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Updated: June 23, 2025
The little Swallowfield cottage at the meeting of the three roads, to which Mary Mitford came when she left Three Mile Cross, has thrown out a room or two, as cottages do, but otherwise I think it can be little changed. The farmer and his son were at work with their scythes; the birds were still flying, the sweet scents were in the air.
So she was put in charge of Emma La Despenser, Lady de Saint John, at her manor of Swallowfield, in Berkshire. Of course I went with her, and her cousin Alianora also, who was her favourite playfellow, for it was not thought well she should be entirely with older people, though I cannot say I was sorry to get rid of all those rough boys.
Once when she read a lyrical poem, not her own, to a group of friends assembled at her later residence, in Swallowfield, of which number it was my good-fortune to be one, the verses came from her lips like an exquisite chant.
This is a fact, and a curious one. I have lent three volumes of your "De Quincey" to my young friend, James Payn, a poet of very high promise, who has verified the Green story, and taken the books with him to the Lakes. God grant, my dear friend, that you may not lose by "Our Village"; that is what I care for. Ever faithfully yours, M.R.M. Swallowfield, June 23, 1853.
God bless you, my dear and excellent friend! I seem to have a thousand things to say to you, but the post is going, and a whole sheet of paper would not hold my thanks. Ever yours, M.R.M. Swallowfield, November 25, 1852. My Dear Friend: Your most kind and welcome letter arrived to-day, two days after the papers, for which I thank you much.
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