony than you would use in discharging
the aforesaid worthy personage,” because he wrote a masterly but
damaging critique on Sir Thomas Lawrence, one of Perry’s friends.
“Last winter, when his _Characters of Shakespeare_ and his lectures
had brought him into fashion, Mr. Perry remembered him as an old
acquaintance and asked him to dinner, and a large party to meet him,
to hear him talk, and show him off as the lion of the day. The lion
came—smiled and bowed—handed Miss Bentley to the dining-room—asked
Miss Perry to take wine—said once ‘Yes’ and twice ‘No’—and never
uttered another word the whole evening. The most provoking part of
this scene was, that he was gracious and polite past all expression—a
perfect pattern of mute elegance—a silent Lord Chesterfield; and his
unlucky host had the misfortune to be very thoroughly enraged without
anything to complain of.”

Reading was a place of great excitement during the year 1818, the
resignation of the Member, Sir John Simeon, necessitating a general
election. This brought Dr. Mitford back from Town post-haste, for
he counted electioneering among his special delights, as we have
previously noted. The occasion furnishes us with one of the few
recorded instances of Mrs. Mitford shaking herself free from the
cares of the household in order to be with and carefully watch her
haphazard spouse. “Papa is going to stay in Reading the whole
election, and mamma is going to take care of him. Very good in her,
isn’t it? But papa does not seem to me at all grateful for this kind
resolution, and mutters—when she is quite out of hearing—something
about ‘petticoat government.’”

The candidate was Fyshe Palmer, who not only won the election but
continued in the representation of Reading for eighteen years. “He
is,” wrote Miss Mitford, “vastly like a mop-stick, or rather, a tall
hop-pole, or an extremely long fishing-rod, or anything that is all
length and no substance; three or four yards of brown thread would
be as like him as anything, if one could contrive to make it stand
upright. He and papa were riding through the town together, and one
of the voters cried out, ‘Fish and Flesh for ever!’ Wit is privileged
just now.”

Mr. Palmer’s wife was the Lady Madelina, a daughter of the Duke of
Gordon, and she and Miss Mitford became very good friends. Miss
Mitford’s anxiety for Palmer’s success was due not so much because
of his politics as for the promise he had given her of following in
the footsteps of his predecessor and keeping her well supplied with
“franks,” if elected. His promise he, doubtless, intended to keep,
but as Miss Mitford despairingly wrote: “he has the worst fault a
franker can have: he is un-come-at-able. One never knows where to
catch him. I don’t believe he is ever two days in a place—always
jiggeting about from one great house to another. And such strides as
he takes, too! Oh! for the good days of poor Sir John Simeon! He was
the franker for me! Stationary as Southampton Buildings, solid as
the doorpost, and legible as the letters on the brass-plate! I shall
never see his fellow.”

Some time after the election, when, indeed, it was a thing forgotten,
Dr. Valpy, the head-master of the Grammar School, decided to have a
Greek play performed by the boys, and to this function the Mitfords
were invited. The play was the _Hercules Furens_ of Euripides
and, of course, Miss Mitford made fun of the whole performance,
especially of the last scene when, to slow music, the curtain dropped
on “Theseus and Hercules in the midst of a hug which assuredly no
Greek poet, painter or sculptor ever dreamt of. That hug was purely
Readingtonian—conceived, born and bred in the Forbury.” However,
the play was well received and became an annual fixture, with Miss
Mitford as the official reporter or, as she put it, the “official
puffer for the Reading paper.”

The year was also notable for the arrival in Reading of Henry Hart
Milman as Vicar of St. Mary’s, and of the Duke of Wellington, who
came in order to look over Strathfieldsaye, Lord Rivers’ estate,
some distance beyond that of the Mitfords along the Basingstoke
Road, which the Nation proposed he should accept as a tribute of
its gratitude. “His Grace comes to look at it sometimes,” wrote
Miss Mitford, “and whirls back the same day. He is a terrible
horse-killer.”

Towards the close of the year 1819 the Chancery suit came to
an end. Mr. Elliott—the Doctor’s opponent and a Bond Street
upholsterer—visited Bertram House, saw Dr. Mitford, had a straight
talk with him and, as Miss Mitford recorded, “this long affair of
eight years was settled in eight minutes.”

With the settlement an accomplished fact, the Mitfords began to look
about for an abode of humbler pretentions. London was suggested and
promptly vetoed, as was also the idea of settling in Reading. Finally
they selected a cottage at Three Mile Cross, situated by the side of
the Basingstoke Road and distant about a mile from their old home. It
was a wrench to the ladies to leave Bertram House, despite the fact
that it had been the scene of so much distress and want. “I shall
certainly break my heart when I leave these old walls and trees,”
wrote Miss Mitford, but the blow was softened by the thought that
she would still be able to wander about the fields and lanes which
were so familiar and so dear to her, and, as was her wont on such
occasions, gave vent to her feelings in a little sonnet:—

    “Adieu, beloved and lovely home! Adieu,
     Thou pleasant mansion, and ye waters bright,
     Ye lawns, ye aged elms, ye shrubberies light
     (My own cotemporary trees, that grew
     Even with my growth); ye flowers of orient hue,
     A long farewell to all! Ere fair to sight
     In summer-shine ye bloom with beauty dight,
     Your halls we leave for scenes untried and new.
     Oh, shades endeared by memory’s magic power,
     With strange reluctance from your paths I roam!
     But home lives not in lawn, or tree, or flower,
     Nor dwells tenacious in one only dome.
     Where smiling friends adorn the social hour,
     Where they, the dearest are, there will be home.”

Bertram House is a thing of the past, for there is little left of
the building which the Mitfords knew. Another mansion occupies the
site, and only the trees and shrubberies remain as evidence of Dr.
Mitford’s folly; while the name, which marked the Doctor’s proud
descent, has been erased in favour of the older title, Grazeley
Court.


FOOTNOTES:

[18] Unfortunately they never received payment for this work, which
was left on their hands, and resulted in a heavy loss.




                             CHAPTER XIV

                   THE COTTAGE AT THREE MILE CROSS


It was during March of the year 1820 that the removal to the cottage
at Three Mile Cross took place. Although it was attended with
the inevitable bustle and discomposure, it could not have been,
according to all accounts, a job of very great difficulty, for
most of the furniture and pictures had been sold—sold at odd times
to meet pressing needs—and there was, therefore, little to convey
but the three members of the family, such books as were left to
them, together with Mossy—the dear old nurse who had shared their
misfortunes right through from the Alresford days—and Lucy the maid.

[Illustration: “Our Village” in 1913.

The Village of Three Mile Cross—A general view looking towards
Reading.]

We can almost picture the scene with the heavy farm-wagon,
broad-wheeled and lumbering, crunching its ponderous way along the
carriage-drive and out through the gates, with some of the dogs
prancing and bounding, now before and now behind, barking at the
unusual sight. Having cleared the gates there would be a turn to the
left, along a short stretch of narrow lane emerging into the road
from the village, where a sharp turn again to the left would take
them on beneath over-arching elms—leafless and gaunt—over a tiny
bridge spanning a tributary of the Loddon, past an occasional cottage
where twitching parlour-blinds would betray the stealthy interest of
the inmates in the passing of the folk from the big house; on until
the road branched, where the right-hand fork would be taken, and so,
by a gentle curve, the wagon would emerge by the side of the _George
and Dragon_ into the Basingstoke Road. And now, with a crack of the
whip—for the last few steps must be performed in good style—the wagon
would sweep once more to the left, where the finger-post, by the pond
opposite, pointed to Reading, and in a moment or two draw up in the
fore-court of the _Swan_, there to unload into the cottage next door.

Mossy and Lucy would be waiting to receive the goods, and the cobbler
opposite would watch the proceedings with more than usual interest,
for to him, that night, the village gossips would surely repair for
news, he being so favourably placed for the garnering of it.

While the wagon is being unloaded we will transfer ourselves again to
Bertram House.

The dogs are scampering and scurrying in the undergrowth of the now
neglected shrubbery, chasing leaves which the March winds scatter
crisply. The house is gaunt and cheerless as houses always are on
such occasions. Fitful gleams of watery sunshine streak through the
trees across to the steps down which two sad women take their slow
way. The dogs bound towards them and are greeted and stroked, the
while they curve their sleek and graceful bodies in an ecstasy of
delight.

Along the carriage-drive they walk, with its surface all overgrown
with weeds and marked with the heavy wheels of the wagon, the
tracks of which, deeply cut in the yielding road, they now follow.
Once through the gates they turn for a backward glance of “My own
cotemporary trees” and then a “long farewell to all.” At the end
of the lane they cast one sad look back—there is pain in the eyes
of both—then turning they follow the wheel-marks until the cottage
is reached, the door flies open—for Mossy has been watching for
them—and all that the cobbler sees of their arrival will force him to
draw on his imagination if his inquisitive neighbours are not to be
disappointed.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Your delightful letter, my dear Sir William,” wrote Miss Mitford
shortly afterwards, “arrived at the very moment when kindness was
most needed and most welcome—just as we were leaving our dear old
home to come to this new one. Without being in general very violently
addicted to sentimentality, I was, as you may imagine, a little
grieved to leave the spot where I had passed so many happy years. The
trees, and fields, and sunny hedgerows, however little distinguished
by picturesque beauty, were to me as old friends. Women have more
of this natural feeling than the stronger sex; they are creatures
of home and habit, and ill brook transplanting. We, however, are
not quite transplanted yet—rather, as the gardeners say, ‘laid by
the heels.’ We have only moved to a little village street, situate
on the turnpike road, between Basingstoke and the illustrious and
quarrelsome borough [Reading]. Our residence is a cottage—no, not a
cottage—it does not deserve the name—a messuage or tenement, such as
a little farmer who had made twelve or fourteen hundred pounds might
retire to when he left off business to live on his means. It consists
of a series of closets, the largest of which may be about eight feet
square, which they call parlours and kitchens and pantries; some
of them minus a corner, which has been unnaturally filched for a
chimney; others deficient in half a side, which has been truncated
by the shelving roof. Behind is a garden about the size of a good
drawing-room, with an arbour which is a complete sentry-box of
privet. On one side a public-house, on the other a village shop, and
right opposite a cobbler’s stall.

“Notwithstanding all this, ‘the cabin,’ as Bobadil says, ‘is
convenient.’ It is within reach of my dear old walks; the banks
where I find my violets; the meadows full of cowslips; and the woods
where the wood-sorrel blows. We are all beginning to get settled and
comfortable, and resuming our usual habits. Papa has already had the
satisfaction of setting the neighbourhood to rights by committing a
disorderly person, who was the pest of the Cross, to Bridewell. Mamma
has furbished up an old dairy, and made it into a not incommodious
store room. I have lost my only key, and stuffed the garden with
flowers. It is an excellent lesson of condensation—one which we all
wanted. Great as our merits might be in some points, we none of us
excelled in compression. Mamma’s tidiness was almost as diffuse as
her daughter’s litter. I expect we shall be much benefited by this
squeeze; though at present it sits upon us as uneasily as tight
stays, and is just as awkward looking. Indeed, my great objection
to a small room always was its extreme unbecomingness to one of my
enormity. I really seem to fill it—like a blackbird in a goldfinch’s
cage. The parlour looks all me.”

Any doubts which the cobbler opposite may have entertained as to the
status of the new arrivals—if, indeed, particulars had not already
filtered through from Grazeley—must have been dispersed by the
Doctor’s action in at once removing the terror of the Cross. More
than this, he had actually suspended the village constable—who was
also the blacksmith—for appearing before him with a blood-stained
head—an unwarrantable offence against the person of the Chairman of
the Reading bench. Three Mile Cross was to be purged; henceforth, it
must behave itself, for a real live magistrate had come to live in
the midst and, until the villagers found that the Doctor’s bark was
worse than his bite they might shake with apprehension—and “they”
included the cobbler who stuck closer to his last and was not to be
tempted to anything more than a knowing wink when the magistrate and
his family came under discussion.

“Borrow a little of the only gift in which I can vie with you—the
elastic spirit of Hope”—wrote Miss Mitford to Mrs. Hofland at this
time, and in that sentence we catch a glimpse of this wonderful woman
who point blank refused to acknowledge a shadow so long as but one
streak of light were vouchsafed to her.

“This place is a mere _pied à terre_,” she wrote, “till we can suit
ourselves better,” and her one dread was that her father would elect
to live in Reading, to which town she had now taken a sudden and
violent dislike. “Not that I have any quarrel with the town, which,
as Gray said of Cambridge, ‘would be well enough if it were not for
the people’; but those people—their gossiping—their mistiness! Oh!
you can imagine nothing so bad. They are as rusty as old iron, and
as jagged as flints.” By which we may quite properly infer that the
affairs and dwindled fortunes of the Mitfords were being openly
discussed.

As a matter of fact, they must at this time have been almost
penniless, with nothing between them and actual want but what they
could obtain by the exertions of the daughter with her pen.

Whatever the original intention of the Doctor may have been as to
the tenure of the cottage, it has to be recorded that it lasted
for thirty years, witnessing the best and most successful of
Miss Mitford’s literary efforts and her short-lived triumph as a
dramatist; marking the gradual decay and death of Mrs. Mitford, and
the increasing selfishness of the Doctor, the results of which, when
he died, were his daughter’s only inheritance.

But, lest we should be accused of painting too gloomy a picture, let
us also joyfully record that it was in this humble cottage and among
the flowers of its garden that there gathered, from time to time,
those truest friends who came from far and near to pay homage to the
brave little woman who found comfort in the simple things of life,
and was happy only when she was permitted to share her happiness with
others.

Despite the pigs which came through the hedge from the _Swan_ next
door and “made sad havoc among my pinks and sweet-peas”; despite,
also, the pump which went dry “from force of habit,” soon after
they were installed, Miss Mitford was not long before she had
“taken root,” as she called it, and begun again her work and her
correspondence.

Haydon, the artist, sent her a picture—his study for the head of St.
Peter—a delicate compliment and, seeing that their walls were so
bare, a seasonable gift. “I am almost ashamed to take a thing of so
much consequence” wrote the pleased recipient; “but you are a very
proud man and are determined to pay me in this magnificent manner for
pleasing myself with the fancy of being in a slight degree useful to
you. Well, I am quite content to be the obliged person.”

Anxious to keep down all needless expenditure we now read of the
“discontinuance of my beloved _Morning Chronicle_” and of inability
to accept invitations away because of “mamma’s old complaint in
her head” and “papa’s sore throat, which he manages in the worst
possible manner, alternately overdoing it and letting it quite alone;
blistering it by gargling brandy one day, and going out in the rain
and wind all the next; so that, to talk of going out, even to you,
seems out of the question. They really can’t do without me.” On
the other hand, and remembering the mistiness, the rustiness and
flinty nature of the Reading folk, there was the pathetic plea to
Sir William Elford that he should turn aside on his journeys to or
from town, to pay the cottage and its inhabitants a visit. “We shall
have both house-room and heart-room for you, and I depend on seeing
you. Do pray come—you must come and help laugh at our strange shifts
and the curious pieces of finery which our landlord has left for the
adornment of his mansion. Did you ever see a corner cupboard? Pray
come and see us or you will break my heart—and let me know when you
are coming.”

Three months later she wrote:—“I have grown exceedingly fond
of this little place. I love it of all things—have taken root
completely—could be content to live and die here.... My method of
doing nothing seldom varies. _Imprimis_, I take long walks and get
wet through. _Item_, I nurse my flowers—sometimes pull up a few,
taking them for weeds, and _vice versâ_ leave the weeds, taking them
for flowers. _Item_, I do a short job of needlework. _Item_, I write
long letters. _Item_, I read all sorts of books, long and short, new
and old. Have you a mind for a list of the most recent? Buckhardt’s
_Travels in Nubia_, Bowdich’s _Mission to Ashantee_, Dubois’ _Account
of India_, Morier’s _Second Journey in Persia_. All these are quartos
of various degrees of heaviness. There is another of the same
class, La Touche’s[19] _Life of Sir Philip Sidney_ (you set me to
reading that by your anecdote of Queen Elizabeth’s hair). Southey’s
_Life of Wesley_—very good. Hogg’s _Winter Evening Tales_—very good
indeed (I have a great affection for the Ettrick Shepherd, have not
you?). _Diary of an Invalid_—the best account of Italy which I have
met with since Forsythe—much in his manner—I think you would like
it. Odeleben’s _Campaign in Saxony_—interesting, inasmuch as it
concerns Napoleon, otherwise so-so. _The Sketch Book_, by Geoffrey
Crayon—quite a curiosity—an American book which is worth reading. Mr.
Milman’s _Fall of Jerusalem_—a fine poem, though not exactly so fine
as the _Quarterly_ makes out. I thought it much finer when I first
read it than I do now, for it set me to reading _Josephus_, which
I had never had the grace to open before; and the historian is, in
the striking passages, much grander than the poet, particularly in
the account of the portents and prophecies before the Fall. These
books, together with a few Italian things—especially the _Lettere di
Ortes_—will pretty well account for my time since I wrote last, and
convince you of the perfect solitude, which gives me time to indulge
so much in the delightful idleness of reading.”

The anecdote of Queen Elizabeth’s hair to which Miss Mitford alludes
in the preceding letter, was one of which Sir William wrote in
the previous April. It was to the effect that two ladies of his
acquaintance had just paid a visit to Lord Pembroke’s family at
Wilton, and whilst there one of them desired to see the _Countess of
Pembroke’s Arcadie_ when, in perusing it, she discovered, between two
of the leaves, a long lock of yellow hair, folded in an envelope in
which was written, in Sir Philip Sidney’s handwriting, a declaration
that the lock was “The faire Queen Elizabeth’s hair,” given him by
her Majesty. In recounting this anecdote to Mrs. Hofland, Miss
Mitford remarked that “the miraculous part of the story is, that
at Wilton, amongst her own descendants, the _Arcadia_ should be so
completely a dead letter. I suppose it was snugly ensconced between
some of Sir Philip’s Sapphics or Dactylics, which are, to be sure,
most unreadable things.”

But, apart from this “idleness of reading,” Miss Mitford was busily
gathering material for her articles in the _Lady’s Magazine_, roaming
the countryside for colour. “I have already been cowslipping” she
wrote. “Are you fond of field flowers? They are my passion—even more,
I think, than greyhounds or books. This country is eminently flowery.
Besides all the variously-tinted primroses and violets in singular
profusion, we have all sorts of orchises and arums; the delicate wood
anemone; the still more delicate wood-sorrel, with its lovely purple
veins meandering over the white drooping flower; the field-tulip,
with its rich chequer-work of lilac and crimson, and the sun shining
through the leaves as through old painted glass; the ghostly field
star of Bethlehem—that rare and ghost-like flower; wild lilies of the
valley; and the other day I found a field completely surrounded by
wild periwinkles. They ran along the hedge for nearly a quarter of a
mile; to say nothing of the sculptural beauty of the white water-lily
and the golden clusters of the golden ranunculus. Yes, this is really
a country of flowers, and so beautiful just now that there is no
making up one’s mind to leave it.”


FOOTNOTES:

[19] Probably Miss Mitford meant T. Zouch’s _Memoirs of Sir Philip
Sidney_, published in 1809.




                             CHAPTER XV

                            A BUSY WOMAN


This first year in the cottage at Three Mile Cross was spent in a
variety of ways by Miss Mitford. In addition to her reading, she
was devoting herself to getting the garden into trim and by taking
extended walks in the neighbourhood, particularly in exploring that
beautiful “Woodcock Lane”—happily still preserved and, possibly,
more beautiful than in Miss Mitford’s day—so called, “not after the
migratory bird so dear to sportsman and to epicure, but from the name
of a family, who, three centuries ago, owned the old manor-house, a
part of which still adjoins it.” A delightful picture of this lane,
full of the happiest and tenderest memories, is to be found in Miss
Mitford’s _Recollections of a Literary Life_. It is too long for
quotation here, but for its truth to Nature we can testify, for we
have ourselves wandered down its shady length, book in hand, marking
and noting the passages as this and that point of view was described,
and looking away over the fields as she must have looked—somewhat
wistfully, we may believe—to where the smoke from the chimneys at
Grazeley Court curled upwards from the trees which so effectually
hide the building itself from view. While on these walks, accompanied
by Fanchon, the greyhound and Flush, the spaniel, she would take her
unspillable ink-bottle and writing materials and, resting awhile
beneath the great trees, write of Nature as she saw it, spread there
before her. Here, undoubtedly, she wrote many of those pictures of
rural life and scenery which, at present, form the most lasting
memorial of her life and work.

[Illustration: Woodcock Lane, Three Mile Cross.]

The monotony—if there could be monotony in such labour—was broken
by a short, three-day’s holiday at Richmond and London which gave
her a fund of incident wherewith to amuse her friend Sir William in
lengthy letters. Of the sights she missed, two were the pictures of
Queen Caroline and Mrs. Opie, “that excellent and ridiculous person,
who is now placed in Bond Street (where she can’t even hear herself
talk) with a blue hat and feathers on her head, a low gown without a
tucker, and ringlets hanging down each shoulder. The first I don’t
care if I never see at all; for be it known to you, my dear friend,
that I am no Queen’s woman, whatever my party may be. I have no
toleration for an indecorous woman, and am exceedingly scandalized at
the quantity of nonsense which has been talked in her defence. It is
no small part of her guilt, or her folly, that her arrival has turned
conversation into a channel of scandal and detraction on either side,
which, if it continue, threatens to injure the taste, the purity,
the moral character of the nation. Don’t you agree with me?

“I heard very little literary news. Everybody is talking of ‘Marcian
Colonna,’ Barry Cornwall’s new poem. Now ‘Barry Cornwall’ is an
_alias_. The poet’s real name is Procter, a young attorney, who
feared it might hurt his practice if he were known to follow this
‘idle trade.’ It has, however, become very generally known, and poor
Mr. Procter is terribly embarrassed with his false name. He neither
knows how to keep it on or throw it up. By whatever appellation he
chooses to be called, he is a great poet. Poor John Keats is dying of
the _Quarterly Review_. This is a sad, silly thing; but it is true. A
young, delicate, imaginative boy—that withering article fell upon him
like an east wind. Mr. Gifford’s behaviour is very bad. He sent word
that if he wrote again his poem should be properly reviewed, which
was admitting the falsity of his first critique, and yet says that he
has been Keats’ best friend, because somebody sent him twenty-five
pounds to console him for the injustice of the _Quarterly_.”

Interspersed with these letters to Sir William were many kindly,
womanly epistles to Mrs. Hofland and particularly to the painter,
Haydon, who, poor man, was always having a quarrel with somebody;
sometimes with the Academy and sometimes with his patrons. True to
her sex, Miss Mitford was ever on the side of what she considered
were the weak and down-trodden, and in this class she placed her
friend Haydon. “Never apologize to me for talking of yourself,” she
wrote to him; “it is a compliment of the highest kind. It tells me
that you confide in my sympathy.”

In November public festivities to celebrate Queen Caroline’s
acquittal were held, and Three Mile Cross, not to be outdone in
demonstrative sympathy, decided to illuminate. “Think of that! an
illumination at Three Mile Cross! We were forced to illuminate.
Forced to put up two dozen of candles upon pain of pelting and
rioting and all manner of bad things. So we did. We were very shabby
though, compared with our neighbours. One, a retired publican, just
below, had a fine transparency, composed of a pocket handkerchief
with the Queen’s head upon it—a very fine head in a hat and feathers
cocked very knowingly on one side. I did not go to Reading; the
_squibbery_ there was too much to encounter; and they had only one
good hit throughout the whole of that illustrious town. A poor man
had a whole-length transparency of the Duke of Wellington saved from
the Peace illumination, and, not knowing what to get now, he, as a
matter of economy, hung up the noble Duke again topsy-turvy, heel
upwards—a mixture of drollery and savingness which took my fancy
much. And, certainly, bad as she is, the Queen has contrived to trip
the heels of the Ministers.”

As the year progressed, Miss Mitford made another attempt at dramatic
work, devoting her energies to a tragedy on the subject of _Fiesco_,
the Genoese nobleman who conspired against Doria. The idea of a play
written on this theme had originated during her recent short visit to
London, where she had witnessed an “indifferent tragedy, of which the
indifferent success brought the author three or four hundred pounds.”
Schiller had, it will be remembered, already used the subject, but
this did not deter our author from trying her ‘prentice hand on it.
When it was finished—she had worked very assiduously—it was sent off
to her friend Talfourd for his advice and criticism, and in the hope
that should he approve it, he would be able to negotiate for its
production at one of the theatres. To Haydon she wrote confiding her
fears and hopes. “It is terribly feeble and womanish, of course—wants
breadth—wants passion—and has nothing to redeem its faults but a
little poetry and some merit, they say, in the dialogue. My anxiety
is not of vanity. It is not fame or praise that I want, but the power
of assisting my dearest and kindest father.” Talfourd, most anxious
to be of service to his little friend—most anxious because he knew
much of the sad tragedy of the last few years—managed to secure
the interest of Macready, the actor, who promised to consider the
manuscript.

Macready’s letter to Talfourd, transcribed for the edification of
Sir William Elford, is important inasmuch as it affords some idea of
that actor’s readiness, at all times, to help any struggling author
who might appeal to him. He never forgot his own early struggles
and his fellow-feeling towards others in desperate plight made him
wondrous kind. “Mr. Macready wrote the other day to my friend and
his friend [Talfourd] who gave him my play, and this mutual friend
copied his letter for my edification. It was, in the first place,
the prettiest letter I ever read in my life—thoroughly careless,
simple, unpresuming—showing great diffidence of his own judgment,
the readiest good-nature, the kindest and most candid desire to
be pleased—quite the letter of a scholar and a gentleman, and not
the least like that of an actor. As far as regarded my tragedy,
it contained much good criticism. Mr. Macready thinks—and he is
right—that there is too little of striking incident, and too little
fluctuation. Indeed, I have made my _Fiesco_ as virtuous and as
fortunate as _Sir Charles Grandison_, and he goes about _prôné_ by
everybody and setting everybody to rights much in the same style
with that worthy gentleman, only that he has one wife instead of two
mistresses. Nevertheless, the dialogue, which is my strong part, has
somehow ‘put salt upon Mr. Macready’s tail,’ so that he is in a very
unhappy state of doubt about it, and cannot make up his mind one way
or the other. The only thing upon which he was decided was that the
handwriting was illegible, and that it must be copied for presentment
to the managers. This has been done accordingly, and Mr. Macready and
they will now do exactly what they like.”

The consideration of the manuscript was prolonged, and it was not
until the midsummer of the following year (1821), that it was finally
returned on its author’s hands as unsuitable. Meanwhile, her friends
in London had been busy in her interest and she was now working
“as hard as a lawyer’s clerk” in writing for the magazines—poetry,
criticism, and dramatic sketches. Confessing to a “natural loathing
of pen and ink which that sort of drudgery cannot fail to inspire,”
she mentions that she now has no leisure, “scarcely a moment to
spare, even for the violets and primroses.” The necessity for polish
was impressed upon her. “You would laugh if you saw me puzzling over
my prose. You have no notion how much difficulty I find in writing
anything at all readable. One cause of this is, my having been so
egregious a letter-writer. I have accustomed myself to a certain
careless sauciness, a fluent incorrectness, which passed very well
with indulgent friends, such as yourself, my dear Sir William, but
will not do at all for that tremendous correspondent, the Public.
So I ponder over every phrase, disjoint every sentence, and finally
produce such lumps of awkwardness, that I really expect, instead of
paying me for them, Mr. Colburn and Mr. Baldwin will send me back
the trash. But I will improve.... I am now occupied in dramatic
sketches for _Baldwin’s Magazine_—slight stories of about one act,
developed in fanciful dialogue of loose blank verse. If Mr. Baldwin
will accept a series of such articles they will be not merely
extremely advantageous to me in a pecuniary point of view (for the
pay is well up—they give fifteen guineas a sheet), but excellent
exercises for my tragedies. At the same time I confess to you that
nothing seems to me so tiresome and unsatisfactory as writing poetry.
Ah! how much better I like working flounces! There, when one had done
a pattern, one was sure that one had got on, and had the comfort of
admiring one’s work and exulting in one’s industry all the time that
one was, in fact, indulging in the most comfortable indolence. Well!
courage, Missy Mitford! (as _Blackwood’s Magazine_ has the impudence
to call me!) _Courage, mon amie!_”

Nothing daunted by the failure of _Fiesco_, and notwithstanding the
pressure of work for the magazines, Miss Mitford was devoting all the
time she could spare to a fresh tragedy, the subject this time being
the Venetian Doge Foscari. The project was submitted to Talfourd’s
judgment and approved, and by October the finished play was in his
hands for presentation to the managers. As ill luck would have it,
Byron had been working quietly at a play on the identical subject,
and his was announced on the very day that Miss Mitford’s _Foscari_
was to be handed to a manager for his perusal. “I am so distressed
at the idea of a competition,” she wrote; “not merely with his
lordship’s talents, but with his great name; and the strange awe in
which he holds people; and the terrible scoffs and sneers in which he
indulges himself; that I have written to Mr. Talfourd requesting him
to consult another friend on the propriety of entirely suppressing my
play—and I heartily wish he may. If it be sent back to me unoffered,
I shall immediately begin another play on some German story.”

