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.