Hunter has sent a whole cargo of French translations--_Popular Tales_, with a title under which I should never have known them, _Conseils à mon Fils! Manoeuvring: La Mère Intrigante; Ennui_--what can they make of it in French? _Leonora_ will translate better than a better thing. _Emilie de Coulanges_, I fear, will never stand alone. _L'Absent, The Absentee_,--it is impossible that a Parisian can make any sense of it from beginning to end. But these things teach authors what is merely local and temporary. _Les deux Griseldis de Chaucer et Edgeworth_; and, to crown all, two works surreptitiously printed in England under our name, and which are _no better than they should be._ Pray read _Letters to Sir James Macintosh on Madame de Staël's Allemagne._ My mother says it is exactly what you would have written: we do not know who is the author. _Jan. 25._ To-day it began to thaw, and thawed so rapidly that we were in danger of being flooded, wet pouring in at all parts, and tubs, and jugs, and pails, and mops running about in all directions, and voices calling, and avalanches of snow thrown by arms of men from gutters and roofs on all sides, darkening windows, and falling with thundering noise. We have been charmed with a little French play, _Les deux Gendres._ I wish you could get it, and get Mr. Knox to read it to you: he is still blocked up by the snow at Pakenham Hall. We have had an entertaining letter, giving an account of a gentleman who is now in England, a native of Delhi. He practised as an advocate in the native courts of Calcutta, from Calcutta to Prince of Wales' Island, and thence to London, and is now Professor of Oriental Languages at Addiscombe. He was at Dr. Malkins': Mrs. Malkin offered him coffee: he refused, and backed. "Not coffee in the house of Madam-Doctor. I take coffee to keep awake; no danger of being drowsy in the house of Madam-Doctor." He was at a great ball where Lord Cornwallis was expected, and he said he would go to him and "bless his father's memory for his conduct in India." Poor old Robin Woods is very ill, and he has a tame robin that sits on his foot, and hops up for crumbs. One day that I went in, when they were at dinner with a bowl of potatoes between them, I said "How happy you two look!" "Yes, miss, we were that every day since we married." _To_ MRS. RUXTON. 15 BAGGOT STREET, [Footnote: Mr. and Mrs. Sneyd Edgeworth's house in Dublin.] DUBLIN, _March 1814._