MISS EDEN’S LETTERS

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MISS EDEN’S LETTERS

EDITED BY
HER GREAT-NIECE
VIOLET DICKINSON
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON
1919
COPYRIGHT

PREFACE

IT is difficult to express one’s gratitude. Mine I owe to my brother, R. E. Dickinson, to Mrs. Ernest Farquhar (granddaughter of Lady Theresa Lewis), to Sir Guy Campbell, Mrs. W. Rendel, and Sir Arthur Stanley, for the loan of letters in this book. I also thank Mr. Claud Paget and Mr. W. Barclay Squire for the help they have given me.

Doubtless, through want of experience, I have been guilty of leaving out much that might have been left in, and leaving in much that might not be of interest.

The pleasure of knowing Lady Campbell through her letters has been doubled by the kindness I have met with from her daughters, Mrs. Ellis and Mrs. Percy Wyndham.

Lord Cromer before his death in 1917 had been interested in reading these letters. It is due solely to his encouragement that they are now published, though lacking the Introduction he was good enough to offer to write.

A friend of mine read some of the proofs. I found on three occasions they induced sound sleep within a few minutes, which leads me to hope perhaps other readers may find them equally soothing.

V. D.

July 1919.

INTRODUCTION

IN the autumn of 1913 a Life of Lord Clarendon[1] was published, and among many of his letters were a few written to him by an old friend, Miss Eden. It was thought that a further selection of Emily Eden’s letters might be of interest.

She was a keen politician of the Whig order, clever, amusing, critical, an excellent friend and a devoted sister. Her father, William Eden,[2] was the third son of Sir Robert Eden, Bart., of West Auckland, Durham, and he married in 1776 Eleanor Elliot, a sister of the 1st Earl of Minto.[3] Two years later, Eden went as a Commissioner to America. He was Chief Secretary in Ireland under Lord Carlisle; Minister-Plenipotentiary in 1785 to the Court of Versailles; in 1788 Ambassador to Spain, and in the following year Ambassador to Holland; he was given a peerage in 1789 (Baron Auckland). Mrs. Eden, from her own account, was evidently a first-rate traveller; she took great interest in her husband’s work, and she had a child, often amidst much discomfort, in every country to which they were sent.

Emily was born in 1797. Her parents were settled at Eden Farm, Beckenham, Kent, and her father now devoted his time to politics. Her mother took great trouble to rear and educate her family of fourteen, leaving a detailed account in her Diary of their upbringing, diseases and marriages. Evidently her sense of humour and cheerfulness helped her through much misery.

“Out of fourteen I suckled thirteen. Eleven of the children had smallpox during their wanderings, also cow-pox, whooping-cough, measles and scarlet fever.”

In 1786, Eden, who was then in Paris, wrote to his friend Lord Sheffield: “Mrs. Eden is just returned from passing nearly a week in the Circle and Society of the whole Court of Versailles without feeling a moment’s discomposure. It is impossible to describe to you all the glorious attentions with which she is honoured by the Queen of France, not only in presents, but in what she values more, in admiration of her children. She and the little Frenchman are both well, and we have now as many nations in our Nursery as were assembled at the Tower of Babel.” Another friend also wrote:

“Every report says Mrs. Eden’s Nursery is the admiration of the Court and the Town, that they make parties to see it, that she had made domestic life quite fashionable”; and there are constant allusions to the Brattery, the Light Infantry, and the little Parisians.

By her contemporaries Lady Auckland was known later in life as Haughty Nell, and the Judicious Hooker. Her eldest girl, Eleanor, was Pitt’s only love, but for various reasons, after a long correspondence between Pitt and Lord Auckland, the affair came to an end, and Eleanor in 1799 married Lord Hobart, who became Secretary of State for War and the Colonies in 1801, and succeeded his father as Earl of Buckinghamshire in 1804.

Lord Auckland died suddenly at Eden Farm in 1814. Lady Auckland only survived him four years. Six of their daughters had married, and the remaining two, Emily and Fanny, lived with their elder brother George, and went with him to India when he became Governor-General in 1835.

From an account given of herself in a letter to one of her friends, Emily had profited by the education she received from her mother. She had read Boswell’s Life of Johnson, the Memoires du Cardinal de Retz, Shakespeare, and knew a great part of the Bible almost by heart before she was eleven.

She took a strong interest in politics, but she was never happier than when living quietly at Greenwich with her brother, sketching, reading and gardening, and in 1835 the prospect of a five months’ sea journey to India, and being obliged to leave her sisters, friends, and interests, depressed and worried her.

On her return to England in 1842 she published her Portraits of the People and Princes of India. She also wrote Up the Country; Letters from India, edited by her niece; and two novels, The Semi-Detached House and The Semi-Attached Couple.

Three large volumes of her Water-colour Sketches were sold at Christie’s in 1907 and are now in the Victoria Memorial Hall, Calcutta.

The year 1849 proved to be one of the greatest sorrow to Miss Eden. Her brother, Lord Auckland, died quite suddenly in January, and three months later she lost her sister Fanny. For the next twenty years she divided her time between Eden Lodge, Kensington Gore, and a little cottage at Broadstairs, writing her books, and seeing many of her friends. Though she had become quite an invalid, her house still remained a centre of political interest. One of her nieces, Lena Eden, lived with her.

Among her most intimate friends were Mr. George Villiers (Lord Clarendon) and his sister Theresa, who married Mr. Lister of Armitage Park in 1830. He died twelve years later, and in 1844 she married George Cornewall Lewis, M.P.[4]

Unfortunately, none of Lady Theresa’s letters to Miss Eden can be found. She had a most attractive and gifted nature; her family and friends were devoted to her. Kent House, Knightsbridge, in which she lived nearly all her life, was within a short walk of Eden Lodge.

Another great friend was Pamela, daughter of Lord and Lady Edward FitzGerald. Her father, the chief figure in the Irish Rebellion of ‘98,[5] had married her mother, the beautiful and fascinating Pamela, six years previously. He died in Newgate Prison, Dublin, leaving three children, Edward, Pamela, and Lucy.

After his death a bill of attainder was passed against his estate, and his wife had to leave Ireland. Edward was left to the care of his grandmother the Duchess of Leinster; Lucy went to Lady Sophia FitzGerald (Aunt Soph), at Thames Ditton. Pamela lived abroad with Lady Edward till 1811, when she returned to her grandmother; three years later the Duchess died; Pamela was then sent to Thames Ditton to be brought up with her sister; she married Sir Guy Campbell in 1820. Her correspondence with Emily Eden covered a period of thirty years. Her letters describe her life with all its Irish and English fun and misery, her adventures and difficulties, the bringing into the world her eleven children, and her efforts to educate them on a dwindling income.

Sir Guy Campbell and Lord Auckland both died in 1849. Pamela lived to be seventy-three, and Emily to be seventy-two; they died in 1869. Emily’s letters began in 1814, and were written to her elder sister, Eleanor Lady Buckinghamshire, who lived at Eastcombe, near Greenwich, within driving distance of Eden Farm, the Edens’ home till their mother’s death in 1818.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

CHAPTER I
1814-1819

Hon. Emily Eden (aged 17) to her Sister the Countess of Buckinghamshire (aged 37).[6]

EDEN FARM, BECKENHAM, KENT,
Monday, September 26, 1814.

WE have been very much surprised by a letter from Miss Milbanke[7] to Mary[8] informing her she was engaged to marry Lord Byron, a “person of whose character she has had the best opportunity of judging, and who, as he merits her greatest esteem, possesses her strongest attachment.” That last sentence certainly sounds very well, but, that she does not seem to be acting with her usual good sense is Mama’s opinion, as by all accounts Lord Byron is not likely to make any woman very happy. It is particularly unlucky, at present, as Mary’s letters to her about “Lara,” the “Corsair,” etc., have not expressed much admiration for their author....

September 30.

Mr. Van.[9] came here to dinner to-day and goes away to-morrow. I wish you would tell me what to say to him just now, for he looks as if he wanted some one to talk to him. Mary and George[10] are so busy at chess, and Mama is so interested in the Anarchie de Pologne,[11] and I am so tormented by a real, large, green, crawling caterpillar which has found its way to the table and keeps hunting me round it, I have not presence of mind enough left to make out one topic.

Mary has just received Sarah’s[12] letter. You perhaps may not know that she [Sarah] is going to change her character to that of a good-natured shilly-shally fellow. She is also thoroughly to understand politics, and is studying Junius, and for want of better society is to get into great habits of intimacy with me. If we were not to change our characters sometimes, there would be rather a sameness in our lives.

George is going to Dropmore and Shottesbrook, but will return home to receive the Colviles, stay here a week longer, and then go for six weeks to Melbury.

He will be a great loss to us, and I cannot but look forward with dread to the long evenings, which used to be so happy, and which will seem so lonely without Him,[13] who enlivened them so much.

Good-bye, my dearest Sister. Do not trouble yourself to answer my letters, as a letter to any part of this family does as well for the rest.

Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire.

EDEN FARM,
October 25 [1814].

MY DEAR SISTER, Charlotte[14] has had a good night by the account we received this morning. The baby is wonderfully well.

Lord Francis goes to Newmarket on Sunday, and I am to go to Earl’s Court for a week, and George[15] and Willy Osborne come here. It sounds as if we were going to play Puss in the Corner on a grand scale, but I shall be glad to get back to my corner again....

George writes me word that one story about Lady Caroline Lamb[16] is, that the separation had been agreed upon, and the articles ready; that Lady Melbourne set out one morning from London to try and arrange matters, and on her arrival she found the happy couple at breakfast, and Lady Caroline drawling out—“William, some more muffin?”—and everything made up.

Mary has grown so fat she can scarcely waddle about, and flatters herself she is looking very well. I remain ever your aff. sister,

EMILY EDEN.

(Quite private)

I must just mention that the tucker Ingram made is considered as the most beautiful, elegant, decent, well-behaved, unassuming good sort of tucker in His Majesty’s dominion, and is quite the rage. I am in a fever, which should be called the decent fever, till I can get four dozen made just exactly like it.

Mary has been very busy preparing for her journey, and desires her love to you, and is very much obliged to you for the use of your necklace, bracelet, etc., which she will take great care of.

She has not heard from Miss Milbanke lately, but we hear that Lord Byron is going to be a good boy, and will never be naughty no more, and he is really and truly writing a new version of the Psalms!

Lord Auckland to Miss Eden.

MELBURY,[17]
November 12 [1814].

MY DEAR EMILY, I must write one line though it is past midnight, and that because nobody writes to poor Emily. Well, I am glad you have got a little gaiety at last.

As for us here, we are as merry as grigs, and as active as flies, and as chatty as the maids. We eat and drink, and work and walk, and shoot and hunt, and talk and laugh, all day long—and I expect my pretty master, you would like the eating and drinking the best of all. Such luncheons! a roast turkey, and hash and potatoes, and apple pudding, and what not, and I stand by and abuse them all for eating, and eat with the best of them.

We have been trying the new experiment of burning clay for manure, and have not above half succeeded—and we have just found an old book, 80 years old, which gives a full and detailed account of what all the wiseacres are all making an outcry about as a new discovery, and as the practice has not been adopted, we are beginning to suspect that its merits are a little exaggerated.

We have a house brimful.

Give my love to all, Vansittart and all, and so good-night, my old boy, for I must go to bed. Your affec. brother,

AD.

Miss Eden to her Sister, Lady Buckinghamshire.

EDEN FARM,
December 1814.

MY DEAREST SISTER, Mary’s first letter is arrived, so I must begin copying and extracting, and abridging, as if I had never done anything else all my life.

But I must begin by observing that we all parted most heroically on Wednesday morning, not the least in the O’Neil style, but we were all as cool as cucumbers, and as hard-hearted as rocks. (What beautiful similes!) Mary looked very smart, her coat was covered with grey vandykes, which does not sound pretty, but looked very well, and her hat of course matched it exactly. She says they did not arrive at Shottesbrook[18] till late, as they went round and round the place several times before the postboy could find the entrance....

We heard from Morton[19] the other day, a long account of his gaieties. He has been showing Oxford to the Feildings, and the Meerveldts[20] (what a difficult word to spell), and then was invited to go to Middleton with them, where he met the Worcesters, Cowpers, Eustons, and the Duke of Devonshire. We are rather in dread of his return, and to find him grown very fine, which will be an unlucky turn to take....

Mrs. Percival’s[21] marriage shocked us all, as we had not heard of it before, but Mrs. Moore sent in word of it, and of the gentleman’s name afterwards. Ever your affec. sister,

EMILY EDEN.

Miss Eden to her Sister, Lady Buckinghamshire.

EDEN FARM,
December 23, 1814.

MY DEAREST SISTER, We have had two such long letters from Mary (at Bowood). You must be contented with some extracts. She says: “We have almost as few events here as at Eden Farm; in the morning we walk four or five miles, and in the evening everybody reads a little except Lady E. Feilding,[22] who walks about disturbing us all. She brought down a great book full of verses and epigrams, that she is collecting all over the world and gathered chiefly at Middleton; she let few of them be read, and screamed and pulled away the book every three minutes in case we should see more than we ought.

There were some pretty things of Lady Cowper’s[23] composing, one addressed to her sleeping baby, and another on an Infant that is one of the most beautiful things possible. It seems to be the fashion collecting these things, for Captain Feilding says it was quite ridiculous to see Lady Jersey[24] and Lady Cowper, and Lady E. Feilding and two or three others coming down of an evening at Middleton with their great books in satchells like so many schoolboys, and showing each other their ‘little treasures,’ and one saying, ‘May I copy this?’—‘No; not unless you will let me copy that.’—‘Very well, but you won’t turn over the page?’—‘No.’—‘Then you must not go further than that line.’ And then the books are all locked up again, for they each have keys, and Lady Elizabeth says everybody wore the key of her manuscript book at her side, in case the others should get it by fair means or foul.

Lady Elizabeth’s maid is also making a collection. Lady Lansdowne[25] looked prettier than ever last night, and is the kindest, most pleasing-mannered person I ever saw. She has got some receipts for dyeing muslins, sattins and silks any colours, and has been all this morning up to the elbows in soap-suds, starch and blue, and then on her knees for an hour ironing on the floor,—the work of the morning. I saw her little girl[26] for a moment, and it seems to be a pretty little thing; the boy[27] is exactly like Lord Lansdowne, but is never to be seen, and I only met the little Feildings[28] once on the stairs since I came here. We are much too learned to think of children.”

So much for Mary’s first letter. George says, “Mary behaves like an angel. She walks with Lansdowne and talks learnedly—I do not know what about. The only words I could hear were, And be hanged to you, and Slip-gibbit, and Betty Martin.”

Mary says in her second letter: “We had a tremendous fit of Crambo again last night from eight to eleven without stopping. Lord Lansdowne gives his whole heart and mind to any little game, or whatever he is about, and it is really quite amusing to see him fretting and arguing, and reasoning and labouring, at this Crambo, as if it was a matter of the greatest importance. It is certainly rather fretting, but it is as good a way of passing a long evening as another. Lady Lansdowne takes a great deal of charge of me, and is a person I really cannot find one fault in....”

I had advanced so far in copying, and was just thinking how nicely and quickly I had done it, when the post arrived, and brought a letter from Mary of nine quarto pages thickly written, and so amusing. But you must not see it to-day—you little thing—this is quite enough for once. Your affectionate sister,

EMILY EDEN.

Lord Auckland to his Sister, Miss Eden.

MELBURY,
December 31, 1814.

MY DEAR EMILY, I am living in a state of great fright about the event of my message by the last post, and if the key is not found, you must not be much astonished at seeing me arrive either with or without Mary on Tuesday; but I do not like to settle anything about this fussy, provoking scrapey piece of business till I hear from you and from Dyer to-morrow.

We have been doing nothing particular to-day except going in a large party after some woodcocks.

I am as pleased as Punch with the American peace.[29] We shall get rid of the property tax, and the 3 per cents will be up in the skies. We have nothing yet to succeed Whishaw.[30] Sir George Paul[31] is near seventy, but he is a fine old beau, and has one of the prettiest places in England, so that if the Dowager Lady Ilchester[32] does not snap him up, something may yet be done.

To console us for not having you, we have an Emily here who has something of the fooley in her, but she unluckily is a dullfooley.

I have in leisure hours been looking over a good many old letters which are here, written by the Fox’s and Pelhams and Sir Charles Hanbury Williams,[33] etc., etc., in the reign of George II., some of which are very entertaining. I send you a copy of verses written by Sir C. H. Williams to one of Ilchester’s aunts, Lady Susan O’Brien.[34]

Sweeter than the sweetest Manna,
Lovely, lively, dear Susannah,
You’re the girl that I must muse on,
Pretty little smiling Susan.
Oh! if verses could amuse ye,
Fairest, gentlest, laughing Susey,
I’ll write to you, but ne’er rebuke ye,
Handsome and good-natured Sukey.
Every rhyme should flatter you
Trifling, dimpling, tender Sue.
I’ve sung my song and so adieu! adieu!
Susannah, Susan, Susey, Sukey, Sue!

Mary is quite reviving to-night, and is making a deuce of a noise, and be hanged to her. My love to my Mother and all. Yours very affectionately,

AUCKLAND.

Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire.

Monday, January 1815.

MY DEAR SISTER, I have not a guess how far Mary’s journal[35] has been continued to you. She says, “The great amusement here seems to be eating, which goes on from morning till night. There is an immense breakfast for people to go in and out to, a large luncheon which stands two hours on the table, a very long dinner, and a regular supper, which altogether takes up half the day. To-day, by way of amusement, and keeping up an old custom, we have all been baking, that is, spoiling an enormous quantity of good things in the housekeeper’s room, making some uneatable gingerbread and cakes, and ourselves very dirty. There are a quantity of children here, and all very nice ones seemingly. Lady Theresa Strangways[36] would be really a dear little thing, if Lady G. Murray[37] would not talk and teaze one so about her stomach and teeth.

...Lady G. Murray is in greater beauty than ever, and happier than anybody I ever saw. She has two sons here.”

Tuesday.

...I was so cross and stupid with a pain in my ear which I have had this week, and in such a fury with Willy Osborne[38] who made a point of dropping his shuttlecock on my paper every minute, that I was obliged to leave off writing in order to fight with him, and when that battle was ended, he insisted on playing at Blind Man’s Buff....

Mary seems quite delighted with her visit to Melbury, and even nearly reconciled to quitting Bowood, which she was very sorry to do. Sir George Paul,[39] nearly eighty years old, is very much struck with her, she says, and when she goes to the pianoforte puts on his spectacles, and sits opposite her, gazing on her beautiful countenance with great satisfaction.

He drank two glasses of wine with her at dinner, and all the other ladies insisted on his drinking one with them, that they might at least have half as much done for them as was done for Mary.

We are all in doubt whether to like Sir G. Paul best or Mr. Whishaw, a lawyer, about ten years younger, but with only one leg. But the poor man, George says, was terribly smitten, and if they had staid but two days longer at Bowood, it would have come to a happy conclusion.

I myself should prefer somebody rather older and steadier.

Lady Ilchester wrote to Mamma, to know whether she was to let this flirtation go on, as it does at present....

George writes in good spirits, and seems delighted with his tour and with Melbury, which is the pleasantest place he knows. He says Mary is in very good spirits and makes a deuce of a noise and that she is a great favourite wherever she goes, and he believes deservedly so.

They neither of them seem to have any idea that they must ever come home again; but if ever they do I will let you know. Yours affectionately,

EMILY EDEN.

Miss Eden to her Brother, Lord Auckland.

EDEN FARM,
Monday, January 1815.

POOR DEAR LITTLE GEORGY, I am quite sorry it has been in such a fuss about the key, and I am afraid my last letter will not have set it’s little heart at ease, but on Sunday morning Morton[40] and I hunted for an hour, and at last found the key tied with a yellow ribbon, and not a blue one, and when we had found it and made Bob ride to Greenwich[41] as fast as he could, he found Mr. Dyer laughing by himself at the fuss you and Morton were in. He said the chest was broken open at a quarter past twelve and is now broken up for life. Which of your brothers-in-law do you like best? because I cannot make up my mind quite to either, though I believe I like lame Whishaw better than the venerable Paul. Mama is really fidgetty about them; and if you write again, will you let us know whether Mary is really as pleasant as she pretends to be and whether she did not make you underline the words “deservedly liked” in your last letter? Because it looked very suspicious.... Talking of Fooleys, by the bye, Mr. and Miss Vansittart come here this afternoon, and I am grown duller than ever. Thank you for your verses, which we liked very much. Ever your affectionate sister,

EMILY EDEN.

Lord Auckland to Miss Eden.

DROPMORE,[42]
January 13, 1815.

MY DEAR EMILY, Here we are once more within 30 miles of home, came here late yesterday, everybody at dinner—Mary in such a fright you never saw—such a silence you never heard—room so hot you never felt—dinner so cold you never tasted—dogs so tiresome you never smelt. So we must go to Shottesbrook bon gré, mal gré. Hang labels round your necks when we arrive on Wednesday or Thursday with your names on them (like the decanters) for do what we will, Mary and I cannot recollect your faces. Are you the one with the long nose?

Lady Riversdale’s maid has had an offer of marriage, and she has refused it, because she “had not that attachment that ought to subside between man and wife.”

Mind that, girls, and don’t marry rashly. Yours, and a day no more foolish than yourself,

AUCKLAND.

Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire.

EDEN FARM,
March 9 [1815].

MY DEAREST SISTER, As the Queen has been so uncivil and even spiteful to me and my sattin gown, as to put off the drawing-room, our three letters per day upon dress may now cease, and this is merely a letter of thanks for all the trouble you have taken with Wynne, Pontet, lace, notes, hoops, drapery, sattin, carriers, feathers, jewels, etc., and which have unluckily, by this strange and unaccountable spitefulness of H.M., all proved useless.

Poor Beckenham is gone mad about the corn laws,[43] and have revenged themselves on poor innocent harmless out-of-the-way George, by drawing him on the walls hanging as comfortably as possible, and Mr. Cator on another gibbet opposite to him. Mr. Colvile[44] is also hanging somewhere else.... Every house and wall is covered with mottoes, and “No corn laws” in every direction. Ever your affectionate,

E. EDEN.

Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire.

EDEN FARM,
June 24 [1815].

MY DEAREST SISTER, We had not expected the satisfaction of two letters from you to-day.... A letter that condescends to speak of two housemaids, without talking of battles and Bonaparte, is a very delightful novelty, as I am quite tired of rejoicing and lamenting over this news[45] which, upon the whole, strikes me as very melancholy, though I know that is a very wrong feeling.

There have yet been no accounts of poor Lady Delancey![46] She must have had a horrible shock at first, as Sir William, believing himself to be dying, refused at first to be removed from the field of battle, which gave rise to the report of his death. Poor Lady I. Hay quitted London at six yesterday morning to inform her father,[47] who was in the country, of Lord Hay’s death. He was not more than nineteen, and was a friend of Bob’s at Eton.

The George Elliots[48] came here to dinner yesterday, with their youngest child, who is a very fine child, and as a baby, I thought its name might be interesting to you, though it was not very different from other children, except that it had, on its cap a lilac satin cockade,[49] which is naturally a very pretty thing, though a baby sewed to it does not add to its beauty.

That is, however, a mere matter of taste.

Mrs. G. Elliot we all like, and she has full as much sense as the rest of the world, and would be as pleasant, if her manner was not rather hurried and rough, evidently from shyness and a fear of being thought dull.

Except these, we have not seen anybody, not even a neighbour, nor do I believe there are such things as neighbours left in the world, and it is much too hot to go and look for them if they are yet alive.

Mrs. Green, poor woman, seems to think you a little dull, but I always told you how it would be when you lost me, and I am glad to see Mrs. Green has so much penetration. Ever your affectionate sister,

E. EDEN.

Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire.

July 3, 1815.

We heard yesterday from the Selkirks[50] a certain account of poor Sir W. Delancey’s death,[51] and we heard it also from several other good authorities. The Selkirks have been in town every day in hopes of hearing either of or from Lady Delancey, but without success. Her situation is most dreadful, as he died at Waterloo, so she is not near any acquaintance she might have made at Brussels. She is but eighteen, and literally just out of the nursery. She has with her only a new maid, whom Lady Selkirk procured for her but three weeks ago. It appears very shocking that none of her relations should have gone to her on hearing of his wound, as she will now have every detail to manage for herself, and her return to Penge, which she quitted in such violent spirits not a month ago, will be dreadful. The Selkirks expect her every hour.

I have just been interrupted by the arrival of the Lansdowne children, who are come here for the afternoon to make Lady Lansdowne’s excuse for not coming to take leave before she goes out of town. The little girl[52] is the prettiest little thing I ever saw—the smallest child—looking like a fairy for all the world.

July 6, 1815.

We were all very sorry to hear of poor Comte Meerveldt’s[53] death, for her distress must be very great. Little Rodolphe will now be a great consolation to her. Lady Selkirk has had one very short note from poor Lady Delancey.[54] It was almost too composed to be comfortable to her friends. She said her husband had died at Waterloo, and was buried the morning she wrote, at Brussels, and she wished Lady Selkirk would have his picture done immediately by Heaphy,[55] as that was the only thing she could now live for. She made no complaint, except saying that she had had but one very happy week at Brussels, which was over, and that she was sure Lady Selkirk, at least, would feel for such a very wretched creature. She is expected at Penge to-morrow. There is an odd mixture of joy and sorrow in that house, as Lady K. Douglas[56] is married there to-day, which is rather astonishing, considering the state her family is in....

Miss Eden to Lord Auckland.

EDEN FARM,
August 11 [1815].

MY DEAREST GEORGE, I put a most excellent joke in these two first lines, but was obliged to efface them from my fear of the police, but it is inserted in sympathetic Ink, and if you will hold it for ¾ of an hour by a very hot fire, rubbing it violently the whole time without intermission, with the back of your hat and one hand, I daresay you will find it.

We are much as you left us. I cannot buy any sheep yet, for the price has risen in the market prodigiously, and we must wait a little, but Walsh is to go to Smithfield this week to see how things are. In your directions you left out a very important word, whether the ferrule should be fixed in the bottom, or the seat of the Tilbury. I say the former, and Mama the latter. One makes the umbrella too low, the other too high, but by a little arrangement of mine, too long to explain, I have made it the right height for myself, bonnet, feathers, and all, and it will altogether be very comfortable.

There is to be a meeting of all the Sunday Schools in the district next week at Bromley, and a collection, and a collation. We mean to eat up the collation, and give all our old clipped sixpences to the collection, which we think is a plan you would approve if you were here.

Madden[57] has given us so much to do, we have not a minute’s spare time. We are duller than a hundred posts about Astronomy, and if you can find any planets for us in Paris, we shall be obliged to you, as we cannot find one on the globe, and Madden only laughs at us. There! Good-bye, my dearest George. Take care of your little self. Your affectionate

EMILY EDEN.

Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire.

EDEN FARM,
Thursday, August 31, 1815.

MY DEAREST SISTER, Did Mama write to you yesterday? I wish I knew, but she is unluckily upstairs, and indeed I must say is hardly ever in the way when I want her.

I had meant to have answered your letter yesterday, but Mary, Miss Vansittart, and I went a-pleasuring, so that I had not time.

We went in the morning to Greenwich, where Mr. Van.[58] met us in the Admiralty barge, and took us to the steamboat.

We found there Lord and Lady Liverpool,[59] my dear Letitia Taylor, Lady Georgina, and Lady Emily Bathurst, Lord Bathurst, Lord Harrowby, Sir G. Hope, Sir George Warrender, Mr. Lushington, etc. Lady Liverpool still retains the notion that I am Miss Eden in the country, as well as in town, and introduced Mary as Miss E. Eden, and me as Miss Eden to all the company, and Mr. Van. insisted on calling Miss Taylor—Miss Rickets, so that the most curious effect steam has had yet was making a large company answer to wrong names.

The Invention itself, I believe, was supposed to succeed perfectly. We had a very pleasant row, or steaming, or whatever else it may be called, beyond Woolwich, and back to Greenwich again in three hours, during which time we also contrived to eat a large breakfast, and a larger dinner and dessert.

Lord Liverpool had some very improper purring scenes, and Lady Liverpool was very good-natured....

It must be an amusing sight to see Sarah[60] scolding the post-boy for not driving fast enough, or calling to the hostler for “a pair of horses to St. Albans immediately,” or adding up the innkeeper’s account, and giving him something over for the scoundrel that drove.

That is the style she must now adopt. Ever your affect. sister,

E. EDEN.

Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire.

August 19 [1817].

MY DEAREST SISTER, The reason I am in such a state of ignorance about the letter is, that Mama and Louisa[61] went to meet them in their way to London; that we were behind them in the poney-cart; and George behind us in the gig. We all fell in with each other and the letters in the middle of Penge Common, where we each took what belonged to us. I met immediately with the dreadful intelligence that you were going actually to take May Place, and on our recommendation, which dreadful intelligence I communicated to George, who immediately fainted away, and was driven off by his servant. I fainted away, and was driven off by Mary, and Mama and Louisa went on in hysterics to London. I really am quite in a fright about it, and cannot think what beauties I ever saw in it. The house is nothing but a pile of old bricks, the rooms cold, damp, dirty, inconvenient cells, the view cheerless and bleak, the offices large and decaying, the garden unproductive and expensive, the neighbours impertinent and intrusive, the gardener impudent, the housemaids idle, the landlord exacting, and the tenant in a terrible scrape indeed—and so is the tenant’s sister too, as far as I can make out.... The only thing I know for certain is that I am to send our bricklayer there early to-morrow to look at the house, and to meet George, who goes there at break of day; and if I can bribe him, as he is a very clever person, to pull the whole thing down, I will. It is past letter-time, and I have not time to read over what nonsense I have written. Lady Byron[62] and her child come here the 27th. Most affectionately yours,

E. E.

There is a rheumatic headache attached to the place, and let with it.

Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire.

TONBRIDGE,
October 10 [1817].

MY DEAREST SISTER, The “Eden Farmots” have kept me in such profound ignorance with respect to you that I had some doubts whether you were not settled at Charlton,[63] or whether you were not tired of the name of house, and had fitted up a nice hollow tree for yourself with some little hollow trees round it for your sisters and friends. It looks rather pretty and attentive though, in me, that I should answer your questions two days before you ask them.

This weather is particularly provoking in a house where there are but few books, but the last week we have contrived to be out nearly ten hours every day, beginning at seven in the morning. Getting up at that time and swimming through the fog to drink the coldest of all cold water is the least pleasant part of the day, but otherwise I have lost all hatred to exercise, from the circumstance of never being fatigued with any quantity of it.

The Vyners are so close to us that we are always together.... I wish somebody would just have the kindness to marry Miss Vyner. She would be such an excellent chaperon-general to all young ladies.

