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 cleverlycarried 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 seeA Cure for the HeartacheandThe Critic.
“Yesterday we went to the play. Emery’s acting was delightful. The ‘gods’ were so vociferous for the second act ofThe Criticthat theperformers 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 thechalked 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 disappointmentwas 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 inThe 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’ Streetto 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 afemme 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 aMarmion, 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 flowersand animals. To her father, still in London, and now to be found at theBath Hotelin 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 volumeMiscellaneous 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, exceptingyour 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 whichmost 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 Icannot, 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 thisimmoralproduction. 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 requiredimmediate 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 theEdinburgh, 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 impulsivecreature, and in three days’ time, after she had had an opportunity of thoroughly digestingThe 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 somecrabbedold 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 soulWhich o’er its chords wild warbling stole.”
“Fair nymph, my Arctic harp unstrung,Mute on the favourite pine is hung;No beam awakes the airy soulWhich o’er its chords wild warbling stole.”
“Fair nymph, my Arctic harp unstrung,Mute on the favourite pine is hung;No beam awakes the airy soulWhich o’er its chords wild warbling stole.”
“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 songShall tell of Hafnia’s bitter wrong:My pen has force with magic wordTo blast the fierce-consuming sword.For not poetic fire aloneIs thine to warm a breast of stone;But thou hast quaffed the purest raysThat round the patriot’s forehead blaze.”
“Thou tuneful maid, thy ardent songShall tell of Hafnia’s bitter wrong:My pen has force with magic wordTo blast the fierce-consuming sword.For not poetic fire aloneIs thine to warm a breast of stone;But thou hast quaffed the purest raysThat round the patriot’s forehead blaze.”
“Thou tuneful maid, thy ardent songShall tell of Hafnia’s bitter wrong:My pen has force with magic wordTo blast the fierce-consuming sword.For not poetic fire aloneIs thine to warm a breast of stone;But thou hast quaffed the purest raysThat round the patriot’s forehead blaze.”
“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 prolongThe finely modulated song—Whose simple lay spontaneous flowsAs Nature charms, or feeling glows,Wild, broken, artless as the strainsOf 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 powerTo 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.”
“For me—unskilful to prolongThe finely modulated song—Whose simple lay spontaneous flowsAs Nature charms, or feeling glows,Wild, broken, artless as the strainsOf 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 powerTo 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.”
“For me—unskilful to prolongThe finely modulated song—Whose simple lay spontaneous flowsAs Nature charms, or feeling glows,Wild, broken, artless as the strainsOf 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 powerTo 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.”
“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 inthinking 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 theDoctor 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 secureindemnity, 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 basketof 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.
[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.
[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.