The Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth, Vol. 1 by Maria Edgeworth

M >> Maria Edgeworth >> The Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth, Vol. 1

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22

The tide carried us on to the door. An admirable Scotch officer, who was
mounting guard with a drawn sword, his face dropping perspiration,
exclaimed at the sight of Harriet, "Oh the child! take care of that
child! she will be crushed to death!" He made a soldier put his musket
across the doorway, so as to force a place for her to creep under: quick
as lightning in she darted, and Fanny and I and my father after her. All
was serene, uncrowded, and fresh within the park.

We instantly met Sneyd and William, and the two Mr. Foxes. Music and the
most festive scene in the gardens: the balloon, the beautiful
many-coloured balloon, chiefly maroon colour, with painted eagles, and
garlands, and arms of Ireland, hung under the trees, and was filling
fast from pipes and an apparatus which I leave for William's scientific
description: terrace before Belvidere House--well-dressed groups
parading on it: groups all over the gardens, mantles, scarves, and
feathers floating: all the commonalty outside in fields at half-price.
We soon espied Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, and joined company, and were
extremely happy, and wished for you and dear Honora. Sun shining, no
wind. Presently we met the Solicitor-General: he started back, and made
me such a bow as made me feel my own littleness; then shook my hands
most cordially, and in a few moments told me more than most men could
tell in an hour: just returned from Edinburgh--Mrs. Bushe and daughters
too much fatigued to come and see the balloon.

The Duke and Duchess of Richmond, and Sir Charles Vernon, and Sir
Charles Saxton. The Miss Gunns seated themselves in a happily
conspicuous place, with some gentlemen, on the roof of Belvidere House,
where, with veils flying and telescopes and opera-glasses continually
veering about, they attracted sufficient attention.

Walking on, Sneyd exclaimed, "My Uncle Ruxton!" I darted to him: "Is my
aunt here?"--"Yes, and Sophy, and Margaret, but I have lost them; I'm
looking for them."--"Oh, come with me and we'll find them." Soon we
made our way behind the heels of the troopers' horses, who guarded a
sacred circle round the balloon: found my aunt, and Sophy, and
Mag--surprise and joy on both sides: got seats on the pedestal of some
old statue, and talked and enjoyed ourselves: the balloon filling
gradually. Now it was that my uncle proposed our returning by Black
Castle.

The drum beats! the flag flies! balloon full! It is moved from under the
trees over the heads of the crowd: the car very light and slight--Mr.
Sadler's son, a young lad, in the car. How the horses stood the motion
of this vast body close to them I can't imagine, but they did. The boy
got out. Mr. Sadler, quite composed, this being his twenty-sixth aërial
ascent, got into his car: a lady, the Duchess of Richmond, I believe,
presented to him a pretty flag: the balloon gave two majestic nods from
side to side as the cords were cut. Whether the music continued at this
moment to play or not, nobody can tell. No one spoke while the balloon
successfully rose, rapidly cleared the trees, and floated above our
heads: loud shouts and huzzas, one man close to us exclaiming, as he
clasped his hands, "Ah, musha, musha, GOD bless you! GOD be wid you!"
Mr. Sadler, waving his flag and his hat, and bowing to the world below,
soon pierced a white cloud, and disappeared; then emerging, the balloon
looked like a moon, black on one side, silver on the other; then like a
dark bubble; then less and less, and now only a speck is seen; and now
the fleeting rack obscures it. Never did I feel the full merit of
Darwin's description till then.

Next day, at eight in the morning, my father and William (who proceed to
the Bishop of Derry's) and Fanny went to Collon. Sneyd, Harriet, and I
came here.

_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Oct. 26, 1812._

Elections have been the order of the day with us as well as with you. I
am glad to tell you that Lord Longford's troubles are over; he is now
here, and has just been telling us that his victory for Colonel Hercules
was as complete as his heart could wish. There would have been a duel
but for Admiral Pakenham. One gentleman in his speech said that another
had made the drummer of his corps play "Protestant Boys." The other
said, "That's a lie;" and both were proceeding to high words, when the
Admiral stepped between them, and said, very gravely, "Gentlemen, I did
not know this meeting was a music meeting, but since you appeal to us
electors to decide your cause by your musical merits, let the past be
past; and now for the present give us each of you a song, and here's the
sheriff,"--who has no more ear than a post--"shall be judge between
you." Everybody laughed, and the two angry gentlemen had to laugh off
their quarrel.