We had on Sunday morning the finest sermon I ever heard from Mr. Benson—so fine that we went in the dark and in the rain to hear another. He began by preaching at the Opposition, which gave me a fit of the sullens; then he went on to smugglers, then to brandy merchants; and, lastly, laid the sins of the whole set and all the other misfortunes of the country upon “ladies who wore fancy dresses” and encouraged smuggling by example and money.

It is a very odd fashion now, I think, to abuse women for everything, but, however, there were so few gentlemen at Church that we all bore it tolerably well. People’s French bonnets sat tottering on their heads, and if it had not been for some sense of decency and a want of pockets, many a French shawl was preparing to step itself quietly out of the way. Your most affect. sister,

E. E.

Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire.

November 16 [1817].

MY DEAREST SISTER, You seemed by your last letter to be so overcome by the communications of your friends, that I burnt a long composition of mine. Indeed, nobody but an excellent sister could be induced to write on such a gloomy, dispiriting afternoon, but I have put the table close by the fire, with one leg (belonging to the table, not to me) in the fender, to prevent it from slipping away, the arm-chair close behind the table, and me supported by them both, holding a pen in one hand and the poker in the other, and now, have at you.

Yesterday was not a flourishing day by any means, but this is to be different, as the Osbornes[64] and their five noisy, unmanageable, provoking, tiresome and dear children are coming, so we have all collected whatever health and strength we possess to answer the demands of the day.

I called on Lady Grantham[65] last week. The Baby is a remarkably pretty child, immensely fat and very nice-looking for its age, but still I could not come up quite to her raptures on the subject, and I thought it still looked red like other babies, and I never should of my own accord have thought of coaxing it so much as she expected. Ever, my dearest Sister, most affect. yours,

E. EDEN.

Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire.

NEWBY HALL,[66]
Sunday Ev. September 13, 1818.

MY DEAREST SISTER, Your account of Mary agrees very much with her own. I do not know if you have heard from her since she has settled to pay a little visit at Frognal, but, if so, you must have thought with me that Lord Sydney[67] will be a very pleasant brother-in-law for us. Such a great addition, in every sense of the word, to our society, and when the Miss Townshends have been turned out of doors, upon any slight pretence, it will really be a very nice establishment.

I am going on here just as was expected, very unhappy at first for about three days, without any particular place in the room, or any particular rule about being in the library, or my own room, or Lady Grantham’s, and then, you know, my trunk and all my worldly possessions were missing and lost, which was a cruel blow, at my first setting out, but at last my dear trunk reappeared unexpectedly, and from that time I got comfortabler and comfortabler, till I could get no further.

Miss Wynn[68] I like very much, probably because I expected to dislike her. The rest of the family are perfectly inoffensive, with nothing particularly agreeable or disagreeable in them, except indeed I have the pleasure of beating Mr. Wynn at chess every evening, till the tears almost course one another down his innocent cheeks, but I go on beating him for all that.

Lady Grantham is much better than she was during the journey; we go out every day in the pony-cart together, and call on the farmers and cottagers. I do not understand one word in ten the people say, and should be glad to take a Yorkshire master if I could find one. I hope, for your sake, Gog Magog[69] is not as green as this place is, else you will be more angry than ever with the dusty trees and brown grass of Eastcombe. The grass was quite dazzling when I first came here, and the green is a bad colour for the eyes, after the nice quiet brown we have been accustomed to, but green peas agree remarkably well with me, and sometimes I give a little passing thought to you, when I am packing up a great forkfull of them, and again when the children bring me in immense nosegays of mignonette, sweet peas, jessamine, which are to be put out at night because they smell so very sweet.

Lady Grantham’s garden is beautiful, and full of every sort of flower, but then it is generally locked. The house is excessively comfortable, with a stove in every passage, and a fire in every room, servants’ and all, an excellent library, and a very pretty statue gallery, heaps of amusing books, and an arm-chair for every limb. I foresee a great probability of my being very happy here, as my love of Lady Grantham does not diminish by any means, and he and I are great friends, and he likes to be played to for hours together. Your most affec.

E. EDEN.

Miss Eden to her Brother, Lord Auckland.

NEWBY,
Monday [1818].

MY DEAREST GEORGE, Having in our former letters nearly settled all our business matters, I may venture this time to indulge you with a few lighter topics.... This house is what Bob would call chuck full, but I do not think you know any of the company except the Markhams[70] and Mrs. Graham. I think all the Markhams pleasant in their way. Anne is rather an odd fellow, but very amusing, and Frederica is very pleasant. Cecilia desires me to give you her kind remembrance. As for your friend Mr. Graham,[71] though I would not wish to be severe, yet I cannot think a man who wears a light sort of mulberry-coloured “don’t mentions,” from a wish to look waspish, can be any great shakes. The rest of his character may be very good perhaps, but I can hardly think so under these circumstances.

Your Bess has been making sad work of it indeed, and I wish she had not been promised to Sister, for the Granthams are enquiring everywhere for a dog of that description, and I think Bess would find this place pleasanter than Eastcombe. Your most affectionate

E. E.

Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire.

NEWBY HALL [1818].

MY DEAREST SISTER, Your pride must be getting up again, I should imagine, and I must give it a little epistolary pat on the back (what a remarkably odd clever expression) to keep it all smooth.

My illness was remarkably opportune, inasmuch as it began at Studley,[72] and which was so uncommonly dull, that the impossibility of dining down was an immense advantage that I had over the rest of society. We were nineteen at dinner every day. We were all immensely formal in the evening.

The house is but a bad one in the old-fashioned way, and my room was peculiarly liable to murder and that sort of accident, a large dark green bed with black feathers on the top, stuck in a deep alcove, and on one side of it an enormous dark closet, quite full of banditti I fancy, and all the rest of the room actually swarming with ghosts I know, only I was much too sleepy to lay awake and look at them.

Mrs. Lawrence has an unhappy turn for music without any very remarkable genius, and we played 150 pages of the dryest Duetts in the Dussek and Pleyel style without even changing our time, or rising into a forte, or sinking into a piano, and minding every Repeat and Da Capo in the book.

On Wednesday Lord Grantham and Mr. Graham went on some Yeomanry business to Leeds, on Thursday we came home to my great joy. Adieu, my dearest sister; this has been written in a confusion of tongues, and I cannot make it any longer by any means. Ever your most affec.

E. EDEN.

P.S.—I have got a beautiful black cloth gown for two guineas, so fine you never saw the like.

Emily Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire.

NEWBY HALL,
November [1818].

MY DEAREST SISTER, We are now quite alone for the first time since I came—that is, the Wynns are here still, but they are part of being alone, and we have never before been so few, and I must say that it is uncommonly pleasant after so much company. The mere comfort of being able to go about the house with rough hair, or a tumbled frill, and in an old black gown, is not to be despised, and there is some pleasure in taking up a book in the evening and yawning over it, and then saying anything that comes uppermost, without thinking. We are very busy, dressing little dolls for Lord Grantham’s Theatre, which is one of the most ingenious pieces of mechanism I ever saw, and one of the prettiest things altogether. There is to be a grand representation to-night, and we have been rehearsing all the last week. It takes nine people to manage the scenery, figures, and music, and we all of us lose our tempers at it regularly every morning. I act the orchestra, and whilst I am playing away to the best of my power the music belonging to any particular scene, Anne[73] and Lady Grantham, who manage the figures, get into some hobble, and the music is finished before the action to which it belongs is begun, so that Harlequin and Columbine have to dance out without any time to assist them. I believe nothing in the world could ruffle Lord Grantham’s temper; but these theatrical difficulties go nearer to it than anything else, and while he is explaining to Lady Grantham that the figures will move if she takes pains, and to me that the music is quite long enough if I will but play slower, it may be rather provoking that Freddy[74] should let down the wrong trap-door, Anne set her sleeves on fire in one of the lamps, Mary[75] turn the cascade the wrong way, so that the water runs up instead of down; Thomas the footman should let down a light blue sky to a dark moonlight scene, and Shaw should forget the back scene altogether, so that his coat and buttons and white waistcoat are figuring away in the distance of the Fire King’s Palace. However, patience and scolding have overcome these little difficulties, and our last rehearsal was perfect.

Lady Melville[76] and her children were here for five days last week. I do not know exactly what I thought of her. She is too clever not to be rather pleasant, and too argumentative not to be very tiresome, and altogether I do not think I liked her. But her visit took place very soon after I had heard of poor Sir S. Romilly,[77] and I was too much shocked and too unhappy really to like anybody, particularly a person who insisted upon discussing the whole thing constantly, and in a political way. I think I have never been more shocked by anything that was not a private calamity—I mean, that did not concern one’s family or one’s self—than I was by this, and poor Captain Feilding[78] who was here, and who was a private friend of his, was so completely overcome that I was very sorry for him too. Altogether it is a horrible history, and only shows how very little we can know what is good for man in this life, when we were all saying some months ago that this would be the proudest year of Sir S. Romilly’s life. Your most affectionate

E. E.

Lord Auckland to Miss Eden.

BRUTON STREET,
Monday, November 1818.

MY DEAR EMILY, I have this moment seen an agent of Mrs. Wildman, a rich Kentish widow, and she has agreed to take Eden Farm on my own terms, which gives us a prospect of being a little more settled and comfortable.

She is to have it for seven years and pay £600 a year. And now I must look out for a house in town, which you will find pretty near ready for you when you arrive. I am in a great bustle and hurry, for we are all alive with this election, though with the melancholy impression of poor Romilly’s death it is difficult to rouse people. Hobhouse[79] has behaved so ill that it is right to try to beat him, but I fear that Lamb[80] is too late. He will certainly be low on the poll for the first week, but it is possible that afterwards he may recover. In the meantime, people are very busy, and none of our friends are sanguine. Your affectionate brother,

AD.

Lord Auckland to Miss Eden.

[November] 1818.

MY DEAR EMILY, Lamb carried his election to-day by 604, and made a sort of a speech saying that now he was their member, and they were his constituents, and that they would soon learn to be friends. He was a little hooted, but not much more than usual; but all our foolish friends appeared to cheer him with cockades in their hats, and all was uproar and riot and confusion and pelting and brickbats and mud, and it is lucky none of them were very seriously hurt. They all arrived covered with dirt to the west end of the town, and the mob at their heels, for they were too gallant not to stop to be occasionally pelted.

I never saw such a scene. Your friend Graham[81] looked as if he had just come out from the pillory; Sefton, Morton, and twenty others in the same plight.

Report says that one servant is nearly killed; I hope it is not true. Ferguson had a blow on his head, and Mr. Charlton another more serious one; but I hear of nothing worse. It makes but an ugly triumph for our great victory. What a glorious debate was yesterday’s!

You will live at No. 30 Lower Grosvenor Street, the only house I can get, small but convenient, and I think we shall make it do well enough. Ever affectionately yours,

AD.

Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire.

NEWBY HALL [1818].

MY DEAREST SISTER, ...Mr. Ellis left this place yesterday, so I could not give him your message. I think he enjoyed the latter part of his visit here very much, as there was a very pleasant set of gentlemen, and Mr. Douglas, who is more amusing than ever. We had besides them, two Mr. Lascelles’s,[82] one “a cunning hunter” and the other very gentlemanlike and pleasant; Mr. Duncombe, a pretty little London Dandy, rather clever in his way; Captain Cust,[83] a soldierly sort of person, and a kind of Lusus Naturae (is that sense do you think?), because he is pleasant and well-looking though he is a Cust, and Mr. Petre, very rich and very stupid, so that we had a very proper mixture of character....

We are all hunting mad in these parts, and I am afraid that when I come to Eastcombe I shall be a great expense to you with my hunters and grooms. I have already made great progress in the language of the art.

I have heard a new name for the Miss Custs, in case you are tired of the Dusty Camels; by uniting their names of Brownlow and Cust, they become Brown Locusts, which is a very expressive title I think. I remain, ever yr. very affec. sister,

E. EDEN.

CHAPTER II
1819-1820

Miss Eden to the Dowager Lady Buckinghamshire.

NEWBY HALL,
Sunday, February 14 [1819].

MY DEAREST SISTER, I was very sorry to hear of the unfortunate state in which you have been, and in which Sarah [Lady Sarah Robinson] is, as I have a sufficient recollection of the Mumps to know what a very disagreeable disorder they are, or they is.

We have had a spirt of company for the last three days, but they all very kindly walked off yesterday, and as it is wrong to dwell upon past evils, I spare you an account of most of them.

There were a Mr. and Mrs. Winyard amongst them, who were very pleasant. He was in the army, and is now in the Church, and though they are the sort of people who have a child every year, and talk about their governess, and though she very naturally imagined, that because she was absent, the high wind would blow away the little tittupy parsonage, and the ten precious children, yet they really were very agreeable.

He sang so very beautifully though, that it made all his other good qualities quite superfluous, and I am convinced it would have touched your unmusical heart to hear him sing some of the Irish Melodies.

I have some thoughts of writing an Essay on Education for the good of my country, and I think the little Robinsons[84] will in most cases serve for example, and I must say that, tho’ children, they are very nice things, and uncommonly well managed.

If at any time you will let me know how you are going on, the smallest intelligence will be thankfully received. Ever, my dear Sister, your very affect.

E. EDEN.

Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire.

LONGLEAT [WARMINSTER, WILTS],
Monday, March 15, 1819.

MY DEAREST SISTER, This place affords so very little to say, that if this prove to be a long letter, of which at present I do not see much chance, I pity from my heart your feelings of weariness at the end of it. There is nobody here but the Campbells, but I imagine that the family of Thynne are much pleasanter out of a crowd. At least, we are not the least formal or dull, which from the account Mary and Fanny used to give I thought would have been the case.

The magnificence of the house far surpasses anything I have ever seen, and with all that, it is one of the most comfortable abodes possible. It is inconvenient too in some respects, at least to me, who have an unfortunate knack of losing my way even in a house that may consist of only ten rooms, so that I cannot stir without Fanny or some other guide.

There are several roads to our rooms. The servants make it, I think, about five and twenty minutes’ walk, a little more than a mile and a quarter; but then that is a very intricate way.

Lady Bath[85] is very much out of spirits at times about Lord Weymouth,[86] who is going on very ill; but she is always very pleasant and very good-humoured....

Lady Elizabeth[87] and Lady Louisa[88] both make themselves very pleasant.

We leave this place Saturday night, probably, which I am very sorry for, but George must be in town Monday, and therefore it is necessary to be there Saturday. However, he is first going to see poor Lord Ilchester at Weymouth,[89] and is to rejoin me on the road, so our plans depend a little on Lord Ilchester’s. London will be a little dark and dismal-looking this weather, but the FitzGeralds are coming up to be at the Meeting of Parliament, and I shall be rather glad to meet Pam.[90] Your most affectionate

E. EDEN.

Miss Pamela FitzGerald to Miss Eden.

[1819.]

So you are not dead at all, Emmy! I am very glad, for I can’t spare you. I have been what the people call in a great deal of trouble. Aunt[91] frightened me, she chose to neglect her cough so long, that when at last on her complaining of pain in her side I bullied her, and sent for Dundas, he found she has a considerable degree of inflammation on her chest, and she was to be bled directly; the Apothecary out of the way, never came home till night. Aunt made a monstrous piece of work between fright and fever, and cried out, and the candles flared, and Baker stamped, and I who thought myself so courageous, I was turned upside down with the whole business.

Lucy[92] is staying at Mrs. Seymour’s, luckily out of the mess; she went over for a ball Monday, and Mrs. Seymour has kept her on there.

I had a letter from Edward[93] a few days ago, written from the Slough of Despond; he has joined his regiment at Lichfield, and you may imagine the transition from Paris, poor darling. I would give the whole world to go and comfort him.

Emmy, don’t you know what I mean? But when anything one loves is unhappy, it seems more particularly to belong to one.

He comes to us the 11th, for a few days, which I look to with some anxiety, after that taste, or rather distaste, we had of each other in London.

I am looking about for a conveyance to Town, because I want to buy a hat; at present I am all shaven and shorn, and shall be reduced to wear a paper cap, if I don’t take care.

I am obliged to write with this pen, which is like a Chinese chop stick, because I am in Aunt’s room, and she is asleep, and I dare not begin that quick rustle, which disturbs and wakes a Patient as much as the roar of a cannon, and which would be unavoidable in a hunt for quill or knife; as it is I have some trouble to keep the paper from crackling, and the few books d’alentour from throwing themselves head-long off the table, which is the way of all books the moment one drops asleep.

I have had sad fits of low spirits. Spring makes one languid to a degree, that the air is a weight upon one.

The Assizes were delightful. I don’t think it right to carve out futurity for oneself, or else I really think I should like never to marry anybody who does not wear a Lawyer’s Wig. It is proper, it adorneth the outward and visible man; those thin terrier faces, those hollow cheeks and deep eyes, are precious and lovely.

I was amused at the younglings, whose callow smooth faces look all the younger for the wig. Seriously, the interest of the most important cases to me was inexpressible. It is the reality which presses on one’s heart, and makes an impression far deeper than the utmost stretch of imaginary sorrow can ever produce.

I have seen no creature, and have established my character Bearish in the neighbourhood, so they are content to let me alone....

Mr. Peel[94] could not help marrying that girl who is silly; those things fit, and are so far satisfactory they establish some sort of system in the goings on of the world, and give body to speculation. Wise men love fools.

I had done writing, and then as usual a whole heap of things came lumbering about my head. I had a high letter from poor Eliza Fitz.[95] She has given up her dearest hopes on earth, and if she should be obliged to marry any one else, miserable, wretched, homeless, she trusts she will do her duty and be a good wife; that’s the résumé of four criss-cross sheets of paper. I wrote her a very reasonable letter to comfort her, for she is painfully ashamed of herself, poor girl, and there is no use in that, so I turned her over to the bright side. She has only fallen in that common error of whipping up her feelings with words, and they never can keep pace even, one will always be before the other.

Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire.

June 4 [1819].

MY DEAREST SISTER, Mary went out last night to Mrs. Baring’s[96] ball, which was not likely to do her much good, and is completely “frappée en haut” (Sir W. Wynn’s translation of “knocked up”) with headache and fatigue this morning. Dissipation is not likely to agree with her, certainly, but then, Sister, think of the pineapples and strawberries and ices and temporary rooms and magnificent hangings and beautiful flowers at Mrs. Baring’s.

I wish I was a rich old banker; but then I would not have, or own, so many fellow-creatures as the Barings do. I keep my comforts a little more to myself.... We have had a most alarming visit from Rogers the Poet this morning, the very recollection of which would make my hair, black pins, combs and all, stand on end, if they had ever subsided since his first appearance. I never saw such a satirical, odious wretch, and I was calculating the whole time, from what he was saying of other people, what he could find ill-natured enough to say of us. I had never seen him before, and trust I never shall again. Your most affectionate

E. EDEN.

Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire.

June 10, 1819.

MY DEAREST SISTER, You will, I hope, have more pleasure or rather happiness than I can yet teach myself to feel, in hearing that our dearest Mary is going to be married to Charles Drummond. It cannot be a surprise, of course, to any one, as he has certainly taken no pains to conceal his attachment; but the objections arising from want of fortune, we had not hoped could have been so well overcome as they are, quite to the satisfaction of his friends and hers also. It was almost settled at Lady Darnley’s fancy ball on Monday, and concluded by letter (such a very pretty letter!) on Tuesday morning. Mary and I went down to Langley[97] for an hour for a little advice, as George was gone to his Committee; then we saw George; then Mr. D.; and, in short, everything went on smoothly, and as such things usually do go on. George has seen the old Drummonds, who were very good-humoured and quite agreeable. In short, I should believe we were all amazingly happy, only I know I have seldom felt so wretched. She will be such a dreadful loss to me! But I will only think of the advantages of the case; and George is so pleased, and it is altogether a very desirable thing for all of us, besides the real chief point of her happiness, which she ought to find, and of which she has so reasonable a prospect. The Post Bell is ringing. Mary would have written herself, but he is here, and this is their first real conversation. Sarah will excuse my not writing to her to-day, I hope, and I really have had great difficulty in making out this one letter, and we have told nobody else yet. Your most affectionate

E. E.

Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden.

THAMES DITTON,
Friday, August 13, 1819.

MY DEAREST EMILY, I was really sorry not to be able to accept Lady Buckinghamshire’s invitation, but you see it could not be, for Lucy sets off Tuesday morning, and as Aunt Soph[98] never parted with her before in her life, I must stay and comfort her....

Think of Sister liking me! I know of few phenomena that ever more surprised me, for I concluded she had set me down as wild and scapegracish. However, it was certainly reciprocal, for she certainly took my fancy very much.

Mary is very much changed since she has gone to live with that Drummond; however, you must get the better of that awkwardness, my poor dear Emmy, which for some time will hang over you. Besides, when Mary’s mind settles again, you will get on better, and no longer miss her. In short, make haste and come, for I cannot write, but I want to talk to you.

Mary gave a sad account of that comical Dog,[99] I trust he is better....

It was a very foolish thing of Mary marrying, but let us hope that, as a cook once said to me when I represented that she had not married prudently, “It was very foolish. The only thing is never to do so again, Ma’am, let us hope.” I say she will look upon it as warning....

I have bought me some ducks, Emily, which I have to dill-dill myself. As yet I hold out, but as I may think dill a bore, I must hope Providence or instinct, that instinct, Emily, which does “Blush in the rose, and in the diamond blaze,” that wonderful instinct I do hope will teach them their solitary way to the back yard.

I am going to get me a Pig too, which I mean to farm upon speculation and make monies.

Have you heard from that comical Dogge? By the bye, I hear that a man was bit by a comical dog at Kingston, and is very bad. Sad times, bread is dear, reformers meeting, dogs mad, and such a harvest the farmers must be ruined.... Ever your affect.

PAM.

Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire.

BURGH,
Friday, September 10, 1819.

MY DEAREST SISTER, My visit to Thames Ditton I liked of all things. Poor Aunty was confined to her room with a bad sore throat till the last two days of my stay, so that Pam and I had it all to ourselves. We lived from breakfast time till seven at Boyle Farm, a beautiful place of Lord H. FitzGerald’s by the river. I drew a great deal (what an odd word drew is! I mean, I drawed a great deal) and Pam read loud a very little, and I played and she sang, and the talking and laughing we divided in two equal large shares. I was very sorry to leave her, but I should have missed Mary altogether if I had not come here this week. There is an immense party in the house, but as everybody does what they like that is rather an advantage than otherwise. We set off after breakfast yesterday in seven pairs to take a walk, Mr. D. and Mary leading the way like Noah and his wife. Then came Mr. and Mrs. Shem, Ham and Japhet, and two or three odd pairs of beasts, the remainder here I suppose. I was set upon a horse, too, after luncheon, which was a Mazeppa-ish sensation—but there are beautiful rides about here, and if I was not as stiff as a poker to-day, I should have enjoyed that ride yesterday particularly.

Any little shyness that change of circumstance may have made, and indeed must have made at first, is quite over, and we are as comfortable as ever, which is satisfactory, considering that I love nothing in the world so well as her—tho’ I should be sorry that she should say the same of me now. I am quite contented to be second. Her happiness is not the least surprising, as it must be pleasant in the first place, to be considered as she is by all the Drummonds, and Mr. Drummond’s merits open upon me every day. He is much superior to all his family, I think, and as Mary thinks him superior to everything else, it all is as it should be. Adieu, dearest Sister. Your ever affectionate

E. E.

Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden.

THAMES DITTON,
September 23, 1819.

...You must tell Mr. Drummond I never thank him enough for having blessed me with Bess, for some days she pondered on the vicissitudes of sties, but she has recovered herself, and enjoys existence with all the buoyancy and exuberance of youthful spirits. Her beauty is remarkable, and she possesses much of that piquant and espièglerie, which so seldom is allied to regularity of feature. Her disposition is very engaging, her heart mild and tender, and so affectionate she will eat out of my hand. In short, her perfections are such, I defy the bosom of a Jew to resist the fascination of them.

Your Uncle Henry[100] went away last Thursday; he went without bidding us good-bye, but wrote a very quiet touching note, saying parting gave him such a squeeze about the heart, he could not bear the idea of taking leave. Poor Aunt did not like it at all—by the bye, that’s one of the topics that are spoiling in my mind, for want of you to discuss them. I think one don’t escape the squeeze at the heart by avoiding a parting, and that one has in addition a very unpleasant jar, besides having one’s mind all over in a litter of things one still had to say, and odd ends of topics (the pig just stepped into the room to see what I was about; it must have some Irish blood in it, for it seems quite at home in the house).

Lucy comes back next Saturday. She met, she tells me in her last letter, Lady Harrowby,[101] and Newman the Russian, and Pahlen the Prussian, and Lady Ebrington[102] behind her parasol and Lord Ebrington, and Lady Mary Ryder, and Ed. Montagu; in short, as she says, the whole cavalcade of Click.

We have just now my cousins Cootes[103] staying with us, I have always a sort of nervous fear of seeing them vanish, they seem so like bad visions.

Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden.

October 3, 1819.

I cannot say how much your long satisfactory letter delighted me, that’s something like a letter. I ought not to have been surprised at the tidings you give of dearest Mary, for when people marry there is nothing we may not expect them to do, and it is our own fault if we allow ourselves to be astonished at anything.

Lucy came back yesterday week, fat, well, in high force, delighted with all she has seen and done; in short, for you can bear with my obliquities, her spirits were a peg or two higher than my own, which trod me down very much at first....

I have been spending a day at Bushy with the Mansfields.[104] I like her infinitely the best of the two, she really is sensible, amiable, and as clever as need be. He seems to have a cloudy unhappy temper, and some pretensions which he has not ability enough to either disguise or excuse.

Mr. Rose[105] was there (the Court of Beasts Rose), and I like him much better on acquaintance. With wretched health he manages to keep up an even flow of spirits. He appears to indulge himself in his whims and oddities for his own amusement, and to divert his mind from dwelling upon the sufferings of his body, which makes one very lenient towards his jokes, poor man! even when they are not good. He seems amiable, and when one can get him to speak seriously his conversation is very charming, for with great information he is perfectly natural and easy; it is very odd he should like dirty jokes. I wonder whether it is inherent, or merely the consequence of bad health which catches at anything for relief and distraction.

What are your plans? When do you go your travels, or has not the Comical Dog told you anything about it, but means to have you off at a moment’s warning, bundled into the carriage, with one arm in your sleeve, and only one shoe on?

What do you think? Is there any hope of your going to Bowood? Are you to live all October in the papered up rooms in Grosvenor St. with brown paper draperies?

Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire.

GROSVENOR STREET,
October 7 [1819].

MY DEAREST SISTER, I am going to write you a long letter, and I shall be like a ginger-beer bottle now, if once the cork is drawn. I shall spirtle you all over—not that I have anything to say, but just a few remarks to make.

In the first place, I am eternally obliged to you for your just and proper appreciation of Autumn; nobody cares about it enough but you and me, and it is so pretty and so good, and gives itself such nice airs, and has such a touching way of its own, that it is impossible to pet it enough.

I tried some cool admiration of it upon Louisa,[106] but she said she did not like it, as it led to Winter, and the children wanted new coats, and she must write to Grimes of Ludgate Hill for patterns of cloth, etc.

However, London is a very pretty check to enthusiasm; there are no trees to look brown and yellow, and the autumn air only blows against poor Lord Glengall’s[107] hatchment, and the few people that wander about the streets seem to think it cold and uncomfortable. Except the Drummonds and ourselves, I believe there is nobody here but the actors who act to us, and the bricklayers who are mending the homes of all the rest of the world. I have seen when I go sneaking down to Charing-Cross two or three official people, who think I suppose, that they govern us and the bricklayers.

Fanny and I shall end by being very accomplished, if we lead this life long. We breakfast at a little before ten, and from that time till a little after three are very busy at our lessons.

We have just finished Mrs. H. More,[108] which I like very much, particularly the latter part.

We have foolishly begun Modern Europe for our history book, which I think much too tiresome to be endured, and then we take a peep at what the Huns and Vandals are about. My only hope is that fifteen hundred years hence we shall be boring some young lady in the back Settlement of Canada with our Manchester Riots.[109] That is the only thought which supports me under the present dulness of the newspaper.

George brought us such a quantity of Confitures from Paris, that it is a mercy we are not in bilious fevers before this. I enclose you some Fleur d’Orange because it is so genteel. Pray remark when it is going down, whether your sensations are not remarkably lady-like? Your most affect.

E. EDEN.

Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden.

THAMES DITTON,
Tuesday, October 1819.

Very pleasant, but not correct, as our immortal Monkey said when he kissed the Cat, my going to see you in town! It would indeed be a case for Hannah More, as that very comical Dog said; why it would make the few pious hairs she still preserves rear up, like quills upon the fretful Porcupine; to say I should like it is saying very little indeed.

Next to Hannah More, that Chancellor[110] is the greatest Beast and Bore to prevent our going up; I won’t have my oath[111] trifled with no more than my affections, and since he coquets with my conscience, I have a great mind not to swear at all, and keep myself disengaged for some little Lèse-Majesté. This letter seems copied out of Buffon or “The Book of Beasts,” for I find honourable mention made of cat, dog, monkey, beast, bore, porcupine.

I will try and let you know what day I come, if I can get it out of old Sullivan, and if it is soon I will take the duck to you. I suppose Hannah More will not be shocked at the dead duck spending the night under the roof with you; the duck being dead must remove all impropriety attendant on such a step.

Your account of your bonnet diverted me highly; it certainly is much more difficult to find a congenial bonnet than a congenial soul, and after all they don’t last one so long. Sullivan talks of Thursday as the most likely day I shall land at your house, and I may from there branch out into all other ramifications of business. I send you some three or four violets to sweeten you in London.

Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden.

November 7, 1819.

DEAREST EMMY, I meant every day to have written to you whilst you were at Shottesbrook,[112] but I never could hit the right temperature; when I felt dull, I thought it was not fair writing to you, making “confusion worse confounded,” and when I was merry, I imagined the shock might be too much for you, and only serve to make your “darkness visible.” This is a very deeply Miltonic apology, the truth I daresay may turn out to be a severe fit of laziness, which has incapacitated me from doing anything beyond reading, which delights me, and swallows up all my duties.

Your sister Caroline seems an admirable Brood Mare. I admire her exertions, but, Emmy, it is lucky we are not put to the test, we never could imitate them. However brilliant and liberal our views, we should fail in the plodding perseverance, which is the necessary ingredient to fill up the gaps and make it all solid.

