SD1569. Mary Russell Mitford to Hugh Pearson
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 18, 363–364 (in part).
[Swallowfield]
April 21st, 1852.
I said I would find the missing letter, and I did—rather sooner than I expected, and of course when hunting for something else. They all laugh at my enthusiasm, and they are welcome to do so. What else could keep glowing in me, poor old cripple that I am, left alone in the world after a life of wear and tear, all that forms the solace and the delight of my existence—the love of nature and the love of poetry, the power of cultivating new friendships as well as old ones, and of enjoying to my heart’s core such an hour as I spent yesterday? The amusing part of this is, that she, who pretends to be so calm and cool an observer is just as enthusiastic as I who make no such vain pretence—only that dear friend of mine is more carried away by authorship, by mere pen and ink—and yet this last account of Madame Sand is a disenchantment if ever there were one. I made sure of your being charmed by Mrs. Browning’s letters. I have a great basket full of such, for before Mr. Browning stole her from me we used to write to each other at least twice a week, and by dint of intimacy and frequency of communication could, I think, have found enough matter for a correspondence of twice a day. It was really talk, fireside talk, neither better nor worse, assuming necessarily a form of permanence—gossip daguerreotyped. …
Text: Chorley, II, 200–201.
___________________