Another gentleman said to the Admiral, after the election was over, "Do
you know, I had a mind to have stood myself; if I had, what would you
have said?"--"That it was all a game of brag, and that, as you had the
shuffling of the pack, there was no knowing what knave might turn up."

Lord Longford told us of Colonel Hercules Pakenham, at the siege of
Badajos, walking with an engineer. A bomb whizzed over their heads and
fell among the soldiers, as they were carrying off the wounded. When the
Colonel expressed some regret, the engineer said, "I wonder you have not
steeled your mind to these things. These men are carried to the
hospital, and others come in their place. Let us go to the depot." Here
the engineer had his wheelbarrows all laid out in nice order, and his
pickaxes arranged in stars and various shapes; but, just as they were
leaving the depot, a bomb burst in the midst of them. "Oh, heavenly
powers, my picks!" cried the engineer, with clasped hands, in despair.

_To_ C. SNEYD EDGEWORTH, IN DUBLIN.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Feb. 10, 1813._

_Rokeby_ is, in my opinion--and let every soul speak for
themselves--most beautiful poetry: the four first cantos and half the
fifth are all I have yet read. I think it a higher and better, because
less Scotch, more universal style of poetry than any Walter Scott has
yet produced, though not altogether perfect of its kind. It has more
discrimination of character, more knowledge of human nature, more
generalised reflection, much more moral aim.

* * * * *

In March, Miss Edgeworth accompanied her father and stepmother to
England.

* * * * *

MARIA _to_ MRS. MARY SNEYD.

BANGOR FERRY, _March 31, 1813._

"I will go and write a few lines of a letter to my dear Aunt Mary."

"Oh! why should you write now, my dear? You have nothing new to tell
her."

"Nothing new, but I love her, and wish to write to her; if I did not
love her, I should be worse than Caliban."

"Well, write only a few lines."

"That is just what I mean to do, and go on with my letter at any odd
place where we _stop the night._"

You have heard of all we saw at Howth, so I go on from Holyhead.
Breakfasted in company with Mr. Grainger: he has lived in very good
company abroad, and told us a variety of entertaining anecdotes:
Caulaincourt, now Due de Vincennes, was brought up in the family of the
Prince de Condé, _l'enfant de la Maison_, the playfellow of the Due
d'Enghien. Buonaparte employed Caulaincourt to seize the Due d'Enghien;
the wretch did so, and has been repaid by a dukedom.

We asked how the present Empress was liked in France. "Not at all by the
Parisians; she is too haughty, has the Austrian scornful lip, and sits
back in her carriage when she goes through the streets." The same
complaint was made against Marie Antoinette. On what small things the
popularity of the high and mighty depends!

Josephine is living very happily, amusing herself with her gardens and
her shrubberies. This _ci-devant_ Empress and Kennedy and Co., the
seedsmen, are, as Mr. Grainger says, in partnership; she has a licence
to send to him what shrubs and seeds she chooses from France, and he has
licence to send cargoes in return to her. Mr. Grainger will carry over
my box to Madame Recamier.

At the inn door at Bangor Ferry we saw a most curiously packed curricle,
with all manner of portmanteaus and hat-boxes slung in various ingenious
ways, and behind the springs two baskets, the size and shape of Lady
Elizabeth Pakenham's basket. A huge bunch of white feathers was sticking
out from one end of one of these baskets; and as we approached to
examine it, out came the live head of a white peacock--a Japan peacock
and peahen. The gentleman to whom the carriage belonged appeared next,
carrying on a perch a fine large macaw. This perch was made to fasten
behind the carriage. The servant who was harnessing the horses would not
tell to whom the carriage belonged. He replied to all inquiries, "It
belongs to that there gentleman."

We have enjoyed this fine day: had a delightful walk before dinner in a
hanging wood by the water-side--pretty sheep-paths, wood anemonies in
abundance, with their white flowers in full blow. Two ploughs going in
the field below the wood: very cheerful the sound of the Welshmen's
voices talking to their horses. The ploughing, giving the idea of
culture and civilisation, contrasted agreeably with the wildness of the
wood and mountains. Good-night.

_Thursday._

This morning we set out for the slate quarries; we took our time, full
time to see everything at leisure. The railways are above six miles
long; they are very narrow. I had formed an idea of their being much
more magnificent, but in this country canals and railways are made as
useful and as little splendid as possible. I was surprised to see these
railways winding round the rocks, and going over heaps of rubbish where
you would think no wheelbarrow even could go.