Talfourd decided that the play should take its chance, and in
December had the satisfaction of hearing that Macready, who had read
it, had passed it on to the manager with a strong recommendation that
it be accepted. In the construction of the play and the development
of the characters, Miss Mitford had been guided by the assumption
that, in the event of its being accepted the actors Kemble, Young
and Macready would take the leading parts. Unfortunately, however, a
little dissension between these actors just at the critical moment,
led to the secession of Charles Kemble and to hesitancy in the case
of Young, with the result that Macready was the only one left to
fulfil the author’s original purpose. The tragedy represented much
hard work, for Macready was, very properly, an extremely critical man
and before he would agree to submit the play, had asked its author
to revise one of the acts at least three times—which she did, without
demur.

Late in December of that same year she received an intimation that
the play was rejected. It was a heavy blow, for, although she had
half expected it from the outset, the prolonged negotiations had
led her to hope that her fears would not be realized; and, she was
counting much on the pecuniary advantages of its production. Talfourd
softened the blow in his own kindly way. He wrote:—“I have with great
difficulty screwed myself up to the point of informing you that all
our hopes are, for the present, cruelly blighted. _Foscari_ has been
returned by Mr. Harris to Mr. Macready, with a note, of which the
following is an exact copy:—

‘MY DEAR SIR,—I return you the tragedy of _Foscari_, and it is with
regret that I am obliged to express an opinion that it would not
succeed in representation. The style is admirably pure and chaste,
and some of the scenes would be highly effective; yet as a whole it
would be found wanting in that scale by which the public weigh our
performances of the first class. Should the ingenious author at any
time bestow the labour of revision and alteration on the tragedy,
I should be most happy to have a reperusal of it—Ever yours, H.
Harris.’ I am quite sickened at this result of all your labours and
anxieties. The only consolation I can offer is, that Mr. Macready
assures me he never knew a refusal which came so near an acceptance;
for Harris has spoken to him in even higher terms of eulogy than he
has written; and I have seen another letter of Harris’s, about other
plays, in which he puts _Foscari_ far above all others that he has
rejected, and in point of style and writing, above one of Shiel’s
[Richard Lalor Sheil] that is to be acted. You see, he holds open
a prospect of its being reconsidered, if altered. Whether you will
adopt this suggestion is for your own decision; but certainly this
play has quite prepared the way for most respectful attention to any
piece you may send in hereafter.”

Before proceeding to alter her play, Miss Mitford took the precaution
to secure and read Byron’s _Two Foscari_, and was delighted to find
that he had dealt with the subject at a point subsequent to her own,
so that the plays were not likely to clash. Furthermore, she found
little in Byron’s work to commend, and thought it could scarcely
meet with any success from representation. “Altogether, it seems to
me that Lord Byron must be by this time pretty well convinced that
the drama is not his forte. He has no spirit of dialogue—no beauty
in his groupings—none of that fine mixture of the probable with the
unexpected which constitutes stage effect in the best sense of the
word. And a long series of laboured speeches and set antitheses will
very ill compensate for the want of that excellence which we find in
Sophocles and in Shakespeare, and which some will call Nature, and
I shall call Art.” And as proof that her judgment was not warped by
petty jealousy—jealousy of Byron, on her part, would indeed have been
stupid—it is interesting to recall the criticism which Macready made
in his “Diaries” some years after, when seriously reading Byron’s
_Foscari_ with a view to its adoption. Under date April 24, 1834, he
wrote:—“Looked into the _Foscari_ of Byron. I am of opinion that it
is not dramatic—the slow, almost imperceptible progress of the
action... will prevent, I think, its success in representation.”
In June, 1835, he wrote:—“Read over Lord Byron’s _Foscari_, which
does not seem to me to contain the power, or rather the variety and
intensity of passion which many of his other plays do.”

Having satisfied herself that she had nothing to fear from Byron’s
work she once more applied herself to her own in the endeavour to
supply it with those elements in which she and her kindly critics
knew it to be deficient—but it was a labour. “I am so thoroughly
out of heart about the _Foscari_ that I cannot bear even to think
or speak on the subject. Nevertheless, the drama is my talent—my
only talent—and I mean to go on and improve. I _will_ improve—that
is my fixed determination. To be of some little use to those who
are dearest to me was the only motive of my attempt, and I shall
persevere.”




                             CHAPTER XVI

                  “GOD GRANT ME TO DESERVE SUCCESS”


Still working at high pressure with her magazine articles, Miss
Mitford was able to give the promised attention to _Foscari_, and in
June, 1822, dispatched it with its new fifth act—it was the seventh
revision of this particular act—to London and, this time, to Charles
Kemble for she now held the opinion that the play was not exactly
suited to Macready’s style. In the meantime, it was her intention
to write something more ambitious “a higher tragedy, with some
fine and splendid character, the real hero for Macready, and some
gallant-spirited youth, who may seem the hero, for Mr. Kemble.”

Having sent off the manuscript she tried hard to forget it and to
possess her soul in patience, but now and again in her letters—very
few, now that she was so busy—there are indications of her anxiety.
“If my _Foscari_ were to succeed I should be tempted to have a
pony-chaise myself”—this because a friend had called and given her
the pleasure of a short ride—“I do so love a drive in a pony-chaise!
You know, everything that I want or wish I always say ‘if _Foscari_
succeeds.’ I said so the other day about a new straw bonnet, and then
about a white geranium, and then about a pink sash, and then about a
straw work-basket, and then about a pocket-book, all in the course of
one street.”

In August and September she paid flying visits to town to see Kemble
about the play and found him so charming that she confessed—hoping no
one would tell Mrs. Kemble!—she was the least in the world in love
with him and that he ranked second to Napoleon in her imagination. He
made her a promise that, subject to the approval of Macready—then on
an Italian tour—he would produce the play the first of the season.
“Nothing I believe, is certain in a theatre till the curtain is
fairly drawn up and let down again; but, as far as I can see, I
have, from the warm zeal and admirable character of the new manager
and his very clever and kind-hearted lady, every reason to expect
a successful _début_. Wish for me and _Foscari_. You have all my
kindest and gratefulest thoughts, though a tremendous pressure of
occupation will not allow me to express them so often as I used to
do.”

Unfortunately Kemble was unable to fulfil his promise, Macready
having arranged first for the production of another play, “but,” said
she, “Charles Kemble, my dear Charles Kemble says—almost swears—it
shall be acted this season, and with new dresses and new scenery.
There has been a terrible commotion in consequence of C. Kemble’s
reluctance to delay. If it were not for my absolute faith in _him_ I
should despair.”

Kemble kept his promise, as well as he was able, by producing the
play during the year 1826, but only at the expense of a quarrel
with Macready—a quarrel fanned by Mrs. Kemble who, although Miss
Mitford had written of her as “the clever, kind-hearted lady” was
subsequently described in a letter to Talfourd, as making statements
“so artificial, so made up, so untrue, _so circular_—if she had said
a great deal less without the fine words and the ‘Dear Madams’ I
should have believed her much more.”

At this juncture, and before there was any idea of the possibility
of friction between himself and Kemble, Macready had suggested to
Miss Mitford that she should write him a historical play and went so
far as to outline the plot. To have such a suggestion from the great
tragedian was in itself sufficient to send her into an ecstasy—here
was proof positive of his belief in her—and so, submitting the
project for Talfourd’s approval, and being urged by him to proceed,
she set to work at fever heat, towards the close of 1822, on the play
of _Julian_. It was strenuous work and all the while the author was
torn with the fear that she would not be able to produce anything
worthy of Macready. Dr. Valpy was being continually referred to for
his judgment on the various characters—whether they were too weak or
too strong—too prudish or too improper—and Talfourd was besought to
“speak the truth, fearlessly, and say whether I shall give it up.” At
last it was finished and was sent to Macready and Talfourd for their
judgment and criticism.

“My execution falls very short of your design,” she wrote; “but
indeed it is not for want of pains—I think one reason why it is so
ill done, is the strong anxiety I had to do well—to justify your
and Mr. Macready’s kind encouragement—the stimulus was too great.”
Both Macready and Talfourd made corrections and suggestions, which
the author duly acted upon and thereby won unstinted praise from
her two friendly critics. “I hope you and he are as right in your
praise, as in your censure—but I confess that I am not yet recovered
from my astonishment at the extent of your approbation—I am afraid
you overrate it—sadly afraid. And yet it is very delightful to be
so overrated. It would be a shame if I did not improve with the
unspeakable advantage of your advice and your kindness and all the
pains you have taken with me.”

On _Julian_, which she characterized as worth a thousand of
_Foscari_, she was ready to stake all her dramatic hopes and when, at
length, in February, 1823, Macready read the play in the green-room
and promised its production in ten days or a fortnight, her delight
was unbounded. It was produced in the second week of March, with
Macready as the principal character, and met with instant success.
The author went to town on a visit to her friend, Mrs. Hofland, in
Newman Street, that she might the better enjoy the exquisite pain and
pleasure of seeing her play presented for the first time. Although
she had sent and received many messages to and from Macready, through
their mutual friend Talfourd, she had not met him until this occasion
and it is no figure of speech to say that they were each considerably
struck with the other. Miss Mitford’s verdict on the interview,
conveyed in a letter to Sir William Elford, was “He is just such
another soul of fire as Haydon—highly educated, and a man of great
literary acquirements—consorting entirely with poets and young men of
talent. Indeed it is to his knowledge of my friend Mr. Talfourd that
I owe the first introduction of my plays to his notice.”

The result to Miss Mitford in cash on the production of _Julian_
was £200, not a vast sum in the light of present-day successes, but
still very fair considering that it only ran for eight days, having
to be withdrawn in favour of another play. In any case the money was
very acceptable to the inmates of the little cottage at Three Mile
Cross. The endeavour to clear up outstanding debts weighed heavily
on Miss Mitford and, short of a reserve for the barest necessities,
the whole of her income was being devoted to that end. A few
things of value had been saved from the wreck of the Bertram House
establishment, notably some choice engravings, and those were sent
to Mrs. Hofland in London who had promised to warehouse them until
such time as the owners, having acquired a larger house, might send
for them. Any hope of this contingency, which Miss Mitford may have
entertained, had been dispersed by the year 1823, and so we find her
writing in June of that year begging Mrs. Hofland to try and dispose
of some of the pictures to Messrs. Hurst and Robinson and to arrange
for the sale of the rest either at Sotheby’s or Robins’s.

It was indeed a most anxious year, notwithstanding the triumph of
_Julian_ and the fact that its author was one of the most talked-of
women of the day.

[Illustration: Mary Russell Mitford.

(From a painting by Miss Drummond, 1823.)]

During her stay in London to witness the production of _Julian_ and
at one of her interviews with Macready the two had discussed another
play project, various subjects for treatment being suggested—among
them that of _Procida_ (subsequently abandoned because Mrs. Hemans
was found to be at work on it), and _Rienzi_ which Miss Mitford very
much favoured but Macready did not as he thought her outline of the
plot would entail on her a greater strain than she could stand.
For a time the matter was left in abeyance, as she had much, just
then, wherewith to occupy her mind. Kemble was threatening her
with a lawsuit if, as she much desired, she withdrew _Foscari_—she
rather feared that its production after _Julian_ would do her no
good—and she was so tossed about, as she said, between him and
Macready, “affronting both parties and suspected by both, because I
will not come to a deadly rupture with either,” that she got quite
ill with worry. To add to her miseries the editor of the _Lady’s
Magazine_ absconded, owing her £40. “Oh! who would be an authoress!”
she wofully wrote to her old friend Sir William. “The only comfort
is that the magazine can’t go on without me [its circulation had
gone up from two hundred and fifty copies to two thousand since she
had written for it]; and that the very fuss they make in quarrelling
over me at the theatre proves my importance there; so that, if I
survive these vexations, I may in time make something of my poor,
poor brains. But I would rather serve in a shop—rather scour
floors—rather nurse children, than undergo these tremendous and
interminable disputes and this unwomanly publicity. Pray forgive this
sad no-letter. Alas! the free and happy hours, when I could read and
think and prattle for you, are past away. Oh! will they ever return?
I am now chained to a desk, eight, ten, twelve hours a day, at mere
drudgery. All my thoughts of writing are for hard money. All my
correspondence is on hard business. Oh! pity me, pity me! My very
mind is sinking under the fatigue and anxiety. God bless you, my dear
friend! Forgive this sad letter.”

It was truly a sad letter, so unlike the usually bright, optimistic
woman, that he would be dense indeed who failed to read in it other
than evidence of a strain almost too great for this gentle woman to
bear. And what of Dr. Mitford at this time? What was he doing in
the matter of sharing the burden which he alone, through negligence
and wicked self-indulgence, had thrust upon his daughter? Truly he
was now less often in town and the famous kennel was in process of
being dispersed—there was neither room nor food for greyhounds at
Three Mile Cross—but short of his magisterial duties, which were, of
course, unremunerated, his time was scarcely occupied. At last the
fact of his daughter’s worn-out condition seems to have been borne in
upon him and in her next letter to Sir William, dated in May, 1823,
she has the pleasure to record:

“My father has at last resolved—partly, I believe, instigated by
the effect which the terrible feeling of responsibility and want
of power has had on my health and spirits—to try if he can himself
obtain any employment that may lighten the burthen. He is, as you
know, active, healthy, and intelligent, and with a strong sense of
duty and of right. I am sure that he would fulfil to the utmost any
charge that might be confided to him; and if it were one in which
my mother or I could assist, you may be assured that he would have
zealous and faithful coadjutors. For the management of estates or any
country affairs he is particularly well qualified; or any work of
superintendence which requires integrity and attention. If you should
hear of any such, would you mention him, or at least let me know? The
addition of two, or even one hundred a year to our little income,
joined to what I am, in a manner, sure of gaining by mere industry,
would take a load from my heart of which I can scarcely give you an
idea. It would be everything to me; for it would give me what, for
many months, I have not had—the full command of my own powers. Even
_Julian_ was written under a pressure of anxiety which left me not a
moment’s rest. I am, however, at present, quite recovered from the
physical effects of this tormenting affair, and have regained my
flesh and colour, and almost my power of writing prose articles; and
if I could but recover my old hopefulness and elasticity, should be
again such as I used to be in happier days. Could I but see my dear
father settled in any employment, I know I should. Believe me ever,
with the truest affection,

                           “Very gratefully yours, M. R. M.”

A pathetic and tragic letter! At last the scales had dropped from
her eyes. And yet, though the letter is, as it stands, an implicit
condemnation of her father’s laziness, it is overburdened with
affectionate praise of him and a catalogue of virtues in all of which
his life had proved him notably and sadly deficient. Dr. Mitford,
regenerated, as presented by his daughter, cuts a sorry figure; for
him the art of “turning over a new leaf” was lost, if indeed he
ever practised it. Proof of this was forthcoming in the next letter
addressed to the same correspondent and written three months later!
“I hasten my dear and kind friend, to reply to your very welcome
letter. I am quite well now, and if not as hopeful as I used to be,
yet less anxious, and far less depressed than I ever expected to feel
again. This is merely the influence of the scenery, the flowers, the
cool yet pleasant season, and the absence of all literary society;
for our prospects are not otherwise changed. _My dear father,
relying with a blessed sanguineness on my poor endeavours, has not,
I believe, even inquired for a situation_; and I do not press the
matter, though I anxiously wish it, being willing to give one more
trial to the theatre. If I could but get the assurance of earning
for my dear father and mother a humble competence I should be the
happiest creature in the world. But for these dear ties, I should
never write another line, but go out in some situation as other
destitute women do. It seems to me, however, my duty to try a little
longer; the more especially as I am sure separation would be felt by
all of us to be the greatest of all evils.

“My present occupation is a great secret; I will tell it to you _in
strict confidence_. It is the boldest attempt ever made by a woman,
which I have undertaken at the vehement desire of Mr. Macready, who
confesses that he has proposed the subject to every dramatic poet of
his acquaintance—that it has been the wish of his life—and that he
never met with any one courageous enough to attempt it before. In
short, I am engaged in a grand historical tragedy on the greatest
subject in English story—Charles and Cromwell. Should you ever have
suspected your poor little friend of so adventurous a spirit? Mr.
Macready does not mean the author to be known, and I do not think it
will be found out, which is the reason of my so earnestly requesting
your silence on the subject. Macready thinks that my sex was, in
great part, the occasion of the intolerable malignity with which
_Julian_ was attacked.” [A scathing article on _Julian_ appeared in
one of the magazines and was considered, by both Macready and Miss
Mitford, to have been inspired, if not written, by Kemble.]

Continuing her letter Miss Mitford detailed how she proposed to
treat the subject and concluded with another appeal for interest in
securing her father employment:—“Pray, my dear friend, if you should
hear of any situation that would suit my dear father, do not fail to
let me know, for that would be the real comfort, to be rid of the
theatre and all its troubles. Anything in the medical line, provided
the income, however small, were certain, he would be well qualified
to undertake. _I hope there is no want of duty in my wishing him to
contribute his efforts with mine to our support._ God knows, if I
could, if there were any certainty, how willingly, how joyfully, I
would do all.... If I were better, more industrious, more patient,
more consistent, I do think I should succeed; and I will try to
be so. I promise you I will, and to make the best use of my poor
talents. Pray forgive this egotism; it is a relief and a comfort to
me to pour forth my feelings to so dear and so respected a friend;
and they are not now so desolate, not quite so desolate, as they have
been. God grant me to deserve success!”

Again how pathetic! And how tragic is this spectacle of a
worn-out woman of thirty-six, pleading for help and comfort, and
promising, like a little child, to be good and work hard; and that
notwithstanding her twelve hours a day at the self-imposed task—which
she now finds to be drudgery—or the terror with which she views this
great opportunity now offered her by Macready and which she dare not
refuse lest she be blamed for letting slip any chance of earning
money. And all that a worthless father may be shielded and the real
cause of the trouble be obscured.

To add to her burdens—her mother was taken suddenly and seriously
ill shortly after the above letter was written, necessitating the
most careful and vigilant nursing. Her complaint—spasmodic asthma—was
so bad that, as the daughter recorded, “I have feared, night after
night, that she would die in my arms.” Eventually she recovered, but
meanwhile, of course, all literary work had to be abandoned, not
only because of the constant attention which the patient’s condition
demanded but by reason of the “working of the perpetual fear on
my mind which was really debilitating, almost paralyzing, in its
effect.”




                            CHAPTER XVII

                     _OUR VILLAGE_ IS PUBLISHED


With her mother now convalescent, the year 1824 opened to find Miss
Mitford more composed in mind. She was still turning over in her mind
her friend Macready’s great commission, but as he had bade her take
plenty of time, she occupied herself with gathering together and
polishing the _Lady’s Magazine_ articles on country life with a view
to their publication in volume form. Mr. George B. Whittaker, of Ave
Maria Lane—“papa’s godson, by-the-by”—was the chosen publisher and
we may be certain that there was much fussing and discussion between
the parties concerned before the details were finally arranged. Mr.
Whittaker was, according to his godfather’s daughter, “a young and
dashing friend of mine, this year sheriff of London, and is, I hear,
so immersed in his official dignities as to have his head pretty much
turned topsy-turvy, or rather, in French phraseology, to have lost
that useful appendage; so I should not wonder now, if it did not
come out, till I am able to get to town and act for myself in the
business, and I have not yet courage to leave mamma.”

Had Mr. Whittaker known what was in store for him he would probably
have lost his head; but neither author nor publisher had the faintest
notion that the modest volume, then projecting, was to be the
forerunner of a series destined to take the world by storm and to be
the one effort—apart from dramatic and sonneteering successes, which
were to fade into obscurity—by which alone the name of Mary Russell
Mitford was to be remembered.

Its modest title—_Our Village_—was the author’s own choice, and
it was to consist of essays and characters and stories, chiefly
of country life, in the manner of the _Sketch Book_, but without
sentimentality or pathos—two things abhorred by the author—and to be
published with or without its author’s name, as it might please the
publisher. “At all events,” wrote Miss Mitford to Sir William, “the
author has no wish to be _incognita_; so I tell you as a _secret to
be told_.”

“When you see _Our Village_,” she continued, “(which if my sheriff be
not bestraught, I hope may happen soon), you will see that my notions
of prose style are nicer than these galloping letters would give you
to understand.”

The excitement of preparing for the press revived her old interest
in life and stirred her once again to indulge in that free and
blithesome correspondence which had been so unceremoniously dropped
when her domestic troubles seemed so overpowering. Her introduction
to Macready had been followed by an introduction to his sister whom,
as usual, Miss Mitford found to be all that was charming. In her
impulsive fashion she quickly divined the characters of both and
wrote of her impressions to her confidant, Sir William. “They are
very fascinating people, of the most polished and delightful manners,
and with no fault but the jealousy and unreasonableness which seem
to me the natural growth of the green-room. I can tell you just
exactly what Mr. Macready would have said of me and _Julian_. He
would have spoken of me as a meritorious and amiable person, of the
play as a first-rate performance, and of the treatment as ‘infamous!’
‘scandalous!’ ‘unheard-of!’—would have heaped every phrase of polite
abuse which the language contains on the Covent Garden manager; and
then would have concluded as follows:—‘But it is Miss Mitford’s
own fault—entirely her own fault. She is, with all her talent, the
weakest and most feeble-minded woman that ever lived. If she had put
matters into _my_ hands—if she had withdrawn _The Foscari_—if she
had threatened the managers with a lawsuit—if she had published her
case—if she had suffered me to manage for her; she would have been
the queen of the theatre. Now, you will see her the slave of Charles
Kemble. She is the weakest woman that ever trode the earth.’ This
is exactly what he would have said; the way in which he talks of me
to every one, and most of all to myself. ‘Is Mr. Macready a great
actor?’ you ask. I think that I should answer, ‘_He might have been
a very_ GREAT _one_.’ Whether he be now I doubt. A very clever actor
he certainly is; but he has vitiated his taste by his love of strong
effects, and been spoilt in town and country; and I don’t know that I
do call him a very great actor ... I have a physical pleasure in the
sound of Mr. Macready’s voice, whether talking, or reading, or acting
(except when he rants). It seems to me very exquisite music, with
something instrumental and vibrating in the sound, like certain notes
of the violoncello. He is grace itself; and he has a great deal of
real sensibility, mixed with some trickery.”

[Illustration: The old Wheelwright’s Shop at “Our Village,” in 1913.]

As far as it goes, and based on so slight an acquaintance, the
portrait is not much short of the truth, as witness Macready’s own
diaries wherein, strong man that he was, he set down all his faults
and failings. But he was a much-provoked man, the reason being that
he never did, or could, descend to the low level of his tormentors.
As for his being, or not being, a great actor, Miss Mitford must be
forgiven her hasty judgment; posterity rightly disagrees with her.

Spring was just merging into summer and the thoughts of jaded and
satiated townfolk were turning to the consideration of green fields
and smiling meadows when the first modest little volume of _Our
Village_ issued shyly forth from George Whittaker’s office. “Cause it
to be asked for at the circulating libraries,” urged the designing
author of all her friends.

The book caught on; its pages were redolent of the country; its
colour was true and vivid; it told of simple delights and did for
Berkshire what no author had ever previously done for any place.
Charles Lamb, then in the full enjoyment of his fame as _Elia_, said
that nothing so fresh and characteristic had appeared for a long
time. Sir William Elford was delighted but ventured the suggestion
that the sketches would have been better if written in the form of
letters, but this the author denied by reminding him that the pieces
were too long, and too connected, for _real_ correspondence; “and as
to anything make-believe, it has been my business to keep that out
of sight as much as possible. Besides which, we are free and easy in
these days, and talk to the public as a friend. Read _Elia_, or the
_Sketch Book_, or Hazlitt’s _Table-Talk_, or any popular book of the
new school, and you will find that we have turned over the Johnsonian
periods and the Blair-ian formality to keep company with the wigs and
hoops, the stiff curtseys and low bows of our ancestors. ‘Are the
characters and descriptions true?’ you ask. Yes! yes! yes! As true
as is well possible. You, as a great landscape painter, know that
in painting a favourite scene you do a little embellish, and can’t
help it; you avail yourself of happy accidents of atmosphere, and
if anything be ugly, you strike it out, or if anything be wanting,
you put it in. But still the picture is a likeness; and that this is
a very faithful one, you will judge when I tell you that a worthy
neighbour of ours, a post captain, who has been in every quarter
of the globe, and is equally distinguished for the sharp look-out
and _bonhomie_ of his profession, accused me most seriously of
carelessness in putting _The Rose_ for _The Swan_ as the sign of our
next door neighbour; and was no less disconcerted at the _misprint_
(as he called it) of B for R in the name of our next town. _A cela
près_, he declares the picture to be exact. Nevertheless I do not
expect to be poisoned. Why should I? I have said no harm of my
neighbours, have I? The great danger would be that my dear friend
Joel might be spoilt; but I take care to keep the book out of our
pretty Harriette’s way; and so I hope that that prime ornament of
our village will escape the snare for his vanity which the seeing so
exact a portrait of himself in a printed book might occasion. By the
way, the names of the villagers are true—of the higher sketches they
are feigned, of course.”

The sales were beyond the wildest dreams of the author and
publisher, for it was well reviewed in all the literary papers and
discussed in all the literary circles. “Where is _Our Village_?”
was the question folk were asking each other, and when the secret
leaked out, there was a constant stream of traffic from here, there
and everywhere to the quiet village of Three Mile Cross, whose
inhabitants were the last of all to discover that they had been “put
into a book.” What a theme for the cobbler over the way! How he must
have neglected his work to watch the congratulating visitors who
thronged the cottage opposite, all asking the beaming and delighted
author “How she thought of it?” and “Why she did it?” And when, at
length, a copy of the book itself found its way to the parlour of the
_George and Dragon_ and the cobbler saw himself as “the shoemaker
opposite,” we can almost fancy we catch the gratified light in his
eye and hear his astonished—“Well! I’ll be jiggered!”

And since no letter to any of her numerous correspondents ever
contained so charming a description, here let us quote from _Our
Village_ its author’s picture of her own dwelling:—“A cottage—no—a
miniature house, with many additions, little odds and ends of
places, pantries, and what-nots; all angles, and of a charming
in-and-out-ness; a little bricked court before one half, and a little
flower-yard before the other; the walls, old and weather-stained,
covered with hollyhocks, roses, honeysuckles, and a great apricot
tree; the casements full of geraniums (ah! there is our superb
white cat peeping out from among them); the closets (our landlord
has the assurance to call them rooms) full of contrivances and
corner-cupboards; and the little garden behind full of common
flowers, tulips, pinks, larkspurs, peonies, stocks, and carnations,
with an arbour of privet, not unlike a sentry-box, where one lives
in a delicious green light, and looks out on the gayest of all gay
flower-beds. That house was built on purpose to show in what an
exceeding small compass comfort may be packed.”

