Went violetting

‘At home - went violetting in Mr. Body’s Fields & our own - got a great many - Read Mill’s History of the Crusades very good.’ This is one of the entries to be found in the daily diary kept by Mary Russell Mitford, an English writer who died 170 years ago today. The diary entries, all very brief, give no hint of the success she would find later with her sketches of village life and in the theatre.

Mitford was born in 1787 in Alresford, Hampshire, the only daughter of George Mitford and Mary a descendant of the aristocratic Russell family. She grew up near Jane Austen and the two were acquaintances when young. Mitford attended a school in Hans Place, Knightsbridge, London, the successor to Reading Abbey Girls’ School (which Austen had attended earlier). Her father engaged Frances Arabella Rowden to give his daughter extra tuition. Rowden was a published poet, and introduced her to the theatre, especially to plays featuring John Kemble.

In 1810, Mitford published Miscellaneous Poems, which was followed by five more volumes of verse, including Watlington Hill (1812) and Dramatic Scenes, Sonnets, and Other Poems (1827). Her narrative poem Christina (1811) was revised by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. She turned to the theatre, with some success, most notably in the blank-verse tragedies Julian and Rienzi.

However, Mitford’s reputation primarily rests on her prose sketches of English village life, collected in the five volumes of Our Village (1824-32). These sketches, based on her observations of life in and around Three Mile Cross, where she lived from 1820, captured the atmosphere of the English countryside and the quaintness of village characters. Despite literary success, Mitford struggled financially due to her father’s gambling debts. In 1837, she received a civil list pension, providing some financial relief. Her writing is said to have helped establish the format of the realistic domestic novel of provincial life.

Mitford maintained friendships and extensive correspondence with literary figures of the time, notably Elizabeth Barrett Browning. In 1851, she moved to Swallowfield, where she lived until her death on 10 January 1855, following injuries sustained in a carriage accident. Further information can be found at Wikipedia, Encyclopedia Britannica and Berkshire History.

For a short while in her early 30s, Mitford maintained a journal (late December 1818 to March 1823), which she kept almost daily in a volume originally designed to hold only one year’s worth of entries. Moreover, the journal was actually Leigh Hunt’s The Literary Pocket Book: or, Companion for the Lover of Art and Nature and to make entries she had to overwrite much of the printed matter. Some of the diary has been transcribed by volunteers and is available online at Digital Mitford, a project begun in April 2013 with the formation of the Mary Russell Mitford Society. Here are some sample entries.

16 December 1819

‘Went to Reading - had a most delightful chat with Miss Brooke - bought things at Marshes - saw a number of people - came home to dinner quite well & was exceedingly ill (sick & purged) all night.’

17 December 1819

‘Rather better - Lucy a famous nurse - in bed almost all day - had a charming letter from Mr. Haydon & read Malcolm's Anecdotes of the 17th Century.’

18 December 1819

‘A great deal better. Amused myself with doing up some gowns against the end of the mourning  - read Burke's works. All day at home.’

19 December 1819

‘Quite well. Wrote a long note to Miss Brooke - read Scott’s Visit to Paris & played with my beautiful puppy Miranda born at Stratford on Avon.’

31 December 1819

‘Went with Papa & Eliza Webb to a dance at Mrs. Dickinson’s very splendid - very delightful - much laughing - Mr. Crowther not to be forgotten.

At Farley Hill - Happy day - Mrs. D's singing - Where’er you walk - Mr. D’s reading - Count Ugolino.’

1 April 1820

‘At home - went violetting in Mr. Body's Fields & our own - got a great many - Read Mill’s History of the Crusades very good.’

1 May 1820

‘Went in the Cart to Reading Fair with Drum & Lucy - called on the Brooks Newberys, Whites, Anstruthers &c. - dined at Dr. Valpy’s & met the Shuters, Mr. Harris, Mr. Monk, Harry Marsh & Mr. Dickinson - a very pleasant day - came home at night.’

2 May 1820

‘At home - went primrosing & cowslipping to Bertram House - got a great many  - wrote to Mr. Johnson. Read Hogg.’

