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.”