That is Miss Mitford’s miniature of her village home. Seeking
it to-day, the literary pilgrim would be sadly disappointed if
he carried this description in his mind. The walls have been
stuccoed—that ugliest of make-believes—and a wooden sign THE MITFORD
springs from between the windows in an attempt—honest enough, no
doubt—to compete with its neighbour THE SWAN, the sign of which
swings all a-creak over the garden-wall. It has lost its cottage
aspect, the windows are modern and even the chimney-pots have been
replaced by up-to-date pottery contrivances and a zinc contraption
which tries to look ornamental but is not—in striking contrast to the
village shop next door which is still the village shop as described
by Miss Mitford, “multifarious as a bazaar; a repository for
bread, shoes, tea, cheese, tape, ribands, and bacon”; full of that
delightfully mixed odour, a pot-pourri of eatables and wearables,
which always characterizes such establishments; proudly ruled by a
Brownlow, one of a line of Brownlows unbroken from long before Miss
Mitford’s day.

Inside, _The Mitford_ is less of a disappointment, for most of the
rooms remain unchanged, and one quickly sees how truly its delighted
owner limned it when she wrote of its angles and in-and-out-ness.
Unhappily the garden behind has been spoiled by the erection of
a large hall wherein the gospel is preached, light refreshments
may be partaken of, and the youth of the village assemble o’
nights to tighten their muscles on trapeze and horizontal bar.
In Miss Mitford’s day they achieved this end by following the
plough—but other times other manners, and we are not for blaming
them altogether. The pity is—and it is our only grumble—that when
that truly noble philanthropist, William Isaac Palmer, conceived
the notion of honouring Miss Mitford’s memory by preserving her
residence, he did not insist on a restoration which would have
perpetuated the external, as well as the internal, features of the
cottage.

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: Miss Mitford’s Cottage at Three Mile Cross, as it is
to-day (1913), with the sign of the _Swan Inn_ on the one hand, and
Brownlow’s shop on the other.]

Was _Our Village_ its author’s announcement to all and sundry, that
come what might, whether of want, drudgery, or disillusionment, she
could still carry her head high, look the world in the face— and
smile? Probably it was. A strong case can be made out for the view
that, apart altogether from her love of rurality, _Our Village_ was
a deliberate glorification of the simple life which had been forced
upon her, a deliberate pronouncement that Home was still Home, though
it had been transferred from the magnificence of Bertram House with
its retinue of servants, to an extremely humble cottage set between a
village “general” on the one side and a village inn upon the other.

With all the success which now seemed to crowd upon our author, the
year was not without its anxieties for, shortly after her mother’s
recovery, her father was taken suddenly ill and, as was his wont
on such occasions, required a great deal of attention. He made a
fairly speedy recovery, however, and in July we read of him and
Mrs. Mitford taking exercise in a “pretty little pony-chaise” the
acquisition of which the daughter proudly records—it was a sign,
however slight, of amended fortunes. Late in the year, Dr. Mitford
had a relapse and became seriously ill, and even when convalescent
was left so weak that he was a source of considerable anxiety to his
wife and daughter. This illness must have convinced Miss Mitford that
it would be futile to count upon her father as a bread-winner, and
that conviction seems to have spurred her to work even harder than
before. The _Cromwell and Charles_ play still simmered in her mind,
while there were a “thousand and one articles for annuals” to be
written, together with the working-up of a new tragedy to be called
_Inez de Castro_. Not satisfied with all that, she wrote in the July
to William Harness, asking whether he could influence Campbell, then
editing the _New Monthly Magazine_, to engage for a series—“Letters
from the Country,” or something of that sort—“altogether different,
of course, from _Our Village_ in the scenery and the _dramatis
personae_, but still something that might admit of description and
character, and occasional story, without the formality of a fresh
introduction to every article. If you liked my little volume well
enough to recommend me conscientiously, and are enough in that
prescient editor’s good graces to secure such an admission, I should
like the thing exceedingly.”

Talfourd wrote urging her to a novel, but this she wisely declined,
and commenced to work, in great haste on still another tragedy which
had been suggested by a re-reading of Gibbon’s _Decline and Fall of
the Roman Empire_. It was no new project, for she had written of it
“in strict confidence” to Sir William Elford more than a year before,
but it had been left to lie fallow until an opportunity arose for its
execution. When the suggestion was made to Macready he at once saw
the possibilities in the theme and promised to give the play his best
consideration, although he made the significant suggestion that not
only should the author’s name be kept a dead secret, but that the
play should be produced under a man’s name because the newspapers of
the day were so unfair to female writers.

Luckily the haste with which she had started on _Rienzi_ soon
subsided, and it was not ready until 1826 when Macready took it
and the Cromwellian play with him on an American tour, promising
to do nothing with either unless they could be produced in a
manner satisfactory to the author. The original intention had been
to produce _Rienzi_ at Covent Garden that year, but the idea was
abandoned.

In the meantime preparations were well advanced for a second
series of _Our Village_, “my bookseller having sent to me for two
volumes more.” Eventually the series extended to five volumes,
the publication of which ranged over the years 1824 and 1832. Of
these volumes there appeared, from time to time, a number of most
eulogistic reviews, particularly noticeable among them being those
of “Christopher North” in the _Noctes Ambrosianae_ of _Blackwood’s
Magazine_. In reviewing the third volume he wrote:—“The young
gentlemen of England should be ashamed o’ theirsells fo’ lettin’ her
name be Mitford. They should marry her whether she wull or no, for
she would mak baith a useful and agreeable wife. That’s the best
creetishism on her warks”—a criticism as amusing as it was true.




                            CHAPTER XVIII

                        MACREADY AND _RIENZI_


In the previous chapter we mentioned that _Rienzi_ was not ready
until 1826 and that its production at Covent Garden during that year
was postponed because of a disagreement between Macready and Young.
As a matter of fact the play was finished to the mutual satisfaction
of its author, and her friends Talfourd and Harness, early in 1825,
but when submitted to Macready he would only accept it on condition
that certain rather drastic alterations were made. In this he was
perfectly justified for, be it remembered, he was not only an actor
of high rank but a critic of remarkable ability—a combination of
scholar and actor which caused him to be consulted on every point
connected with the drama and whose judgment was rarely wrong.
Upon hearing his decision Miss Mitford appears to have lost her
composure—we will charitably remind ourselves that she had put much
labour and thought into this play—and to have rushed off to consult
the two friends who, having read the play, had already pronounced it
ready for presentation. Upon hearing Macready’s suggestions Harness
was considerably piqued, the more so as in addition to his clerical
duties, he was, at this time, enjoying a considerable reputation
as a dramatic critic, his writings in the magazines being eagerly
looked for and as eagerly read when they appeared. There is no doubt
that he, backed up by Talfourd, counselled Miss Mitford not to
adopt Macready’s suggestions, but Macready was not the man to brook
interference from outsiders and told Miss Mitford that not only must
she alter the play in accordance with his views, but without delay
if she required him to produce it. This naturally placed the author
in an awkward position for she knew, as Macready knew, that he was
the person for whom the play had been written and that, did he refuse
it, there was no other person on the English stage who could, by
any chance, do justice to it. To refuse his request would mean a
serious loss to her, and so, humiliated for the moment, she set to
work in great haste to carry out Macready’s wishes. It was done with
an ill grace, for it seemed to Miss Mitford as so much unnecessary
labour, especially as critics like Talfourd and Harness had said
so. It was unfortunate that, in her bitterness, she overlooked
the fact that Macready was, under the circumstances, entitled to
every consideration, seeing he had most at stake in the matter of
reputation, etc.

The story of this little breeze got about—possibly it only
reached the ears of a few—but it got about, and some person, some
evil-disposed person, fully cognizant of the feud which existed
between Kemble and Macready wrote an open letter “To Charles Kemble,
Esq., and R. W. Ellison, Esq., On the Present State of the Stage,”
in which the writer urged these gentlemen to exercise themselves and
prevent the Drama from “going to the dogs,” suggesting the cause of
and offering a remedy for the degeneration. The article was published
in _Blackwood’s Magazine_ for June, 1825, and bore indubitable
evidence of having been written by some person possessed of an
extraordinarily intimate knowledge of Miss Mitford and her affairs.
It began:—“Gentlemen,—It will, I fear, appear to you as somewhat
officious that a stranger, possessing no other skill in the mysteries
of theatrical politics than the constant perusal of every play bill,
and a very frequent seat in the middle of the pit can afford him,
should thus attempt to call away your thoughts from the many anxious
and perplexing occupations in which you are engaged, and demand your
attention to his unsolicited advice on the management of Covent
Garden and Drury Lane.” Having thus introduced himself the writer
proceeded to animadvert on what he asserted was the decline in the
public taste for the legitimate drama, instancing the fact that the
managers had been forced to introduce variety shows in order to keep
up the receipts; and he went on to say that “the present depressed
state of the national drama is the fault of your GREAT ACTORS—I
mean of your _soi-disant_ GREAT ACTORS—of Messrs. Kean, Young and
Macready.” The arrogant pretensions of these gentlemen were such as
not to allow an author to tell his story exactly as he conceived it.
“Would any play so written, have a chance of being represented?”
proceeded the writer, arguing that it would not because these actors
refused to play any but the hero and insisted on the author keeping
down the minor rôles.

“Are you not compelled to sacrifice the interest of the author which
ought to be your first concern, whether you consider your duty to
the public or yourselves, to the caprice and absurd vanity of your
principal performers? The author must obey the directions of the
performer; the whole order and process of the work is reversed; and
the dramatist is expected to mould his character to fit the actor,
instead of the actor modelling his preparation to the conception of
the author.”

Up to this point the article, though offensive to the actors named,
was nothing more than the outburst of a man who might be voicing a
public grievance; but he continued in a strain which proved at once
that he was something more than a lover of and regular attendant at
the play—that he was indeed in the confidence of one, at least, of
the authors he was championing. “The history of the lately rejected
tragedy of _Rienzi_ is strikingly illustrative of the evils that
attend the operation of the present system. The authoress, a person
not a little distinguished in the literary world, had selected, for
the exercise of her talent, a passage of history which Gibbon has
recommended as peculiarly calculated for dramatic representation. The
plot was completed and shown to Mr. Macready. He was delighted with
the production. The chief part was very effective both in language
and situation, and only required a very few and slight alterations
to render it worthy the abilities of any of the _great_ actors.
He wished an entirely new first act; this was indispensable; that
_Rienzi_ might be introduced striking to the earth an injurious
patrician, as Moses smote the Egyptian, because this circumstance
had peculiarly pleased Mr. Macready’s fancy when a boy at school. To
make room for the introduction of this important incident, the second
and third acts, to the great injury of the general interest and
original arrangement of the tragedy, were to be compressed into one.
The fifth act, which had been framed in the most strict conformity
with the truth of History, was to be re-written; that the character
of _Rienzi_ might, to the very dropping of the curtain, hold its
paramount station on the stage.

“All these alterations were to be _made in a fortnight_. The
authoress was then to return to town with the play and superintend
in person the rehearsals and the _getting-up_ of the piece; but at
all events the work must be ready _in a fortnight_. In a fortnight
the play was mangled and distorted, and fitted to Mr. Macready’s
exaggerated and melo-dramatic measures of performing; the author
arrived in London to attend the bringing-out of the play; she called
on Mr. Macready with the manuscript; to her utter astonishment, he
received her with the greatest coolness:—‘There was no hurry for the
play. The managers had another piece at the theatre, which must at
all events be produced first.’”

Having thus divulged details of a most intimate character—circumstantial
to a degree—the writer proceeded to argue that this sort of
treatment must make authors of the front rank give up dramatic work
in disgust, and then wound up with the suggestion that if these
great actors, with their absurd mannerisms, refused to abide by a
code which would banish the present bad state of affairs, then let
them go to the country and in twelve months they would be completely
forgotten.

It will be readily conceded that the article was extremely offensive
towards Macready, and, as he afterwards maintained, very damaging
too. He claimed that the damage it made to his reputation resulted
in the reduction of his income by one-half and that it made him
seriously consider an immediate retirement from the stage—a course
which he abandoned only because of his children and their dependence
upon him.

The article was an anonymous one, signed “Philo-Dramaticus” and by
reason of the inner knowledge it revealed of what were unquestionably
private conversations between Miss Mitford and Macready, suspicion
fell on William Harness. Taxed with its authorship, he denied the
accusation and was not believed. The subject was one upon which every
one was talking; in club-land and in stage-land the question was
being continually asked: “Who wrote the _Blackwood_ article?”

Poor Macready was sorely wounded and wrote to Miss Mitford. The
letter reached her at a time when she was suffering from an abscess,
confined to her bed. She dreaded these embroilments; she was for
peace; but in this case she was, to some extent, to blame in not
acting on Macready’s advice, without seeking the further advice of
her friends. Macready now desired to learn from her whether she knew
the author of the malignant article, and whether she had authorized
the person to write so in her behalf. The situation was difficult;
how to answer these queries she knew not. That she knew, or
suspected, the author, is without a doubt for she must have written
to that person on the point. In her extremity she got her mother to
write to their mutual friend Talfourd and since it is so important we
quote it in full:—

 “MY DEAR FRIEND,—I am obliged to make use of my mother’s hand to
 write to you having been for a week past confined to my bed with
 an abscess which prevents me turning on either side—it proceeds
 from neglected inflammation, I having taken it for a boil—There
 is no danger I believe although much fever and very great pain.
 The letter from Mr. Macready which I got arrived this morning—I
 have not answered it, nor shall I until I hear from you—What can I
 say? You will see from the enclosed note (_which I send in strict
 confidence_) he wrote the article. I suspected William Harness and I
 asked him and you see what he says—What can I say? The statement,
 however inaccurate in trifling matters, is yet substantially true
 _as you will know_—although it is possible that had I behaved
 with more patience and submission (and I most sincerely wish I
 had) the result might have been different—It is very rarely that
 a quarrel takes place between two persons without some touch
 of blame on either side—and a sick bed is not a place to deny
 one’s faults—Still the statement is substantially true and was
 undoubtedly derived from my own information—in which is bitterness
 of disappointment—although the publication was so far from being
 authorized by me that I do not know anything that ever gave me more
 pain, but what can I do? I cannot disavow my kind and zealous friend
 William Harness—I cannot disavow that part of the statement which
 is true—and nothing less than an entire disavowal would satisfy Mr.
 Macready, yet God knows how I dread one of his long narratives—What
 can I do? I have had to-day another most pleasant note from Mr.
 Harness—They are delighted with _Charles I_—Mr. Hope read it
 without laying down and said: ‘It was a very fine play—that Charles
 was excellent, and Cromwell excellent, the Queen very good and the
 action quite sufficient.’ This is very pleasant from the author of
 _Anastatius_—William does not say a word about Cromwell’s cant,
 and if he, the clergyman, does not mind it, I should hope that
 George Colman[20] would not, especially as it is now a high tory
 play. I shall tell William to send the MS. to your house or Chambers
 (_which?_) as soon as I know you are returned.

 “It is certainly quite a new thing especially Cromwell—For in spite
 of my having written Charles _up_ as much as possible, Oliver is the
 life of the piece—God bless you my dear friend—

                  “Kind regards from all—
                               “Ever yours,
                                   “M. R. M.”

“Could you write to Mr. M.? Would that be prudent? I don’t know that
it would—He evidently wants a complete disavowal—I wonder what he
means to do—Do write me your advice most minutely—And pray forgive
the trouble.”

Dismissing from our minds that portion which deals with “Charles I”
and what the critics thought of it and confining ourselves to the
other matter, we shall plainly see that Miss Mitford’s suspicions as
to the author had undergone a change by her receipt of the note from
the real culprit and as she mentions her original suspicion regarding
William Harness we may permissibly infer that he and the culprit
were not one and the same. What Talfourd did with the note which was
submitted to him in strict confidence is not known to us. Probably
he returned it to Miss Mitford. In any case the letter from which we
took our copy bore no clue, and the identity of the person who wrote
the offending article cannot therefore be revealed. It is, however,
quite clear from the postscript that Miss Mitford was apprehensive
lest Macready should resort to law and that is a view which is
strengthened by her appeal to Talfourd, who was a lawyer, to write
his advice most minutely.

Whether Miss Mitford ever replied to Macready, and, if so, what
was its purport, are questions which we can only surmise from a
statement, made by Macready, some years later, but we do know that,
for many years after, the great actor nursed a grievance against Miss
Mitford and cherished a bitter resentful feeling against Harness,
believing the latter to be the person who had written the _Blackwood_
article. In his _Diary_, after an interval of eleven years—i.e.
February, 1836—recalling his endeavours to be of service to Miss
Mitford he writes of her as requiting him “by libel and serious
injury,” while throughout that and the following year are many
entries containing disparaging remarks about her and her “inability
to write a play.”

Of Harness, in this same _Diary_, he wrote still more bitterly. “I
believe the Rev. Mr. Harness was among my slanderers at the time” is
a reference to the old grievance, written under date June 30, 1835.
In the July following he classes Harness with those “who gain their
livelihood and draw their gratifications from the imagined triumphs
of their envious and malignant nature”; in March, 1836, he writes of
Harness’ “blackguardism and rascality” and so on, frequently through
the _Diary_ until January 8, 1839. On this day Harness called on him
by appointment to discuss a play by Mrs. Butler (Fanny Kemble) and,
after the business was transacted, Macready detained him by saying
there was another matter on which he wished to speak with him. “I
observed to him that whatever faults of character might be ascribed
to me, I was incapable of doing any one an injury wittingly; that
my notions of honour and virtue, such as they were, were strictly
revered by me, and if I had done him a wrong, I held myself bound to
expatiate [_sic_] it in every possible way. I then mentioned to him
the libellous article which in June, 1825, had been written against
me in _Blackwood’s Magazine_; the effect it had had in raising _the
Press_ against me; the partial contradiction that Miss Mitford had
given it.... He was evidently much embarrassed and seemed to suffer
much; his mode of expressing himself was confused and _rambling_; he
said that he must acknowledge that he was inculpated so far as that
he had heard the story told by Miss Mitford, and had communicated
it to the writer of the article, but that he had not written it....
I told him that I was very glad to hear that he was not the author,
as I was happy to think well of all men, and was very sorry that I
had suspected him of the fact. He was going away, when he turned
back, having passed the door, and said, ‘I think we ought to shake
hands.’ I gave him my hand, saying, ‘I was very happy to do so,’ and
we parted. My heart was much lighter, and I fear his was _much, very
much_ heavier, as it is evident, though not the author, that he was
deeply implicated in that shocking transaction—that assassination of
my character. I think of him with perfect charity, and with the most
entire and cheerful forgiveness.”[21]

Thus ended this extraordinary and lengthy feud begotten of a trifling
incident which unwisdom magnified. Truly Miss Mitford might justly
doubt the proverb that “in multitude of counsellors there is safety.”
It was a sorry business in which neither of the participants can be
said to have shone.


FOOTNOTES:

[20] George Colman the Younger, Examiner of Plays (1824-1836).

[21] _The Diaries of William Charles Macready_, 1833-1851, edited by
William Toynbee, London: Chapman and Hall, Ltd., 1912, 2 vols.




                             CHAPTER XIX

                         A SLAVE OF THE LAMP


The success of _Our Village_ was really astonishing—it had entirely
caught the public fancy. As proof of this we find in a letter to
Sir William Elford, dated February 19, 1825, the statement that
“Columbines and children have been named after Mayflower [one of
her favourite dogs]; stage coachmen and postboys point out the
localities; schoolboys deny the possibility of any woman’s having
written the cricket-match without schoolboy help; and such men as
Lord Stowell send to me for a key.” In addition to all this proof of
popularity it is fairly evident that Campbell, who had originally
thought the sketches not dignified enough for the pages of his _New
Monthly_, must have relented somewhat, for in the same year she
sent him two articles to the care of Mr. Colburn. This was probably
due to the representations of William Harness, to whom, it will be
remembered, Miss Mitford addressed herself on the matter.

Then, not to be outdone in loyal devotion to his friend, the woman
of the hour, Haydon painted her portrait and exhibited it among
portraits of other celebrities of the year. It was not a flattering
likeness—a reproduction of it is given in these pages—and its
reception, although not particularly hostile, was not altogether
friendly. Haydon’s enemies—and he had many—sniggered and passed
on; Miss Mitford’s friends nearly all commiserated her. “Now to the
portrait,” says she in a letter to her friend, Mrs. S. C. Hall. “One
friend of mine used to compare it to a cook-maid of sixty, who had
washed her dishes and sat down to mend her stockings; another to Sir
John Falstaff in the disguise of the old woman of Brentford; and a
third to Old Bannister, in _Moll Flagon_. I have not myself seen
it since it was finished, but there must have been something very
formidable about it to put such comparisons into people’s heads.”
With her usual good-nature she would not suffer Haydon or his work to
be maligned, and so was kept well occupied in defending him.


[Illustration: _M. R. Mitford_
 Mary Russell Mitford—The “Cook-Maid” portrait.
(From a painting by B. R. Haydon, 1825.)]

“As for the picture,” she wrote to Mrs. Hofland, “I shall always
value it most exceedingly as a high honour, and a great kindness,
from such a man.” To Sir William Elford, who, above most other
people, might hear the truth, she wrote:—“It seemed a strong,
unflattered likeness—one that certainly would not be very calculated
to feed a woman’s vanity, or to cure the public of the general belief
that authoresses are and must be frights. But really I don’t think
it much uglier than what I see every day in the looking-glass; and I
especially forbid you from answering this observation by any flattery
or anything whatsoever.

“I am sorry that the portrait is not more complimentary, because it
vexes my father to hear it so much abused, as I must confess it is,
by everybody but Miss J——, and the artist, who maintain that it
is a capital likeness—quite a woman of genius, and so forth. Now,
my dear friend, I entreat and implore you not to mention to any one
what I say. I would not have Mr. Haydon know it for worlds. It was a
present, in the first place, and certainly a very kind and flattering
attention; and, in the second, my personal feelings for him would
always make the picture gratifying to me for his sake were it as ugly
as Medusa.”

Throughout the correspondence of this (1825) and succeeding years
there is a constant reference to a projected novel—in a letter to
William Harness, dated April, 1825, Miss Mitford actually gave a
complete outline of the plot—but, sandwiched between the information
that the story was progressing, there were frequent hints that the
writer was finding the task a little beyond her powers and—were
the truth told—her inclinations. It was to the Drama she turned,
believing that there only could she win laurels and—what was more
to the point, just then—a freedom from want and care for those she
loved.

Her Tragedy of _Charles I_ was constantly being worked upon, for
she was hoping that Kemble would be able to produce it at Covent
Garden early in the next year, but in this, as in all other
literary work—it was the penalty exacted by popularity—she was
much hindered by callers—“deuce take ’em,” she wrote, “for I am
fairly worn off my feet and off my tongue.” Furthermore she could
never resist the fascination of letter-writing and, as she could
never bring herself to the inditing of a short note—the heavy
postal-charges of those days would have made such a thing appear
as the height of extravagance—her epistles were generally very
lengthy and must have taken up much valuable time. One of her
letters to Haydon, during this year, contains a most amusing defence
of her own spinster condition. “I have a theory, very proper and
convenient for an old maid, that the world is over-peopled, and
always hear with some regret of every fresh birth. I hold old maids
and bachelors—especially old maids, for an obvious reason—to be
the most meritorious and patriotic class of his Majesty’s subjects;
and I think the opinion seems gaining ground. Three persons in this
neighbourhood especially, all friends of mine, are staunch in the
creed; only, unluckily, their practice does not quite accord with
their principles. The first, an old maid herself, I caught last
week in the act of presiding over a dozen of country-town ladies,
cutting out baby-linen for a charity—‘The Maternal Society,’ save
the mark! Bounties upon babies! The second, an admiral of the last
edition, called on me on Saturday with a very rueful face to announce
the birth of a daughter (he has a pretty young wife and six children
under eight years old).—‘Well,’ said I, ‘it must be endured.’ ‘Yes,’
said he, ‘but who would have thought of its being a girl!’ The third,
a young married woman, was brought to bed this very morning of
twins—a catastrophe which I have been predicting to her this month
past.”

In the autumn, the play of _Charles I_ was at last finished and
despatched to Kemble for his consideration. Having read it, he
wrote informing the author that it was “admirable, though somewhat
dangerous,” and that he had sent it for perusal to the licenser,
George Colman, junior. This official took three weeks to consider
the MS. and at length wrote to say “that, in consequence of the
exceedingly delicate nature of the subject and incidents of _Charles
the First_, he had received instructions to send the manuscript to
the Lord Chamberlain” (The Duke of Montrose), “that he might himself
judge, on perusal, of the safety of granting a licence.” The author
had already suffered so much from the jealousies of rival actors
that she viewed this new obstacle—the possibility of trouble with
the Licenser of Plays—with the utmost apprehension. It was one
thing to have her production delayed through the incompatibilities
of actors—those could be overcome, in time—but to feel that her
work bore within it matter for prohibition altogether was a totally
different thing. It meant that she, to whom labour and time meant so
much, just now, might labour for months, valuable months, only to
find her offspring condemned and killed at birth. And, as she rightly
argued, if she had offended in the case of _Charles_, she might
offend with other plays. The problem was: how she was to avoid such
a contingency in future? and so she wrote off to William Harness,
asking whether he would advise her to write the Licenser on the
point. “I have a good mind to write to Mr. Colman and ask. I would,
if I knew any way of getting at him. Certainly I mean no harm—nor
did I in _Charles_; and the not licensing that play will do great
harm to my next, by making me timid and over careful.... You cannot
imagine how perplexed I am. There are points in my domestic situation
too long and too painful to write about. The terrible improvidence
of one dear parent—the failure of memory and decay of faculty in
that other who is still dearer, cast on me a weight of care and of
fear that I can hardly bear up against. Give me your advice. Heaven
knows, I would write a novel, as every one tells me to do, and as, I
suppose, I must do at last, if I had not the feeling of inability and
of failure so strong within me that it would be scarcely possible to
succeed against such a presentiment. And to fail there would be so
irremediable! But it will be my lot at last.”

Harness’s advice was that Colman should be written to, and as by
that time the Lord Chamberlain had definitely refused to license
the _Charles I_ play, Miss Mitford also embodied in her letter a
request to be informed whether it was possible to alter that play in
such a manner as would make it licensable. This letter was conveyed
to Colman through the medium of a mutual friend, a Mr. Rowland
Stephenson, to whom a reply was immediately forthcoming. It will be
apparent from a perusal of this reply that Miss Mitford must have
based her plea for information on the fact that her domestic affairs
rendered the success of her work a more than pressing necessity.
Dated November 28, 1825, and written from Brompton Square, Mr.
Colman’s letter was as follows:—

  “MY DEAR SIR,—

 “It is much to be regretted that Miss Mitford has employed her time
 unprofitably when so amiable a motive as that of assisting her
 family has induced her to exercise her literary talents; but it
 would be idle and ungenerous to flatter her with hopes which there
 is no prospect of fulfilling.

 “My official opinion of her tragedy is certainly unfavourable to
 the author’s interests. I was, however, so far from wishing it to
 prejudice the Lord Chamberlain, that the play was submitted to his
 perusal at my suggestion. He therefore formed his own judgment upon
 it and decidedly refused to license its performance.

 “As to alterations—the fact is, that the subject of this play and
 the incidents it embraces are fatal in themselves—they are an
 inherent and incurable disease—the morbid matter lies in the very
 bones and marrow of the historical facts, and defies eradication.
 Indeed it would be a kind of practical bull to permit a detailed
 representation of Charles’s unhappy story on a public stage, when
 his martyrdom is still observed in such solemn silence that the
 London theatres are actually closed and all dramatic exhibitions
 whatever suspended on its anniversary.

 “I give Miss Mitford full credit for the harmlessness of her
 intentions, but mischief may be unconsciously done, as a house may
 be set on fire by a little innocent in the nursery.”

Miss Mitford’s only comment on this to William Harness was, “Is
not this a precious _morceau_? But there is no use in contending.”
Then continuing her letter, in which she congratulated him on the
publication of his edition of Shakespeare’s works, she reverted to
the troubles at home and furnishes the first indication we have of
the senility of Mrs. Mitford. “Poor mamma’s failure of faculty is
very peculiar. You might see her twenty times for twenty minutes,
and yet not perceive it; or, on the other hand, she might in one
twenty minutes show it a hundred times. She mistakes one person
for another—one thing for another—misjoins facts—misreports
conversations—hunts for six hours together after a pin-cushion
which she has in her pocket, or a thimble on her finger, and is
totally absorbed in the smallest passing objects. _This_ is, in one
respect, fortunate, since it prevents her from foreseeing greater
evils. But then again, it deters her from supporting me in any effort
to mitigate them. So that from her incapacity, and the absolute
inertness of my father in such matters—an obstinacy of going on in
the same way which I cannot describe—I find myself compelled to
acquiesce in a way of living which, however inexpensive, is still
more so than we can afford, for fear of disturbing and, perhaps,
killing her. If she were herself she would rather live on dry bread
in a garret than run in debt; and so would I, merely as a question of
personal comfort.”