3 May 1820

‘At home - walked with Granny & the Pets up Woodcock lane - read the Diary of an Invalid on the Continent’

4 May 1820

‘At home - called with Drum on Mr. Body who gave me some lovely flowers - wrote to Eliza Webb - read Bowdich's Mission to Ashantee - dull.’

5 May 1820

‘At home - went walking with dear Drum, Granny, & the Pets - Dr. Valpy called.’

6 May 1820

‘At home - went cowslipping in the Meadows with dear Granny & the Pets - heard from Mrs. Hayward with a beautiful basket of flower roots - planted them out & wrote Mrs. Hayward - read Bonduca.’

Day of brain fever

‘Today was a day of brain fever. I have decided to write a full length drama on Kalidas, before starting on the novel. Shall set about it tomorrow. Should complete it by the 21st.’ This is from the diary of Mohan Rakesh, a pioneer of modern Hindi literature, born a century ago today. Once written and produced, the work about Kalidas would soon become recognized as the first modern Hindi play.

Rakesh was born as Madan Mohan Guglani on 8 January 1925 in Amritsar (Punjab Province of British India). His father was a lawyer who died when he was 16. He studied for an MA in English and Hindi at Punjab University in Lahore, and earned the title of Shatri in Sanskrit. His professional journey included stints as a postman, teacher, and editor (of the literary journal Sarika) before he dedicated himself fully to writing in 1957.

As a writer, Rakesh excelled in multiple genres, particularly novels and plays. He is credited with writing the first modern Hindi play, Ashadh Ka Ek Din (1958) - about Kalidas, a classical Sanskrit author some claim is ancient India’s greatest poet and playwright. Indeed, Rakesh is also considered to have been one of the pioneers of the Nai Kahani (‘New Story’) Hindi literary movement. His writing often focused on the urban middle class, exploring their struggles and aspirations in post-independence India. His works are said to be characterised by their realistic portrayal of characters and their dilemmas, reflecting the changing social dynamics of the time.

Rakesh married three times: a first marriage in 1950 was arranged and ended in divorce in 1957; a second marriage, to Sudha in 1960, was also short-lived; and in 1963, he married 21 year-old Anita Aulakh. Throughout his career, Rakesh received several accolades, including the Sangeet Natak Akademi Award in 1968. He died in 1972, aged only 47. However, his legacy continues to influence Hindi literature and theatre, with his plays still being performed and acclaimed worldwide. For further information see Wikipedia. 

Rakesh kept a diary for some years. Extracts from this were edited by Sudha and published posthumously as Mohan Rakesh Ki Diary (Rajpal & Sons, 1977). A more modern edition can be sampled online at Googlebooks. Although the bulk of the book is written in Hindi, there are a few passages in English. (Moreover, it is possible, these days, to produce a serviceable English translation by dragging and dropping images of the Hindi text into Google Translate.

22 January 1958

‘I do not know how I feel. Probably I am happy, very happy. M... came this morning, when I was working at my typewriter. She remained here for an hour or so. I said everything to her that I wanted to. She gave me her promise to marry me. I do not know how I feel about it. I feel terribly excited. The day had a real feel of spring in it. The grass looked more green than ever. I felt as if I were the master of the world. Love certainly is a positive sentiment, in spite of all the master of the cynicism of my friends. I love the young girl and it gave me intense pleasure to know that she has this same feeling for me. I am happy, for I took a few glasses of beer just now to enjoy my happiness. Oh! How nice and blissful I feel! I feel as if we are already married!’

9 February 1958

‘A week of hectic life in Delhi. Sharat’s marriage was the main event of the week. Met so many persons. Talked so many things. Returned very tired. Slept till eleven in the morning.

Today was a day of brain fever. I have decided to write a full length drama on Kalidas, before starting on the novel. Shall set about it tomorrow. Should complete it by the 21st.’

13 February 1958

‘Plans are ready for shifting to Delhi. 1st of March is the latest by when I should leave Jullundur. Staying here already seems like living in the past. But I had developed more attachments in this city than in any other city before. I shall carry with me many pleasant and unpleasant memories. And I shall never come back to live here.

