1089. Mary Russell Mitford to EBB
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 6, 223–224.
Three Mile Cross,
Dec. 13, 1842. [1]
My beloved Friend,
I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your dear, precious letter. You would be astonished at my composure—I am. I have scarcely shed a tear since Saturday. And I woo cheerful thoughts, and take all care of myself, as he would have wished. If ever spirit were in heaven, there, through the mercy of God, and the atonement of the Saviour, is he—whose faith and trust were in that mercy and that atonement—whose last moments were peace—whose every thought was of kindness to man and trust in heavenly mercy through the mediation of the Redeemer. And so, feeling, and knowing that to have kept him here, even if that had been possible, would have been to detain him amongst care and sorrow, in feebleness, helplessness, and suffering—it would indeed be a wicked selfishness, not to strive, with all my strength, for resignation and for cheerfulness.
It would be a base ingratitude to you, too, my beloved friend, and to the many, many kind and affectionate people who are around me. I cannot tell you how good and kind everybody is. It seems as if they were inspired with your spirit. Those whom he best loved will follow him. I have just strewn flowers over him (the lovely chrysanthemums that he loved so well, that he helped me to strew over my dear mother), and he looks with a heavenly composure, and almost with his own beautiful colour, the exquisite vermilion for which he was so famous, on his sweet, serene countenance. I could not touch him. Mr. May desired me not. He said there was danger in renewing the chill, which has now passed away. I mean the shiverings. So that I am greatly better, my beloved friend, and when I get into the air again shall do well. Still, I am alone; that is the thought that clings to me, though when I think of you, sister of my heart, it presses less heavily.
I read Tennyson. “Locksley Hall” is very fine; but should it not have finished at
“I myself must mix with action,
Lest I wither by despair”? [2]
It seems to me that all after that weakens the impression of the story, which has its appropriate finish with that line. What do we not owe to such a poet? One, who can be thought of at such a time!
I must limit my correspondence. I have written above a hundred letters; and now feel that some, who had real claims, have been forgotten. Heaven bless you, my beloved friend!
Ever faithfully yours,
M.R.M.
Text: L’Estrange (2), III, 168–169 (as 15 December 1842).
1. It is apparent that L’Estrange misread the date, as EBB responds to Miss Mitford’s comment on “Locksley Hall” in the following letter.
2. This suggestion would have halved the poem, finishing it at line 98 instead of its published length of 194 lines.
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