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.
Well, I have no doubt Harriet Baring has every merit under the sun, only
you never will persuade me she is amusing. There is no merit in being
amusing, so that is not against her. I am glad she is in good spirits;
and it seems that neither she, nor her family, nor Lord Henry Thynne,
nor his family, wished for the marriage. It is rather lucky than
otherwise that they did not marry, though as the Barings want
connection, and he wants money, it was a natural marriage for all the
world to insist upon,--a clever idea, though it did not work well.
I passed such a nice morning yesterday, though my ulterior object was to
go to town to try on some gowns. But George and I began the day early,
and went to visit Chantrey,[326] who showed us quantities of beautiful
things, amongst others a monument to Bishop Heber[327] that is quite
beautiful, is not it? I tried to sketch it for you and failed, but he is
blessing two kneeling Hindus who, to the best of my recollections, have
not a stitch of clothes on (the climate is warm, you know), but the
dearest bald head you ever saw, with one long lock from the top. They
are so graceful--I mean seriously. Then we saw the Colossal statue of
Mr. Pitt, he has just cast in Bronze, and he gave up a whole hour, in
which he could have chipped a bit of covering to those poor Hindus, to
explaining to me, who am fussy and dull if anybody begins an _entirely_
new subject, how a bronze statue is cast, and how the weight of the
least moisture in the cast is ascertained even to the 1000th part of a
grain, and how the original cast is made. In short, I was quite learned
about it yesterday, and as his clay models disgusted me with mine, I had
some thoughts of turning the library into a foundery, and of melting
down all the saucepans, and casting a statue of George in his shooting
jacket, 14 feet high; but I have forgotten to-day how to do it. Chantrey
was so good-natured, and gave me excellent advice about modelling, and
is having some tools made for me, and I am always to have as much clay
from him as I like, which will be a vast advantage, for his clay must
have a habit of twisting itself into good shapes, and probably the raw
material I obtain from him will be more like a human figure than
anything I shall ever build myself.
I had some luncheon with Lady Harriet, met a considerable quantity of
acquaintances all prowling about the quiet streets, finished up my
wardrobe, bought some _company_ work, paid a few bills,--in short, bored
myself as much as was good for me. Miss Kemble’s[328] reputation goes on
increasing, which delights me. I have not seen anybody that does not
think her very superior to anything we have had for years, and if they
will leave her alone, and all the Magnates of the land will not insist
upon marrying her instantly, she will be a great treasure. C. Kemble was
giving a very touching account of her the other day to some cousins of
mine. Her resolution to go on the stage was taken only a month before,
at the time of his great difficulties, and he had never seen her
rehearse but twice. He says there never was such a daughter, and he
thinks her very clever.
I wish you had not done your Longleat. I had always meant you to be
there with us--quite reckoned on it. Can you insinuate to Lady Bath that
it is possible we may come two or three days sooner than I said at
first, if she lets us. The Lansdownes are going to Brighton for a month,
and want us to make Bowood on our return, instead of the time we
mentioned. I shall be very glad to see Lady Bath, but if I might be
excused the trouble of moving from home, I should not fret much. I gave
Mr. Hibbert[329] Lady Bath’s invitation, but he fears he must now stick
to his business, though as it cost him ten shillings a day in
hackney-coaches to transport his lame self to the city, I have proved to
him that it would be an economy to the firm of Hibbert, if he went by
the stage to Longleat. I always wonder what those West Indians do up in
Leadenhall street. What is the use of their going from the west to the
east of London to write about a plantation in Jamaica. If you were to go
from Longleat to Newcastle to write directions about your garden at
Knightsbridge it would be as sensible. I have often tried to make Mr.
Colvile tell me what he does in Leadenhall Street. I believe they eat
tamarinds and _cashew_ nuts (I do not know how they are spelt) and
ginger all day there. Good-bye. Your ever affectionate
E. E.
_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._
[GREENWICH.]