I do not yet know what is going to be my major occupation for earning a livelihood in the days to come, writing does not provide a living. It may be anything, but I shall at no cost come back to have a job in this city. I shall try to write out the play on Kalidas during the days that I am here.’

16 February 1958


‘I felt suffocated - extremely so, living at Jullundur. I do not know why I am so sensitive to certain situations. Till yesterday, I was not sure if I shall travel to Delhi. Even till later this morning I did not know. Only felt a certain pain, a piercing agony right within my heart. I could not write. I could not read. I even could not imagine things. I felt as if my heart and brain were being eaten up by worms. I feel so terribly depressed. Now that I am sitting in a train, in the compartment next to the engine, the engine is whistling continuously, doing about 50 miles an hour, I feel if the oppressive burden is being slowly lifted. I like this terrible speed, this maddening push. I hope to feel light and happy in an hour's time.

I shall try to settle down in Delhi. I shall live there. I might probably die there. I am so tired of these shiftings, and yet I cannot help them. My whole system has been poisoned by the bitterness of circumstances. How long I have suffered and how much! Could I ever be relieved of this pain, this sorrow?

The train is going very fast. But I also feel lonely and desolate. How can I help it? As the train steams off from Ambala Cantt, the depression is over. 

New Delhi

A feeling like that of having slept well. A vague sensation of pleasant excitement. Wind is chilly. I feel that it is spring.

I like this mode of living. I like this life. Everything around seems to be pulsating with activity.

I cannot believe that I, myself, have been through all that suffering. I want to believe that it was not reality but a nightmare - a hallucination.’

Dipped into Bacon’s essays

Thomas Green, a man of leisure and a self-professed lover of literature, died two centuries ago today. He kept a diary for much of his life, but one focused almost exclusively on his thoughts and opinions about books he was reading. According to this diary, he was often to be found ‘dipping into’ some great work of non-fiction or other, such as Bacon’s essays.

Green was born at Monmouth in 1769. His grandfather was a wealthy Suffolk soap-boiler who had made a fortune during the reign of Queen Anne, and his father was a man of letters, a pamphleteer, and a champion of the Church of England. Green was partly educated privately, and partly at the free grammar school in Ispwich; he was admitted to Gonville and Caius College, Cambridge. However, illness prevented him from taking up his university studies. Instead, he was called to the bar, and travelled the Norfolk Circuit. He married Catherine Hartcup, and they had one son.

Aged 25, Green inherited the family estate, leaving him free to live a life of leisure and reading literature. He resided in Ipswich, visiting the Continent and different parts of England from time to time. Occasionally, he wrote and published political pamphlets, and he provided contributions to The Gentleman’s Magazine. He died on 6 January 1825. Further biographical information is available from an 1834 edition of The Gentleman’s Magazine, Dictionary of National Biography 1895-1900, or Edmund Gosse’s Gossip in a Library.

Green kept a diary for most of his adult life, and he is mostly remembered because of a quirky book, based on this diary, that he published in 1810: Extracts from The Diary of a Lover of Literature (this is freely available at Internet Archive). It records his thoughts and lengthy opinions on the books he was reading, most of which were worthy, non-fiction classics. Although his selection of diary extracts in this book are confined to a five year period (1796-1800), his friend John Mitford published further extracts in The Gentleman’s Magazine between 1834 and 1843 (here and here for example).

Here are several extracts from Green’s book, starting with much of his elaborately self-effacing and wittily apologetic preface.

PREFACE
‘At length, after much hesitation, and in an evil hour perhaps, I am induced to submit to the indulgence of the Public, the idlest Work, probably, that ever was composed; but, I could wish to hope, not absolutely the most unentertaining or unprofitable.

For the errors and defects naturally incident to a composition successively exhibiting the impressions of the moment in the language which the moment prompted, and which must derive any interest it may possess from the ease and freedom with which these impressions are communicated, it would be fruitless and absurd to attempt an apology. [. . .] For faults of every other description; and for more than a due proportion of these, I feel that I am strictly accountable ; and present myself before the Audience whose attention I have presumed to engage with my babble, under an appalling sense of the responsibility which my rashness has incurred.

