_To_ MISS HONORA EDGEWORTH.

SMETHWICK GROVE, _Oct. 25, 1821_.

Here we are, my dear Honora, once more at the dear, hospitable
Moilliets'; Emily making tea at the same well-furnished board, with her
near-sighted, beautiful eyes picking her way among the cups.

We missed, by not arriving last night, a Frenchman who has been
seventeen years learning to play on the flute, and cannot play, and who
has been ten years learning to speak English, and yet told Mrs. Moilliet
that he had a letter to Lord Porcelain, to whom his mother is related,
meaning the Duke of Portland. He left this, determined to see the
residence of "Lord Malbrouke." Mrs. Moilliet endeavoured to put him
right, and to put the song, "Va-t-en Malbrouke" out of his head; but he
quoted it with the authority of an old legend. "Blenheim," Mr. Moilliet
told him, was the name of the Duke of Marlborough's place. "Ah, _oui_,
yes; Blenheim, I know that is the inn." He would have "Malbrouke" as the
name of the place.


_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

WYCOMBE ABBEY, _Oct. 30, 1821_.

We spent two days instead of one at Smethwick. Nothing could be kinder
than the Moilliets were to us; nevertheless, as dearest friends must
part, we parted from them, and had a delightful drive to Woodstock.
Fanny and Harriet will tell you of Blenheim; they were pleased, and you