As a companion to the Stories of American Life, Whittaker suggested a series of similar stories for children, and it was upon this project that Miss Mitford worked at the end of 1830 and into 1831. The work was to comprise six volumes—three for children over ten years of age and three for those of ten and under, and the publication was completed by the year 1832. Then, as Dr. Mitford’s exactions were still great and his purse had to be kept well filled, his daughter’s mind turned once more to the Drama and to the play of Charles the First, which lay neglected for want of official sanction. The Duke of Devonshire having, by this time, succeeded the Duke of Montrose as Lord Chamberlain, Miss Mitford made one more attempt to secure a licence for the banned play. A letter—a veritable model of courtesy and diplomacy—was despatched to His Grace with a copy of the work in question:—
“My Lord Duke,—
“The spirit of liberality and justice to dramatic authors by which your Grace’s exercise of the functions of Lord High Chamberlain has been distinguished, forms the only excuse for the liberty taken in sending my tragedy of Charles the First direct to yourself, instead of transmitting it, in the usual mode, from the theatre to Mr. Colman. To send it to that gentleman, indeed, would be worse than useless, the play having been written at the time of the Duke of Montrose, and a licence having been refused to it on account of the title and the subject, which Mr. Colman declared to be inadmissible on the stage. That this is not the general opinion may be inferred from the subject’s having been repeatedly pointed out by different critics as one of the most dramatic points of English history, and especially recommended to me both by managers and actors. That such could not always have been the feeling of those in power is proved by the fact that there is actually a tragedy, on the very same subject and bearing the very same title, written some sixty or seventy years since by Havard the player, in which John Kemble, at one time, performed the principal character, and which might be represented any night, at any other theatre, without the necessity of a licence or the possibility of an objection. It is the existence of this piece which makes the prohibition of mine seem doubly hard, and emboldens me to appeal to your Grace’s kindness against the rigorous decree of your predecessor.... I am not aware that there is in the whole piece one line which could be construed into bearing the remotest analogy to present circumstances, or that could cause scandal or offence to the most loyal. If I had been foolish or wicked enough to have written such things, the reign of William the Fourth and the administration of Earl Grey would hardly be the time to produce them.”
To this the Duke replied that he could not—consistently with his established rule not to reverse the decisions of his predecessor—license the play, and so the matter was dropped for a time.
Meanwhile active preparations were in progress for the fifth and last volume of Our Village, and, during the year, there was a mild rehearsal at the cottage of a Scena, entitled Mary Queen of Scots’ Farewell to France, which Miss Mitford had composed at the instigation of a Reading young man named Charles Parker, who had set the Scena to music—“a sweet and charming lad in mind and temper, a Master of the Royal Musical Academy of London, not yet twenty-one,” was Miss Mitford’s description of him.
This composition was declared, so the author said, to be “as fine as anything in English music,” and those who were privileged to hear the village rehearsal were charmed with it, although they heard it to disadvantage, “for it makes fifty pages of music, and requires the united bands of Drury Lane and the Royal Musical Academy and above fifty chorus-women. The first five lines (an almost literal translation of Mary’s own verses,
‘Adieu! plaisant pays de France’),
are the air—then the blank verse in exquisite recitative—then a magnificent chorus—then the song again—and then a chorus fading into the distance. No woman in England except Mrs. Wood can sing it; so that whether it will be performed in public is doubtful; but it is something to have furnished the thread on which such pearls are strung.” Unfortunately the composition never did obtain a hearing, so far as we can discover. Following this, and late in the year 1831, with a view to helping forward the fortunes of Mr. Parker, Miss Mitford became again “immersed in music.” “I am writing an opera for and with Charles Parker; and you would really be diverted to find how learned I am become on the subject of choruses and double choruses and trios and septets. Very fine music carries me away more than anything—but then it must be very fine. Our opera will be most splendid—a real opera—all singing and recitative—blank verse of course, and rhyme for the airs, with plenty of magic—an Eastern fairy tale.” This was Sadak and Kalasrade, of which an unkind but truthful critic wrote: “It was only once performed. Wretchedly played and sung as it was, it hardly deserved a better fate. The music, by a now forgotten pupil of our Academy of Music, was heavy and valueless, and the dramatist, though graceful and fresh as a lyrist, had not the instinct, or had not mastered the secret of writing for music.” This, of course, meant so much wasted time and energy at a period when both were valuable and needed conserving as much as possible.
It was unfortunate that the opera proved such a failure, for on its success the Mitfords were relying for the replenishment of their exchequer. “Shall we be able to go on if the Opera is delayed till February?” wrote Miss Mitford in September, 1832, to her father, then staying at the Sussex Hotel in Bouverie Street. She had been busy during the spring and summer in making up lost time on the preparation of the last volume of Our Village. It was published in the autumn, but as its author made no mention of the matter in her letter to her father, we presume that an advance payment on account had been received and used. In the same letter she alludes to a notice of objection to the Doctor’s vote, “not on account of the vote, but for fear it should bring on that abominable question of the qualification for the magistracy. Ask our dear Mr. Talfourd whether the two fields, forty shilling freehold, will be enough, without bringing out the other affair. In short, it worries me exceedingly; and if there were any danger in it one way or other it would be best to keep out of the way and lose the vote, rather than do anything that could implicate the other and far more important matter.” In so far as the magistracy was concerned it was astonishing that the matter had never been questioned.
With her father in London—the seat of his temptations—spending her hard-earned income, she grew low-spirited and ill. Her complaint, she explained in a letter to William Harness, was one brought on by anxiety, fatigue or worry, and she told him how she hesitated consulting a physician, knowing full well that his prescription would be “not to write.” The bread had to be earned and the means secured which would give her father plenty wherewith to enjoy himself. Added to this were the “levees”—as she called them—which she was forced to endure all day long by reason of the folk who came from far and near to call upon her. “Every idle person who comes within twenty miles gets a letter of introduction, or an introduction in the shape of an acquaintance, and comes to see my geraniums or myself—Heaven knows which! I have had seven carriages at once at the door of our little cottage—and this is terrible when one is not well.”