I have of late been driven by Aunt in the Chaise, to try a Mule, which a man wants us to buy. In my life I never was on service of such danger. She holds her reins so very loose, that she puts me in mind of the picture of Phaeton when he is in the act of culbute from Heaven, and I find myself humming a Te Deum for my safety as I get out, for she has no manner of power over the beast, and throws herself upon its generosity with wonderful philosophy. I, who have not this reliance upon its honour, really suffer greatly from terror.... My dear Emmy, the Ogress’s[113] dereliction from the sober paths of temperance was a shock I have not yet recovered from. Our cook has taken to drinking too, but she certainly boasts some originality in her tastes; she ruins herself in Antimonial Wine and emetics of the strongest nature; no remonstrance can deter her from pouring every species of quackery down her unhappy throat. It is very remarkable how the lower classes love physic.

Your anticipated fondness for your powder’d Friend quite enchanted us. I have an extinguisher on my mind to-day, so good-bye. I write just to show you I can make an effort for you. Good-bye. I am your own

PAM.

Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden.

Sunday, November 14, 1819.

What are you about? Write to me directly. Yesterday I was stirred up by one of those hubbubs that vanish into smoke. Mr. Ogilvie[114] wrote to say he was coming to us for a few hours previous to his going to Paris for a fortnight on business, upon which Lucy went mad; she would and should go with him, raved and tore about, wrung from the hard hands of Aunt her vile consent, and so far infected me with her fuss that I was all of a twitter.

Her cloaths were preparing, in short, she was far on the road to France. Ogilvie arrives, Lucy downs upon her knees, to beg he will take her to Paris, and lo! he would have been delighted to take her, but he had given up the journey!

We all dropt in spirit like so many sacks, after the excitation of the morning.

We go to Town positively on the 27th of this month, God willing. Let me know whether the master of your destiny, your fate, George, brings you to Town. We shall be in Stratford Place, and about the beginning of next month I suppose the Chancellor will have us up. Pray how do you think we ought to dress the character, something of the sackcloth and ash nature?...

How do Fanny and Edward Drummond[115] go on? I hope she still thinks him pleasant. Don’t rob her of those comfortable illusions, any bulwark against bore is a blessing.

Aunt has had the white Cock, the pride of the Dunghill killed, and Lucy has replaced him by a pair of stinking red-eyed rabbits. We have robberies going on on all sides. The thieving establishment is put upon the most liberal footing; they drive their cart, and keep their saddle-horses, and nobody seems inclined to disturb them.

I understand Stocks? Emmy, I have been making Mr. Ogilvie give me a lecture on Finance, but to-morrow I shall relapse into darkness. Nature has done much for you and me, but we are not organised for Stocks.

Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden.

November 26, 1819.

We go to Town to-morrow, but too late to see you. I am so unhappy, my snug own home so clean, so warm, my life so humdrum, to-day walking in the footsteps of yesterday, all thrown over by going to that Babylon. If it was not for you, I should hang myself previous to my departure. Conceive my situation on finding myself to-morrow night, amidst the smoke and stir of that dim spot which men call Stratford Place, Nr. 2....

I had a kind note from Lady Lansdowne,[116] I love her. Emmy, if you desire to keep a Grantham and four horses, I surely may have my Lansdowne and two!

I feel walking against the wind, which is the only way I can express the feeling one has in parts of one’s life when matters go contrary. We are coming up in truly Scriptural style, for we know not where we shall eat, and where we shall drink, nor wherewithal we shall be clothed.

December 17, 1819.—Emmy, the moon whistles, but why don’t you write? My trunk is gone forth and is now on its remote, unfriended, melancholy, and slow journey to Bowood, and drags at each remove a lengthening chain, and the weather is so bad, and so we are all very unhappy. Isn’t (I never know how to tittle that abbreviation, but to you my meaning is palpable) well to go on. Isn’t this a day for Crack-skull Common?

Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden.

BOWOOD,
Thursday, a great deal p.m., December 23, 1819.

MY DEAREST EMMY, I am safely arrived into this country, and as you have never peregrined into these parts, a few remarks, peradventure, a few remarks upon the nation Wiltshire may give you satisfaction. The Wilt[117] is generally of noble disposition, kind of heart and of sound understanding. In person short of stature, thick set, square built, hath straight hair, and a pleasing aspect. In civility most laborious, insomuch there seems a wall of politeness which keepeth off better acquaintance in this tribe. The Wilt woman[118] liveth bounden in subjection and loving obedience unto the husband, and filleth her time duly in catering and ordering for her household. The Wilt[119] when young is ill-favoured, given unto the asking of questions, eager for food, and hath a harsh and unmusical voice. It is the custom to déjeune at the hour Ten. The Wilt doth eat, and read the signs of a large leaf showing the contests of the Two Tribes—the one having power that doth act foolishness, and the other which hath no power—speaking wisdom; and after breathing a word or two at intervals when the meal is ended, the Wilt will go unto his avocations and work with his brains, and then at about the hour Two, he eateth of a mixture of flour and water like unto cakes, and then doth go forth unto the exercising of his body in the way of quick walking, or managing of a small horse. At dinner the Wilt ordereth himself seemly, eateth of all things freely and slow, drinking moderately. He then adjourneth unto another part of the Habitation and doth talk of divers matters good and well spoken, rubbing his hands withal exceedingly; and after he hath drunk of a hot brown liquor, the women take their tools and do sew wearing apparel and are still, and the Wilt taketh a volume and doth lift up his voice and read. I do mention this because the custom is after the manner of this tribe peculiarly, and is regarded upon by other tribes as an abomination, inasmuch that one of the tribe of Dumont[120] has been known to cover his countenance with a cloth when the same has been practical. I have been at some pains to get particulars of this form of idolatry to the god Bore, and have collected thus much: Bore is an evil spirit that, they reckon, commonly doth haunt empty places, but is more terrible when he doth infest crowded places. He doth possess people after the fashion of the Devils in Judaea, and hath, besides, a contagious property, it having been noted that one possessed will generally infect others. What a fool I am, Emmy dear! but I was so full of nonsense I was obliged to come and write to you, and such an ill-tempered pen too, that would go no way, not even its own. I am sure it came out of Lady Holland[121] or the Dss of Bedford’s[122] Wing!

I am very snug here as to my body, but I do want you to talk to beyond expression, and I cannot bear to think Lucy is missing me all this while. I have been over all my old walks here, and remembering all the corners and rooms and chairs and tables, so that I feel two years the younger. But I wonder how I got on at all without knowing you. Lady Lansdowne is in high favour with me. There is so much to like in her. Him of old I have always doated on, but I have sat with my extinguisher upon my head ever since I arrived, so that I fear, pleased as I am with them, the feeling is not reciprocal. I always shall love this place for having brought me acquainted with old Mary, for my liking to her was a sort of halfway-house to my affection for you.

I have not an idea who or when anybody is to come. I don’t care. You have lost the art of writing me good long letters. I desire you will mend. Goodbye, Dearie, God bless you. Tell me more. And believe me ever your own

PAM.

Emmy now, don’t let all my stupid jokes lay about, and don’t because you have nothing ready to say to Mary and Mr. Drummond, in an evil hour go and shew my letter. You know you have done such things, you animal. Remember, I will never write again if you play me this trick. I pour my nonsense into your trusty bosom only in confidence. If I must restrain my nonsense, what a bond of Friendship will be broken!

Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden.

BOWOOD [1819].

That One Pound Bill is for the liquidation of the debt I contracted that morning in Town with you at a shop in Regent Street for value received of silk handkerchiefs, ribbons, etc.... I am fallen in love with Mr. Abercromby.[123] He is quite a darling, mouth and all. The first day I saw him I thought of your face and laughed; but we are now inseparable. He is so natural, so good-natured, and does love nonsense. You would delight in him. The Macdonalds have been here, and they are no loss. She is so very dull, oh dear!—and they are much too newly married to be fit for society.... I take long walks with my dear Lord Lansdowne. Emmy, he is so good, and so knowledgeful, and so liberal, I think he is the most liberal man I ever met with at all, in taste as well as principle. And that is a great merit, for one knows where to have him. Emmy, don’t New Year’s days and all those milestones in one’s life make you very melancholy? They do me to a degree. I take some time shaking off the weight. Of course I won’t say a word of the Dromedaries [Drummonds] to any one, but I don’t see that you have any duty laying in that quarter, particularly as the more you see of them and go to Charing Cross, the more obligations they will imagine themselves bestowing on you.

CHAPTER III
1820-1825

Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden.

BOWOOD,
February, 1820.

HUSH, hush, Emmy, the King is dead,[124] and we have entered a new reign, yes, yes, and George IV. has been proclaimed, and I have wondered what he’ll do with his wife, and Henry VII. would not let his Queen be crowned for two years, and Hume says so, and all the newspapers are very black, and the Times blacker than any, and there is an end of the topics and we know it all. Now to our old channel.

My hair is on tip-toe. I have heard with my outward ears to-day, that there hangs a possibility in Fate of my not getting home for a month. Not that I am uncomfortable here, but only I do so wish to see you again, my dearie, and poor dear Lu![125] It quite amounts to longing, or craving, or hunger, or thirst. It is so long since I have done out my heart and mind, it is all in a litter.

I enjoyed myself so very much indeed while your brother and Mr. Fazakerly were here. As for the others, I wished them hanged, for I had to make company to them, and they did not make amusement for me.

We are quite alone, and have been ever since Wednesday. After I have made breakfast, and Lord Lansdowne has engulphed as much Tea as he can carry, I take my mornings to myself and bask in the Library. I do not mean this as a figurative allusion to the sunshine of the mind, but that the room stands South, as all rooms should stand, or walk off. I then at about two, lunch, and see Lady Lansdowne for half-an-hour, take my walk till five, come in, and write an empty line to Lucy to while away her time.

Lady Lansdowne dines with us, goes to bed before eleven, and I stay on talking till near one with the Wilt. I do, I will like him, tho’ I have run very near hating him, that Wilt wise man! He goes next Monday to Woburn[126] and Middleton[127] on his way to Town, and Lord knows when it will please Providence we should follow.

Tell me something of Mary, and above all, tell me about yourself. Your last letter made me laugh so much! Do it again. I ever remain, your affectionate old

PAM.

Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden.

BOWOOD,
February 10, 1820.

It is now settled we are to be in Town the 20th.... We do not mean to be in London this year at all to remain, Emmy; it is not worth while. I need not say it to you, for we compared notes last year upon the emptiness of existence in that Town—gaiety as it is called. You will come to Thames Ditton, where we have the certainty of being comfortable together.

Lord Lansdowne set off to-day for Middleton. I miss him shockingly. He has crept into my affections in a wonderful degree these last ten days; I have pounded a little nonsense into him. Twice I made him laugh at jokes not worth repeating, and once at his own matter-of-fact method of understanding Fun: in short, our intimacy grew so thick he committed himself far enough to say that he was quite in a childish fidget to see his new Gallery and ceiling—much more anxious about that than about the Meeting of Parliament. And last night the agony he got into fancying he should want all the identical books in this library in Town, and which to take, and the sort of goodbye he bid the volumes, gave me hopes of him.

Emmy, you know the brother, William Strangways?[128] He is a curious specimen. He certainly will pack himself up by mistake and send himself as a Fossil to the Geological Society some fine day. I rather like him, he is so good-natured, and so cram full of out of the way information. Another Brother arrived to-day, y-clept Giles.[129] I know nothing of him, and am likely to remain in ignorance, as they go away to-morrow.

She and I get on charmingly. I like her more than I ever did, more than I ever thought I could love anybody who has the misfortune of not being one of us.

Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden.

March, 1820.

Your letter gave me such delight, the laugh of other days came o’er my soul.

My dear, rums is ris, and sugars is fell. My cold is gone, but Aunt is sick, in short, barring myself who am very well thank you, the house is an Hospital.

Aunt has been quite ill, shut up, and the Apothecary busy, all over pocket handkerchiefs and Ipecacuanha.

All my neighbours far gone in liver complaints and buried in bile, so that I have kept aloof from all, when they did not want me, and we are so very, very quiet here, I almost fancy I must be grown deaf, for I suppose the world is still in a bustle, and going on. No letters, no murder, no crimes.

What a retention of correspondence this cessation of franks seems to have caused: when shall we see our wholesome days again?

Emkins, Holland will never do. Why? When, shall I see you? Why can’t you stay where you are? Your brother George is like an âme en peine; he can’t abide nowhere. I suppose you will like the junket, you Beast.... So you have your Grantham.[130] It is all very well we should allow those sort of people to love us, etc. but they must be kept in their place. How little I saw you in Town, and then you think it my fault and that I won’t dine with you. You don’t know, you cannot know, how I have been bothered about it, not by Aunt alone. In short, there is a bother in our celibacy, that as there is no one to speak as one having authority, the whole herd think they have a right to have a pull at one’s tether, and pin one down to their own fancies....

Emmy, only think Danford is going to-day! A woeful day that such a Dan should go.

There’s been a grand inventory to do, and glass and china, etc. Aunt was aghast at the mortalities among the rummer glasses. He denied having crackt their noble hearts, when, oh Providence! oh, juste ciel! their glassy relics rose in judgment, and from the cupboard called for vengeance. There lay their bottoms, which, like the scalps of his enemies, had accumulated in evidence of his deeds. His wen grew pale when he thought of his wages. “Conceive his situation!” What a climacteric! Good-bye, write to me much and often, but if you don’t, never mind, for I know what London is.

I do long to see Matthews,[131] so provoking the animal won’t begin his pranks before we leave London.

April, 1820.

...Poor Aunt gets no worse, but I see no great amendment.... I assure you, Emmy, I take great care of myself; we only sit up every other night, and my spirits are quite good. I am screwed up like a machine, and get through day and night very quickly indeed. I eat and drink and laugh and don’t let myself think.

You must come again, when you can, to see me, Emmy. I have no scruple in asking you to come and see me in the fullness of my dullness, out of the fullness of your gaiety, because when we get together, we get into our element, my darling. Your visit quite refreshed me the other day. I send you some flowers to brighten up your room, and you will put them into the Christening bowls, which lie about your tables.

April 30, 1820.

I have given up the hopes of seeing you, nobody is going to Town, unless I take a cling to some carriage footboard as the beggar boys do. I have given up all prospects of bonnets for the future, and so have ordered one at Kingston.

I had an obliquity the other day, and awful longing to be in London for a leetle, a very leetle while. I tried and tried what you call to reason myself out of it, and I partly succeeded, but the getting out of that folly cost me a great deal, and made me rather rough and uncomfortable. Brushing up one’s reason is just as disagreeable as having one’s teeth cleaned, it sets one on edge for the while....

I am sure you will be obliged to me for telling you, that in a shower in London, a man was running along with an umbrella, and ran against another man, this latter offended man snatched the offending umbrella, out of the umbrellee’s hands, and throwing it away said, “Where are you running to like a mad mushroom?”

If Aunt gets better soon, I will go up in a week or two, and have a look at you, and get a hat. Your Leghorn sounds well, but I never yet found home brewed bonnets answer, they are always ill-disposed, full of bad habits, and get awkward crics about them. Good-bye.

Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden.

May, 1820.

I should have written directly to wish you joy of Mary’s job being so prosperously accomplished,[132] but I have been keeping my bed. My cough has got such a grip of me, nothing does me good.... What a fuss you must have been in I can but think. Was Mr. Drummond in a fuss? Well, it must be a great relief off your mind, and off hers too, poor dear. I suppose she is already doatingly fond of the little brute as if she had known it all her life.... I have got a horrid cold and cough, and I look a beast of the first water, and of course, Edward [FitzGerald] has fixed this moment to come and see us. I expect him in two days, and he expects me in my present haggard, worn, water-gruel state of mind to amuse him and be sémillante. I, who am so low in words, I have not one to throw at a small dog.

Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden.

June, 1820.

I am quite so much better to-day, I entertain some hopes of prolonging my precarious existence a little longer. Company to dinner yesterday. Humbug and Bore kissed each other without truth or mercy. Why didn’t you come to me to-day? Come to-morrow for I have such a piece of nonsense for you.

EDINBURGH,
August 12, 1820.

We sailed Tuesday and arrived this morning by 5 o’clock at Leith. Our journey was most prosperous and very amusing. Our Society of Passengers also kept me in great amusement. I must just mention that their meals amused me as much as any part of their proceedings. One poured whisky over cold pie for sauce, and one ate raspberry jam with bread and butter, all ate peas with their knives. We shall see the sights between this and Tuesday, when we go to Bonnington. Write to me my own Emmy, and direct at Lady Mary Ross,[133] Bonnington, Lanark.

BONNINGTON,
October 9, 1820.

...Your letter amused me. The geographical happiness which has befallen us in being born near one another is indeed inestimable. That horrible supposition of my being the amiable Laplander made me shudder. You always do hit the funniest ideas in the world. You darling, I require something to keep up my spirits, for if I don’t laugh I shall cry when I tell you it is more than probable I shall not see you till next May.

Mary Ross has put it into Aunt’s head that it would be the best plan in the world for us to pass the winter in the Isle of Bute. Living is for nothing. As this is a plan of economy I dare say nothing, but I am very unhappy, I am very unhappy indeed, for I feel my heart sink into my shoes when I think how long it may be before I again see you or any of you.... We shall stay here till November, when we shall go to our little Bute. Our society there is likely to be confined to Mrs. Muir, the factor’s wife, a quick, lively, little body, I am told, which sounds awfully bustling and pert, an occasional King’s officer in search of smugglers, and the master of the steam-boat. I have liked Scotland upon the whole, in short I had determined to make the best of it, and one always partly succeeds in those cases, yet I don’t like the people; they are very hospitable, but du reste, they appear to me stubborn, opinionated, cold, and prejudiced. The women are either see-saw and dismal, or bustling and pert, and appear to me to be generally ignorant, which I did not expect, and the minute gossip they keep us is something I cannot describe.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.[134]

GROSVENOR STREET,
Monday [1820].

DEAREST THERESA, Please to write again directly to say how you are going on. I take your Grove[135] to be equal to my Nocton[136] in matter of bore, and that being the case, if one is to have an illness, one may as well have it at those houses. It fills up the time. My ague is subsiding, but I have fits of it occasionally and hate it very much. I had one yesterday, which even moved George’s strong heart to pity, though he has such a contempt for illness that I keep it all very snug. I am going to Langley to-day, and that is another thing which makes him so scrapey that I am writing in his room in order to talk him over in my most insinuating and winning manner between the sentences of my letter.

He and I go on such different tacks about town and country, that we make our plans, and talk them over for half-an-hour before I recollect that we are working for different aims. He thinks every day spent in the country by anybody who does not shoot is so much time wasted, and I happen to think every day spent in London is a mistake, and I was roused to the sense of our different views by his saying, “Well, but I want you to gain another day in London, and you can write to Louisa that you were not well yesterday, and then stay here, and I will go to the play with you to-night.” Such an iniquitous plot! And I am about as fit to go to the play as to go in a balloon.

George liked Middleton very much. Lady Jersey[137] was going, as soon as the present party was all gone, to turn unhappy for the poor Duke of York,[138] and as far as I can make out, she was going to show it by putting off all the ladies of the party she was to have had this week, and to keep up just enough to receive all the gentlemen. She and Lady Granville[139] seem to have had a fine tracasserie at Paris. George is so charmed with Lady Jersey’s children. He says he never saw such a fine pleasant set of boys, and the girls are very pretty.

I have not been out of the house, except once, to see Elizabeth Cawdor,[140] and with that wonderful quickness of observation that I possess I discovered that she will probably soon add to her family, and that the addition will be very considerable—three or four at least.

Lady Bath is at Rome again and not the least anxious to come home, which is odd. One of Elizabeth’s children is so pretty. I have no news to tell you, as it does not come of itself. One must go to look for it.

[In October 1820 Emily Eden suddenly received from her friend Pamela in Scotland the news of her engagement to a widower with one child—Sir Guy Campbell, and a month later the wedding had taken place. Pamela, in her characteristic way, wrote and announced the event.]

Before you read thro’ this letter call your maid, and get the smelling bottle, for you will certainly faint away with surprise and wonder. Who would have thought it! I don’t believe it myself so I cannot expect you to believe it, but I am going to be married perfectly true in about a month or six weeks.

I am going to be married to Sir Guy Campbell[141].... What I would have given to have had you with me all this time, and at this moment, I miss you beyond expression. He is uncommonly right-headed, of course it follows he is liberal, wide-minded and indulgent, at the same time I see he can take violent dislikes, as you do at times, my best one. He is very tact to a degree, and that you know, Dearest, is a corner-stone in happiness, for there is no fitting two minds without it.

[On her wedding-day, November 20, Pamela wrote to say the Catholic priest had married them at half-past twelve, and that she was to be married again by the Presbyterian minister, and a long dinner was to be given for them in the evening for all the Family to contemplate her. A week later she wrote again to Miss Eden.]

Just like you, and quite tactful not to cool our affection for each other by sending me a wet blanket in the shape of a congratulation. I like Sir Guy more and more, he understands me so well, he knows my faults, which is a great relief, for I have no silent obliquity to smother, or no good behaviour to act up to more than is comfortable. He is doing a set of sketches of the Highlands for you, which I am sure you will like. However, tho’ he is of a Highland family, let me take from your mind any impression that he is at all Scotch in obstinacy, cunning cheek-bones, or twang. He has not been in Scotland for the last six and twenty years. You need not tell dear Mrs. Colvile this, who has built all my hopes of future happiness on his being Scotch to the bone. Hers was the first letter I received with Lady Campbell on it....

I cannot say how pretty it was of you to send that pretty cap, which I think the prettiest cap that ever was prettied. Pat your Grantham for she did that commission well. So she was very brimful of London and the ways and means of the place? You wonder at her liking it so much after having had so much of it; but it grows upon them like a description I read somewhere of some part of the Infernal Regions, where the damned were condemned to misery and dirt, wallowing in mire and sand, but they were so degraded they had lost the sense of misery, and had no wish to leave the darkness for light.

I wear your dear cap often and often, and occasionally Sir Guy wears it when he is not very well. He says he is sure you will be gratified by the attention.

I have had a very neat silk pelisse trimmed with fur, sent without the donor’s name, and as the poor thing is a very pretty pelisse, but can’t tell me its business or where it comes from, I have a silent great-coat here, and thanks I can’t impart. I believe it comes from those Lady Hills, those bosom friends I never could bear, and if I have thanked the Gods amiss, I can’t help it.

Have you seen your Elliots?[142] for I am anxious to know what India has done for them. It is a dangerous experiment, they get so stuffed with otto of roses, sandal-wood and sentiment, they never come quite right....

Aunty is in the grumps with the rheumatism, and the winds and draughts. You know the sort of silent-victim appearance of suffering innocence some people take and wear, which increases when the meat is tough, and the pudding burnt, and which is all more or less aimed at me, till I feel so culprit, as if I blew the winds, and made the cold, and toughed the meat, and burnt the dish. However, I don’t mind it now and go on doing my best for all of them, particularly as she desired not to be troubled with housekeeping, and as I recollect she always keeps a growl at the cold at home. Sir Guy behaves like an angel to her....

I hear they have a large party at Bowood, I suppose the usual routine. I heard of Truval at Longleat, not doing anything particular. That small Ealing address with all the little Truvals of the grove, babes and sucklings, amused me. He was bored at Longleat and deserves to be bored thro’ life. I can only wish him a continuance of H. Montagu’s friendship.

Lady Campbell to Miss Eden.

BUTE,
January 7, 1821.

Many thanks, my darling Emmy, for your delightful letter. Till you are shut up for six months in an old rambling house on the coast of the Isle of Bute in January, you cannot know the value, the intrinsic sterling, of such a letter as yours.... I am sorry poor Mary’s Charing-Cross purgatory has begun again.

I think, if God grants us life, we are very likely to settle, when we do settle, somewhere near London. It is bad for the mind to live without society, and worse to live with mediocrity; therefore the environs of London will obviate these two evils. But I like the idea. I cannot bear Scotland in spite of every natural beauty, the people are so odious (don’t tell Mrs. Colvile). Their hospitality takes one in, but that is kept up because it is their pride. Their piety seems to me mere love of argument and prejudice; it is the custom to make a saturnalia of New Year’s Eve, and New Year’s Day they drown themselves in whisky. Last New Year’s Eve being Sunday, they would not break the Sabbath, but sat down after the preaching till 12 o’clock; the moment that witching hour arrived, they thought their duty fulfilled, seized the whisky, and burst out of their houses, and ran about drinking the entire night, and the whole of Monday and Monday night too. This is no exaggeration, you have no idea the state they are in—men lying about the streets, women as drunk as they,—in short, I never was more disgusted....

Lady Lansdowne did not send the Pelisse. She sent me ribbons, an Indian muslin gown, quantities of French-work to trim it, four yards of lace, a dozen pocket-handkerchiefs; and that touching Lord Lansdowne sent me a beautiful set of coral. She also sent me a white gros de Naples gown. In short, she has done it uncommon well, and I love her as much as I can, and who can do more?

Lady Campbell to Miss Eden.

January 21, 1821.

Many many thanks, my Dearest, for your kind letter. We certainly do understand one another extraordinair well, as they say in Scotland. Your writing in London too is quite “from the depths I cried out.” Emily, there is a sympathy of bores between us. Sir Guy and I have regularly been put out of humour every morning by the new Times, and it will come all the way to Bute, though he has written to agents and bankers and offices to stop it. Like old Time and pleasant Time and Time-serving, there is no arresting it, and its disgusting pages meet my eye and try my temper without cessation. Send me down a little genuine essence of Whig when you have time occasionally. Sir Guy is no politician at all, only I in a quiet way insinuate sound principles into his mind. Not but what I think a military man should be without party, so that the doses I give are very mild. I go no further than just liberality, and now and then drawing him into some remarks on the malversations of ministers.

I enter into your dinner and house bothers.

I don’t find that variety in the beef of to-morrow and the mutton of to-day, which the Anti-Jacobin expatiates upon with such delight, and the joints diminish in sheep when we eat mutton. As for puddings, they are one and the same, and only one, and then when one has tortured one’s brain and produced a dinner, and that it is eaten, my heart sinks at the prospect that to-morrow will again require its meal, et les bras me tombent ....

Lord[143] and Lady Bute are coming here. We don’t know them at all, but I suppose we shall see them, which is bore, for nothing is so tiresome as to be near neighbours with people one scarce knows. One has one foot in intimacy, and the other in formality, and it makes but a limping acquaintance. I don’t think Lady Lansdowne has quite got over my not marrying her way; she covers it up very well, but you know how soon you and I can see through all that, and I know also that Sir Guy is not likely to overcome that feeling in her. He is not a party man, he is not scientific, and unless he likes people he is very shy, and I see they will never make it up. But I always thought marriage must disarrange many acquaintances. I don’t regret acquaintances; even to have had variety of acquaintances is an advantage, for the reason which makes a public school an advantage to a boy; it widens the mind. But to go on through life with them is heartless and thankless too. I mean to save my time, and keep it all for those I like and love.... We have lovely warm spring weather here, always breakfast with the window open and getting away from the fires. I must say the climate far exceeded my expectations. The garden is covered with thick white patches of snow-drops in full bloom. Don’t this make your mouth water, and your eyes too, you poor misery in your cold smoke?

Good-bye, Dearest, have you been drawing and what? I don’t mean just now in London, but in your lucid intervals, and are you well?

So far London is a place that cures or kills. Your own

PAMELA.

Lady Campbell to Miss Eden.

[MOUNT STUART,]
February 28, 1821.

Don’t go out during this pestilential month of March, people may call it east wind and sharp, but it is neither more or less than a plague, that regularly blows thro’ the Islands, and it is nonsense to brave it, just because it is not called pest, or yellow or scarlet, or pink fever, so don’t go out.

I am spending a few days here at Mount Stuart,[144] and you may see that I am writing with strange paper and ink, and have but a distant bowing acquaintance with this fine clarified pen.

You are quite right, one is a better human creature, when one has seen a mountain and it does one good. I only wish I could see a mountain with you.

Your Feilding fuss is so described, that I laughed over it for an hour; my Dear, I see it, and enter into your quiescent feelings on the occasion; things settle themselves so well I wonder other people always, and we sometimes, give ourselves any trouble about anything.

This is a good enough house, but somehow they go out of the room and leave one, and yet one has not the comfort of feeling alone and easy, and I caught myself whispering and Lucy too; I can’t account for it, except by the great family pictures, that are listening all round in scarlet cloaks, and white shoes, and red heels and coronets. Kitty[145] is to be married to-day—plenty of love but little prospect of anything else. Her future income is rather in the line of a midshipman’s allowance, Nothing a day and find yourself.

I hope you will taste this saying, for I am partial to it, it gives one a comfortable idea, that in these days, when the Whigs complain of Ministerial extravagance, the Navy establishment will escape censure.

Lady Campbell to Miss Eden.

March 3, 1821.

Much to say I can’t pretend, but something to say I can always find when I write to you. We left Mount Stuart to-day. Sir Guy, Lucy and I delighted to be at home. Aunt rather missing the cookery dishes, claret, champagne, and a sound house.

My mind is grown much more easy since I have clearly ascertained, weighed, and measured that I don’t like Lord Bute, and of course I have a whole apparatus of reasonable reasons, to support my dislike envers et contre tout. He is proud not in that complimentary sense. Some people use the word implying a dislike of dirty deeds and a love of noble doings. He is not purse-proud nor personally proud of his looks; but the sheer genuine article pride which now-a-days one seldom meets with barefaced. He is proud of his ancestors, proud of the red puddle that runs in his veins, proud of being a Stuart, a Bute, and a Dumfries. He apes humility, and talks of the honour people do him in a way that sounds like “down on your knees.” Talks of his loyalty as if Kings should kiss his hand for it. However though this is tiresome and contemptible, he has some of the merits that mitigate pride. He seems high principled and honourable, with sense enough for his own steerage, and I make allowances for his blindness which must make him center in self a good deal.

She is pleasant enough in a middling way, no particular colour in her ideas. She never moots or shocks, or pushes one back, but she don’t go any further, content to dwell in decencies for ever. She likes a joke when it is published and printed for her, but I suppose a manuscript joke never occurred to her.

They never have anybody there, except now and then Mr. Moore, his man of business, who is in the full sense of the word corpulent, red-faced, with a short leg with a steel yard to it, and a false tuft; and he is Colonel of the Yeomanry. But I like him for a wonderful rare quality in any Baillie, but above all in a Scotch Baillie; he is independent and no toad-eater. He found fault with his patron’s potatoes at the grand table, with a whole row of silver plates dazing his eyne; and he as often as occasion occurs quietly contradicts him....

General Way[146] and his wife are to be at Mount Stuart next week. Sir Guy described General Way as an Adjutant-General, and a Methodist, which sounds such an odd mixture,—true Church Militant. They are great Jew converters. I have been reading a luminous treatise on Witchcraft, seriously refuting such belief. One rather odd circumstance is, that three-and-twenty books and tracts have been written since Charles II.’s reign in earnest support of the doctrine of Sorcery and Witchcraft....

