Miss Eden's Letters. Eden Emily
is dear, reformers meeting, dogs mad, and such a harvest the farmers must be ruined… Ever your affect.
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
…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 Henry100 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 Ebrington102 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 Cootes103 staying with us, I have always a sort of nervous fear of seeing them vanish, they seem so like bad visions.
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. Rose105 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?
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’s107 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
Lord Henry FitzGerald married in 1791 Charlotte, Baroness de Roos.
Susan, daughter of 1st Marquess of Stafford; married in 1795 1st Earl of Harrowby.
Lady Harrowby’s daughter, who married Viscount Ebrington in 1817.
Daughters of the last Earl of Bellamont.
William, 3rd Earl of Mansfield, married in 1797 Frederica, daughter of Dr. Markham, Archbishop of York.
William Stewart Rose, author of
Her sister.
Lord Cahir, created Earl of Glengall in 1816; he died in 1819.
Hannah More (1745-1833), writer of many religious works.
Peterloo; an open-air meeting held in St. Peter’s Fields at Manchester by Mr. Hunt.