1842-1849
_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lister._
KNIGHTSBRIDGE,
_Tuesday[1845]._
MY DEAREST THERESA, I can write to no one in all the nervous flurry of
these first meetings but yourself, my poor afflicted friend. Amongst all
the happiness of others your hard trial[512] haunts me, and shocked me
more, much more than I can say, when I heard it at Southampton.
I had dwelt so much on seeing you, as I was told you were unaltered, and
then to hear of this! I will not write more now, but even the first
moments of arrival cannot pass away without my telling you how heartily
I feel for you and love you.
We are all well. Your most affectionate
E. EDEN.
_Miss Eden to Lady Francis Egerton._
MONTAGU HALL,
_Tuesday [1846]._
MY DEAREST LADY F., I have been meaning to write to you constantly, but
once caught again in the trammels of civilised life the thing was
impossible.
We spent a great deal of time (very pleasantly, so there is nothing to
repent of) at Penrhyn Castle. We went there for two days last Thursday
week, and somehow stayed on till yesterday. Every time we talked of
pursuing our Welsh researches, Colonel Pennant[513] declared that that
particular sight was one of the drives from the Castle, and there came
round a jaunting-car with four great black horses, and we went off to
Conway.
There was no end to the sights, besides the Castle itself, which I think
one of the finest things I ever saw. The arches over the staircase
looked just like so much guipure lace carved in stone. Every table and
cabinet is carved either in slate, marble, or oak, till it is a
curiosity of itself. I slept in the State room, an enclosed field of
blue damask and carved oak. The bed, which I should imagine did not
cover more than an acre and a half, is said to have cost _£_1500. I
never had an opportunity of judging whether there was work enough for
the money, having slept generally near the edge.
Old Mr. Pennant spent _£_28,000 a year for twelve years in building this
Castle, and died just as it was finished. Everything from the Keep to
the inkstand on the table was made by his own Welsh people; and I never
saw a more wealthy-looking peasantry, and I suppose he spent his money
well according to Miss Martineau’s principles of doing good; that of
getting as much work done for one’s self as one’s money will pay for. I
daresay that is all right, but it always sounds like a suspicious
system, and against all the early ideas of self-denial and alms-giving
that were so carefully dinned into one; but the result in the instance
of Penrhyn Castle has been highly satisfactory, and I do not really mean
that he did not do a great deal of good besides. There never was a more
charitable man.
The present Col. Pennant, too, seems very anxious to do all that is
right, but he is oppressed, I think, by his immense wealth, and is not
quite used to it yet. He seems quite wretched still for the loss of his
poor little heiress of a wife. I like him for that, and also for that,
having like Malvolio had greatness thrust upon him, he has not set up
any of the yellow-stocking men or cross-garters Malvolio thought
necessary, but is just as simple and unpretending as he was in his poor
days.
We had a very large party and a pleasant one, Edwin Lascelles amongst
others. What a man! If there happens to be any one day in which he does
not say or do anything absolutely rude, everybody takes a fit of
candour, and says: “After all, _I_ like Edwin Lascelles. I think we are
all wrong about him; he did not shut the drawing-room door in my face
when I was coming across the hall, and if you observed, he said before
he shut all the windows that he hoped nobody minded a hot room. I do not
think him selfish.”
We came here yesterday; rather a change from Penrhyn Castle. The house
was built in the reign of Henry the Sixth, and furnished, I should
suppose, by his own upholsterer, and has not been touched up since
apparently. And there is a window from which Henry the Seventh escaped,
and another at which Oliver Cromwell looked out, and in short, every
window has its legend, but none of them have any shutters or curtains,
and the doors are all _on the latch_ and never shut, and the weather has
turned cold, and in short, it is a relief to my feelings to say that I
am bored to death and wretchedly uncomfortable, and think seriously of
following Henry the Seventh’s example, and of escaping out of one of the
windows, to which my interesting legend will henceforth be attached.
