This first year in the cottage at Three Mile Cross was spent in a variety of ways by Miss Mitford. In addition to her reading, she was devoting herself to getting the garden into trim and by taking extended walks in the neighbourhood, particularly in exploring that beautiful “Woodcock Lane”—happily still preserved and, possibly, more beautiful than in Miss Mitford’s day—so called, “not after the migratory bird so dear to sportsman and to epicure, but from the name of a family, who, three centuries ago, owned the old manor-house, a part of which still adjoins it.” A delightful picture of this lane, full of the happiest and tenderest memories, is to be found in Miss Mitford’sRecollections of a Literary Life. It is too long for quotation here, but for its truth to Nature we can testify, for we have ourselves wandered down its shady length, book in hand, marking and noting the passages as this and that point of view was described, and looking away over the fields as she must have looked—somewhat wistfully, we may believe—to where the smoke from the chimneys at Grazeley Courtcurled upwards from the trees which so effectually hide the building itself from view. While on these walks, accompanied by Fanchon, the greyhound and Flush, the spaniel, she would take her unspillable ink-bottle and writing materials and, resting awhile beneath the great trees, write of Nature as she saw it, spread there before her. Here, undoubtedly, she wrote many of those pictures of rural life and scenery which, at present, form the most lasting memorial of her life and work.
Photo of Woodcock LaneWoodcock Lane, Three Mile Cross.
Woodcock Lane, Three Mile Cross.
The monotony—if there could be monotony in such labour—was broken by a short, three-day’s holiday at Richmond and London which gave her a fund of incident wherewith to amuse her friend Sir William in lengthy letters. Of the sights she missed, two were the pictures of Queen Caroline and Mrs. Opie, “that excellent and ridiculous person, who is now placed in Bond Street (where she can’t even hear herself talk) with a blue hat and feathers on her head, a low gown without a tucker, and ringlets hanging down each shoulder. The first I don’t care if I never see at all; for be it known to you, my dear friend, that I am no Queen’s woman, whatever my party may be. I have no toleration for an indecorous woman, and am exceedingly scandalized at the quantity of nonsense which has been talked in her defence. It is no small part of her guilt, or her folly, that her arrival has turned conversation into a channel of scandal and detraction on either side, which, if it continue, threatensto injure the taste, the purity, the moral character of the nation. Don’t you agree with me?
“I heard very little literary news. Everybody is talking of ‘Marcian Colonna,’ Barry Cornwall’s new poem. Now ‘Barry Cornwall’ is analias. The poet’s real name is Procter, a young attorney, who feared it might hurt his practice if he were known to follow this ‘idle trade.’ It has, however, become very generally known, and poor Mr. Procter is terribly embarrassed with his false name. He neither knows how to keep it on or throw it up. By whatever appellation he chooses to be called, he is a great poet. Poor John Keats is dying of theQuarterly Review. This is a sad, silly thing; but it is true. A young, delicate, imaginative boy—that withering article fell upon him like an east wind. Mr. Gifford’s behaviour is very bad. He sent word that if he wrote again his poem should be properly reviewed, which was admitting the falsity of his first critique, and yet says that he has been Keats’ best friend, because somebody sent him twenty-five pounds to console him for the injustice of theQuarterly.”
Interspersed with these letters to Sir William were many kindly, womanly epistles to Mrs. Hofland and particularly to the painter, Haydon, who, poor man, was always having a quarrel with somebody; sometimes with the Academy and sometimes with his patrons. True to her sex, Miss Mitford was ever on the side of whatshe considered were the weak and down-trodden, and in this class she placed her friend Haydon. “Never apologize to me for talking of yourself,” she wrote to him; “it is a compliment of the highest kind. It tells me that you confide in my sympathy.”
In November public festivities to celebrate Queen Caroline’s acquittal were held, and Three Mile Cross, not to be outdone in demonstrative sympathy, decided to illuminate. “Think of that! an illumination at Three Mile Cross! We were forced to illuminate. Forced to put up two dozen of candles upon pain of pelting and rioting and all manner of bad things. So we did. We were very shabby though, compared with our neighbours. One, a retired publican, just below, had a fine transparency, composed of a pocket handkerchief with the Queen’s head upon it—a very fine head in a hat and feathers cocked very knowingly on one side. I did not go to Reading; thesquibberythere was too much to encounter; and they had only one good hit throughout the whole of that illustrious town. A poor man had a whole-length transparency of the Duke of Wellington saved from the Peace illumination, and, not knowing what to get now, he, as a matter of economy, hung up the noble Duke again topsy-turvy, heel upwards—a mixture of drollery and savingness which took my fancy much. And, certainly, bad as she is, the Queen has contrived to trip the heels of the Ministers.”