I go on writing in case you are still shut up, it may amuse you tho’ I have no event. An occasional mad dog spreads horror thro’ the district; no wonder I enter into the poor dog’s feelings, he belonged to the steam boat, and that was enough to send any Christian out of their senses, let alone a dog.

Lady Campbell to Miss Eden.

March 10 [1821].

What a delightful letter, and I feel perfectly agonised, not an idea, not a topic, not a word to send you in return. Sir Guy says I may do as I please, so I shall send the Highlands to the right about, and go south to you as soon as the weather is travellable, and that we have seen Sir Guy’s old Scotch aunt[147] at Edinburgh. I must see her because she is called “Aunt Christy.” That name, you must acknowledge, is worth a visit.

I send you, my Darling, a small Heart with my hair in it. Put it on directly and wear it. I know it is a comfort to have a little something new when one is ill, as I learnt when I had the chicken-pox, and found great benefit in some gilt gingerbread Kings and Queens. Lucy used to bring me them twelve years ago; they were hideous, useless, and not eatable, but still they made a break in the day....

I wish I could instil in you a little of that respect and mystic reverence which I never could feel myself for Doctors, and Pestles and Mortars—that blind devotion which is so necessary to make the stuff efficacious, for by faith we are saved in these cases, as in cases of conscience.

I am sorry they have made you have hysterics, and won’t let you have the Elliots, and conversation. That bluff Chilvers,[148] with his Burgomaster appearance, as if he was magistrate of our vitals and poor bowels! I hate him ever since he offered me the insult of a blister, that first blister of hateful memory.

Write, or don’t write, as it suits you. Lucy and Sir Guy are such friends, they quite doat on one another, and understand each other. Therefore wipe away all I said for nothing. That is my comfort with you, I can tell you and then scratch it out again as I please, and that is the only way to be constant in this changeable world, to be able to follow the changes of those we love, so as to be always the same with them.

Lady Campbell to Miss Eden.

[BUTE,]
March 15, 1821.

...We have been a day at Mount Stuart since I wrote, to meet a Sir Gregory and Lady Way—such bores! Oh! no, never. His brother is the great Jew-converter, and has now left his wife and house and estate and is gone a converting-tour into Poland. Some Israelites played him an ungrateful trick. He invited them to his house in Buckinghamshire to render thanks in his private Chapel for their redemption, but alas! they had not cast off their old man, for they stole all Mr. Way’s plate, which he has found it impossible to redeem, they having most probably converted it into money and made off. These people are strictly pious characters, and on Lucy saying she had heard of Mr. Way, Sir Gregory replied: “An instrument, Madam, merely an instrument!”

Lady Way is too heavy, and so dressed out—all in a sort of supprimé way, and wears a necklace like a puppy’s collar....

Did you see those pretty nice Feilding children[149] when the Feildings were in London? I hope that nasty woman[150] will not spoil them.

Have you had Mary Drummond in comfort since you have been shut up and ill?—like the indulgence of barley sugar with a cough; no remedy, but yet it is pleasant. Does Fanny still keep up “brother and sister” with Edward Drummond?[151] I don’t think even Fanny could do it. Sir Guy knows the one in the Guards (Arthur is not his name), and liked him better than Drummonds in general, for there is no denying that Drummonds are Drummonds to the greatest degree.... Send me your low letters, and your gay letters, and all you write, for I love it all.

Lady Campbell to Miss Eden.

March 22, 1821.

...Jane Paget’s[152] business shocked, but did not surprise me. I never saw any poor girl so devoured by Ennui, and I have so long found Bore account for all the unaccountable things that occur, that it solved Jane’s marriage to me. She cannot exist without excitement, for she is completely blasée upon everything. Blasée is the genteel word; you would call it besotted or stupefied, if she had accomplished this vitiated destruction by dram-drinking or opium; but the effect, call it what you please, is exactly the same. I pity that poor Mr. Ball truly, for I don’t suspect him of being equal to rule a wife and have a wife....

I forget to tell you a good idea of Lucy’s, about Jane Paget’s marriage. She said it was such a pity to see good articles selling off at half-price like ribbon in Oxford Street, to make room for a new spring assortment.

We are doing our Mount Stuart again. We have a Mr. and Mrs. Veetchie (a Commissioner of the Customs and has been in the army) and Lady Elizabeth and Mr. Hope. Mr. Hope can be pleasant now and then, but as dulness was paramount during our intercourse, I suspect the agreeableness to be a little gilding he has got from living with the wits of Edinburgh. There seems no source—mere cistern work. Your old Burgomaster Chilvers is clever, and I think as much of him as of any of them. But go on mentioning all he does, whether you are drenched in drugs.

Lady Campbell to Miss Eden.

April 1, 1821.

...Tho’ I know they are all taking care of you with all their might, I feel I should do it better, because I want to be with you so very too much, that I feel cross with those who can be about you. Sir Guy thinks you are a lucky woman in being allowed only ten minutes of everybody’s company; at least the chances are in your favour for escaping bores.

I hear of nothing but crash upon crash in London. Leinster[153] and Mary Ross[154] are obliged to join to help Lady Foley.[155] Lord Foley is so completely ruined, it is supposed it will be impossible to save anything for his six unfortunate children, and Lord and Lady Foley cannot have the satisfaction of throwing the blame on one another. He has gambled, and she has had six guineas-apiece handkerchiefs. She has enjoyed the bliss of boasting she never tied a ribbon twice, or wore her sattin three times. I thought I had made a poor marriage, and was content, but I begin to believe that I am a rich individual.

I think you are right about William,[156] I am sure he has taken a quirk about my marriage, because you see, my dear Emmy, it splits upon one of the very rocks of prejudice he has in his character. I would almost say the only one, but then it is a considerable stone, his worldliness. He would not have had me marry a regular established fool even he was rich, because again, the world might think the worse of me; but if I could, have met a rich quiet man without bells to his cap, made a good figure in London, and of whom some people might indulgently say—in consideration of his fortune, “Such a one I promise you has more sense than one would think, he is not such a fool as people give him credit for.” If I had run the usual race of London misery with such a man, William would not have objected.

It is a crooked corner in him, I have often observed he has a childish respect to the opinion of London; and Paris has done him no good in giving him a notion that it don’t signify what people do, so they keep it quiet, and make no open scandale. I have often wondered at this, because we mortals always try and trace a consistency in character, which is an ingredient never to be found in any composition, foreign to human nature altogether, which we still hunt after, and refer to and talk of, as if it was not as ideal as the philosopher’s stone, a tortoise-shell Tom cat, or any other impossibility you like to think of.

Lady Campbell to Miss Eden.

April 10, 1821.

I have been again at Mount Stuart. Saw a civil Mr. Campbell of Stonefield, whom of course I ought to have called Stonefield tout court, but this seemed to me so improper and affectionate. I would not expose my conjugal felicity to such a slur, and I believe I affronted the Laird. He is a great man, having been at Oxford, of course the refined thing in education in Scotland; just as Lansdowne was sent to Scotland to give him a better coating of education. I suppose on the principle that the longest way about is the shortest road home. I see all those who are taken most pains with make the plainest figure. This man seems, however, to have preserved his whole row of Scotch prejudices unshaken, proud, and touchy.

Lady Campbell to Miss Eden.

THAMES DITTON,
July 16, 1821.

DEAREST EMMY, I have been so pestered and worried. I should only have worried you if I had written to you in the midst of my various bothers. I find I have about one half of my baby linen to get made, Aunt Charlotte[157] having handsomely provided the caps and frocks and fineries, but turned me off with only half-a-dozen of everything needful, and not an inch of flannel. You are enough of a mother to enter into my feelings on the occasion.

I have had scene after scene to undergo with Aunt [Lady Sophia FitzGerald] upon the unkindness of my not remaining to be confined here within the compass of a sixpence, and taking everybody’s advice, sooner than hers, and, in short, not having her in the room with me. As I should have died of that, self-preservation gave me firmness to resist, and I declared I could not. All this was to be kept smooth to Sir Guy, for Aunt chose to be sulky with him. In short I have found the kindness of the house the cruellest thing on earth. I have not had a quiet moment, the neighbourhood have poured upon me.... Lucy is gone mad, for she is preparing to go to the Coronation.[158] Your affectionate and own

PAM.

Lady Campbell to Miss Eden.

Tuesday, August 14, 1821.

...I am settled in Town since Saturday evening, and if Eastcombe has had reminiscences of me for you, Grosvenor Square has reminisced you to me, our evening walks, and Lady Petre, and Penniwinkle. Every valuable Bore I possess has by instinct discovered me in Town, and I have been surrounded with Clements,[159] Cootes, and Strutts.[160] However I had a visit from Bob[161] as a palliative which supported me under the rest.

It is quite impossible to give an idea of the hurry and scurry of the people in every direction, and as if the rain only increased their ardour. Women with drooping black bonnets and draggled thin cotton gowns, and the men looking wet and radical to the skin. I catch myself twaddling and moralising to myself just as I went on about poor Buonaparte. They say fools are the only people who wonder, and I believe there is something in it, for I go on wondering till I feel quite imbecile.

However I own I am shocked (not surprised in this instance) that not a single public office or government concern should be shut. No churches at this end of the town either open, and no bells tolling.[162]

Your small parcel delighted me and is the smartest I had. I have given every direction as to that being the first article worn, for I should not love my child unless it had your things on.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

WOBURN, 1821.

MY DEAR THERESA, There never was a house in which writing flourished so little as it does here, partly that I have been drawing a great deal, and also because they dine at half-past six instead of the rational hour of seven, and in that lost half-hour I know I could do more than in the other twenty-three and a half. After all, I like this visit. It was clever of me to expect the Duchess[163] would be cross, because of course, that insures her being more good-natured than anybody ever was. I am only oppressed at being made so much of. Such a magnificent room, because she was determined I should have the first of the new furniture and the advantage of her society in the mornings, though in general she makes it a rule to stay in her own room. In short, you may all be very, very good friends, but the only person who really values my merits is—the Duchess of Bedford, and once safe with her the house is pleasant enough.

We have had the Duncannons.[164] I like her; she is so unlike Lady Jersey. Miss P. is something of a failure in every way, except in intrinsic goodness; but she was terrified here, and at all times dull, and as nearly ugly as is lawful. They have been the only ladies. Then, there are dear little Landseer, Mr. Shelley, so like his mama in look, and a great rattle; Lord Chichester, Lord Charles Russell, etc.; and a tribe of names unknown to fame, headed by a Mr. Garrett, who is a rich shooting clergyman with the most suave complacent manners!—one of those appurtenances to a great house I cannot abide.

Eliza[165] is in the greatest beauty, and is a very nice person altogether. I think Lord Chichester succeeds here, and there is no denying that he is a creditable specimen of a young gentleman of the reign of George IV.[166] We have been on the point of acting, but the Providence that guards les fous et les ivrognes evidently keeps an eye on Amateur actors and preserves them from actually treading the boards. Your most affectionate

E. E.

Lady Campbell to Miss Eden.

D’ARQUES, PRÈS DIEPPE,
Le 16 Juillet, 1822.

MY DEAREST EMILY, I have been robbed and pillaged and bored and worried, and hate France as much as ever I did, and so does Guy. Mama[167] has made us a comfortable visit, but alas I cannot stay any longer, and conceive my joy! we let our house here, and return to England for my Couche. It almost makes up to me for the business. I shall be in London in August, there to remain six months. To show you how entirely and utterly false it is that you have not always and always had that very large den in my heart, let me beg and entreat that, if you can, you will be in or near Town, if you can manage it, during my confinement.

It would be existence to me. Oh Emmy, I have so much to unburthen and talk over with you—and you only. I am much pleased with what I have seen of Mama, and Guy likes her....

Conceive the fuss we have had! My Lansdowne recommended Bridget as my maid; Bridget turned out a thief and has robbed me to the amount of 70 Pounds, and acknowledged the fact before the Police, which is no consolation, her candour not replacing the articles. We declined the other consolation of pursuing her, whipping and branding, and five years detention; but only—mind you!—never trust Jane Kingston, Lady Bath’s laundress, for Bridget declares upon oath having sent the things to her—my best lace among the rest.

On searching her things, a fine brodée handkerchief appeared, with Harriet embroidered in the corner, and as she lived with Lady H. Drummond[168] perhaps the House of Drummond might wish to make reclamation.... Your own

PAMELA.

Lady Campbell to Miss Eden.

[17 CADOGAN TERRACE,]
September 16, 1822.

MY OWN EMILY, Here have I been settling myself to my infinite satisfaction, after having endured the ordeal of France which I went through. Where are you? What are you doing? Remember I have bespoke you, October I expect to lay my egg.[169] If you are within reach—oh, it will be such a comfort to me, I positively thirst to have a talk with you. I am so happy to be in England. Better to live on a crust or a crumb, which is not half so good in England, than upon penny rolls in France.

I understand Lord Worcester[170] is already so bored with his bargain that he is to be pitied according to the good-nature of the world for anything that is passing wrong. It is sad that for the morality of the world, people will not be convinced that illegality and sin are not free from bore and ennui....

Tell me you are at hand or coming, for I downright long to see you, and in my position you should not let me long, though it would be no great punishment to have a child like you. Sir Guy sends his particular love to you. Your own affectionate

OLD PAM.

November 22, 1822.

Emily, these trembling lines, guided by a hand weakened by confinement, must speak daggers and penknives to you, for never having taken any written notice of me since you chucked me my child in at the window and went your way. As you come on Monday, I refer all to our meeting.

I want you shockingly.... Come to me soon, dear. Your affectionate

PAMELA.

Lord Auckland to his sister, Miss Eden.

NORMAN COURT,
October 29 [1822].

Thank you for your two letters which I would have answered sooner, but we shoot all day and are lazy all the evening.

I am not sure that you knew that Wall[171] had been ill and near losing the sight from one of his eyes. He is considerably better, and shoots as usual, and has no doubt of perfectly recovering.

My trip to Fonthill[172] was an amusing way of passing a spare day, and has left a strong impression of the immeasurable folly with which money may be spent. The house is too absurd, but the grounds are beautiful. Lansdowne has bought some pictures there which he was anxious for, as they belonged to his father. I have just heard from him. He is going for a few weeks to Paris, and like everybody else, is expecting you and me to pay him a good long visit at the end of the year. In his mild rational way he exceedingly regrets that the Cortes have not cut off the head of Ferdinand.[173]

Lady Campbell to Miss Eden.

[1822.]

MY DARLING EM, Your letter has revived me, for I was smothered with Fog and so obfuscated I found myself growing callous of the density of the gloom, and my perception of my own dirt and my neighbour’s grimness was diminishing. I was getting hardened, when your letter and a gleam of dingy yellow sun showed me the state of myself and the children, and I went up and washed myself and repented of my filth. The fog prevented Mrs. Colvile coming, which is provoking. I wanted to show her my boy; she has put so many of them together, she has an experienced eye on the subject[174]....

The Ladies Fitz-Patrick, old Mrs. Smith, etc., are cooking up a match between Vernon Smith and Mary Wilson, old Lord Ossory’s natural daughter with much money.

Emily does it strike you that vices are wonderfully prolific among the Whigs? There are such countless illegitimates among them, such a tribe of Children of the Mist.... Your own

PAM.

Lady Campbell to Miss Eden.

January 6, 1823.
Twelfth Night or what you will.

MY DARLING EMMY, Thank God you have written at last, I have worked myself into a fright this day or two that you were very ill. I have been very poorly, but am better. You are mistaken about that sucking lump being a favourite. I esteem him; he is a man of strict probity and integrity with steady principles, and he is a man would make any reasonable woman very happy in domestic life; but there is a refinement and charm in that Cain that makes a fool of me,—a great fool, for she[175] don’t much care for me, and is radically vicious.

We have got a house between Reading and Basingstoke, a mile from Strathfieldsaye, at a village called Strathfield Turgess:—delightful prospect, well furnished, roomy, with Cow and poultry included, garden meadow, for £84 per annum.

Lady Louisa Lennox had rather taken my fancy, and that negative mind of being Anti-Bathurst is a jewel in their favour. Emily, to have it gravely told me Lady Georgina Bathurst[176] is a strong-headed woman, superior, with wonderful abilities, etc. Cela m’irrite la bile, when I know her to be prejudiced, worldly, entrenched by prejudices upon prejudice, till her very soul is straightened within the narrow limit of the Ministers, their wives, and her own family....

How is your Grantham? My Lansdowne is playing at de petits jeux innocents. I am of a guilty inclination and cannot taste those social innocences, besides, Emmy, we don’t do such things well in England, it don’t suit well, and to fail in a triviality is failure indeed, but the Wilt loves a caper. All this is very well, but I want to talk to you, Emmy. I have such quantities I cannot even tap in a letter, that I could talk out just in one ½ hour.

Louisa Napier[177] is with Lady Londonderry,[178] and the account I think very horrid. Every thing at Cray goes on the same, conversation, laughing, novels, light books, the attaches and habitués coming in, the very red boxes of office left in their places, not a shade of difference in her occupations, amusements or mode of life.

She seems as if determined there shall be no change. This may be fortitude, to me it is frightful. That habits should be so cherished and so rooted as to withstand such a shock as the disappearance of the only object she is ever supposed to have loved by Death, and such a death, is wonderful, and not to be understood if it is upon principles so erroneous....

I dined with the Wellesleys yesterday. Mr. Wellesley[179] acknowledges having been distractedly in love with Sister, and was so pleased to see her at Hastings. He hopes you like the place. His son Arthur is such a cub, and thinks himself so very every thing, it made me quite low. Of the Wellesley girls, the top and bottom dish, or eldest and youngest, are of the specie Geese—the middle ones, Georgina[180] and Mary,[181] are quite delightful, and very uncommon in their way.

Lady Campbell to Miss Eden.

[STRATHFIELD TURGESS,]
April 11, 1824.

Thank you for your last letter, thank you for Lord Lansdowne’s after laugh, but thank you above all, for being still my own Emmy just the same as ever. I suppose you are going to Captain Parry’s[182] fête on board the Hecla, announced in the newspaper. I think he might have asked me, and then I could have got over his ordering all this snow from Gunter’s. However I think he has rather overdone it. I understand there is to be a whole course of Walrus.

I had a letter from Sister, written at Lady Sarah’s[183] the day she left Strathfieldsaye. She is full of good, and agreeable; but yet, I never should be able to be quite friends with her. There is some gall about her which would always give me an afterthought, and keep me perhaps more on my guard with her than with many others who might betray me faster.

I wish you could have seen us all, we were so ill-sorted. As for poor Sister, among three Eton boys, one Oxford merveilleux, 2 silent girls, 1 military clergyman, 2 Colonels, some dancing country neighbours all wound up and going, I don’t know how she survives. By the bye tell me what are a Mr. Adderley and a Miss Adderley[184] to her? Something? Lord Buckinghamshire’s legitimates by a former marriage, or Sister’s illegitimates, or both their children, or no children at all? I was asked and could not tell. Don’t racket yourself to death. I, who no longer sit at good men’s feasts, certainly may magnify the fatigue, but I am sure you do too much.

May, 1824.—There is some saying, Chinese I believe, about not letting grass grow between friends, or words to that effect. Now, you must allow I have mowed it twice, but you will not keep it down, and if you will not, what’s to be done?

Lucy is coming to me to-morrow in spite of her resolutions never to be with me during a groaning. Mrs. Napier, too, who is staying at Farm House with her husband and a few children, wishes much to be with me, and it will, I know, end in my running away into some Barn, like a Cat, to kitten in peace. No, my dear Emmy, you are the only person that can be agreeable to me even in a lying-in—c’est tout dire.

Lucy tells me she saw dear Robert,[185] greatly to her satisfaction, one stray day she spent in London. So odd! for in general those are the particular days one can look out no face one ever saw before, unless one happens to be ill-dressed or in any disgraceful predicament of Hackney coach or bad company.... But strange to say, Lucy met Robert with decency and without distress. She says he is just the same, only sunburnt. How I wish I could see him, if he has any houses of low price and good dimensions, and furnished suited to a genteel but indigent or indignant Family? There is a talk of our leaving this, as the Landlord wishes to live here himself, and I should like to belong to Robert’s flock, of being one of his Ouailles.

Lady Campbell to Miss Eden.

TURGESS,
May 14, 1824.

DEAREST EMMY, I was quite sorry I had sent my letter when the day after I found I was at liberty to talk about William de Roos’s marriage.[186] I am all delighted, and all that, and all I should be when I see him so happy. But tho’ I have been going thro’ all the palliating influence of confidant and in his secret, and within the mark of all hopes, and fears, and difficulties, yet I cannot shake off the idea that she is not good enough, he is selon moi such a dear creature, so much beyond the common run of man, of young men. Of course I rely on your keeping this alongside with your own ideas on the subject.

I believe she is improved, and I liked her once, when first she came out, and you know we certainly sober in this world unless we go mad; perhaps she may have taken that turn. In short there is much in her favour, but while he was marrying a beggar he might have had a pleasanter, but opportunity does all those things, there is no choice in the case. One negative advantage I have never lost sight of, she is not a Bathurst.

I do regret bitterly not seeing Robert. If I was not childing, I could have had a room for him, but somehow I shall be lying-in in every room and all over the place. Give my love to him and ask him seriously, if he knows of a family house that could suit us, as Sir Guy and I are very likely to find all the world before us next February, like Adam and Eve, only with better clothes and more children.

Is not it so like William de Roos to go to Ireland to avoid the wishing joy? He had business certainly, but still nobody but him could do such a thing. Many thanks for solving Sister’s acidities for me. Your own

PAMELA.

Lady Campbell to Miss Eden.

[STRATHFIELD TURGESS,]
Sunday, June 20, 1824.

DEAR EMMY, Yes, yes, you may still show pleasure, surprise, emotion, on seeing my handwriting again. Here, alas, my reign is over, my rôle of lying-in.... One month, one little month, was scarce allowed me; and I was again dragged into the vulgar tumult of common barren life. Provoking and vexatious events are no longer kept from my knowledge, the hush and tiptoe are forgotten, the terror of my agitation has ceased, the glory of Israel is departed! The truth is I am too well; there is no pathos, no dignity, no interest, in rude health, and consequently I meet with no respect. I have not even been allowed to read Redgauntlet in seclusion, and chickens and tit-bits have given way to mutton chops and the coarse nutrition adapted to an unimpaired constitution.

Emily! let me be a warning if you wish to preserve the regard of your friends, the respect of your acquaintance, consideration, attention, in short, all social benefits, don’t get well—never know an hour’s health.

I have got into a fit of nonsense, as you will perceive, a sort of letter-giggle; seriously now I want to hear from you, to know how you are.... Sir Guy is gone to Town to see his sister off to France. He is to sleep to-night in Water Lane, which sounds damp, but is convenient to the Steamboat by which Fanny Campbell sails or boils to Calais.... Your own

PAMELA.

Lady Campbell to Miss Eden.

STRATHFIELD TURGESS,
June 1824.

I wish I knew how you are, and where you are. William de Roos is the happiest of men, and Lady G. has won Uncle Henry’s[187] heart at Strangford by taking to gardening; I do hope it may turn out well and shame the Devil....

As I stood looking over a heap of weeds that were burning, they struck my own mind, as being somewhat like itself, you could see no flame, you could see no fire, and yet it was surely tho’ slowly consuming to ashes. Now you see my indolence does just the same to my better qualities. There is no outraged sin, no crying vice, and yet this indolence eats into my life.

If you will but keep me in order, and pity my infirmities, when can you come to me?...

The great House is a bore, selon moi, but I will tell you all about it when you come. I have just read Hayley;[188] considering I don’t think him a Poet, nor his life eventful, I wonder why one reads it? The truth is, we are all, I believe, so fond of knowing other people’s business, we would read anybody’s life.

July 9, 1824.

Many thanks for your letter. It did indeed make my country eyes stare, and put me in such a bustle as if I had all you did—to do. I have had a great combat, but pride shall give way, and candour shall cement our friendship. The paragraph in your letter about Lord E. threw me into consternation, as well as those who might have known better, for, Emily, he has not written me a word about it, and would you believe it? I don’t know who he is going to marry.... You rolled your pen in such a fine frenzy that I cannot read your version of his name no more than if it had been written with one of the lost legs of the spider tribe. I see it begins with a B., but the rest dissolves like the bad half of those prayers to Jupiter in Air.

I believe I should make your city hair friz again, if I were to detail my country week’s work. However, I will be cautious. I won’t speak too much of myself, which for want of extraneous matters, I might be led to do.... You keep very bad company with them Player-men, those Horticultural Cultivators of the Devil’s hot-bed.

I suppose I shall hear you talk of the Sock and Buskin; it is all that Cassiobury connexion that makes you so lax.

Miss Eden to her Niece, Eleanor Colvile.

SPROTBOROUGH [DONCASTER],
Sunday [1824].

MY DEAR ELEANOR, Your Mamma seems to think you may like to have a letter, and I am vainly trying to persuade myself I like to write one.

The Miss Copleys have their Sunday School just the same as ours, with the Butcher’s daughter and the Shop-woman for teachers; not quite so many children as we have; but in all other respects the two schools are as like as may be, and they are there all Sunday, which gives me time for writing.

Maria [Copley][189] has just been telling a story of a Christening that makes me laugh. She and her sister stood Godmothers to two little twins in the village, and carried them to church. The children were only a fortnight old, and therefore were much wrapped up, and Miss Copley, who is not used to handling children, carried hers with the feet considerably higher than the head. She gave it carefully to the clergyman when he was to christen it, and together they undid its cloak in search of its face, and found two little red feet. They were so surprised at this that the clergyman looked up in her face and said: “Why, then, where is its head?” And she, being just as much frightened, answered: “I really cannot think.” Maria at last suggested that in all probability the head would be at the opposite end of the bundle from the feet, and so it proved.

Good-bye, dear Eleanor,[190] mind you get better. It is foolish to be ill; I found it so myself. Love to all. Your affectionate Aunt,

E. E.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

[EYAM RECTORY], STONEY MIDDLETON,
August 1824.

MY DEAR MISS VILLIERS, George has gone to Scotland to kill the poor dumb grouse (or grice), as they ought to be in the plural, but I will transmit your direction to him, and if he can do what you wish I daresay he will, though I have an idea it is the sort of thing about which people chuse to look really important, and say they cannot interfere.

...Dear Lady Chichester![191] How lucky it is that people’s letters are so like themselves. It is perhaps not unnatural but amusing too, I did not know till Lady Buckinghamshire mentioned it the other day when she was talking of this marriage that the Chichesters have the strongest possible feeling on the subject of connexion, and she said they would look on this marriage as a positive calamity. How very absurd it is, and it is a shame of Lady Chichester to exaggerate George Osborne’s[192] faults so much. He was not in fact very much to blame, in his disagreement with Lord Francis, and if it were not the way of the Osborne family to make their family politics the subject of their jokes to all the world, George would have been reckoned just as good as any boy of his age. I imagine that even Lord Chichester has found his son liked his own way as well as the rest of the world, but perhaps Lady Chichester and he do not impart to each other the little difficulties they find with those separate little families you mention....

We are so settled here that it seems as if we had never gone away, I believe one changes one’s self as well as Horses at Barnet, I lose all my recollections of London, “that great city where the geese are all swans and the fools are all witty” and take up the character of the Minister’s sister, as I hear myself called in the village. Robert’s house is very comfortable, and I think this much the most beautiful country I have seen since I saw the Pyrenees. Some people might think it verging on the extreme of picturesque and call it wild, but I love a mountainous country. I go sketching about with the slightest success, the rocks are too large and obstinate and won’t be drawn.

Mrs. Lamb[193] came here Sunday, and we must return the visit some day, but by a great mercy I broke the spring of the pony carriage the other day. Your ever affectionate

E. E.

CHAPTER IV
1825-1827

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

Eyam,
Saturday [1825].

MY DEAR MISS VILLIERS, What a shame it is that I should have been so long writing to you, particularly after Mrs. Villiers had made the discovery that my letters amused her. My sister Louisa [Colvile] and four of her children passed a fortnight here at the end of last month, and our whole time was spent in “exploring in the barouche landau,” as Mrs. Elton observes.

By the time I have had nine or ten more of my sisters here, and thirty or forty of their children, I shall be tired of my own enthusiasm in the great picturesque cause; but at present all other employments are sacrificed to it. However, it may amuse you.

I shall continue to think a visit to Chatsworth a very great trouble. You are probably right in thinking the Duke[194] takes pleasure in making people do what they don’t like, and that accounts for his asking me so often. We have now made a rule to accept one invitation out of two. We go there with the best dispositions, wishing to be amused, liking the people we meet there, loyal and well affected to the King of the Peak himself, supported by the knowledge that in the eyes of the neighbourhood we are covering ourselves with glory by frequenting the great house; but with all these helps we have never been able to stay above two days there without finding change of air absolutely necessary,—never could turn the corner of the third day,—at the end of the second the great depths of bore were broken up and carried all before them: we were obliged to pretend that some christening, or a grand funeral, or some pressing case of wedding (in this country it is sometimes expedient to hurry the performance of the marriage ceremony) required Robert’s immediate return home, and so we departed yawning. It is odd it should be so dull. The G. Lambs are both pleasant, and so is Mr. Foster and Mrs. Cavendish and a great many of the habitués of Chatsworth; and though I have not yet attained the real Derbyshire feeling which would bring tears of admiration into my eyes whenever the Duke observed that it was a fine day, yet I think him pleasant, and like him very much, and can make him hear without any difficulty, and he is very hospitable and wishes us to bring all our friends and relations there, if that would do us any good. But we happen to be pleasanter at home. However private vices may contribute to public benefit, I do not see how private bore can contribute to public happiness, do you?

Pray give my love to your mother, and believe me, your affectionate

E. E.

Miss Eden to her Sister, Lady Buckinghamshire.

LANGLEY,
July 15, 1825.

MY DEAREST SISTER, Do you recollect my asking you whether you would give us a dinner in the course of the year? Well, at one of our pleasant dinners the other day we were all so mortal agreeable that we settled we should go to Astley’s on the 18th. The party consisted of Maria Copley, Lord Henry Thynne,[195] Colonel Arden,[196] Mr. Wall,[197] Henry Eden,[198] and our three selves. To that it was necessary to add for decency’s sake Sir Joseph and Coppy.[199] It occurred to me this afternoon whilst murmuring over the heat, which is extremely unpleasant, that Astley’s would be the death of us all, and that if the weather continued in its present state, it would be better to change it for a water party.

It would be very pleasant if your carriage and two or three of those nice little poney-carriages you keep on the heather were to meet us at the water-side to bring us to your nice little place, and you receive us in your nice little way, and give us a nice little collation at about 6 o’clock, and let us walk about the place and then leave you, and talk you well over in the boat, as we go back again.

