FOR god’s sake, give Emma no more watches. One has turn’d her head. She is arrogant, and insulting. She said something very unpleasant to our old Clock in the passage, as if he did not keep time, and yet he had made her no appointment. She takes it out every instant to look at the moment-hand. She lugs us out into the fields, because there the bird-boys ask you “Pray, Sir, can you tell us what’s a Clock,” and she answers them punctually. She loses all her time looking “what the time is.” I overheard her whispering, “Just so many hours, minutes, &c. to Tuesday—I think St. George’s goes too slow”—This little present of Time, why, ’tis Eternity to her—
What can make her so fond of a gingerbread watch? She has spoil’d some of the movements. Between ourselves, she has kissed away “half past 12,” which I suppose to be the canonical hour in Hanover Sq.
Well, if “love me, love my watch,” answers, she will keep time to you—
It goes right by the Horse Guards—
[On the next page:—]
Emma hast kist this yellow wafer—a hint.
Dearest M.
Never mind opposite nonsense. She does not love you
for the watch, but the watch for you.
I will be at the wedding, and keep the 30 July as long as my poor months last me, as a festival gloriously.
We have not heard from Cambridge. I will write the moment we do.
Edmonton, 24th July, 3.20 post mer. minutes 4 instants by Emma’s watch.