As the year progressed, Miss Mitford made another attempt at dramatic work, devoting her energies to a tragedy on the subject ofFiesco, the Genoese nobleman who conspired against Doria. The idea of a play written on this theme had originated during her recent short visit to London, where she had witnessed an “indifferent tragedy, of which the indifferent success brought the author three or four hundred pounds.” Schiller had, it will be remembered, already used the subject, but this did not deter our author from trying her ‘prentice hand on it. When it was finished—she had worked very assiduously—it was sent off to her friend Talfourd for his advice and criticism, and in the hope that should he approve it, he would be able to negotiate for its production at one of the theatres. To Haydon she wrote confiding her fears and hopes. “It is terribly feeble and womanish, of course—wants breadth—wants passion—and has nothing to redeem its faults but a little poetry and some merit, they say, in the dialogue. My anxiety is not of vanity. It is not fame or praise that I want, but the power of assisting my dearest and kindest father.” Talfourd, most anxious to be of service to his little friend—most anxious because he knew much of the sad tragedy of the last few years—managed to secure the interest of Macready, the actor, who promised to consider the manuscript.
Macready’s letter to Talfourd, transcribed forthe edification of Sir William Elford, is important inasmuch as it affords some idea of that actor’s readiness, at all times, to help any struggling author who might appeal to him. He never forgot his own early struggles and his fellow-feeling towards others in desperate plight made him wondrous kind. “Mr. Macready wrote the other day to my friend and his friend [Talfourd] who gave him my play, and this mutual friend copied his letter for my edification. It was, in the first place, the prettiest letter I ever read in my life—thoroughly careless, simple, unpresuming—showing great diffidence of his own judgment, the readiest good-nature, the kindest and most candid desire to be pleased—quite the letter of a scholar and a gentleman, and not the least like that of an actor. As far as regarded my tragedy, it contained much good criticism. Mr. Macready thinks—and he is right—that there is too little of striking incident, and too little fluctuation. Indeed, I have made myFiescoas virtuous and as fortunate asSir Charles Grandison, and he goes aboutprônéby everybody and setting everybody to rights much in the same style with that worthy gentleman, only that he has one wife instead of two mistresses. Nevertheless, the dialogue, which is my strong part, has somehow ‘put salt upon Mr. Macready’s tail,’ so that he is in a very unhappy state of doubt about it, and cannot make up his mind one way or the other. The only thing uponwhich he was decided was that the handwriting was illegible, and that it must be copied for presentment to the managers. This has been done accordingly, and Mr. Macready and they will now do exactly what they like.”
The consideration of the manuscript was prolonged, and it was not until the midsummer of the following year (1821), that it was finally returned on its author’s hands as unsuitable. Meanwhile, her friends in London had been busy in her interest and she was now working “as hard as a lawyer’s clerk” in writing for the magazines—poetry, criticism, and dramatic sketches. Confessing to a “natural loathing of pen and ink which that sort of drudgery cannot fail to inspire,” she mentions that she now has no leisure, “scarcely a moment to spare, even for the violets and primroses.” The necessity for polish was impressed upon her. “You would laugh if you saw me puzzling over my prose. You have no notion how much difficulty I find in writing anything at all readable. One cause of this is, my having been so egregious a letter-writer. I have accustomed myself to a certain careless sauciness, a fluent incorrectness, which passed very well with indulgent friends, such as yourself, my dear Sir William, but will not do at all for that tremendous correspondent, the Public. So I ponder over every phrase, disjoint every sentence, and finally produce such lumps of awkwardness, that I really expect, instead of paying me for them,Mr. Colburn and Mr. Baldwin will send me back the trash. But I will improve.... I am now occupied in dramatic sketches forBaldwin’s Magazine—slight stories of about one act, developed in fanciful dialogue of loose blank verse. If Mr. Baldwin will accept a series of such articles they will be not merely extremely advantageous to me in a pecuniary point of view (for the pay is well up—they give fifteen guineas a sheet), but excellent exercises for my tragedies. At the same time I confess to you that nothing seems to me so tiresome and unsatisfactory as writing poetry. Ah! how much better I like working flounces! There, when one had done a pattern, one was sure that one had got on, and had the comfort of admiring one’s work and exulting in one’s industry all the time that one was, in fact, indulging in the most comfortable indolence. Well! courage, Missy Mitford! (asBlackwood’s Magazinehas the impudence to call me!)Courage, mon amie!”
