George seems to have a very diplomatic party at Middleton: Esterhazy,[355] Talleyrand,[356] Madame de Dino, the expectation of the Duke of Wellington, etc., etc. Colonel Anson, I suppose you know, has ascertained that he has _£_15,000 less than nothing, which would be an uncomfortable property to settle on, and Lord Anson says he can do nothing for him but give him a living. If he ends by taking orders, I think Thorpe will find his congregation fall off considerably; there will be such a press to hear that popular preacher Anson. [Illustration: _Mrs Lister (Lady Theresa Lewis) from a painting by G.S. Newton R.A._] Lady Cowper has written to ask us to Panshanger next week, but I believe George will not be able to go; he has a shooting-engagement in another direction. However, till he comes back from Middleton, I do not know. I am not ambitious to move again, as we must so soon go to that vile London for that foolish Parliament, and our little garden is so full of flowers, and gives so much occupation in collecting seeds and making cuttings, that I grudge leaving it, even for a day. In all the reproaches that are lavished on these Ministers, I wonder nobody has ever written a biting pamphlet on their only real fault, which is bringing us all to London the end of October--a sort of tyranny for which a Minister would have been impeached in better days. I am dreadfully at a loss for some political feelings. I cannot find anybody to wish for, and, upon the whole, am in the miserably dull predicament of _rather_ hoping things may remain as they are. I suppose that mean Huskisson set are coming in, which is unpleasant, but as they were sure to _fourrer_ themselves in somehow or anyhow, I am prepared for it. I never hear from Maria. I suspect they are bored at Sprotbro’, as she is always silent when she is bored. My best love to Lady F. with my entire approbation of her conduct about this little girl. Ever your affectionate E. E. _Miss Eden to Mrs. Lister._ GREENWICH PARK, _Thursday evening, November 1830._ MY DEAREST THERESA, It is particularly clever of me to write to you to-night, because it does so happen that there is not a pen in the house and the shops are all shut. There was _one_ pen this morning, but I suppose dear Chiswick has ate it. That comes of having stationery for nothing; as long as we had to pay for it, I had heaps of pens and paper. George[357] has found a quill in one of the drawers, and I, who never could mend a real ready-made pen, have cut this raw material, this duck’s feather, into an odd-shaped thing. But it marks pretty well, only it is great fatigue to drive it along, because I could not make a slit in it.