From the slate-cutting we went to the slate quarries. We had been
admiring the beauty of the landscape. My father did not say anything to
raise my expectations, but when we arrived near the place, he took me by
the hand, and led me over a heap of rubbish, on the top of which there
was a railway. We walked on until we came between two slate mountains,
and found ourselves in the midst of the quarries. It was the most
sublime sight of all the works of man I ever beheld. The men looked like
pigmies. There is a curious cone of grayish-coloured slate standing
alone, which the workmen say is good for nothing; but it is good for its
picturesque appearance. A heavy shower of hail came on, which, falling
between the rifts of the rocks, and blown by the high wind, added to the
sublimity of the scene: we were comfortably sheltered in one of the
sheds.

Finding that Mr. Worthington was at Liverpool, my father determined to
go there, and we have come on to Conway. During a storm of wind,
thunder, and lightning last night it snowed just enough to cover the
tops of the mountains with white, to increase the beauty of the prospect
for us: they appeared more majestic from the strong contrast of bright
lights and broad shades: the leaves of the honeysuckles all green in the
hedges, fine hollies, primroses in abundance: it was literally spring in
the lap of winter. Penmanmawr has, my father says, considerably altered
its appearance, since he knew it first, from the falling of masses of
rock, and the crumbling away of the mighty substance. Cultivation has
crept up its sides to a prodigious height. A little cottage nestled just
under the mountain's huge stone cap. The fragments of rock that have
rolled down, some of them across the road, are ten times the size of the
rock in Mr. Keating's lawn, [Footnote: A curious isolated stone, about
ten feet by four, which stood in the Vicarage lawn at Edgeworthstown,
said to have been aimed at the church by a Pagan giant from the Hill of
Ardagh. It is now destroyed.] and in contrast with this idea of danger
are sheep and lambs feeding quietly; the lambs looking not larger than
little Francis's deceased kittens Muff and Tippet.

We reached Conway at six o'clock. The landlady of the Harp Inn knew my
father, and recollected Lovell and my Aunt Ruxton. The boy to whom
Lovell used to be so good, and who stopped my father on Penmanmawr to
tell him that Lovell had given him Lazy Lawrence, was drowned with many
others crossing the Ferry in a storm. The old harper who used to be the
delight of travellers is now in a state of dotage. There was no harper
at Bangor: the waiter told us "they were no profit to master, and was
always in the way in the passage; so master never lets them come now."

In the midst of all the sublime and beautiful I had a happy mixture of
the comic, for we had a Welsh postillion who entertained us much by his
contracted vocabulary, and still more contracted sphere of ideas. He and
my father could never understand one another, because my father said
"qu_a_rry," and the Welshman said "qu_e_rry"; and the burthen of all he
said was continually asking if we would not like to be "driven to
Caernarvon."

_Friday morning, seven o'clock_, dressed, and ready to go on with my
scribbling. I assure you, my dear kind Aunt Mary, it is a great pleasure
to me to write this letter at odd minutes while the horses are changing,
or after breakfast or dinner for a quarter of an hour at a time, so that
it is impossible that it should tire me. I owe all my present
conveniencies for writing to various Sneyds: I use Emma Sneyd's
pocket-inkstand; my ivory-cutter penknife was the gift of my Aunt
Charlotte, and my little Sappho seal a present of Aunt Mary's.

For miles we have had beautiful hollies in the hedges; I wish my Aunt
Charlotte would be so kind as to have a few small hollies out of
Wilkinson's garden planted in the new ditch between Wood's and Duffy's;
also some cuttings of honeysuckles and pyracanthus--enough can be had
from my garden. I must finish abruptly.

_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

LIVERPOOL, _April 6, 1813._

Many times--a hundred times within this week--have I wished, my dearest
aunt, to talk over with you the things and people I have seen. I am very
well, very happy, and much entertained and interested.

