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Updated: June 23, 2025
I trust you are quite recovered. Always affectionately yours, M.R.M. Swallowfield, August 21, 1854. My Dear Mr. Fields: Mr. Bayard Taylor having sent me a most interesting letter, but no address, I trouble you with my reply. Read it, and you will perhaps understand that I am declining day by day, and that, humanly speaking, the end is very near.
Bennoch has made me a superb present, two portraits of our Emperor and his fair wife. He all intellect, never was a brow so full of thought; she all sweetness, such a mouth was never seen, it seems waiting to smile. The beauty is rather of expression than of feature, which is exactly what it ought to be.... Swallowfield, May 2, 1854.
Browning believes it all; so does Bulwer, who is surrounded by mediums who summon his dead daughter. It is too frightful to talk about. Mr. May and Mr. Pearson both asked me to send it away, for fear of its seizing upon my nerves. I get weaker and weaker, and am become a mere skeleton. Ah, dear friend, come when you may, you will find only a grave at Swallowfield.
But the mansion most dear to her in that neighborhood was the residence of her kind friends the Russells of Swallowfield Park. It is indeed a beautiful old place, full of historical and literary associations, for there Lord Clarendon wrote his story of the Great Rebellion.
Sparks. I am sure of liking Dr. Parsons's book, quite sure. Once again, God bless you! Little Henry grows a nice boy. Ever most affectionately yours, M.R.M. Swallowfield, July 12, 1854. Dearest Mr. Fields: Our excellent friend Mr. Bennoch will have told you from how painful a state of anxiety your most welcome letter relieved us.
Now you will be sorry to have a very bad account of me. Three weeks ago frost and snow set in here, and ever since I have been unable to rise or stand, or put one foot before another, and the pain is much worse than at first. I suppose rheumatism has supervened upon the injured nerve. God bless you. Love to all. Ever faithfully yours, M.R.M. Swallowfield, March 17, 1853
Say everything for me to all friends, not forgetting Mr. Ticknor. Ever yours, M.R.M. Swallowfield, November 8, 1853. My Very Dear Friend; Your letters are always delightful to me, even when they are dated Boston; think what they will be when they are dated London. To-day I enclose the first rough draft of an account of my first impression of Haydon.
Sweetness of temper and brightness of mind, her never-failing characteristics, accompanied her to the last; and she passed on in her usual cheerful and affectionate mood, her sympathies uncontracted by age, narrow fortune, and pain. A plain substantial cross marks the spot in the old churchyard at Swallowfield, where, according to her own wish, Mary Mitford lies sleeping.
But if we cannot walk round Swallowfield, we can drive, and the very sight of you will do me good. If Mr. Bentley send me only one copy of that engraving, it shall be for you. You know I have a copy for you of the book. There are no words to tell the letters and books I receive about it, so I suppose it is popular.
'I walked from one cottage to the other on an autumn evening when the vagrant birds, whose habit of assembling there for their annual departure, gives, I suppose, its name of Swallowfield to the village, were circling over my head, and I repeated to myself the pathetic lines of Hayley as he saw those same birds gathering upon his roof during his last illness:
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