_OUR VILLAGE_ IS PUBLISHED
With her mother now convalescent, the year 1824 opened to find Miss
Mitford more composed in mind. She was still turning over in her mind
her friend Macready’s great commission, but as he had bade her take
plenty of time, she occupied herself with gathering together and
polishing the _Lady’s Magazine_ articles on country life with a view
to their publication in volume form. Mr. George B. Whittaker, of Ave
Maria Lane—“papa’s godson, by-the-by”—was the chosen publisher and
we may be certain that there was much fussing and discussion between
the parties concerned before the details were finally arranged. Mr.
Whittaker was, according to his godfather’s daughter, “a young and
dashing friend of mine, this year sheriff of London, and is, I hear,
so immersed in his official dignities as to have his head pretty much
turned topsy-turvy, or rather, in French phraseology, to have lost
that useful appendage; so I should not wonder now, if it did not
come out, till I am able to get to town and act for myself in the
business, and I have not yet courage to leave mamma.”
Had Mr. Whittaker known what was in store for him he would probably
have lost his head; but neither author nor publisher had the faintest
notion that the modest volume, then projecting, was to be the
forerunner of a series destined to take the world by storm and to be
the one effort—apart from dramatic and sonneteering successes, which
were to fade into obscurity—by which alone the name of Mary Russell
Mitford was to be remembered.
Its modest title—_Our Village_—was the author’s own choice, and
it was to consist of essays and characters and stories, chiefly
of country life, in the manner of the _Sketch Book_, but without
sentimentality or pathos—two things abhorred by the author—and to be
published with or without its author’s name, as it might please the
publisher. “At all events,” wrote Miss Mitford to Sir William, “the
author has no wish to be _incognita_; so I tell you as a _secret to
be told_.”
“When you see _Our Village_,” she continued, “(which if my sheriff be
not bestraught, I hope may happen soon), you will see that my notions
of prose style are nicer than these galloping letters would give you
to understand.”
The excitement of preparing for the press revived her old interest
in life and stirred her once again to indulge in that free and
blithesome correspondence which had been so unceremoniously dropped
when her domestic troubles seemed so overpowering. Her introduction
to Macready had been followed by an introduction to his sister whom,
as usual, Miss Mitford found to be all that was charming. In her
impulsive fashion she quickly divined the characters of both and
wrote of her impressions to her confidant, Sir William. “They are
very fascinating people, of the most polished and delightful manners,
and with no fault but the jealousy and unreasonableness which seem
to me the natural growth of the green-room. I can tell you just
exactly what Mr. Macready would have said of me and _Julian_. He
would have spoken of me as a meritorious and amiable person, of the
play as a first-rate performance, and of the treatment as ‘infamous!’
‘scandalous!’ ‘unheard-of!’—would have heaped every phrase of polite
abuse which the language contains on the Covent Garden manager; and
then would have concluded as follows:—‘But it is Miss Mitford’s
own fault—entirely her own fault. She is, with all her talent, the
weakest and most feeble-minded woman that ever lived. If she had put
matters into _my_ hands—if she had withdrawn _The Foscari_—if she
had threatened the managers with a lawsuit—if she had published her
case—if she had suffered me to manage for her; she would have been
the queen of the theatre. Now, you will see her the slave of Charles
Kemble. She is the weakest woman that ever trode the earth.’ This
is exactly what he would have said; the way in which he talks of me
to every one, and most of all to myself. ‘Is Mr. Macready a great
actor?’ you ask. I think that I should answer, ‘_He might have been
a very_ GREAT _one_.’ Whether he be now I doubt. A very clever actor
he certainly is; but he has vitiated his taste by his love of strong
effects, and been spoilt in town and country; and I don’t know that I
do call him a very great actor ... I have a physical pleasure in the
sound of Mr. Macready’s voice, whether talking, or reading, or acting
(except when he rants). It seems to me very exquisite music, with
something instrumental and vibrating in the sound, like certain notes
of the violoncello. He is grace itself; and he has a great deal of
real sensibility, mixed with some trickery.”
[Illustration: The old Wheelwright’s Shop at “Our Village,” in 1913.]
As far as it goes, and based on so slight an acquaintance, the
portrait is not much short of the truth, as witness Macready’s own
diaries wherein, strong man that he was, he set down all his faults
and failings. But he was a much-provoked man, the reason being that
he never did, or could, descend to the low level of his tormentors.
As for his being, or not being, a great actor, Miss Mitford must be
forgiven her hasty judgment; posterity rightly disagrees with her.
Spring was just merging into summer and the thoughts of jaded and
satiated townfolk were turning to the consideration of green fields
and smiling meadows when the first modest little volume of _Our
Village_ issued shyly forth from George Whittaker’s office. “Cause it
to be asked for at the circulating libraries,” urged the designing
author of all her friends.
