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 the chalked 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 disappointment was 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 in The 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’ Street to 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 a femme 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 a Marmion, 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 flowers and animals. To her father, still in London, and now to be found at the Bath Hotel in 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 volume Miscellaneous 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, excepting your 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 which most 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 I cannot, 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 this immoral production. 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 required immediate 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 the Edinburgh, 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 impulsive creature, and in three days’ time, after she had had an opportunity of thoroughly digesting The 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 some crabbed old 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,