As I stood looking over a heap of weeds that were burning, they struck my own mind, as being somewhat like itself, you could see no flame, you could see no fire, and yet it was surely tho’ slowly consuming to ashes. Now you see my indolence does just the same to my better qualities. There is no outraged sin, no crying vice, and yet this indolence eats into my life. If you will but keep me in order, and pity my infirmities, when can you come to me?... The great House is a bore, _selon moi_, but I will tell you all about it when you come. I have just read Hayley;[188] considering I don’t think him a Poet, nor his life eventful, I wonder why one reads it? The truth is, we are all, I believe, so fond of knowing other people’s business, we would read anybody’s life. _July 9, 1824._ Many thanks for your letter. It did indeed make my country eyes stare, and put me in such a bustle as if I had all you did--to do. I have had a great combat, but pride shall give way, and candour shall cement our friendship. The paragraph in your letter about Lord E. threw me into consternation, as well as those who might have known better, for, Emily, he has not written me a word about it, and would you believe it? I don’t know who he is going to marry.... You rolled your pen in such a fine frenzy that I cannot read your version of his name no more than if it had been written with one of the lost legs of the spider tribe. I see it begins with a B., but the rest dissolves like the bad half of those prayers to Jupiter in Air. I believe I should make your city hair friz again, if I were to detail my country week’s work. However, I will be cautious. I won’t speak too much of myself, which for want of extraneous matters, I might be led to do.... You keep very bad company with _them_ Player-men, those Horticultural Cultivators of the Devil’s hot-bed. I suppose I shall hear you talk of the Sock and Buskin; it is all that Cassiobury connexion that makes you so lax. _Miss Eden to her Niece, Eleanor Colvile._ SPROTBOROUGH [DONCASTER], _Sunday_ [1824]. MY DEAR ELEANOR, Your Mamma seems to think you may like to have a letter, and I am vainly trying to persuade myself I like to write one. The Miss Copleys have their Sunday School just the same as ours, with the Butcher’s daughter and the Shop-woman for teachers; not quite so many children as we have; but in all other respects the two schools are as like as may be, and they are there all Sunday, which gives me time for writing.