The book caught on; its pages were redolent of the country; its
colour was true and vivid; it told of simple delights and did for
Berkshire what no author had ever previously done for any place.
Charles Lamb, then in the full enjoyment of his fame as _Elia_, said
that nothing so fresh and characteristic had appeared for a long
time. Sir William Elford was delighted but ventured the suggestion
that the sketches would have been better if written in the form of
letters, but this the author denied by reminding him that the pieces
were too long, and too connected, for _real_ correspondence; “and as
to anything make-believe, it has been my business to keep that out
of sight as much as possible. Besides which, we are free and easy in
these days, and talk to the public as a friend. Read _Elia_, or the
_Sketch Book_, or Hazlitt’s _Table-Talk_, or any popular book of the
new school, and you will find that we have turned over the Johnsonian
periods and the Blair-ian formality to keep company with the wigs and
hoops, the stiff curtseys and low bows of our ancestors. ‘Are the
characters and descriptions true?’ you ask. Yes! yes! yes! As true
as is well possible. You, as a great landscape painter, know that
in painting a favourite scene you do a little embellish, and can’t
help it; you avail yourself of happy accidents of atmosphere, and
if anything be ugly, you strike it out, or if anything be wanting,
you put it in. But still the picture is a likeness; and that this is
a very faithful one, you will judge when I tell you that a worthy
neighbour of ours, a post captain, who has been in every quarter
of the globe, and is equally distinguished for the sharp look-out
and _bonhomie_ of his profession, accused me most seriously of
carelessness in putting _The Rose_ for _The Swan_ as the sign of our
next door neighbour; and was no less disconcerted at the _misprint_
(as he called it) of B for R in the name of our next town. _A cela
près_, he declares the picture to be exact. Nevertheless I do not
expect to be poisoned. Why should I? I have said no harm of my
neighbours, have I? The great danger would be that my dear friend
Joel might be spoilt; but I take care to keep the book out of our
pretty Harriette’s way; and so I hope that that prime ornament of
our village will escape the snare for his vanity which the seeing so
exact a portrait of himself in a printed book might occasion. By the
way, the names of the villagers are true—of the higher sketches they
are feigned, of course.”
The sales were beyond the wildest dreams of the author and
publisher, for it was well reviewed in all the literary papers and
discussed in all the literary circles. “Where is _Our Village_?”
was the question folk were asking each other, and when the secret
leaked out, there was a constant stream of traffic from here, there
and everywhere to the quiet village of Three Mile Cross, whose
inhabitants were the last of all to discover that they had been “put
into a book.” What a theme for the cobbler over the way! How he must
have neglected his work to watch the congratulating visitors who
thronged the cottage opposite, all asking the beaming and delighted
author “How she thought of it?” and “Why she did it?” And when, at
length, a copy of the book itself found its way to the parlour of the
_George and Dragon_ and the cobbler saw himself as “the shoemaker
opposite,” we can almost fancy we catch the gratified light in his
eye and hear his astonished—“Well! I’ll be jiggered!”
And since no letter to any of her numerous correspondents ever
contained so charming a description, here let us quote from _Our
Village_ its author’s picture of her own dwelling:—“A cottage—no—a
miniature house, with many additions, little odds and ends of
places, pantries, and what-nots; all angles, and of a charming
in-and-out-ness; a little bricked court before one half, and a little
flower-yard before the other; the walls, old and weather-stained,
covered with hollyhocks, roses, honeysuckles, and a great apricot
tree; the casements full of geraniums (ah! there is our superb
white cat peeping out from among them); the closets (our landlord
has the assurance to call them rooms) full of contrivances and
corner-cupboards; and the little garden behind full of common
flowers, tulips, pinks, larkspurs, peonies, stocks, and carnations,
with an arbour of privet, not unlike a sentry-box, where one lives
in a delicious green light, and looks out on the gayest of all gay
flower-beds. That house was built on purpose to show in what an
exceeding small compass comfort may be packed.”
That is Miss Mitford’s miniature of her village home. Seeking
it to-day, the literary pilgrim would be sadly disappointed if
he carried this description in his mind. The walls have been
stuccoed—that ugliest of make-believes—and a wooden sign THE MITFORD
springs from between the windows in an attempt—honest enough, no
doubt—to compete with its neighbour THE SWAN, the sign of which
swings all a-creak over the garden-wall. It has lost its cottage
aspect, the windows are modern and even the chimney-pots have been
replaced by up-to-date pottery contrivances and a zinc contraption
which tries to look ornamental but is not—in striking contrast to the
village shop next door which is still the village shop as described
by Miss Mitford, “multifarious as a bazaar; a repository for
bread, shoes, tea, cheese, tape, ribands, and bacon”; full of that
delightfully mixed odour, a pot-pourri of eatables and wearables,
which always characterizes such establishments; proudly ruled by a
Brownlow, one of a line of Brownlows unbroken from long before Miss
Mitford’s day.
