Transcriber’s Note
Footnotes have all been renumbered from 1 to 20.
Page 76 — bougeoises changed to bourgeoises.
Page 332 — biassed changed to biased.
The Advertisements “By Same Author”, have been placed at the back of
the project.
MARY RUSSELL MITFORD
[Illustration: _From a Portrait by A. Burt_ _taken in 1836._]
MARY RUSSELL MITFORD AND HER SURROUNDINGS
BY
CONSTANCE HILL
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ELLEN G. HILL AND REPRODUCTIONS OF PORTRAITS
“There are few names which fall with a pleasanter sound upon the ears
of those who adopt authors as friends than the name of Mary Russell
Mitford.”
LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY. MCMXX
_The centre design in the binding represents a French gold enamelled
watch which belonged to Mrs. Mitford and was inherited by her daughter.
The original is in the possession of the Misses Lovejoy._
WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD., PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH, ENGLAND
PREFACE
The more we study the life and character of Mary Russell Mitford the
more we become attached to her, for we come under the influence of a
nature that seems to radiate peace and good-will upon all who surround
her.
“The pleasant compelled enjoyment of her tales,” writes Harriet
Martineau, “is ascribable no doubt to the flow of good spirits and
kindliness that lighted up and warmed everything that her mind
produced.” And if we seek for a further reason, surely it is to be
found, as another writer observes, “in their strong rural flavour. They
breathe the air of the hay-fields and the scent of the hawthorn boughs.
There is nothing artificial about them, nothing of the conventional
pastoral. They are native and to the manner born.”
Here is an example that occurs in a letter to a friend, written long
before her printed works appeared. Speaking of a walk in the Berkshire
meadows on a spring morning, she says: “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!... 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.”
Many writers have imitated Miss Mitford’s style since the “tales” of
_Our Village_ first took the reading world by surprise nearly a hundred
years ago; but none of those writers, in my opinion, possess her potent
charm, nor do they possess her wonderful power of making her readers
see nature, as it were, through her eyes and grasp the beauty and
poetry of rural life.
Mary as a child was shy and silent before strangers, but withal very
observant. Writing of the impressions made upon her mind by some of the
French _émigré_ coteries with which she had come in contact, she says:
“In truth they formed a motley group [whose] contrasts and combinations
were too ludicrous not to strike irresistibly the fancy of an acute
observing girl whose perception of the ludicrous was rendered keener
by the invincible shyness which confined the enjoyment entirely to her
own breast.”
But is it not to the experiences gained by such quiet, shy children as
herself and Charlotte Brontë that we owe much of our knowledge of life
and its surroundings? It is the listeners not the talkers that can hand
down this knowledge to us.
Miss Mitford’s talents were varied, and we owe to her pen some stirring
dramas which were performed with much éclat on the London stage, and
in which John Kemble and Macready took the leading parts. The public
were astonished to learn that it was a gentle lady living in a remote
Berkshire village who was thus moving the great London audiences.
A shrewd American critic of the day remarks: “In all these plays there
is strong, vigorous writing—masculine in the free unhashed use of
language—but wholly womanly in its purity from coarseness or licence
and in the inter-mixture of those incidental touches of softest feeling
and finest observation which are peculiar to the gentler sex.”
It has been said of Miss Mitford by one who knew her that “as
a letter-writer she has rarely been surpassed, and that her
correspondence, so full as it is of point in allusions, so full of
anecdote and of recollections, will be considered among her finest
writings.” Even her hasty notes, we are told, “had a relish about
them quite their own.” It is interesting to find the views she
herself entertained on the subject of letter-writing as given in her
_Recollections of a Literary Life_. It runs as follows: “Such is the
reality and identity belonging to letters written at the moment and
intended only for the eye of a favourite friend, that probably any
genuine series of epistles were the writer ever so little distinguished
would ... possess the invaluable quality of individuality which so
often causes us to linger before an old portrait of which we know no
more than that it is a Burgomaster by Rembrandt or a Venetian Senator
by Titian. The least skilful pen when flowing from the fulness of the
heart ... shall often paint with as faithful and life-like a touch as
either of those great masters.”
Mary Russell Mitford’s friends were numerous, both here in England and
on the other side of the Atlantic, and her sympathies were as wide as
the great ocean that lies between us. She writes in later life: “I love
poetry and people as well at sixty as I did at sixteen, and can never
be sufficiently grateful to God for having permitted me to retain the
two joy-giving faculties of admiration and sympathy by which we are
enabled to escape from the consciousness of our own infirmities into
the great works of all ages and the joys and sorrows of our immediate
friends.”
This sunny nature which was unembittered by severe trials speaks to us
in all the stories of _Our Village_, and it spread such a halo about
the scenes therein described that little Three Mile Cross—the prototype
of _Our Village_—became in time a resort of pilgrims from far and near,
among whom were some of the finest spirits of the age. All longed to
gaze upon the cottage in which Mary Russell Mitford had dwelt, and
to sit in the small parlour whose window looks down upon the village
street, where she had written the stories so dear to her readers.