(_Friday_). I began this two days ago, and you see how far I went. I
have a passion at the moment for modelling in clay, an accomplishment I
am trying to acquire from an old German who lives on Blackheath. The
interest of the pursuit it is impossible to describe. I cannot imagine
why I ever did anything else; it is the worst _engouement_ I ever had,
and so entirely past all regulating, that I think the best way now is
to tire it out, so I model from morning to night. I wish I were not
obliged to write to you, you uninteresting, unfinished lump of clay.
George interests himself in the art, and with his usual amiability
stepped up to town and brought me some tools. Think of our going to sit
down to dinner the other day, in our accustomed domestic manner, soup
and a mutton-pie; and Lord and Lady Jersey, F. Villiers, and Lord
Castlereagh arrived _at_ seven for dinner. No entrées, no fish, no
nothing, and the cook ill. However, it turned out very pleasant.
I believe Lady E. Cowper will end by marrying Lord Ashley. She says she
never has felt a preference for anybody, and will do just what her
mother wishes. Lady Cowper is sorely puzzled, and he is in a regular
high-flown Ashley state, wishing he had never proposed, that he might
have watched over and adored her in silence.
_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._
NORMAN COURT,
_Monday [October 1829]._
MY DEAREST THERESA, I do not find this visiting system good for the
growth of letters. I have less to say when I see fresh people and fresh
houses constantly, than at home, where I see the same every day. Your
last letter, too, gave me an inspiration to answer it on the spot, but I
had not time then, and so it subsided. You poor dear! Are you still
liable to be haunted by recollections and tormented by the ghosts of
past pleasures--youthful but weak? I have _had_ so many feelings of the
sort you mean, that your letter interested me particularly; but then it
must be at least five years since the last ghost of the last pleasure
visited me, so imagine the date of the pleasure by the date of the
ghost--and the remains of _youthful_ interests do not disturb me any
longer. It is always _childhood_ I return to, and exclusively the sight
of Eden Farm[330] and aught connected therewith that swells my heart to
bursting, and _that_ I never see now. Everything else is mended up
again, and for the life of me I cannot understand how I ever could have
been so sentimental and foolish as it appears I must have been.[331] I
say no more; but my old extract book has thrown me into fits of
laughter. Calculate from that fact the horrid and complete extinction of
sentiment that has taken place. You will come to it, and be surprised to
see what a happy invention life is. I am afraid I like it too much. We
have been at Shottesbrook. Caroline Vansittart is so uncommonly well;
there are hardly any traces of her illness. The dear children will be
children till they die of old age.
Then we went to Ewehurst which the Drummonds have rented from the Duke
of Wellington. It is a very fine place, but an old house, and so cold.
All the children had colds, and all the Aunts caught them, of course;
only, instead of catching one cold I caught six, and have done nothing
but sneeze ever since.
We stayed there a week and came here this day sen’night, found the house
more luxurious and comfortable than ever after the cold of Ewehurst, and
Mr. Wall in great felicity. Old Mrs. Wall I think much the most
delightful old lady I ever knew. Lady Harriet we found here, and the
Sturts, and the Poodles,[332] and Mr. Pierpont, and latterly we have had
a Doctor Daltrey, a very clever man who has thrown a pinch of sense into
the very frivolous giggling conversation we have sunk into.
It has been rather amusing. Lady C. Sturt[333] and Lady Harriet are
rather in the same style of repartee. We all meant to dislike the
former, but found her, on the contrary, very pleasant. She amused George
very much, and Mr. Sturt was an old friend of ours. We should have gone
on to Crichel,[334] but our time and theirs could not be brought
together. Lady Harriet is in her very best mood, and I always think it
is a very pleasant incident, such excessive buoyancy of spirits. She is
full as fidgety about Bingham as any wife would be, even any of my own
sisters, who have a system of fidgeting about their husbands. I think he
will arrive to-day. In fact he could hardly have come sooner if he set
off even the very day he meant to. She insists upon it he is naturalized
in Russia and has taken the name of Potemkin, and she is teaching the
child[335] to call him so:--“Come, dear; say Potemkin. Come, out with it
like a man! Potty, Potty, Potty--come Baby!”