Liverpool is very fine and very grand, and my father soon found out Mr.
Roscoe; he was so good as to come to see us, and invited us to his
house, Allerton Hall, about seven miles from Liverpool. He is a
benevolent, cheerful, gentlemanlike old man; tall, neither thin nor fat,
thick gray hair. He is very like the prints you have seen of him; his
bow courteous, not courtly; his manner frank and prepossessing, without
pretension of any kind. He enters into conversation readily, and
immediately tells something entertaining or interesting, seeming to
follow the natural course of his own thoughts, or of yours, without
effort. Mrs. Roscoe seems to adore her husband, and to be so fond of her
children, and has such a good understanding and such a warm heart, it is
impossible not to like her. Mr. Roscoe gave himself up to us the whole
day. Allerton Hall is a spacious house, in a beautiful situation: fine
library, every room filled with pictures, many of them presents from
persons in Italy who admired his Leo the Tenth. One of Tasso has a sort
of mad vigilance in the eyes, as if he that instant saw the genius that
haunted him. Mr. Roscoe has arranged his collection admirably, so as to
show, in chronological order, in edifying gradation, the progress of
painting. The picture which he prized the most was by one of Raphael's
masters, not in the least valuable in itself, but for a frieze below it
by Michael Angelo, representing the destruction of the Oracles; it is of
a gray colour. Mr. Roscoe thinks it one of Michael Angelo's earliest
performances, and says it is _conceded_ to be the only original Michael
Angelo in England. Of this I know nothing, but I know that it struck me
as full of genius, and I longed for you and Margaret when we looked at a
portfolio full of Michael Angelo's sketches, drawings, and studies. It
is admirable to see the pains that a really great man takes to improve a
first idea. Turning from these drawings to a room full of Fuseli's
horribly distorted figures, I could not help feeling astonishment, not
only at the bad taste, but at the infinite conceit and presumption of
Fuseli. How could this man make himself a name! I believe he gave these
pictures to Mr. Roscoe, else I suppose they would not be here sprawling
their fantastic lengths, like misshapen dreams. Instead of _le beau_,
they exhibit _le laid_ ideal.

At dinner Darwin's poetry was mentioned, and Mr. Roscoe neither ran him
down nor cried him up. He said exactly the truth, that he was misled by
a false theory of poetry--that everything should be picture--and that
therefore he has not taken the means to touch the feelings; and Mr.
Roscoe made what seemed to me a new and just observation, that writers
of secondary powers, when they are to represent either objects of nature
or feelings of the human mind, always begin by a simile: they tell you
what it is like, not what it is.

_April 9._

I finish this at Mr. Holland's, at Knutsford. We spent a delightful day
at Manchester, where we owed our chief pleasure to Dr. Ferrier and his
daughter.

* * * * *

_To_ MISS HONORA EDGEWORTH.

DERBY, _April 25, 1813._

We have been now five days at Mr. Strutt's. We have been treated with so
much hospitality and kindness by him, and he showed such a high esteem,
and I may say affection for my father, that even if he had not the
superior understanding he possesses, it would be impossible for me not
to like him. From the moment we entered his house he gave up his whole
time to us, his servants, his carriage; everything and everybody in his
family were devoted to us, and all was done with such simplicity of
generosity, that we felt at ease even while we were loaded with favours.
This house is indeed, as Sneyd and William described it, a palace; and
it is plain that the convenience of the inhabitants has everywhere been
consulted: the ostentation of wealth nowhere appears.

Seven hours of one day Mr. Strutt and his nephew Jedediah gave up to
showing us the cotton mills, and another whole morning he gave up to
showing to us the infirmary; he built it--a noble building; hot air from
below conveyed by a _cockle_ all over the house. The whole institution a
most noble and touching sight; such a GREAT thing, planned and carried
into successful execution in so few years by one man!

We dined at Mr. Joseph Strutt's, and were in the evening at Mr. George
Strutt's; and I will name some of the people we met, for Sneyd and
William will like to know whom we saw:--Dr. Forrester, Mr. French, Miss
French, who has good taste, as she proved by her various compliments to
Sneyd; Miss Broadhurst, not my heiress, though she says that, after the
publication of the _Absentee_, people used to turn their heads when she
was announced, and ask if that was Miss Edgeworth's Miss Broadhurst! She
met Sneyd in Dublin; has been lately at Kilkenny, and admired Mr.
Rothe's acting of Othello. We saw a good deal of Mr. Sylvester,
[Footnote: The inventor of the Cockle or Sylvester stove.] who is, I
think, a man of surprising abilities, of a calm and fearless mind: an
original and interesting character. Edward Strutt is indeed all that
Sneyd and William described--a boy of great abilities, affectionate, and
with a frank countenance and manner which win at once. One of our
greatest pleasures has been the hearing everybody, from Edward upwards,
speak of Sneyd and William with such affection, and with such knowledge
of their characters. We all like Miss Lawrence.

We have been at the Priory: Mrs. Darwin at first much out of spirits.
Besides the death of her son, she had lost a grandchild, and her
daughter Harriet, Mrs. Maling, had just sailed with her husband for the
Mediterranean. The Priory is a beautiful place, and Emma Darwin very
beautiful.

We breakfasted at Markeaton with Mr. Mundy: he is a charming old
gentleman, lively, polite, and playful as if he was twenty. He was
delighted to see my father, and they talked over their school days with
great zest. My father was, you know, at school, Mr. Mundy's horse,
"Little Driver."