This letter, as will be seen, bore no evasive terms regarding Dr.
Mitford; indeed, Miss Mitford knew quite well that any attempt
to hoodwink William Harness concerning her father’s habits of
life was only so much wasted ink and energy. In any case it is no
edifying spectacle here presented—an improvident father obstinately
persisting in a manner of living which present income did not
justify; an invalid mother whose intellect was so weak that she
had not the power to notice that things were reverting to the old
bad ways; a daughter, struggling to make ends meet, to keep the
improvident one satisfied and to withhold from the invalid the truth
which to know might mean her death; and, to crown all, the fruit of
her labours rejected at the eleventh hour. Was ever woman so stricken?

But her cup of bitterness was not yet full, for in December her
publisher, George Whittaker, stopped payment, though, fortunately,
the embarrassment was only temporary. Nevertheless it presented to
the distracted woman a new and hitherto unthought-of possibility
whereby her endeavours to gain a livelihood might be frustrated.

So pressing were the needs of the household that early in the year
1826 she paid a hurried visit to town in the hope of collecting some
of the money due to her, but the result was very meagre. Fortunately
William Harness was able to come to the rescue by acceding to her
suggestion that she should collaborate with him in the production
of some rather elaborate charades for which she had a market in
_Blackwood’s Magazine_. The idea of the charades was first suggested
to Mr. Harness by some of his young lady friends at Hampstead, where
he was then living. They, tired of the rather stereotyped form of
charades, asked him to furnish them with something requiring a
certain amount of care in the production, with the result that
he introduced a trifling dramatic scene and dialogue to represent
each word. The fame of these Hampstead charades soon spread and as
a result came Miss Mitford’s suggestion that she might place her
dramatic skill at his command and that their united efforts should
then go to _Blackwood’s_. At first Mr. Harness demurred to the
idea of magazine publication and counselled his friend to keep her
charades until she could embody them in the novel about which she
was continually writing. Her wish prevailed, however, and Harness
undertook to forward the “copy” on to Blackwood’s, the proprietor of
which was willing to pay ten guineas a sheet for these contributions.
Following these, Miss Mitford entertained the project of writing an
opera—there was no end to her schemes, though not all of them came
to anything.

“I want to write a grand opera on the story of _Cupid and Psyche_,
with Weber’s music. Just look at the story, and see how dramatic it
is—how full of situation and variety, both for dialogue and poetry,
for music and scenery; ... I wish with all my heart you would ask Mr.
Kemble whether, if I were to put all my strength into such an opera,
he could get Weber to compose the music, and whether Weber would like
the subject. It has seized my imagination most strongly, and there
would be no fear of the licenser in this case.”

The October of 1826 saw the second volume of _Our Village_
published—Whittaker having survived his business troubles; a
small play, _Gaston de Blondeville_ awaiting Kemble’s reading; a
volume of _Dramatic Scenes_ preparing for the press, and the author
anticipating an immediate visit to town to witness the long-delayed
production of _Foscari_. For this event the Doctor and his daughter
took apartments at 45, Frith Street, and these, Miss Mitford wrote,
were delightful. The _Foscari_ was to be produced on Saturday,
November 5, and as the visitors arrived in town on November 1, they
employed the interval in witnessing various plays and in working
themselves into a fever of excitement lest Kemble should not recover
from an attack of hoarseness and lest the Duke of York—then
seriously ill—should succumb, in which latter case, of course, the
theatre would be closed. But the Duke did not die and, as luck would
have it, the November number of _Blackwood_ contained a delightful
review of _Our Village_ and a laudatory notice of the author. This
was all to the good. It stimulated the public interest, and the
consequence was a very full house on that auspicious Saturday. How
delightful it is to read of well deserved success. Miss Mitford’s
letter home to her mother is infectiously exhilarating. It was
written after the play, late on the Saturday night, so that no time
might be lost in the conveyance of the news and in order to prevent
the Doctor from rushing off then and there to Reading and home to
carry the news in person.

“I cannot suffer this parcel to go to you, my dearest mother, without
writing a few lines to tell you of the complete success of my play.
It was received, not merely with rapturous applause, but without the
slightest symptom of disapprobation, from beginning to end. We had
not a single ‘order’ in the house, so that from first to last the
approbation was sincere and general. William Harness and Mr. Talfourd
are both quite satisfied with the whole affair, and my other friends
are half crazy. Mrs. Trollope,[22] between joy for my triumph and
sympathy with the play, has cried herself half blind. I am, and have
been, perfectly calm, and am merely tired with the great number of
friends whom I have seen to-day ... Mrs. Morgan, Hannah Rowe, and my
own darling Marianne,[23] who stayed with me during the whole of the
time that the play was acting, which I passed at George Robins’s.
Marianne is going with me on Monday to the tragedy. Of course I shall
now stay rather longer than I intended, having the copyright of the
play and the volume of _Dramatic Sketches_ to sell, if I can. I
quite long to hear how you, my own dearest darling, have borne the
suspense and anxiety consequent on this affair, which, triumphantly
as it has turned out, was certainly a very nervous business. They
expect the play to run three times a week till Christmas.”

It is an interesting circumstance to note that the Epilogue—then
considered indispensable—arrived so late that the play proceeded
without it, and the manager proposed its omission altogether. “It was
simply an added danger,” he said; “could do no good in the case of a
failure, and stopped the applause when the play was a success.” It
was the first occasion on which such a decision had been given and
acted upon.

The proposed remuneration for _Foscari_ was excellent, and the
copyright of the play, together with the volume of _Dramatic
Scenes_, were sold for a good figure to Whittaker. The latter work
Miss Mitford had to complete, and in writing to Sir William Elford,
thanking him for congratulations on _Foscari’s_ success, she told
him: “I am just returned from passing a brilliant fortnight in
London... and heard a great deal more literary news than I have head
to remember or time to tell. For, alas! my dear Sir William, the
holiday time of our correspondence is past. I am now a poor slave of
the lamp, chained to the desk as a galley slave to his oar, and am
at present triply engaged; for the monthly periodical publications,
which I have been too much engaged to supply; to the Annuals, which,
to my sorrow, are just on, and have begun dunning me again; and to my
own bookseller, who has bought my _Dramatic Scenes_.”


FOOTNOTES:

[22] Mrs. Frances Trollope, a noted author, died 1863.

[23] Marianne Skerrett—a connection of Macready’s. She subsequently
held a position in Queen Victoria’s household, as superintendent of
the Queen’s dressers.




                             CHAPTER XX

          MACREADY’S RESERVATION, AND LORD LYTTON’S PRAISE


Notwithstanding the success of _Foscari_ and the apparently
overwhelming literary output of its author during the year 1826, it
is fairly certain that the financial position of the household at
Three Mile Cross remained as before. There had been, of course, the
acquisition of the pony and chaise—originally purchased so that Dr.
and Mrs. Mitford might take exercise in a form they both enjoyed and,
in the case of the latter, certainly required—but this, so far as
can be ascertained, was the only extravagance in expenditure that
had been indulged in. The production of _Foscari_—if the run lasted
for twenty performances—was to bring in £400, and the copyright of
the play and the sale of the _Dramatic Scenes_ was fixed at £150, a
total of £550 as estimated income at the end of 1826. Then there were
the regular payments from _Blackwood’s_, and these, together with
the odd items gathered from the “Annuals”—the editors of which were
actually dunning Miss Mitford for contributions—must have brought
the receipts up to considerably over £600, even if we estimate most
modestly. Such an income for a family of three persons, plus the
housekeeper, maid and odd-man for stable and garden, living in a
glorified cottage in a tiny village, seems to us to represent a very
comfortable sum upon which to exist for, let us say, twelve months.

And yet in June, 1827, we find Miss Mitford writing to a friend: “We
are as poor as poor can be and are ourselves living on credit.” It is
true that she added, “we have only received one hundred pounds from
the theatre,” but, even so, that would leave an estimated balance
of £300—a sum which would scarcely justify such a family in living
on credit. Where did the money go? We confess to being nonplussed,
and can only suggest that the extravagance and improvidence of Dr.
Mitford were still to the fore and still being acquiesced in and
glossed over by his daughter, for Mrs. Mitford could hardly be held
to blame now that she was unfitted to exercise any control whatever
over domestic matters.

These are problems which will never be solved, but of this we can
be certain: that Miss Mitford was still working as hard as ever to
keep the family ship afloat. A letter to William Harness, written in
March, 1827, gives an outline of a new play, _Inez de Castro_, upon
which, after consulting her friends, she worked diligently, and was
able to send it up to Kemble during the year 1828.

In addition to this there was in active preparation a third volume
of _Our Village_, the publication of which was arranged for by Dr.
Mitford in person. To him, then lodging at “Old Betty’s Coffee House,
behind the new church, Strand,” his daughter wrote in February,
1828:—

“Nothing, my own dearest, was ever more comfortable and satisfactory
than the manner in which you have managed this affair. Pray write
to George Whittaker directly. Of course we must not take a farthing
less than one hundred and fifty pounds, when we are sure of it from
such a respectable quarter as Longman’s. I never had the slightest
hesitation in my liking for that house, except their name for
_closeness_; but certainly this offer is very liberal. You have done
the business most excellently—just as I thought you would.” (The
Doctor was evidently playing off Longman’s against his godson.) “God
grant you an equal success with the dramatic affair! I am not the
least afraid of your management there. I’ll never write a play again,
for I daresay Longman’s people would give a good price for a novel.
If you can, without inconvenience, will you bring me a bottle of
eau-de-Cologne?—this is a piece of extravagance upon the strength of
the fifty pounds; but don’t buy anything else. And pray, my darling,
get quit of the dogs.”

The dramatic affair mentioned in this letter evidently concerned the
long-postponed production in London of _Rienzi_, and as Dr. Mitford’s
prolonged absence in town seemed futile, his daughter wrote, still
to the care of “Old Betty’s,” informing him that she could no longer
bear the suspense, and that she had written to Kemble to say that she
was coming to town immediately, and would drive at once to his house,
where, “if he cannot see me then, I have requested him to leave word
when and where he will see me.”

The matter was evidently settled and the play arranged to be
produced at Drury Lane Theatre on Saturday, October 11. Writing this
information to Sir William Elford a week or so before the production,
Miss Mitford said: “Mr. Young plays the hero, and has been studying
the part during the whole vacation; and a new actress[24] makes her
first appearance in the part of the heroine. This is a very bold
and hazardous experiment, no new actress having come out in a new
play within the memory of man; but she is young, pretty, unaffected,
pleasant-voiced, with great sensibility, and a singularly pure
intonation—a qualification which no actress has possessed since
Mrs. Siddons. Stanfield[25] is painting the new scenes, one of which
is an accurate representation of Rienzi’s house. This building
still exists in Rome, and is shown there as a curious relique of the
domestic architecture of the Middle Ages. They have got a sketch
which they sent for on purpose, and they are hunting up costumes
with equal care; so that it will be very splendidly brought out, and
I shall have little to fear, except from the emptiness of London
so early in the season. If you know any one likely to be in that
great desert so early in the year, I know that you will be so good
as to mention me and my tragedy. I do not yet know where I shall
be. I think of going to town in about a fortnight, and, if the play
succeeds, shall remain there about the same time.”

Mrs. S. C. Hall, in her _Memories_, gives us a delightful picture
of the flurry and bustle which preceded the _Rienzi_ production, a
bustle which was accentuated by an alteration of the date to one week
earlier. Miss Mitford was up in town superintending the arrangements,
lodging meanwhile at the house of her friend, Mrs. Hofland, in Newman
Street. “Mrs. Hofland invited us to meet her there one morning. All
the world was talking about the expected play, and all the world was
paying court to its author.

“‘Mary,’ said Mrs. Hofland to her visitors, ‘is a little grand and
stilted just now. There is no doubt the tragedy will be a great
success; they all say so in the green-room; and Macready told me it
was a wonderful tragedy—an extraordinary tragedy “_for a woman to
have written_.” The men always make that reservation, my dear; they
cramp us, my dear, and then reproach us with our lameness; but Mary
did not hear it, and I did not tell her. She is supremely happy just
now, and so is her father, the doctor. Yes, it is no wonder that she
should be a little stilted—such grand people coming to call and
invite them to dinner, and all the folk at the theatre down-upon-knee
to her—it is such a contrast to her life at Three Mile Cross.’

“‘But,’ I said, ‘she deserves all the homage that can be rendered
her—her talents are so varied. Those stories of _Our Village_
have been fanned by the pure breezes of “sunny Berkshire,” and are
inimitable as pictures of English rural life; and she has also
achieved the highest walk in tragedy——’

“‘For a woman,’ put in dear Mrs. Hofland. She had not forgiven our
great tragedian—then in the zenith of his popularity—for his
ungallant reserve.”

It is pleasant to read that Macready could praise this tragedy,
although we cannot forget that spiteful entry in his Diary, under
date November 24, 1836—“I have no faith in her power of writing a
play.”

Stilted or not, Miss Mitford was contented to appear in a garb which
spoke, all too plainly, of the country cottage and country fashion.

“I certainly was disappointed,” continues Mrs. Hall, “when a stout
little lady, tightened up in a shawl, rolled into the parlour in
Newman Street, and Mrs. Hofland announced her as Miss Mitford; her
short petticoats showing wonderfully stout leather boots, her shawl
_bundled_ on, and a little black coal-scuttle bonnet—when bonnets
were expanding—added to the effect of her natural shortness and
rotundity; but her manner was that of a cordial country gentlewoman;
the pressure of her fat little hands (for she extended both) was
warm; her eyes, both soft and bright, looked kindly and frankly into
mine; and her pretty, rosy mouth, dimpled with smiles that were
always sweet and friendly. At first I did not think her at all ‘grand
or stilted,’ though she declared she had been quite spoilt—quite
ruined since she came to London, with all the fine compliments she
had received; but the trial was yet to come. ‘Suppose—suppose
_Rienzi_ should be——,’ and she shook her head. Of course, in
full chorus, we declared that could not be. ‘No! she would not
spend an evening with us until after the first night; if the play
went ill, or even coldly, she would run away, and never be again
seen or heard of; if it succeeded——’ She drew her rotund person
to its full height, and endeavoured to stretch her neck, and the
expression of her face assumed an air of unmistakable triumph. She
was always pleasant to look at, and had her face not been cast in
so broad—so ‘outspread’—a mould, she would have been handsome;
even with that disadvantage, if her figure had been tall enough to
carry her head with dignity, she would have been so, but she was most
vexatiously ‘dumpy’; but when Miss Mitford spoke, the awkward effect
vanished—her pleasant voice, her beaming eyes and smiles, made you
forget the wide expanse of face; and the roly-poly figure, when
seated, did not appear really short.”

On October 4 _Rienzi_ was played—played to crowded houses, with
audiences so rapt that a pin might have been heard had one dropped in
the house. The author, fearful of failure, dare not witness the first
production, but remained near at hand, praying for success from her
inmost soul, “for on it hangs the comfort of those far dearer to me
than myself.” It was Haydon who was the first to bring her the news
of success, and it was a message the bearer of which she never forgot.

On October 20 she wrote informing Sir William Elford that “the
triumph has been most complete and decisive—the houses crowded—and
the attention such as has not been since Mrs. Siddons. How long
the run may continue I cannot say, for London is absolutely empty;
but even if the play were to stop to-night, I should be extremely
thankful—more thankful than I have words to tell; the impression
has been so deep and so general. You should have been in London, or
seen the newspapers as a whole, to judge of the exceedingly strong
sensation that has been produced.”

“The reception of this tragedy,” wrote George Daniel, the famous
critic and Editor of _Cumberland’s British Theatre_, “is a proof
that, though the public have been wont to feed on garbage, they
have no disinclination to wholesome food.... If in the character of
Rienzi, Miss Mitford has shown that she can write with masculine
energy, let Claudia bear witness that her wonted dominion over the
heart is still in full force; that, with the power of agitating
the soul by the fierce conflict of contending passions, a fine
sensibility, a true pathos, a bewitching tenderness, are still
her own, to relieve and illumine the dark shadows that veil the
mysterious grandeur of the tragic muse.

“The sentiments are just and noble; the language is vigorous,
picturesque and poetical.

“It was to be expected that the actor who plays Macbeth and Hamlet
with such skill and effect as Mr. Young should be highly successful
in Rienzi. His performance was a fine specimen of the Kemble
school—chaste, vigorous and grand. Miss Phillips proved herself
fully equal to sustain the character of the gentle Claudia. Her
excellence lies in the expression of tenderness.”

Congratulations poured in upon the author from all quarters, and
these, with countless invitations to festivities in her honour,
nearly turned her head. Fulfilling a promise made at the Hofland’s
house to Mrs. Hall, she went to dinner one evening during the run
of _Rienzi_, and was, unconsciously, the cause of much merriment,
fortunately suppressed. Mrs. Hall describes her as not appearing
to advantage that evening; “her manner was constrained, and even
haughty. She got up tragedy looks, which did not harmonize with her
naturally playful expression. She seated herself in a high chair, and
was indignant at the offer of a footstool, though her feet barely
touched the ground; she received those who wished to be introduced
to her _en reine_; but such was her popularity just then, that all
were gratified. She was most unbecomingly dressed in a striped
satin something, neither high nor low, with very short sleeves,
for her arms were white and finely formed; she wore a large yellow
turban, which added considerably to the size of her head. She had
evidently bought the hideous thing _en route_, and put it on, in the
carriage, as she drove to our house, for pinned at the back was a
somewhat large card, on which were written in large letters, ‘VERY
CHASTE—ONLY 5_s._ 3_d._’ I had observed several of our party passing
behind the chair, whispering and tittering, and soon ascertained the
cause. Under pretence of settling her turban, I removed the obnoxious
notice; and, of course, she never knew that so many wags had been
merry at her cost.”

All very amusing; and yet, a picture which cannot fail to evoke our
sympathy for the little woman so anxious to enjoy to the full her
wonderful hour of success.

The play ran for fifty nights and enjoyed a truly remarkable sale
in book form. In view of the popularity of _Rienzi_ and, possibly,
because she feared it might affect the run in some way, Miss Mitford
now begged Kemble to postpone the production of _Inez de Castro_
until some future date, to which he, of course, agreed.

Meanwhile, and in the November of the same year—that is, while
_Rienzi_ was still running—she made preparations towards the writing
of a new play, founded on a German story, and to be called _Otto of
Wittelsbach_.

Upon her return to Three Mile Cross she was again inundated with
congratulations, both personal and written, and this, of course,
proved a serious delay to her work, and, incidentally, led to a
temporary break in her correspondence with her old friend, Sir
William Elford. Conscience-stricken, she sent him a pretty letter—an
amusing blend of contrition and excuse—on her birthday.

“Thinking over those whom I love and those who have been kind to me,
as one does on these annual occasions, it occurred to me, my dear
friend, that I had most unkindly checked your warmhearted interest
in my doings. I was very busy—not quite well—and overwhelmed,
beyond anything that can be conceived, by letters and visits of
congratulation. I am now quite well again; and though still with much
to do—much that I ought to have done to make up—yet, having fairly
stemmed the tide of formal compliments, I steal a moment to tell
you and your dear circle that _Rienzi_ continues prosperous. It has
passed the twentieth night, which, you know, insures the payment of
four hundred pounds from the theatre (the largest price that any play
can gain); and the sale of the tragedy has been so extraordinary,
that I am told the fourth edition is nearly exhausted—which, as
the publisher told me each edition would consist of at least two
thousand, makes a circulation of eight thousand copies in two
months.... Heaven grant I may ever do as well again! I shall have
hard work to write up to my own reputation, for certainly I am at
present greatly overrated.”

Among the many tributes of praise received by _Rienzi’s_ author none
gave greater delight than the one embodied in Lord Lytton’s Preface
to his novel, _Rienzi_, which first appeared in 1835. “I cannot
conclude,” it runs, “without rendering the tribute of my praise and
homage to the versatile and gifted Author of the beautiful Tragedy of
_Rienzi_. Considering that our hero be the same—considering that we
had the same materials from which to choose our several stories—I
trust I shall be found to have little, if at all, trespassed
upon ground previously occupied. With the single exception of a
love-intrigue between a relative of Rienzi and one of the antagonist
party, which makes the plot of Miss Mitford’s Tragedy, and is little
more than an episode in my Romance, having slight effect on the
conduct and none on the fate of the hero, I am not aware of any
resemblance between the two works; and even _this_ coincidence I
could easily have removed, had I deemed it the least advisable; but
it would be almost discreditable if I had _nothing_ that resembled a
performance so much it were an honour to imitate.”


FOOTNOTES:

[24] Louisa Anne Phillips; she was only sixteen when she made her
début.

[25] W. Clarkson Stanfield—the famous marine-painter.




                             CHAPTER XXI

                           A GREAT SORROW


Prominent among the many and varied characteristics of Miss Mitford’s
life is the remarkable and unfailing interest she ever displayed
towards struggling genius. Nothing gave her more pleasure than news
of some individual who, possibly humbly born, was making a strenuous
fight for fame; while to be brought into personal relationship with
the struggler was a circumstance which seemed at once to quicken her
mothering instinct, and it would not be long before she became a
self-constituted champion, using her influence to secure the interest
and support of all who were likely to be of service to her protégé.

For Haydon she had an unfailing regard and would fight his battles
with any who dared to disparage him or his work in her hearing.
Of Talfourd’s achievements she was never tired of talking and
writing, even after he had forfeited any claim to her interest by
his stupid jealousy. Lough, the sculptor, son of a small farmer in
Northumberland, excited her admiration when, barely two years after
he had left his father’s cornfields, he achieved fame with his Statue
of Milo. And now, following her own success with _Rienzi_, we find
her interesting herself in young Lucas, the painter, of whom she
wrote to Harness: “He is only twenty-one, was bound to Reynolds, the
engraver, and practised the art which he was resolved to pursue,
secretly, in his own room, in hours stolen from sleep and needful
exercise, and minutes from necessary food. Last July he became his
own master, and since then he has regularly painted. Everybody almost
that sees his pictures desires to sit, and he is already torn to
pieces with business. In short, I expect great things of him. But
what I especially like is his character. I have seen nothing in all
my life more extraordinary than his union of patience and temper and
rationality, with a high and ardent enthusiasm.” That was written
in the January of 1828. In the following November she wrote to
Haydon: “I am now going to tell you something which I earnestly hope
will neither vex nor displease you; if it do, I shall grieve most
heartily—but I do not think it will. The patron of a young artist
of great merit (Mr. Lucas) has made a most earnest request that I
will sit to him. He comes here to paint it—and there is a double
view; first to get two or three people hereabout to sit to him; next
to do him good in London, by having in the Exhibition the portrait
of a person whose name will probably induce people to look at it,
and bring the painting into notice. The manner in which this was
pressed upon me by a friend to whom I owe great gratitude was such
as I really could not refuse—especially as it can by no accident be
injurious to your splendid reputation, that an ugly face which you
happen to have taken, should be copied by another. There is a project
of having the portrait engraved, which would increase the benefit
that they anticipate to Mr. Lucas, and would be so far satisfactory
to us as it would supersede a villainous print out of some magazine,
from a drawing of Miss Drummond’s, which is now selling in the
shops.” To this Haydon good-naturedly replied that he would not be
offended and that he should be glad to be of use to Mr. Lucas, or of
any service to the print; but, as a matter of fact, he was not at all
pleased and was really jealous of the young painter for a while.

Meanwhile the sittings for the Lucas portrait took place, and by
January of 1829 the picture was advanced enough for its original
to bestow her praise. Sir William Elford was, of course, among the
earliest to learn the particulars. “The portrait is said by everybody
to be a work of art. It certainly is a most graceful and elegant
picture—a very fine piece of colour, and, they say, a very strong
likeness. It was difficult, in painting me, to steer between the
Scylla and Charybdis of making me dowdy, like one of my own rustic
heroines, or dressed out like a tragedy queen. He has managed the
matter with infinite taste, and given to the whole figure the look
of a quiet gentlewoman. I never saw a more lady-like picture. The
dress is a black velvet hat, with a long, drooping black feather; a
claret-coloured high gown; and a superb open cloak of gentianella
blue, the silvery fur and white satin lining of which are most
exquisitely painted and form one of the most beautiful pieces of
drapery that can be conceived. The face is thoughtful and placid,
with the eyes looking away—a peculiarity which, they say, belongs to
my expression.”

Assuming that these millinery and drapery details were understandable
to Sir William, the catalogue must have given him something of a
shock, for he would assuredly wonder what had come over his little
friend, in the first place, to have become possessed of such a heap
of finery and, in the second place, to have submitted to being decked
out in it.

The truth is that Lady Madelina Palmer—wife of the Reading Member,
Fyshe Palmer—had taken a leading part in the arrangement for this
portrait and, determined that the author of _Rienzi_ should make
a brave show, had dressed up the homely figure in some of her own
society garments. The effect was worse than that of a parlour-maid
masquerading as the mistress, for Miss Mitford had neither the figure
nor the artificiality which could set off the bedizenments of a
duke’s daughter. Poor Lucas—“the sweet young boy,” Miss Mitford
afterwards called him—fumed inwardly when he saw what he had to
portray, daring not to criticize lest he offend the owner of the
clothes, who was near by. He stuck manfully to his task, fretting at
the bad taste of the whole thing, only to cancel the picture in the
end. Fortunately an engraving of the picture has been preserved, of
which we are able to present a copy in these pages. As a picture it
is undoubtedly graceful and admirably proportioned, but as regards
the _tout ensemble_ it must be regarded as a failure.

[Illustration: Mary Russell Mitford.

(From a painting by John Lucas, 1829.)]

During the sitting Miss Mitford composed some graceful lines to the
painter, which are worthy of quotation here, because apart from their
intrinsic value as a poetical tribute, they also contain a piece of
self-portraiture most deftly interwoven:—


“TO MR. LUCAS

(_Written whilst sitting to him for my Portrait, December, 1828_).

    “Oh, young and richly gifted! born to claim
     No vulgar place amidst the sons of fame;
     With shapes of beauty haunting thee like dreams,
     And skill to realize Art’s loftiest themes:
     How wearisome to thee the task must be
     To copy these coarse features painfully;
     Faded by time and paled by care, to trace
     The dim complexion of this homely face;
     And lend to a bent brow and anxious eye
     Thy patient toil, thine Art’s high mastery.
     Yet by that Art, almost methinks Divine,
     By touch and colour, and the skilful line
     Which at a stroke can strengthen and refine,
     And mostly by the invisible influence
     Of thine own spirit, gleams of thought and sense
     Shoot o’er the careworn forehead, and illume
     The heavy eye, and break the leaden gloom:
     Even as the sunbeams on the rudest ground
     Fling their illusive glories wide around,
     And make the dullest scene of Nature bright
     By the reflexion of their own pure light.”

During the year Dr. Mitford developed a most curious and inexplicable
dislike to his daughter’s friends and acquaintances. Possibly he
was growing tired of the congratulatory callers, but even so, he
must surely have recognized that this sort of thing was the penalty
exacted of popularity. “My father,” she wrote to William Harness,
“very kind to me in many respects, very attentive if I’m ill, very
solicitous that my garden should be nicely kept, that I should go
out with him, and be amused—is yet, so far as art, literature, and
the drama are concerned, of a temper infinitely difficult to deal
with. He hates and despises them, and all their professors—looks on
them with hatred and with scorn; and is constantly taunting me with
my ‘friends’ and my ‘people’ (as he calls them), reproaching me if I
hold the slightest intercourse with author, editor, artist, or actor,
and treating with frank contempt every one not of a station in the
county. I am entirely convinced that he would consider Sir Thomas
Lawrence, Sir Walter Scott, and Mrs. Siddons as his inferiors.
Always this is very painful—strangely painful.

