“This letter is dictated by my father as you might guess by the bold appellation with which I have begun. He projects a migration southward this ensuing month—towards Cork where Mrs. Edgeworth’s brother is fatly and fitly provided for in the Church. In his route my father glances sideways to the real pleasure of having an opportunity of seeing you free from all the shackles of high station and high fashion, in the retirement which your wise husband prefers to both. Tell us when he will be at home and when at home whether it will be convenient (we are vain to think it would be agreeable you perceive) to receive us for a day and a night. There will be three of us, papa, mama and self. Though we were Foxites we cannot sleep ‘three in a bed.’ As the circuit will probably engage the Sol. gen[4] for some time to come our prospect looks to the period when he may return.
“So far from my father—now of him. This day he is much better and we are all in high spirits. And he will not let me add one word more.
“Dear Mrs. Bushe,
“Affectionately yours
“Maria Edgeworth.”
“From Miss Maria Edgeworth
to Mrs. Bushe, Kilmurrey, Thomastown,
Co. Kilkenny
“Edgeworth’s Town
Augt. 26th 1832.
My dear Mrs. Bushe
“Did you ever form any idea of the extent of my assurance—
“If you did I have a notion I shall now exceed whatever might have been your estimate.
“I am about to ask you—to ask you, plunging without preface or apology—to go to work for me, and to give me, only because I have the assurance to ask for it, what every body would wish to have from you and nobody who had any pretence to modesty (out of your own family and privileged circle of dears) would venture to think of asking for.
“A bag if you please of your own braidwork my dear Mrs. Bushe—Louisa Beaufort who has just come to visit us tells me that your braid work is so beautiful that I do covet this souvenir from you. The least Forget me not—or Heartsease will fulfil all my wishes—if indeed you are so very kind as to listen to me. I have your Madonna over the chimney piece in our library and often do I look at her with affection and gratitude. I wish dear Mrs. Bushe we could ever meet again, but this world goes so badly that I fear our throats will be cut by order of O’Connell & Co very soon, or we shall be beggars walking the world, and walking the world different ways. It is good to laugh as long as we can, however and whenever we can—between crying times—of which there are so many too many now a days.