Mary Mitford.
(copy of a sketch made from memory
in 1853. E. H.)
Mary Russell Mitford.
(From a pencil sketch lent by W. H. Hudson, Esq.)
Frequent letters from Mrs. Browning, in Rome, came to cheer her, urging that, if the invalid could not write herself, perhaps K——, could send a line of news now and again. William Harness came for a day and, finding his old playmate and friend so distressed, stayed three weeks. He could see, all too plainly, that the frail body would not last long, and he also found that she was troubled in spirit, troubled at her lack of faith and by wandering thoughts which obtruded in her prayers. Every day, and frequently during the day, either Lady Russell or one of her daughters came and sat with the invalid, being sometimes accompanied by a mutual friend, the Rev. Hugh Pearson, Rector of Sonning—a parish nearly ten miles distant—who drove over as often as he could be spared from his parochial duties. To him, as to William Harness, Miss Mitford talked long and earnestly on spiritual matters, while he tried to remove her doubts and bring comfort to her anxious soul. As a means to this end he arranged to administer the Sacrament to her, but was frequently put off because, as she said, the thought of it agitated her so much. “Be sure, dearest friend,” she wrote, “that I do not fail in meditation, such as I can give, and prayer. It is my own unworthiness and want of an entire faith that troubles me. But I am a good deal revived by sitting at the open window, in this sweet summer air, looking at the green trees and the blue sky, and thinking of His goodness who made this lovely world.”
To William Harness she wrote, in August, telling him that she had, at last, received the Sacrament at Mr. Pearson’s hands, together with Sam and her friend, Mrs. C. Stephens. “I wish you had been here also,” she pathetically added. Later, in September, she wrote—“I wish you were sitting close to me at this moment, that we might talk over your plans ... Swallowfield churchyard, the plain tablet, and the walking funeral have only one objection—that my father and mother lie in Shinfield Church, and that there is room left above them for me. But I greatly dislike where the vault is—just where all the schoolboys kick their heels. After all, I leave that to you—I mean the whole affair of the funeral. It is very doubtful if I shall live till October. At present I am better ... and now put my feet upon your chair. You will not like it the less for having contributed to my comfort. I am still as cheerful as ever, which surprises people much.” So she lingered, writing whenever possible to distant friends, keenly anxious to hear the latest literary news and delighting in the knowledge that a novel ( Philip Lancaster) had just been dedicated to her.
Swallowfield Churchyard, wherein Miss Mitford lies buried.
To Mr. Kingsley she wrote:—“The kindness of your letter, dearest Mr. Kingsley, and those sweet words of sweet Mrs. Kingsley did me literally good. My heart warmed to her from the first, as the only realization I have ever seen of my vision of a Poet’s Wife. May God in His mercy restore her health and spare you long to each other and to the world. There are few such couples.”
In the autumn she received the following charming lines from Walter Savage Landor, whom she first met, many years before, at Talfourd’s dinner-table:—
“The hay is carried; and the Hours
Snatch, as they pass, the linden flowers;
And children leap to pluck a spray