SD1165. Mary Russell Mitford to Lucy Olivia Anderdon
Published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 5, 380–381 (in part).
[Three Mile Cross]
[12 January 1842]
No, my sweet love, that charming drawing from Carlo Dolce is not, nor ever can have been, at all like our exquisite friend. Its beauty, great as it is, is the result of harmony; hers proceeded from contrasts—a slight girlish figure, very delicate, with exquisite hands and feet, a round face, with a most noble forehead, a large mouth, beautifully formed, and full of expression, lips like parted coral, teeth large, regular, and glittering with healthy whiteness, large dark eyes, with such eyelashes, resting on the cheek when cast down; when turned upward, touching the flexible and expressive eyebrow; a dark complexion, with cheeks literally as bright as the dark China rose, a profusion of silky, dark curls, and a look of youth and of modesty hardly to be expressed. This, added to the very simple but graceful and costly dress by which all the family are distinguished, is an exact portrait of her some years ago. Now she has totally lost the rich, bright colouring, which certainly made the greater part of her beauty. She is dark and pallid; the hair is almost entirely hidden; the look of youth gone (I think she now looks as much beyond her actual age as, formerly, she looked behind it); nothing remaining but the noble forehead, the matchless eyes, and the fine form of the mouth and teeth—even now their whiteness is healthy. Your dear mama, so well versed in the appearances of sickness, will understand what I mean, and read in it a symptom favourable to our beloved friend’s restoration. The expression, too, is completely changed; the sweetness remains, but it is accompanied with more shrewdness, more gaiety, the look not merely of the woman of genius—that she always had—but of the superlatively clever woman. An odd effect of absence from general society, that the talent for conversation should have ripened, and the shyness have disappeared—but so it is. When I first saw her, her talk, delightful as it was, had something too much of the lamp—she spoke too well—and her letters were rather too much like the very best books. Now all that is gone; the fine thoughts come gushing and sparkling like water from a spring, but flow as naturally as water down a hillside, clear, bright, and sparkling in the sunshine. All this, besides its great delightfulness, looks like life, does it not? Even in this weather—very trying to her—she has been translating some hymns of Gregory Nazianzen, which I send you together with “The House of Clouds” (you can return them when quite done with), and is talking of a series of articles for the “Athenæum,” comprising critiques on the Greek poets of the early Christian centuries, with poetical translations. I had rather she wrote more “Cloud Houses,” and have told her so;—and, above all, I had rather see a great narrative poem, of an interest purely human (for one can’t trust her with the mystical), doing justice to that great man, Napoleon, to whom no justice has yet been done in any English work, from Lord Byron’s “Ode,” to Scott’s “History.” Besides these bits of our beloved friend, I have sent for you, to Farley Hill, the “Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.” I delight in those old ballads, and so, I think, will you. When you write to the fair Emma, ask her, with the “Minstrelsy,” to send you the books she was so good as to lend me, “Palmyra,” and “Rome in the Third Century.” Your dear mama will like them as well as yourself. There is a classical grace, a calm wisdom, a truly Christian spirit running through both. If one did not think of Dr. Channing and Daniel Webster, one could not believe that the writer was American; but I suppose he has been much in Europe; and the men who have kept company with John Kenyon and “others his fellows” are, of course, very different from the pests who come forcing themselves into one’s houses, and then send back minute descriptions and stories, false and true, of oneself and one’s concerns.
How I wish, dearest, that you were still at Farley Hill—still within reach—this, or rather that I was still within reach of you both, that we might have a good chat over Stilling’s strange, amusing book, full of German good faith and of good feeling, with all its simplicity—ay, and of shrewdness too. Dear Miss Barrett knows you, and your dear mama, through me, as well as you know her, and mentioned you only yesterday, with high regard, as my “sweet young friend.” Did I ever tell you that I have another young friend, Henrietta H[arrison], whom I should so like to make known to you? By a strange coincidence, she resembles you strongly in person, acquirement, and character—writes well even now—will write very well—is tall, fair, and stately, decidedly handsome, from grace and expression, cares for nothing but literature and art and her happy home, where, with a father and mother who doat upon her, a younger sister in very delicate health, and a splendid library of the best books, old and new, chiefly old, she leads a life singularly useful, virtuous, and contented. There is about her great vigour and power. She has, from a child, lived amongst clever men, read the very best books, kept very good company; and from her fair, expansive brow, and her firm and manly handwriting, to her skill in modelling, and her large and liberal mind, I know no one, except Miss Barrett and Mrs.——, whom I am so sure of your liking.– They are Whigs—that you would not mind—but all that a clergyman’s family ought to be in conduct and character—the mother benevolent and kind, the father a strikingly cultivated man, the sister gentle and interesting, and my Henrietta a very noble and very charming creature. Surely, some day I shall be able to make you known to each other; but Miss Barrett first. If my dear father be well enough, I must come to town for a day or two in May or June; and then, if it please God to continue her present amended health, I will take you to her bedside. I would go to town on purpose, so sure am I that the acquaintance—the friendship, for such it will prove—will conduce to the happiness of both, living as you do so comfortably within reach of each other, caring for the same things, and with parents who would, on either side, be so ready to promote the intercourse. You will meet exactly on the table-land of that best class in the whole world, I do verily believe—the affluent and cultivated gentry of England; and they seem as domestic, as free from mere fashionable dissipation, as yourselves. In reading “Tom Cringle’s Log” to my father, the other day, I find that Mr. Scott, the author, speaks of the Speaker of the House of Assembly in Jamaica as the handsomest and most agreeable man in the island. Now, he must have been Miss Barrett’s uncle, who held that station for very many years before his death, which occurred two or three years ago, without children, so that his property came to our friends; and I can well believe that such a description would apply to Mr. Barrett’s brother. Most unexpectedly, this dear friend has done my health much good. She (with a kindness like your own, my dear and kind friends) sends frequently to my father whatever she thinks likely to suit him, and forwarded, since I saw you, some of the rare West India chocolate, entirely free from oil, which cannot be bought in England. He dislikes the flavour, and did not taste it; but I, having heard that Dr. Jephson recommended it to the most difficult amongst his dyspeptic patients, tried a small quantity, and have found astonishing relief from the use of it with a dry crust of brown bread. This was a real blessing; for, in consequence, I believe, of anxiety and watching (my poor father’s cramp requiring me to be with him often all night), I had been falling back exceedingly. This may not last, but even the remission is a blessing for which I cannot be sufficiently thankful. A charm seems to hover over such kindnesses as hers and yours, my sweetest. My father often says so when enjoying his excellent tea, and looking at the prettiest cap that I ever possessed. He makes me take it out of its drawer to show it to him.; for I shall not wear it till Agnes’s birthday, the 24th, when I must pass an hour or two with dear Mrs. N——. She will be fifteen. Never worry, sweetest, about the “Autobiography.” It will turn up. I am lucky in small things.
Text: Chorley, I, 180–185.
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