Inside, _The Mitford_ is less of a disappointment, for most of the
rooms remain unchanged, and one quickly sees how truly its delighted
owner limned it when she wrote of its angles and in-and-out-ness.
Unhappily the garden behind has been spoiled by the erection of
a large hall wherein the gospel is preached, light refreshments
may be partaken of, and the youth of the village assemble o’
nights to tighten their muscles on trapeze and horizontal bar.
In Miss Mitford’s day they achieved this end by following the
plough—but other times other manners, and we are not for blaming
them altogether. The pity is—and it is our only grumble—that when
that truly noble philanthropist, William Isaac Palmer, conceived
the notion of honouring Miss Mitford’s memory by preserving her
residence, he did not insist on a restoration which would have
perpetuated the external, as well as the internal, features of the
cottage.
* * * * *
[Illustration: Miss Mitford’s Cottage at Three Mile Cross, as it is
to-day (1913), with the sign of the _Swan Inn_ on the one hand, and
Brownlow’s shop on the other.]
Was _Our Village_ its author’s announcement to all and sundry, that
come what might, whether of want, drudgery, or disillusionment, she
could still carry her head high, look the world in the face— and
smile? Probably it was. A strong case can be made out for the view
that, apart altogether from her love of rurality, _Our Village_ was
a deliberate glorification of the simple life which had been forced
upon her, a deliberate pronouncement that Home was still Home, though
it had been transferred from the magnificence of Bertram House with
its retinue of servants, to an extremely humble cottage set between a
village “general” on the one side and a village inn upon the other.
With all the success which now seemed to crowd upon our author, the
year was not without its anxieties for, shortly after her mother’s
recovery, her father was taken suddenly ill and, as was his wont
on such occasions, required a great deal of attention. He made a
fairly speedy recovery, however, and in July we read of him and
Mrs. Mitford taking exercise in a “pretty little pony-chaise” the
acquisition of which the daughter proudly records—it was a sign,
however slight, of amended fortunes. Late in the year, Dr. Mitford
had a relapse and became seriously ill, and even when convalescent
was left so weak that he was a source of considerable anxiety to his
wife and daughter. This illness must have convinced Miss Mitford that
it would be futile to count upon her father as a bread-winner, and
that conviction seems to have spurred her to work even harder than
before. The _Cromwell and Charles_ play still simmered in her mind,
while there were a “thousand and one articles for annuals” to be
written, together with the working-up of a new tragedy to be called
_Inez de Castro_. Not satisfied with all that, she wrote in the July
to William Harness, asking whether he could influence Campbell, then
editing the _New Monthly Magazine_, to engage for a series—“Letters
from the Country,” or something of that sort—“altogether different,
of course, from _Our Village_ in the scenery and the _dramatis
personae_, but still something that might admit of description and
character, and occasional story, without the formality of a fresh
introduction to every article. If you liked my little volume well
enough to recommend me conscientiously, and are enough in that
prescient editor’s good graces to secure such an admission, I should
like the thing exceedingly.”
Talfourd wrote urging her to a novel, but this she wisely declined,
and commenced to work, in great haste on still another tragedy which
had been suggested by a re-reading of Gibbon’s _Decline and Fall of
the Roman Empire_. It was no new project, for she had written of it
“in strict confidence” to Sir William Elford more than a year before,
but it had been left to lie fallow until an opportunity arose for its
execution. When the suggestion was made to Macready he at once saw
the possibilities in the theme and promised to give the play his best
consideration, although he made the significant suggestion that not
only should the author’s name be kept a dead secret, but that the
play should be produced under a man’s name because the newspapers of
the day were so unfair to female writers.
Luckily the haste with which she had started on _Rienzi_ soon
subsided, and it was not ready until 1826 when Macready took it
and the Cromwellian play with him on an American tour, promising
to do nothing with either unless they could be produced in a
manner satisfactory to the author. The original intention had been
to produce _Rienzi_ at Covent Garden that year, but the idea was
abandoned.
In the meantime preparations were well advanced for a second
series of _Our Village_, “my bookseller having sent to me for two
volumes more.” Eventually the series extended to five volumes,
the publication of which ranged over the years 1824 and 1832. Of
these volumes there appeared, from time to time, a number of most
eulogistic reviews, particularly noticeable among them being those
of “Christopher North” in the _Noctes Ambrosianae_ of _Blackwood’s
Magazine_. In reviewing the third volume he wrote:—“The young
gentlemen of England should be ashamed o’ theirsells fo’ lettin’ her
name be Mitford. They should marry her whether she wull or no, for
she would mak baith a useful and agreeable wife. That’s the best
creetishism on her warks”—a criticism as amusing as it was true.