In the first place, these are all the people whom you have read about over and over again, and whom you are dying to see. Then, though they are ten now, yet by the end of the week they will not be above seven or eight.

Sir Joseph hates the water, so as I mean to make a vacancy for the present list I will ask your own Mr. G. Villiers to come with us, and he will be such a support to you. Well, what do you think?

My own interest in the question is this: that I am going to establish a coolness between myself and Lord Henry, who is exposing me to the remarks of the invidious public without any earthly purpose; and I had all the advantage at Burlington House on Thursday of being supposed to be honoured by a proposal from him in the face of many curious spectators, when he was imparting to me his intentions of admiring another person more than me. I do not know whether it was fun or spite, or a tryal of my feelings, or whether he is serious; but as I found that I did not care which it was, I do not mean to favour the world with the sight of any more such long conversations. It amuses them more than it does me, and henceforth I mean not to let him go tagging after me as he has done lately. The Astley party was made before this wise resolution, and I want to change it to a water-party, which will cut him out without offending him, as he never goes on fresh water, and we will ask Mr. Villiers in his place.

Don’t let yourself be frightened, you will find us so pleasant.

Good-night. I can’t help laughing when I see myself introducing the Colonel to you. Your most affectionate

E. E.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

SPROTBRO’,
Sunday, 1825.

You must have got hold of some other family in the same street. It is not my story you are telling me. I am Emily Eden, of No. 30 [Grosvenor Street], who has been marrying a brother[200] in Derbyshire; then has been to Kent to visit a married sister; then found another sister setting off into Yorkshire, and took advantage of an offered place in her carriage and was deposited yesterday at Sprotbro’. I am really delighted that Mrs. Villiers is getting better. Is not Doctor Pidcock the man who cured Mr. H. Greville and whom Mrs. Villiers abused with unusual injustice, first because he was a doctor and no doctor could be of any use to anybody, and next because he was a quack and therefore no doctor. He is taking such a generous revenge! heaping such large coals of fire on her head! I hope he will go on, dear man!—skuttle-full after skuttle-full of fiery coals till she is quite well.

I saw your brother riding up the deep solitudes of Parliament Street the day I drove through London. It was an awful sight. The street so quiet you might have heard a pin drop.

Sister and I left Eastcombe last Monday and went to Gog Magog. I invited myself of course, but Charlotte[201] bore it very well. I was there fifteen years ago in the capacity of a child: I therefore did not see much of her, or know anything of her, and except that, have not seen her but for two or three morning visits per annum; so it was a voyage of discovery, in the style of a North Pole expedition. The Frost intense—and a good deal of hummocky ice to sail through. However, I really liked it much better than I expected. Lord Francis is particularly pleasant in his own house, and young Charlotte[202] very civil and good-natured. I found nine letters yesterday here and have had two more to-day, all requiring answers. I mean to put my death in the papers. It would be cheaper than if I really were to die from the over-exertion of writing eleven letters.

Robert’s new relations write to me, which is kind, but hard, as I must answer them. Lord Bexley[203] has given Robert the living of Hertingfordbury.[204] I have written so much about it lately, that I have at last forgotten how to spell it, and I am, beside, related to it, and am in the habit of familiarly terming it Hert.

Robert leaves this place next week. At first we thought he was going to be immensely rich, but dear Lord Bexley in a fit of conscientiousness divided from Hertingfordbury the living of St. Andrews, which has been given with it for the last 150 years. He thinks it will be a good example to his successors if he divides them in a case where he has a nearer interest, as in a brother-in-law. I can’t guess what his successor may think, and never shall know probably, as I never look to be Chancellor of the Duchy; but I can tell him that I think his relations think it extremely unpleasant, and it makes the benefit rather a doubtful one.

However, it is very good of him, only it is a pity where the principle is so good the result is not more agreeable. And he is so complacent and pleased with his decision! I have found out he is just what a sea-Captain said of one of Wesley’s preachers: “a heavenly-minded little Devil.” Your ever affectionate

E. E.

Monday.—I was prevented by a very long ride on Saturday from sending this. I am so grieved to see poor Captain Russell’s[205] death in the paper. It is not formally announced, but I see it in the Ship news mentioned by the captain of some other ship. Perhaps it may not be true, but yet I fear it is. I saw Eliza[206] the other day in her way from Scotland, as I believe I told you, and she talked with such pleasure of her brother George’s promotion. I had a letter from her a fortnight ago delighted that he had escaped the fever which his ship’s company had all had. Poor thing! I am so sorry for her. She was so fond of him, and the unexpected loss of a dearly loved brother is a grief that must, like all others, be endured, but one that, God knows, time itself cannot heal, and hardly mitigate. I wonder where Eliza is now—whether they are gone to Paris. If you hear anything of her or of Captain Russell’s death will you let me know? I suppose everybody feels most for the calamity under which they themselves have suffered, and from my very heart I pity Eliza, and it was impossible not to like Captain Russell for his own sake.

Good-bye, dear Theresa. Your ever affectionate

E. E.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

HERTINGFORDBURY,
[December] 1825.

I say Theresa, I shall be in Grosvenor Street on Tuesday from twelve to four. Please, if you are in the land of the living, commonly called Knightsbridge, to come and see me and we will talk a few.

We (thereby meaning Robert, his wife, and me) arrived here from Derbyshire last night, and are quite delighted with this place. It is a real country place, not like a parsonage, with a little park something in the Irish class of parks, but with fine trees in it and a pretty garden, and everything very nice.

We are just come back from our first church here. There are a great many nervous points in a clergyman’s life, and I think the first interview with his parishioners rather awful. I remember the time when I used to think a clergyman’s life the most pitiable thing in the world. I am wiser now, and can see the numerous advantages a man has whose duties and pleasures must necessarily be one and the same thing.

Robert preached to-day a sermon I wrote, and to my horror I detected a disguised quotation from Shakespeare in an imposing part of it, which was not obvious till it was read aloud. However, it was probably not very apparent to anybody but myself. I was rather in hopes of seeing you in a corner of the Cowper pew, but it was quite empty. Well, I can’t stay chattering here all day. Your ever affectionate

E. EDEN.

Miss Eden to her Sister, Fanny Eden.

LANGLEY FARM, BECKENHAM, KENT,
November 11, 1825.

MY DEAREST FANNY, Begin writing to me again forthwith. I have heard from the Copleys with fresh plans for my going there, so that I should not have been in want of a house.

Mary says Mr. H. Greville[207] is so cross she does not know what to do with him. What if it is love for Isabella Forester.[208] She is sorry he is so foolish, and if it is bile—she is sorry he does not take more pills.

Why, Foolish the 5th, don’t you remember my white muslin gown with tucks and blue stars between them, and the body done with blue braiding, and I wore it the Chatham day, and it smelt of the tobacco old gentlemen were pleased to smoke in our faces, so I would not let it be washed for their dirty sakes till Wright showed it me by daylight and told me I was probably not aware I had worn it 30 times. And to be sure it was not the cleaner for it. Still, it grieved me to have it washed. I shall go and see our Caroline [Vansittart] in town and shall come down with all my hair stroked up the wrong way by her remarks. Your most affectionate

E. E.

[The year 1826 brought many troubles and great unhappiness to Lady Campbell. Her sister Lucy, who had always been an anxiety to her, had married Captain George Lyon, R.N., in 1825. Lucy evidently had her full share of FitzGerald beauty and charm, large dark eyes and beautiful chestnut auburn hair.

In January she arrived at Calne, where the Campbells were now living, in a great state of misery, having just parted with her husband, who had gone to take up an appointment in Mexico. The couple had sailed together, but for eleven days the ship tossed about in a storm and finally was obliged to put back. Mrs. Lyon was ill, and she decided to remain in England; her husband left her at home, hoping to rejoin her in a year and a half.

In February Lady Campbell’s cousin, Arthur de Roos, died at Boyle Farm, and in the following autumn her two elder children were dangerously ill with scarlet fever. Her friend, Miss Wellesley, and four of the servants also caught this illness, and her sister Lucy died of it at Thames Ditton when her child was born.

“I have had eight persons ill of the fever. As soon as they come into the house to help do for us,—they fall sick.”]

Lady Campbell to Miss Eden.

[CALNE,]
January 13, 1826.

MY DEAREST EMILY, I never was so provoked in my life at anything, and I cursed the aristocracy of the country, and I was told of it[209] as coolly as if it was a distress in Ireland. Seriously, what provoked me was her never telling me till after it was all given up, and put an end to, for thank Heaven I have a small house, and therefore can always make room, and I could perfectly have put up Fanny, and you, and your maid.

I had the gratification of seeing the whole party swamped in Crambo, and water-logged in Charades, and a large party writhing in the agonies of English Xmas conviviality, without any young ladies, without any music to break the awful solemnity of the evening, and no Lord Auckland to make them gamesome.

Lord Dudley was their wit, and as there was nobody to play with him, I saw he tried to domesticate himself, as he could make nothing of his jokes, or, what was worse, saw them torn to pieces before his eyes by the avidity with which the hungry society seized on them, to support themselves thro’ the day. But who could even domesticate in that drawing-room?

Sir Guy nearly died of Crambo, and was very near taking a Dictionary with him the next time. But as he is not at all of the go-along tribe he kicked, and would not cramb.

The event of the next time was Charades, and our enthusiasm knew no bounds when Lord Dudley joined the crew, and appeared with his coat turned inside out, and enacted a chimney-sweeper, and rattled a stick upon a bit of wood. Our rapture was indescribable, and it reminded me of the feelings of those who in ancient times beheld great men doing little things! Anecdotes which Historians always dwell on with that delight which human beings naturally feel on seeing a dry patch in a bog, or a green patch in a waste—the man who ploughed in Rome after heading the Yeomanry or Militia of the Republic; the man who picked up shells near the same place; that other who had the horticultural turn for sowing Lettuces—all these men were nothing in effect to Lord Dudley playing at sweep. I felt it deeply.

It was that day too he said when they offered him toasted cheese, “Ah! yes; to-day is Toasted-cheese day, and yesterday was Herring day!!”

How we all laughed!!!

How goodly is it to earn fair Fame! Once get your charter for a Wit, and you may sit down with all the comfort of being a fool for the rest of your life. One joke a year—not so much—even one bad joke now and then, is a better tenure than all those forms of carrying a Hawk, or the King’s Pepper-box, at the Coronation, for an estate.

We had a ball at Bowood the night before Twelfth Night. It went off very well indeed. I had the pleasure of cramming my small Pam[210] into a pink body and seeing it dance, and seeing everybody make a fuss with it because it was by many degrees the smallest thing in the room....

No; there never, never, never, was anything so cross as your not coming to Bowood this year, because I had looked to it just as you did, and had even distressed myself about how I should manage to see enough of you, and whether Lady Lansdowne would facilitate our intercourse, and I meant to show you all my new editions of children, and even make you superintend the new one, for certainly the one you picked up in Cadogan Place is the prettiest of the whole set. I cannot tell you how kind Lady Lansdowne is to me, and she need be so after putting you off; but she does really load me with kindnesses. However, we are not to stay in this house. It smokes and is too dear for us, so alas! I am again hunting a domicile. We get poorer and poorer, but as Guy bears it better and better, I don’t mind.

I am glad you see William.[211] He is so dear a creature! His Family cannot forgive him for having picked out a little happiness for himself his own way.... Your affectionate

Pamela C.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

March 30 [1826].

MY DEAR THERESA, Robert and his wife are coming for a week to Grosvenor Street, and I must be there to order their dinner and sweep their room, so I shall go there on Saturday and stay in town ten days. I shall be very glad to see you again. Pray come as soon as you can—Saturday afternoon if possible. I want you to come in the light of something good, to take the taste of going back to London out of my mouth. It is an ugly place, is it not? Probably I shall forget my troubles to-morrow if I do not fix them by mentioning them to you to-day. I always find that when I have withstood a strong temptation to mention to my friend the worry of the moment, it ceases to be a worry much sooner than the grief which has gone through the process of discussion. But the struggle is unpleasant.

I liked Malachi particularly.[212] I have not seen the answers, but hear they are very amusing, which is a pity. I have long vowed never to be amused by anything Mr. Croker should say or do, be it ever so entertaining, and “shall I lay perjury on my precious soul?” as Shylock says, for a mere pamphlet?

I have been trying to read The Last of the Mohicans and have come to a full stop at the end of the first volume. I am sure you will not like it. Those vulgar Mohicans only wear one long scalp-lock of hair—they don’t crêper! Nasty savages! And so far from wearing full sleeves, it is painfully obvious that they wear no sleeves at all, and not much else in matter of cloathes.

Have you been uneasy about Sarah? Sister would have been if she could, but it came out unfortunately by the admission of those who saw her, that she had not been quite so ill as angry, and Sister weakly goes backwards and forwards to London on the chance of being admitted, and then hears Sarah is gone out airing. They say it is a fine sight to see the preparations for her airing. She “plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven” and the clerks of the Treasury; but whether she has succeeded in making any “angel weep” but dear Robin,[213] I do not know. However, it is wrong to laugh, because I believe nervous complaints are great suffering, and at all events poor Mr. R. was frightened.

Good-bye, my love to your mother. Your most affectionate

E. E.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

TUNBRIDGE WELLS, Sunday, August 6 [1826].

DEAREST THERESA, I had such a desire to write to you yesterday because it was not post day and I had no frank, and to-day it goes all against the grain, because I have plenty of time and George is come back to give me a frank and my letter can go. But you always make me write first; why, I never make out. Have you any good reason for it?

Our Tunbridge speculation is answering so well to us. I always knew I should like it, but George’s content, indeed actual enjoyment of the place and way of life, surprises me. We have such a clean house, just finished, and we are its first inhabitants, so we run no hazard of being devoured by a flea hacknied in the arts of devouring and tormenting. I was just going to bother myself by inventing a description of our way of life, when George showed me his answer to a vain-glorious description of the joys of Worthing, which Mr. Wall, who is living there, has just sent, meaning to put us out of conceit with Tunbridge by the vulgar notion of the Agar-Ellis’[214] man-cook and carriage and four, and so I shall copy part of George’s answer.

It opens with a moral: “We are better off and happier than is properly compatible with a life of innocence and vegetation. Our house is delightfully clean and comfortable. The living very good. Fish caught at eight in the morning at Hastings is devoured here at three. The eggs, cream, and butter, are brought to us in an hourly succession of freshness. All the material of the kitchen excellent, and the appetite too pure to think that it is a female that cooks it. Then a few glasses of hock and some coffee, and an hour’s repose, and we meet at Lady C. Greville’s,[215] Alvanley[216] and his sisters, and the F. Levesons.[217] We assort ourselves upon horses, into barouches, etc., and start for some of our inexhaustible lions; and we end our evening together with the feast of nonsense and the flow of tea.” He ends his letter with a promise to be at Norman Court the 1st of September, and adds, “My guns are at home and the locks click sweetly. Water the turnips when it does not rain.”

How much more foolish men are than women, particularly about their amusements. We none of us write to each other about our white sattin gowns that are hanging sweetly up at home.

George does not mention what is I think the most curious part of our life—that I am actually dressed and down at the Wells every morning before half-past eight, and he generally arrives only five minutes later. We dine at three and go to bed at eleven, and are in a ravenous state of hunger at all hours; and the consequence is that I can already walk three or four miles without being tired.

The Duchess of Kent arrived two days ago, and we live in a transport of loyalty. We insisted on illuminating for her and dragging her into the town, which naturally alarmed her, so she put off coming, meaning to step in unobserved. But that our loyalty could not suffer; and I never stepped out without 50 yards of rope in one pocket, and a Roman candle in the other, for fear of accidents. However, I believe she was allowed to drive up to her own door, but there were some fine illuminations afterwards.

Lord Alvanley is an amusing incident at this sort of place, and it is a pity he is not more likeable, because there is certainly nobody more amusing. He goes away Tuesday, but he liked it so much he means to come back again. We all parted yesterday evening, quite worn out with laughing, and yet I cannot recollect what he said. But it was very delightful. Except these tea-drinkings we could not be quieter or more independent in a country home of our own. Nobody visits of a morning, and in the evenings they are all in their coloured morning dresses.

You will be happy to hear that our three-shilling coarse straw bonnets are only a shade too good for the style of dress here.

I wish you were here. The man who built this house might have guessed we should like to have you. The upholsterer knew it, for there are more beds than enough, two in each room, but there are only three good bedrooms, and neither Fanny nor I could sleep except in a room by ourselves. But you must let me know your plans, because George will be obliged to go away in a fortnight more, and unless any of my sisters mean to take his place, which I do not suppose they will do, I think you might give us a visit. It is the sort of life you would like. I have not done so much drawing for years as during the last week. I have copied those six Prints on six cards for that tiresome Hertford fair, and they looked so pretty in that small shape I was quite sorry to send them to Robert.

What nice weather you have for your Gravesend expedition. Is the great review of Tide-waiters[218] taking place to-day? I have not the least idea what they are, what are the origin, manners, and customs of the nation of Tide-waiters? If they are people who wait till the tide serves they will flourish for ever. The poor dear tide never serves anybody, and if they gain their bread by tide-waiting, what floods of tears they must shed at Othello’s description of the Pontic Sea, which knows no retiring ebb....

I am decidedly in what Swift calls “a high vein of silliness” this afternoon; but it is the fault of the weather and of being in the country, which, after all, is the only thing that makes actual happiness. Your affectionate

E. E.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

THE GRANGE,[219]
Sunday, 1826.

MY DEAREST THERESA, I should have written sooner to tell you where to write to me, but I was rather in hopes George would let me stay another month at Tunbridge. Everybody was going away, so we might have had a very small house for half the price we gave for ours, and as the servants will eat whether they are there or in Grosvenor Street, I thought we might have lived more economically than in posting all over England. However, after much correspondence, George, who terrifies me by the way in which he spends his own money, settled that the expenses were nearly equal, and that being the case that he would rather have us with him. “I never met with such an instance of politeness all my life,” as the immortal Collins observes,—not the Professor Collins, but the far greater “Pride and Prejudice” Collins. And so we packed up and came here, and I expect George and Mr. Wall to arrive every minute.

In shooting season they only travel on Sundays, I observe. We lived at Tunbridge almost entirely with the F. Levesons. I had a great idea that I should dislike her, which was a mistake, and if I were given to engouements, I should suppose I were suffering under one now for her, only it came very gradually, which is not the case with that complaint, I believe. First a decrease of dislike, and then not caring whether she were in the room or not, and then a willingness to walk towards her house, and then an impossibility to walk in any other direction.

The last fortnight we had the de Roos’s, who dined with the F. Levesons’s as often as we did, or else we all dined with the Peels;[220] and if we dined early, we rode after dinner and met again for tea. I can ride four hours at a time now without the least fatigue and walk in proportion. I like the Peels too, only I wish Lady Jane would bind him apprentice to a tinker, or a shoemaker, or to anybody who would make him work, as he seems to have an objection to the liberal professions. From mere want of employment, he has fancied himself into bad health, and does nothing but hold a smelling-bottle to his nose all day, even at dinner. How it would annoy me if I were his wife!—because he has talents enough, and can be pleasant when he is roused. I cannot think how any clever man who has not estate enough to find his property an occupation, can consent to be thrown by his own choice out of all professions. I should be a lawyer to-morrow if I were Lawrence Peel, or a lawyer’s wife if I were Lady Jane. She might persuade him into it I am sure, if she would try, and it would be so much better economy than consulting Doctor Mayo three times a day, which he does sometimes.

There is nobody here but Lord Carnarvon and his daughter, and Mr. Newton the painter, and one of the sons of the house. This is such a delicious house now it is finished, and heaps of new books and good pictures.

I intend to make much of a friendship with Newton. Mr. Baring tells me he has seen a great deal of you, which is an additional reason why I should make his acquaintance. He seems to me clever and paradoxical and a little Yankeeish and perhaps conceited, but that picture of Macheath[221] is a great set off against any faults he may have. It is impossible, too, that I can know anything about him, as I only saw him for five minutes at the other end of the breakfast-table; but I like to state my first impressions. They are invariably wrong, and now I know that, they are just as good as if they were right, I may believe with much assurance the contrary of what I think.

Is your brother George in town? And did I fancy, or could he have told me that I might enclose to him at the Custom House a parcel above the usual weight. I want to send to my sister-in-law some interesting little caps I have been making which will not be much above weight. Your most affectionate

E. E.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

HERTINGFORDBURY,
Monday, September, 1826.

MY DEAREST THERESA, Your account of yourself pleases me, partly because it is evident the proper remedy for your illness has been found out, and also because you write so much more legibly, which is a good sign....

I do not know what state of appetite you are in or how much you eat, but could not you live lower, and so require fewer leeches? Give up that egg you mix so neatly with your tea and put on the leeches less.

You ask if I care about the present state of politics? Why, dear child, I never cared for anything half so much in my life,—almost to the pass of being sorry I am out of town this week. I am trying to subside, simply because I do not think any of our people will get anything in the scramble; but still it is amusing to see such a mess as all the other side is in, and any change must be for the better, you know we think....

I doubt if the Chancellor[222] is safely out yet. He writes such characteristic letters to an old sister-in-law of his who lives in this village, talking of his release from fatigues that were too much for him, and rest for his few remaining days, etc.

We dined at Panshanger yesterday. Lady Cowper[223] is miserable at being out of all the ferment of London. She is a Whig only by marriage, I suspect, and a regular courtier at heart, but talks bravely just now, with only occasional regrets that the Duke of Wellington should have been so ill-advised....

I saw Lady Ouseley yesterday and she is quite aware how ill you have been, and that you could not write to her. I never can give my mind to her conversation, but she looked very melancholy, and yet I cannot recollect that she mentioned any misfortune except that Sir Gore[224] had the rheumatism. Janie looked to me like a standing misfortune. She is so very plain, and she does not pay the slightest attention to her poor melancholy mother.

I am glad you are reading those books. To be sure, you are reading Boswell’s Life of Johnson only now. I knew that, the Memoires de Retz, Shakespeare, and a great part of the Bible, almost by heart before I was eleven years old; so then there was not a thought left for me to think upon manners, men, imagination, or morals. Everything is in those books. On scientific subjects I never could understand other people’s thoughts, and am guiltless of having had one of my own even on the simplest question. My sentiment, later in life, I took by the lump, in absolute cwts. out of Corinne[225] and Lord Byron’s Poems, and so, as I said before, I have never had a thought of my own and I do not believe any of us can, in the way we are all educated; and I suppose it is lucky, as they would be foolish thoughts probably if they came.

God bless you, dear, and go on getting better. Your ever affectionate

E. E.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

BOWOOD,
September 24, 1826.

MY DEAR THERESA, I am in such a bad mood for writing, that I could not set about it with a worse grace, only you will not write to me if I do not write to you.

I am devoted to the arts just now, and to the improvement of my small mind, which I have brought to a high state of cultivation by studying fifteen books at a time, some of them amazingly abstruse, such as the Life of James Mackoul the Housebreaker—very improving. Also I have finished my Denham’s Travels, and the Life of Professor Clarke and Les Barricades,[226] a diluted sort of history, partly history and partly dialogue, which Lord Lansdowne likes because it is the fashion at Paris, but it is uncommonly stupid. And I have been dipping into Pothier’s Histoire de l’Eglise,—and in short, if we stay here a week there is no saying how much I shall read, or how little I shall remember.

Think of the agonies of coming here last Monday doubtful if we were expected or not! Il Fanatico per la Musica (by which form of words I opine that the Italians translate: Lord Lansdowne) passed last week at the Gloucester music meeting, so he did not receive George’s letter in proper time, and of course there was some mistake about his answer, as there always is about any letter that signifies, and so we did not know if this week suited them. A warm reception from her is in the best of times doubtful, and arriving against her wish would have been horribly degrading. George never will enter into those sort of feelings, but that only makes them worse. However, he promised, if he found we had not been expected, to go on to Bath, and then we had a beautiful wild scheme, if I could have made my mind up to twelve hours’ steam-boat, of going from Bristol to see Elizabeth Cawdor.[227] But unfortunately we found our rooms here all ready, so we shall not see Wales this year. The Lansdownes were quite alone, expecting us, and she in the most cordial affectionate state; the place, which I have never seen but at Christmas, quite beautiful, and in short, I never liked Bowood half so much before. That was sure to be the consequence of expecting to dislike it.

Our Newton we have overtaken here again. He left the Grange rather in a huff some days ago, affronted somehow about his singing (at least so I heard, for I was not in the room to hear it); but he went away suddenly and ungraciously. I certainly don’t like him, he is so argumentative, and talks so much of himself. His opinion of your brother George amused me particularly. He raves about you, but sensibly and properly, and calls you Miss Villiers. I have not a notion what line you take when you praise me, but he will distrust your judgment in future whatever you said, for he is one of the people to whom I must be odious. I go and look at his picture of “Macheath,” which is in the drawing-room here, and which I think one of the best modern pictures I know, and collect a large mass of esteem and admiration for the painter, and rush into the library and address myself to him while it is all smoking hot; and before I have been five minutes there, all my good opinion turns sour and bitter and tough and cold, and he might just as well never have painted the picture at all.

Moore[228] has been here the last three days, singing like a little angel. He has some new songs that make one perfectly and comfortably miserable, particularly one, set to a very very simple air, and with a constant return of the words, “They are gone,” etc. He was singing it here on Friday, and there was a huge party of neighbours, amongst others a very vulgar bride who is partly a Portuguese, but chiefly a thorough vulgar Englishwoman, calls Lord Lansdowne “Marquis” when she speaks to him, and turns to Lady Lansdowne all of a sudden with “Law, how ‘andsome you look.” Just as Moore had finished this, and we were most of us in tears, she put her great fat hand on his arm and said, “And pray, Mr. Moore, can you sing Cherry Ripe?” George and I, who were sitting the other side of him, burst out laughing, and so Moore was obliged to make a good story out of it afterwards; else he owns he was so angry he meant to have sunk it altogether. Your ever affectionate

E. EDEN.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

EASTCOMBE,
October 1826.

MY DEAR THERESA, I must be come to my second childishness and mere oblivion, for I cannot recollect whether I have answered the letter you wrote to me at Shottesbrook, and which followed me here, or not. If I have written, you had better put this in the fire, because it must be the same thing over again. One thing I know: That I have written above twenty letters since I came here. My family are all dispersed, and I have unwisely enlarged my list of friends, and my acquaintances have been uncommonly troublesome; and in short, I have been ill-used in the article of letter writing.

I have such miserable letters from my poor dear Pamela. It breaks one’s heart to read them, and yet she is very good. She wrote to tell me of Lucy’s death immediately after it occurred, and wrote in the greatest agony, but even then resigned, at least trying to be so, and thinking much of the life of trouble which poor Lucy would have had before her. Pamela said, “Think of her Aunt, think of her poor husband, think of all but her, for she was miserable and it was in mercy that God took her.” And I believe her death to have been in fact occasioned by the state of excitement and anxiety in which she had lived since her marriage; and she had little chance, with her strong feelings and the peculiar circumstances of her situation, of anything but an increase of anxiety. Pamela writes me word to-day that her four servants—all she keeps—are in the scarlet fever, and her eldest little girl had just begun with it, and she has had, ever since Lucy’s death, a sort of nervous pain in her throat that prevents her swallowing anything but liquids, and is grown very weak. I am telling you a long story, but I think you are interested about her, and it is such a melancholy situation that I can think of nothing else. To be sure, I have, as it is, a great many more blessings than I deserve; but it is hard that the want of a little foolish money should keep me from the best friend I have in the world at the only time in which I could be of use to her. However, if it had been possible, George would have taken me to her, and there is no use in murmuring at impossibilities. God knows I can enter into her feelings as a sister; and now that she has so much sickness in her home, it is cruel to leave her with a half-broken heart to struggle through it by herself. And yet I do not see how it is to be managed. Pamela writes but little of the scenes she has been through. She says she cannot endure to express her feelings in writing, though she thinks she would be better if she could talk it over.

Captain Lyon was coming home in January, but perhaps this will prevent him. Poor creature! What an arrival it will be if he has set off before this news reaches him.

You are quite right. I followed you in Berkshire, and next week I am going to Robert. It is doubtful whether his child[229] will live, and Mrs. Eden has hardly been allowed to see it; but she wrote yesterday in the greatest spirits saying there had been a great change for the better, and the baby was then in her room; so I trust now it must be thought out of danger. What a horrid piece of work a lying-in is! I am more and more confirmed in the idea that a life of single blessedness is the wisest, even accompanied, as Shakespeare mentions, by the necessity of chanting faint hymns to the cold lifeless moon, which, as I have no voice, rather discomposes me. I shall astonish the moon, poor fellow, when I set off, but as for going through all my sister-in-law has done this fortnight, I could not, and would not, for all the Roberts in creation.

I cannot come to Knightsbridge just now, I am sorry to say. It is highly flattering, my sisters are all fighting for me, and with a very superior cool air I allow them to divide me.

I will not say anything about Sarah; she is too bad, if she knows what she is about. Poor Mr. Robinson was summoned back from Wrest[230] yesterday, where he had been amusing himself three days. She sent him word she was dying, and when he arrived in the greatest haste yesterday, she was gone out airing. He was very cross, but too late. It relieves Sister from a very fatiguing attendance, and that is all the good I know.

I shall probably have to unsay all I have said of Newton, for George has discovered he thinks him pleasant, which is an unexpected blow. Do not twit me with inconstancy if I say so too. Your most affectionate

E. EDEN.

[Lady Sarah Robinson was the daughter of Robert, 4th Earl of Buckinghamshire. Her mother died in 1796. Three years later her father married Eleanor Eden, who proved to be a good, hard-working stepmother; Lady Sarah gave her constant employment in that capacity even after her marriage to Mr. Robinson in 1814.

Lady Bucks saw that her stepdaughter was comfortably provided with clothes. Amongst other items in her trousseau, were “five beautiful sattin gowns all covered with lace, and twelve high gowns all covered with lace, and nineteen more low gowns all covered with lace—thirty-six in all.”

Lady Sarah had one daughter Elinor, who, seeing the discomfort her mother underwent before the birth of one of her children, said she was “determined to have all her children before she married, and enjoy herself afterwards.” Elinor died, aged eleven, in 1826. A year later her only son was born, George Frederick Samuel, who succeeded his father as Earl of Ripon in 1859, and was created Marquess of Ripon in 1871.

Lady Sarah was highly nervous and hysterical, and a constant source of amusement and irritation to her relations and friends. Her husband resigned after he had been Premier for five months, stating that his wife’s health would no longer allow him to remain in office.]

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

EASTCOMBE,
Sunday, 1 o’clock, October 30, 1826.

