SWALLOWFIELD AND THE END
It will be remembered that some time after the correspondence with
Sir William Elford had been well established, he suggested to Miss
Mitford that much of the literary criticism contained in the letters
was valuable and might be edited with a view to publication. To
this Miss Mitford would not consent at the time, for, although the
idea appealed to her, she feared that her rather outspoken comments
on contemporary authors might, if published during their lifetime,
lead to unpleasantness which it were wiser to avoid. Many years had
now elapsed since the suggestion was made, and many changes had,
in consequence, taken place. The death of a large number of the
authors mentioned had removed Miss Mitford’s principal objection. She
herself was now a comparatively old woman, with a maturer judgment,
whose criticism was therefore more likely to command respect,
and as the death of her father had increased her leisure for the
performance of literary work—and she was still unwilling to tackle
the long-projected novel—she arranged with Miss Elford (Sir William
being dead) to gather the letters together and forward them to Three
Mile Cross. The task thus undertaken was both congenial and easy, and
by the time of her removal to Swallowfield she had made such progress
that it was decided to publish without delay. Mr. Bentley, who was
approached on the subject, suggested that the work be amplified and
issued in three volumes under the title of _Recollections of Books_.
Acting on this advice, Miss Mitford completed the work, after she had
settled herself in her new home, and by 1852 the book was published
under the more imposing title of _Recollections of a Literary Life,
and Selections from my Favourite Poets and Prose Writers_. It was
dedicated to Henry F. Chorley, one of a number of young men whose
dramatic and literary talent had brought him under the author’s
notice some years before and which, as usual, resulted in the
establishment of a warm friendship between the two. The book was much
sought after and, on the whole, was well received, although certain
of the critics thought the title too ambiguous—a criticism which
Miss Mitford disarmed, somewhat, by admitting, in the Preface, that
it gave a very imperfect idea of the contents. News of her removal
took many old friends to Swallowfield, anxious to see whether the
change was for the better. Ruskin was delighted with it; so too, in
a modified sense, was young James Payn, “that splendidly handsome
lad of twenty-three—full of beauty, mental and physical, and with a
sensibility and grace of mind such as I have rarely known.”
[Illustration: Miss Mitford’s Cottage at Swallowfield, in 1913.]
Mr. Payn’s _Literary Recollections_, published in 1884, contain some
delightful pen-portraiture of his old friend, whom he calls “the
dear little old lady, looking like a venerable fairy, with bright
sparkling eyes, a clear, incisive voice, and a laugh that carried
you away with it.” Here, too, came Charles Boner from America, and
Mr. Fields, the publisher, the latter bringing with him Nathaniel
Hawthorne—“whom he found starving and has made almost affluent by
his encouragement and liberality”—with each of whom a constant
correspondence was afterwards maintained. Many of the letters to Mr.
Boner are to be found in his _Memoirs_, published in 1871, while Mr.
Fields gives a charming reminiscent sketch of Miss Mitford in his
_Yesterdays with Authors_, published in 1872. Like all the visitors
to Swallowfield, Mr. Fields took a great fancy to “little Henry,” and
at Miss Mitford’s own request he agreed that when the boy should be
fourteen years of age he should be sent to America to be apprenticed
to the publisher’s business of which Mr. Fields was the head. The
arrangement was one which gave the keenest delight to Miss Mitford,
who was most anxious that her little companion should be properly and
adequately provided for. Unfortunately (or fortunately—for little
Henry eventually became a Missionary), the arrangement fell through,
but Miss Mitford did her best to provide for the boy’s welfare by
making him her sole legatee.
Among the letters of 1851, written just prior to her removal, Miss
Mitford frequently mentioned Charles Kingsley, who had by this time
made himself felt as a strong man in the neighbouring village of
Eversley, in addition to the fame which his literary work had brought
him. “I hope to know him when I move,” wrote Miss Mitford, “for he
visits many of my friends.” In another letter she remarked:—“_Alton
Locke_ is well worth reading. There are in it worldwide truths nicely
put, but then it is painful and inconclusive. Did I tell (perhaps
I did) that the author begged Mr. Chapman to keep the secret?” [of
the authorship], “and Chapman was prepared to be as mysterious as
Churchill on the ‘Vestiges’ question, when he found Mr. Kingsley had
told everybody, and that all his fibs were falsehoods thrown away!”
