Mary Russell Mitford was known first as a dramatist, with
tragedy as her forte, and in later years as a novelist, but by
posterity she will be remembered as a portrayer of country
life, in simply worded sketches, with a quiet colouring of
humour. These sketches were collected, as "Our Village," into
five volumes, between 1824 and 1832. Miss Mitford was born
Dec. 16, 1787, at Alresford, Hampshire, England, the daughter
of a foolish spendthrift father, to whom she was pathetically
devoted, and lived in her native county almost throughout her
life. In her later years she received a Civil List pension.
She died on January 10, 1855. The quietness of the country is
in all Miss Mitford's writing, but it is a cheerful country,
pervaded by a rosy-cheeked optimism. Her letters, too,
scribbled on small scraps of paper, are as attractive as her
books.
_I.--Some of the Inhabitants_
Will you walk with me through our village, courteous reader? The journey
is not long. We will begin at the lower end, and proceed up the hill.
The tidy, square, red cottage on the right hand, with the long,
well-stocked garden by the side of the road, belongs to a retired
publican from a neighbouring town; a substantial person with a comely
wife--one who piques himself on independence and idleness, talks
politics, reads the newspapers, hates the minister, and cries out for
reform. He hangs over his gate, and tries to entice passengers to stop
and chat. Poor man! He is a very respectable person, and would be a very
happy one if he would add a little employment to his dignity. It would
be the salt of life to him.
Next to his house, though parted from it by another long garden with a
yew arbour at the end, is the pretty dwelling of the shoemaker, a pale,
sickly-looking, black-haired man, the very model of sober industry.
There he sits in his little shop from early morning till late at night.
An earthquake would hardly stir him. There is at least as much vanity in
his industry as in the strenuous idleness of the retired publican. The
shoemaker has only one pretty daughter, a light, delicate, fair-haired
girl of fourteen, the champion, protectress, and play-fellow of every
brat under three years old, whom she jumps, dances, dandles, and feeds
all day long. A very attractive person is that child-loving girl. She
likes flowers, and has a profusion of white stocks under her window, as
pure and delicate as herself.
The first house on the opposite side of the way is the blacksmith's--a
gloomy dwelling, where the sun never seems to shine; dark and smoky
within and without, like a forge. The blacksmith is a high officer in
our little state, nothing less than a constable; but alas, alas! when
tumults arise, and the constable is called for, he will commonly be
found in the thickest of the fray. Lucky would it be for his wife and
her eight children if there were no public-house in the land.
Then comes the village shop, like other village shops, multifarious as a
bazaar--a repository for bread, shoes, tea, cheese, tape, ribbons, and
bacon; for everything, in short, except the one particular thing which
you happen to want at the moment, and will be sure not to find.
Divided from the shop by a narrow yard is a habitation of whose inmates
I shall say nothing. A cottage--no, a miniature house, all angles, and
of a charming in-and-outness; the walls, old and weather-stained,
covered with hollyhocks, roses, honeysuckles, and a great apricot-tree;
the casements full of geraniums (oh, 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. That house was
built on purpose to show in what an exceeding small compass comfort may
be packed.
The next tenement is a place of importance, the Rose Inn--a whitewashed
building, retired from the road behind its fine swinging sign, with a
little bow-window room coming out on one side, and forming, with our
stable on the other, a sort of open square, which is the constant resort
of carts, waggons, and return chaises.
Next door lives a carpenter, "famed ten miles around, and worthy all his
fame," with his excellent wife and their little daughter Lizzy, the
plaything and queen of the village--a child three years old according to
the register, but six in size and strength and intellect, in power and
self-will. She manages everybody in the place; makes the lazy carry her,
the silent talk to her, and the grave to romp with her. Her chief
attraction lies in her exceeding power of loving, and her firm reliance
on the love and the indulgence of others.
How pleasantly the road winds up the hill, with its broad, green borders
and hedgerows so thickly timbered! How finely the evening sun falls on
that sandy, excavated bank, and touches the farmhouse on the top of the
eminence!
_II.--Hannah Bint_
The shaw leading to Hannah Bint's habitation is a very pretty mixture of
wood and coppice. A sudden turn brings us to the boundary of the shaw,
and there, across the open space, the white cottage of the keeper peeps
from the opposite coppice; and the vine-covered dwelling of Hannah Bint
rises from amidst the pretty garden, which lies bathed in the sunshine
around it.
