But while I am thus ladling out praise to myself in this way, I do not flatter myself that I deserve the quantity of praise which Colonel Stewart gives me for laborious observation, or for steadiness and nicety of dissection. My father, to whose judgment I habitually refer to help out my own judgment of myself, and who certainly must from long acquaintance, to say no more, have known my character better than any other person can, always reproached me for trusting too much to my hasty glances, aperçus, as he called them, of character or truths; and often have I had, and have still (past my grand climacteric) to repent every day my mistaken conclusions and hasty jumps to conclusions. Perhaps you wish I should jump to conclusion now, and so I will.
To MRS. EDGEWORTH.
DUNMOE COTTAGE, Nov. 8, 1834.
I hope, my dear mother, that you have been wondering every day, and wondering greatly that you have never yet heard from Maria. I like that you should wonder and be provoked at not hearing from me, because when a letter comes it is opened with much more appetite than if you had not been kept famishing.
I have not told you how very nice and comfortable Sophy and Margaret Ruxton have made this cottage, and the situation is charming, and the view beautiful. I am reading Hannah More's Letters, and am entertained with them. I found at Black Castle four volumes of Madame d'Abrantès, which I had never read: the eleventh volume begins with her going to Portugal, and though half may be lies well dressed, yet almost all are entertaining.
To MRS. R. BUTLER.
DUNMOE COTTAGE, Nov. 28, 1834.
I have got the cushions, and am sitting on one of them, and Sophy and Margaret like them, and think how happy I am, though it is pouring rain, which affects my happiness very little, except for the boy's sake who is to carry this. I have some boy-anity.
The glorious orb the day refines,
The gossoon warms his shins and dines.
To MRS. EDGEWORTH.