930. Mary Russell Mitford to EBB
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 5, 274–276.
Three Mile Cross,
March [?27], 1842. [1]
Thanks upon thanks, my beloved friend, for the kindness which humours even my fancies. I am delighted to have the reading of Anna Seward’s letters. Perhaps we both of us like those works which show us men and women as they are—faults, frailties, and all. I confess that I do love all that identifies and individualizes character—the warts upon Cromwell’s face, which, like a great man as he was, he would not allow the artist to omit when painting his portrait. [2] Therefore I like Hayley, and therefore was I a goose of the first magnitude, when, for a passing moment, just by way of gaining for the poor bard a portion of your good graces (for I did not want to gain for him the applause of the public—he had it, and lost it), I wished his editor to have un-Hayley’d him by wiping away some of the affectations—the warts—no—the rouge, upon his face.
My love and my ambition for you often seems to be more like that of a mother for a son, or a father for a daughter (the two fondest of natural emotions), than the common bonds of even a close friendship between two women of different ages and similar pursuits. I sit and think of you, and of the poems that you will write, and of that strange, brief rainbow crown called Fame, until the vision is before me as vividly as ever a mother’s heart hailed the eloquence of a patriot son. Do you understand this? and do you pardon it? You must, my precious, for there is no chance that I should unbuild that house of clouds; [3] and the position that I long to see you fill is higher, firmer, prouder than ever has been filled by woman. It is a strange feeling, but one of indescribable pleasure. My pride and my hopes seem altogether merged in you. Well, I will not talk more of this; but at my time of life, and with so few to love, and with a tendency to body forth images of gladness and of glory, you cannot think what joy it is to anticipate the time. How kind you are to pardon my gossiping, and to like it.
God bless you, my sweetest, for the dear love which finds something to like in these jottings! It is the instinct of the bee, that sucks honey from the hedge-flower.
I made my father happy in reading what you say of Sir Robert [Peel]: his eyes brightened like diamonds at the sound. For my part, I incline to think with one of Miss Edgeworth’s heroines, that “he cannot be so very artful as is said, because everybody does say so.” The perfection of cunning is to conceal its own quality. Mortally dull are those debates. I rather have a fancy for Mr. Roebuck, [4] who is as cantankerous and humorous (in the old Shakspearian sense) [5] as Cassius himself. I would know him at any time by half a line—so perfectly in keeping are his speeches—which is more than I can say for any of the rest.
Certainly, in point of wearisome insipidity Sir Robert and Lord John [Russell] are well matched one against the other. Did it ever occur to you to hear the debates read aloud for a whole session? The impression upon me is the exceeding want of power, the flat mediocrity, the total absence of anything like eloquence. I remember a few years ago reading speeches by O’Connell in one of the Irish papers, which, with the faults of Irish oratory, had yet life and power. Now, so far as we have hitherto gone, I really have not met with a single speech that might not have been delivered by any tolerably-taught schoolboy. After all, these men are no such marvels.
Did you ever read Holcroft’s Memoirs? [6] If not, I think you would like them. I did exceedingly. He was a poor boy, who carried Staffordshire ware about the country; then he exercised the horses at Newmarket. Do read it; I know nothing more graphic or more true. Do you know his comedy, “The Road to Ruin?” The serious scenes of that play, between the father and son, are amongst the most touching in the language.
Dear Mr. Kenyon! How true in him the feeling always is! How few wits are like him—so bright, so playful, and yet so exquisitely kind! Heaven bless you, my beloved!
Ever yours,
M. R. Mitford.
Text: L’Estrange (2), III, 140–142 (as 24 March 1842).
1. L’Estrange’s dating of 24 March is obviously a misreading of Miss Mitford’s handwriting, for this is clearly a reply to letter 929. As EBB’s enquiry in 931 about receipt of Miss Seward’s Letters shows that she had not received this letter when she finished hers on the 28th, the most probable date for it is 27 March.
2. While sitting for Sir Peter Lely (1618–80), Cromwell is reported to have instructed him to “remark all these roughnesses, pimples, warts, and everything as you see me, otherwise I never will pay a farthing for it” (Anecdotes of Painting, by Horace Walpole, ed. Dallaway and Wornum, 1849, p. 444). Hence the expression “warts and all,” to denote a truthful depiction including blemishes and defects.
3. A play on the title of EBB’s poem.
4. John Arthur Roebuck (1801–79), a friend of John Stuart Mill and an adherent of Jeremy Bentham, had stood for election to Parliament to further his political opinions. He first sat in the reformed House in 1833 as an independent and earned the nickname “Tear ’em” from the vehemence with which he attacked those who differed from him (DNB).
5. i.e., having a sanguine, choleric, phlegmatic or melancholic humour, depending on the preponderance in the body of blood, choler, phlegm or bile.
6. Memoirs of the Late Thomas Holcroft, Written by Himself (1816), edited by William Hazlitt. Holcroft (1745–1809) was a frequent contributor to various magazines, a translator of numerous French authors, and the writer of many plays, including The Road to Ruin (1792).
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