Our Village | Page 9

more---tragedies; she
wants the money badly; for the editor of her magazine has absconded,
owing her 50 pounds. Some trying and bewildering quarrel then ensues
between Charles Kemble and Macready, which puts off her tragedies,
and sadly affects poor Miss Mitford's nerves and profits. She has one

solace. Her father, partly instigated, she says, by the effect which the
terrible feeling of responsibility and want of power has had upon her
health and spirits, at last resolves to try if he can HIMSELF obtain any
employment that may lighten the burthen of the home. It is a good
thing that Dr. Mitford has braced himself to this heroic determination.
'The addition of two or even one hundred a year to our little income,
joined to what I am, in a manner, sure of gaining by mere industry,
would take a load from my heart of which I can scarcely give you an
idea. . . even "Julian" was written under a pressure of anxiety which left
me not a moment's rest. . . .' So she fondly dwells upon the delightful
prospects. Then comes the next letter to Sir William Elford, and we
read that her dear father, 'relying with a blessed sanguineness on my
poor endeavours, has not, I believe, even inquired for a situation, and I
do not press the matter, though I anxiously wish it; being willing to
give one more trial to the theatre.'
On one of the many occasions when Miss Mitford writes to her trustee
imploring him to sell out the small remaining fragment of her fortune,
she says, 'My dear father has, years ago, been improvident, is still
irritable and difficult to live with, but he is a person of a thousand
virtues. . . there are very few half so good in this mixed world; it is my
fault that this money is needed, entirely my fault, and if it be withheld,
my dear father will be overthrown, mind and body, and I shall never
know another happy hour.'
No wonder Mr. Harness, who was behind the scenes, remonstrated
against the filial infatuation which sacrificed health, sleep, peace of
mind, to gratify every passing whim of the Doctor's. At a time when
she was sitting up at night and slaving, hour after hour, to earn the
necessary means of living, Dr. Mitford must needs have a cow, a stable,
and dairy implements procured for his amusement, and when he died
he left 1,000 pounds of debts for the scrupulous woman to pay off. She
is determined to pay, if she sells her clothes to do so. Meanwhile, the
Doctor is still alive, and Miss Mitford is straining every nerve to keep
him so. She is engaged (in strict confidence) on a grand historical
subject, Charles and Cromwell, the finest episode in English history,
she says. Here, too, fresh obstacles arise. This time it is the theatrical
censor who interferes. It would be dangerous for the country to touch
upon such topics; Mr. George Colman dwells upon this theme,

although he gives the lady full credit for no evil intentions; but for the
present all her work is again thrown away. While Miss Mitford is
struggling on as best she can against this confusion of worries and
difficulty (she eventually received 2OO pounds for 'Julian' from a
Surrey theatre), a new firm 'Whittaker' undertakes to republish the
'village sketches' which had been written for the absconding editor. The
book is to be published under the title of 'Our Village.'
IV.
'Are your characters and descriptions true?' somebody once asked our
authoress. 'Yes, yes, yes, as true, as true as is well possible,' she
answers. 'You, as a great landscape painter, know that in painting a
favourite scene you do a little embellish and can't help it; you avail
yourself of happy accidents of atmosphere; if anything be ugly you
strike it out, or if anything be wanting, you put it in. But still the picture
is a likeness.'
So wrote Miss Mitford, but with all due respect for her and for Sir
William Elford, the great landscape painter, I cannot help thinking that
what is admirable in her book, are not her actual descriptions and
pictures of intelligent villagers and greyhounds, but the more
imaginative things; the sense of space and nature and progress which
she knows how to convey; the sweet and emotional chord she strikes
with so true a touch. Take at hazard her description of the sunset. How
simple and yet how finely felt it is. Her genuine delight reaches us and
carries us along; it is not any embellishing of effects, or exaggeration of
facts, but the reality of a true and very present feeling. . . 'The narrow
line of clouds which a few minutes ago lay like long vapouring