To the objector, who should fiercely demand, why I obtruded on the Public at all, matter confessedly so crude and so peccant, I have really little to allege which is quite satisfactory to my own mind, or which I could reasonably hope, therefore, would prove so to his: but to an offended spirit of a gentler nature, I might perhaps be allowed to intimate, that, whatever my faults may be, I have not attempted to decoy unwary Readers by an imposing Title, nor to tax their curiosity with the costly splendours of fashionable typography. It has been my earnest wish, at least, to obviate disappointment, by accommodating, as much as possible, my appearance to my pretensions. These are simple, and of easy statement. To furnish occupation, in a vacant hour, to minds imbued with a relish for literary pursuits, by suggesting topics for reflection and incentives to research, partly from an exhibition of whatever struck me as most interesting in the thoughts of others, during a miscellaneous course of reading, and partly, too, from a free and unreserved communication of the thoughts they gave rise to in my own mind - this is all that I venture to propose to the Reader as my aim in the publication of the following Extracts. [. . .]

With respect to my success in this adventure, if I am not generally very sanguine, there are certain moments - under the encouraging influence of a balmy air, bright sky, and vigorous digestion - in which I am not altogether without hope. When I advert, it is true, to the numerous faults that deform the following pages, all crowding in hideous succession before me - when I reflect on the various improvements of which the whole would be susceptible, even under my own mature revisal - above all, when I compute what brighter talents and ampler attainments might have achieved in a similar career - my heart, oppressed with the load of my infirmities, sinks in despondency within me: but when I consider, on the other hand, the wretched trash with which the Public is sometimes apparently content to be amused, my spirits, in a slight degree, revive; I cannot disguise, from myself, that I am at least entitled to equal indulgence with some of these candidates for public favour; and in the momentary elation of this ignoble triumph, am tempted to anticipate a reception, which however moderate and subdued for an illusion of the fancy, may perhaps prove ridiculously flattering compared with the actual doom that awaits me. [. . .]

The following Sheets are, of course, only a sample, though a pretty large one, of a more considerable Work: but the Purchaser of the present Volume (I hasten to add) need not be alarmed. I cannot flatter myself that the materials for a future selection, are eminently better than those from which I have thus far drawn; and with the present Extracts I am so little satisfied, on a review of them in print, that unless they should experience the most unequivocal symptoms of public favour, they are the last that will appear. An idle experiment, however unsuccessful, may be good-naturedly excused; but to persist in a piece of folly of this kind, after a fair warning that it is such, would betray an unpardonable disregard of what is due, on the occasion, both to public feeling and my own character.’

29 September 1796
‘Read the 9th Chapter of Roscoe’s Lorenzo de Medici; in which the rise (or renovation) and progress of the arts of painting, statuary, engraving, and sculpture upon gems, with the merits of the respective artists in each department, are happily delineated. The account of Michael Angelo - his giant powers - and the concussion with which his advent shook the world of genius and taste - is even sublime. Roscoe is not always exact in the choice of his expressions: for instance, he uses “instigate” in a good sense; which, where we have another appropriate term, is unpardonable: “compromise”, which properly means, the adjustment of differences by reciprocal concession, he employs, by what authority I know not, to express, the putting to hazard by implication. A catalogue of synonymes, executed with philological skill and philosophical discrimination, would be a valuable accession to English Literature.

Read, after a long interval, with much delight, the first two Books of Caesar’s Commentaries. The States of Gaul are represented as far more advanced in government and manners, than I should have expected him to find them; and it would puzzle the Directory of France, at this moment, to frame a manifesto, so neatly conceived, and so forcibly yet chastely expressed, as the reply of Ariovistus, a barbaric chief from the wilds off Germany, to the embassy of Caesar. It is interesting to trace the route of this great commander (and the similitude of names will sometimes fix it with precision) on a modern map. Nothing can exceed the ease, perspicuity, and spirit, with which this incomparable narrative is conducted.