Happily the cottage itself, with the little general shop on one side
and the village inn on the other, are still so much what they were in
her day that the long space of time that has rolled by since her room
was left vacant seems to vanish, and as we enter the front door we
almost expect to see the small figure of the “lady of _Our Village_”
coming down the narrow stairs to welcome us.
* * * * *
Before closing this Preface I would express my gratitude to Lord
Treowen, Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Palmer, Mr. F. Cowslade, Mr. W. May, the
Misses Lovejoy, and Mr. J. J. Cooper, for permission to reproduce
valuable portraits and relics, and for other kind help.
CONSTANCE HILL.
GROVE COTTAGE, FROGNAL, HAMPSTEAD, _August, 1919_.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. AN AUTHOR’S BIRTHPLACE 1
II. HAPPY MEMORIES 9
III. VILLAGE NEIGHBOURS 15
IV. EARLY LIFE IN READING 22
V. LYME REGIS 29
VI. A STORMY COAST 40
VII. A FLIGHT 52
VIII. RETURN TO READING 56
IX. THE SCHOOL IN HANS PLACE 66
X. A GLIMPSE OF OLD FRENCH SOCIETY 74
XI. THE GAY REALITIES OF MOLIÈRE 82
XII. RECOLLECTIONS OF OLD READING 92
XIII. A NORTHERN TOUR 101
XIV. A ROYAL VISIT 110
XV. PLAYS AND POETRY 119
XVI. A CHOSEN CORRESPONDENT 126
XVII. THE MARCH OF MIND 134
XVIII. VERSATILITY AND PLAYFULNESS 144
XIX. FROM MANSION TO COTTAGE 156
XX. THREE MILE CROSS 161
XXI. THE NEW HOME 179
XXII. A LOQUACIOUS VISITOR 190
XXIII. THE PUBLICATION OF “OUR VILLAGE” 203
XXIV. A COUNTRY-SIDE ROMANCE 212
XXV. A NEW PLAYWRIGHT 221
XXVI. “RIENZI” 230
XXVII. FOREIGN NEIGHBOURS 241
XXVIII. AGREEABLE JAUNTS 250
XXIX. UFTON COURT 260
XXX. A FURTHER GLANCE AT OUR VILLAGE 271
XXXI. ECCENTRIC NEIGHBOURS 283
XXXII. THE MAY-HOUSES 292
XXXIII. WALKS IN THE COUNTRY 302
XXXIV. A CENTRE OF INTEREST 315
XXXV. A LONDON WELCOME 328
XXXVI. A BRAVE HEART 339
XXXVII. FAREWELL TO THREE MILE CROSS 350
XXXVIII. SWALLOWFIELD 360
XXXIX. PEACEFUL CLOSING YEARS 372
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Portrait of Mary Russell Mitford. (_By A. Burt, taken in 1836_)
_Frontispiece_
Grove Cottage, Frognal, Hampstead _Preface_ x
The Mitfords’ house in Broad Street, Alresford 3
Antique girandole 8
Mary Russell Mitford’s birthplace 11
Mary Russell Mitford at the age of four years. (_After a miniature_)
_To face_ 16
The Cross-house 21
Southampton Street, Reading 24
The “Walk” by the sea, Lyme Regis 31
The Great House, Lyme Regis 35
Old ironwork 39
The panelled chamber 41
The drawing-room 47
Blackfriars Bridge in 1796 52
Dr. Mitford’s house in the London Road, Reading _To face_ 58
Antique ironwork 65
Hans Place in 1798 69
Ceiling decoration (1714) 81
A purse-bag 91
A skit on the “Pink of the mode” _To face_ 92
A quaint tea-set 100
Gosfield Hall _To face_ 110
Le Comte d’Artois (afterwards Charles X) _To face_ 112
The Dining-room in the Deanery, Bocking 115
Dr. Valpy’s school _To face_ 122
Country cottages 143
Bertram House 147
Inlaid tea-caddy 160
The Mitfords’ cottage in Three Mile Cross 163
The village shop 169
The Swan Inn 173
A country wheelbarrow 178
Miss Mitford’s writing-parlour 181
The wheelwright’s workshop 185
Fragment of the Silchester Roman wall 189
Where the curate lodged 193
The curate’s parlour 197
An old Berkshire farm 213
Frith Street, Soho Square 225
Old houses in Great Queen Street 233
A French bonbonnière 249
The West Gate, Southampton 251
Pulteney Bridge, Bath 254
Arabella Fermor as a child. (_After a picture in the possession of
Frederick Cowslade, Esq._) 259
The Porch, Ufton Court 261
Arabella Fermor, the “Belinda” of the “Rape of the Lock,” afterwards
Mrs. Perkins. (_From a painting by W. Sykes in the possession of Lord
Treowen_) _To face_ 262
Francis Perkins. (_By W. Sykes, from a painting also in the possession
of Lord Treowen_) _To face_ 262
Belinda’s parlour 265
The garden steps 267
A dandy of the period 291
An old shoeing forge 297
A bridge on the Loddon 303
In Aberleigh (Arborfield) Park 307
Dr. Mitford. (_From a painting by John Lucas in the possession of W.
