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?