I have just learned from Olivia that you are ill; it is quite too bad that you, who are so much to so many, should be so often laid up, while those who are nothing to nobody, are going about with health and spirits sufficient to bore and annoy all their acquaintances; but so it is in this best of all possible worlds! My little billet crossed your kind and delightful letter, which I have not answered just because I had nothing to say worth the trouble of poring your poor eyes over my illegible scribble; and next, because I keep writing to you in store, as children do their bonne bouche,—the best thing for the last.
A chance (studiously sought for) threw it in my way to speak of dear Tom to the Chancellor. He is himself a good old Christian, upon the good old plan, and the little sketch I gave of Tom as a primitive minister of a primitive religion, as one whose vocation seemed to have “come from above,” and yet as one “more skilled to raise the wretched than to rise,” seemed to please him. Shortly after, he asked me if he had not married a daughter of Dr. Dobbins!
I merely mention this to you, because the Chancellor has the disposal of the patronage of
the Archbishop of Dublin, and that he is to be entirely guided by the fitness
of persons to fill their stations, and not by interest or influence. He is a
most excellent churchman, and not at all a man to rebuter any application
| FIRST YEAR OF MARRIED LIFE. | 7 |
Colonel Gore is your “slave and blackamoor.” The day he arrived here, in the midst of a dinner, silent and solemn as the dulness of bon ton could make it, he cried out, “Lady Morgan, I am under more obligations to your friend than to all the world besides.” “What friend?” “Why Mrs. Lefanu to be sure; she taught my Phillip to read Milton,” &c., &c.
I long to hear from you; by this I hope you have seen my dear Olivia; she is England mad, would we were all settled there. Here or there, partout où vous êtes, et partout où je suis, I must always be among the number of those who respect you most and love you dearest.
PS.—Poor, dear, excellent Bess is, I suppose, as usual, your nurse and companion. She is, indeed, the inestimable daughter of an inimitable mother, and in my opinion, her whole life has been active, useful, and of practical excellence. She is one of the sinners who devote themselves to the “nothingness of good works.”
