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I very much fear that my friend Mary Russell Mitford, sweetest of England's rural painters, who has a poet's eye for the fine points in gypsy character, would scarcely allow their claims to fraternity with her own vagrant friends, whose camp- fires welcomed her to her new home at Swallowfield.
It is existing a book rather than reading it when this happens to one. The house in Swallowfield Park is an old English country home, a fastness still piled up against time; whose stately walls and halls within, and beautiful century-old trees in the park without, record great times and striking figures. The manor was a part of the dowry of Henry the VIII.'s luckless queens.
But as soon as she was gone, Master Thomas said to me and Julian the Rocker, who were tending our little Lady `She will have a better change than to Swallowfield. Quoth Julian, `Say you so, Master? Whither do you purpose sending her? And he said, looking sadly on the child, `I purpose sending her? Truly, good Julian, no whither.
The meet was over in the Berkshire county in the neighbourhood of Swallowfield, about twelve miles distant, and the Squire was in his seat precisely at half-past nine. Four horses had gone on in the charge of two grooms, for the Squire had insisted on Ralph riding with a second horse. "If you don't, I won't," he had said; and Ralph of course had yielded.
De Quincey's kind feeling, I wrote to him, and yesterday I had a charming letter from his daughter, saying how much her father was gratified by mine, that he had already written an answer, amounting to a good-sized pamphlet, but that when it would be finished was doubtful, so she sent hers as a precursor. Swallowfield, November 11, 1852.
So, as soon as the sun tells the same story with the primroses, I shall make a descent after some fashion, and, no doubt, aided by Sam's stalwart arm, successfully." After leaving Three-Mile Cross for Swallowfield, her health, never of late years robust, seemed failing. In one of her letters to me she gives this pleasant picture of her home:
'Our Duke went to no great expense, says Miss Mitford. The ringers, after being hard at work for four hours, sent a can to the house to ask for some beer, and the can was sent back empty. It was towards the end of her life that Miss Mitford left Three Mile Cross and came to Swallowfield to stay altogether.
O, how proud and glad I should be, if ever I could receive Mr. and Mrs. Fields within its walls for more than a poor hour! I shall have tired you with this long letter, but you have made me reckon you among my friends, ay, one of the best and kindest, and must take the consequence. Ever yours, M.R.M. Swallowfield, Saturday Night.
I very much fear that my friend Mary Russell Mitford, sweetest of England's rural painters, who has a poet's eye for the fine points in gypsy character, would scarcely allow their claims to fraternity with her own vagrant friends, whose camp- fires welcomed her to her new home at Swallowfield.
Of course the leaves refuse to unfold, the nightingales can hardly be said to sing, even the hateful cuckoo holds his peace. I am hoping to see dear Mr. Bennoch soon to supply some glow and warmth. Swallowfield, June 4, 1853. I write at once, dearest friend, to acknowledge your most kind and welcome letter.
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