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.