The Lost Dahlia E-Book

Mary Russell Mitford

• Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

In 'The Lost Dahlia', Mary Russell Mitford invites readers into a richly woven tapestry of rural English life, steeped in both the ordinary and the extraordinary. Through her evocative prose, Mitford captures the essence of nature and the human experience, exploring themes of loss, longing, and the fleeting beauty of existence. Set against the backdrop of the English countryside, the narrative is imbued with her characteristic lyrical style, intermingling delicate observations with vibrant character portrayals, creating a deeply immersive literary experience that reflects the Romantic era's appreciation for the natural world and its emotional resonance. Mary Russell Mitford, an influential figure in the 19th century, emerged as a prominent writer through her deep-rooted connection to nature and rural life, experiences reflected in her work. Born in Alresford, Hampshire, her upbringing in the countryside invariably influenced her perspective and writing style. Mitford's dedication to depicting the nuances of everyday life and her passion for nature's beauty make her an essential voice of her time, whose works continue to resonate with contemporary readers. This enchanting book is a must-read for anyone intrigued by the interplay of nature and human emotion. Mitford'Äôs exquisite observations and evocative storytelling not only illuminate the beauty of rural England but also invite readers to reflect on their own relationships with the world around them.

Leseprobe

Mary Russell Mitford

The Lost Dahlia

Published by Good Press, 2020

[email protected]

EAN 4064066106133

Table of Contents

Cover

Titlepage

Text

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If to have "had losses" be, as affirmed by Dogberry in one of Shakspeare's most charming plays, and corroborated by Sir Walter Scott in one of his most charming romances—(those two names do well in juxtaposition, the great Englishman! the great Scotsman!)—If to have "had losses" be a main proof of credit and respectability, then am I one of the most responsible persons in the whole county of Berks. To say nothing of the graver matters which figure in a banker's book, and make, in these days of pounds, shillings, and pence, so large a part of the domestic tragedy of life—putting wholly aside all the grander transitions of property in house and land, of money on mortgage, and money in the funds—(and yet I might put in my claim to no trifling amount of ill luck in that way also, if I had a mind to try my hand at a dismal story)—counting for nought all weightier grievances, there is not a lady within twenty miles who can produce so large a list of small losses as my unfortunate self.

From the day when, a tiny damsel of some four years old, I first had a pocket-handkerchief to lose, down to this very night—I will not say how many years after—when, as I have just discovered, I have most certainly lost from my pocket the new cambric kerchief which I deposited therein a little before dinner, scarcely a week has passed without some part of my goods and chattels being returned missing. Gloves, muffs, parasols, reticules, have each of them a provoking knack of falling from my hands; boas glide from my neck, rings slip from my fingers, the bow has vanished from my cap, the veil from my bonnet, the sandal from my foot, the brooch from my collar, and the collar from my brooch. The trinket which I liked best, a jewelled pin, the first gift of a dear friend, (luckily the friendship is not necessarily appended to the token,) dropped from my shawl in the midst of the high road; and of shawls themselves, there is no end to the loss. The two prettiest that ever I had in my life, one a splendid specimen of Glasgow manufacture—a scarlet hardly to be distinguished from Cashmere—the other a lighter and cheaper fabric, white in the centre, with a delicate sprig, and a border harmoniously compounded of the deepest blue, the brightest orange, and the richest brown, disappeared in two successive summers and winters, in the very bloom of their novelty, from the folds of the phaeton, in which they had been deposited for safety—fairly blown overboard! If I left things about, they were lost. If I put them away, they were lost. They were lost in the drawers—they were lost out. And if for a miracle I had them safe under lock and key, why, then, I lost my keys! I was certainly the most unlucky person under the sun. If there was nothing else to lose, I was fain to lose myself—I mean my way; bewildered in these Aberleigh lanes of ours, or in the woodland recesses of the Penge, as if haunted by that fairy, Robin Good-fellow, who led Hermia and Helena such a dance in the Midsummer Night's Dream. Alas! that there should be no Fairies now-a-days, or rather no true believers in Fairies, to help us to bear the burthen of our own mortal carelessness.