It is very wrong, I know, to say I am so bored, but it is only to
you--and I might have an illness if I did not mention it--and though it
is extremely kind of them to have us here, I wish they wouldn’t, and we
had never meant to come. But when we were on our way yesterday to
Pengwern (Lord Mostyn’s) this Mr. and Lady H. Mostyn[514] brought him
over here, and then sent out letters and ordered post-horses to bring us
too, and I always knew how it would be. However, it is so very dull it
is almost amusing, particularly when I look at Lord Auckland, who has
always declared he should like the Mostyns. Indeed, he was the only one
of us who knew them, and I am happy to say that he sank into a sweet
slumber after coffee, from which he was roused with difficulty at
bed-time. One good of age and of hard practice in India is that one does
not mind being bored so much as one did in youth, though then, to be
sure, it hardly ever happened. The sediment at the bottom of the cup is
decidedly thicker whenever I am reduced to swallow a spoonful; but
still, I am more used to the taste of it, and as Dickens says of orange
peel and water, if you make believe very much, it is not so very nasty.
I am in a strong course of mutiny between them. But there is the
luncheon bell happily; that is always a cheerful incident. Ever your
affectionate
E. E.
_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._[515]
BONCHURCH, 1845.
Our post goes out now about half-past one, and we have had an immensely
long sermon against the poor Babylonians, who have all been dead and
gone so long that I for one have quite forgiven them their little
errors; but the preacher here is always having a poke at the poor
sinners in the Old Testament. It can do them no good, and it does none
to us, and he preaches an hour extempore, and altogether I think he had
better not be so spiteful.
Our Bonchurch has been a most successful experiment, and I have not
enjoyed a summer so much for the last ten years. We have a beautiful
little cottage in pretty grounds of its own. The country about you know
well, and I must say it is a very kind dispensation that as the wear of
life takes away or deadens the interests that seem so exciting in youth,
and many of which are artificial, the love of nature becomes more
intense. I am quite happy with shadows and clouds passing over beautiful
hills. I wish I could read Wordsworth, but the actual food itself I
cannot swallow.
Fanny has certainly been very much better since she came here. She is
one of the people who cannot exist without constant excitement, and
then, though it makes her quite well for the time, it affects her
spirits still more afterwards. She never from a child was happy in a
quiet home life, though with such high spirits in society, and of course
that tells more in her present state of health. When the Bingham Barings
and Lady Morley[516] were at Bonchurch for a week, she was in good
spirits, and then seemed quite languid and thoroughly _cheerless_, and
then all of a sudden went over to Ryde for two days, and George says
walked and drove and paid visits, dined out both days, and seemed quite
as well as ever, and she certainly looked all the better for it. Now
again, she has sunk into a listless state, and I am afraid there will be
no amusement she will care about for the rest of our stay. We have the
R. Edens and 7 of their children perched on their little hill. Lady
Buckinghamshire was nearly three weeks perched on hers, quite delighted
with her life here. She had never before been on a railroad, nor on the
sea since 1793 (when my father was Ambassador in Holland), and she left
her carriage in England and rumbled about in a fly. She delights in
pretty country and astonished us by her activity.
Then Maurice Drummond[517] suddenly appeared, walking about the Island
with a young Grenfell, and they took a cottage for a week at Shanklin;
and it is certainly satisfactory, as Mary says, to see how innocently
the young men of the present day can amuse themselves. These boys walked
about 20 miles a day and were in such a fuss to keep their expenses
down,--ordering 4 lb. of mutton, and cutting off wine at luncheon, and
really happy in a good, joyous, young way. And they settled when they
went away that they should have a pilgrimage next year to their dear
Rose Cottage--such a little hole you never saw.
Maurice made no allusion to the state of his affection, but he does not
seem to pine. With a little mellowing he will turn out very agreeable;
he has so much natural fun. We wanted him to stay on with us, but he had
not time. Your most affectionate
E. E.
_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._
EDEN LODGE,
_Tuesday [1850]._
MY DEAREST THERESA, Many thanks for your long amusing letter. I do not
wonder you are pleased, both with the Election itself and the manner in
which it went off; and I am not at all sorry you were spared the
presence of F. O’Connor.[518] Even though he could have done no harm, I
can’t abide these Chartists, and hate to be convinced that they are
real live people, and particularly wish that they never may come between
the wind and my nobility.
Of course you will drive about in London for a few months with your
carriage as it appeared in the streets of Hereford, and by the courtesy
of the real member, you will be favoured with the real bouquet used on
that occasion. Great attraction, immense crowds, etc.
