Most people's lives are divided into first, second and third volumes;
and as we read Miss Mitford's history it forms no exception to the
rule. The early enthusiastic volume is there, with its hopes and wild
judgments, its quaint old-fashioned dress and phraseology; then comes
the second volume, full of actual work and serious responsibility,
with those childish parents to provide for, whose lives, though so
protracted, never seem to reach beyond their nurseries. Miss Mitford's
third volume is retrospective; her growing infirmities are courageously
endured, there is the certainty of success well earned and well
deserved; we realise her legitimate hold upon the outer world of readers
and writers, besides the reputation which she won upon the stage by her
tragedies.
The literary ladies of the early part of the century in some ways had a
very good time of it. A copy of verses, a small volume of travels, a few
tea-parties, a harp in one corner of the room, and a hat and feathers
worn rather on one side, seemed to be all that was wanted to establish
a claim to fashion and inspiration. They had footstools to rest their
satin shoes upon, they had admirers and panegyrists to their heart's
content, and above all they possessed that peculiar complacency in which
(with a few notable exceptions) our age is singularly deficient. We are
earnest, we are audacious, we are original, but we are not complacent.
THEY were dolls perhaps, and lived in dolls' houses; WE are ghosts
without houses at all; we come and go wrapped in sheets of newspaper,
holding flickering lights in our hands, paraffin lamps, by the light of
which we are seeking our proper sphere. Poor vexed spirits! We do not
belong to the old world any more! The new world is not yet ready for
us. Even Mr. Gladstone will not let us into the House of Commons; the
Geographical Society rejects us, so does the Royal Academy; and yet who
could say that any of their standards rise too high! Some one or two are
happily safe, carried by the angels of the Press to little altars and
pinnacles all their own; but the majority of hard-working, intelligent
women, 'contented with little, yet ready for more,' may they not in
moments of depression be allowed to picture to themselves what their
chances might have been had they only been born half a century earlier?
Miss Mitford, notwithstanding all her troubles (she has been known
to say she had rather be a washerwoman than a literary lady), had
opportunities such as few women can now obtain. One is lost in
admiration at the solidity of one's grandparents' taste, when one
attempts to read the tragedies they delighted in, and yet 'Rienzi' sold
four thousand copies and was acted forty-five times; and at one time
Miss Mitford had two tragedies rehearsed upon the boards together; one
at Covent Garden and one at Drury Lane, with Charles Kemble and Macready
disputing for her work. Has not one also read similar descriptions
of the triumphs of Hannah More, or of Johanna Baillie; cheered by
enthusiastic audiences, while men shed tears.*
*Mem. Hannah More, v.i. p.124.
'Julian' was the first of Miss Mitford's acted plays. It was brought out
at Covent Garden in 1823, when she was thirty-six years old; Macready
played the principal part. 'If the play do reach the ninth night,' Miss
Mitford writes to Macready, 'it will be a very complete refutation of
Mr. Kemble's axiom that no single performer can fill the theatre; for
except our pretty Alfonso (Miss Foote) there is only Julian, one and
only one. Let him imagine how deeply we feel his exertions and his
kindness.*...'
*In Macready's diary we find an entry which is not over gracious.
'"Julian" acted March the 15th. Had but moderate success. The C. G.
company was no longer equal to the support of plays containing moral
characters. The authoress in her dedication to me was profuse in
her acknowledgments and compliments, but the performance made little
impression, and was soon forgotten.'
'Julian' was stopped on the eighth night, to her great disappointment,
but she is already engaged on another--on several more---tragedies; she
wants the money badly; for the editor of her magazine has absconded,
owing her 50 pounds. Some trying and bewildering quarrel then ensues
between Charles Kemble and Macready, which puts off her tragedies,
and sadly affects poor Miss Mitford's nerves and profits. She has one
solace. Her father, partly instigated, she says, by the effect which the
terrible feeling of responsibility and want of power has had upon her
health and spirits, at last resolves to try if he can HIMSELF obtain any
employment that may lighten the burthen of the home. It is a good thing
that Dr. Mitford has braced himself to this heroic determination. '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... even
"Julian" was written under a pressure of anxiety which left me not a
moment's rest....' So she fondly dwells upon the delightful prospects.
Then comes the next letter to Sir William Elford, and we read that her
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.'
On one of the many occasions when Miss Mitford writes to her trustee
imploring him to sell out the small remaining fragment of her fortune,
she says, 'My dear father has, years ago, been improvident, is still
irritable and difficult to live with, but he is a person of a thousand
virtues... there are very few half so good in this mixed world; it is
my fault that this money is needed, entirely my fault, and if it be
withheld, my dear father will be overthrown, mind and body, and I shall
never know another happy hour.'
No wonder Mr. Harness, who was behind the scenes, remonstrated against
the filial infatuation which sacrificed health, sleep, peace of mind,
to gratify every passing whim of the Doctor's. At a time when she was
sitting up at night and slaving, hour after hour, to earn the necessary
means of living, Dr. Mitford must needs have a cow, a stable, and dairy
implements procured for his amusement, and when he died he left 1,000
pounds of debts for the scrupulous woman to pay off. She is determined
to pay, if she sells her clothes to do so. Meanwhile, the Doctor is
still alive, and Miss Mitford is straining every nerve to keep him so.
She is engaged (in strict confidence) on a grand historical subject,
Charles and Cromwell, the finest episode in English history, she says.
Here, too, fresh obstacles arise. This time it is the theatrical censor
who interferes. It would be dangerous for the country to touch upon such
topics; Mr. George Colman dwells upon this theme, although he gives the
lady full credit for no evil intentions; but for the present all her
work is again thrown away. While Miss Mitford is struggling on as best
she can against this confusion of worries and difficulty (she eventually
received 200 pounds for 'Julian' from a Surrey theatre), a new firm
'Whittaker' undertakes to republish the 'village sketches' which had
been written for the absconding editor. The book is to be published
under the title of 'Our Village.'