It was not long, however, before Mr. Kingsley called at the cottage
and commenced a friendship which lasted until Miss Mitford’s death.
She found him “charming—that beau-ideal of a young poet, whom
I never thought to see—frank, ardent, spirited, soft, gentle,
high-bred above all.” It was a friendship which ripened rapidly, for
Kingsley loved to discuss deep social questions with this learned
little woman who, although at first she did not like his opinions,
came to see that he was not far wrong and indeed developed into one
of his most ardent supporters. In the October of 1852, the first year
of their friendship, Kingsley wrote a sonnet which he dedicated
“TO THE AUTHORESS OF ‘OUR VILLAGE.’
“The single eye; the daughter of the light,
Well pleased to recognize in lowliest shade
Each glimmer of its parent ray, and made,
By daily draughts of brightness, inly bright;
The style severe, yet graceful, trained aright
To classic depths of clearness and repaid
By thanks and honour from the wise and staid;
By pleasant skill to blame and yet delight,
And hold communion with the eloquent throng
Of those who shaped and toned our speech and song;
All these are yours. The same examples here,
You in rich woodland, me on breezy moor,
With kindred aims the same sweet path along,
To knit in loving knowledge rich and poor.”
It was a beautiful tribute, which naturally touched the warm heart of
its recipient.
“Oh! my dear Mr. Kingsley,” she wrote, “how much surprised and
touched and gratified I have been by that too flattering but most
charming sonnet! Such praise from such a person is indeed most
precious. I will not say that I never dreamt of your sending any
compliments to myself, because I am sure that you would not suspect
me of such vanity, but I must tell you how heartily I thank you,
especially for the lines which join us together in intention and
purpose.... I wonder whether you always leave people liking you so
very much more than they seem to have a right to do! and whether it
is your fault or mine that I talked to you as if I had known you ever
since you were a boy! Pardon the impertinence, if it be one, and
believe me ever
“Your obliged and faithful friend,
“M. R. MITFORD.”
One result of the residence at Three Mile Cross, amid the
dilapidations of the later years, was the acute rheumatism from which
Miss Mitford began to suffer before her removal and which, as the
years crept on, got a firmer hold of her system. The consequence was
that often, for weeks at a time, she was not able to walk a step, and
had to be carried bodily downstairs by Sam, her new man-of-all-work,
assisted by K——, whom he had married. This absence of walking
exercise was a great hardship, for it was among her chief delights
to ramble round the lanes with the dogs, seeking the earliest wild
blooms and, with the aid of her favourite crook-stick, gathering the
honey suckle as it rioted in the hedge-tops. So, with such exercise
impossible, recourse was had to the pony-chaise, wherein, with
either Sam or K——, for driver, they would amble quietly around the
countryside or into Swallowfield Park, near by, where, if they were
at home, there was always a sure welcome from Lady Russell or her
daughters.
[Illustration: Mary Russell Mitford.
(From a painting by John Lucas, 1852.)]
