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.