I shall do my very best.
Shall I, do you think, succeed? I take for granted that our loss is
your gain, and that you see Mr. Milman and his charming wife, who
will, I am sure, sympathise most sincerely in your present[1]
affliction.
[Footnote 1: Mr. Milman had resigned recently the incumbency of a
parish in Reading. My mother's affliction alluded to was the death of
her youngest daughter, Emily.]
"Adieu, my dear friend. I am tying myself up from letter-writing until
I have finished my novel. While I cannot but hope for one line from
you to say that you are recovering. Letters to me may always be
inclosed to Mr. Sergeant Talfourd, M.P., 2, Elm Court, Temple. Even if
he be on circuit, they will reach me after a short delay. God bless
you all. My father joins heartily in this prayer, with
"Your faithful and affectionate,
"M.R. MITFORD."
* * * * *
The next, and last which I have found, is entirely undated, but
post-marked 20th April, 1837.
* * * * *
"MY DEAR FRIEND,--I don't know when a trifle has pleased me so much as
the coincidence which set us a-writing to each other just at the same
time. I have all the north-country superstition flowing through my
veins, and do really believe in the exploded doctrine of sympathies.
That is to say, I believe in all _genial_ superstitions, and don't
like this steam-packet railway world of ours, which puts aside with so
much scorn that which for certain Shakespeare and Ben Jonson held for
true.
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