I know nothing more of Macaulay except that he unfeignedly rejoices at
an opportunity for getting out of office,[519] an escape that he has
unluckily wished to make for some time. There is of course a great
struggle made to keep him, but I can imagine office must interfere
materially with the pursuits and pleasures of his life.
I think Edinburgh,[520] which affects all sorts of classical and
pedantic tastes and enthusiasm, turning off one of the first orators and
cleverest men of the age for a tradesman in the High Street (both men
having the same politics), must feel slightly foolish now it is over.
They say the prejudice against Macaulay was entirely personal; he never
would listen to a word any of his constituents had to say, which is
hard, considering his demands on other people’s ears; but still they may
look a long time before they find a member so well worth listening to. I
wonder whether Cowan is agreeable.
I am really better, thank you, and able to walk about the garden. But
the quiet system has answered so well in bringing back my strength, that
I am willing to go on with it a little longer. It is said about
Elections that the Liberal cause has gained ground, that the Government
has lost ditto, which is as much as to say that four Ministers have been
defeated and we have a very rough Radical Parliament. If Sir George
Grey[521] is beat, I think a fifth loss of that kind would lead to some
decided change. Yesterday everybody said his success was quite certain,
and as every Election has gone exactly against the assertions made in
London, I presume he is beat by this time.
My Lord[522] is very busy at Portsmouth reviewing, sailing, firing guns,
surveying, giving great dinners at bad Inns, and doing everything that
is most unnatural to a quiet landsman; but he seems very happy, and it
is more wholesome than that eternal writing. To-morrow, he is by way of
sailing to Jersey and Guernsey. I never understand men in office, and
cannot catch an _aperçue_ of the motive which induces them to take
office or keep it; but I presume if this stormy sort of weather
continues, he will hardly persist in that little dutiful party of
pleasure.
We have been reading Lamartine’s _Girondins_--interesting, as that
eternal French Revolution always is, but most painful reading, and I do
not like Lamartine’s style. It is too epigrammatic and picturesque, and
his sentiments drive me mad. He tries to make out that Robespierre was
humane, Pétion _homme de bien_, Madame Roland virtuous, the Revolution
itself glorious. It gives me a great deal of exercise in my weak health,
for I throw the book away in a rage, and then have to go and fetch it
again. Your ever affectionate
E. E.
_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._
ADMIRALTY,
_Tuesday [January 6, 1848]._
MY DEAREST THERESA, How tiresome it is that you are out of town just
now! And such an unexpected blow, because we have acquired this year the
right to expect to find each other in London.
To-morrow being Twelfth Day, seven of Robert’s[523] children drink tea
here, and Mrs. Ward’s[524] nineteen youngest come to meet them; so I
scoured London yesterday morning to secure a conjuror for their
diversion, but there is an awful run on conjurors this month. Spratt of
Brook Street is engaged every day till the 19th; Smith of St. James,
ditto; but I worked my way steadily up from conjuror to conjuror through
all that tract of land lying between No. 1 Brook Street and 32 Fleet
Street; and there I finally grabbed Farley, who _says_ he can pound
watches into bits, and put rings in eggs and so on, though I rather
doubt it. Then from Fleet Street I drove straight and madly to Kent
House, determined to insist on the loan of Déjazet, and of Villiers and
Thérèse[525] too; if they were not above it; and “I tumbled from my
high” when I heard you were in the country till Thursday. What can be
the matter? Where is the country, and why are you there? However, if any
sudden change in your plans occurs, recollect that our innocent little
pleasures commence at 7 to-morrow evening.
Bowood was very agreeable. We stayed there eight days.
The Greys and Lady Harriet were in their best moods, and very pleasant.
Bingham kills me, dead; he is so tiresome, that it almost amounts to an
excitement. Macaulay quite wonderful, and I rather like him more for the
way in which he snubs the honourable member for V. Even the last
morning, when we four were breakfasting together by candle-light to come
up by an early express train, he made a last good poke at him. I asked
Mr. Dundas for some coffee, and he said he was shocked and he had just
drunk it, upon which Macaulay said: “What with your excess and your
apologies, Dundas, you put me in mind of Friday, who, when his father
asked for a drop of water, began thumping his breast and saying,
‘Friday, ugly dog, drank it all up.’” Mr. Dundas clearly did not like
the epithet--indeed so little, that he was obliged to laugh outrageously
and to say: “One of the happiest quotations, Macaulay, I have heard you
make.”
