BIG.o.dS, ESs.e.x, _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 Sat.u.r.day.

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 f.a.n.n.y 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._

BIG.o.dS, _Sat.u.r.day, 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 G.o.derich;[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 G.o.derich 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 G.o.derich 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 n.o.body.

_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 f.a.g 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 n.o.body 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, _Sat.u.r.day, 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 f.a.n.n.y.

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 _roues_ 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 G.o.derich 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 G.o.derich'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 pa.s.ses 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 G.o.derich 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 gla.s.s; 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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.s 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 f.a.n.n.y 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 G.o.derich 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!