Our Village | Page 3

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OUR VILLAGE BY MARY RUSSELL MITFORD

CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION COUNTRY PICTURES WALKS IN THE
COUNTRY THE FIRST PRIMROSE VIOLETING THE COPSE THE
WOOD THE DELL THE COWSLIP-BALL THE OLD HOUSE AT
ABERLEIGH THE HARD SUMMER THE SHAW NUTTING THE
VISIT HANNAH BINT THE FALL OF THE LEAF

Introduction by Anne Thackeray Ritchie
I.
There is a great deal of admirable literature concerning Miss Mitford,
so much of it indeed, that the writer of this little notice feels as if she
almost owed an apology to those who remember, for having ventured
to write, on hearsay only, and without having ever known or ever seen
the author of 'Our Village.' And yet, so vivid is the homely friendly
presence, so clear the sound of that voice 'like a chime of bells,' with its
hospitable cheery greeting, that she can scarcely realise that this
acquaintance exists only in the world of the might-have-beens.
For people who are beginning to remember, rather than looking
forward any more, there certainly exists no more delightful reading
than the memoirs and stories of heroes and heroines, many of whom we
ourselves may have seen, and to whom we may have spoken. As we
read on we are led into some happy bygone region,--such as that one
described by Mr. du Maurier in 'Peter Ibbetson,'--a region in which we
ourselves, together with all our friends and acquaintances, grow young
again;--very young, very brisk, very hopeful. The people we love are
there, along with the people we remember. Music begins to play, we
are dancing, laughing, scampering over the country once more; our
parents too are young and laughing cheerily. Every now and then
perhaps some old friend, also vigorous and hopeful, bursts into the
book, and begins to talk or to write a letter; early sights and sounds
return to us, we have NOW, and we have THEN, in a pleasant harmony.
To those of a certain literary generation who read Miss Mitford's
memoirs, how many such familiar presences and names must appear

and reappear. Not least among them that of her biographer, Mr.
Harness himself, who was so valued by his friends. Mrs. Kemble, Mrs.
Sartoris, Charles Allston Collins, always talked of him with a great
respect and tenderness. I used to think they had a special voice with
which to speak his name. He was never among our intimate friends, but
how familiar to my recollection are the two figures, that of Mr. Harness
and Miss Harness, his sister and housekeeper, coming together along
the busy Kensington roadway. The brother and sister were like
characters out of some book, with their kind faces, their simple spiritual
ways; in touch with so much that was interesting and romantic, and in
heart with so much that suffered. I remember him with grey hair and a
smile. He was not tall; he walked rather lame; Miss Harness too was
little, looking