As a general rule, I should not recommend travelling habitually by the
railroad with Mr. Macaulay. The more that machine screeches and squeals,
the louder he talks; and when my whole soul is wrapped up in wonder as
to whether the stoker and the guard are doing their duty, and whether
several tenders and trucks are not meeting in between my shoulders, the
minor details of the Thirty Years’ War and of the retreat of the 10,000
Greeks lose that thrilling interest they would have in a quiet
drawing-room. There is a sort of aggravation in knowing that 10,000
Greeks died ignorant of railway accidents; and there is no use in
bothering any more about them, poor old souls!
Your cousins the Duff-Gordons[526] were at Bowood. I think her anything
but agreeable, but I strongly suspect that instead of our cutting her,
she was quietly cutting all of us, merely because she thinks women
tiresome. At least, I think there is so little good done by being rude
to anybody, that I try to be civil to her, but was repulsed with immense
loss. She came down to luncheon every day in a pink striped shirt, with
the collar turned down over a Belcher handkerchief, a man’s coat made of
green plaid, and a black petticoat. Lord Grey always called her the
Corsair; but she was my idea of something half-way between a German
student and an English waterman, that amounts to a _débardeur_. Whatever
that may be, I do not know.
London seems quite empty, the 4th Nr. of Dombey has given me infinite
pleasure, and I think even you must like that school. Just Villiers’s
case at King’s College.
I presume you are at the Grove. Love to all there--at least not all, but
a selection. Your ever affectionate
E. E.
_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._
ADMIRALTY
[_Monday, 1848_].
MY DEAREST THERESA, I was not _standing out_ this time for the sake of a
letter; but, in the first place, I thought you were to be in town again
before this, and then I have been so poorly that writing was a great
exertion. It is five weeks to-morrow since I have had a breath of fresh
air, and now I have taken entirely to the sofa, and do not attempt
sitting up, even to meals. When I do, the second course generally
consists of a fainting fit, or some little light delicacy of that sort.
So now you see why I did not write; it would not have been _égayant_ for
your holidays. And illness always seems to me such an _immediate_
visitation from God that it never frets me as many other little
_travers_ do, which might have been avoided by a little more sense or
conduct.
Lord Auckland seems quite satisfied with the efficient state of the
Navy, notwithstanding the loss of that poor _Avenger_.[527] I saw such
an interesting private letter to-day from the gunner who was saved,
stating so simply his escape and difficulties, not making half the fuss
that we should if the carriage had been overturned and we had had to
walk half a mile home.
I do not feel alarmed by the Duke’s[528] or Lord E.’s letters, but I do
not imagine they tell the French anything they did not know before, and
as the English never know anything till they have been told it twenty
times, it is perhaps not amiss that they should be so far frightened as
to make them willing to pay for a little more protection. They would
like a very efficient army and a great display of militia, but I doubt
whether they will like a shilling more of income-tax.
I always keep myself in good heart by all the axioms on which we were
educated, the old John Bull nonsenses--that one Englishman can beat
three Frenchmen; that the French eat frogs; and the wooden walls of old
England, and Britannia rules the waves, and Hearts of Oak, and _parlez
voos_--all most convincing arguments to us old warriors who lived in the
war times, and who went up to the nursery affecting complete
insouciance, but fearing that the French would arrive just while Betty
Spencer the nurse was down at supper. I quite remember those terrors in
1806; and then came all our victories, and the grand triumphs which
reassured me for life. I feel a dead of certainty that before the French
had collected twenty steamers, or had put twenty soldiers on board any
of them, Sir Charles Napier, or somebody of that sort, would have dashed
in amongst them and blown up half ships.
Still it might be as well to have a few more soldiers, if the Duke of
Wellington wishes for them, nor do I much object to his writing a
foolish letter. He has written a good many in his life.
