SD1172. Mary Russell Mitford to Lucy Olivia Anderdon
Published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 5, 383 (in part).
[Three Mile Cross]
[12–19 March 1842]
This very day, my dear young friend, have I despatched my little token of flower seeds and your “Memoirs of Collier” to Farley Hill, taking advantage of your kind permission to keep “Hayley” longer. I had hoped to have taken, not sent, my packet to the fair Emma; but my poor pony—I fear that I shall lose him! Except to-day, when a friend took me to see dear Lady Madalina Palmer—a most dear and most kind friend, whom I have not seen since last summer—I have not been further than my feet can carry me for weeks. We are, however, in rather better plight than when I wrote last, though, from being fairly overdone with anxiety and fatigue (for you can fancy nothing more trying to witness than those frightful fits), my old enemy nausea returned in full force; but that is gone again, and the fits, I trust, are gone; and my dear father is better in health, although the feebleness of limb remains, and the sad failing of eyesight. He cannot now even read the large leading article of a newspaper; and although I do all I can to supply the deficiency, still it must be a great privation. I have written to ask dear Miss Barrett the exact title of the volume of Chaucer, edited by Mr. Horne. I have no doubt that the modernized Chaucer, with the editor’s verse, would be sufficient; still, as my beloved friend has the book, she will, I am sure, send me the exact words of the title-page. Lewis’s “Memoirs” were very badly done; but the letters, or rather the character of the man, as developed by his letters, struck me as so strongly contrasted with my previous notion of his qualities, that I was much pleased with it. But I have a love for biography—for that unconscious autobiography in which the character is developed by words and actions. I ever love long Books—all by which this diversified humanity is shown in its strange varieties, its curious mixture of good and evil. Therefore my strong preference of the “Mémoires pour Servir” over the “Histoire” concocted from them; and, therefore, anticipating all the conceit of Anna Seward’s letters, all their mannerism and false criticism, I am curious to read them, as unintended confessions. However, at present, I am little likely to have the time, my dear father’s want of sight, and his natural desire to follow the debates, and keep up with the news of the day, consuming nearly all my hours. Mr. Haydon has been delivering a lecture on Fresco. It is to be printed, and, when printed, sent to me. I have been almost looking at a revival of a lost art to-day. Lady Madalina’s worsted-work being far more like the most exquisite painting—chiefly flowers and birds—than the trumpery which usually passes under such a denomination. She can lay a flower upon the table, and copy it with the needle, as you would with the pencil; and the brilliancy and transparency of the tints is something to wonder at. I wished for you whilst looking at the chairs, and ottomans, and carpets. You, who love art in every branch, would have been delighted, I think, with this. It is such a luxury of colour, combined with so much grace and truth. Dear Mrs. O—— will, perhaps, have seen the death of our chief, Bertram Mitford, of Mitford. It was very sudden. He had been ill the day before; the next morning the physician visited him in bed, and felt his pulse. “Here,” said the patient, “is the pain.” “An excellent pulse,” cried the physician, almost simultaneously—and at the very moment he fell back dead. [1] I am writing on Saturday, the 12th; but shall not close my letter until the title arrives.
I have just heard from Miss Barrett, who tells me that she shall send me the “Chaucer” for your use, which you may keep as long as you like, and that I shall transmit it to Miss Emma, at Farley Hill, as soon as it arrives (which will probably be to-morrow), and beg her to convey it to you when she goes to town. You can return with it the curious Ghost book, if indeed, you have not, as is very probable, done so before.— You will be charmed with her version of a description of different marbles, in one of her late “Athenæum” articles.
In the short time that I can spare from my dear father, I am reading the book which I owe to your kindness, and which shall be safely returned to you—Hayley’s “Memoirs”—and have been much interested by finding him making mention of becoming acquainted with the two sons of Lord Chatham (one of them the celebrated William Pitt) while residing at the house in Lyme, which we inhabited subsequently.
Some time has passed since the beginning of this letter; and this scrap will date itself by my saying that, in passing by some woodmen to-day, and stopping to look at the fine tree they had felled, the old man who was chopping off the boughs paused to enquire “if anything had been heard of the earthquake in London? He did not altogether believe it; but he had a daughter in service there, and should not be sorry when the day was over.” Now that man did believe the prophecy.
Text: Chorley, I, 199–202.
1. “Mrs. N——,” adds a postscript, “says that he died while feeling his own pulse.”
___________________