“Since I have known Mr. Cathcart I can say with truth that he has
never spoken to me or looked at me without ill-humour; sometimes
taunting and scornful—sometimes more harsh than you could fancy.
Now, he ought to remember that it is not for my own pleasure, but
from a sense of duty, that I have been thrown in the way of these
persons; and he should allow for the natural sympathy of similar
pursuits and the natural wish to do the little that one so powerless
and poor can do to bring merit (and that of a very high order)
into notice. It is one of the few alleviations of a destiny that
is wearing down my health and mind and spirits and strength—a
life spent in efforts above my powers, and which will end in the
workhouse, or in a Bedlam, as the body or the mind shall sink first.
He ought to feel this; but he does not. I beg your pardon for vexing
you with this detail. I do not often indulge in such repining.”

It is difficult to read such a letter without experiencing a feeling
of intensest indignation against the almost inhuman selfishness of
Dr. Mitford, who, content to batten on the fruits of his daughter’s
industry, would yet make her path more difficult by his unreasonable
and capricious jealousy. The incident can only be likened to that of
a brute creature biting the hand that feeds him. And what, after all,
was the cause of this cruel conduct? Nothing other than that his
daughter was interesting herself in a young actor whose welfare she
hoped to promote.

Contrast this episode with one of a few months later, which Miss
Mitford was delighted to relate—it showed such admirable traits
in the “dear papa’s” character, and could not go unrecorded. “Dash
has nearly been killed to-day, poor fellow! He got into a rabbit
burrow so far that he could neither move backward nor forward; and my
father, two men and a boy, were all busy digging for upwards of two
hours, in a heavy rain, to get him out. They had to penetrate through
a high bank, with nothing to guide them but the poor dog’s moans. You
never saw any one so full of gratitude, or so sensible of what his
master has done for him, as he is.... My father was wet to the skin;
but I am sure he would have dug till this time rather than any living
creature, much less his own favourite dog, should have perished so
miserably.”

In the tragedy of _Rienzi_ there are some fine lines embodied in
Rienzi’s injunction to his daughter, which we cannot refrain from
quoting at this point:—

              “Claudia, in these bad days,
    When men must tread perforce the flinty path
    Of duty, hard and rugged; fail not thou
    Duly at night and morning to give thanks
    To the all-gracious Power, that smoothed the way
    For woman’s tenderer feet. She but looks on,
    And waits and prays for the good cause, whilst man
    Fights, struggles, triumphs, dies!”

Did we not know that Miss Mitford was incapable of a harsh thought
towards her father, we should be inclined to read a satire into these
lines. Who smoothed the way for her? What time had she wherein to
wait and pray? Her days she spent in treading the flinty path of
duty, made more rugged and hard by that one who, had he done his
duty, would have exerted himself rather in smoothing the way.

Writing to Haydon late in the year to congratulate him on a success,
she said:—“Be quite assured that my sympathy with you and with
art is as strong as ever, albeit the demonstration have lost its
youthfulness and its enthusiasm, just as I myself have done. The
fact is that I am much changed, much saddened—am older in mind than
in years—have entirely lost that greatest gift of nature, animal
spirits, and am become as nervous and good-for-nothing a person
as you can imagine. Conversation excites me sometimes, but only,
I think, to fall back with a deader weight. Whether there be any
physical cause for this, I cannot tell. I hope so, for then perhaps
it may pass away; but I rather fear that it is the overburthen, the
sense that more is expected of me than I can perform, which weighs me
down and prevents me doing anything. I am ashamed to say that a play
bespoken last year at Drury Lane, and wanted by them beyond measure,
is not yet nearly finished. I do not even know whether it will be
completed in time to be produced this season. I try to write it and
cry over my lamentable inability, but I do not get on. Women were
not meant to earn the bread of a family—I am sure of that—there is
a want of strength.... God bless you and yours! Do not judge of the
sincerity of an old friendship, or the warmth of an old friend, by
the unfrequency or dulness of her letters.”

Added to all this weight of work and the forbearance exacted of her
by her father, there was the worry consequent upon Mrs. Mitford’s
failing health. Judging by the letters of the period it is evident
that the mother’s condition was growing serious. Her mind was often
a blank and, as the winter drew on, there was a recurrence of the
asthma which sapped the little strength remaining to her. “My mother,
_whom few things touch now_, is particularly pleased,” wrote Miss
Mitford to William Harness _à propos_ of a visit he had promised
to pay them, and concerning which she added:—“You don’t know how
often I have longed to press you to come to us, but have always been
afraid; you are used to things so much better, and I thought you
would find it dull.”

On Boxing-Day, 1829, Mrs. Mitford’s condition was very grave, for
she was seized with apoplexy, and had to be put to bed. There she
lingered hovering between life and death until the morning of
January 2, 1830, when she passed away, in the eightieth year of her
age. The account of her last illness and death is amongst the most
touching things ever penned by her daughter—to whom sentimentality
was abhorrent. It is too long for extensive quotation, but we cannot
forbear making a brief extract describing the last sad moments.

“She was gone. I had kissed her dear hand and her dear face just
before. She looked sweet, and calm, and peaceful: there was even a
smile on her dear face. I thought my heart would have broken, and my
dear father’s too.

“On Saturday I did not see her; I tried, but on opening the door
I found her covered by a sheet, and had not courage to take it
down.... On Thursday I saw her for the last time, in the coffin,
with the dear face covered, and gathered for her all the flowers I
could get—chrysanthemums (now a hallowed flower), white, yellow
and purple—laurustinus, one early common primrose, a white Chinese
primrose, bay and myrtle from a tree she liked, verbena, and
lemon-grass also. I put some of these in the coffin, with rosemary,
and my dear father put some.

“We kissed her cold hand, and then we followed her to her grave in
Shinfield Church, near the door, very deep and in a fine soil, with
room above it for her own dear husband and her own dear child. God
grant we may tread in her steps!... No human being was ever so
devoted to her duties—so just, so pious, so charitable, so true,
so feminine, so industrious, so generous, so disinterested, so
lady-like—never thinking of herself, always of others—the best
mother, the most devoted wife, the most faithful friend.... Oh, that
I could but again feel the touch of that dear hand! God forgive me my
many faults to her, blessed angel, and grant that I may humbly follow
in her track!... She told Harriet Palmer (of whom she was fond) that
she meant to get a guinea, and have her father’s old Bible—the
little black Bible which she read every day—beautifully bound, with
her initials on it, and give it to me. She told me, when _Otto_
should be performed, she wanted a guinea—but not why—and would not
take it before. It shall be done, blessed saint!”




                            CHAPTER XXII

              “THE WORKHOUSE—A FAR PREFERABLE DESTINY”


“For my own part I have plenty that must be done; much connected
painfully with my terrible grief; much that is calculated to force
me into exertion, by the necessity of getting money to meet the
inevitable expenses. Whether it were inability or inertness I cannot
tell, but _Otto_ is still but little advanced. I lament this of all
things _now_; I grieve over it as a fault as well as a misfortune.”

So wrote Miss Mitford to William Harness on January 9, 1830, the day
following her mother’s funeral. And truly there was plenty to be done
and she would need all her woman’s courage, for now “the weight which
Dr. Mitford had divided between two forbearing women had to be borne
by one.”

A new volume—the fourth—of _Our Village_ was now almost ready for
publication, for which Whittaker agreed to give £150, and during the
month an agent from a publisher had called at Three Mile Cross with
a view to arranging for a work to be entitled _Stories of American
Life by American Writers_, which were to be selected and edited, with
prefaces by Miss Mitford. The suggested publisher was Colburn. This,
of course, necessitated a great deal of labour, in the midst of which
the negotiations for the American book nearly fell through by reason
of a quarrel between the publisher and his agent.

It was a most trying period, for Dr. Mitford grew more exacting day
by day, demanding more and more attention from his daughter, whom
he expected—nay, forced—to play cribbage with him until he fell
asleep, when, being released, she read and worked far into the night.
Then, to make matters worse, the Doctor began to imbibe more wine
than was good for him—it will be noticed that his creature comforts
did not diminish—and, whilst returning alone from a dinner-party
in the neighbourhood, was thrown out of the chaise and the horse
and vehicle arrived empty at the cottage in the dead of night. His
daughter, who had been waiting for him, made the discovery that he
was missing and, rousing the man and servants, they all set off along
the road to Shinfield, finding him lying stunned by the roadside
a mile away, “Only think,” wrote his daughter, “what an agony of
suspense it was! Thank Heaven, however, he escaped uninjured, except
being stiff from the jar; and I am recovering my nervousness better
than I could have expected.”

[Illustration: _Very truly yours M. R. Mitford_
THE AUTHOR OF OUR VILLAGE

Miss Mitford “attended by a printer’s devil to whom she is delivering
‘copy.’”

(From a sketch in _Fraser’s Magazine_, May, 1831.)]

The success of _Rienzi_ in America, and the previous re-publication
in that country of a small volume of the _Narrative Poems on the
Female Character_, had brought Miss Mitford’s name prominently before
the American people, and towards the end of 1830 she was gratified by
the receipt of a long letter of congratulation from Miss Catharine
Maria Sedgwick,[26] an American author of some repute in her day, who
had, that year, published a novel entitled _Hope Leslie_. The letter
mentioned the despatch of an author’s copy of one of the writer’s
books and asked for particulars of the village and home-life of Miss
Mitford, whose volumes on _Our Village_ were being read with avidity
across the Atlantic. It drew a long and characteristic reply.

“I rejoice,” wrote Miss Mitford, “to find that your book is not
merely reprinted but published in England, and will contribute,
together with the splendid novels of Mr. Cooper, to make the
literature and manners of a country so nearly connected with us in
language and ways of thinking, known and valued here. I think that
every day contributes to that great end. Cooper is certainly, next to
Scott, the most popular novel writer of the age. Washington Irving
enjoys a high and fast reputation; the eloquence of Dr. Channing, if
less widely, is perhaps more deeply felt; and a lady, whom I need not
name, takes her place amongst these great men, as Miss Edgeworth
does among our Scotts and Chalmerses. I have contributed, or rather,
am about to contribute, my mite to this most desirable interchange
of mind with mind, having selected and edited three volumes of
tales, taken from the great mass of your periodical literature, and
called _Stories of American Life by American Authors_. They are not
yet published, but have been printed some time; and I shall desire
Mr. Colburn to send you a copy, to which, indeed, you have every
way a right, since I owe to you some of the best stories in the
collection.” Then followed a short description of the events which
led up to the removal from Bertram House to the cottage at Three
Mile Cross. “There was, however, no loss of character amongst our
other losses; and it is to the credit of human nature to say, that
our change of circumstances has been attended with no other change
amongst our neighbours and friends than that of increased attentions
and kindness. Indeed I can never be sufficiently thankful for the
very great goodness which I have experienced all through life, from
almost every one with whom I have been connected. My dear mother I
had the misfortune to lose last winter. My dear father still lives, a
beautiful and cheerful old man, whom I should of all things like you
to know, and if ever you do come to our little England, you must come
and see us. We should never forgive you if you did not. Our family
losses made me an authoress ... and I should have abstained from all
literary offence for the future had not poverty driven me against my
will to writing tragic verse and comic prose; thrice happy to have
been able, by so doing, to be of some use to my dear family.”

In response to the invitation contained in this letter Miss Sedgwick
did call at the cottage when, some years later, she paid a visit to
this country. It was a visit ostensibly undertaken to see the sights
and meet the lions—particularly the literary lions. The record of
the trip was embodied in two small volumes published in 1841 by
Moxon, in London, and entitled _Letters from Abroad to Kindred at
Home_. Miss Sedgwick possessed a telling style, picturesque to a
degree, and there can be no shadow of doubt that her “kindred at
home” were delighted to have her spicy epistles, but they shocked
Miss Mitford. “If you have a mind,” the latter wrote to a friend,
“to read the coarsest Americanism ever put forth, read the _Literary
Gazette_ of this last week. I remember, my dear love, how much and
how justly you were shocked at Miss Sedgwick’s way of speaking of
poor Miss Landon’s death; but when you remember that her brother and
nephew had spent twice ten days at our poor cottage—that she had
been received as their kinswoman, and therefore as a friend, you may
judge how unexpected this coarse detail has been. The _Athenæum_ will
give you no notion of the original passage nor the book itself—for
John Kenyon, meeting with it at Moxon’s, cancelled the passage—but
too late for the journals, except the _Athenæum_. Of course its
chief annoyance to me is the finding the aunt of a dear friend so
excessively vulgar. Do get the _Literary Gazette_—for really it must
be seen to be believed.”

We quote the extract from the _Literary Gazette_ of July 10, 1841.

“Our coachman (who, after telling him we were Americans, had
complimented us on our speaking English, ‘and very good English,
too’) professed an acquaintance of some twenty years standing with
Miss M., and assured us that she was one of the ‘cleverest women in
England,’ and ‘the Doctor’ (her father) ‘an ’earty old boy.’ And when
he reined his horses up to her door, and she appeared to receive
us, he said, ‘Now you would not take that little body there for the
great author, would you?’ and certainly we should have taken her
for nothing but a kindly gentlewoman, who had never gone beyond the
narrow sphere of the most refined social life.... Miss M. is truly
‘a little body,’ and dressed a little quaintly, and as unlike as
possible to the faces we have seen of her in the magazines, which
all have a broad humour, bordering on coarseness. She has a pale
grey, soul-lit eye, and hair as white as snow; a wintry sign that
has come prematurely upon her, as like signs come upon us, while
the year is yet fresh and undecayed. Her voice has a sweet, low
tone, and her manner a naturalness, frankness, and affectionateness,
that we have been so long familiar with in their other modes of
manifestation, that it would have been indeed a disappointment not
to have found them.... The garden is filled, matted with flowering
shrubs and vines; the trees are wreathed with honeysuckles and
roses. Oh! that I could give some of my countrywomen a vision of
this little paradise of flowers, that they might learn how taste and
industry and an earnest love and study of the art of garden-culture,
might triumph over small space and small means. In this very humble
home she receives on equal terms the best in the land. Her literary
reputation might have gained for her this elevation, but she started
on vantage-ground, being allied by blood to the Duke of Bedford’s
family.”

Speaking for ourselves, we are inclined to disagree with Miss
Mitford’s strictures. The article is breezy, certainly, and short of
the reference to the ’earty old boy and to herself as “the little
body,” we confess to finding it little short of a very kindly
tribute. As to the concluding sentence of the article, that was,
perhaps, a case of “drawing the long bow,” but then both Miss Mitford
and her mother frequently alluded to the distant connection of the
latter with the Bedford’s, and the fact must have been mentioned by
Miss Mitford in her visitor’s hearing.

As a companion to the _Stories of American Life_, Whittaker
suggested a series of similar stories for children, and it was upon
this project that Miss Mitford worked at the end of 1830 and into
1831. The work was to comprise six volumes—three for children over
ten years of age and three for those of ten and under, and the
publication was completed by the year 1832. Then, as Dr. Mitford’s
exactions were still great and his purse had to be kept well filled,
his daughter’s mind turned once more to the Drama and to the play
of _Charles the First_, which lay neglected for want of official
sanction. The Duke of Devonshire having, by this time, succeeded
the Duke of Montrose as Lord Chamberlain, Miss Mitford made one
more attempt to secure a licence for the banned play. A letter—a
veritable model of courtesy and diplomacy—was despatched to His
Grace with a copy of the work in question:—

  “MY LORD DUKE,—

 “The spirit of liberality and justice to dramatic authors by which
 your Grace’s exercise of the functions of Lord High Chamberlain has
 been distinguished, forms the only excuse for the liberty taken
 in sending my tragedy of _Charles the First_ direct to yourself,
 instead of transmitting it, in the usual mode, from the theatre to
 Mr. Colman. To send it to that gentleman, indeed, would be worse
 than useless, the play having been written at the time of the Duke
 of Montrose, and a licence having been refused to it on account
 of the title and the subject, which Mr. Colman declared to be
 inadmissible on the stage. That this is not the general opinion may
 be inferred from the subject’s having been repeatedly pointed out
 by different critics as one of the most dramatic points of English
 history, and especially recommended to me both by managers and
 actors. That such could not always have been the feeling of those
 in power is proved by the fact that there is actually a tragedy, on
 the very same subject and bearing the very same title, written some
 sixty or seventy years since by Havard the player, in which John
 Kemble, at one time, performed the principal character, and which
 might be represented any night, at any other theatre, without the
 necessity of a licence or the possibility of an objection. It is the
 existence of this piece which makes the prohibition of mine seem
 doubly hard, and emboldens me to appeal to your Grace’s kindness
 against the rigorous decree of your predecessor.... I am not aware
 that there is in the whole piece one line which could be construed
 into bearing the remotest analogy to present circumstances, or that
 could cause scandal or offence to the most loyal. If I had been
 foolish or wicked enough to have written such things, the reign of
 William the Fourth and the administration of Earl Grey would hardly
 be the time to produce them.”

To this the Duke replied that he could not—consistently with
his established rule not to reverse the decisions of his
predecessor—license the play, and so the matter was dropped for a
time.

Meanwhile active preparations were in progress for the fifth and
last volume of _Our Village_, and, during the year, there was a
mild rehearsal at the cottage of a Scena, entitled _Mary Queen of
Scots’ Farewell to France_, which Miss Mitford had composed at the
instigation of a Reading young man named Charles Parker, who had set
the Scena to music—“a sweet and charming lad in mind and temper, a
Master of the Royal Musical Academy of London, not yet twenty-one,”
was Miss Mitford’s description of him.

This composition was declared, so the author said, to be “as fine as
anything in English music,” and those who were privileged to hear
the village rehearsal were charmed with it, although they heard it
to disadvantage, “for it makes fifty pages of music, and requires
the united bands of Drury Lane and the Royal Musical Academy and
above fifty chorus-women. The first five lines (an almost literal
translation of Mary’s own verses,

    ‘Adieu! plaisant pays de France’),

are the air—then the blank verse in exquisite recitative—then a
magnificent chorus—then the song again—and then a chorus fading
into the distance. No woman in England except Mrs. Wood can sing it;
so that whether it will be performed in public is doubtful; but it
is something to have furnished the thread on which such pearls are
strung.” Unfortunately the composition never did obtain a hearing, so
far as we can discover. Following this, and late in the year 1831,
with a view to helping forward the fortunes of Mr. Parker, Miss
Mitford became again “immersed in music.” “I am writing an opera
for and with Charles Parker; and you would really be diverted to
find how learned I am become on the subject of choruses and double
choruses and trios and septets. Very fine music carries me away more
than anything—but then it must be _very_ fine. Our opera will be
most splendid—a real opera—all singing and recitative—blank verse
of course, and rhyme for the airs, with plenty of magic—an Eastern
fairy tale.” This was _Sadak and Kalasrade_, of which an unkind but
truthful critic wrote: “It was only once performed. Wretchedly played
and sung as it was, it hardly deserved a better fate. The music, by a
now forgotten pupil of our Academy of Music, was heavy and valueless,
and the dramatist, though graceful and fresh as a lyrist, had not the
instinct, or had not mastered the secret of writing for music.” This,
of course, meant so much wasted time and energy at a period when both
were valuable and needed conserving as much as possible.

It was unfortunate that the opera proved such a failure, for on its
success the Mitfords were relying for the replenishment of their
exchequer. “Shall we be able to go on if the Opera is delayed till
February?” wrote Miss Mitford in September, 1832, to her father,
then staying at the _Sussex Hotel_ in Bouverie Street. She had been
busy during the spring and summer in making up lost time on the
preparation of the last volume of _Our Village_. It was published in
the autumn, but as its author made no mention of the matter in her
letter to her father, we presume that an advance payment on account
had been received and used. In the same letter she alludes to a
notice of objection to the Doctor’s vote, “not on account of the
vote, but for fear it should bring on that abominable question of the
qualification for the magistracy. Ask our dear Mr. Talfourd whether
the two fields, forty shilling freehold, will be enough, without
bringing out the other affair. In short, it worries me exceedingly;
and if there were any danger in it one way or other it would be best
to keep out of the way and lose the vote, rather than do anything
that could implicate the other and far more important matter.” In
so far as the magistracy was concerned it was astonishing that the
matter had never been questioned.

With her father in London—the seat of his temptations—spending her
hard-earned income, she grew low-spirited and ill. Her complaint,
she explained in a letter to William Harness, was one brought on
by anxiety, fatigue or worry, and she told him how she hesitated
consulting a physician, knowing full well that his prescription
would be “not to write.” The bread had to be earned and the means
secured which would give her father plenty wherewith to enjoy
himself. Added to this were the “levees”—as she called them—which
she was forced to endure all day long by reason of the folk who came
from far and near to call upon her. “Every idle person who comes
within twenty miles gets a letter of introduction, or an introduction
in the shape of an acquaintance, and comes to see my geraniums or
myself—Heaven knows which! I have had seven carriages at once at
the door of our little cottage—and this is terrible when one is not
well.”

While the Doctor was still in London an offer came from one of Miss
Mitford’s cousins—a Mrs. Raggett—suggesting that she should give
up authorship altogether and live with her and her husband, the
scheme being that Miss Mitford should act as reader and secretary to
Mr. Raggett, who was nearly blind, and be a companion to his wife.
“The offer had great temptation,” she told William Harness, “and I
have no doubt we should have been happy together, but it is clear my
father’s comfort would have been destroyed by such an arrangement;
the sacrifice of his old habits—his old friends—the blameless
self-importance which results from his station as Chairman of the
Reading Bench—and his really influential position in this county,
where we are much respected in spite of our poverty, would have been
far too much to ask or to permit. I refused it therefore at once.”

To her old friend, Sir William Elford—not often written to in these
driving days—she wrote: “I must be obliged to get out another book
this spring, although how I shall be able to write it God only knows.
I am glad you like my last volume; I myself hate all my own doings,
and consider the being forced to this drudgery as the greatest
misery that life can afford. But it is my wretched fate and must be
undergone—so long, at least, as my father is spared to me. If I
should have the misfortune to lose him, I shall go quietly to the
workhouse, and never write another line—a far preferable destiny.”


FOOTNOTES:

[26] She was related to the President, General Jackson.




                            CHAPTER XXIII

                   “MY OLDEST AND KINDEST FRIEND.”


“Nature has given us two ears, but only one mouth—why do not we take
the hint?” was a sentence which Macready wrote in his Diary when
suffering the consequences of some ill-advised, hasty utterance. If
only Miss Mitford, with her impulsiveness, had seen this sentence
and could have realized how wise was the advice contained in it,
she would have been a happier woman in many respects. Too often her
eagerness to champion the cause of one of her friends led her to
embitter and estrange another. Among her neighbours was a family
of the name of Merry, and one day, while Talfourd was on a visit
to the Mitford Cottage, Mr. Merry called and in some way affronted
the other. This vexed the hostess considerably at the time, and
was referred to later, when she and the Merrys met at an afternoon
function at Bearwood, the residence of Mr. Walter, of the _Times_.
There was a heated argument, and Miss Mitford took up a resentful
attitude, “certainly with too much violence,” as she afterwards
explained. The occasion was ill-chosen for such an altercation, and
Mr. Merry was deeply offended. Repenting at leisure, Miss Mitford
wrote him an apology, which he would not accept. For six weeks he
nursed his grievance, spreading the tale of Miss Mitford’s offence
among mutual friends. Realizing at last how deeply she had offended,
Miss Mitford sent her old friend the following letter, which we quote
as an instance of her wholehearted contrition.

“I cannot suffer you to leave our neighbourhood for weeks, perhaps
for months, without making one more effort to soften a displeasure
too justly excited—without once more acknowledging my fault, and
entreating your forgiveness. Do not again repulse me—pray do
not! Life is too short, too full of calamity, for an alienation
indefinitely prolonged—a pardon so long suspended. I know you
better, perhaps, than you know yourself, and am sure that, were I
at this moment suffering under any great affliction, you would be
the first—ay, the very first—to soothe and to succour me. If my
father (which may God in his mercy avert!) were dead; if I myself
were on a sick bed, or in prison, or in a workhouse (and you well
know that this is the destiny to which I always look forward),
then you would come to me—I am sure of it. You would be as ready
to fly to my assistance then as the angel of peace and mercy at
your side”—[a tender allusion to Mrs. Merry, who was deeply
grieved at the estrangement].—“But do not wait for that moment; do
not, for an error which has been sincerely and severely repented,
deprive a melancholy and a most anxious existence of one of its few
consolations. Lonely and desolate as I am—with no one belonging to
me in the world but my dear father—poor in every sense, earning
with pain and difficulty a livelihood which every day makes more
precarious, I cannot afford the loss of your sympathy. I say this
without fear of misconstruction. You will understand that what I
regret is the friendship, and intimacy, the everyday intercourse of
mind and of heart, on which even you yourself—so much more happily
placed—did yet set some value. You did like me once; try me again.
You will find me—at least I hope so—all the better for the rigorous
discipline which my mind has lately undergone, the salutary and
unwonted course of self-examination and self-abasement.

“At all events, do not go without a few words of peace and of
kindness. I send you the last flowers of my garden. Your flower seems
to have continued in blossom on purpose to assist in the work of
reconciliation. Do not scorn its sweet breath, or resist its mute
pleadings, but give me in exchange one bunch of the laurustinus for
which I used to ask you last winter, and let it be a token of the
full and perfect reconciliation for which I am a suppliant; and then
I shall cherish it—oh, I cannot tell you how much! Once again,
forgive me—and farewell.”

It is pleasant to record that this touching appeal had, as of course
it would, the desired effect, and the old happy relationship was
renewed.

The year was 1833 and, like many a previous one, it was full of
pecuniary worries and embarrassments. Dr. Mitford was again giving
trouble, seeking to augment his income by some doubtful investment
for which he had, as usual, the tip of some unscrupulous schemer,
to whose class he fell an easy prey. The matter fortunately came to
Miss Mitford’s knowledge, and she wrote off in great haste to William
Harness “to caution you in case you should receive any authority,
from any quarter, to sell out our money in the Funds, not to do
so without communicating with me. I have no doubt of my father’s
integrity, but I think him likely to be imposed on.”

This was a more serious matter than it at first appears. The money in
the Funds was left by Dr. Russell for his daughter and her offspring
and could not therefore be touched without authority from Miss
Mitford, who was her mother’s sole heir. How then did Dr. Mitford
propose to obtain its use? There is only one answer and it is one
which involves the integrity which Miss Mitford did not question.
Harness’s reply was plain and to the point. “Depend upon it the
money shall never be touched with _my_ consent. It was consideration
for your future welfare which prevented my father’s consenting to
its being sold out some years ago, when you had been persuaded,
and wished to persuade him, to your own utter ruin.” [This was
during the stressful time at Bertram House when, with the consent
of her mother, Miss Mitford wrote to Dr. Harness imploring him to
sell out and give her father the use of the money.] “That £3,000 I
consider as the sheet-anchor of your independence, if age should ever
render literature irksome to you, or infirmity incapacitate you for
exertion; and, _while your father lives_, it shall never stir from
its present post in the Funds. After he has ceased (as all fathers
must cease) to live, my first object will be to consult with you
and my most intelligent money-managing friends, and discover the
mode of making the stock most profitable to your comfort, either by
annuity or any other mode that may be thought most advisable. Till
then—_from whatever quarter the proposition may come_—I have but
one black, blank, unqualified _No_ for my answer. I do not doubt Dr.
Mitford’s integrity, but I have not the slightest confidence in his
prudence; and I am fully satisfied that if these three thousand and
odd hundreds of pounds were placed at his disposal _to-day_, they
would fly the way so many other thousands have gone before them,
_to-morrow_. Excuse me saying this; but I cannot help it.”

This letter stands to the lasting credit of its writer and affords
ample proof of his steadfast and unflinching devotion to his trust,
failing which the tragedy of Miss Mitford’s life would have been
deeper than it was. He alone had the power of drawing out the best
that was in Miss Mitford, in getting her to express the moral and
spiritual side of her nature. Art, literature, the Drama she could
talk and write upon to other people, but it was to William Harness
that she would pour out her convictions on the deeper things of life.
He sent her a book of his sermons, and although it reached her at
midnight (having been conveyed from her friend by Dr. Milman to her
father, whom he met at a dinner-party), she sat far into the night,
reading and studying it, and inditing a reply at three o’clock in the
morning while the mood was hot upon her.