My friend Hannah Bint is by no means an ordinary person. Her father,
Jack Bint (for in all his life he never arrived at the dignity of being
called John), was a drover of high repute in his profession. No man
between Salisbury Plain and Smithfield was thought to conduct a flock of
sheep so skilfully through all the difficulties of lanes and commons,
streets and high-roads, as Jack Bint, aided by Jack Bint's famous dog,
Watch.
No man had a more thorough knowledge of the proper night stations, where
good feed might be procured for his charge, and good liquor for Watch
and himself; Watch, like other sheepdogs, being accustomed to live
chiefly on bread and beer, while his master preferred gin.
But when a rheumatic fever came one hard winter, and finally settled in
Jack Bint's limbs, reducing the most active and handy man in the parish
to the state of a confirmed cripple, poor Jack, a thoughtless but kind
creature, looked at his three motherless children with acute misery.
Then it was that he found help where he least expected it--in the sense
and spirit of his young daughter, a girl of twelve years old.
Hannah was a quick, clever lass of a high spirit, a firm temper, some
pride, and a horror of accepting parochial relief--that surest safeguard
to the sturdy independence of the English character. So when her father
talked of giving up their comfortable cottage and removing to the
workhouse, while she and her brothers must move to service, Hannah
formed a bold resolution, and proceeded to act at once on her own plans
and designs.
She knew that the employer in whose service her father's health had
suffered so severely was a rich and liberal cattle-dealer in the
neighbourhood, who would willingly aid an old and faithful servant. Of
Farmer Oakley, accordingly, she asked, not money, but something much
more in his own way--a cow! And, amused and interested by the child's
earnestness, the wealthy yeoman gave her a very fine young Alderney.
She then went to the lord of the manor, and, with equal knowledge of
character, begged his permission to keep her cow on the shaw common. He,
too, half from real good nature, and half not to be outdone in
liberality by his tenant, not only granted the requested permission, but
reduced the rent so much that the produce of the vine seldom failed to
satisfy their kind landlord.
Now Hannah showed great judgment in setting up as a dairy-woman. One of
the most provoking of the petty difficulties which beset a small
establishment in this neighbourhood is the trouble, almost the
impossibility, of procuring the pastoral luxuries of milk, eggs, and
butter. Hannah's Alderney restored us to our rural privilege. Speedily
she established a regular and gainful trade in milk, eggs, butter,
honey, and poultry--for poultry they had always kept.
In short, during the five years she has ruled at the shaw cottage the
world has gone well with Hannah Bint. She has even taught Watch to like
the buttermilk as well as strong beer, and has nearly persuaded her
father to accept milk as a substitute for gin. Not but that Hannah hath
had her enemies as well as her betters. The old woman at the lodge, who
always piqued herself on being spiteful, and crying down new ways,
foretold that she would come to no good; nay, even Ned Miles, the
keeper, her next neighbour, who had whilom held entire sway over the
shaw common, as well as its coppices, grumbled as much as so
good-natured and genial a person could grumble when he found a little
girl sharing his dominion, a cow grazing beside his pony, and vulgar
cocks and hens hovering around the buckwheat destined to feed his noble
pheasants.
Yes! Hannah hath had her enemies, but they are passing away. The old
woman at the lodge is dead, poor creature; and the keeper?--why, he is
not dead, or like to die, but the change that has taken place there is
the most astonishing of all--except perhaps the change in Hannah
herself.
Few damsels of twelve years old, generally a very pretty age, were less
pretty than Hannah Bint. Short and stunted in her figure, thin in face,
sharp in feature, with a muddied complexion, wild, sunburnt hair, and
eyes whose very brightness had in them something startling,
over-informed, too clever for her age; at twelve years old she had quite
the air of a little old fairy.
Now, at seventeen, matters are mended. Her complexion has cleared; her
countenance has developed itself; her figure has shot up into height and
lightness, and a sort of rustic grace; her bright, acute eye is softened
and sweetened by a womanly wish to please; her hair is trimmed and
curled and brushed with exquisite neatness; and her whole dress arranged
with that nice attention to the becoming which would be called the
highest degree of coquetry if it did not deserve the better name of
propriety. The lass is really pretty, and Ned Miles has discovered that
she is so. There he stands, the rogue, close at her side (for he hath
joined her whilst we have been telling her little story, and the milking
is over); there he stands holding her milk-pail in one hand, and
stroking Watch with the other. There they stand, as much like lovers as
may be; he smiling and she blushing; he never looking so handsome, nor
she so pretty, in their lives.