I go on believing that if the use of pen and ink were denied to our
public men, public affairs would get on better. Johnnie[529] writes
foolish letters, and Lord P.[530] does not seem to have written a wise
one to Greece. Lord John called here last Thursday in good spirits, and
his visits are always as pleasant as they are rare. I do not mean that I
blame him for their rarity; it is more surprising that he should be able
ever to call at all. But as I have been so shut up for nearly a year, I
have seen but little of him, and I must say a little _snatch_ of him is
very agreeable and refreshing. Ever, dearest Theresa, your most
affectionate
E. E.
_Miss Eden to her Sister, Mrs. Drummond._
_January 1848._
MY DEAREST MARY, George came home yesterday--a journey from Bowood; a
Cabinet yesterday afternoon; another long one this morning; and a Naval
dinner which we gave yesterday.
He says Macaulay has quite recovered his spirits, and there was not a
break in his conversation at Bowood. Lord John paid me a late visit
yesterday, and the servants wisely let him in, though I had said not at
home. But it was good-natured of him, as he was only in town for a
night, to walk down because he knew I was ill. “So I told them they must
let me in.”
I must say that when he told me particulars of the letters that had been
written to him, to the Queen, etc.--particulars he did not wish to have
repeated--and of the organised conspiracy it has been to try the
prerogative of the Crown, he is quite justified in any _twitness_ of
letters himself. It is a great pity that some of Dean Merewether’s
letters,[531] and of Lord John’s begging him to withdraw them, were not
published. He wrote to say that if he might have Hereford, or, as he
expressed it in a post-boy fashion, “If the Government gives me this
turn, which is my due, there would be no objection raised to their
giving Doctor Hampden the next Bishopric.” So it shows the Bampton
Lectures had not much to do with it.[532]
As for the Bishop of Oxford,[533] the odd intrigue he has been carrying
on would have been hardly credible in Louis XIII.’s time in a Cardinal
who hoped to be Prime Minister himself. However, I won’t say what I was
told not to say. But there is that to be said for our Queen and Prince,
that their straightforwardness is a very great trait in their
characters, and that they never deceive or join in any deceit against
their Minister, but always are frank and true, and repel all intrigue
against him. George thought the Prince very clever and well-informed at
Windsor; and his character always comes out _honest_. I take it that he
governs us really, in everything.
Somebody said to Lord John, “The Bishop of Oxford could be brought
around immediately if you would only say a few words to him,” and he
answered, “I suppose he would, if the three words were ‘Archbishop of
Canterbury.’” He did not seem at all bitter against him yesterday, but
said he had been made a bishop too young for such an ambitious man, and
that he had taken to court intrigues in consequence.
I am so glad _Daughters_ interested you.[534] I have heard such teasing
stories about that Lady Ridley--quite incredible. I am sure a few
mothers’ and daughters’ books are wanted just to make them understand
each other. If mothers would take the same pains not to hurt their
children’s feelings, that they do not to hurt other people’s children,
it would make homes much happier. They should not twit them with not
marrying, or with being plain, etc., and they should enter, whether they
feel it or not, into their children’s tastes. The longer I live, the
more I see that if the old mean to be loved by the young, and even on a
selfish calculation they ought to wish it, they must think of their own
young feelings and susceptibilities, and avoid all the little
roughnesses from which they suffered themselves. One of the remorses of
my life is not having loved my mother enough, because she was a most
excellent mother; but she rather teased me, and held up other girls, and
roused bad feelings of jealousy. And my father we all worshipped, though
I think he was particular with us, but then it was all done with so much
tact. I heard a great deal more about Mrs. Fry[535] and her daughter,
which set me thinking over all these things. Your ever affectionate
E. E.
_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._
ADMIRALTY,
_Friday_ [_April 1848_].
MY DEAREST THERESA, It is impossible to say anything in your favour as a
correspondent, so don’t expect it. But you may have other good points. I
do not know that you are entirely depraved. To make an example: You
might hesitate to stew a child--one of your own, perhaps. But as a
constant letter-writer, you are decidedly and finally a failure. I could
not imagine what had become of you, and it was a beautiful trait in my
character not writing; because nothing is so tiresome as a letter about
a long recovery.
I am better, but not well, and the more shame for me, for Ramsgate was
charming, everything that it ought to have been, delicious weather for
anybody who could not walk much, or drive at all. As it was warm enough
to sit out half the day, we had a small house quite close to the sands.
