978. Mary Russell Mitford to EBB
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 6, 19–21.
Three Mile Cross,
June 25, 1842.
I wonder, my very dearest, when I shall be quiet again! Last Monday I set forth to get a flower of the buck-bean. I had set my heart upon it. Whole beds of that rare plant grow upon either side of a stream that runs amongst Mr. Fyshe Palmer’s plantations, [1] crossed by two bridges, called Kingsbridge and Queensbridge, on two roads which diverge so ——, (
about four miles from the little town of Wokingham. Now, Wokingham is eight miles from us; but, by crossing the heath, we save about two, at the expense of walking those two miles under the firs—a delicious walk in these balmy summer evenings, when the scent is as of Arabia. Well, I had been three times to this Kingsbridge in chase of this flower—twice quite in vain; but the third time we had found the plant, its buds and leaves in profusion, so that I was determined not to give up the flower. Accordingly, Ben being busy finishing the hay, Marianne (my hysterical maid), and I, set forth, with the pony and Flush for all our company. The road is exquisite—by Arborfield first, and through delicious lanes walled with honeysuckle hedges, and cradled above with beech and oak and elm—over the Lodden, with its floating water-lilies—then through the still wilder lanes and woodlands of Barkham, until we reached the heath, pink and purple with the flowers from which it takes its name—and then Mr. Fyshe Palmer’s exquisite plantations of fir, and larch, and beech, and mountain ash.
The name of the road we took will tell you the extent of these plantations—“The Nine Mile Ride;” [2] but of their beauty, diversified by little valleys with wandering brooks, and varied by the most sudden rise and fall of the ground, by bits of wild road hollowed out of the hill-side, and overgrown by shaggy precipices, and of the exquisite odours of the pines and the heath-flowers of a thousand sorts, I can give you no notion. For the last two miles we had to lead the pony, because this Nine Mile Ride may be a ride, but is no road for a wheeled vehicle. That we did not mind. We did, however, begin to fret when, on reaching the streamlet where the buck-bean grew, and traversing it on either side for above an hour, we found thousands, millions of plants, but not one blossom—most carefully had they been cut off! Ben says “mowed”; I rather think cut by people employed by the London druggists, it being a celebrated remedy for erysipelas. However that may be, gone it was, and we had no other consolation than that of finding in profusion the equally rare bog asphodel. Do you know that pretty wild flower? Wet high above our boots (for we had traversed miles of bog), we prepared to set off on our way home, when a tremendous roll of thunder over our heads gave token of what was about to ensue. The pony curvetted; Flush was uneasy; hail and rain poured down in torrents—hail such as in my life I never saw; in fact, it broke all the glass it came near. In fewer minutes than I care to say we were wet to the skin; the bottom of the pony-chaise was full of water as a bucket, and the pony was so frightened, it was clear that the best we could do was to lead it home. This we did, not meeting a creature till we got to Arborfield, by which time we had made up our minds to follow out the adventure. At first we were violently angry to be so deserted, and said to one another, rather oftener than was quite magnanimous, “Well, if K____ had been out in this rain, we should have sent after her! Thank Heaven, we never deserted anybody in such a manner!” But by the time we had passed Barkham we began to perceive by the state of the roads how completely local the storm had been; in fact we were, I really believe, completely in the centre both of the lightning and the hail and rain.
Never was such a plight as ours. It has spoilt my two cloaks (one a fur one—a real loss), which had been hung over the back of the chaise, and which we abandoned, as adding to the weight of water which we had to carry; but beyond this misfortune, which I shall feel severely in the winter (I must try to buy one second-hand), we escaped wonderfully. I suppose we should have been very stiff the next day if we had had time; but on Tuesday that gander feast, the Reading Whist Club, dined with us; and then, between helping to cook, and talking and waiting upon the good folks, we got the stiffness rubbed out of our bones in a wonderful manner.
Ever your own,
M.R.M.
Text: L’Estrange (2), III, 150–153.
1. East Court (see letter 942, note 2).
2. Just north of the site of the Roman road running east from Riseley.
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