I knew Lord Wellington in my youth; that is to say, he has often dined with me in Henrietta-street and at the Park, but I was so reserved at that time that we never exchanged six words, as he was also reserved, except to those who made the first advances. However, as he has passed some time as my guest in the country besides these casual meetings, I should not feel the least reluctance at any time in writing a letter of introduction for you to him.
I go on Tuesday next to Cheltenham. How much I shall miss you, and I shall often think of our lost friend, Mrs. ——, whom I could not but like, spite of the pains many people took to prove to me my liking was not built on a good foundation. How foolish, by the bye, are all such pains! There are two ways of considering everything and everybody (if we lay aside the grand questions of religion and morality). Even your friend, whom you have lately described as faisant les délices de la société by his musical talents and other accomplishments, I have just heard described as a most ridiculous, frivolous, tiresome coxcomb; ainsi va le monde. The mania for going to France is spreading rapidly. You know you have infected me by a touch of the pen. Has the last novel of Lady Morgan (née Miss Owenson) reached the Hague? Mr. Lefanu saw a letter from Miss Edgeworth to her ladyship, in which she says it is glorious for Ireland to have produced such a work. Strong language when applied to a novel. I should have thought it too forcible if addressed even to Fielding or Richardson.
I am very grateful to the Duchess of Brunswick for her recollection, and can never forget the kindness with which she honoured me at Brunswick. Tell her so, if a proper opportunity should offer. Her character and abilities rendered her kindness a real distinction. The more you see of her, the more you will value her esprit, and her natural, easy, and pleasing manners.
We are reading Miss Edgeworth’s diffuse and wire-drawn novel, called Patronage, which is much below her ability and literary place, but has been hurried off from a good family motive—that of assisting to provide for the fatherless infants of her late brother—such, at least, is the report.
The letter which follows is the first in date of a very few copies which I possess of letters, or parts of letters, addressed by my Mother to Miss Agar, sister of the late Lord Clifden, one of her oldest, and, beyond the circle of her own family, by far her dearest friend. Their correspondence, which was constant, had begun some twenty years earlier. The half of the correspondence which is of no service to me I possess; but the other half, I fear, has long since perished.
TO THE HONOURABLE MISS AGAR.
Cheltenham, Sept. 1, 1814.
We are packed into Pine Cottage. It abuses the cottage privilege of being small and simple. One says at first, ‘Dear, what a charming little spot,’ and enjoys one’s own good sense in being easily pleased. One remarks with how little space the real wants of man are contented, and one is tempted to criticize palaces. But in a few hours the philosophical fit subsides, and one wants more space and more convenience.