May, Esq._) _To face_ 330
Ironwork in the balcony of Sergeant Talfourd’s house 338
Verses by M. R. Mitford written in a friend’s album (_facsimile_) _To
face_ 344
Old house near Swallowfield 355
A teapot which belonged to M. R. Mitford 359
M. R. Mitford’s last home at Swallowfield 363
Swallowfield Church 380
MARY RUSSELL MITFORD
CHAPTER I
AN AUTHOR’S BIRTHPLACE
In a sunny corner of Hampshire there lies the tiny historic town
of Alresford on the gentle slopes of a hill, at whose feet flows
the little river Arle which gives its name to the place. “A town so
small that but for an ancient market very slenderly attended, nobody
would have dreamt of calling it anything but a village.” And yet,
oddly enough, in this same place great dignity was united with rustic
simplicity, for the living of “Old” Alresford was one of the richest
in England, and was held by the Bishop of Exeter in conjunction with
his very poor see. The Post Office was formerly installed in a very
small room with nothing but a letter-box in the window; still, it had
its importance, being at the head of many others scattered over the
country-side.
Alresford was the birthplace of one who loved nature as few have loved
her, and whose writings “breathe the air of the hay-fields and the
scent of the hawthorn boughs,” and seem to waft to us “the sweet
breezes that blow over ripened, cornfields or daisied meadows.”
The name of Mary Russell Mitford—the author of _Our Village_—is dear to
thousands of readers, both English and American, for she has enabled
them to see nature with her eyes and to enter into the very spirit of
rural life.
Alresford is built on the plan of the letter T, at the top of which
stands the old church; Broad Street being the perpendicular stem,
traversed by East Street and West Street, which form the cross-bar.
Supposing that we are coming up from the valley below where we have
left behind us the winding river with its old mill, we enter the lower
end of Broad Street—that picturesque street with its raised footpaths
on either side bordered by trees, and its low, irregular houses,
dominated at the upper end by the grey tower of the old church. That
dignified looking house on the right-hand side, with its hooded doorway
and its tall windows, belonged to Dr. Mitford.
Here it was that the doctor started a practice soon after his marriage
with Miss Russell, the only child and heiress of the late Dr. Russell,
Rector of Ashe, and here, on the 16th December, 1787, Mary, also an
only child, was born.
[Illustration: THE HOUSE IN BROAD STREET]
“A pleasant house in truth it was,” she writes. “The breakfast-room
... 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!
My maid Nancy 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!... How well I remember my father’s 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; 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!... Happy, happy days! It is good to have the memory of
such a childhood!”
Miss Mitford writes on another occasion:—
“In common with many only children, I learnt to read at a very early
age. My father would perch me on the breakfast-table to exhibit my
only accomplishment to some admiring guest, who admired all the more
[from my being] a small puny child, gifted with an affluence of curls
[who] might have passed for the twin sister of my own great doll.
On the table was I perched to read some Foxite newspaper, _Courier_
or _Morning Chronicle_, the Whiggish oracles of the day.... I read
leading articles to please the company; and my dear mother recited ‘The
Children in the Wood’ to please me. This was my reward, and I looked
for my favourite ballad after every performance, just as the piping
bull-finch that hung in the window looked for his lump of sugar after
going through ‘God save the King.’ The two cases were exactly parallel.”
We have sat in the very room where this scene took place. Little is
changed there, and we stepped from its windows “opening down to the
ground” into the garden. A narrow footpath, bordered by greensward,
led to a small flagged courtyard, flanked on one side by a quaint
old brew-house, with its red-tiled roof and peaked windowed centre.
Then, passing through a wicket-gate, we found ourselves in the “large
old-fashioned garden,” itself gay with flowers as of yore.
An adjoining house has arisen, since the Mitfords lived in their house
more than a hundred years ago, but this building has in its turn grown
old, so that it does not mar the character of the place.
Beyond the garden lay the orchard, now used as a tennis lawn, but still
happily surrounded by trees, through whose boughs peeps of the sweet
surrounding country can be seen. Indeed Alresford is entirely encircled
by the country, and its three only streets—Broad Street, East Street,
and West Street—lead straight into it. Miss Mitford, describing the
views on either side of their grounds, says that to the south rose the
“picturesque church with its yews and lindens, and beyond it a down as
smooth as velvet, dotted with rich islands of coppice, hazel, woodbine
and hawthorn”; while down in the valley “gleamed a bright, clear
lakelet radiant with swans and water-lilies, which the simple townsfolk
were content to call the ‘Great Pond.’”
Dr. Mitford’s house must indeed have been a “pleasant home” for a
child, with its garden and orchard for a playground behind the house,
and, in front, its cheerful view of the village street with its
ever-changing scenes of passing horsemen and carts, or of herds of
sheep and cattle driven to market.
Here Mary first learnt, though unconsciously, to enjoy the beauties of
nature and to enter into the simple pleasures of village life.
[Illustration]