1378. EBB to Mary Russell Mitford
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 7, 324–325.
[London]
Sept. 14– 1843.
I know you will pity me my beloved friend, & although my eyes are swelled from my head with crying, I am impelled to write to you. I have lost my darling Flushie—he is stolen—& we have no clew.
He went out with Crow yesterday at eleven in the morning—was told that he might go out, & leapt & danced at the words,—only, in his usual affectionateness, insisting (as he always did) on staying with me until her hat was on,—& to the last moment, in fact,—lying with his dear head against my shoulder. Then joyfully he went away. In Mortimer Street,—a crowded street,—Crow heard a little cry behind her,––Flushie’s cry when he is touched by a stranger! Looking back, the dog was gone.
Poor Crow cried bitterly yesterday,—almost as much as I did—and I am unwell with crying,—or rather with the dread of what he may be suffering, thus cast on the world,—with the certainty of how he must be breaking his heart!
Handbills are printed—a reward is offered—& my brothers are scattered about London, hunting the dog-stealers. I have also prepared advertisements for the Times & Morning Chronicle tomorrow morning. [1]
They say to me that when he is recovered (everybody says he will be recovered) I shall call myself weak & silly, & blame all these tears as so many sins. Perhaps not. I love my Flushie very very much—and not to grieve now, wd be not to love him at all.
He is not like any other dog—not even quite like your dog. His association with our Human nature has been peculiar, & rendered him unnaturally shy & sensitive. When prevented from sleeping on my bed, he has been known to moan all night—he wd never eat in the presence of strangers. And then his love for me—! He is breaking his heart I am certain.
I will keep this letter open to the last,—lest there shd be news. I am not afraid of your thinking me silly—for you are not ashamed to give back again in love, the love of these faithful creatures. And then for your own Flush’s sake you care for mine! At any rate,—if I am silly, I am silly—I cannot help myself– A little dog’s cry is continually in my ears.
The reward offered is only two sovereigns, by advice—as we are told that by offering anything much above the ordinary sum in such cases, the difficulty will be increased from the thieves speculating on the value of the dog to the advertiser. Catiline was lost once, & recovered by the offer of one sovereign. For my own part, twenty or thirty guineas or anything above, within my means, should go, dust to dust, [2] to get my Flushie back again. Ah—you are sorry, I am sure—both for him & me!– My dearest little Flushie!– He had quite recovered Catiline’s onslaught—and now to be betrayed thus!—— He loved me too well! [3] There is no news of him so far—and I have no heart to write of any news besides.
Your affectionate—ever–
EBB.
Publication: EBB-MRM, II, 303–304.
Manuscript: Fitzwilliam Museum.
1. The papers of 15 September contained no such notices.
2. Cf. the rite for the burial of the dead in The Book of Common Prayer.
3. Cf. Othello, V, 2, 344.
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