Not an acquaintance to disturb us. Ella[536] and I suited each other
admirably. I was not equal to company, and yet should have been sorry to
drive my _young_ lady to a dull life. But it is what she likes best, and
she really enjoyed her quiet life, found plenty of amusement for
herself, and was quite sorry when our five weeks were over. I do not
know any sea place I could like better than Ramsgate; it is so dry and
so cheerful, and such quantities of vessels are constantly coming in and
out. There were Greek, Russian, Dutch, Swedish, Spanish and French ships
in _quantities_; and the most picturesque-looking people always walking
about in the shape of foreign sailors.
We came back on Monday, having a very smooth sea for our voyage, and a
remarkably thick fog for our reception, which has lasted till this
morning. It is fine now.
No, I cannot say I have worried my intellect much with endeavours to
understand the monetary crisis. I am sorry Parliament is to meet, being
well aware that a country cursed with a House of Commons never can have
any liberty or prosperity; but I suppose it is unavoidable. I was rather
glad the Government did something; because even if it is a losing thing,
I think the country is better satisfied when the Government seems to try
and help it, and it is more creditable to all parties. But it seems to
me that the measure has hitherto had a good effect, and has done no
harm.
May not I now allude to the “Secret of the Comedy,” and wish you joy of
Mr. Lewis’s new office,[537] which is one I should think he would like,
and I should think you would too. It is interesting work, without being
dull slavery, as many offices are.
To be sure, there never was anything like the character Lord C.
[Clarendon] is making for himself; and if he could make one for that
desperate country he is trying to govern, Solomon would be a misery to
him. But what a people! I quite agree with Carlyle, who says: “If the
Irish were not the most degraded savages on earth, they would blush to
find themselves alive at all, instead of asking for means to remain so.”
But everybody agrees in saying they never had such a Lord-Lieutenant
before.
I always meant to tell you about your brother Montagu. Two old gentlemen
were sitting near me at Ramsgate and talking of the difficulty of
finding a seat at the church there, and one of them said: “It is just as
bad in London. I sit under the Hon. Villiers, and what’s the
consequence? I never go to church because I can’t get a place.” The
friend, who was slow, apparently said, “Ah, and it’s much worse if you
sit under what’s called a popular preacher.” “Why, sir, that’s my case.
The Honourable Villiers _is_ a popular preacher, the most popular
preacher in London, and I say that’s the worst of a popular preacher,
nobody ever can get in to hear him.” I see Montagu preaching a splendid
sermon to himself, and his congregation all sitting glowering at him
because there is no room for them in church! But the idea is flattering.
The most remarkable marriage in my family is W. Vansittart’s.[538] He
has been ten years in India, lost his wife, has two children, on whom he
settled what little money he had. His furlough was out, and now he has
found a Miss Humphreys; good looking, pleasant, well brought up,
thirty-four (his own age), and with _more_ than £100,000, and a
beautiful home in Hyde Park Gardens, who is going to marry him, settled
all her fortune on him, and of course he has not now the least notion
where India is, unless towards Paddington perhaps. There is another
sister, much younger, if you know of any eligible young man. Your ever
affectionate
E. E.
_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._
_Sunday_ [1851].
MY DEAR THERESA, I was quite sorry you took all that trouble in vain for
me, but I had already let in Lady John and Lady Grey.... But what
crowned my impossibility of speaking any more, was an extra visit from
Locock.[539] I am a beast for disliking that man, only everybody has
their antipathy born with them. Some don’t like cats, some frogs, and
some Lococks. But he is grown so attentive, I repent, and he came on
Friday of his own account, and he did not scold me for not being better,
and he would not take his guinea, and was altogether full of the most
agreeable negatives. I am glad to have seen a doctor once refuse a fee.
I felt as if I had earned a guinea. Your ever affectionate
E. E.
_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._
ADMIRALTY, _Saturday, December 1848_.
MY DEAREST THERESA, Your letter has come in at an odd time of day, not
leaving much time to answer it; but that is as well, as I cannot make
out a long letter. Lady Ashburton[540] is undoubtedly dead after twelve
hours’ illness; but nobody seems to know much about it, and that family
always forget to advertise their own deaths, so that one keeps thinking
they may recover long after they are buried. The Miss Barings went to
Longleat the day after their mother’s death, and the Ashburtons[541]
came to town for two nights, and then went to the Grange. I have written
twice to her but have had no answer, and I never know exactly how she
will take grief; but I should think she must feel all those rapid deaths
of friends and relations very much.
