1069. Mary Russell Mitford to EBB
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 6, 188–189.
Three Mile Cross,
Dec. 1, 1842.
On Saturday, my beloved, I had again the bitter, bitter fear of my dear father’s immediate death. Every symptom was alarming. So it was on Sunday morning; and by Sunday evening, finding that Mr. May did not arrive, I determined to go to Reading to see our dear friend, and find from him whether I should not discontinue the medicine which seemed to affect him, and whether he could not substitute some other for it. Having waited for Mr. May at home till half past five, it was, when we started, dark and rainy. When we got to his house he was not at home, but was expected in half an hour. So I waited for him that and another half-hour; and at last, finding that the chance of his return rather diminished than increased, I took the advice of his partner, [1] to persist in the brandy and water and discontinue the medicine, and with his promise that Mr. May should see us early on Monday set off on my return home about seven o’clock. After we left the Reading lights we found the darkness tremendous. The very hedges of the highroad were invisible; but Ben assured me that “the pony could see in the dark;” that there was no danger; and that we should be back in a quarter of an hour—his usual time for performing the journey. Well, it rained drivingly, so that I held an umbrella over the side next the outside of the gig—the side that was not Ben’s; and when we had reached a hill half-way between Reading and the Cross—“just on the pitch of the hill,” to use Ben’s phrase—two men rushed from the path by the roadside, on my side, the left, and one caught hold of the pony’s rein, and the other clutched at my umbrella—failing to catch it, but driving it against me in the effort. Not a word was spoken; but we felt the jar both of the rein and of the umbrella, Ben of one and I of the other, and heard the sharp heavy sound of a bludgeon striking against the shaft, which, luckily, as we imagine, also hit the pony. He darted on like the wind; threw off the man, who had caught the rein, and who, stricken either by the shaft or the step, was knocked under the wheel. The sudden shock disengaging us also from the man who was still trying to grasp the umbrella—and who had actually seized hold of the back of the chaise—we were in an instant flying along the road at full gallop, and free. The plunging of the chaise, as we passed over the footpad was tremendous; and it is wonderful that I was not thrown out by the jolt. The sensation of being, as we literally were, run away with for nearly two miles in a darkness which might almost be felt, was anything but pleasant. Ben had no earthly power over the pony; but by the mercy of Providence, we did not meet any carriage of any sort, and the dear, dear pony slackened his pace as soon as he saw the lights of our little street, and drove quietly up to our own door.
Was not this a sad trial to nerves already so shaken? I am most thankful for my escape; but it was a great trial, and will go far to hinder me from ever walking at night. I am writing on Tuesday, [2] and have not had a letter to-day. Good-bye.
Ever faithfully your own,
M.R.M.
Text: L’Estrange (2), III, 162–164.
1. Identified in letter 1083 as a Mr. Harrison.
2. As 1 December was a Thursday, we suspect that L’Estrange misread Miss Mitford’s handwriting.
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