neck and pitch him into one of the deepest holes of his dear
Duddon.

But it is very stupid to write all this to Italy, though it would have
done very well to have canvassed with you and Morton over our pipes in
Mornington Crescent. I suppose you never will come back to stay long in
England again: I have given you up to a warmer latitude. If you were
more within reach, I would make you go a trip with me to the West of
Ireland, whither I am not confident enough to go alone. Yet I wish to
see it.

_To Bernard Barton_.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN,
_September_ 2/41.

MY DEAR BARTON,

You must allow I am a good correspondent--this half year at least. This
is Septr. 2, a most horrible day for a Bazaar, judging at least by the
weather here. But you may be better off. I came to this house a week
ago to visit a male friend, who duly started to England the day before I
got here. I therefore found myself domiciled in a house filled with
ladies of divers ages--Edgeworth's wife, aged--say 28--his mother aged
74--his sister (the great Maria) aged 72--and another cousin or
something--all these people very pleasant and kind: the house pleasant:
the grounds ditto: a good library: . . . so here I am quite at home. But
surely I must go to England soon: it seems to me as if that must take
place soon: and so send me a letter directed to me at Mr. Watcham's,
Naseby, Thornby. Those places are in England. You may put Northampton
after Thornby if you like. I am going to look at the winding up of the
harvest there.

I am now writing in the Library here: and the great Authoress is as busy
as a bee making a catalogue of her books beside me, chattering away. We
are great friends. She is as lively, active, and cheerful as if she were
but twenty; really a very entertaining person. We talk about Walter
Scott whom she adores, and are merry all the day long. I have read about
thirty-two sets of novels since I have been here: it has rained nearly
all the time.

I long to hear how the Bazaar went off: and so I beg you to tell me all
about it. When I began this letter I thought I had something to say: but
I believe the truth was I had nothing to do. When you see my dear Major
{89} give him my love, and tell him I wish he were here to go to
Connemara with me: I have no heart to go alone. The discomfort of Irish
inns requires a companion in misery. This part of the country is poorer
than any I have yet seen: the people becoming more Spanish