“I have read it through—the second part twice through. That second
sermon would have done honour to Shakespeare, and I half expected
to find you quoting him. There would be a tacit hypocrisy, a moral
cowardice, if I were to stop here, and not to confess, what I think
you must suspect, although by no chance do I ever talk about it—that
I do not, or rather cannot, believe all that the Church requires.
I humbly hope that it is not necessary to do so, and that a devout
sense of the mercy of God, and an endeavour, however imperfectly and
feebly, to obey the great precepts of justice and kindness, may be
accepted in lieu of that entire faith which, in me, _will not_ be
commanded. You will not suspect me of thoughtlessness in this matter;
neither, I trust, does it spring from intellectual pride. Few persons
have a deeper sense of their own weakness; few, indeed, can have so
much weakness of character to deplore and to strive against. Do not
answer this part of my letter. It has cost me a strong effort to say
this to you; but it would have been a concealment amounting to a
falsity if I had not, and falsehood must be wrong. Do not notice it;
a correspondence of controversy could only end in alienation, and
I could not afford to lose my oldest and kindest friend—to break
up the close intimacy in which I am so happy and of which I am so
proud.” This was in 1829. In the Spring of 1834 her old friend sent
another of his printed sermons, which again she read and studied
and which drew from her some pronouncements on Disestablishment and
Disendowment of the Church and on questions of Social Reform which
cannot but be read with interest to-day.

“It is a very able and conciliatory plea for the Church. My opinion
(if an insignificant woman may presume to give one) is, that certain
reforms ought to be; that very gross cases of pluralities should be
abolished (it is too sweeping, I think, to say _all_ pluralities);
that some few of the clergy are too rich, and that a great many
are too poor; but (although not holding all her doctrines) I
heartily agree with you that, as an establishment, the Church
ought to remain; for, to say nothing of the frightful precedent of
sweeping away property, a precedent which would not stop there,
the country would be over-run with fanatics, and, in the rural
districts especially, a clergyman (provided he be not a magistrate)
is generally, in _worldly_, as well as spiritual matters, a great
comfort to the poor. But our wise legislators never think of the
rural districts—_never_. They legislate against gin-shops, which are
the evil of great towns, and encourage beer-shops, which are the pest
of the country, the cause of half the poverty and three-fourths of
the demoralization. But the Church must be (as many of her members
_are_) wisely tolerant; bishops must not wage war with theatres, nor
rectors with a Sunday evening game of cricket. If they take up the
arms of the Puritans, the Puritans will beat them.”

The reference in this letter to rectors and Sunday cricket is most
interesting in view of the fact that only a few miles away, in the
village of Eversley, there had just arrived a new curate who, as time
went on, became the rector; and who, among other things, shocked
some of his clerical brethren by actually encouraging manly sports,
such as cricket and quoits, on the village green in the intervals
between the Sunday services. His name was Charles Kingsley and he was
destined to be numbered among the very dear friends of Miss Mitford
in her declining days.

The refusal—the just refusal—of William Harness to entertain
Dr. Mitford’s idea regarding money matters, somewhat upset the
latter’s calculations, besides causing him to be more importunate
in his demands on his daughter. There were, of course, certain sums
coming in regularly from the various magazines, but these were not
sufficient, and so both father and daughter decided to take a bold
risk and endeavour to produce the prohibited play of _Charles the
First_ at some theatre where the jurisdiction of the Lord Chamberlain
did not operate.

Dr. Mitford took the manuscript with him to London in the May of
1834, where, by the kindness of Mr. T. J. Serle—a noted playwright
and actor—he was introduced to Mr. Abbott, who, having left Covent
Garden Theatre and become Manager of the Victoria Theatre in the
Waterloo Road, was a likely person to take up the project. Mr.
Abbott immediately accepted the play and was extremely liberal in
his terms—£200 to be paid down and a fourth share of the profits if
the play ran for a certain number of nights. The negotiations were
somewhat prolonged, but by the end of June the whole matter had been
arranged and Miss Mitford went to town to superintend the rehearsals.
The play was produced in July, with Mr. Cathcart in the cast and
with the prologue both written and spoken by Mr. Serle. It was a
great success, despite the drawbacks attendant on its production
in a minor theatre on the Surrey side of the Thames. Writing to
her friend Miss Jephson, the delighted author said:—“The papers
will of course have told you that both I and my actor have been
successful ... the thing is admirably got up, the theatre beautiful,
and Cathcart’s acting refined, intellectual, powerful and commanding
beyond anything I ever witnessed.... They make a real queen of me,
and would certainly demolish my humility, if I were happy enough to
be humble, though I feel that over-praise, over-estimation, is a far
more humbling thing—a thing that sends you back on your own mind to
ask, ‘Have I deserved this?’ than anything else that can be. For the
first ten days I spent on an average from four to six hours every
morning in the Victoria Theatre, at hard scolding, for the play has
been entirely got up by me; then I dined out amongst twenty or thirty
eminent strangers every evening. Since that I have been to operas and
to pictures, and held a sort of drawing-room every morning; so that
I am so worn out, as to have, for three days out of the last four,
fainted dead away between four and five o’clock, a fine-lady trick
which I never played before, and which teaches me I must return, as
soon as I can, into the country, to write another play and run again
the same round of fatigue, excitement and pleasure. After all, my
primary object is, and has been, to establish Mr. Cathcart.”

[Illustration: Mary Russell Mitford.

(From a drawing by F. R. Say, 1837.)]

Although the Duke of Devonshire could not agree to licence the
play, he was not averse to accepting its Dedication to himself,
acknowledging it in a very gracious note to the author. Thus, set on
their feet once more, the little household pursued a normal course
of existence. The Doctor went to London and his daughter plodded,
exhausted and overdone, at her new book, which was to be called
_Belford Regis_ and be descriptive of life and character in a country
town—Belford Regis being, of course, none other than the adjacent
town of Reading.

It was a project originally undertaken by its author for no other
purpose than to try her hand at delineating the scenery and
characteristics of a town in the same way that she had treated the
country in _Our Village_. The original scheme was for one volume, but
the thing grew and the characters afforded such scope to the writer
that, by the time it was published, it had extended to three volumes.

While Dr. Mitford was in town—he went up in the early part of
1835—he opened up negotiations on the subject with Richard Bentley,
the publisher, and secured very good terms, with the result that
Bentley published _Belford Regis: or Sketches of a Country Town_,
late in the same year. Charming and valuable as the book may be for
its picture of life in the Reading of that day, it cannot compare in
the slightest degree with the similar work which preceded it. It
is slipshod as to style and is full of repetitions, bearing all too
plainly the marks of hurried compilation and the harassed, overworked
mind of its author. Miss Mitford, recognized these faults, but
attributed them to another cause, viz., “its having been sent up at
different times; having been first intended to appear in one volume,
then in two, and now in three volumes.”

It had a certain success; that was inevitable with a book from Miss
Mitford’s pen now that her reputation had been established; but the
success was not maintained, and now _Belford Regis_ is looked upon
as a literary curiosity by students and with affection by all who
claim a more than passing interest in the town which it describes.
The critics of the day were divided in their opinions; some preferred
it to _Our Village_, but most found fault with it in that it pictured
life as too bright and sunny. The author’s own estimate was conveyed
in a letter to Miss Jephson.

“In my opinion it is overloaded with civil notes, and too full of
carelessnesses and trifling repetitions.... Nevertheless, I myself
prefer it to my other prose works, both as bolder and more various
and deeper in sentiment, and as containing one character (a sort of
embodiment of the strong sense and right feeling which I believe to
be common in the middling classes, emphatically _the people_) which
appears and reappears in several of the stories, giving comfortable
proof of the power to carry on a strongly distinguished character
through three volumes which, if I do not comply (as I suppose I must)
with Mr. Bentley’s desire for a novel, will be very valuable.”

This project of a novel was one which Miss Mitford thought upon as a
sort of nightmare. Longmans had proposed it years before but had been
met with a refusal, and now Bentley was renewing the attack, though
he did not succeed.

Altogether the year was one which should have been regarded as
prosperous. It saw the issue of the fourteenth edition of the first
volume of _Our Village_ and the issue of a two-volume edition (five
vols. in two), illustrated with woodcuts by George Baxter, who
visited Three Mile Cross early in the year to take sketches under the
author’s supervision. It also saw the production of the opera _Sadak
and Kalasrade_ at the Lyceum, but this can hardly be accounted a
success as its performance was restricted to one night.

The publication of _Belford Regis_ naturally inspired the writing
of many congratulatory letters to its author and brought shoals of
visitors to the little cottage to see the author and her flowers—the
latter she had described in great detail in the work. Among the
visitors were William and Mary Howitt, both of whom went away charmed
with all they had seen. Mary Howitt told Miss Mitford that her study
of the development of intellect in the heroine of “The Dissenting
Minister,” might pass for the history of her own mind, and that the
author must have lived much amongst rigid Dissenters to give so
exact a picture of the goings-on in the interior of their families.

William Howitt paid his tribute in a delightful account of his visit
which appeared in the _Athenæum_ of August of that same year. It
was entitled, _A Visit to our Village_, and, although Miss Mitford
thought the praise was overdone, she yet hoped her old friend, Sir
William Elford, would read it:—“It is at once so pretty and so kind;
the praise does not describe me as I am, because I fall far short of
the picture; but it is just how I should wish to be—and how very
seldom does that happen!”

And, in addition to all this, the September brought a commission from
the editors of _Chambers’ Edinburgh Journal_. “It is one of the signs
of the times, that a periodical selling for three-halfpence should
engage so high-priced a writer as myself; but they have a circulation
of 200,000 or 300,000.” This was Miss Mitford’s passing comment on
the transaction, but it was to be of far more lasting importance
than she anticipated, resulting as it did in a close friendship with
William Chambers and in a scheme of collaboration in which she took a
prominent part.




                            CHAPTER XXIV

                         VARIOUS FRIENDSHIPS


With the publication of _Belford Regis_ there came slight periods of
rest—rest, that is, from the strenuous and wearing labour of writing
against time in the fulfilment of contracts. During these temporary
lulls in output Miss Mitford wandered about in her small garden,
watching and tending her flowers as would a mother her children. Her
especial delight was in the raising of seedlings, always a source
of keen pleasure to an enthusiastic gardener. To print a catalogue
of all her flowers would fill a large chapter, they were so many
and varied, for scarcely a letter went to any of her flower-loving
friends but it contained some request for a slip of this, or a
cutting from that plant, or else a word of thanks for a floral gift
just received. The popularity of the author of _Our Village_ was so
universal and extended to so many classes of the community that, to
quote one evidence alone, it was no rare thing to find a new rose or
a new dahlia figuring in contemporary florists’ lists as the “Miss
Mitford” or the “Our Village,” a pretty proof, as the author herself
said, “of the way in which gardeners estimate my love of flowers,
that they are constantly calling plants after me, and sending me one
of the first cuttings as presents. There is a dahlia now selling at
ten guineas a root under my name; I have not seen the flower, but
have just had one sent me (a cutting) which will of course blow in
the autumn.” A delightful fancy, this, and one which obtains to this
day, as witness any of the modern horticulturists’ lists.

It was to the culture of geraniums, however, that she principally
devoted herself, “and,” said she, “it is lucky that I do, since
they are comparatively easy to rear and manage, and do not lay one
under any tremendous obligation to receive, for I never buy any.”
She was writing to her friend, Miss Emily Jephson, in Ireland,
with whom she was in fairly regular correspondence, although Miss
Jephson had to share with Sir William Elford the long periods of
silence which betokened their mutual friend’s slavery with the pen
at the little cottage. Referring to these beloved geraniums, Miss
Mitford wrote:—“All my varieties (amounting to at least three
hundred different sorts) have been either presents, or exchanges, or
my own seedlings—chiefly exchanges; for when once one has a good
collection, that becomes an easy mode of enlarging it; and it is one
pleasant to all parties, for it is a very great pleasure to have
a flower in a friend’s garden. You, my own Emily, gave me my first
plants of the potentilla, and very often as I look at them, I think
of you.” One especially fine seedling geranium she named the “Ion,”
a floral tribute to Serjeant Talfourd’s play, upon which he was then
working.

[Illustration: A portrait of Miss Mitford in 1837.

(From Chorley’s _Authors of England_.)]

What a wonderful garden it was!—a veritable garden of friendship
wherein, as the quaint little figure in her calico sun-bonnet
pottered about, picking off dead leaves and stained petals, she
actually communed with her friends whose representatives they were.
This was a pleasure her father could not take from her, indeed, to
his credit be it recorded, it was a pleasure in which he shared.

Talfourd’s play, of which mention was made just now, was a work upon
which he devoted odd moments of leisure snatched from his busy life
of professional duties as one of the leading men of his day at the
Bar. Pope’s lines: “I left no calling for this idle trade, no duty
broke,” is the fitting motto with which he headed his Preface when
the play was published in book form, for, as he said, it was composed
for the most part on journeys while on Circuit, and afterwards
committed to paper, a process of composition which, it may be readily
conceived, extended over a lengthy period. When published it was
dedicated to his old schoolmaster, the Rev. Richard Valpy, D.D., as
“a slender token of gratitude for benefits which cannot be expressed
in words,” and in the course of the Preface there were felicitous
references to “the delightful artist,” Mr. Macready, and to the
“power and beauty” of, among others, “the play of _Rienzi_.”

In Macready’s Diary, under date March 15, 1835, is the entry:—“Forster
told me of Talfourd having completed a tragedy called _Ion_. What an
extraordinary, what an indefatigable man!” He was greatly pleased by
the kind mention of himself in the Preface, and on May 7 made this
significant entry in his Diary:—“Read Talfourd’s tragedy of _Ion_;
pleased with the opening scenes and, as I proceeded, arrested and held
by the interest of the story and the characters, as well as by the very
beautiful thoughts, and the very noble ones, with which the play is
interspersed. How delightful to read his dedication to his master and
benefactor, Dr. Valpy, and the gentle outpourings of his affectionate
heart towards his friends and associates; if one did not love, one
would envy such a use of one’s abilities.”

The play was produced on May 26, 1836, and was a great success,
Macready admitting that he had done better in the performance than he
had been able to attain for some time. May 26 was, curiously enough,
Talfourd’s birthday, and Miss Mitford was among the great host of
friends, invited to do honour to the play and its writer. She went
to town some days previous to the event and was the guest of the
Talfourds at their house at 56, Russell Square. Her letters home
to her father, whom she had left there, are full of the delights of
her visit—the dinners and the diners, among whom were the poets
Wordsworth, Rogers and Robert Browning (the last then but a young and
comparatively unknown man), Stanfield the artist, Landor, Lucas and
William Harness.

After the performance the principal actors repaired to Talfourd’s
house, there to partake of a sumptuous repast to which over fifty
people—leading lights in Art, Letters and the Sciences—sat down.
It was a great function, marked by many complimentary speeches, as
the occasion demanded. Macready, of course, shared the honours with
Talfourd, and, in a moment of exaltation, turned to Miss Mitford
and asked her whether the present occasion did not stimulate her to
write a play. It was an ill-chosen remark, for she was then at the
very height of popularity as the author of the successful _Rienzi_,
but she quickly replied, “Will you act it?” Macready did not answer,
and Harness, who was close by, chaffingly remarked to Miss Mitford,
“Aye, hold him to that.” “When I heard that _that_ was Harness, the
man who, I believe, inflicted such a deep and assassin-like wound
upon me—through _Blackwood’s Magazine_—I could not repress the
expression of indignant contempt which found its way to my face, and
over-gloomed the happy feeling that had before been there.” This was
Macready’s written comment on the incident, but how he had misjudged
Harness throughout this unpleasant affair has been dealt with by us
in a previous chapter.

Miss Mitford knew nothing of the bitterness which her innocent reply
had engendered and fully enjoyed the round of festivities to which
she was invited. On the day following the first performance of _Ion_,
her friend Mr. Kenyon called to take her to see the giraffes—they
were then being exhibited for the first time in this country at the
Zoological Gardens—and on the way suggested they should call at
Gloucester Place for a young friend of his, “a sweet young woman—a
Miss Barrett—who reads Greek as I do French, and has published some
translations from Æschylus and some most striking poems. She is a
delightful young creature; shy, and timid and modest. Nothing but
her desire to see me got her out at all, but now she is coming to us
to-morrow night also.”

This occasion marks an important event in Miss Mitford’s life—her
introduction to Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, which from that moment
grew and strengthened, a fragrant friendship which lasted through
life, much prized by both.

“She is so sweet and gentle,” wrote Miss Mitford to her father, “and
so pretty, that one looks at her as if she were some bright flower;
and she says it is like a dream that she should be talking to me,
whose works she knows by heart.”

Writing next year to her friend Mrs. Martin, Miss Barrett said of
her literary friend: “She stands higher as the authoress of _Our
Village_ than of _Rienzi_, and writes prose better than poetry, and
transcends rather in Dutch minuteness and higher finishing than in
Italian ideality and passion.”

Truth to tell, this visit to London was having the effect of
slightly exalting our gentle village author; she found herself the
very centre of attraction, every one paying her homage. Talfourd’s
house was besieged by callers—not on Talfourd—but on his guest.
Wordsworth was calling every day, chanting the praises of _Rienzi_
and the abilities of its author; the Duke of Devonshire brought her
“a splendid nosegay of lilies of the valley—a thousand flowers
without leaves,” and begged her never to come again to London
without informing him and giving him the opportunity of enjoying
a similar pleasure. Mr. and Mrs. Talfourd grew indignant; they
had not bargained for this when they invited their quaintly-clad,
old-fashioned friend from Three Mile Cross to witness the triumph
of Talfourd and _Ion_! Talfourd was jealous, positively jealous,
and openly showed it by a marked coolness towards his old friend, a
coolness which she pretended not to notice, although it hurt her very
much. “They are much displeased with Miss Mitford,” wrote Macready
of his friends the Talfourds. “She seems to be showing herself _well
up_.” “William Harness says he never saw any one received with such
a mixture of enthusiasm and respect as I have been—not even Madame
de Staël. Wordsworth, dear old man! aids it by his warm and approving
kindness”—was Miss Mitford’s report to her father.

It was arranged that she should stay in London in order to witness
the second performance of _Ion_, fixed for June 1, but on the morning
preceding this, while sitting at breakfast, Talfourd bitterly
complained of some depreciating comments on his play which he had
just read in one of the morning papers. To soothe him Miss Mitford
suggested that he need not take such things too seriously, adding
that she thought the critics had been far more favourable to his play
than to her own; at which he flamed out: “Your _Rienzi_, indeed; I
dare say not—you forget the difference!” and behaved with such scorn
and anger that his guest was shocked, packed up her boxes and fled to
William Harness. “We have had no quarrel”—was the report home—“no
coolness on _my_ part. I behaved at first with the warmest and truest
sympathy until it was chilled by his bitter scorn; and since, thank
Heaven! I have never lost my self-command—never ceased to behave to
him with the most perfect politeness. He must change very much indeed
before the old feeling will come back to me.”

[Illustration: Mary Russell Mitford.

(From a painting by John Lucas, in the National Portrait Gallery.)]

It was through Miss Mitford that William Harness was first introduced
to Talfourd, although, judging by certain circumstances which
arose from time to time, we hold the opinion that William Harness,
who demanded more from his friends than did Miss Mitford, never
really appreciated the acquaintance. Harness was for ever questioning
the other’s motives, and more than once hinted his suspicions to Miss
Mitford who at once defended the other—as was her wont. Talfourd’s
jealousy was, let us say, pardonable, but when it turned to venom,
as it did, we dare not condone. Meeting Macready one evening of the
following November, the conversation turned on Miss Mitford and a
new play she was projecting and which Mr. Forrest,[27] a rival to
Macready, was to produce. “I have no faith in her power of writing a
play, and to that opinion Talfourd subscribed to-night—concurring in
all I thought of her falsehood and baseness!” These are Macready’s
own words, but fortunately Miss Mitford died without knowledge of
them, otherwise her faith in her old idol would have been rudely
shattered. Talfourd, of whom she had ever spoken kindly; whose career
she had watched, glorying in his successes; who had himself praised
her talent for the Drama and urged her to forsake all else for it,
and now concurred in another’s disparaging references to that same
talent—“concurring in all I thought of her falsehood and baseness!”

This London visit closed with a dinner-party at Lord and Lady
Dacre’s—Lady Dacre was a relative of the Ogles and therefore
distantly connected with the Mitfords. “It is a small house, with
a round table that only holds eight,” wrote Miss Mitford, and, as
she proceeded to relate that fifty people assembled, and offers
no further explanation, we wonder how they were accommodated. The
company included Edwin Landseer, “who invited himself to come and
paint Dash”—the favourite spaniel—“Pray tell Dash.”

Mr. Kenyon was also there—he had just brought about the introduction
to Miss Barrett, and was consequently in high esteem—of whom Miss
Mitford told her friend Harness that he had written a fine poem,
“Upper Austria,” to be found in that year’s _Keepsake_, as a test
of his sanity. “From feelings of giddiness, he feared his head was
attacked. He composed these verses (_not writing them_ until the poem
of four hundred or five hundred lines was complete) as a test. It
turned out that the stomach was deranged, and he was set to rights in
no time.”

A wonderful fortnight this, with its introductions to all the
notables—“Jane Porter, Joanna Baillie, and I know not how many
other females of eminence, to say nothing of all the artists, poets,
prosers, talkers and actors of the day.”

“And now I am come home to work hard, if the people will let me;
for the swarms of visitors, and the countless packets of notes and
letters which I receive surpass belief.”

With the introduction to Miss Barrett a new correspondent was added
to the already large list with whom Miss Mitford kept in touch,
and from the middle of the year 1836 the letters between the two
friends were frequent and voluminous. The early ones from Three Mile
Cross display an amusing motherliness on the part of their writer,
containing frequent references to the necessity of cultivating
style and clearness of expression, all of which Miss Barrett took
in good part and promised to bear in mind. But in this matter of
letter-writing Miss Mitford was really expending herself too much—it
was a weakness which she could never overcome—and the consequence
was that she either neglected her work or performed it when the
household was asleep. Then, still further obstacles to a steady
output arrived in the person of the painter Lucas, who wanted to
paint another portrait of his friend, and was only put off by being
allowed to paint the Doctor, the sittings for which were given at
Bertram House, then in the occupation of Captain Gore, a genial
friend of the Mitfords. The portrait was a great success, every
one praising it. “It is as like as the looking-glass,” wrote the
delighted daughter to Miss Jephson. “Beautiful old man that he is!
and is the pleasantest likeness, the finest combination of power, and
beauty, and sweetness, and spirit, that ever you saw. Such a piece
of colour, too! The painter _used all his carmine the first day_, and
was forced to go into Reading for a fresh supply. He says that my
father’s complexion is exactly like the sunny side of a peach, and so
is his picture. Imagine how grateful I am! He has come all the way
from London to paint this picture as a present to me.”

Following Lucas, came Edmund Havell, a young and rising artist
from Reading, a lithographer of great ability. He came to paint
Dash—Landseer being unable to fulfil his promise because of an
accident. “Dash makes an excellent sitter—very grave and dignified,
and a little conscious—peeping stealthily at the portrait, as if
afraid of being thought vain if he looked at it too long.”

These were the diversions which Miss Mitford permitted herself, and
when they were over and the approach of winter caused a natural
cessation of the hosts of visitors who thronged the cottage during
the fine weather, she devoted herself with energy to a new book, to
be entitled _Country Stories_, for which Messrs. Saunders & Otley
were in negotiation.


FOOTNOTES:

[27] He was alleged to have instigated the riotous demonstration
against Macready in Boston, U.S.A., twelve years later.




                             CHAPTER XXV

                          THE STATE PENSION


Earlier in this book we told how Byron had abstained from dedicating
_Childe Harold_ to his friend William Harness for fear it might
injure the latter’s reputation. It was a scruple which Miss Mitford
shared with the great poet, otherwise it would have given her the
keenest pleasure thus publicly to associate her old friend and
companion with one of her dramatic works. Being now assured that her
prose was worthy as an offering, she proposed that her new book, the
_Country Stories_, should go forth with William Harness’s name on the
Dedication page. She wrote him on the subject:—

  “MY DEAR WILLIAM,—

 “I have only one moment in which to proffer a petition to you.
 I have a little trumpery volume, _Country Stories_, about to be
 published. Will you permit me to give these tales some little value
 in my own eyes by inscribing them (of course, in a few true and
 simple words,) to you, my very old and most kind friend? I would
 not dedicate a play to you, for fear of causing you injury in your
 profession; but I do not think that this slight testimony of a very
 sincere affection could do you harm in that way, for even those who
 do not allow novels in their house sanction my little books.

                  Ever affectionately yours,

                          “M. R. MITFORD.”

To this request, particularly gratifying to its recipient, permission
was immediately granted, and the volume appeared with the following
Dedication:—

 “To the Rev. William Harness, whose old hereditary friendship has
 been the pride and pleasure of her happiest hours, her consolation
 in the sorrows, and her support in the difficulties of life, this
 little volume is most respectfully and affectionately inscribed by
 the Author.”

We, who have so far followed Miss Mitford’s life, know how just a
tribute was this dedication, and at the same time we may be able,
imperfectly perhaps, to understand how true was her reference to the
sorrows and difficulties with which she had been forced to contend.
By this time, under ordinary circumstances, she might have hoped
that her pecuniary difficulties were wellnigh overcome; but this was
not to be, and in this year (1837) the liabilities of the Mitford
household were so overwhelming and the wherewithal to meet them so
slight that Miss Mitford was reduced to the lowest depths of despair.

[Illustration: A view in Swallowfield Park, one of Miss Mitford’s
favourite scenes.]

Taking counsel with William Harness, she wrote a touching appeal,
in May, to Lord Melbourne, begging the grant of a State Pension. It
was a piteous appeal, and concluded thus:—“My life has been one of
struggle and of labour, almost as much withdrawn from the literary
as from the fashionable world; but I am emboldened to take this step
by the sight of my father’s white hairs, and the certainty that such
another winter as the last would take from me all power of literary
exertion, and send those white hairs in sorrow to the grave.”

Letters on the subject were also despatched to the Duke of
Devonshire, to Miss Fox and to Lady Dacre in the hope that they would
throw the weight of their influence into the petition. “Is all this
right?” she asked William Harness. “It may not succeed, but it can do
no harm. If it do succeed, I shall owe all to you, who have spirited
me up to the exertion. No woman’s constitution can stand the wear and
tear of all this anxiety. It killed poor Mrs. Hemans, and will, if
not averted, kill me.”

The most strenuous efforts were made by highly-placed friends to
influence Lord Melbourne in the petitioner’s favour, among them being
those already mentioned, Lord and Lady Radnor, Lord Palmerston, “and
many others whom I have never seen, whose talents and character, as
well as their rank and station, render their notice and approbation
a distinction as well as an advantage.” All this resulted in the
granting of the Pension, notice of which was conveyed to the anxious
one within a fortnight of the original petition. In addition to this
Miss Mitford received private assurances that the sum granted—£100
per annum—was intended merely as an instalment, and that it was
hoped to settle it at £300 before long—a forlorn hope, as it
happened!

Thus reassured, Miss Mitford renewed her hopeful outlook on life,
and the month following was gratified by the receipt of an offer to
edit _Finden’s Tableaux_, a large and handsome quarto publication of
a style common to those days, embellished with extremely beautiful
full-page steel engravings by the first artists, round which were
written descriptive poetry or prose by writers chosen from the front
ranks in Literature. The production of these volumes was very costly,
being bound in full leather, lavishly tooled, and they were primarily
intended to lie upon drawing-room tables for the amusement and
pleasure of visitors. Miss Mitford was, of course, delighted with the
offer and gladly accepted it, and one of her first editorial letters
was addressed to her “Sweet Love,” Miss Barrett, requesting a poem,
the payment for which was to be £5. The poem was supplied—it was
entitled _A Romance of the Ganges_, and was the first of a goodly
number of similar contributions which Miss Barrett supplied to her
friend’s order. “Depend upon it,” wrote Miss Mitford, “the time will
come when those verses of yours will have a money value,” a prophecy
which, happily, was fulfilled.