To-day we are to have a dinner of neighbours, chiefly clergy; two
Chancellors of different dioceses and various attendant clergy, besides
dear little Arundell who dines here every day. We flatter ourselves
there will be great difficulties of precedence when we go into dinner,
and have at last settled that the two Chancellors go in hand in hand
like the Kings of Brentford, and that we must divide the inferior clergy
amongst us--take two apiece.
Mr. Wall sometimes gets frightened at our levities and fancies we shall
really say to his guests all that we propose for them.
George still gets into hysterical fits of laughter when I mention your
idea of his being in love with Lady Harriet, which was unlucky at that
time, for it did so happen that he could not endure her then, and he
went up to town the day she came to stay at Greenwich, because he
thought her so ill-natured. She happened to abuse, in her ignorance,
_the_ lady of the hour. But even he likes her here, thinks her very
amusing, and much better-hearted than he expected, and he, like you, no
longer wonders why I like her. Altogether this visit has answered.
Sister has been to Wrest, where the old stories are going on:--doctors
sent for the middle of the night. In her last letter she said she
believed that the Goderichs were going off at an hour’s notice, and that
she should be left alone at Wrest, till she could alter all her plans.
In the meantime there is nothing really the matter with the child.
You never tell me where to direct. I shall try Saltram.[336] Love to
Mrs. Villiers. Ever your most affectionate
E. E.
_Miss Eden to Lady Charlotte Greville._[337]
MELBURY, 1829.
I am sorry to write to you on paper that has evidently been in bad
health for some time, but I cannot find any without this bilious tinge.
Lady Bath told me that you were the giver of that pretty lamp in the
drawing-room at Greenwich Park. I am so glad to know who it is I am to
thank, and very glad that “who” is “you.” I tried a little of gratitude
on two other friends who seemed obtuse about it. The pride of my life is
the quantity of pretty things that my friends gave me when we settled. I
like your name to be found in the list.
I suppose you are still in Ireland, and I direct my letter on that
supposition. I have not written to any of your family for a long time. I
cannot write while I am travelling about, as I hold it “stuff of the
conscience” to comment on the owners of the houses I am in, and it would
not be the least amusing to hear they were all charming people.
However, I must say that about Lord Ilchester, as I believe you do not
know him, so it is news to you; and he certainly is the most amiable
being I ever beheld. He has given up his own happiness as a lost case
since the death of his wife,[338] and his whole life is spent in trying
to make other people happy. I never saw so _gentle_ a character, and am
no longer surprised at George’s attachment to him. It has lasted ever
since they were at school together; and as I had never seen much of Lord
Ilchester at home, and he was nothing shining in society, I used to
wonder why George was so very fond of him. But I see how it is now.
To be sure, an inch of amiability is worth yards of cleverness for the
real wear and tear of life. Lord Ilchester’s spirits have been
thoroughly bent down once by the loss of his wife, and though he has
mended himself up again to a certain degree, yet he is all over chinks
and cracks, that shake on the slightest touch. I could not bear to
allude before him to the possibility of any husband liking his wife, or
any mother educating her children. The quantity of _célibataires_ that I
bring forward in conversation is incredible. I hope he is quite
convinced that there is not such a thing as a married man left in
creation.
Mr. Corry, who is here, does not intend that the race shall be extinct.
He is desperately in love with Lady H. Ashley,[339] so desperately that
he can think of nothing else, and I believe talks of little else; but
between his brogue and the confusion of his ideas I am not always sure
what he is talking about. He never sleeps, but writes half the
night--whether sonnets to her, or pamphlets on the state of Ireland, he
will not tell me. But he is in a constant state of composition, writing
notes all the evening to be arranged into sense at night. From the dark
romantic hints he throws out for our information, I imagine he has
hopes of marrying her in the course of next year. I hope he will not be
disappointed. I like anybody who is so really in earnest as he is.
We paid a long visit at Longleat--very successful, inasmuch as Lady Bath
was in the highest of good humour, and Tom Bath is dearer to my heart
than ever. Lord Edward was at Longleat the latter part of our visit, and
a great addition. He is totally unlike all the Thynnes I ever saw--full
of fun and dashes out everything that comes into his head, astonishes
them all, but governs the whole house. They all laugh the instant he
opens his lips.