with the greatest interest is the Life of Dr. Channing,
and I can hardly tell you the glow of gratification
with which I found my own name mentioned, as one
of the writers in whose works that great man had
taken pleasure. The approbation of Dr. Channing
is something worth toiling for. I know no
individual suffrage that could have given me more
delight. Besides this selfish pleasure and the
intense interest with which I followed that admirable
thinker through the whole course of his pure and
blameless life, I have derived another and a different
satisfaction from that work,—I mean from
its reception in England. I know nothing that
shows a greater improvement in liberality in the
least liberal part of the English public, a greater
sweeping away of prejudice whether national or sectarian,
than the manner in which even the High Church and Tory
party have spoken of Dr. Channing. They really
seem to cast aside their usual intolerance in
his case, and to look upon a Unitarian with feelings
of Christian fellowship. God grant that this spirit
may continue! Is American literature rich
in native biography? Just have the goodness
to mention to me any lives of Americans, whether illustrious
or not, that are graphic, minute, and outspoken.
I delight in French memoirs and English lives,
especially such as are either autobiography or
made out by diaries and letters; and America,
a young country with manners as picturesque and unhackneyed
as the scenery, ought to be full of such works.
We have had two volumes lately that will interest
your countrymen: Mr. Milnes’s Life of
John Keats, that wonderful youth whose early death
was, I think, the greatest loss that English poetry
ever experienced. Some of the letters are
very striking as developments on character, and the
richness of diction in the poetical fragments is
exquisite. Mrs. Browning is still at Florence
with her husband. She sees more Americans
than English.
Books here are sadly depreciated.
Mr. Dyce’s admirable edition of
Beaumont and Fletcher, brought
out two years ago at L6 12_s._ is now
offered at L2 17_s._
Adieu, dear Mr. Fields; forgive
my seeming neglect, and believe me
always most faithfully yours,
M.R. MITFORD.
(No date, 1849.)
Dear Mr. Fields: I cannot tell you how vexed I am at this mistake about letters, which must have made you think me careless of your correspondence and ungrateful for your kindness. The same thing has happened to me before, I may say often, with American letters,—with Professor Norton, Mrs. Sigourney, the Sedgwicks,—in short I always feel an insecurity in writing to America which I never experience in corresponding with friends on the Continent; France, Germany, Italy, even Poland and Russia, are comparatively certain. Whether it be the agents in London who lose letters, or some fault in the post-office, I cannot tell, but I have twenty times experienced the vexation,