Among the letters of the year is one to Miss Jephson on the subject
of _Pickwick Papers_. This friend had acknowledged that she had not,
as yet, even heard of this successful work, then being published in
paper-covered monthly parts. “So you never heard of the _Pickwick
Papers_! Well! They publish a number once a month and print 25,000.
The bookseller has made about £10,000 by the speculation. It is
fun—but without anything unpleasant: _a lady might read it all
aloud_; and it is so graphic, so individual, and so true, that you
could curtsey to all the people as you met them in the streets. I did
not think there had been a place where English was spoken to which
_Boz_ had not penetrated. All the boys and girls talk his fun—the
boys in the streets; and yet they who are of the highest taste like
it the most. Sir Benjamin Brodie takes it to read in his carriage
between patient and patient; and Lord Denman studies _Pickwick_ on
the bench whilst the jury are deliberating. _Do_ take some means to
borrow it.”

During the year Miss Barrett’s broken health gave cause for great
alarm, and she was sent to Torquay in the hope that a lengthy stay in
the salubrious climate of that town would restore her. A continuous
correspondence was maintained between the two friends, and it is
from one despatched in July that we learn of a renewed illness
of Dr. Mitford and of the great strain imposed on his daughter as
a consequence. “I am now sitting on the ground outside his door,
with my paper on my knee, watching to hear whether he sleeps. Oh!
my dearest love, at how high a price do we buy the joy of one great
undivided affection, such as binds us heart to heart! For the last
two years I have not had a week without anxiety and alarm, so that
fear now seems to be a part of my very self; and I love him so much
the more tenderly for this clinging fear, and for his entire reliance
upon me! I have not left him for a drive, or to drink tea with a
friend, for a year.” Added to this trouble came the discovery that
serious dilapidations in the cottage were becoming too bad to be
overlooked, and were an actual menace to the safety of the inmates.
The landlady, “a most singular compound of miser and shrew,” refused
to repair at her own charge and, after carefully considering ways and
means, it was decided that the cost of removing would be greater than
that of the necessary repairs, and so, to avoid further discomfort
to her father, Miss Mitford had the workmen in and the place was
renovated piecemeal, a room at a time, necessitating the removal
of the furniture from room to room and causing the wearied author
endless worry and annoyance. The year wore on and 1838 found the
Mitfords in a worse plight than ever, the expenses of the renovations
having depleted their finances alarmingly and they owing money
in many quarters. William Harness was at last appealed to to sell
out the money in the Funds, and to let Miss Mitford have £600, the
balance to be devoted to purchasing an annuity on her own and her
father’s life. The appeal was couched in such agonized language that
Harness agreed, and the debts were paid, but no sooner were they
cleared off than Miss Mitford was taken seriously ill with internal
trouble, induced by excessive anxiety and overwork, resulting in
a double loss occasioned by the doctor’s fees and by the enforced
cessation from work of the money-earner.

Even at this juncture Miss Mitford’s thoughts were only for her
father, and in offering thanks to God that he had been spared to her,
she also bemoans her lot that she has not strength enough to give her
whole life to him, to read to him, to drive out with him, to play
cribbage with him, and never be five minutes from his side! “I love
him a million times better than ever, and can quite understand that
love of a mother for her firstborn, which this so fond dependence
produces in the one so looked to.”

It is quite evident from the few records of the years 1838, 1839 and
on, that Dr. Mitford’s increasing age rendered him more and more
querulous and exacting in his demands upon his daughter for attention
and creature comforts. “He could read, I think,” she wrote in 1840,
“but somehow to read to himself seems to give him no pleasure; and
if any one else is so kind as to offer to read to him, _that_ does
not do. They don’t know what he likes, and where to skip, and how
to lighten heavy parts without losing the thread of the story. By
practice I can contrive to do this, even with books that I have never
seen before. There’s an instinct in it, I think.” Fortunately the
year was brightened by a reconciliation with Talfourd, but then it
was saddened by the suicide of Haydon, who, embittered with the world
and largely in debt, sought relief in this terrible fashion. And for
Miss Mitford the tragedy was heightened by the fact that, only the
week before, he had visited the cottage and left a few valuables
“in her charge,” as he said, “for a short while.” Following this
came news, in the summer, from Miss Barrett at Torquay, who had just
sustained a tragic bereavement by the death, from drowning, of her
brother Edward. He had gone out with a friend, sailing in the Bay
of which the sister had a magnificent and extensive view from her
windows in the Beacon Terrace.[28] Delightedly watching the little
vessel, she was suddenly alarmed by noticing that the occupants
appeared to be in difficulties. A sudden squall had arisen, and while
the agonized sister watched, impotent, from her invalid-chair, the
boat capsized and her brother and his friend both perished.

The tragic news made a deep impression on Miss Mitford’s mind;
indeed she never forgot the incident, and when, many years
afterwards, she was compiling her _Recollections_ it was she
who first gave the story to the world, unconsciously causing
untold anguish to her friend, to whom the merest reference to the
catastrophe or to Torquay was sufficient to render her prostrate
for days. “I have so often been asked what could be the shadow that
had passed over that young heart, that, now that time has softened
the first agony, it seems to me right that the world should hear
the story.” When the book was reviewed in 1852 the Brownings were
living in Paris and only became aware of the fact that the “veil had
been lifted from the private life” of E. B. B. through the call of
a journalist employed on the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ who had been
commissioned to write an article on the Brownings and hesitated
to quote the incident, without permission, lest it should cause
additional pain to Mrs. Browning. The revelation of the tragic
episode, so long and so well kept from the world, grieved and shocked
Mrs. Browning beyond measure and resulted in her sending a letter of
tender reproof to her dear friend who had been so indiscreet. “You
cannot understand,” she wrote. “No, you cannot understand, with all
your wide sympathy (perhaps, because you are not morbid, and I am),
the sort of susceptibility I have on one subject.... And now those
dreadful words are going the round of the newspapers, to be verified
here, commented on there, gossiped about everywhere; and I, for my
part, am frightened to look at a paper as a child in the dark.... I
feel it deeply; through tears of pain I feel it; and if, as I dare
say you will, you think me very foolish, do not on that account think
me ungrateful. Ungrateful I never can be to you, my much loved and
kindest friend.”

Miss Mitford was, naturally, deeply distressed to learn that her
kindly-intentioned article had caused mental suffering to her friend,
and wrote a most abject reply, which drew from Mrs. Browning a
missive tender and full of forgiveness, which is among the gems of
her published letters.

But this reference to the Brownings has caused us to anticipate
the years somewhat. We must return to the year 1840, full as it
was to Miss Mitford of increasing trouble and anxiety. The summer
saw her threatened with a calamity as to her beloved garden. It
was now practically her only pleasure and recreation, and she was
therefore deeply concerned to learn that their shrewish landlady
intended to sell the land which it occupied and which the Mitfords
rented separately from the house. It comprised about an acre, and
they feared that some sordid speculator would purchase it who,
knowing the value placed upon it by the tenants, would raise the
rent inordinately, a course which, in view of their poverty, would
mean its relinquishment. Fortunately news of the sale came to the
knowledge of a friend, who purchased the ground and handed it over to
the old tenants rent-free for so long as they required it.

The year 1841 was not less troublous than its predecessor, for it
opened with Dr. Mitford lying seriously ill from a chill caught in
the discharge of magisterial duties against his physician’s advice
and his daughter’s pleadings. The occasion was the Quarter Sessions
at Reading, a combination of business and pleasure—for convivial
gatherings succeeded the administration of justice—so dear to Dr.
Mitford’s heart. It was, indeed, astonishing—Miss Mitford thought
it matter for astonishment—that on these occasions her father was
capable of exertions unaided, to perform which at home he required
the help of three persons. The result was anguish of mind and body
for his daughter, who took upon herself the whole duty of nursing
the invalid. Rest and warmth were prescribed, but all the daughter’s
attentions were rendered nugatory by the patient, who disobeyed
injunctions like a petulant child, persisting in “getting out of
bed, or up in bed, or something as bad,” to be followed by periods
of irritability which nothing would soothe, not even the being read
to, an art in which the nurse excelled. Under these circumstances
literary work had to be performed in moments snatched from the
bedside of the beloved parent or when, finally exhausted, he sunk
to prolonged slumber. Then, fearful of disturbing him, his devoted
daughter sat on a low stool at the foot of the bed, with her
writing materials before her, with a chair for table, composing and
correcting into the small hours of the morning until, as she said,
she nearly fainted.

The natural result was that, upon her father’s recovery, she was
stricken down from sheer exhaustion and kept to her bed for weeks.
Convalescent, she went out in the pony-chaise for an airing with
Kerenhappuck her maid and companion, during which a trace broke and
the pony bolted. They tore madly along the road, past frightened men
who could do nothing to stop the brute, and with the maid sawing
ineffectually at the reins which, for greater power, she had wound
about her arms. Soon the turnpike-gate was neared, adding to the fear
of the terrorized women, who dreaded lest the pony, a famous hunter,
would leap it, with results too dreadful to think of. Fortunately
the gate-keeper saw them just in time and flung the gate open. On
they went in this mad fashion until, by good fortune, the remaining
trace pulled the collar in such a way that the pony was nearly choked
and he was brought to a standstill. “And since then,” wrote Miss
Mitford, “I have been very ill. I have not sent for Dr. May. I seldom
do, for it frightens my father. After all, a wretched life is mine.
Health is gone; but if I can but last while my dear father requires
me; if the little money we have can but last, then it would matter
little how soon I, too, were released. We live alone in the world,
and I feel that neither will long outlast the other. My life is only
valuable as being useful to _him_. I have lived for him and him only;
and it seems to me, God, in His infinite mercy, does release those
who have so lived, nearly at the same time. The spring is broken,
and the watch goes down.” With her energies thus reduced, work was
at a standstill; the brain refused to be driven, and as no work
meant no pay, the household once again drifted into debt, adding
fresh terrors to the already over-taxed mind. Misfortunes never come
alone and, when the outlook was almost too gloomy to be faced, the
Findens stopped payment for work done, a double calamity in that
this meant the closing of another source of employment. Creditors
became importunate and threatening, and this resulted in another
appeal to William Harness that certain of the money still available
for use should be taken from investment and devoted to the immediate
and pressing needs of the household. “Could you know all I have to
undergo and suffer, you would wonder that I am alive—you would
rather wonder that I have lived through the winter than that I have
failed to provide the means of support for our little household....
It has been all my fault now, and if that fault be visited upon my
father’s white head, and he be sent to jail for my omissions, I
should certainly not long remain to grieve over my sin, for such it
is.... If you refuse, he may be sent to jail, which he would not
survive; or if he survived, it would be with a spirit so broken that
he would never leave his arm-chair, which (to say nothing of the
misery) would totally disable me from working in any way.”

The request was, of course, granted, but the effect was to still
further reduce the amount which Harness hoped to hold in trust for
the daughter, who, as he knew well, was in no way to blame.

Finally, to close this distressful chapter, this year of misery, Miss
Mitford sustained two accidents, both severe, which left her almost a
wreck from shock.


FOOTNOTES:

[28] The house is now known as “Sea Lawn.”




                            CHAPTER XXVI

                        DEATH OF DR. MITFORD


The terrible calamity which marred Miss Barrett’s health-seeking
sojourn in Torquay so unnerved her that it was feared her reason
would give way and that she would succumb to her grief. Under these
circumstances it was decided to remove her without delay back to
Wimpole Street, the long journey, by road, being undertaken in a
specially-constructed carriage in which a number of contrivances had
been embodied in order to avoid any jarring or other inconvenience to
the invalid. From that date onward numberless letters passed between
the two friends—Miss Barrett with her burden of sorrow and Miss
Mitford with her load of care and poverty.

The friendship was of such a character that each wrote to the other
with the greatest freedom and there can be no doubt that this
interchange of ideas and outpouring of heart afforded a blessed
relief to both, and especially to Miss Mitford, who had so few
intimates among women. Indeed we may safely affirm that it was to
only two people—William Harness and Miss Barrett—that Miss Mitford
ever really laid bare her true self. Thus in the letters of 1842, a
year destined to rank as the most trying and painful in the whole of
Miss Mitford’s life, we find her telling out frankly the full tale of
her miseries.

“It will help you to understand how impossible it is for me to earn
money as I ought to do, when I tell you that this very day I received
your dear letter, and sixteen others; that then my father brought
the newspaper to hear the ten or twelve columns of news from India.
By that time there were three parties of people in the garden; eight
others arrived soon after—some friends, some acquaintances, some
strangers. My father sees me greatly fatigued—much worn—losing
my voice even in common conversation; and he lays it all to the
last walk or drive—the only thing that keeps me alive—and tells
everybody he sees that I am killing myself by walking or driving; and
he hopes that I shall at last take some little care of myself and not
stir beyond the garden. Is not this the perfection of self-deception?
And yet I would not awaken him from this dream—no, not for all the
world—so strong a hold sometimes does a light word take of his
memory and his heart—he broods over it—cries over it!” This was
written to excuse herself from accepting an invitation to town.

Later she details how, when her father was at last got to sleep,
she stole out of the house at night with Flush, the spaniel, and
the puppies, for a scamper round the meadows. “How grateful I am,”
she added, “to that great, gracious Providence who makes the most
intense enjoyment the cheapest and the commonest!”—truly she was
thankful for the small mercies—“And my father tells me I am killing
myself—as if that which is balm and renovation were poison and
suicide.

“It is now half-past one and my father has only this very moment gone
into his room to bed. He sleeps all the afternoon in the garden,
and then would sit up all night to be read to.” Then, as if the
cares of the household were not enough, the Doctor invited “that
gander feast, the Reading Whist Club, out to dine; and then, between
helping to cook, and talking and waiting upon the good folks, we
got the stiffness rubbed out of our bones in a wonderful manner.”
The stiffness alluded to was occasioned by being caught in a storm
while out driving, but it will be noticed there is no mention of
the expense of this “gander feast,” arranged, as it was, simply in
order to satisfy that father, whom to cross might result in his
prostration and tears! “I am content to die,” she wrote, “if only
preserved from the far bitterer misery of seeing my dear, dear father
want his accustomed comforts; content, ay, happy, if that far deeper
wretchedness be spared.” It was indeed fortunate, in a sense, that
Miss Barrett was willing to read all this and never question the
attitude adopted by her friend to this selfish father. Possibly it
was patent to all who knew Miss Mitford intimately that to attempt
to question the wisdom of her self-sacrifice could only result in
adding pain to a heart already over-full with grief. Happily, too,
there were occasional breaks to this almost incessant gloom. In July
she wrote to say how gratified she had been at learning from a friend
that, while travelling in Spain, and being laid up with illness,
longing for “some English or English-like book, he received a Spanish
translation of _Our Village_. A real compliment, and I tell you of
it, just as I told my father, because I know that it will please your
dear heart.”

Then in September she was greatly gratified by receiving a respectful
invitation to lay the foundation stone of a new reading-room in
Reading. The invitation was accepted and the pleasure enhanced by the
insistence of the “dear papa” that he should make one of the party.
The arrival of the Mitfords was not less imposing than the ceremony
itself, the four persons absolutely necessary to help the Doctor in
and out of his very low carriage being sent on beforehand to await
his arrival, amid the cheers of the assembled crowd. The function was
followed by a tea-party and concert, to which the visitors stayed.
“If ever I am ungrateful enough to bemoan my isolated position, I
ought to think over the assemblage in order to feel the thankfulness
that thrilled through my very heart at the true and honest kindness
with which I was received. It was an enthusiasm of man, woman, and
child—hundreds—thousands—such as I can hardly venture to describe,
and it lasted all the time I stayed. Indeed, the pleasure amounted
to pain, so confusing was it to hear the over-praise of which I felt
myself unworthy. But it was not the praise that was so touching,
it was the kindness, the affection. My father cried, K——[29]
cried, Dora Smith cried, I think more than all, at the true, honest,
generous heartiness of the people.”

And there was yet another event to be recorded, something so
wonderful that news of it must, perforce, be sent to the friend in
London. The Doctor, dining with a friend off a brace of grouse sent
by another friend, “took three glasses of claret, and afterwards two
glasses more; enjoying them, not taking them, as he does the gravy,
medicinally; but feeling the pleasure, the strange pleasure, that
gentlemen do feel in the scent and taste of fine wine, especially
when shared with a friend. _And he called me again, ‘my treasure,’_
always his favourite word for his poor daughter. It rejoices my
heart. _Of course its previous omission was accidental._ I feel sure
now that he was not angry; but before, I had _so_ feared it; and it
had _so_ grieved me—grieved me to the very bottom of my heart. So
that, if it had pleased God to take him _then_, I do believe that
I should have died of very grief. I thought that I must have said
something, or done something, or left something unsaid or undone,
that had displeased him. _Now_, so far as that goes, my heart is at
ease, and it is the taking off of a great load.”

This was written on November 20. A day or two afterwards the Doctor
grew suddenly worse, so bad indeed that his daughter feared for his
life. The days were spent in watching and praying by his bedside,
with reading from St. John’s Gospel, “which he and I both prefer,”
and with frequent visits from the Shinfield clergyman, who must have
noted what was, possibly, hidden from the daughter’s eyes, that the
old man was sinking fast. By the last day of November his condition
was most alarming, so much so that as Dr. May from Reading had
not arrived, Miss Mitford set off with Ben, the gardener, in the
pony-chaise to fetch him. It was a Sunday evening, pitch-dark, and
they had to trust to the pony’s instinct to find their way. Dr. May
was not at home when they arrived, and, after a fruitless wait for
him, and receiving some advice from the physician’s partner, they
set off home again at seven o’clock. The darkness was still intense,
so that they could see little before them, and they had just reached
a spot half-way to home when two footpads sprung at them from the
hedge on either side the road. One wrenched the reins from Ben, the
other seized Miss Mitford’s umbrella; the pony, plunging from the
tug at the reins, caused one of the miscreants to swerve in the act
of aiming a blow with a bludgeon at Ben. The blow descended on the
pony’s flanks, making it dart forward with a terrific plunge and then
tear madly off home. The suddenness of the whole thing threw off both
the men, one of whom fell beneath the chaise and was run over. By a
merciful Providence no vehicle or other person was met on the road,
for Ben could not control the pony until the cottage was neared,
when the sagacious creature slowed up of its own accord and stopped
quietly at the door.

No hint of this adventure reached Dr. Mitford, lest the shock should
make him worse, although, naturally enough, Miss Mitford would gladly
have told him, so shaken and unnerved was she. Weak and ill, the
brave and unselfish woman watched by her parent, tending and nursing
him, allowing no one to take the principal duties from her; rarely
sleeping, and then only when forced to do so from sheer exhaustion,
until at last, early on the morning of December 11, the death of her
father released her from the long vigil.

“All friends are kind and very soothing,” wrote the stricken woman
to Miss Barrett, “but not half so soothing as your sweet kindness,
my dearest. Oh! let me think of you as a most dear friend—almost
a daughter, for such you have been to me.... Everybody is so kind!
The principal farmers are striving who shall carry the coffin.
Surely this is not common—to an impoverished man—one long
impoverished—one whose successor is utterly powerless! This is
disinterested, if anything were so, and therefore very touching,
very dear. Perhaps I have shed more tears for the gratitude caused
by this kindness and other kindnesses than for the great, great
grief! That seems to lock up the fountain; this to unseal it.
Bless you, my beloved, for all your inimitable kindness! Oh! how
_he_ loved to bless you! He seldom spoke the dear name without the
benediction—‘Miss Barrett! dear Miss Barrett! Heaven bless her!’ How
often has he said that! I seem to love the name the better for that
recollection.... I am resigned—indeed I am. I know that it is right,
and that it is His will.”

The funeral was an imposing affair; “the chief gentry of the country
sent to request to follow his remains to the grave; the six principal
farmers of the parish begged to officiate as his bearers; they came
in new suits of mourning, and were so deeply affected that they
could hardly lift the coffin. Every house in our village street was
shut up; the highway was lined with farmers and tradesmen, in deep
mourning, on horseback and in phaetons, who followed the procession;
they again were followed by poor people on foot. The church and
churchyard were crowded, and the building resounded with tears and
sobs when the coffin was lowered into the vault. The same scene
recurred on the ensuing Sunday, when every creature in the crowded
congregation appeared in black to hear the sermon—even the very
poorest wearing some sign of the mourning that was so truly felt.”
This was, as may be easily inferred, Miss Mitford’s own account
of the proceedings, but, as Mr. H. F. Chorley pointed out in his
published volume of her letters, although one cannot doubt the
sincerity of the report, it was one “utterly baseless on anything
like fact, or the feelings of those who knew the whole story. Dr.
Mitford was tolerated because she was beloved. The respect paid to
his remains was not so much to them as to her.”

When all was over, there came the inevitable day of reckoning, and
Miss Mitford had to face an appalling list of debts accumulated
by her father’s extravagance, liabilities amounting to close upon
£1,000. The sum seems incredible in view of Miss Mitford’s earnings
and of the help which had been periodically obtained from William
Harness in addition to the State pension. How can such a condition
of affairs be accounted for? A clue is, we think, to be found in a
letter which Miss Mitford wrote to a friend some six months before
her father died. “At eighty, my father is privileged to dislike
being put out of his way in the smallest degree, as company always
does, so that I make it as unfrequent as possible, and the things
that weigh upon me are not an occasional bottle or two of port or
claret or champagne, but the keeping two horses instead of one, the
turning half a dozen people for months into the garden, which ought
to be cultivated by one person, and even the building—as I see he
is now meditating—a new carriage, when we have already two, but
too expensive. These _are_ trials, when upon my sinking health and
overburdened strength lies the task of providing for them;—when,
in short, I have to provide for expenses over which I have no more
control than my own dog, Flush.... It is too late now for the
slightest hope of change; and his affection for me is so great, that
to hint at the subject would not only shock him, but perhaps endanger
his health.”

Thus, with a heritage of liabilities, Miss Mitford came back from her
father’s funeral to think out some scheme of personal effort which
would not only give her something upon which to exist but remove the
stigma attaching to her father’s name. When the true state of affairs
became public property her friends decided to raise a subscription
in the hope of clearing the whole amount. Nothing short of complete
satisfaction to all creditors would content Miss Mitford, who
determined that “everybody shall be paid, if I have to sell the gown
off my back, or pledge my little pension.”

The subscription project was taken up very heartily, appeals, signed
by many influential people, being printed in the _Times_ and _Morning
Chronicle_, and by the following March nearly a thousand pounds had
been received, with a promise of further donations amounting to
some hundreds, the final idea of the promoters being that not only
should the debts be paid but that a goodly amount should be handed
over to Miss Mitford wherewith to make a fresh start and to provide
an annuity. Writing on the subject to Miss Jephson, Miss Mitford
intimated that the Queen was among the subscribers, but desired that
her name be not mentioned, “as she gives from her private income, and
fears being subjected to solicitation (this adds to the compliment,
as it proves it is not a matter of form).” In addition to this there
were contributions from many of the nobility and notables in the
literary and artistic world, thus testifying to the great esteem in
which Miss Mitford was held. It must have been very gratifying to
her to be thus remembered in this her bitterest hour of need. Nor
was this the only evidence of goodwill, for many of the neighbouring
gentry vied with each other in paying little attentions to the
lone woman, in offers of hospitality and in a hundred small and
unostentatious ways, which touched her deeply. “I never before had
an idea of my own popularity, and I have on two or three occasions
shed tears of pure thankfulness at reading the letters which have
been written to, or about, me.... I only pray God that I may deserve
half that has been said of me. So far as the truest and humblest
thankfulness may merit such kindness, I am, perhaps, not wholly
undeserving, for praise always makes me humble. I always feel that I
am over-valued; and such is, I suppose, its effect on every mind not
exceedingly vainglorious.”

Perhaps the most touching of the many kindnesses now showered upon
her was that of Mr. George Lovejoy, the famous bookseller of Reading,
who made her free of his large and very complete circulating library
and afforded her a most lavish supply of books. The Library was
founded in the year 1832 by Mr. Lovejoy and came to be regarded as
the finest of its kind in the Provinces. He was, himself, a man of
considerable learning and possessed amiable characteristics which
endeared him to all and sundry, especially to the children, who were
in the habit of appealing to him to solve any problems which might
be bothering their small heads, whilst he was frequently besieged by
them for pieces of string in the peg-top season. And not only did the
children consult him, for he gathered about him quite a number of
literary people to whom he was indeed a counsellor and friend. His
shop was the rendezvous for the County, among the most frequent
visitors being Charles Kingsley—Eversley being but fourteen miles
distant—and Miss Mitford, with any literary friends who happened to
be calling on her at the time. “In general we can get any books we
wish at the excellent Reading library (Lovejoy’s); he, or I, have
all you mention,” wrote Miss Mitford to a friend who had suggested
certain books for perusal.

[Illustration: Mr. George Lovejoy, Bookseller, of Reading.]

“I have been too much spoiled,” she wrote later; “at this moment
I have eight sets of books belonging to Mr. Lovejoy. I have every
periodical within a week, and generally cut open every interesting
new publication—getting them literally the day before publication.”
The Lovejoy Library was noted from its earliest days for the very
fine collection of Foreign works which it contained, and this alone
would have made it invaluable to Miss Mitford, whose love for French
and Italian literature was remarkable.

Then, too, Mr. Lovejoy undertook little commissions for his friend
when she required anything obtained specially in London, getting
his London agents to enclose the goods in his book parcel and, when
received, despatching it by special messenger to the cottage at Three
Mile Cross. Throughout the letters he is frequently referred to as
“Dear Mr. Lovejoy,” or “My dear friend, Mr. Lovejoy. Nobody certainly
ever had such a friend as he is to me, and all his servants and
people are as kind as he is himself.”

So, with kind friends about her, Miss Mitford strove to forget
her sorrow and to devote herself once more to literary work.
Unfortunately, however, the cottage was once again showing itself the
worse for wear, and it was a question as to whether it should not be
given up in favour of some other habitation near at hand. It was at
length decided, at the suggestion of Mr. Blandy, of Reading—who was
at that time managing Miss Mitford’s affairs under instructions from
William Harness—that, if the rent could be adjusted to suit Miss
Mitford’s purse, the cottage should be renovated and she stay on.
This was all agreed to, and while the painters and decorators were in
possession, Miss Mitford departed to Bath for a fortnight’s holiday.

Returning somewhat unexpectedly, she found the workmen dawdling and
the maid, who had been left in charge, absent at the theatre, a state
of things which stirred her to great activity and indignation, “and
the scolding which I found it my duty to administer, quite took the
edge off my sadness.”


FOOTNOTES:

[29] Kerenhappuck, her companion.




                            CHAPTER XXVII

         LOVE FOR CHILDREN AND LAST DAYS AT THREE MILE CROSS


Love of little children was one of the noticeable characteristics of
Dr. Mitford’s life, and it was one in which his daughter shared. That
she entered most fully into the games and pursuits of the village
youngsters is evidenced in _Our Village_, where we obtain delightful
little portraits of Joe Kirby, Jack Rapley, Jem and Lizzie, which
sufficiently indicate the author’s knowledge of the child-mind, to
say nothing of those breezy, hilarious descriptions of the slide and
the cricket-match.

Shortly after Dr. Mitford’s death there came into her life a little
boy named Henry Taylor—frequently alluded to as “K——’s little boy”
in her letters, and as “little Henry” in the _Recollections_, but not
to be confounded with the “little Henry” of _Our Village_, who was a
lad sometimes hired by the Doctor for the performance of odd jobs.

Henry Taylor was born in Reading—the child of K——, Miss Mitford’s
companion and hemmer of flounces—and at the mistress’s own request
the boy was brought to live at her cottage when he was just upon
two years old. He came as a new and welcome interest into her life
and, while she petted and spoiled him, gave him wise and tender
counsel. “A little boy, called Henry,” she wrote of him in her
_Recollections_, “the child of the house (son, by the way, to the
hemmer of flounces), has watched my ways, and ministered unbidden
to my wants and fancies. Long before he could open the outer door,
before, indeed, he was half the height of the wand in question” [her
favourite walking-stick], “there he would stand, the stick in one
hand, and if it were summer time, a flower in the other, waiting for
my going out, the pretty Saxon boy, with his upright figure, his
golden hair, his eyes like two stars, and his bright, intelligent
smile! We were so used to see him there, silent and graceful as a
Queen’s page, that when he returned to school after the holidays, and
somebody else presented the stick and the rose, I hardly cared to
take them. It seemed as if something was wrong, I missed him so! Most
punctual of petted children!”