There they stand, and one would not disturb them for all the milk and
the butter in Christendom. I should not wonder if they were fixing the
wedding-day.
_III.--A Country Cricket Match_
I doubt if there be any scene in the world more animating or delightful
than a cricket match. I do not mean a set match at Lord's Ground--no!
the cricket I mean is a real solid, old-fashioned match between
neighbouring parishes, where each attacks the other for honour and a
supper.
For the last three weeks our village has been in a state of great
excitement, occasioned by a challenge from our north-western neighbours,
the men of B----, to contend with us at cricket. Now, we have not been
much in the habit of playing matches. The sport had languished until the
present season, when the spirit began to revive. Half a dozen fine,
active lads, of influence among their comrades, grew into men and
yearned for cricket. In short, the practice recommenced, and the hill
was again alive with men and boys and innocent merriment. Still, we were
modest and doubted our own strength.
The B---- people, on the other hand, must have been braggers born. Never
was such boasting! Such ostentatious display of practice! It was a
wonder they did not challenge all England. Yet we firmly resolved not to
decline the combat; and one of the most spirited of the new growth,
William Grey by name, and a farmer's son by station, took up the glove
in a style of manly courtesy that would have done honour to a knight in
the days of chivalry.
William Grey then set forth to muster his men, remembering with great
complacency that Samuel Long, the very man who had bowled us out at a
fatal return match some years ago at S--, our neighbours south-by-east,
had luckily, in a remove of a quarter of a mile last Lady Day, crossed
the boundaries of his old parish and actually belonged to us. Here was a
stroke of good fortune! Our captain applied to him instantly, and he
agreed at a word. We felt we had half gained the match when we had
secured him. Then James Brown, a journeyman blacksmith and a native,
who, being of a rambling disposition, had roamed from place to place for
half a dozen years, had just returned to our village with a prodigious
reputation in cricket and gallantry. To him also went the indefatigable
William Grey, and he also consented to play. Having thus secured two
powerful auxiliaries, we began to reckon the regular forces.
Thus ran our list. William Grey, 1; Samuel Long, 2; James Brown, 3;
George and John Simmons, one capital, the other so-so--an uncertain
hitter, but a good fieldsman, 5; Joel Brent, excellent, 6; Ben
Appleton--here was a little pause, for Ben's abilities at cricket were
not completely ascertained, but then he was a good fellow, so full of
fun and waggery! No doing without Ben. So he figured in the list as 7.
George Harris--a short halt there too--slowish, but sure, 8; Tom
Coper--oh, beyond the world Tom Coper, the red-headed gardening lad,
whose left-handed strokes send _her_ (a cricket-ball is always of the
feminine gender) send her spinning a mile, 9; Harry Willis, another
blacksmith, 10.
We had now ten of our eleven, but the choice of the last occasioned some
demur. John Strong, a nice youth--everybody likes John Strong--was the
next candidate, but he is so tall and limp that we were all afraid his
strength, in spite of his name, would never hold out. So the eve of the
match arrived and the post was still vacant, when a little boy of
fifteen, David Willis, brother to Harry, admitted by accident to the
last practice, saw eight of them out, and was voted in by acclamation.
Morning dawned. On calling over our roll, Brown was missing; and it
transpired that he had set off at four o'clock in the morning to play in
a cricket match at M----, a little town twelve miles off, which had been
his last residence. Here was desertion! Here was treachery! How we cried
him down! We were well rid of him, for he was no batter compared with
William Grey; not fit to wipe the shoes of Samuel Long as a bowler; the
boy David Willis was worth fifty of him. So we took tall John Strong. I
never saw any one prouder than the good-humoured lad was at this not
very flattering piece of preferment.
_They_ began the warfare--these boastful men of B----! And what think
you was the amount of their innings? These challengers--the famous
eleven--how many did they get? Think! Imagine! Guess! You cannot. Well,
they got twenty-two, or, rather, they got twenty, for two of theirs were
short notches, and would never have been allowed, only that, seeing what
they were made of, we and our umpires were not particular. Oh, how well
we fielded.
Then we went in. And what of our innings? Guess! A hundred and sixty-nine!
We headed them by a hundred and forty-seven; and then they gave in,
as well they might. William Grey pressed them much to try another
innings, but they were beaten sulky and would not move.
