A Letter of Introdution

 This past week I have felt rather like Florence Nightingale at the base hospital in Scutari:

This image of Florence Nightingale is a detail of a picture that comes from Wikipedia.

Which is rather apt considering that I live in the place where she did a lot of her studies...

At present, Kaiserswerth is in the grip of a raging influenza virus that is knocking people over like ninepins.  AGA has been confined to bed with it for five days and today is his first day up and about.  He told me, that the doctor told him, that nearly half the town has it!  The usual suspects: Extreme tiredness, lack of appetite, a rumbling cough, aches and pains.  What we need is sun, sun and more sun but what we have is rain and overnight we apparently have an 87% chance of snow!  I wish Spring would get a move on.

However the purpose of this post is not to whine about illness and the weather, but rather to serve as a letter of introduction for Miss Mary Mitford and her charming book.

No, I am not referring to one of those famous (and sometimes infamous) Mitford sisters.

The Mary Mitford of whom I write was born in 1787 and died in 1855.

This image of Mary Mitford comes from Wikipedia

Here is a little something about her:

Mart Russell Mitford was born in 1787, the daughter of a Dr George Mitford who, while seemingly a very engaging personality, was a thorough wastrel and really quite a dreadful man, who spent his wife's entire fortune.
Then, when things seemed quite hopeless for the family, his daughter Mary had the good luck to pick a winning lottery ticket.  The prize was 20,000 - a large sum of money in those days and worth around 650,000 today.  Dr. Mitford with cheerful but selfish abandon, managed to spend most of that too.

It was this lack of money that spurred Mary to turn her hand to writing in an effort to support herself, and her now ageing parents.  To this end she met with some fair degree of success and while for many years the spectre of poverty was never far from the door, she was able to live a fairly comfortable life.

And while she had dreamt of becoming a poetess, and a playwright, it is for her series of country-life sketches (we might call them 'essays') that she is best remembered.  These grew out of a necessity to earn money.  The first set of sketches were published in a subscription magazine and when they proved popular, more where composed and eventually compiled in book form entitled 'Our Village'. Several more books in the same vein followed.

* * * * * *

'Our Village' is a delightful book: Both intimate and enticing.  A little window into country-life in Regency England.
The book contains no malice; no waspishness.  It is neither judgemental nor condescending.  The author is generous to her subjects and as you begin to read, you find yourself drawn into Mary's world, to extent that it is hard to put the book down!
The complete series of sketches forms a relatively large book.  I have an edition back in Melbourne but I was fortunate enough to encounter, while strolling along the Portobello Road with AGA, a truly delightful slimmer volume, dating from 1893 and consisting of a selection from the five volumes of the same title.  This forms a good introduction to her works.
The added treasure and delight of this particular book is that it is illustrated by that incomparable artist: Hugh Thomson (1860-1920).  Interestingly, the Irish-born Mr. Thomson is also known for his quality illustrations for the works of Jane Austen, Mary Mitford's contemporary and sometimes friend.

The cover (designed by the illustrator) is itself a charming piece of work, undertaken in gold leaf:

The stiff but easily removable plastic cover came with the book and I am retaining it until such time that  the book returns to Melbourne with me so that the gilding on both cover and pages, remains as bright as when it was first published.

The frontispiece gives an indication of what to expect within:

'...And one hundred illustrations by Hugh Thomson' -  Who could ask for more?

Here is the opening paragraph of the first sketch, which is entitled 'Country Pictures':

"Of all situations for a constant residence that which appears to me most delightful is a little village far in the country; a small neighbourhood, not of fine mansions finely peopled, but of cottages and cottage-like houses, 'messuages or tenements', as a friend of mine calls such ignoble and nondescript dwellings, with inhabitants whose faces are as familiar to us as the flowers in our garden; a little world of our own, close-packed and insulated like ants in an ant-hill, or bees in a hive, or sheep in a fold, or nuns in a convent, or sailors in a ship; where we know every one, and are known to every one, interested in every one, and authorised to hope that every one feels an interest in us.  How pleasant it is to slide into these true-hearted feelings from the kindly and unconscious influence of habit, and to learn to know and to love the people about us, with all their peculiarities, just as we learn to know and to love the nooks and tuns of the shade lands and sunny commons that we pass every day."

The illustrations are charming:

And each chapter has a delightful illustration to accompany it:

The character studies of the various inhabitants leaving one feeling that ones knows them as well as Miss Mitford did.  You can feel the affection she has for her fellow villagers, from the eldest down to the youngest.
One can tell that she has a deep love for the countryside and this shines forth in her descriptions.  Her love of animals is also evident and her description of village cricket (a sport she loved to watch) has led to her being described as being among the first to write on the subject.

I do like the description she gives of her own house and garden:
"Divided from the shop by a narrow yard, and opposite the shoemaker's is a habitation of whose inmates I shall say nothing.  A cottage - no - a miniature house, with many additions, little odds and ends of places, pantries and what not; all angles, and of a charming in-an-outness; a little bricked court before one half, and a little flower-yard before the other; the walls, old and weather-stained, covered with hollyhocks, roses, honeysuckles, a great apricot-tree; the casements full of geraniums (ah! there is our superb white cat peeping out from among them); the closets (our landlord has the assurances to call them rooms) full of contrivances and corner-cupboards; and the little garden behind full of common flowers, tulips, pinks, larkspurs, peonies, stocks and carnations, with an arbour of privet, not unlike a sentry-box, where one lies in a delicious green light, and looks out on the gayest of all gay flower-beds.  That house was built on purpose to show in what an exceeding small compass comfort may be packed."

I recommend to you, not only Mary Mitford but her wonderful book as well!  Do see if you are able to buy a copy, or if that proves impossible then to borrow one from your library.