Whilst the child was at boarding-school in Reading, a rather
serious outbreak of smallpox in the town, and particularly in a
house adjoining the School, necessitated his being sent home to the
cottage without delay, though not, unfortunately, in time to prevent
his being infected. He was extremely ill and his life, at times,
despaired of, the mother and Miss Mitford taking it by turns to
watch over and nurse him. In the _Recollections_ there is a most
touching reference to this incident, which proves how strong was
Miss Mitford’s affection for the child, how much a mother’s heart
was hers. Quoting from Leigh Hunt’s poetry, she says:—“There is
yet another poem for which I must make room. Every mother knows
these pathetic stanzas. I shall never forget attempting to read
them to my faithful maid, whose fair-haired boy, her pet and mine,
was then recovering from a dangerous illness. I attempted to read
these verses, and did read as many as I could for the rising in
the throat—the _hysterica passio_ of poor Lear—and as many as my
auditor could hear for her own sobs.” And then she quotes those
beautiful verses:—“To T. L. H., six years old, during a sickness.”

    “Sleep breathes at last from out thee,
    My little patient boy;
    And balmy rest about thee—
    Smooths off the day’s annoy.
    I sit me down and think
    Of all thy winning ways;
    Yet almost wish with sudden shrink
    That I had less to praise.

    *       *       *       *       *

    To say he has departed,
    His voice, his face is gone!
    To feel impatient-hearted
    Yet feel we must bear on!
    Ah, I could not endure
    To whisper of such woe,
    Unless I felt this sleep ensure
    That it will not be so.”

“Little Henry” is one of the few survivors of those who knew Miss
Mitford intimately, and he has many tender memories of the kindly
woman who, as time went on, made him her constant companion when
she walked in the lanes and meadows in and about the neighbourhood.
Woodcock Lane, of which we have already made mention, was among her
favourite haunts, and thither she would take her way, with little
Henry and the dogs, and while she sat with her writing-pad on her
knee, would watch the eager child gathering his posies of wild
flowers. “Do not gather them all, Henry,” was one of her regular
injunctions on these occasions, “because some one who has not so
many pretty flowers at home as we have may come this way and would
like to gather some”; and sometimes she would add, “remember not to
take all the flowers from one root, for the plant loves its flowers,
and delights to feed and nourish them”—a pretty fancy which the
child-mind could understand and appreciate. “Never repeat anything
you hear which may cause pain or unhappiness to others” was a precept
which often fell from her lips when speaking to the child and it
was a lesson which he says he has never forgotten and has always
striven to live up to in a long and somewhat arduous life spent
here and abroad. Miss Mitford had a great and deep-seated objection
to Mrs. Beecher Stowe. It arose principally from disapproval of
certain derogatory statements about Lord Byron and his matrimonial
relations which Mrs. Stowe had expressed to friends of Miss Mitford’s
and which, after Miss Mitford’s death, were published in the work
entitled _Lady Byron Vindicated_. The reason for this attitude of
mind on Miss Mitford’s part is not difficult to understand when
we remember that her great friend, William Harness, was among the
earliest and dearest of Lord Byron’s friends. Thus, when _Uncle Tom’s
Cabin_ was published in this country, Miss Mitford refused to give
any credence to the revelations it contained, and in this connection
it is interesting to record that it was among the few books which she
counselled the boy not to read.

[Illustration: The “House of Seven Gables,” a view on the road to
Swallowfield.]

For the children in the village she had ever a kind word and smile,
inquiring why they did this or that when playing their games, and
nothing delighted her more than to come upon a game of cricket being
played by the youngsters, for then she would watch the game through,
applauding vigorously and calling out encouraging remarks to the
players, all of whom referred to her as the “kind lady.”

During the year 1844 Queen Victoria paid an unofficial visit to the
Duke of Wellington at Strathfieldsaye, and Miss Mitford conceived the
idea that it would please the Queen to be greeted on the roadside by
the village children. With the co-operation of the farmers, who lent
their wagons, some two hundred and ninety children were carried to a
point near Swallowfield—some few miles from Three Mile Cross along
the Basingstoke Road—each carrying a flag provided at Miss Mitford’s
expense and by the industry of her maid, Jane, who was very skilful
at such work. The wagons were decked out with laurels and bunting and
made a very brave show when the Queen, escorted by the Duke, passed
by them. “We all returned—carriages, wagons, bodyguard and all—to
my house, where the gentlefolk had sandwiches and cake and wine, and
where the children had each a bun as large as a soup-plate, made
doubly nice as well as doubly large, a glass of wine, and a mug of
ale”—rather advanced drinks for children, but probably thin enough
to do no harm. “Never was such harmless jollity! Not an accident! not
a squabble! not a misword! It did one’s very heart good.... To be
sure it was a good deal of trouble, and Jane is done up. Indeed, the
night before last we none of us went to bed. But it was quite worth
it.”

All this sounds very delightful and light-hearted and truly the years
seemed now to be passing very gently and kindly with the warmhearted
woman who had, hitherto, suffered so much.

There were, of course, the usual ailments due to advancing age, which
had to be endured, but, with short trips to town and a long holiday
at Taplow, these ailments had no serious, immediate effect on Miss
Mitford’s general health.

In 1846 the dear friend, Miss Barrett, was married to Robert
Browning, an incident which proved—so Miss Mitford recorded—that
“Love really is the wizard the poets have called him”. There is
no mention of a wedding-present being despatched from Three Mile
Cross—it will be remembered that the marriage was a somewhat hurried
and secret affair, due to Mr. Barrett’s opposition to the whole
idea—but we do know that when the happy couple left for Italy _via_
Paris they took with them Flush, the dog, which Miss Mitford had sent
as a gift to her friend some years before. Flush was a character, and
figures very much in the Barrett-Browning correspondence from 1842
to 1848; he died much loved and lamented, and now lies buried in the
Casa Guidi vaults.

All the world knows what a wonderful marriage that was—two hearts
beating as one—and how remarkable and romantic was the courtship,
the story of which, from Mrs. Browning’s own pen, is so exquisitely
told in _Sonnets from the Portuguese_—the “finest sonnets written in
any language since Shakespeare’s,” was Robert Browning’s delighted
comment—“the very notes and chronicle of her betrothal,” as Mr.
Edmund Gosse writes of them, when he relates how prettily and
playfully they were first shown to the husband for whom they had
been expressly written. But—and this is why we make mention of them
here—before ever they were shown to the husband they had been
despatched to Miss Mitford for her approval and criticism, and she
urged that they be published in one of the Annuals of the day. To
this suggestion Mrs. Browning would not accede, but consented at
last to allow them to be privately printed, for which purpose they
were again sent to Miss Mitford, who arranged for their printing in
Reading—probably through her friend, Mr. Lovejoy—under the simple
title of _Sonnets: by E. B. B._, and on the title-page were the
additional words:—“Reading: Not for Publication: 1847.”

Miss Mitford often made complaint of the number of visitors who
thronged her cottage, but now that she had none but herself to
consider she seems to have found her chief delight in receiving
and entertaining, in quiet fashion, the many literary folk who
made pilgrimages to her, visits which were always followed by a
correspondence which must have fully occupied her time. This year,
1847, brought Ruskin to the cottage through the introduction of Mrs.
Cockburn (the Mary Duff of Lord Byron). “John Ruskin, the Oxford
Undergraduate, is a very elegant and distinguished-looking young man,
tall, fair, and slender—too slender, for there is a consumptive
look, and I fear a consumptive tendency.... He must be, I suppose,
twenty-six or twenty-seven, but he looks much younger, and has a
gentle playfulness—a sort of pretty waywardness, that is quite
charming. And now we write to each other, and I hope love each
other as you and I do”—Miss Mitford’s note on the visit, written to
another friend, Mr. Charles Boner, in America.

[Illustration: Miss Milford’s Cottage at Swallowfield.

(From a contemporary engraving.)]

Hearing that William Chambers, the Edinburgh publisher, was that year
in London, an invitation was sent to him to call at the cottage,
and while there he, his hostess and Mr. Lovejoy discussed a project
which had long been occupying the minds of Miss Mitford and her
bookseller-friend, on the subject of “Rural Libraries.”

Mr. Chambers refers to the visit in his _Autobiography_. “The
pleasantest thing about the visit was my walk with the aged lady
among the green lanes in the neighbourhood—she trotting along with a
tall cane, and speaking of rural scenes and circumstances.... I see
she refers to this visit, stating that she was at the time engaged
along with Mr. Lovejoy in a plan for establishing lending libraries
for the poor, in which, she says, I assisted her with information
and advice. What I really advised was that, following out a scheme
adopted in East Lothian, parishes should join in establishing
itinerating libraries, each composed of different books, so that,
being shifted from place to place, a degree of novelty might be
maintained for mutual advantage.”

In any case, this Mitford-Lovejoy project was well considered and,
after many delays, the two friends issued a little four-page pamphlet
(now very rare) with the front page headed “Rural Libraries,”
followed by a circular letter in which was set forth the origin of
the scheme—due to a request from the young wife of a young clergyman
in a country parish who wanted to stimulate the parishioners to the
reading of sound literature—and an invitation to interested persons
to correspond with “M. R. M., care of Mr. Lovejoy, Reading.” The rest
of the pamphlet was occupied with a list of some two hundred titles
of books recommended, among them being _Our Village_, the inclusion
of which caused Miss Mitford to tell a friend that she “noticed Mr.
Lovejoy had smuggled it in.” Whether anything definite resulted from
the distribution of this pamphlet is not certain, but the labour it
entailed is a proof of the interest which both Miss Mitford and her
coadjutor had in matters affecting the education of the people.

By the year 1850 the cottage again became so bad as to be almost
uninhabitable—“the walls seem to be mouldering from the bottom,
crumbling, as it were, like an old cheese; and whether anything can
be done to it is doubtful,” and, acting under Dr. May’s advice, it
was decided to leave the old place for good. The neighbourhood was
scoured in the endeavour to find something suitable, and at last the
very thing was found at Swallowfield, three miles further along the
Basingstoke Road. “It is about six miles from Reading along this same
road, leading up from which is a short ascending lane, terminated by
the small dwelling, with a court in front, and a garden and paddock
behind. Trees overarch it like the frame of a picture, and the
cottage itself, though not pretty, yet too unpretending to be vulgar,
and abundantly snug and comfortable, leading by different paths to
all my favourite walks, and still within distance of my most valuable
neighbours.”

The removal, “a terrible job,” involving, among other items, the
cartage and re-arranging of four tons of books, took place during the
third week of September, 1851, just in time to enable the household
to get nicely settled in before the winter.

“And yet it was grief to go,” she wrote. “There I had toiled and
striven, and tasted as deeply of bitter anxiety, of fear, and of
hope, as often falls to the lot of woman. There, in the fulness of
age, I had lost those whose love had made my home sweet and precious.
Alas! there is no hearth so humble but it has known such tales of
joy and of sorrow! Friends, many and kind, had come to that bright
garden, and that garden room. The list would fill more pages than I
have to give. There Mr. Justice Talfourd had brought the delightful
gaiety of his brilliant youth, and poor Haydon had talked more
vivid pictures than he ever painted. The illustrious of the last
century—Mrs. Opie, Jane Porter, Mr. Cary—had mingled there with
poets, still in their earliest dawn. It was a heart-tug to leave
that garden.... I walked from the one cottage to the other on an
autumn evening, when the vagrant birds, whose habit of assembling
here for their annual departure gives, I suppose, its name of
Swallowfield to the village, were circling and twittering over my
head; and repeated to myself the pathetic lines of Hayley as he saw
these same birds gathering upon his roof during his last illness:—

    ‘Ye gentle birds, that perch aloof,
     And smooth your pinions on my roof,
     Preparing for departure hence
     Ere winter’s angry threats commence;
     Like you, my soul would smooth her plume
     For longer flights beyond the tomb.
     May God, by Whom is seen and heard
     Departing man and wandering bird,
     In mercy mark us for His own
     And guide us to the land unknown!’

Thoughts soothing and tender came with those touching lines, and
gayer images followed. Here I am in this prettiest village, in the
cosiest and snuggest of all cabins; a trim cottage garden, divided by
a hawthorn hedge from a little field guarded by grand old trees; a
cheerful glimpse of the high road in front, just to hint that there
is such a thing as the peopled world; and on either side the deep,
silent, woody lanes that form the distinctive character of English
scenery.”




                           CHAPTER XXVIII

                      SWALLOWFIELD AND THE END


It will be remembered that some time after the correspondence with
Sir William Elford had been well established, he suggested to Miss
Mitford that much of the literary criticism contained in the letters
was valuable and might be edited with a view to publication. To
this Miss Mitford would not consent at the time, for, although the
idea appealed to her, she feared that her rather outspoken comments
on contemporary authors might, if published during their lifetime,
lead to unpleasantness which it were wiser to avoid. Many years had
now elapsed since the suggestion was made, and many changes had,
in consequence, taken place. The death of a large number of the
authors mentioned had removed Miss Mitford’s principal objection. She
herself was now a comparatively old woman, with a maturer judgment,
whose criticism was therefore more likely to command respect,
and as the death of her father had increased her leisure for the
performance of literary work—and she was still unwilling to tackle
the long-projected novel—she arranged with Miss Elford (Sir William
being dead) to gather the letters together and forward them to Three
Mile Cross. The task thus undertaken was both congenial and easy, and
by the time of her removal to Swallowfield she had made such progress
that it was decided to publish without delay. Mr. Bentley, who was
approached on the subject, suggested that the work be amplified and
issued in three volumes under the title of _Recollections of Books_.
Acting on this advice, Miss Mitford completed the work, after she had
settled herself in her new home, and by 1852 the book was published
under the more imposing title of _Recollections of a Literary Life,
and Selections from my Favourite Poets and Prose Writers_. It was
dedicated to Henry F. Chorley, one of a number of young men whose
dramatic and literary talent had brought him under the author’s
notice some years before and which, as usual, resulted in the
establishment of a warm friendship between the two. The book was much
sought after and, on the whole, was well received, although certain
of the critics thought the title too ambiguous—a criticism which
Miss Mitford disarmed, somewhat, by admitting, in the Preface, that
it gave a very imperfect idea of the contents. News of her removal
took many old friends to Swallowfield, anxious to see whether the
change was for the better. Ruskin was delighted with it; so too, in
a modified sense, was young James Payn, “that splendidly handsome
lad of twenty-three—full of beauty, mental and physical, and with a
sensibility and grace of mind such as I have rarely known.”

[Illustration: Miss Mitford’s Cottage at Swallowfield, in 1913.]

Mr. Payn’s _Literary Recollections_, published in 1884, contain some
delightful pen-portraiture of his old friend, whom he calls “the
dear little old lady, looking like a venerable fairy, with bright
sparkling eyes, a clear, incisive voice, and a laugh that carried
you away with it.” Here, too, came Charles Boner from America, and
Mr. Fields, the publisher, the latter bringing with him Nathaniel
Hawthorne—“whom he found starving and has made almost affluent by
his encouragement and liberality”—with each of whom a constant
correspondence was afterwards maintained. Many of the letters to Mr.
Boner are to be found in his _Memoirs_, published in 1871, while Mr.
Fields gives a charming reminiscent sketch of Miss Mitford in his
_Yesterdays with Authors_, published in 1872. Like all the visitors
to Swallowfield, Mr. Fields took a great fancy to “little Henry,” and
at Miss Mitford’s own request he agreed that when the boy should be
fourteen years of age he should be sent to America to be apprenticed
to the publisher’s business of which Mr. Fields was the head. The
arrangement was one which gave the keenest delight to Miss Mitford,
who was most anxious that her little companion should be properly and
adequately provided for. Unfortunately (or fortunately—for little
Henry eventually became a Missionary), the arrangement fell through,
but Miss Mitford did her best to provide for the boy’s welfare by
making him her sole legatee.

Among the letters of 1851, written just prior to her removal, Miss
Mitford frequently mentioned Charles Kingsley, who had by this time
made himself felt as a strong man in the neighbouring village of
Eversley, in addition to the fame which his literary work had brought
him. “I hope to know him when I move,” wrote Miss Mitford, “for he
visits many of my friends.” In another letter she remarked:—“_Alton
Locke_ is well worth reading. There are in it worldwide truths nicely
put, but then it is painful and inconclusive. Did I tell (perhaps
I did) that the author begged Mr. Chapman to keep the secret?” [of
the authorship], “and Chapman was prepared to be as mysterious as
Churchill on the ‘Vestiges’ question, when he found Mr. Kingsley had
told everybody, and that all his fibs were falsehoods thrown away!”

It was not long, however, before Mr. Kingsley called at the cottage
and commenced a friendship which lasted until Miss Mitford’s death.
She found him “charming—that beau-ideal of a young poet, whom
I never thought to see—frank, ardent, spirited, soft, gentle,
high-bred above all.” It was a friendship which ripened rapidly, for
Kingsley loved to discuss deep social questions with this learned
little woman who, although at first she did not like his opinions,
came to see that he was not far wrong and indeed developed into one
of his most ardent supporters. In the October of 1852, the first year
of their friendship, Kingsley wrote a sonnet which he dedicated


“TO THE AUTHORESS OF ‘OUR VILLAGE.’

    “The single eye; the daughter of the light,
    Well pleased to recognize in lowliest shade
    Each glimmer of its parent ray, and made,
    By daily draughts of brightness, inly bright;
    The style severe, yet graceful, trained aright
    To classic depths of clearness and repaid
    By thanks and honour from the wise and staid;
    By pleasant skill to blame and yet delight,
    And hold communion with the eloquent throng
    Of those who shaped and toned our speech and song;
    All these are yours. The same examples here,
    You in rich woodland, me on breezy moor,
    With kindred aims the same sweet path along,
    To knit in loving knowledge rich and poor.”

It was a beautiful tribute, which naturally touched the warm heart of
its recipient.

“Oh! my dear Mr. Kingsley,” she wrote, “how much surprised and
touched and gratified I have been by that too flattering but most
charming sonnet! Such praise from such a person is indeed most
precious. I will not say that I never dreamt of your sending any
compliments to myself, because I am sure that you would not suspect
me of such vanity, but I must tell you how heartily I thank you,
especially for the lines which join us together in intention and
purpose.... I wonder whether you always leave people liking you so
very much more than they seem to have a right to do! and whether it
is your fault or mine that I talked to you as if I had known you ever
since you were a boy! Pardon the impertinence, if it be one, and
believe me ever

            “Your obliged and faithful friend,

                             “M. R. MITFORD.”

One result of the residence at Three Mile Cross, amid the
dilapidations of the later years, was the acute rheumatism from which
Miss Mitford began to suffer before her removal and which, as the
years crept on, got a firmer hold of her system. The consequence was
that often, for weeks at a time, she was not able to walk a step, and
had to be carried bodily downstairs by Sam, her new man-of-all-work,
assisted by K——, whom he had married. This absence of walking
exercise was a great hardship, for it was among her chief delights
to ramble round the lanes with the dogs, seeking the earliest wild
blooms and, with the aid of her favourite crook-stick, gathering the
honey suckle as it rioted in the hedge-tops. So, with such exercise
impossible, recourse was had to the pony-chaise, wherein, with
either Sam or K——, for driver, they would amble quietly around the
countryside or into Swallowfield Park, near by, where, if they were
at home, there was always a sure welcome from Lady Russell or her
daughters.

[Illustration: Mary Russell Mitford.

(From a painting by John Lucas, 1852.)]

It was during one of these drives that the accident occurred which
was to render her still more helpless and to hasten her end. It was
caused by the overturn of the chaise, which threw the occupants with
great force on to the hard gravelled road. No bones were broken,
but the nerves of the hip and thigh were bruised and shattered, and
there was some injury to the spine which, though not noticed at
the time, soon developed seriously. A long and painful illness was
the result, during which the patient suffered the greatest agony,
frequently unable to move in order to change her position while in
bed. Lady Russell was a frequent and daily visitor, coming through
the mud and rain—for it was winter—to bring comforts for mind and
body to her sick friend. The spring of 1853 saw a slight change for
the better, and among the old friends who came to visit the invalid
was Lucas, the painter, who succeeded in getting his old patroness
to sit for another portrait. Miss Mitford was delighted with the
result—the expression she thought was wonderfully well-caught,
“so thoughtful, happy, tender—as if the mind were dwelling in a
pleasant frame on some dear friend.” With the approach of summer she
had gained sufficient strength to walk out into the garden, where,
under a great acacia tree, and near to a favourite syringa-bush, she
had a garden-seat and wrote, when not too weary. Here, and in her
bedroom, she worked at last on the novel, so long put off. By the end
of 1853 it was in the printer’s hands, and every effort was being
made to publish it early in 1854. “_Atherton_ has twice nearly killed
me,” wrote Miss Mitford to William Harness, “once in writing—now,
very lately, in correcting the proofs.” Talfourd, hearing of his
old friend’s illness, went to see her in March of 1854 and sat by
her bedside much affected at the change he saw in her. “All the old
friendship came back upon both, as in the many years when my father’s
house was a second home to him. We both, I believe, felt it to be a
last parting”—and that, indeed, it was, for Talfourd died, while
delivering a judgment, a fortnight later! The news of his death was a
severe shock to Miss Mitford.

Early in April, 1854, _Atherton_ was published in three volumes by
Messrs. Hurst & Blackett, and, to the author’s great delight, Mr.
Hurst sent her word that Mr. Mudie had told him the demand was so
great as to oblige him to have four hundred copies in circulation.
The Dedication was “To her Dear Friend, Lady Russell, whose Sympathy
has Cheered the Painfullest Hours, as her Companionship has Gladdened
the Brightest,” and in the Preface she set forth in detail the awful
sufferings which she was forced to endure while writing the work,
“being often obliged to have the ink-glass held for me, because I
could not raise my hand to dip the pen in the ink.”

[Illustration: _Mary Mitford.
(copy of a sketch made from memory
in 1853. E. H.)_
 Mary Russell Mitford.

(From a pencil sketch lent by W. H. Hudson, Esq.)]

Frequent letters from Mrs. Browning, in Rome, came to cheer her,
urging that, if the invalid could not write herself, perhaps K——,
could send a line of news now and again. William Harness came for a
day and, finding his old playmate and friend so distressed, stayed
three weeks. He could see, all too plainly, that the frail body
would not last long, and he also found that she was troubled in
spirit, troubled at her lack of faith and by wandering thoughts
which obtruded in her prayers. Every day, and frequently during
the day, either Lady Russell or one of her daughters came and sat
with the invalid, being sometimes accompanied by a mutual friend,
the Rev. Hugh Pearson, Rector of Sonning—a parish nearly ten miles
distant—who drove over as often as he could be spared from his
parochial duties. To him, as to William Harness, Miss Mitford talked
long and earnestly on spiritual matters, while he tried to remove her
doubts and bring comfort to her anxious soul. As a means to this end
he arranged to administer the Sacrament to her, but was frequently
put off because, as she said, the thought of it agitated her so
much. “Be sure, dearest friend,” she wrote, “that I do not fail in
meditation, such as I can give, and prayer. It is my own unworthiness
and want of an entire faith that troubles me. But I am a good deal
revived by sitting at the open window, in this sweet summer air,
looking at the green trees and the blue sky, and thinking of His
goodness who made this lovely world.”

To William Harness she wrote, in August, telling him that she had,
at last, received the Sacrament at Mr. Pearson’s hands, together
with Sam and her friend, Mrs. C. Stephens. “I wish you had been here
also,” she pathetically added. Later, in September, she wrote—“I
wish you were sitting close to me at this moment, that we might
talk over your plans ... Swallowfield churchyard, the plain tablet,
and the walking funeral have only one objection—that my father and
mother lie in Shinfield Church, and that there is room left above
them for me. But I greatly dislike where the vault is—just where
all the schoolboys kick their heels. After all, I leave that to
you—I mean the whole affair of the funeral. It is very doubtful if
I shall live till October. At present I am better ... and now put
my feet upon _your_ chair. You will not like it the less for having
contributed to my comfort. I am still as cheerful as ever, which
surprises people much.” So she lingered, writing whenever possible
to distant friends, keenly anxious to hear the latest literary news
and delighting in the knowledge that a novel (_Philip Lancaster_) had
just been dedicated to her.

[Illustration: Swallowfield Churchyard, wherein Miss Mitford lies
buried.]

To Mr. Kingsley she wrote:—“The kindness of your letter, dearest
Mr. Kingsley, and those sweet words of sweet Mrs. Kingsley did me
literally good. My heart warmed to her from the first, as the only
realization I have ever seen of my vision of a Poet’s Wife. May God
in His mercy restore her health and spare you long to each other and
to the world. There are few such couples.”

In the autumn she received the following charming lines from Walter
Savage Landor, whom she first met, many years before, at Talfourd’s
dinner-table:—

    “The hay is carried; and the Hours
    Snatch, as they pass, the linden flowers;
    And children leap to pluck a spray
    Bent earthward, and then run away.
    Park-keeper, catch me those grave thieves,
    About whose frocks the fragrant leaves
    Sticking and fluttering, here and there,
    No false nor faltering witness bear.

    “I never view such scenes as these
    In grassy meadow, girt with trees,
    But comes a thought of her who now
    Sits with serenely patient brow
    Amid deep sufferings. None hath told
    More pleasant tales to young and old.
    Fondest was she of Father Thames,
    But rambled in Hellenic streams;
    Nor even there could any tell
    The country’s purer charms so well
    As Mary Mitford.

            “Verse! go forth
    And breathe o’er gentle breasts her worth.
    Needless the task ... but, should she see
    One hearty wish from you and me,
    A moment’s pain it may assuage—
    A rose-leaf on the couch of Age.”

On January 7, 1855, Miss Mitford wrote to a friend:—“It has
pleased Providence to preserve to me my calmness of mind, clearness
of intellect, and also my power of reading by day and by night,
and which is still more, my love of poetry and literature, my
cheerfulness, and my enjoyment of little things. This very day, not
only my common pensioners, the dear robins, but a saucy troop of
sparrows, and a little shining bird of passage, whose name I forget,
have all been pecking at once at their tray of bread-crumbs outside
the window. Poor pretty things! how much delight there is in these
common objects, if people would but learn to enjoy them: and I really
think that the feeling for these simple pleasures is increasing with
the increase of education.” On the next day she wrote to Mr. Pearson,
urging him to decide when he would come and dine with a mutual
friend, for “if you wish for another cheerful evening with your old
friend, there is no time to be lost.”

Two days later, at five o’clock in the afternoon, with her hand in
that of Lady Russell, who had been with her all day, she passed
peacefully away, so calmly that her friend was scarcely conscious of
the passing.

       *       *       *       *       *

Thus ended the life of this remarkable woman—remarkable alike for
her versatile genius as for her abiding faith in her father and
the fortitude with which she accepted and patiently bore the many
vicissitudes through which she was forced to pass.

On January 18, 1855, she was laid to rest in Swallowfield Churchyard,
in a spot which she had chosen. Originally it was not within the
churchyard proper, being on the fringe of Swallowfield Park; but, to
humour her, the railings were diverted and the little plot was thus
made available. It was a simple funeral, the only mourners at the
graveside being her two executors—the Rev. William Harness and Mr.
George May, her physician—and her two servants, Sam and his wife,
K——.

The grave is now marked by a simple granite cross, the cost of which
was borne by a few old friends.

                                FINIS


          _Printed by_ BUTLER & TANNER, _Frome and London_.




  TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

  Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
  corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
  the text and consultation of external sources.

  No attempt has been made to reconcile the spelling and hyphenation
  between the author’s writing and Mitford’s.

  Some hyphens in words have been silently removed, some added,
  when a predominant preference was found in the original book.

  Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text,
  and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.

  Pg. 9:  “painting by Slater” changed to “drawing by Slater”
           to match illustration caption.
  Pg. 38: “eminnently” replaced with “eminently”.
  Pg. 189: “persuance” replaced with “pursuance”.
  Pg. 249: “soi-distant” replaced with “soi-disant”.
  Pg. 318: “hypocricy” replaced with “hypocrisy”.