The only drawback in my enjoyment was the failure of the pretty boy
David Willis, who, injudiciously put in first, and playing for the first
time in a match amongst men and strangers, was seized with such a fit of
shamefaced shyness that he could scarcely hold his bat, and was bowled
out without a stroke, from actual nervousness. Our other modest lad,
John Strong, did very well; his length told in the field, and he got
good fame. William Grey made a hit which actually lost the cricket-ball.
We think she lodged in a hedge a quarter of a mile off, but nobody could
find her. And so we parted; the players retired to their supper and we
to our homes, all good-humoured and all happy--except the losers.
_IV.--Love, the Leveller_
The prettiest cottage on our village green is the little dwelling of
Dame Wilson. The dame was a respected servant in a most respectable
family, which she quitted only on her marriage with a man of character
and industry, and of that peculiar universality of genius which forms
what is called, in country phrase, a handy fellow. His death, which
happened about ten years ago, made quite a gap in our village
commonwealth.
Without assistance Mrs. Wilson contrived to maintain herself and her
children in their old, comfortable home. The house had still, within and
without, the same sunshiny cleanliness, and the garden was still famous
over all other gardens. But the sweetest flower of the garden, and the
joy and pride of her mother's heart, was her daughter Hannah. Well might
she be proud of her! At sixteen, Hannah Wilson was, beyond a doubt, the
prettiest girl in the village, and the best. Her chief characteristic
was modesty. Her mind was like her person: modest, graceful, gentle and
generous above all.
Our village beauty had fairly reached her twentieth year without a
sweetheart; without the slightest suspicion of her having ever written a
love-letter on her own account, when, all of a sudden, appearances
changed. A trim, elastic figure, not unaccompanied, was descried walking
down the shady lane. Hannah had gotten a lover!
Since the new marriage act, we, who belong to the country magistrates,
have gained a priority over the rest of the parish in matrimonial news.
We (the privileged) see on a work-day the names which the Sabbath
announces to the generality. One Saturday, walking through our little
hall, I saw a fine athletic young man, the very image of health and
vigour, mental and bodily, holding the hand of a young woman, who was
turning bashfully away, listening, and yet not seeming to listen, to his
tender whispers. Hannah! And she went aside with me, and a rapid series
of questions and answers conveyed the story of the courtship. "William
was," said Hannah, "a journeyman hatter, in B----. He had walked over to
see the cricketing, and then he came again. Her mother liked him.
Everybody liked him--and she had promised. Was it wrong?"
"Oh, no! And where are you to live?" "William had got a room in B----.
He works for Mr. Smith, the rich hatter in the market-place, and Mr.
Smith speaks of him, oh, so well! But William will not tell me where our
room is. I suppose in some narrow street or lane, which he is afraid I
shall not like, as our common is so pleasant. He little
thinks--anywhere--" She stopped suddenly. "Anywhere with him!"
The wedding-day was a glorious morning.
"What a beautiful day for Hannah!" was the first exclamation at the
breakfast-table. "Did she tell you where they should dine?"
"No, ma'am; I forgot to ask."
"I can tell you," said the master of the house, with the look of a man
who, having kept a secret as long as it was necessary, is not sorry to
get rid of the burthen. "I can tell you--in London."
"In London?"
"Yes. Your little favourite has been in high luck. She has married the
only son of one of the best and richest men in B----, Mr. Smith, the
great hatter. It is quite a romance. William Smith walked over to see a
match, saw our pretty Hannah, and forgot to look at the cricketers. He
came again and again, and at last contrived to tame this wild dove, and
even to get the _entrée_ of the cottage. Hearing Hannah talk is not the
way to fall out of love with her. So William, finding his case serious,
laid the matter before his father, and requested his consent to the
marriage. Mr. Smith was at first a little startled. But William is an
only son, and an excellent son; and after talking with me, and looking
at Hannah, the father relented. But, having a spice of his son's
romance, and finding that he had not mentioned his station in life, he
made a point of its being kept secret till the wedding-day. I hope the
shock will not kill Hannah."
"Oh, no! Hannah loves her husband too well."
And I was right. Hannah has survived the shock. She is returned to
B----, and I have been to call on her. She is still the same Hannah, and
has lost none of her old habits of kindness and gratitude. She did
indeed just hint at her trouble with visitors and servants; seemed
distressed at ringing the bell, and visibly shrank from the sound of a
double knock. But in spite of these calamities Hannah is a happy woman.
The double rap was her husband's, and the glow on her cheek, and the
smile of her lips and eyes when he appeared spoke more plainly than
ever: "Anywhere with him!"
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