We have foolishly begun _Modern Europe_ for our history book, which I think much too tiresome to be endured, and then we take a peep at what the Huns and Vandals are about. My only hope is that fifteen hundred years hence we shall be boring some young lady in the back Settlement of Canada with our Manchester Riots.[109] That is the only thought which supports me under the present dulness of the newspaper. George brought us such a quantity of Confitures from Paris, that it is a mercy we are not in bilious fevers before this. I enclose you some Fleur d’Orange because it is so genteel. Pray remark when it is going down, whether your sensations are not remarkably lady-like? Your most affect. E. EDEN. _Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden._ THAMES DITTON, _Tuesday, October 1819_. Very pleasant, but not correct, as our immortal Monkey said when he kissed the Cat, my going to see you in town! It would indeed be a case for Hannah More, as that very comical Dog said; why it would make the few pious hairs she still preserves rear up, like quills upon the fretful Porcupine; to say I should like it is saying very little indeed. Next to Hannah More, that Chancellor[110] is the greatest Beast and Bore to prevent our going up; I won’t have my oath[111] trifled with no more than my affections, and since he coquets with my conscience, I have a great mind not to swear at all, and keep myself disengaged for some little _Lèse-Majesté_. This letter seems copied out of Buffon or “The Book of Beasts,” for I find honourable mention made of cat, dog, monkey, beast, bore, porcupine. I will try and let you know what day I come, if I can get it out of old Sullivan, and if it is soon I will take the duck to you. I suppose Hannah More will not be shocked at the dead duck spending the night under the roof with you; the duck being dead must remove all impropriety attendant on such a step. Your account of your bonnet diverted me highly; it certainly is much more difficult to find a congenial bonnet than a congenial soul, and after all they don’t last one so long. Sullivan talks of Thursday as the most likely day I shall land at your house, and I may from there branch out into all other ramifications of business. I send you some three or four violets to sweeten you in London. _Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden._ _November 7, 1819._ DEAREST EMMY, I meant every day to have written to you whilst you were at Shottesbrook,[112] but I never could hit the right temperature; when I felt dull, I thought it was not fair writing to you, making “confusion worse confounded,” and when I was merry, I imagined the shock might be too much for you, and only serve to make your “darkness visible.” This is a very deeply Miltonic apology, the truth I daresay may turn out to be a severe fit of laziness, which has incapacitated me from doing anything beyond reading, which delights me, and swallows up all my duties.