Nothing daunted by the failure ofFiesco, and notwithstanding the pressure of work for the magazines, Miss Mitford was devoting all the time she could spare to a fresh tragedy, the subject this time being the Venetian Doge Foscari. The project was submitted to Talfourd’s judgment and approved, and by October the finished play was in his hands for presentation to the managers. As ill luck would have it, Byron had been working quietly at a play on the identical subject, and hiswas announced on the very day that Miss Mitford’sFoscariwas to be handed to a manager for his perusal. “I am so distressed at the idea of a competition,” she wrote; “not merely with his lordship’s talents, but with his great name; and the strange awe in which he holds people; and the terrible scoffs and sneers in which he indulges himself; that I have written to Mr. Talfourd requesting him to consult another friend on the propriety of entirely suppressing my play—and I heartily wish he may. If it be sent back to me unoffered, I shall immediately begin another play on some German story.”
Talfourd decided that the play should take its chance, and in December had the satisfaction of hearing that Macready, who had read it, had passed it on to the manager with a strong recommendation that it be accepted. In the construction of the play and the development of the characters, Miss Mitford had been guided by the assumption that, in the event of its being accepted the actors Kemble, Young and Macready would take the leading parts. Unfortunately, however, a little dissension between these actors just at the critical moment, led to the secession of Charles Kemble and to hesitancy in the case of Young, with the result that Macready was the only one left to fulfil the author’s original purpose. The tragedy represented much hard work, for Macready was, very properly, an extremely critical man and before he would agree to submit theplay, had asked its author to revise one of the acts at least three times—which she did, without demur.
Late in December of that same year she received an intimation that the play was rejected. It was a heavy blow, for, although she had half expected it from the outset, the prolonged negotiations had led her to hope that her fears would not be realized; and, she was counting much on the pecuniary advantages of its production. Talfourd softened the blow in his own kindly way. He wrote:—“I have with great difficulty screwed myself up to the point of informing you that all our hopes are, for the present, cruelly blighted.Foscarihas been returned by Mr. Harris to Mr. Macready, with a note, of which the following is an exact copy:—
‘My dear Sir,—I return you the tragedy ofFoscari, and it is with regret that I am obliged to express an opinion that it would not succeed in representation. The style is admirably pure and chaste, and some of the scenes would be highly effective; yet as a whole it would be found wanting in that scale by which the public weigh our performances of the first class. Should the ingenious author at any time bestow the labour of revision and alteration on the tragedy, I should be most happy to have a reperusal of it—Ever yours, H. Harris.’ I am quite sickened at this result of all your labours and anxieties. The only consolation I can offer is, that Mr. Macreadyassures me he never knew a refusal which came so near an acceptance; for Harris has spoken to him in even higher terms of eulogy than he has written; and I have seen another letter of Harris’s, about other plays, in which he putsFoscarifar above all others that he has rejected, and in point of style and writing, above one of Shiel’s [Richard Lalor Sheil] that is to be acted. You see, he holds open a prospect of its being reconsidered, if altered. Whether you will adopt this suggestion is for your own decision; but certainly this play has quite prepared the way for most respectful attention to any piece you may send in hereafter.”
Before proceeding to alter her play, Miss Mitford took the precaution to secure and read Byron’sTwo Foscari, and was delighted to find that he had dealt with the subject at a point subsequent to her own, so that the plays were not likely to clash. Furthermore, she found little in Byron’s work to commend, and thought it could scarcely meet with any success from representation. “Altogether, it seems to me that Lord Byron must be by this time pretty well convinced that the drama is not his forte. He has no spirit of dialogue—no beauty in his groupings—none of that fine mixture of the probable with the unexpected which constitutes stage effect in the best sense of the word. And a long series of laboured speeches and set antitheses will very ill compensate for the want of that excellencewhich we find in Sophocles and in Shakespeare, and which some will call Nature, and I shall call Art.” And as proof that her judgment was not warped by petty jealousy—jealousy of Byron, on her part, would indeed have been stupid—it is interesting to recall the criticism which Macready made in his “Diaries” some years after, when seriously reading Byron’sFoscariwith a view to its adoption. Under date April 24, 1834, he wrote:—“Looked into theFoscariof Byron. I am of opinion that it is not dramatic—the slow, almost imperceptible progress of the action ... will prevent, I think, its success in representation.” In June, 1835, he wrote:—“Read over Lord Byron’sFoscari, which does not seem to me to contain the power, or rather the variety and intensity of passion which many of his other plays do.”
Having satisfied herself that she had nothing to fear from Byron’s work she once more applied herself to her own in the endeavour to supply it with those elements in which she and her kindly critics knew it to be deficient—but it was a labour. “I am so thoroughly out of heart about theFoscarithat I cannot bear even to think or speak on the subject. Nevertheless, the drama is my talent—my only talent—and I mean to go on and improve. Iwillimprove—that is my fixed determination. To be of some little use to those who are dearest to me was the only motive of my attempt, and I shall persevere.”