DEAR THERESA, I am sorry you had the trouble of sending for me yesterday, for Mary Drummond settled when I arrived that my remaining here would allow her to go home to her children, so she went home after dinner last night and I sent up to London for my things and all here was in such confusion, and there was so much to write that I could not write to you. The poor child[231] is still alive, and yesterday afternoon we had all talked ourselves into spirits about her, though Warren and West[232] continue to repeat that they cannot allow the slightest expectation of her recovery to be entertained. Since that, my sister’s maid writes me word this morning that she has had a most wretched night, constantly screaming and groaning without one moment’s quiet, and that the attendants all thought her very much worse, but that Warren did not think her materially so, as they did.

Think what it must be to witness. Sister has not been out of the room since seven yesterday morning, and with the exception of Tuesday night has sat up seven nights. She sees no one, but I had a composed letter from her last night. Sarah sat up on Friday, and from fatigue and anxiety gave way yesterday morning entirely, and had several fainting fits. Nobody can tell what he goes through, and he is, I think, as nearly angelic in his feelings and conduct as it is possible for man to be. The doctors speak of him with tears in their eyes. Fanny and I are going to walk there now and may perhaps see him, but at all events some of the doctors. You have no idea what it is the waiting here, expecting every hour to have directions to have this house prepared to receive them. They will all come here as soon as it is over. Yours affectionately

E. E.

Lord Auckland to Miss Eden.

LONDON,
October 30, 1826.

I have not been able to hear anything about you to-day, and am almost fearful I shall go out of town without doing so. At all events direct to me at Pixton, Dulverton. Your last note was far more cheerful, but yet it is a frightful and wretched state of things.[233] I saw Mrs. Villiers yesterday, and Newton to-day; he is putting Theresa’s monkey into one of his pictures, and goes to Knightsbridge to draw him. She seems to be ill.

November 21, 1826.

I saw your de Roos yesterday, and he begged me to tell you that Sir Guy Campbell has an appointment in Ireland which will put him and Pam more at their ease—£600 a year. It is very satisfactory.

Little Macdonald is going to be married to an Irish widow, an old acquaintance and attachment with a very small jointure. He is going over to be married, and returns to attend the January Sessions. John Murray, too (you may remember him at Edinbro’), is going to be married. He was on his way to Bowood, and passed a week at Sydney Smith’s on his road, who had to meet him a fat Yorkshire lady of forty, with £60,000, and rather blue. Just the thing for him, and it was all arranged, and Sydney Smith is delighted, and expects visits from Scotchmen without end.

Lansdowne is in town, but she is not, and the Lambs are here, and the Duke of Devonshire,[234] who says he is too poor after Russia to go to Chatsworth. But he has a cloak of black Fox worth £500 and is happy.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

EASTCOMBE,
Tuesday night, November 1826.

DEAREST THERESA, You will have heard before this that all is over. I could not write sooner, and I knew you would hear. To the last the poor dear child’s sufferings were dreadful, and she never had one moment’s consciousness....

Lord Grantham[235] arrived at the moment she expired. I wrote to him on Saturday to say he had better come, or rather to ask him if he did not think so, and he came off instantly, and I am so glad now, for you have no idea of the good effect it had on Mr. R.

Poor Sarah surprised me more than anybody. She cried a great deal, but was perfectly reasonable in her grief, and has fortunately taken the turn of feeling that it is only by her exertions her poor husband can be supported at all, and she kept repeating all the morning how much worse her calamity might have been, that at all events she had him left and ought not to repine. She thanked Sister, and, in short, nothing could be better than her conduct.

All hours come to an end at last; all griefs find, or make, a place for themselves. Don’t you know what I mean,—how they work themselves into the mind, and so, by degrees, the surface of life closes over and looks smooth again, and I always think what a blessing it is in these cases there are so many little things that must necessarily be talked over and done. It fills up the time.

Sarah and Mr. R. come here to-morrow, and then go to Nocton[236] for the funeral.

I think this day has lasted a year, and I cannot see to read, and my eyes are sore, and Sister cannot bear the light. In short, you must bear with me to-night. I am tired to death in my mind, and it rests me writing to somebody.

It was such a house of misery—the poor little French girl and the governess crying in one room; Warren[237] with his cold sarcastic manner talking to West, who was crying like a child. And yet he need not. He was right from the first, and perhaps that is a painful feeling, to think that all the misery he saw, might have been spared if he had not been thwarted....

There is nothing I would not have given to escape the journey to Nocton. I had a sort of cowardly wish that George would not let me go (though I would have gone too, at all events), and I was almost sorry when his letter began, “You are quite right, and so go.” And yet I have been often pretending to wish that I had more positive duties to do. We are such horrid hypocrites to ourselves. I am going to Nocton, I suppose, from the same feelings that lead Catholics to go up the Scala Sancta on their knees—a sort of superstition. It must be right, it is so unnatural and disagreeable; and yet I am very fond of Sister, and Sarah was once very kind to me, and is now again. It is very wrong; when you praised me in your letter it smote my conscience. Almost everybody but me has a pleasure in doing right. I have often thought how much you must have to learn on the subject of calamity for the loss of friends, but do not learn it before you must.

Lord Grantham has been such a comfort to them all. Your most affectionate

E. E.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

Nocton, Lincolnshire,
Monday evening, December 13, 1826.

Bless your foolish heart! No, child, there is nothing the matter—never was anything worth mentioning. We have ruralized some time in this rustic Bedlam, and some of us got loose on Wednesday; but we are all caught and shut up again, and there is no harm done except 250 guineas gone and spent in post-horses, and we are all thin and exhausted with anxiety and shame, some for themselves, and some for others. I believe I sent you, at the time of Clarke’s[238] last visit, my farce of the new “Mayor of Garratt,” with the plot made out into scenes, and specimens of the dialogue; but a good five-act comedy has written itself since Wednesday. Sarah is willing to laugh at it all herself now, and does so, I hear;—and after all, poor thing, it is no wonder she is nervous about health just now. All her fears I can excuse, with the death of her child from mismanagement constantly weighing on her mind; and the folly she is betrayed into, her fear is responsible for; but as she knows that her mind is beyond her own control, the provoking thing is that from the moment she begins to be ungovernable, she refuses to see anybody except servants who cannot contradict her.

As long as Mr. Robinson is forthcoming that does not signify, as to a certain degree he prevents her doing anything outrageously foolish; but he was took with a bad headache on Wednesday, such as he often has, a regular case of Calomel and black dose which the Lincoln doctors prescribed, and said he would be better the next day. But in the meanwhile Sarah worked herself into such a state that she sent off at eight in the morning two expresses, one for Clarke who lives in Norfolk, and another for Henry Ellis, Doctor Warren, West, and I fancy any others of the profession who chose to come. She would not see Sister, or rather speak to her; for Sister once went into her room and found her (who has not had her feet to the ground since I was here) walking about like anybody else, and actually running into the library to write her letters.

Poor dear Mr. Robinson got quite well as the day went on and the dose went off, and then Sarah began to be frightened at what she had done; and then she saw Sister and was content to be advised, and a third messenger was sent off to stop all the doctors he could find on the road. He turned back Warren in his chaise and four at Biggleswade; and West in his chaise and four, a few miles beyond. Before the express came back, we were living in the pleasing expectation of going in to dinner,—Sister, Anne,[239] Mary, and I—each arm in arm with a doctor—Clarke, Warren, West, and Swan—the Lincoln man. I wanted to make a pleasant evening of it, as there was not much sickness about, and after dancing a quadrille with them that we should take a little senna tea, and then have a good jolly game at Snap-dragon with some real Epsom Salts.

I forgot to mention that Sarah, with fatigue and worry, had made herself so ill that a fourth express went on Thursday to fetch Clarke again. She makes all these people travel in chaises and four par parenthèse; Clarke came on Saturday night, and then it was to be broke to that dear good gull Mr. Robinson that any doctor whatever had been sent for. I had no idea before that she could have been enough afraid of him to have kept anything from him; but he even read that paragraph in the paper about himself and wondered what the mistake could be.

However, Sister, as usual, was persuaded to take a great deal of the scrape on her shoulders, and Clarke, who seems clever enough, undertook to announce and explain the rest. Mr. R. was, I heard, horribly annoyed at first, but is resigned now, and it is all smothered up in her dressing-room where she has shut him up, and I do not know when he will be allowed to call himself well again.

I hear she is very low now the excitement is over, but wisely declares she shall do just the same next time, and he begs he may go as his own express. Poor man! he has a bad prospect before him, but I do not think that he minds it.

She professes the degree of religious feeling that is seldom met with, and which appears to me inconsistent with any worldly feelings whatever, above all with her feelings for self. The quantity of her religion it is impossible to deny, but I doubt its quality being right; and when I see that her high-flown mystical ideas end in making everybody round her perfectly miserable, I go back to the suspicions I have entertained for some time that the old simple religion we were taught at four years old out of Watt’s catechism is the real right thing after all. “If you are good, you will go to Heaven, and if you are naughty, etc., etc.” You ought to know your Watt’s catechism. I shall learn mine over again, and begin quite fresh in the most practical manner.

Oh, by the bye, and another thing I have found out and meant to tell you is, that Virtue is not its own reward. It may be anybody’s else, but it is not its own. I take the liberty of asserting that my conduct here has been perfectly exemplary. I never behaved well before in my life, and I can safely add I never passed so unpleasant a month.

Well, my dear, good old George arrived to-night, which is payment for everything, and he has not blown his head off to signify.[240] There are no marks visible by candle-light, though he looks ill from starving. I have been very poorly myself with a cold caught by the open windows, and what it appears is called swelled glands. I never knew anything but a horse had that complaint or something like it, and that then they were shot; and as far as humanity goes that is a good cure. I went stamping and screeching about one day like an owl with the pain. If I get better we are going to Woburn, George says; but if I continue poorly I shall leave him there, and go home on Saturday. It is astonishing how kindly I feel towards Grosvenor Street. I am almost wishing to be settled there, for the first time in my life.

I am sorry to give up Sprotbro’, but if we had gone there, we must have done Erswick first where the Copleys will be, and where there is a great charity bazaar meeting and a ball, and all sorts of County troubles, and George prefers Woburn.

I am sorry not to see Maria Copley; Anne and Mary are still here, and I quite agree to all you say of Anne. I am so fond of her, and so is Sister. Mary is very dull, but seems amiable. I cannot tell you whether Sarah is kind to them. You must see her to understand the state she is in; but she is not unkind to anybody, and never now finds fault with anybody she speaks of. She very seldom speaks at all, unless she is excited to defend some religious point.

She sometimes smiles when Mr. Robinson and I have been talking nonsense, but does not say anything. Your most affectionate

E. E.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

NOCTON,
December 15, 1826.

MY DEAR THERESA, I wish to apprise you not to go in search of me in Grosvenor Street, because I am not there. “I am very bad with the ague,” as people must be in the habit of saying in these fenny districts. I ’ticed my poor dear George out of town into this horrid place, and here he is with nobody to play with and nothing to do, and missing his Woburn shooting.... Still the idea of another’s bore is a heavy weight on my mind.

You will be happy to hear that Mr. Robinson is very well. George says he never saw him better, and he makes a point of telling him so three times a day at least. The poor man is starving, as Sarah will not allow him to dine except in her dressing-room at two o’clock, because, as she does not dine down with the family, she says she cannot trust to his promises not to eat more than is right, as she is not there. He happens to have an immensely good appetite since his headache, and frets like a child about this; but has not courage to dine like a man on the most unwholesome things he can find. I would live on mushrooms and walnuts and fried plum-pudding if I were him.

This conversation passed verbatim yesterday, but do not for your life mention it again. He wanted to go to the stables when he was out walking, but said Sarah had told him not. However, he went boldly to her window and knocked at it. “Sarah, I wish I might go to the stables?”—“No, dearest, I told you before not to go.”—“Yes; but I want to see my horses. Mayn’t I go?”—“No, darling, you said you would not ask it if I let you go out.”—“Yes; but one of my horses is sick, and I want to see it.”—“Well, then, if Mama will go with you, you may.” So Sister actually had to go with him to take care of him. She told me this, and did not know whether he was ashamed of it; but I saw him in the evening and he repeated it, evidently rather pleased that he was made so much of. He is a poor creature after all, Theresa, though you are so fond of him. Your most affectionate

E.E.

Anne and Mary went on Wednesday. I did not see them the last two days, but Mr. Auckland still does not admire them. I wish Anne would be as pleasant in society as she is alone with one. I think she is nervous.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

NOCTON,
December 1826.

DEAREST THERESA, There is a shameful substitution of the donkey for the poney who ought to take these letters to post, so allowing for the difference of speed, the letters go an hour and a half sooner than usual! and Mr. Robinson has just sent up the frank for you, he says the letter must go in ten minutes, so it is no use my trying to make a letter. I have mentioned your and Mrs. Villiers’s enquiries constantly to Sarah, and read her aloud bits of your letter yesterday. I think she likes enquiries.

It is more than I do; I pass my life answering them still, because people whom I never saw or wish to see, know dear Miss Eden will excuse them if they trouble her again, etc. I don’t excuse them at all, but I am obliged to answer their letters just as if I did.

It is difficult to know what to say.... When first we came down I thought her really low for two days, though it struck me as odd that she was so little attentive to him. However, I believe she thought him too cheerful, though God knows it was the falsest cheerfulness ever was acted.

Since Saturday she has been exactly in the state in which she was before poor Elinor’s death. She talks and thinks of nothing but her health, and I really believe (and I do not think it is want of charity that makes me so, for I pity her still) that a thought of her child does not cross her mind twice in the day.

She is absorbed in herself, and has been more animated since she has been—or called herself—ill, for she talks of her complaint without ceasing and without reserve. It will be said more than ever she is in the family way, for they have sent an express for Clarke, and we are expecting him to-night, and nobody knows what to say to him when he comes.

I think she is a little ashamed about Clarke, and I grudge the hundred guineas, which would be better bestowed on weavers, or the people in the village here.

Sister tried to be candid about it last night, and said that Clarke would probably stay a day or two when he came, and he would amuse Sarah; I suggested that for half the money I could have persuaded several pleasant men to come from London to stay double the time, so it must not be defended on the plea of economy.. She could not help laughing, because in fact she is less taken in than anybody. The cold of this place surpasses anything I have ever felt. Yours

E.E.

CHAPTER V
1827-1828

Lady Campbell to Miss Eden.

CORK,
May 21, 1827.

SAILED at two, Saturday; landed at passage within the Cove of Cork last night at six. All sick, but the children so good and patient. I was quite proud of my brood, even the Baby[241] showed an esprit de conduite that edified me. Six boats came out and fought for our bodies under the ship till I thought we should be torn to pieces in the skrimmage. They, however, landed us whole, when another battle was livrée for us among the jingle-boys who were to whisk us to Cork. We were stowed in three of these said carrioles called jingles, driven by half-naked barefoot boys who began whirrrring, harrrrowing, cutting jokes, talking Irish, and galloping in these skeleton carts till the children caught the infection, laughed and roared and kicked with delight. A violent shower came on. Who cares? thinks I, they must have Irish blood in their veins, for this is very like English misery, but they naturally think it Fun. We arrived in tearing spirits, very wet, and were cheated of a considerable sum in shillings. We are in an excellent Hotel and set off early for Limerick. Nobody dare travel late in this poor country. Oh, Emily, it is melancholy to see the misery and cunning and degradation of these poor people. I could cry, and I sit looking about, having heard so much of them all, that it appears to me I am recollecting all I see!... Such beggars! they show me such legs! and one was driven up in a barrow, legless!

LIMERICK,
May 29, 1827.

Here I am settled dans mes foyers in a roomy, comfortable, homely mansion, with dark black mahogany unwieldy furniture and needlework chairs ranged round the room in regiments, and a glowing embery turf fire.

We have a field before the house with a walk round it; we look upon the broad Shannon and the Clare Mountains.... We have a complete leper, a Lazarus, outside our door, which gives me a sort of Dives feel, very unpleasant to my conscience, and sumptuous fare every day, and purple and fine linen, keep running in my head, that this very day I mean to go and make a treaty of peace between this lame beggar and my conscience that I may rest. I have also a stiff straight-cut schoolmaster who opens the gate. He is of the established Church, teaches boys, makes shoes, and was a soldier.

We have fine Artillery Barracks; we have a Lunatick Asylum not so large as the Gaol, and serves three counties; which shows the country abounds more in Knaves than Fools. But oh, the misery, the desolate look of the whole country, the beggary—I shall never get used to it. And the whole country looking as if it was capable of being the richest in the world. This large river flowing on without a boat upon it, crowds of people talking and sauntering about in rags, complaining of having no work.... The whole country looks sacked. However it is reckoned very quiet just now.

This part is reckoned very rich and prosperous. Our living is excellent, meat, milk, eggs, and poultry, and fish so cheap, I feel as if it was quite a pity I cannot eat more at once.

July 6, 1827.

...We are getting a little outrageous in this county, and very much so in T’p’rary, for we lack potatoes there, and hunger sharpens the wits, so we just lift the flour and potatoes cast for our use. Is it possible that Lord Anglesey is to be our Lord-Lieutenant? Am I really to pray for him, and for the sword the King puts in his hand, every Sunday in church? Oh dear, dear! What a wretched country this is—it wearies the spirit to see it.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

BIGODS, ESSEX,
Sunday, July 1827.

I have been longing for a letter from you.

I have not seen an individual out of this house since I entered it three weeks ago, except one day when we dined at Lord Maynard’s,—the most melancholy ceremony, barring a funeral, I ever assisted at. Conversation is one of the social duties not practised in Essex. Mary and I talked our level best, and they must all have thought us either the most delightful people in the world, or the most impudent.

The very names of the neighbours are as monosyllabic (a very puzzling word to spell) as their conversation. Mr. Brown and Mr. Wish and Mr. Rush and so on, so contrived, I am certain, to avoid prolixity. The work of education goes on from morning to night. Six small Intellects constantly on the march, and Mary, of course, is hatching a seventh child. I own I am glad I am not married, it is such a tiresome fatiguing life; and though as a visitor I delight in the children, yet I would not be so worn and worried as their mother is on any consideration. I think she fidgets too much about them, but a large family is a great standing fidget of itself, and I suppose one would be the same under the same circumstances.

I like this undisturbed sort of life, only the days go so fast when they are all alike. There is a good, hard, reading library in the house, and I am quite glad to find that when I cannot have novels I can read other books just as well.

George seems to have found London very amusing to the last. He wrote to me the other day after he had been supping at Lord Alvanley’s, who was in great delight at some Paris pantaloons he had heard of,—Peau de Pendu; and if the Pendu was the right size the Pantaloons fitted without a wrinkle and without a seam of course. George is by way now of being settled at Eastcombe. He has had a great many parties down there to dinner, some that must have been hard trials to Sister,—Sir J. Copley amongst others.

The B. Barings were to dine there Friday. I do not think Lady Harriet[242] will suit Sister. Do not let it go any further, I tell it you in the greatest confidence,—but in fact you are beginning to find out that the Barings are rather failures—I mean as to agreeableness. It will be some time before Mr. Baring fails in the moneyed sense of the word; but I see you, in fact, think, of the Grange just as I do:—charming place and family, but a dull visit, and to my last hour I shall go on saying, as you do, and as I always have said, that Harriet is a very superior person. But nobody will ever guess how dull I think her. I like Baring père[243] the best....

I am glad you are more just to little Mr. Wall. I tried to be so unjust to him myself that I do not like to find anybody else so. After all, he makes one laugh, which is a merit, and he is a warm friend, and if he is a little ridiculous, it is no business of ours. Heaven help Mrs. Wall—if there ever should be such a person. But there never will....

I hope we shall go to Ireland; but it seems to be in a troublesome state and I should hate to be piked. If we do go, I shall be so pleased to see your George again. You need never be the least jealous about Lady F.[244] I like her character very much, and her society very well; but I never should think of having for her the real warm affection I have for you, or expect the return from her I expect from you. It is quite a different thing,—what is called great esteem, I suppose. She does not care a straw for me. Our Irish journey is fixed for the 29th, next Monday week, the day we fixed when you were in Grosvenor Street, but Mary ain’t brought to bed a bit more than she was then, and I have some doubts whether I shall be able to go as soon as that. The doctor here thinks my lungs are in fault, but there never was a Doctor who saw me for the first time that did not think the same, and afterwards found out his mistake, and I always confute them by recovering so quickly.

I cannot say half I had to say: all my moralities about poor Mr. Canning,[245] and then I have had such an amusing letter from Pam, and Sarah is worse than ever. Your most affectionate

E. E.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

BIGODS, ESSEX.

This is to be a simple line, because I am in what Mary Palk[246] used to call a religious bustle, occasioned by the difficulty of being in time for church if I write my letters. And the post-time and church-time clash cruelly, and I have made this such a week of rest as to writing that I am horribly in debt. I cannot help thinking George’s cold contempt for anybody who leaves London at all, which broke out into words the day before I left town, relieved his indignant heart, and I think he will perhaps let me stay. I cannot understand your not liking the country; it is an inconsistency in your character, and if I did not spurn an argument, I might almost deign to point out to you unanswerable reasons for hating London—as a place I mean, not as a means of seeing one’s friends. Its effect on one’s liver you will not dispute.

We sit out of doors all day. I should not like to paint myself, but I have done some sketches of the children in that chalk style, that certainly betray unequivocal marks of genius; inasmuch as their nurse, who was mine in former days, declares she had no idea Miss Emily could take them off so well, and she would not mind having them pictures for herself—which is wonderful for her to own.

Mary [Drummond] is very well, all things considered. I wish you could hear her play; I always think it the prettiest music in the world. She plays a great deal now. I heard from Pam to-day; very well, and resigned to Limerick. I wish you could manage through your Mr. Jones, or any better way, that she might have her mother’s[247] letters from Paris without paying 2/10 for them, which she says is the whole of her income. Can you manage it?

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

BIGODS,
July 12, 1827.

Well, I had nearly seized my pen yesterday, and leaving all decorum and propriety, throwing aside all the prudent and guarded forms and usages of society, was on the point of writing to your brother, merely from complete distrust of his being up to the tricks of the Goderichs. I was going as his friend-in-law, the friend of his sister, to implore him for once not to be a simple gentleman-like fool, not an honourable-minded generous idiot—in short, to stand up for his rights, and not to take the offer of 7/6 or 7/4 which Lord Goderich would in all probability make to him for the use of the house for a week and a compensation of the loss of the rent for the ensuing three months. He might not have offered so much; but I merely state the case in the grand Liberal manner.

Some obscure passages in Sister’s letter yesterday, and a very accurate observation for many years of the manners and customs of the Goderich tribe, led me to imagine they were trying to throw the house back on your hands; and I wish to exhort you all not to catch it if they throw it at you ten times a day. Charles Drummond desired me to add that as far as £10 would go to assist in any prosecution against Sarah for breach of contract, he should be most happy to subscribe it. However, I waited for your letter, and am happy to see that for once I was mistaken about the Goderichs as you do not mention that any shabby offer was ever made. Accepted, of course, it could not be. You know the usual answer is, that everything is in the hands of the agent, and you have nothing to do with it, and that Mrs. Villiers would of course say. I still mistrust them, and cannot quite understand some of Sister’s expressions. Her story otherwise tallies wonderfully with yours, except, that though you were in the next house, you cannot know how very much Sarah contrived to outdo her usual self in this instance. Sister is fully aware how tiresome she herself was. I should like to send you her letter, only it is so long; for it is very amusing, though it is a shame to let anybody see the abject slavery in which she and Mr. Robinson live.

It is quite a Fowell Buxton[248] case. They are always so kind as to call Sarah’s horrid bad temper—excitement; and Sister says that none of them have ever seen Sarah in such a state of excitement (such an overwhelming rage, evidently) as she was in this time. She would not hear of the slightest contradiction, and Sister said she had been obliged to write every half-hour to poor Mrs. Villiers without being able to make Sarah even listen to her representations. She was quieted at last by a quantity of Laudanum, besides her own way to satisfy her. The last would be a pleasant sedative to most of us.

Miss Eden to Lady Campbell.

BIGODS, ESSEX,
July 1827.

DEAREST PAM, This may be excellent weather for the hay and corn, but it is not good for writing, does not bring out letters in any good quantity. I cannot write when I am hot, and besides, I have been taking a good week of repose down here with Mary, and have carefully abstained from any exertion greater than sitting in the shade, with a book (turned topsy-turvy for fear I should read it) in my hand. I had so much to say to you, too, about that breakfast at Boyle Farm[249] and your brother—rather old news now; but as your old butter seems very fresh by the time you have sent it over to us, it may be the same with our news sent to you.

In the first place, your brother has made himself extremely popular with all Lord Ellenborough’s[250] enemies, which comprise the whole of what is usually called London society. Lord Ellenborough went to Astley’s about ten days ago, and his own box was overstocked; so he went to another belonging to Mr. Anson, Lord Forbes and a party of gentlemen, your brother amongst others, but Mr. FitzGerald did not come in till after Lord E. had settled himself there. When he did come, Lord Ellenborough chose to consider him as the intruder into his own box, and threw him several of those looks which he considers irresistible, whether in contempt or supplication. Probably also he shook those horrid grey locks at Mr. FitzGerald. However, early next morning he received a note from Mr. FitzGerald that he had observed the insolence of his looks and could not submit to it, and Lord Ellenborough must either meet him, or make him the most ample apology, not only in words to Lord Forbes, but by letter to himself. So Lord Ellenborough did make the most ample apology in words to Lord Forbes, and then wrote a letter of five pages to Mr. FitzGerald, four of them apologetical and the fifth, they say, a very high eulogium of your brother’s character, courage, morals, and all. Mr. FitzGerald observed that was all very well, but he “should keep an eye on Lord E. to the end of the season!” They say it was delightful to see Lord E. walking about at Boyle Farm looking so bland and benevolent, and so well-mannered. That is the way the story is told, and, I really believe, as little exaggerated as may be, and you have no idea of the delight it excited. Lord E. has the advantage of being entirely friendless, and the insolence of his look is just the very thing that wanted correction.

I suppose you heard the general outline of the Boyle Farm breakfast, if not, I could send you our card. Lord Alvanley, Lord Chesterfield, Lord Castlereagh, Mr. Grosvenor, and the Sarpent[251] were the five givers; but in fact they each subscribed £300, and the Sarpent had the management of the whole. Mr. Grosvenor asked humbly to be allowed to ask two friends, which was refused, tho’ he said it was really an object to him; and upon investigation it turned out that the two friends were his father and mother. The conversations about the invitation must have been like those between the Triumvirate,—Lepidus Alvanley giving up an ugly aunt in exchange for two ugly cousins of Augustus Chesterfield’s, and these the bassesse of London. It never came out in a finer manner. You and I remember about four years ago when the Sarpent came gliding into Almack’s—and no woman spoke to him, and he—even the Sarpent’s own self, looked daunted; and now he sent out his cards naming on them the pretty sister of the family, asking Lady Caroline Murray,[252] and leaving out the eldest and youngest sister (tho’ Lady Mansfield was the first reputable person who took him up at all); desiring 22 of the prettiest girls in London to come in costume—patterns and directions sent with the card—and I actually heard people of good character, who have stooped to ask him constantly to dinner, lamenting that now he would not look at them for fear of being obliged to ask them. He called to ask the Barings—at nine o’clock the night before the breakfast, apologised for not having been able to spare an invitation for them before, and added, “the only condition I make is a new gown; I believe there is still time for that.” They went! In new gowns! I believe there never was a more beautiful breakfast when all was done—those sort of men will succeed! Everybody seemed pleased with it. What stories may have risen from it have not yet transpired. And Mr. de Roos said to Lady Jersey, he trusted the whole thing had been done most correctly—he should be miserable if there could be even a surmise of the slightest impropriety...! Fanny and I sent our excuse—partly from not wishing to go, and then it would have been necessary to spend immensely on dress, which I hate. There is such a story about the Miss Strutts[253] asking for an invitation, too long to write, but so amusing. Your own affectionate

E. E.

[John Wilson Croker in a letter to Lord Hertford gave the following account of the Boyle Farm breakfast.

“The great ‘Carousal’ of the year has been the fête at Boyle Farm on Saturday last. I could fill three letters to give you any account of this entertainment, and of all the impertinences which preceded and accompanied it. It was exclusive to the last degree; the founders of the feast, Alvanley, Chesterfield, Castlereagh, H. de Roos, and Robert Grosvenor, balloted, it is said, for every name proposed for invitation. The wags say that Lord and Lady Grosvenor had four black balls; on which Robert Grosvenor said that really he could not be of it if he were not to ask Papa and Mama. Upon this he was allowed to invite them, but on an engagement that they should not come. People who were shabby enough to ask for invitations were well served in the answers they usually got; the men were rejected because they were old or vulgar, and the ladies because they were ugly.

It was really amusing to hear at the Opera the reasons which the excluded ladies gave for being seen at so unfashionable a place as the Opera was that night. I will not make you stare with all the fables which are reported, roads watered with Eau de Cologne, 500 pair of white satin shoes from Paris to counteract the damp of the green turf. More gallons of Roman Punch than Meux’s great brewing vats would hold. Fire-works ordered on this scale. The Vauxhall man was asked what was the greatest expense he could go to, and then ordered to double it. And so I need hardly add that I was not invited, but it really, and without exaggeration, was a most splendid fête. Alex. Baring calculated the expense at £15,000; but no one else that I have heard carries it higher than £3000 or £3500.”]

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

BIGODS, ESSEX,
Wednesday, July 1827.

MY DEAREST THERESA, If you are still in town, which I expect and hope, call in Grosvenor Street late on Friday (after your Aunt) and you will have the felicity of finding me, and perhaps of taking me home to dinner.

George writes me word to-day that there never was such a mistake as my being out of London (which I cannot understand, as by his own account it is a desert), and that he finds it quite impossible to make up his summer plans without seeing me, and if I cannot come up alone, he must come and fetch me. Then Mary says she shall go demented if I am not here again by the 1st of August; so to save them both all further trouble I shall go up Friday for a few days, hear what George has to say, see you, take leave of the Copleys, finish up the House Accounts, claim my allowance, pay my bills, lock up the tea and sugar, look over the House Linen, go to the Play, call on Lady Grantham, and then come back to stay, if George leaves me time enough, till Mary is confined. She insists on my being with her (I mean in the house), and, of course, I had rather too be with her if she likes it; but if an equally near relation should happen about the same time to require my attendance on the drop at Newgate, I should prefer that employment of the two. Shorter and pleasanter, I guess. I am so disgusted with our foolish laws which could not hang, could not even punish, that William Sheen[254] who cut off his baby’s head. It appears we may all kill any child, so as we call it by a wrong name; and as nursing disagrees with Mary, I have some thoughts of calling her baby Peter Simkins, and cutting off his head as soon as it is born. But I must say that our laws never are of any use when there is a real crime to be punished.

