Our Village | Page 7

to the
Tower.* 'Oh, my darling, how I envy you at the fountain-head of
intelligence in these interesting times! How I envy Lady Burdett for the
fine opportunity she has to show the heroism of our sex!' writes the
daughter, who is only encountering angry tax-gatherers at home. . . .
Somehow or other the bills are paid for the time, and the family
arrangements go on as before.
*Here, in our little suburban garden at Wimbledon, are the remains of
an old hedgerow which used to grow in the kitchen garden of the
Grange where Sir Francis Burdett then lived. The tradition is that he
was walking in the lane in his own kitchen garden when he was taken
up and carried off to honourable captivity.--A.T.R.
Besides writing to the members of her own home, Miss Mitford started
another correspondent very early in life; this was Sir William Elford, to
whom she describes her outings and adventures, her visits to Tavistock
House, where her kind friends the Perrys receive her. Mr. Perry was the
editor of the Morning Chronicle; he and his beautiful wife were the
friends of all the most interesting people of the day. Here again the
present writer's own experiences can interpret the printed page, for her
own first sight of London people and of London society came to her in
a little house in Chesham Place, where her father's old friends, Mrs.
Frederick Elliot and Miss Perry, the daughters of Miss Mitford's friends,
lived with a very notable and interesting set of people, making a social
centre, by that kindly unconscious art which cannot be defined; that
quick apprehension, that benevolent fastidiousness (I have to use rather
far-fetched words) which are so essential to good hosts and hostesses.
A different standard is looked for now, by the rising generations
knocking at the doors, behind which the dignified past is lying as stark
as King Duncan himself!
Among other entertainments Miss Mitford went to the fetes which
celebrated the battle of Vittoria; she had also the happiness of getting a
good sight of Mme. de Stael, who was a great friend of the Perrys. 'She
is almost as much followed in the gardens as the Princess,' she says,
pouring out her wonders, her pleasures, her raptures. She begins to read
Burns with youthful delight, dilates upon his exhaustless imagination,
his versatility, and then she suggests a very just criticism. 'Does it not
appear' she says, 'that versatility is the true and rare characteristic of

that rare thing called genius--versatility and playfulness;' then she goes
on to speak of two highly-reputed novels just come out and ascribed to
Lady Morley, 'Pride and Prejudice' and 'Sense and Sensibility.'
She is still writing from Bertram House, but her pleasant gossip
continually alternates with more urgent and less agreeable letters
addressed to her father. Lawyers' clerks are again calling with notices
and warnings, tax-gatherers are troubling. Dr. Mitford has, as usual, left
no address, so that she can only write to the 'Star Office,' and trust to
chance. 'Mamma joins in tenderest love,' so the letters invariably
conclude.
Notwithstanding the adoration bestowed by the ladies of the family and
their endearing adjectives, Mr. Harness is very outspoken on the
subject of the handsome Doctor! He disliked his manners, his morals,
his self-sufficiency, his loud talk. 'The old brute never informed his
friends of anything; all they knew of him or his affairs, or whatever
false or true he intended them to believe, came out carelessly in his
loose, disjointed talk.'
In 1814 Miss Mitford is living on still with her parents at Bertram
House, but a change has come over their home; the servants are gone,
the gravel turned to moss, the turf into pasture, the shrubberies to
thickets, the house a sort of new 'ruin half inhabited, and a Chancery
suit is hanging over their heads.' Meantime some news comes to cheer
her from America. Two editions of her poems have been printed and
sold. 'Narrative Poems on the Female Character' proved a real success.
'All who have hearts to feel and understandings to discriminate, must
wish you health and leisure to complete your plan,' so write publishers
in those golden days, with complimentary copies of the work. . . .
Great things are happening all this time; battles are being fought and
won, Napoleon is on his way to St. Helena; London is in a frenzy of
rejoicings, entertainings, illuminations. To Mary Mitford the
appearance of 'Waverley' seems as great an event as the return of the
Bourbons; she is certain that 'Waverley' is written by Sir Walter Scott,
but 'Guy Mannering,' she thinks, is by another hand: her mind is full of
a genuine romantic devotion to books and belles lettres, and she is also
rejoicing, even more,