I have a packet of letters, which I intended to send by Molly, who has
been stopped three days by the bad weather; but now I will send them
by the post to-morrow to Kells, and enclosed to Mr. Tickell there is
one to you, and one to James Stopford.
I can do no work this terrible weather; which has put us all seventy
times out of patience. I have been deaf nine days, and am now pretty
well recovered again.
Pray desire Mr. Stanton and Worral to continue giving themselves some
trouble with Mr. Pratt; but let it succeed or not, I hope I shall be
easy.
Mrs. Johnson swears it will rain till Michaelmas. She is so pleased
with her pick-axe, that she wears it fastened to her girdle on her
left side, in balance with her watch. The lake is strangely overflown,
and we are desperate about turf, being forced to buy it three miles
off: and Mrs. Johnson (God help her!) gives you many a curse. Your
mason is come, but cannot yet work upon your garden. Neither can I
agree with him about the great wall. For the rest, _vide_ the letter
you will have on Monday, if Mr. Tickell uses you well.
The news of this country is, that the maid you sent down, John
Farelly's sister, is married; but the portion and settlement are yet a
secret. The cows here never give milk on midsummer eve.
You would wonder what carking and caring there is among us for small
beer and lean mutton, and starved lamb, and stopping gaps, and driving
cattle from the corn. In that we are all-to-be-Dingleyed.
The ladies' room smokes; the rain drops from the skies into the
kitchen; our servants eat and drink like the devil, and pray for rain,
which entertains them at cards and sleep; which are much lighter than
spades, sledges, and crows. Their maxim is,
Eat like a Turk,
Sleep like a dormouse;
Be last at work,
At victuals foremost.
Which is all at present; hoping you and your good family are well, as
we are all at this present writing &c.
Robin has just carried out a load of bread and cold meat for
breakfast; this is their way; but now a cloud hangs over them, for
fear it should hold up, and the clouds blow off.
I write on till Molly comes in for the letter. O, what a draggletail
will she be before she gets to Dublin! I wish she may not happen to
fall upon her back by the way.
I affirm against Aristotle, that cold and rain congregate homogenes,
for they gather together you and your crew, at whist, punch, and
claret. Happy weather for Mrs. Maul, Betty, and Stopford, and all true
lovers of cards and laziness.