It was during one of these drives that the accident occurred which
was to render her still more helpless and to hasten her end. It was
caused by the overturn of the chaise, which threw the occupants with
great force on to the hard gravelled road. No bones were broken,
but the nerves of the hip and thigh were bruised and shattered, and
there was some injury to the spine which, though not noticed at
the time, soon developed seriously. A long and painful illness was
the result, during which the patient suffered the greatest agony,
frequently unable to move in order to change her position while in
bed. Lady Russell was a frequent and daily visitor, coming through
the mud and rain—for it was winter—to bring comforts for mind and
body to her sick friend. The spring of 1853 saw a slight change for
the better, and among the old friends who came to visit the invalid
was Lucas, the painter, who succeeded in getting his old patroness
to sit for another portrait. Miss Mitford was delighted with the
result—the expression she thought was wonderfully well-caught,
“so thoughtful, happy, tender—as if the mind were dwelling in a
pleasant frame on some dear friend.” With the approach of summer she
had gained sufficient strength to walk out into the garden, where,
under a great acacia tree, and near to a favourite syringa-bush, she
had a garden-seat and wrote, when not too weary. Here, and in her
bedroom, she worked at last on the novel, so long put off. By the end
of 1853 it was in the printer’s hands, and every effort was being
made to publish it early in 1854. “_Atherton_ has twice nearly killed
me,” wrote Miss Mitford to William Harness, “once in writing—now,
very lately, in correcting the proofs.” Talfourd, hearing of his
old friend’s illness, went to see her in March of 1854 and sat by
her bedside much affected at the change he saw in her. “All the old
friendship came back upon both, as in the many years when my father’s
house was a second home to him. We both, I believe, felt it to be a
last parting”—and that, indeed, it was, for Talfourd died, while
delivering a judgment, a fortnight later! The news of his death was a
severe shock to Miss Mitford.
Early in April, 1854, _Atherton_ was published in three volumes by
Messrs. Hurst & Blackett, and, to the author’s great delight, Mr.
Hurst sent her word that Mr. Mudie had told him the demand was so
great as to oblige him to have four hundred copies in circulation.
The Dedication was “To her Dear Friend, Lady Russell, whose Sympathy
has Cheered the Painfullest Hours, as her Companionship has Gladdened
the Brightest,” and in the Preface she set forth in detail the awful
sufferings which she was forced to endure while writing the work,
“being often obliged to have the ink-glass held for me, because I
could not raise my hand to dip the pen in the ink.”
[Illustration: _Mary Mitford.
(copy of a sketch made from memory
in 1853. E. H.)_
Mary Russell Mitford.
(From a pencil sketch lent by W. H. Hudson, Esq.)]
Frequent letters from Mrs. Browning, in Rome, came to cheer her,
urging that, if the invalid could not write herself, perhaps K——,
could send a line of news now and again. William Harness came for a
day and, finding his old playmate and friend so distressed, stayed
three weeks. He could see, all too plainly, that the frail body
would not last long, and he also found that she was troubled in
spirit, troubled at her lack of faith and by wandering thoughts
which obtruded in her prayers. Every day, and frequently during
the day, either Lady Russell or one of her daughters came and sat
with the invalid, being sometimes accompanied by a mutual friend,
the Rev. Hugh Pearson, Rector of Sonning—a parish nearly ten miles
distant—who drove over as often as he could be spared from his
parochial duties. To him, as to William Harness, Miss Mitford talked
long and earnestly on spiritual matters, while he tried to remove her
doubts and bring comfort to her anxious soul. As a means to this end
he arranged to administer the Sacrament to her, but was frequently
put off because, as she said, the thought of it agitated her so
much. “Be sure, dearest friend,” she wrote, “that I do not fail in
meditation, such as I can give, and prayer. It is my own unworthiness
and want of an entire faith that troubles me. But I am a good deal
revived by sitting at the open window, in this sweet summer air,
looking at the green trees and the blue sky, and thinking of His
goodness who made this lovely world.”
To William Harness she wrote, in August, telling him that she had,
at last, received the Sacrament at Mr. Pearson’s hands, together
with Sam and her friend, Mrs. C. Stephens. “I wish you had been here
also,” she pathetically added. Later, in September, she wrote—“I
wish you were sitting close to me at this moment, that we might
talk over your plans ... Swallowfield churchyard, the plain tablet,
and the walking funeral have only one objection—that my father and
mother lie in Shinfield Church, and that there is room left above
them for me. But I greatly dislike where the vault is—just where
all the schoolboys kick their heels. After all, I leave that to
you—I mean the whole affair of the funeral. It is very doubtful if
I shall live till October. At present I am better ... and now put
my feet upon _your_ chair. You will not like it the less for having
contributed to my comfort. I am still as cheerful as ever, which
surprises people much.” So she lingered, writing whenever possible
to distant friends, keenly anxious to hear the latest literary news
and delighting in the knowledge that a novel (_Philip Lancaster_) had
just been dedicated to her.
