Reading 'Wigs on the Green' after Mitford’s more celebrated novels feels like discovering a draft of a famous painting—rough edges everywhere, but thrilling in its audacity. Where 'The Blessing' or 'Don’t Tell Alfred' shimmer with aristocratic poise, 'Wigs' is a carnival of caricatures: bumbling fascists, heiresses in absurd disguises, and dialogue so over-the-top it borders on parody. Mitford’s later irony is subtler; here, she swings a
comedic mallet. Personally, I prefer this unvarnished version of her humor. The scene where characters debate politics while dressed as shepherdesses? Pure gold.
What’s missing, though, is the emotional depth she’d later master. Uncle Matthew’s rants in 'The Pursuit of Love' are hilarious but also reveal his vulnerability—here, the jokes stay surface-level. Yet, that’s not a flaw so much as a different flavor. If her other novels are champagne, 'Wigs' is fizzy lemonade: less refined, more immediately refreshing. It’s also a rare glimpse into Mitford’s own political evolution, written when she was still
entangled with the ideologies her family famously sparred over. The book’s irreverence might explain why it’s often overlooked, but for fans of interwar satire, it’s a hidden gem.