I told you yesterday, dearest, that you should have a
long letter to-day, and here comes one as short as myself. The reason is, that
a good old Irishman has sent me 20,000 volumes of old Irish books to make
extracts from, and I am to return them directly, and here I am in poor
Dad’s room just after binding up his poor blistered head, and I am just
going to work pell mell, looking like a little conjuror, with all my
black-lettered books about me. I am extracting from Edmund Spenser, who loved Ireland tant soit peu; dearest, your letters are delicious,
’tis such a sweet feeling to create happiness for those we love; if we
have but de quoi vivre in a nutshell house in London, I shall
be satisfied, and you shall be made as happy as Irish love, Irish talent, and
Irish fun can make a
| 516 | LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR. |
I like and thank you for your pretty song,—it is quite in the style of Italian composition, and is the very thing for my weak natural voice, and I shall sing it with the Spanish guitar to great advantage. I suppose I may thank Madam Glo.’s loving epistles for your little billet doux.