[Illustration: Swallowfield Churchyard, wherein Miss Mitford lies
buried.]
To Mr. Kingsley she wrote:—“The kindness of your letter, dearest
Mr. Kingsley, and those sweet words of sweet Mrs. Kingsley did me
literally good. My heart warmed to her from the first, as the only
realization I have ever seen of my vision of a Poet’s Wife. May God
in His mercy restore her health and spare you long to each other and
to the world. There are few such couples.”
In the autumn she received the following charming lines from Walter
Savage Landor, whom she first met, many years before, at Talfourd’s
dinner-table:—
“The hay is carried; and the Hours
Snatch, as they pass, the linden flowers;
And children leap to pluck a spray
Bent earthward, and then run away.
Park-keeper, catch me those grave thieves,
About whose frocks the fragrant leaves
Sticking and fluttering, here and there,
No false nor faltering witness bear.
“I never view such scenes as these
In grassy meadow, girt with trees,
But comes a thought of her who now
Sits with serenely patient brow
Amid deep sufferings. None hath told
More pleasant tales to young and old.
Fondest was she of Father Thames,
But rambled in Hellenic streams;
Nor even there could any tell
The country’s purer charms so well
As Mary Mitford.
“Verse! go forth
And breathe o’er gentle breasts her worth.
Needless the task ... but, should she see
One hearty wish from you and me,
A moment’s pain it may assuage—
A rose-leaf on the couch of Age.”
On January 7, 1855, Miss Mitford wrote to a friend:—“It has
pleased Providence to preserve to me my calmness of mind, clearness
of intellect, and also my power of reading by day and by night,
and which is still more, my love of poetry and literature, my
cheerfulness, and my enjoyment of little things. This very day, not
only my common pensioners, the dear robins, but a saucy troop of
sparrows, and a little shining bird of passage, whose name I forget,
have all been pecking at once at their tray of bread-crumbs outside
the window. Poor pretty things! how much delight there is in these
common objects, if people would but learn to enjoy them: and I really
think that the feeling for these simple pleasures is increasing with
the increase of education.” On the next day she wrote to Mr. Pearson,
urging him to decide when he would come and dine with a mutual
friend, for “if you wish for another cheerful evening with your old
friend, there is no time to be lost.”
Two days later, at five o’clock in the afternoon, with her hand in
that of Lady Russell, who had been with her all day, she passed
peacefully away, so calmly that her friend was scarcely conscious of
the passing.
* * * * *
Thus ended the life of this remarkable woman—remarkable alike for
her versatile genius as for her abiding faith in her father and
the fortitude with which she accepted and patiently bore the many
vicissitudes through which she was forced to pass.
On January 18, 1855, she was laid to rest in Swallowfield Churchyard,
in a spot which she had chosen. Originally it was not within the
churchyard proper, being on the fringe of Swallowfield Park; but, to
humour her, the railings were diverted and the little plot was thus
made available. It was a simple funeral, the only mourners at the
graveside being her two executors—the Rev. William Harness and Mr.
George May, her physician—and her two servants, Sam and his wife,
K——.
The grave is now marked by a simple granite cross, the cost of which
was borne by a few old friends.
FINIS
_Printed by_ BUTLER & TANNER, _Frome and London_.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
the text and consultation of external sources.
No attempt has been made to reconcile the spelling and hyphenation
between the author’s writing and Mitford’s.
Some hyphens in words have been silently removed, some added,
when a predominant preference was found in the original book.
Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text,
and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.
Pg. 9: “painting by Slater” changed to “drawing by Slater”
to match illustration caption.
Pg. 38: “eminnently” replaced with “eminently”.
Pg. 189: “persuance” replaced with “pursuance”.
Pg. 249: “soi-distant” replaced with “soi-disant”.
Pg. 318: “hypocricy” replaced with “hypocrisy”.