I wonder whether you are still in town. I hope you are. If George makes any engagement for me Friday, I might dine with you, perhaps Saturday. George says he gives a grand entertainment at home that day, and as he was not aware I was to be at home then, I shall probably be de trop, though he does not specify whether he has asked the Professors of the London University, or the Keepers of the wild beasts, or all his mistresses, saving your presence. But I should like to dine with you. I do not know what has given George this sudden fit of indecision as to his summer. He had invented such a good plan, that he and I should take Fanny to Knowsley, deposit her there, cross over to Ireland, make a little tour there, see Pamela, come back by Stackpole, see Elizabeth,[255] and then go to Norman Court and the Grange for our shooting. It was a pretty idea of his, but then he is naturally a great dear. However this strikes me as rather an expensive journey, so I do not press it, and if he has thought better of it, I shall encourage his more economical thoughts. If not, I shall be very glad.

Sister has offered us Eastcombe and the use of all her servants for the summer, if we want it.—So good-bye for the present. Your most affectionate

E. E.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

BIGODS,
Saturday, August 11, 1827.

MY DEAREST THERESA, I do not consider that hash of Mrs. Villiers’ and yours a fair answer to my letter. You said actually nothing, and she left off just as she was coming to the pith of her discourse. But I must write to somebody to-day, else I shall die of a reflection of astonishment and indignation. I shall blow up, I shall go off, I shall break down, I shall boil over, all about Lord Goderich;[256] and yet it is twelve hours since I have had George’s letter, and I dare not write to him for fear I should differ entirely in my view of the subject from him. He states facts only (cunning dog!) and not his opinion; but only to think of Lord Goderich being Prime Minister, and Lord Lansdowne under him; and if he is Prime Minister, what is Sarah? Queen of England at least. I still think the arrangement will all fail when it comes to particulars; but still the mere idea is so odd. Even at the beginning of the session, Robin was considered highly presumptuous to aspire to being Leader in the House of Lords, and at the end of it there was not a doubt anywhere, I thought, of his total want of Talent. And yet he is to be Prime Minister! All the poor little children who read History 100 years hence will come to the Goderich administration, and as they will never have dined in Downing Street, or lived at Nocton, they will not have an idea what a thorough poor creature he is.

Thank Goodness, I have never been taken in by history. But our poor King! I have pitied him all the week, and now I pity him still more, because as he lays his old head on his pillow he must feel that he has outlived the talent of England—that, in fact, he has not a decent subject to produce. Hateful as those Tories are, I declare I think it would have looked better to Foreign Powers to have produced Mr. Peel and the Duke of Wellington again. I wonder if the King knows anything of Sarah, and what a poor wretch Robin is? But it is so like her luck! She has always all her life had what she wished, even to a child. Not but what her confinement is now put off again till the middle of November, by authority; and in the meanwhile she sees nobody.

Lady Campbell to Miss Eden.

LIMERICK,
August 28, 1827.

Glad to see you, my own Emmy?—I think I shall be glad indeed.... The past four months of my life I would not wish to my Enemy’s dog, but I am better now, and can jog on a little. Emily, it will be too much delight seeing you here, particularly if I can have you in the house. My only fear is that you and Lord Auckland will not be comfortable. So many children, not a very good cook, an uncertain climate, and a Life Guardsman who cannot wait, and to whom I dare not speak, as my remonstrances agitate him so much. I actually hear him perspire behind my chair.

I will not press my reflections on Mr. Canning’s death upon you, as they probably would not be very fresh, but will you tell me why I was sorry? Poor Lady de Roos, who has a pretty extensive system of what I call individual politics, was in hopes of seeing Lord Bathurst and Lord Melville return to the places whence they came. These two being the very ravellings of the fag end. All idea of racketting us to Liverpool is over, and I rather think we shall have our choice of going to Dublin, but I do not wish to move till Spring at all events....

I know nobody here that I like or ever wish to see again, except a Miss Ouseley, and she is gone to Dublin; so only imagine what a delight it will be to see you, putting our original stroke of friendship out of the question.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

LONDON,
Saturday, September 1, 1827.

MY DEAREST THERESA, I ought to have written sooner, but I have been so languid and sick. Mary’s lying-in was the most charming amusement in the world. I believe that is one of the points on which we have argued with all the extra-pertinacity that our complete ignorance naturally gave us, and for once I think you were right. It is not the awful business I thought it had been. She was ill a very short time, had no nurse (because hers did not hurry herself to arrive so much as the child did), has recovered without a check, and I left her on Wednesday nursing Mary the 2nd[257] with great satisfaction to herself and child.

George has been as usual all kindness—willing to give up all his shooting, and go with me to the sea, or even to sea, which did me good when I was formerly declining; and to-day is the 1st of September, and he is sitting here with me nursing and coaxing me up, and the partridges are all flying about the world, and he not shooting them. I think I shall be able to go on Wednesday, and the worst come to the worst, we can but come back again, and I shall not feel so guilty towards him and Fanny.

As usual there are plenty of people in London, and I had as many visitors yesterday as in the middle of June. Lady Lansdowne was here most part of the morning, Mrs. G. Lamb, Mr. Foster, Mr. C. Greville,[258] who heard I was sick, and came to ask if his carriage could not take me out airing every day at any time. There is nothing like those wicked roués at heart; they are so good-natured! But what touched me yesterday was poor Lady Grantham’s coming here for an hour and being just as much interested about my foolish ailments as if she had not her favourite child dying at home. Amabel was as ill as possible on Thursday but a shade better yesterday, I never saw a more touching sight than Lady Grantham, I have thought of nothing else since. She is so calm and quiet and so perfectly miserable; she looked like a statue yesterday, there was such an immovability in her countenance and such a wan white look about her, even her lips looked quite white and still; she still has a little hope but seems to give herself as much as possible to preparing Amabel for her great change and herself departing with her. What would one give to save that child for her!

Sarah is, you will be happy to hear, behaving with the most perfect consistency. She fancied she was in labour three days ago, and had all the workmen sent off from the buildings in Downing Street—just as if they could not all be in labour together. If it is true (and of course it is as Shakespeare says it) that the fantastic tricks of men dressed in a little brief authority (and the Goderich authority seems likely to be brief enough) do make the Angels weep, what a deplorable time the Angels have had of it lately with Sarah! They must nearly have cried their eyes out. She has adopted a new form of tyranny with Sister; would not let her be at Eastcombe, but makes her stay in Downing Street; and then will not see her, but desires she may never leave the house....

I cannot tell you the stories of his [Lord Goderich’s] ineptie and which those who do not know him thoroughly might well take for unfair dealing; but that he is not capable of. I fancy there never was a more wretched man—so worried he cannot eat. Sister said she should hardly know him at home. He rattles in company. Your most affect.

E. E.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

September, 1827.

I was at Knightsbridge yesterday, and trust that poor Mabby’s[259] suffering will not be prolonged now above two or three days. Anne said the change even in the last twelve hours was marvellous; she looked like a different child, so drawn and deathlike. She was quite placid and seemed sinking very quietly, except when that horrid cough came on. Her voice was no longer audible. All the details of Lady Grantham’s conduct are beautiful. I never loved her so well as I do now, and the adoration Anne and Mary have for her exceed what I have ever seen, astonishing too that they dwell constantly on the idea that they are nothing to her compared to Amabel. What is to become of her when all is over? It will make a complete change in her whole system of life. Anne and Mary seem to look forward to everything that can be arranged after all is over, to alleviate their mother’s misery; they are excellent girls. Lord Grantham was here three days ago. Unfortunately I was not well that day and could not see him. They say he passes almost the whole day in tears.

I always forget to tell you that Sarah sent to say that if I liked to stay at her house at Knightsbridge, instead of London which disagrees with me, I was quite welcome. I had a great mind to go, merely to pull your things about a little. They are very civil just now. Lord Goderich sends me game every day, and I write him facetious notes in return. Your most affectionate,

E. E.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

DUBLIN,
Monday, September 17, 1827.

MY DEAREST THERESA, I am as sleepy as a horse, or whatever is the right comparison, but time is so scarce you must take me as you can have me. Actually in Dublin, Miss Villiers.—Landed yesterday morning at ten; embarked at six the evening before; cabin to ourselves; favourable wind; silent captain; no fleas; sea smooth as glass; and I sick as a dog.

There was not the least excuse for it, but I cannot help it. I kept up beautifully the first three hours, and then George would make me go and look at the beautiful cabin, and taste the excellent coffee; and of course the motion of the beautiful cabin disagreed with the excellent coffee—and there was an end of me. We all went regularly to bed, but that did not profit much, as there were above a hundred Irish haymakers in the other part of the vessel, and by a singular hazard they were all musical, and all hundred sang all night. However, George dragged me on deck again early in the morning, and then I got better, and it was a beautiful morning, and the bay of Dublin is (as you have probably heard) a beautiful sight, and altogether I never made a voyage of less suffering.

We are in a very comfortable hotel, the master of which is notorious for a passion for old plate, and everything we touch is silver, and such beautiful embossed articles. But it is actually tiresome, everything is so heavy and metallic. George says he never was so tired of silver since all his early reading about Peru; but it is an odd expensive taste for an hotelkeeper, and he has indulged it many years.

George dined at Mr. Lamb’s[260] yesterday, and seems to have met a very amusing Irish party. I sent my excuse and went to bed, as I do not think my health is up both to sights and society, and I like the first best. We have had such a nice day to-day. Went early to visit Mr. Lamb and see the Phoenix Park, and then down to Woodlands, a beautiful villa with a famous glen, etc., then to the Liffey waterfall, which was so very pretty, and I sat there for two hours and drew it, while George rambled about and read, and at last found such an amusing Irishman to talk to us, so like old Thady, or any other of Miss Edgeworth’s people. I cannot help laughing all the time they speak (merely at the look and brogue, not at what they say). Then we went to a cottage for some eggs and bacon, and came back by another road to Dublin.

To-morrow we dine at Mr. Lamb’s, and the next day go for a three days’ tour to the County of Wicklow, etc.; come back here for a night, and then go to Pamela. I do so enjoy it all. I am afraid after we have done Pamela, and fallen into the hospitalities of Lady Glengall, Lord Kingston, etc., who all seem most dreadfully well disposed to us, I shall like it less....

I never saw such a jaunting-car nation. The middle ranks seem to live in those vehicles, and the common people pass their days apparently sitting smoking at the doors of their cabins, the children with hardly as much cloathes on as a decent savage wears. Such groups we saw to-day! I feel much more in a foreign country than I should at Calais, and am only preserved from that illusion by the whistling of “Cherry-Ripe” which all the little naked Lazzaroni keep up.

Knowsley was full of people, we were generally thirty-four at breakfast, and I suppose more at dinner, but Lady Derby[261] would not let me dine down above once. We had the greatest difficulty in getting away, and she kindly invited me if I felt worse to come back and die respectably at Knowsley. Poor Fanny was horribly low when we came away at being left; but I have no doubt is as happy as the day is long by this time. There is going to be a Fancy Ball, and a musical festival, and all sorts of things, and there is no denying that our friend Lady Derby is a most agreeable person.

I enclose a letter I have had from Sister to-day, not because you will not have heard all about poor dear Amabel, but it contains an atrocity of Sarah’s about the funeral, hardly credible when one thinks of Lord Goderich this time twelve months. My four writing sisters are all in different parts of England and all expecting letters, the more because I am travelling about and have less time to write. Your most affectionate

E. E.

Miss Eden to Lady Campbell.

BESSBOROUGH,
Tuesday, October 30, 1827.

MY DEAREST PAM, We shall actually sail to-night, and perhaps it will be economical in the long run; for I have been very sick the last three days hearing the wind blow, and the packet talked of. But it is like leaving you all over again. You know we never shall meet again, I know we shan’t—I am grown quite desperate about it, and, as I cannot get at you and cannot do without you, I am rather puzzled as to what will be the result. I must take up the thread of my discourse where we left off.

I was so horribly low after you went, stayed an hour in my own room which, as that pinafore’d housemaid had forgotten to do it out, is I suppose the strongest proof of friendship I could have given. Then the day cleared up, and my headache cleared up, and Lady Glengall[262] took me to see the platting school. I am quite vexed you did not see that; it is such a gratifying sight, and curious besides. While we were there, a policeman came up to Lady Glengall: “Me lady, where will we put Connell?” “Who’s Connell?” “Why, the stiff, me lady. Where will we put him convanient for the coroner?” So she went off to make poor Connell convanient, and I to sketch the castle, and while I was there Connell’s procession came over the bridge. Such a howling!

Lord Arthur Hill and Mr. Carnegie dined there that day. The next day we went to the review, after sundry demurs on the part of her Ladyship; but I think she has at last made up her mind to make up her quarrel with the regiment, and in proof thereof, Carnegie and Ford again graced the festive board at Cahir with their presence. The sight of all those grey horses and red men at full gallop, and that beautiful band which played to us afterwards, increased my military ardour into perfect heroism. Sir Charles[263] was more Sir Charlesey than ever! I quite agree with old Lord Donoughmore,[264] who is a Penruddock jewel of a man, a sort of bourreau bienfaisant, and who observed, when we told him Sir Charles could not come to Knocklofty till the following day, “Well then, you must do without a Tom-fool for one day—eh?” Make Lord Arthur show you Lord Donoughmore—I mean act him. Before we went to Knocklofty on Wednesday, Lady Glengall drove me to Ardfinan, and there did we discuss Brooke[265] and his intentions, and she declares he is desperately in love with Miss Acton, and is only by way of moping at Cahir. Think of being Brooke’s moping house!

You do not know me, Pam, you do not value me. Lady Glengall knows me better—she is after all the friend of my heart. I never was so praised alive as I was that day. I may have “Richard”[266] only for the asking. In fact there is nothing wanting but just his consent and mine—absolute trifles. I observe those ladies who have been addicted to flirting never believe that any woman under 60 can be without some little interest of that sort; and I cannot help thinking that I am suspected at Cahir of being engaged to Lord Henry Thynne. It was that Brooke’s innuendos led me to the suspicion, and something Lady Glengall said might have meant it. However, I do not know. Only, if you hear me accused of that crime—and she means to see a great deal of you—will you have the kindness to mention that I am neither engaged nor attracted to poor dear Lord Henry, or any other individual? I do not mind their saying so, if it amuses them, but only Brooke must not go trumpeting about fancying I am pining, or ought to be pining, for dear Lord Henry, who is an excellent child, and if he came in my way I think his education might be finished about the time your Pam[267] would be coming out, but in the meantime I have never aspired to any other post than being his confidante. Perhaps I mistook Lady Glengall’s hints, for the fact is she seems to know so much more about me than I do about myself, that I am quite puzzled and diffident about my own historical facts. But I think this is a point on which I am best informed of the two. If I am engaged to anybody it would be fair to tell me, that I might act the character better. However, I must say I like Lady Glengall much better than is convenient, and the girls[268] are perfect, and I liked our Cahir visit—and she appreciates you properly.

Oh, Pam! how horrid it is to think that we parted there, because you are such a treasure to me, and we are going to lead the rest of our lives apart. I feel exactly as if this were my last Will and Testament. Mind you consider it as such!

I am as low as a cat this morning. I wonder whether we shall come over again either next year or the year after. Knocklofty was pleasant enough; old Donoughmore is such a duck, and there were two pretty nieces and a sub-nephew, and Tom-fool and Lord Arthur [Hill]. We stayed two nights instead of one, as there were no post horses to be had. Lady Duncannon[269] got home quite safe and is looking very well again—more like Mary [Drummond] than ever amongst her nine present children, and talking of her three absent ones, and nursing up her thirteenth. I have quite recovered my intimacy with her, and tell her as usual of all things. She says she was so ill at Cahir she hardly knew how to sit up.

I must go and see after that eternal packing. George says that even if it is the Meteor, a packet which, as far as I understand, is in every respect unsafe and uncomfortable, we must sail to-night. So I look upon myself as food for fishes, and as he must be lost with me, I shall not have the fun of gliding about as a grisly ghost and standing at his feet.... Your own affectionate

E. EDEN.

God bless you, my darling! My love to Sir Guy—his picture has travelled hitherto with the greatest success.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.
Stackpole, Pembrokeshire,
Saturday, November 3, 1827.

MY DEAREST THERESA, I never should wonder if you had thought me idle about writing. It would have been a terrible proof of the fallibility of your judgment if you had. I might as well have attempted to build a house as to keep up a correspondence during the active life I have been leading. I was once in hopes of tiring you out, and that you would write again without waiting for me, but we know each other too well. I was thinking the other day that it is unpleasant to reflect how well you know me, and how thoroughly I know you. No means of taking each other in, no little scenes, no explanations, no nothings.

My dear, such a happy six weeks as I have passed! I am so fond of Ireland. I have made 44 sketches and an equal number of new friends, am grown quite strong and well, and I have had nearly three weeks of dear old Pam’s society. Besides paying her a visit, she went with us to Mount Shannon, and met us again at Cahir, thereby taking out the sting of my visit to Lady Glengall, who, par parenthèse, I must mention is now the friend of my heart. You all of you do very well for the common friendships of life, but in Ireland only has the whole extent of my merit been discovered. Seriously, Lady Glengall continued to make her house very pleasant. There was nothing she did not do to make Pamela and me comfortable there; arranged all sorts of picturesque expeditions. Lord Glengall gave us quite a pretty little fête at a cottage they have on their estate; we were out every day from breakfast-time to eight o’clock dinner, and then we had very good society in the evening—and Lord Glengall is very civil in his own house. It seemed hardly worth while coming to Tipperary, or County ‘Prary, as the natives call it, when half of us belonged to Grosvenor Street and might have met at the expense of calling a coach.

Mr. B. Greville had been at Cahir ten weeks, all the county supposing he meant to marry Lady Charlotte, but the Glengalls all declare he is only by way of pining after Miss Acton. I could not make it out, nor could Pamela; only it was obvious that Lady Charlotte would not have had him if he had asked her. She and Lady Emily are two of the nicest girls I ever saw, and a melancholy proof of the uselessness of education—I mean melancholy for my dear sisters, who are slaving their lives away at education. They cannot wish for nicer daughters than the Butlers.

Altogether I liked Cahir. Killarney was one of the most satisfactory visits we paid; the lakes far surpassed even the extravagant expectation I had formed, and then the Kenmares[270] are such charming people. However I will not write to you any more of my raptures; you will be bored to death. Perhaps you had rather hear that I had three days of extreme bore at Mitchell’s—in the midst of all this enjoyment,—Lord Kingston’s. Last Tuesday we crossed from Waterford to Milford. Oh, Theresa, such a passage! “If ever I do a good-natured thing again,” as Liston[271] says. Pamela may stay in Ireland to all eternity, and she need not ask me to come and see her. At all events, she must not mention it for a month; I shall be at least that time forgetting my sufferings. Even George owns to having passed a miserable night, and he has always despised my sea terrors, and the captain called it a very rough passage, so a very simple arithmetical process will enable you to calculate the sufferings of the passengers. Take the sum of the captain’s assertions, multiply by 500, etc., etc.

The Cawdors had sent out the Custom House cutter to take the chance of meeting us, and that landed us within four miles of their house; so we were here at half-past-two. Our carriage did not arrive till ten at night. It was very attentive of them to send out the cutter, but if ever I willingly go again into cutter, steamboat, barge, wherry——. Well, I’m alive, and that is wonderful. The Duncannons fortunately made us stay an extra day with them, for the packet in which we were to have crossed originally, after beating about Milford for twelve hours, was obliged to put back again. “What a narrow escape I have had,” George says, “of never seeing my native country again. I suppose if we had been in that packet you would have insisted on settling in Ireland, and I must have done so too!”

This is a very fine place and a comfortable house. It seems odd to be restored to a quiet English country-house life. I have lost the habit of going to sit in my own room, and cannot conceive why we do not breakfast early and go off after some distant lake or ruin. However, Elizabeth and I were out sketching most part of yesterday, and are going again to-day, and George has at last had two days’ shooting. Think of his not having had a day’s shooting till the 1st of November! And he actually looks over my sketch-book every evening and comments upon it with the greatest interest. In another month I should have taught him to sketch himself.

We stay here a week, and then go to Mr. Wall’s.[272] Direct to Grosvenor Street as the safest plan. What do you say about Sarah?[273] We have all a great deal of unbelief to repent of. She was really in great danger for some hours, but is now as well as possible, Sister tells me in her letter to-day. Only—Sarah does not believe it. Fanny is at Knowsley, and they have been very gay there. No more time. I wonder where you are, but suppose Knightsbridge to be a safe direction. What a deal we shall have to talk about! I kept a journal, thinking as I could not write to all my friends I would let them see my Irish ideas in that form; but it degenerated after the first week into personalities, and is unshowable. Ever your most affectionate

E. E.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

Langley Farm [Beckenham],
Sunday [November], 1827.

MY DEAREST THERESA, How d’ye do? I hope you have had your health better, Ma’am. I took to fretting about your having returns of pain in your head, but if ever I tried to say you had not been quite so well, everybody screamed out, “Oh yes, I am happy to tell you that Miss Villiers is quite well, never was so well. She has danced at a ball, and written an opera, and is perfectly well indeed.” So I give it up. But are you really quite well, and where are you? I shall send this to your brother George, who is in town, as with infinite promptitude I conjectured, from seeing him at the Play with such a regular London party, such pomp and circumstance of hats and feathers, and Clanwilliams and Jerseys. I did not like the looks of them after the simple unadorned uncloathed Irish, but I did not see any of them to speak to.

Since I wrote to you, I have been to Norman Court for ten days. Such luxuries! such riches! It is too disgusting that that little Wall should have it all. We had a very pleasant party of gentlemen there—Mr. Luttrell[274] amongst others, to whom I am devotedly attached. And he was in the highest good humour all the time, thanks to the goodness of the cook, and the comforts of his own room. No ladies, but old Mrs. Wall,[275] who is worth ten of her son. She drives me to desperation by being so much better, in real goodness, than any of us will ever be, and yet very pleasant withal. I do not see that we have the least chance of meeting her hereafter. We shall be in a very inferior class.

Then I went to Laleham where I passed a very comfortable fortnight with the F. Levesons, and on Friday I came to town for a night and yesterday came here. I stayed in town chiefly to see Lady Bath, heard she was very cross about me, did not mind, went in with my most jaunty débonnaire manner, stood the brunt of one little sentimental reproach, and then we were as dear friends as ever. She is looking very well—certainly younger than when she went away. Char[276] is decidedly plain; rather a Montagu cut about her. Lady Bath brought me such beautiful ear-rings—and my ears are not bored! So I was obliged to avow with as much shame as if I had lost my ears in the pillory that I could not have the pleasure of wearing them.

Then I went to Downing Street. Such a mess! She[277] is crosser than ever, now she has all her wishes gratified. In short, all the stories that we have all known of her are nothing compared to what we might know now. Sister will not hear of her being crazy, though I have proved to her how advantageous it would be to Sarah’s character; but at all events it is impossible that poor weak man can be our Minister much longer. I was rather in the Opposition Society at Laleham, and it is extraordinary the number of good stories the Opposition letters bring of Lord and Lady Goderich. However, all those of her meddling in Politics are perfectly unfounded. Her attention to her own self is never disturbed for a moment, and she does not ever ask for any public information. Gooch is appointed her third physician in ordinary, and she was unusually cross on Friday because he had not called before two. She had had Clarke and Pennington, but as she observed with the sweetest resignation, “Physicians, I believe, always neglect their dying patients.”

I have two sisters here, and about eighteen small children. I mean their children, not mine. Love to Mrs. Villiers. Ever your affectionate

E. E.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

GROSVENOR STREET,
Wednesday, December 2, 1827.

MY DEAREST THERESA, Your last note was entirely dateless, and as it has been disporting itself about the country in search of George, it must have been written a considerable time, I guess.

I went to see Sister yesterday. She is expecting Sarah[278] at Eastcombe on Saturday, and I really believe likes to have her there! It is lucky there is a difference in tastes! Sarah now has four physicians in ordinary. They all met to consult a few days ago, and Pennington stood by the fire soliloquizing and was heard to say: “Well, this is the first time, I suppose, that we four ever met to consult when there was no complaint to consult about.” She is too much absorbed in herself to care even about the baby, and does not bring it to Eastcombe with her. Sister asked me to come at the same time, which of course I declined, and I took the opportunity of speaking my mind to her, for I think she is nearly as much to blame as Sarah. She was not affronted or convinced, so it all went for nothing. Your ever affectionate

E. E.

CHAPTER VI
1828-1829

[A few extracts are given here from Miss Eden’s Journal kept in the early part of 1828.]

January 7, 1828.

Stayed at Grosvenor Place on our way home to dinner, and saw Mary [Drummond] with the three children dressed to go to the Duke of Atholl’s for twelfth cake. Came home at 9, I suppose, to settle in town. How I hate it! But then I have had a very excellent absence of six months from it, and enjoyed my Irish tour, and my summer altogether as much as I expected. Found an invitation to Cobham, to Lady Darnley, and invitations to Madame de Lieven’s and Mademoiselle de Palmella’s[279] parties to meet Dom Miguel.[280] Such a horrid look about these invitations.

January 9, 1828.

Theresa Villiers came here, and Mary at five, and said that Lord Goderich had resigned the day before, and that the King had sent to the Duke of Wellington to desire him to make a new Government.

It was hardly possible to regret the last, it was so weak, and Lord Goderich so inefficient and ridiculous, chiefly owing to Sarah, but the triumph of one’s enemies is always an ugly business.

January 12, 1828.

Lord Lansdowne dined alone with us. I never saw him in such good spirits or more agreeable. So extremely communicative, and so delighted to have done with office. He says the whole thing is an intrigue between Mr. Herries and Sir William Knighton.[281] The instances he gave of Sir W. Knighton’s influence over the King are quite wonderful. Lord Lansdowne does not believe, as all the rest of the Whigs do, that Lord Goderich has betrayed them. He says that at present they are all Ministers still, and that the King had signified to them his wishes that they might still continue so—which, as he puts it all into the hand of the Duke of Wellington, means nothing; and that they are to wait till the Duke makes them some proposition they cannot accede to, and then to go out.

He said Lord Goderich was very nervous when he first saw him yesterday. Lord Melville is talked of as Prime Minister.

January 18, 1828.

Mary lent me her carriage. Saw Sarah dressed and walking about her room, not looking particularly ill, quite forgetting her plaintive manner. She told me Mr. Huskisson[282] had consented to take office under the Duke, for which she abused him in her old eager manner. Saw Lord Goderich, looking like the poor wretch he is.

January 30, 1828.

Dined at Lady Charlotte Greville’s. Met the F. Levesons, the Duke of Devonshire, Lord Morpeth, Lord Ashley[283] and Mr. Talbot. A pleasant dinner. The Duke told me he had been very sorry to resign and he was furious with Lord Goderich, that the King told him that the day Lord Goderich resigned one of the gentlemen of the bedchamber, knowing nothing of what had passed, asked Lord Goderich to give him a lift to town; that the King had the curiosity to ask him on his return what he thought of Lord Goderich, and that the gentleman said he thought him very pleasant: he had joked and laughed till they came to Hounslow, and then fell asleep, and this immediately after having resigned—not only for himself, but for all his colleagues without their consent.

February 14, 1828.

Got two places at the House of Commons, asked Theresa to go with me. Mr. Hobhouse moved a vote of thanks to Sir E. Codrington,[284] and made a good speech, Mr. B. a very tiresome one, Sir J. Mackintosh rather a learned one; and Mr. Peel not a bad one, during which we came away, almost starved to death. Dined at 11.

February 15, 1828.

Had a place at the House of Commons again. Borrowed Lady Bath’s carriage and went to see her first. Found Lady Francis Leveson at the House. We were both very anxious for the explanation that was expected from Mr. Huskisson. Mr. Peel[285] made a good speech on Finance, and proposed the Finance Committee. Mr. Baring proposed that Mr. Huskisson’s name should be added to it. Mr. Brougham[286] said a few words in the same sense; then there came a silence, every one expecting Mr. Huskisson would speak, and that somebody would ask him to explain. But nobody got up, and Mr. Goulburn[287] moved an Adjournment which was received with a shout of laughter, and they all rushed out. We were all horribly disappointed, nobody found their carriages ready. Mrs. Horton’s carriage took seven of us, and left me in Grosvenor Place.

March 11, 1828.

Went out with Lady Harriet Baring upon trial to see if I liked her. Do not know now. Bought a bonnet at Madame Carsan’s (not paid for).

March 12, 1828.

Dined at Mrs. A. Baring’s,—what she calls my dinner, one she gives every year to which I am supposed to ask the company. The B. Barings, H. Mildmays, Theresa, H. Villiers, Mr. Labouchere,[288] Mr. Luttrell, Mr. A. Greville, Mr. Ponsonby and F. Baring. Went on to Devonshire House, where George and Fanny had dined.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

LANGLEY,
Saturday, January 5, 1828.

DEAREST THERESA, I have been trying by the help of the newspaper to form the slightest guess of your movements, but I cannot make them out.

Sarah’s reform lasted nearly three days, and she is now herself again, in the most finished perfection. Her hatred to Blackheath and her violent love of Downing Street prove to me that she sees the time is near when they must leave the latter abode, and the only thing makes me doubt that he is going out, is her avowed wish that he should leave office.[289] Her indifference about her baby, after all the fuss she made, is so in harmony with the rest of her cross-grained character, that I contemplate it with the fondest admiration.

I know no news to tell you. The laundry here was robbed on Tuesday, which seems to afford the children great amusement. I have experienced the pleasure of a robbed laundry before, and it does not amuse me now—much. I asked Wright if I had lost anything. “Only your best cap, and your two best frills, and your best worked habit-shirt, and your best lace,”—none of them having been better than their fellows till they were stolen. Ever your affectionate

E. E.

Lady Campbell to Miss Eden.

ARMAGH, 1828.

Here I am translated to Armagh. I got through the journey and all the bother wonderfully by Georgina St. Quintin’s[290] help. I parted with her in Dublin, where I spent five days, and where I found Lady Glengall, Mr. Villiers, Lord Forbes, Lady Erroll.[291] But I was glad to leave Dublin; even in those few days I saw so much tracasserie and fuss about nothing, that I would not live there on any account if I could help it. Emmy, I find that I am totally unfit for what is called the world, or anything like it. I have forgotten its ways and its language,—in short, I have seen too much sorrow to be up to it. I thought Dublin itself beautiful, and Lady Glengall was most good-natured,—crammed me into one of her own Hats and sent me to a ball at the Castle which was beautiful. I dined with all the military people, and came away nothing loth. The tyranny of the Few over the Many does not strike the eye so much here, although I believe this to be the very heart of it—the positive pips of the orange.