C. Buller[542] is such a loss to her society as well as to herself, and
it will make a great difference in her parties. He is so very much
missed by those who knew him well. We had seen a great deal of him this
year, and it was impossible not to be fond of him--he was so amiable and
good-natured and so light in hand.
I always felt Lady Ashburton would not long outlive Lord Ashburton; she
never cared much for anybody else, and was just the woman to fret
herself to death. Your affectionate
E. E.
_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._
_Tuesday evening_ [1851].
MY DEAREST THERESA, I was very glad to see your hand of write again,
though you might have given a better account of yourself and Thérèse if
you had wished to please. And then poor Bully! That was melancholy; but
however, he has been a pleasure to you for years, and that is something,
as life goes. I am glad you are up to Lord John’s tricks, because in a
general way that very artful young man takes you in in a manner that
astonishes me, who sees through him with wonderful perspicacity, and
when the Duke[543] told me he was going to Harpton[544] _on his way to
Knowsley_, I thought he was going to try to seduce my boy Sir George
[Lewis] from the paths of rectitude.
I wrote so much to your brother of all the Duke of Bedford said of the
old statesman being of use to the young one, and the young statesman
taking to the old one (words on which he rings the changes till he makes
me sick), that I can’t write it all over again; but by dint of
positively declining to understand, and by being so intensely stupid as
to ask which Lord Stanley he meant (perhaps _he_ of Alderley), and by
writing him short, savage notes in the intervals of the weekly luncheons
he takes here, I hope I have rather enlightened that slightly damaged
article--his mind. It is a good old mind, too, in its little bald shell;
but Lord John had evidently persuaded him that new combination of
parties was necessary, and that Lord Stanley was, as he always calls
him, the young statesman of the age. William Russell has succeeded Lord
John at Woburn, and had evidently snubbed the Duke about this alliance,
as his tone was quite changed about it, and he was anxious to prove that
the friendship began here. Your affectionate
E. E.
_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._
ADMIRALTY,
_Sunday_ [1851].
MY DEAREST THERESA, I may as well write a line while I can, just in the
stages that intervene between the pains of my illness and the pains of
my cure; the last being decidedly the worst and the most destructive; my
courage has gone for pain.
How are you and yours, and what do you hear from Dublin? I have heard
nothing about them since they went. London is this week entirely empty;
otherwise there has always been an allowance of a visitor a day--Lord
Grey, Lord Palmerston, Lord Cowper, passing through, and so on; and
while Lord Auckland and Fanny were at Bowood, my sister, Mrs. Colvile,
abandoned in the handsomest manner her husband and children in the wilds
of Eaton Place, and came and lived here. I was very unwell at the time,
and she is the quietest and best nurse in the world. Poor thing! she
well may be.
The report of Lord Godolphin’s[545] marriage to Lady Laura gains ground,
and though I feel it is not true, it is too amusing to dispute. Ditto,
C. Greville’s to Mrs. H. Baring.[546] I see his stepchildren playfully
jumping on his feet when gout is beginning. Henry Eden is so happy about
his marriage, and so utterly oblivious of the fact that he is fifty,
that I begin to think that is the best time for being in love. Miss
Beresford has £20,000 down now, more hereafter; and as the attachment
has lasted twelve years, only waiting for the cruel Uncle’s consent,
which was wrung from him by Henry’s appointment to Woolwich, they ought
to know what they are about, and luckily when they meet they seem to
have liked each other better than ever. But twelve years is rather an
awful gap....
Macaulay’s book has unbounded success.[547] Not a copy to be had, and
everybody satisfied that _their_ copy is _the_ cleverest book in the
world. Don’t tell anybody, but I can’t read it--not the fault of the
book, but I can’t take the trouble, and had rather leave it till I can
enjoy it, if that time ever comes.
Good-bye, dearest Theresa. Love to Mrs. V. When do you come to town? How
goes on your book?[548] Yours affectionately,
E. E.