Dipped into Boswell’s Life of Johnson. Boswell, from his open, communicative, good-humoured vanity, which leads him to display events and feelings that other men, of more judgment, though slighter pretensions, would have studiously concealed, has depressed himself below his just level in public estimation. His information is extensive; his talents far from despicable; and he seems so exactly adapted, even by his very foibles, that we might almost suppose him purposely created, to be the Chronicler of Johnson. A pleasing and instructive packet-companion might be formed, by a judicious selection from his copious repertory of Johnson’s talk.’

5 October 1796
‘Pursued Boswell’s Life of Johnson. Johnson’s coarse censure of Lord Chesterfield, “that he taught the morals of a whore, and the manners of a dancing master”, is as unjust as it is harsh. Indeed I have always thought the noble author of Letters to his Son, hardly dealt with by the Public; though to public opinion I have the highest deference. How stands the case? Having bred up his son to a youth of learning and virtue, and consigned him to a tutor well adapted to cultivate these qualities, he naturally wishes to render him an accomplished gentleman; and, for this purpose, undertakes, in person, a task for which none surely was so well qualified as himself. I follow the order he assigns, and that which his Letters testify he pursued. Well! but he insists eternally on such frivolous points - the graces - the graces! Because they were wanting, and the only thing wanting. Other qualities were attained, or presumed to be attained: to correct those slovenly, shy, reserved, and uncouth habits in the son, which as he advanced in life grew more conspicuous; and threatened to thwart all the parent’s fondest prospects in his child, was felt, and justly felt, by the father, to have become an imperious and urgent duty; and he accordingly labours at it with parental assiduity, an assiduity, which none but a father would have bestowed upon the subject. Had his Lordship published these Letters; as a regular System of Education, the common objection to their contents would have, had unanswerable force: viewing them however in their true light, as written privately and confidentially by a parent to his child - inculcating, as he naturally would, with the greatest earnestness, not what was the most important, but most requisite - it must surely be confessed, there never was a popular exception more unfounded. But he - I admit it: he touches upon certain topics, which, a sentiment of delicacy suggests, between a father and son had better been forborne: yet those who might hesitate to give the advice, if they are conversant with the world, and advert to circumstances, will not be disposed to think the advice itself injudicious.’

11 October 1796
‘Read Hawkesworth’s Life of Swift; of whose character and conduct but an imperfect idea is given by the narrative of Johnson. Hawkesworth is much more communicative and interesting; and the minuteness and simplicity with which he details the few, but deplorable, incidents of the four last years of Swift’s life, are highly affecting. The circumstance of his struggling to express himself, after a silence broken but once for more than a year; and, finding all his efforts ineffectual, heaving a deep sigh, quite cleaves the heart.’

12 September 1798
‘Dipped into Bacon’s Essays; so pregnant with just, original, and striking observations on every topic which is touched, that I cannot select what pleases me most. For reach of thought, variety and extent of view, sheer solid and powerful sense, and admirable sagacity, what works of man can be placed in competition with these wonderful effusions.’

6 May 1800
‘Read Gildon’s Essay, prefixed to Shakespear’s Poems; in which he largely discusses Dramatic Poetry. Poetry, he considers as an art; and he is a grand stickler for the rules of this art, which he regards, rather as the original suggestions of right reason, instructing us how to please, than the mere conclusions of experience from what has pleased: a preposterous piece of folly, nearly akin to that which attempts to solve the phaenomena of nature from the chimaeras of the fancy, instead of collecting the materials for this solution from a patient investigation of the laws by which nature is really governed in all her operations; but as a practical piece of folly, leading to consequences still more absurd. According to Gildon, all excellence flows from the observance of the rules of composition, and all deformity from their violation: to such a taste, Shakespear’s Dramas must have a most untoward aspect; yet his “wood-notes wild” occasionally extort, even from this sturdy champion of the summum jus in critical jurisprudence, an approving nod, with - “this is very well”. At the close of his Remarks on Shakespear’s Plays, he observes, that “verisimilitude in the Drama, is more essential than truth, because fact itself is sometimes so barely possible that it is almost incredible”. Hurd has caught this idea: and it is not the only instance in which I fancy I have detected him poaching on this antient and neglected manor.’

This article is a slightly revised version of one first published on 6 January 2015.