I have seen my new General. They say he is very gentlemanlike and good-natured. He seems to me stupid and vulgar, but pray double-lock this, for we cannot afford to quarrel with another General. We are nearly ruined by this last move, that is one of the things that makes me low. I am not at all sure that we shall not be obliged to sell out now, from money difficulties. So much sickness, and a move has thrown us back horribly, so you must bear with me now and then, my own Emmy. When I do not write it is because I am fretted and full of care. I keep up my spirits wonderfully, and am quite well as to health, and Sir Guy, too, fights on manfully. He means to try all he can before he sells, but if he cannot manage, we must sell and say no more about the matter; but only think how much better off we are than others in the world. Write to me, my dear Emmy, for your letters do me good and cheer me. I was quite glad to talk about you to Mr. Villiers.\[292] He seemed to think it was extraordinary how much you loved me, and I began to think it oddish myself, for certainly je ne vaux pas grand chose, when I come to consider.

May 27, 1828.

Will you make another attempt to find Abby, he resorts much to that Mulligatawny fount frequented by Turtle, and on the banks of which curry grows spontaneous,—the Oriental Club?

I do not much like this place, but we have many negative blessings—a quiet peaceable General, an Adjutant-General full of abstruse erudition. Talking of this man, by the bye, I want to know whether the Committee of useful knowledge know that there are gangs of half-informed science-mongers, who are going about quoting the information they plunder out of the library, and bringing it out as their own topics, without giving notice of where they have taken them. This said Colonel Moore (nephew to Sir Graham[293]) is a nefarious pilferer, and tried to cram the information of the Duke’s[294] Bill down my throat as his own discovery.

Emily, the day is at hand when we shall sigh for a plain fool and the sight of a natural will be good for sore eyes. We shall, it is hardly doubted, have a row here, for our Orangemen are frantic, and will walk and will play their horrid tunes. We had a man killed in a fray a week ago about a drum.

Lady Campbell to Miss Eden.

June 2, 1828.

MY DEAR EMMY, You are right, there is nothing like answering directly, but my dear child, I have nothing to tell you. Here one day certifieth the other, and I see no one, nothing happens—lessons and walks and eating—and now and then a bore drops in by way of a change. And the people speak so as to be tolerably understood, and their rags are sufficient to cover them, and there is not that variety of dislocation among the limbs of the beggars, which now and then accorded us a topic in the south. You might as well expect a letter from a silkworm out of the very heart of its cocoon....

I like my house although it has only its snugness and a cheerful view to recommend it; but the people as yet rather bore me. In short, my dear Emmy, I return to the old song:—I don’t care that—for acquaintances. I had rather have my hedge of life with its gaps and rents, than patch it up with rubbish; and if the goodly cedars are laid low, the place that knew them shall at least remain void, and show that such things were. I really feel this more and more every day. I love my friends better than ever, but making an acquaintance is positively disagreeable. Your letters are such gleams to me. That alliance of Car[295] and her pretty little hands with Moloch Mostyn did enchant me.

Do you know, Mrs. Vansittart’s consent ought to be more known. It is the longest step emancipation has made this age.[296] You see, Emmy, she was quite right about the girl’s beauty, and you quite wrong.

I wish you could see my shaved head. I look like a Greek pipe-bearer, or Haggai himself, or something very much out of the way. But all my hair was really coming out. They say I shall have a good crop in six months, and be able to turn it up in a year.

We are in doubts still about our finances. I do not well know what is to become of us, but I try not to fret. I wish you would make a friendship with the Downshires, that would conduce to your coming to the North country.

Do you think Lord Auckland is to be moved this way? What people do you see most of? Which of my deputies is filling up my place? Is it your Bath or Maria Copley? What is become of Miss Villiers, and how is poor Lady Grantham?... How are you yourself? Good-bye, Dearest. Ever your own

PAMELA CAMPBELL.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

EASTCOMBE,
August 31, 1828.

I suppose my genius is to be cramped into this single sheet, which is very unpleasant.

I was very glad to get your letter, as well to hear something about you, so as to know where to write.[297] It is an excellent plan your writing a few times at different places. Your letter amused me particularly. You have done adventures enough now for some time, and may pursue your way safely without any danger of shocking me with the want of incident.

No, I am not fastidious, because I dislike very few people (those might be called enemies); and I like a great many for their good qualities without liking their society (those are my acquaintances); and then I like a great many more for good qualities, or agreeableness, or their affection for me (those are my friends); and amongst those are a chosen few particularly perfect, combining the three advantages, and those are my intimate friends. And unless I can be with either of the two last classes, I have not a sufficient love of society not to prefer being alone. But I do not at all despise or dislike those I do not wish to be with,—quite the contrary. I respect them to the greatest degree, only I do not care about them, and I cannot praise them as I do the others. Your system of general praise would bring you by degrees to think it equally pleasant to meet Sir Gore Ouseley and Mr. Luttrell, Mr. Lushington[298] and Lord Alvanley, and you would like me to say Harriet Baring is as pleasant an incident at a dinner as yourself. No thank you; I prefer my distinctions. The dark shadows of bore bring out the lights of agreeableness, and I like to perceive a difference, even if I do not act upon it. However, do not let us argue by letter; there is no room for it.

My dear, my Irish journey is defunct, dead, deceased, annihilated, and I shall follow its example if things go on so. You may, if your English papers follow you, have seen that a man of the name of Austin[299] has defaulted from Greenwich Hospital, after having cheated it to a great amount. It is not worth telling you the story, besides, I have thought of nothing else till I am sick of it; but it has worried and annoyed George, who is Auditor of the Accounts, to a degree that I cannot express. Austin has been taken at Limerick, but that does very little good, and only gives the additional trouble of arranging the manner of prosecuting him, which will be a difficult business, as our laws, according to the accurate observations I have made on them for many years, are calculated chiefly for the protection and encouragement of crime; and besides encouraging husbands to kill their wives, and masters their apprentices, have had an eye to the safety of Austin, and all the thousands of pounds that were found in his trunk cannot be touched. I do not precisely see the justice of his taking our Irish journey, and leaving us to settle his accounts, but I suppose it is all right. The investigation of the whole business has been put into George’s hands, and there is so much that is disagreeable in it, besides confining him to the neighbourhood of Greenwich, that he has been very low, poor fellow! But like a sensible man, he sent for me to keep up his spirits; and we have been here the last three weeks, and shall be here a fortnight longer, and then I fear we shall have to go to London.

Well, I hold it wrong to grumble, but I do not love London at any time, and above all, not in September; and I grudge the loss of his shooting, and I hate to see him so bothered.

I went to town last Tuesday, as I heard of a large covey of friends that might be shot flying, and I saw Maria [Copley] just come from Tunbridge, looking better but not well. Lady Grantham, looking ill, from Tunbridge also; Coppy, freshly imported from Dieppe in great spirits; Lady C. Greville passing on to Dublin; and various other acquaintances.

This is a stupid letter, but if you knew how much I have been worried the last three weeks you would think it bright of me not to be stupid. I will write again soon. Your most affectionate

E. E.

Mind you sketch all day.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

EASTCOMBE,
Sunday, September 21.

MY DEAREST THERESA, If I had the remotest idea what to say to you I should like writing better, I think; but I never can write to anybody abroad. I can’t fancy them. What are you like? Do I know you? Have I ever seen you? Have we a thought in common? You are skipping about an Alp, and I remain here like a post, and I give you my honour things have entirely done happening.

I told you about our Greenwich troubles. They have not improved, and you will have a high opinion of my fortitude and also of the extremity of bother that has obliged me to mount my mind up to the heights of actual resignation, when I tell you that George and I are going to town the 1st of October to settle, (October being my favourite month of the year, and when I should naturally be disporting myself on the Giant’s Causeway). And yet I am as meek as a mouse, and have not grumbled about it at all, and flatter myself that George finds me as cheery as possible. It will put you in a rage, but who cares when you are 1000 miles off! But besides the motive of not plaguing him, I am kept up by a fond hope, which indeed almost amounts to certainty, that I shall not be in London at all next year, at least not in February. We shall let our house and live in his apartments at Greenwich for some time—within reach if you have anything to say.

I do not often think I do right, but I really have behaved very well the last two months. I am glad they are over, for it has been a worrying time and I hate to see George plagued. We have never stirred from here except for two days to see Robert.

Panshanger[300] was full to the brim of vice and agreeableness, foreigners and roués. It sounded awful, and I declined paying a morning visit, which is at the best an awkward business, to twenty people all accustomed to each other’s jokes. But Lady Cowper sent her carriage for me the last day, so that I could not help myself. Most of the party was dispersed, except Lord Melbourne, Sir F. Lamb,[301] and Lord Alvanley, who was more amusing than ever. Lady Emily looked very pretty, and Lady Cowper was as usual very agreeable.

F. Robinson’s[302] history has come to an end I think. Lady Cowper seemed very cool about him and they have not met since in London. Considering that those brothers and sisters are in all probability as little related to each other as possible, they are the most attached family I ever saw. Ever your most affectionate

E. E.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

GROSVENOR STREET,
November 2, 1828.

MY DEAREST THERESA, I have been rather of the longest about this letter. To be sure you set me a bright example. I thought you must have tumbled off an Alp and hurt yourself, or have been run over by an Avalanche which drove on without stopping to ask. That would have been accidental death, with a Dividend of one shilling on the Avalanche.

I was very glad to get your letter with such a good account of yourself. What a nice summer you will have passed. I rather hope, whether your house is let or not, that you will squeeze out every half-penny and see as much as you can,—which, to be sure, is highly disinterested of me, because the convenience it would be to me to have you at home just now is incalculable. But you are better abroad, and then, if you come home now, there is no saying when you will be allowed to go again. It ought to have been one of the rules of the game that one might be allowed not to begin the expenses of travelling again till the point where they ceased before. I mean, that as you have once paid your way to Florence, you ought to go gratis there next time, and then begin buying your freedom to Rome.

We came to London last Monday, George and I having passed our whole summer at Eastcombe. He still has a great deal of business at Greenwich,[303] but is beginning to see his way through it and is, at all events, in better health and spirits. We shall probably live only part of the year at Greenwich, and there is a very nice house in the park belonging to George’s office, with a little greenhouse next to it, and it may by courtesy be called a small villa.[304] For my part I shall like it extremely, but George hates the idea of it so much that I say nothing. He is sure to do at last what he ought, and though he declares he can never go there, we go on very quietly buying furniture, arranging with servants, etc. You see (this is between ourselves) that rather than be bored with this business which he has taken in utter aversion, he would almost prefer giving up his office, thereby making himself uncomfortably poor. I think that’s great nonsense, and that he would repent when he had done it.

Because he has met with dishonesty once, he is not more likely to meet with it again, and as he is always making business for himself, at the London University or Zoological Gardens or somewhere, he cannot want to be idle, and had better do what he is paid for, than what he is not paid for—both if he likes it. But at all events the first is the best, so I go on taking no notice, and he is recovering fast his usual activity.

I daresay London will be pleasant enough in a week or so. I see plenty of stray people about it. Ladies with very considerable figures, and attentive bored husbands attending them in the short walks they are able to take, not to be out of sight of the monthly nurse.

Lady H. Baring being one of the most considerable, and Bingham[305] one of the most attentive, I went with them to the Adelphi on Wednesday and was in agonies all the time. The house was so full there would not have been room for even the smallest baby in addition.

It is very odd that the Duke of Wellington will not say one word as to the intentions of the Government, because as it is, nothing can be more terrific than the state of things. I begin to believe what some people say—that he has no plan and does not know what to do. In short another Goderich come to judgement.

The Copleys have been at Chatsworth—an immense party, private theatricals, dancing, etc., and they were all enchanted.

It amused me that Coppy [Miss Copley] should act Antonio in the “Merchant of Venice,” she must have been such a good figure, and somehow the idea tickled my fancy particularly. I think she must have done it well. Antonio is an excellent over-friendly bore, and though it is wrong of us, you know that is the light in which Coppy strikes us.

The Duke of Portland, as usual, does not take joy in Lady Lucy’s[306] marriage, and gives her no money. His is a good plan: he holds out his daughters as fortunes till somebody proposes for them, and then he gives them nothing because they accept the proposal. And then in a rage his sons-in-law threaten to carry off their wives to some horrid climate. Lord Howard is going to try the West Indies.

The London University has opened with most unexpected success. They have nearly 250 students entered already, and several of the Professors have distinguished themselves much in their introductory lectures, and there have been crowds sent away who were anxious to hear them. George got your brother Charles[307] a place to hear a lecture the other day among the council. He never can make out the names of your brothers, except George, but goes boldly on calling them all “Villiers” and then comes to me to class them. Ever your affectionate

E. E.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

GROSVENOR STREET,
November 19, 1828.

MY DEAREST THERESA, George and I went to Norman Court about a month ago, met a very pleasant party there, and had enjoyed ourselves nearly a week, charmed to be out of town, delighted to be killing the poor dear dumb pheasants, and recovering a great deal of lost health, and nursing up an equable flow of spirits, when a letter arrived to say my sister, Mrs. Vansittart, was taken dangerously ill. We had to set off directly, travelled all day—such a horrid journey, particularly the last stage, for we expected to find all was over. However, thank God! that was not the case, though she was in the greatest danger.

You will see the Mostyns at Rome. I do not know what they will have settled to do. There was no use in telling Car how ill her mother was. Caroline’s recovery must be extremely slow, in fact she has not only to recover intellect for herself, but for her husband and 13 children. She has thought and acted for them till they cannot think or act for themselves, and anxiety for them makes her recovery more hazardous.

It has been an unpleasant month! I saw the Lansdownes on Wednesday—just arrived, enchanted with their tour. Only they complained bitterly of the cold all through France and at Paris, and are astonished to find us all so hot. There never was such a season. Very favourable weather for the young pines. I suppose we shall grow them in the open air.

Mademoiselle Taglioni[308] is the greatest heroine in Paris—the finest dancer ever seen. “Toutes les autres danseuses tombent,” Vestris says; “Mademoiselle Taglioni redescend.” Full gowns and full sleeves are arrived at a degree of fullness Lady Lansdowne says, which makes it necessary for all the poor husbands to sit backwards in the carriages.

They say Fred Robinson’s marriage with Lady Emily Cowper is settled. I heard it accidentally a fortnight ago and did not believe it, and now I do. Robert says Fred is staying at Panshanger quite alone with the Cowpers and he never saw anything like the love-making, rather absurd, and a bore altogether for the Cowpers. Did I tell you how I had been reading General Miller’s[309] “South America,” and had been taken by it? The man himself is in London, on his way back to Peru, and George brought him home to dinner one day. It is pleasant to hear the adventures of an adventurer, and he is remarkably unassuming. He has one fault, in being horribly wounded, and I am particularly weak on that point. A common cut finger disagrees with me, and he does not seem to have a single whole finger left. However he is a hero, and I bore it wonderfully,—kept thinking of American independence, and the cause of liberty all over the world, and was only squeamish, not sick. We are busy furnishing our Greenwich House, and tending fast towards the King’s Bench. I wish you would come home; you will come just as we go. I have not answered your last letter,—no room, but go on writing, I like it.

Love to Mrs. V. Ever your most affectionate

E.E.

Lady Campbell to Miss Eden.

ARMAGH,
November 26, 1828.

Emmy, are you with child? Or have you had a husband and four children in the hooping-cough? Or have you been driven mad by Orange factions? If none of these evils have befallen you, you might have written me a line more. I know yours was the last letter, but think of me and all my sufferings! And above all, the standing disappointment of not seeing you, when I was literally airing the sheets and killing the fowls for you. And there I was without encumbrance, a free woman, ready to go all over the Causeway—and as I fear I am now beginning a child, I do not know when I shall be my own woman again.

Sir Guy has literally had the whooping-cough and is not well yet, and you who know what Lord Auckland is with a swelled face, may imagine what Sir Guy is with a whoop rending his lungs. The children have all had it rather lightly, but are still rather disagreeable and like a rookery. My dear, I had a glimpse of Lady Wallscourt[310] at the Inn. I spent half an hour with her; she is afraid of the whooping-cough and would not come to me. I think I ought to bénir la providence that bricks and mortar stood my friends, and that she could not find a house; for truly I think you anticipated justly that she would not exactly be the person I should wish to spin my days with. However, I will work up a little good feeling and liking towards her next Spring, when she may want it,—and, my dear, I must confess to you that the slang of good society, even, is now grown irksome to me, I suppose from want of habit, particularly when it is not supported by any ideas.

However, my Dearest, don’t think I am bitter. Indeed I love to think of all the good there is in the world,—not for your sake, though you are my great link. But then I consider you as my world in itself.

I hope it will not be in the power of any swindler to keep you from me next year, for I really cannot do so long without a clearance of ideas. There will be such old stores to dispose of. Emily, I am ashamed to confess to you how I have suffered from the Orange spirit of this horrid black North. I am ashamed to tell you how wickedly irritated I was, I am getting better now. The fearful evil I feel of this party spirit is, it is so catching. It kindles all the combustibles of contradiction and retaliation within one, till, though it was injustice that irritated me, yet I fear I should not have dealt justly towards them. I am not sanguine, I think nothing will be done; and I wish I thought better of the Association.[311] I am constantly told indirectly that the friends of the Catholics should fear their ascendancy, for if they begin a massacre they will cut down friend and foe. Pleasant little images!... It is such a comfort to me that by leaving the world one can get rid of its taint to a certain degree; for I do not think I could bear to hear one half of the things I used to think nothing of at all some years ago.

I cannot tell you how kind to us Lord Gosford[312] has been. We spent a few days with him in his remnant of a house. I never would cut up my old gown till I had another to my back, which has been his case. He pulled down three-quarters of a liveable house and began a large granite Castle, and inhabits the gore of the house. However, we were very merry in the Lambeau. I think he does seem the most good-humoured person I ever saw....

I am quite glad Lord Gosford liked me, because when I am very long away from you I am afraid you will find me so rusty and grown shabby. He is very pleasant. It was quite refreshing to be in a green liberal atmosphere at Caledon. I like him[313] too; he is such a plain matter-of-fact man, and I think there is a good deal of steady ballast of that sort wanted on the Liberal side, because it gives twice as much confidence as talent. Lady Caledon knew something of you but not right. I was obliged to teach her a good deal, she thought you so devoted to the world. You see—you know what I mean. Now I was dying to tell her that it was the world loved you. The children behaved well, which was a relief to me. It is the first time they have been let loose in company. Fanny[314] is really a very nice girl, and has very good manners, and I am quite pleased that seven years’ toil should really be rewarded so well, so much beyond my hopes.

Lady Campbell to Miss Eden.

December 6, 1828.

I believe in this world it is always surest and safest to write to those we love best, when life weighs heavy on our spirits; we have many more chances of hitting the right string. Alas, how often I delayed writing to you when I felt low and anxious, and had fears and fits of depression because I would not darken your page; and when I felt lighter I wrote a letter which, after all must have jarred upon you Dearest, when you were still in the slough![315] ... I like your Greenwich plan much. I think it will suit you and do you good. I know I shall live to see you a real saint. Then where we are to put Lord Auckland I cannot well make out, unless he ripens into a sort of Wilberforce, but my imagination does not yet carry me so far.

I have been reading Jebb’s Sacred Literature. I like it although one is obliged to hop over a good deal of Greek etymology.

Oh, how I want you to talk to, for it is such an age since we really cleared our minds, and you know, Emmy, we do belong to one another upon some Geometrical System of fitness that we cannot well describe. But my idea is that by finding out what E.E. is to P.C., you ascertain what P.C. is to E.E.

CHAPTER VII
1829-1830

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

GROSVENOR STREET,
Wednesday, April 30, 1829.

MY DEAREST THERESA, How attentive we become! frightened to death at the idea of our near meeting, unwritten to. I had your Genoa letter three days ago in the leisure of Hertingfordbury, where I have been Eastering, and could have drawn my pen on the spot to answer you, but I thought some account of the Hatfield theatricals would be more diverting than pure unadulterated daffy-down-dillies and cowslips.

Robert and I went over to Hatfield on Monday, which was the second repetition of the plays. The 1st piece was “A Short Reign and a Merry One.” Mr. Phipps the chief performer; Major Keppel very good; Mr. Egerton clever; Lady Salisbury[316] herself I thought the only failure, but some people thought her good, so perhaps I was wrong. Her dress disfigured her cruelly. The second piece was Lady Dacre’s[317] translation of the Demoiselle à Marier—Lady F. Leveson, Mr. J. Wortley, and Lord Morpeth the chief performers; and it was impossible anything could be better. In short, the whole evening has lowered my opinion of the merits of professional people. I went expecting to find the gentlefolk all tolerable sticks on the stage, awkward, affected, and only helped through by an indulgent public, and I found I never had laughed more heartily, never had seen a play really well acted in all its parts before, and Lady S., whom I thought the least good, was only objectionable because she was like an actress on the real stage.

The singing was very pretty. Mr. Ashley, Mr. Wortley, Lady F. Leveson, all distinguished themselves. At the end of the first piece, each of the performers sung a little Vaudeville couplet, and Jim Wortley sang one to the Duke of Wellington, who was in the front row, that was applauded and encored and applauded again, and chorussed with great noise. It turned, of course, upon the hero, and the double crown, and Waterloo, and Catholics—you know how these little ideas are dished up—and there was an allusion to the same effect in the Prologue, also received with acclamations.

The Duke seemed very much pleased, and told George to-day the Hatfield theatricals were very good fun. I meant to make this only a half sheet, but I see a long stream of untouched topics before me, so here goes for a whole sheet and rather wider lines.... The Duke of Norfolk, Lord Clifford, etc., took their seats yesterday under the auspices of Julia, Lady Petre,[318] and the two Miss Petres,[319] and several Catholic ladies grouped under our Protestant throne, and now there only remains to come the introduction of that wily dangerous Edward Petre into the House of Commons, and England must fall, and then, I suppose, will get up and begin again.

Poor Lady Derby[320] died on Friday after great sufferings and a very long illness. I think it ought to be made a rule of the odd game we all play here that those old attached couples should die together Baucis and Philemon fashion. The survivor’s is a hard place.

Fanny has been, of course, very anxious and unhappy, and has certainly lost a very kind friend in Lady Derby, who expressed the greatest affection for her to the last.

We shall not be the least settled at Greenwich, or near it, when you come back. A fortnight ago when we went there the workmen said they thought they would be out of the house in ten days. George went there yesterday, and they said they thought in about a fortnight more they should have done! A month hence, perhaps, they will ask six weeks more—that is the way painters generally go on. However, our wonderful weather excuses them. It is colder than Christmas and rains eternally. As far as we are concerned it has done its worst. We could not let this house till we find another to go into, and we shall not easily find a tenant after this week, so you will find us here, and here we shall probably stay till the 1st of June.

I only came to town yesterday, so I know little London news. People are dying rather than otherwise. I do not know whether there is much else going on. There is the Drawing-room to-morrow. Malibran has been rather a disappointment to the musical world, I hear, but I have not seen her. F. Robinson pays unremitting court to Lady Emily Cowper. I cannot conceive anything so tiresome, particularly at her age, when, as I remember, the pride of one’s life was to be distinguished by older people than oneself.[321] Moreover, that dear good-looking bore, G. Cole, holds it to be his duty to stick by Frederick and flirt en tiers as well as he can. We have grown to be a very depraved set of incendiaries, and it makes me perfectly miserable to think of the peril of our beautiful cathedrals. York Minster gone, and two days ago an attempt was made to set Westminster Abbey on fire. The fire was put out without much harm being done, but no clue has been found to the man. The country is too full; a great deal of distress; great national debt; a redundancy of Spitalfields weavers; and in the course of a good hanging they might hit on these incendiaries, and no sacrifice would be too great for Westminster Abbey.

You know I let your house for three weeks, and the Vansittarts liked it. It seemed odd and unpleasant visiting anybody but you there. Come home soon. God bless you. Love to Mrs. V. Your ever affectionate

E. E.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

PARK LODGE, GREENWICH,[322]
Monday evening, July 8, 1829.

MY DEAREST THERESA, There never was such provocation, such a combination of untoward events. I was in town to-day, went up to return Maria Copley to her home, could have brought you back with me; and Lady Buckinghamshire’s carriage which goes up to town to-morrow morning would have taken you home again. I just ask you, “Did you ever?” Songez-y un peu! Such a plain path so entirely missed. I like you to know the worst, because there is no use in my ranting and raving about as I have this evening, if you do not do your share. I wonder when you wrote to me. If only last night, the thing could not have been helped. You never could have had an answer in time, but if you wrote on Saturday, which I should think was more probable, I just ask you if it is not a little provoking? Now we shall have no talk at all, ever again, our minds must be so over-loaded that writing will be of no earthly use, and you will not see our home while it is new and pretty—in short, there never was such a misfortuneable occurrence. I went on hoping till eight you would come. If it had happened yesterday I should not have wondered. Till that unfortunate day we had all been happier here than we ever had been in our lives, but yesterday was “a day of misfortunes,” like Rosamond’s day in Miss Edgeworth’s book. The footman was suddenly laid up by a violent attack of gout; one of the maid-servants was taken dangerously ill; one of the horses took to kicking itself, of all the things in the world! and hurt itself very much, which it deserves, but it is very inconvenient to us; the cream was sour at breakfast; we got quite wet through going to church, and again coming back; the puppy and kitten fought; there was no mint sauce to the lamb at dinner;—in short, “it was a sight worthy of the gods to see a great man (or, as in my case, a great woman) struggling with such calamities.”

We preserved our cheerfulness wonderfully. I wish you had seen our house; we are all so fond of it. My friends have exhausted themselves in presents with their names, and have now begun again anonymously. I brought from Grosvenor Street a box to-day directed to me, containing a lamp for the drawing-room, and now it is hung up I should be glad to know who sent it.

I went to wish Lady Bath joy a week ago.[323] I never was so pleased with any marriage as that. Is Lord Henry[324] settled or not? I understood he went down to the Grange meaning to propose, and on Wednesday I heard a long account of his visit, of Mrs. Baring’s agonies of fidget because he did not speak out, and of Harriet’s confidence in his intentions, and how they both grew hourly more shy and more silent. But he had let all the rest of the party disperse, and was staying on alone at the Grange, and was expected to have stayed with the purpose of proposing without so many witnesses. Poor fellow! He seems to have been shyer than ever. I know you will again think it odd of me, and I am sure I cannot explain it, but by dint of hearing so much of their anxieties, and knowing what his must have been, I grow fidgetty as one does reading a story, that the catastrophe should be happy.

It will be a shame if he makes her unhappy. Otherwise, I do not know that they will suit very well. Lady Bath asked me about it, and did not seem very anxious for it,—said he required animation. I hardly knew what to say when she said she was afraid by what she heard of Miss Baring that was not the line, etc. I rode off on her amiability, good sense, £50,000, etc. I hope Lady Bath may take a fancy to her; she will want something to replace Char, but I rather doubt it.

Where am I to direct to you? I could be at home all the week in case any of your other engagements should fail, only come in time to prevent my dining at Eastcombe or elsewhere. Your ever affectionate

E. E.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.
August 1829.

I took a solemn oath that if the post brought me any letter this morning I would, on the first sight of Bidgood with the silver waiter orné de lettres, tear myself from my drawing and give up the rest of the morning to this detestable writing employment; and, you brute, there is a letter from you, and a good letter too, and I must answer it. And yet if you were to see my drawing! I got up at half-past eight this morning that I might have a long enjoyment of it, and of course have been interrupted every five minutes, though I was drapering a red velvet cloak with all sorts of beautiful catching lights and carmine and ultra marine and all the lovely colours in the world mixed up in it. My black heads are framed and hung up in George’s room. I do not like to say how they look, but the room is evidently improved within the last week. I have been at Putney from a Saturday to a Wednesday, my dear—“a procédé,” as Mr. de Roos would call it, a friendly attention, but extremely inconvenient, and moreover I think it bored me ever so little—not much—but it did not amuse me. I like the girls, of all things, and wish for nothing better than a talk with Anne, but there is a want of sense about Lady Grantham which becomes wearisome in a very long tête-à-tête, and we had several. Lord Henry stayed a whole week at the Grange, but nothing came of it. Let us fondly hope the discouragement came from her side. I do not fancy the woman ever being made the victim; and perhaps she found him duller than she expected, and Mr. Baring probably found him poorer. Anyhow, it might not have answered, and I daresay it will all do very well as it is; or he may, in a thoroughly manly spirit (by which I mean the usual conduct of a man) have settled that though he could propose any day, he could go out grouse shooting only on the 12th of August, and that the grouse might grow wild, while she would remain tame (I have only put that in for the love of antithesis, not from pique or attraction), and so that he had better attend to the grouse first, and come back to the Grange afterwards. Lady Bath said he met her and the Buccleughs at Longleat and was in great spirits, and she believed did not care a straw for Miss Baring, but she knew nothing from him of it....

I passed all Wednesday afternoon with Lady Bath, who was in the highest good-humour, and the whole family resplendent with happiness, except dear old Bath, who handsomely avows his joy was a mistake, and he has not the least idea what is to become of him. I saw Char, and the Duke too; and after they all went out riding Lady Bath and I went poking all over the house, looking for the presents he had given her. Such quantities of pretty things! And these were only his little daily gifts, for the jewels were not finished. “The diamonds and emeralds will both be superb,” Lady Bath said; “but I think the pearls the handsomest set I ever saw.”

Think of that little Char with all those things! And she looks as simple and unaffected as ever,—very shy and very happy.

Miss Eden to Miss Villiers.

[PARK LODGE, GREENWICH,]
October 19, 1829.

MY DEAREST THERESA, Lady Harriet [Baring] says she wrote to you yesterday to announce that we were going to talk you over. I think it my duty to write to-day to announce that we have talked you over,—done our devoirs bravely. The substance of our comments you would not of course be curious to hear. Having thus obviously made you thoroughly uncomfortable, and this being Sunday evening and consequently to be devoted to works of charity, I add from pure benevolence that Lady Harriet has said nothing that is not in your praise, confirms the remarkable fact that the heads of the Baring Clan are all turned by you, and if it were not for that circumstance, which, as she says, must be provoking to her, it appears to me she is as fond of you and Mrs. Villiers as it is possible to be. She is very charitable and very pleasant to-day.

I was not the least taken in by all your paltry evasions about not writing to me. You never care a straw for me when you can have Louisa Baring.[325] I am constrained to avow that Harriet Baring and the Red Rover have always been my successful rivals with you and everybody else. Please the Fates, I will set up some new friends for myself, and occupy myself so exclusively with them that you shall not be able to get a word from me for a month.