CAMBRIDGE, _Wednesday._

My mother will tell you the history of our night travels over the bad
road between Leicester and Kettering; my father holding the lantern
stuck up against one window, and my mother against the other the bit of
wax candle Kitty gave me. I don't think we could have got on without it.
Pray tell her, for she laughed when I put it in my box and said it might
be of vast use to us at some odd place.

Mr. Smedley has just called: tell Sneyd we think him very pleasing. I
enclose the "Butterfly's Ball" for Sophy, and a letter to the King
written by Dr. Holland when six years old: his father found him going
with it to the post. Give it to Aunt Mary.

* * * * *

This letter was an offer from Master Holland to raise a regiment. He and
some of his little comrades had got a drum and a flag, and used to go
through the manual exercise. It was a pity the letter did not reach the
King: he would have been delighted at it.

* * * * *

_To_ C. SNEYD EDGEWORTH.

LONDON, _May 1, 1813._

Please to take this in small doses, but not fasting.

Let us go back, if you please, to Cambridge. Thursday morning we went to
breakfast with Mr. Smedley. It had been a dreadful rainy night, but
luckily the rain ceased in the morning, and the streets were dried by
the wind on purpose for us. In Sidney College we found your friend in
neat, cheerful rooms, with orange-fringed curtains, pretty drawings, and
prints: breakfast-table as plentifully prepared as you could have had
it--tea, coffee, tongue, cold beef, exquisite bread, and many inches of
butter. I suppose you know, but no one else at home can guess, why I say
_inches_ of butter. All the butter in Cambridge must be stretched into
rolls a yard in length and an inch in diameter, and these are sold by
inches, and measured out by compasses, in a truly mathematical manner,
worthy of a university.

Mr. Smedley made us feel at home at once: my mother made tea, I coffee;
he called you "Sneyd," and my father seemed quite pleased. After having
admired the drawings and pictures, and Fanny's kettle-holder, we sallied
forth with our friendly guide. It was quite fine and sunshiny, and the
gardens and academic shades really beautiful. We went to the University
Hall--the election of a new Professor to the Chemical Professorship was
going on. Farish was one of the candidates: the man of whom Leslie
Foster used to talk in such raptures when he first came from Cambridge;
the man who lectured on arches, and whose paradox of the one-toothed
wheel William will recollect. My father was introduced to him, and
invited him to dine with us: Mr. Farish accepted the invitation. We sat
on a bench with a few ladies. A number of Fellows, with black tiles on
their heads, walked up and down the hall, whispering to one another; and
in five minutes Mr. Smedley said, "The election is over: I must go and
congratulate Mr. Professor Farish."

We next proceeded to the University Library, not nearly so fine as the
Dublin College Library. Saw Edward the Sixth's famous little MS.
exercise book: hand good, and ink admirable; shame to the modern
chemists, who cannot make half as good ink now! Saw Faustus' first
printed book and a Persian letter to Lord Wellesley, and an Indian idol,
said to be made of rice, looking like, and when I lifted it feeling as
heavy as, marble. Mr. Smedley smiled at my being so taken with an idol,
and I told him that I was curious about this rice-marble, because we had
lately seen at Derby a vase of similar substance, about which there had
been great debates. Mr. Smedley then explained to me that the same word
in Persian expresses rice and the composition of which these idols are
made.

We saw the MS. written on papyrus leaves: I had seen the papyrus at the
Liverpool Botanic Garden, and had wondered how the stiff bark could be
rolled up; and here I saw that it is not rolled up, but cut in strips
and fastened with strings at each end.

In this library were three casts, taken after death--how or why they
came there I don't know, but they were very striking--one of Charles
XII., with the hole in the forehead where the bullet entered at the
siege of Fredericks-hall; that of Pitt, very like his statue from the
life, and all the prints of him; and that of Fox, shocking! no character
of greatness or ability--nothing but pain, weakness, and imbecility. It
is said to be so unlike what he was in health, that none would know it.
One looks at casts taken after death with curiosity and interest, and
yet it is not probable that they should show the real natural or
habitual character of the person: they can often only mark the degree of
bodily pain or ease felt in the moment of death. I think these casts
made me pause to reflect more than anything else I saw this day.

Went next to Trinity College Library: beautiful! I liked the glass doors
opening to the gardens at the end, and trees in full leaf. The
proportions of this room are excellent, and everything but the ceiling,
which is too plain. The busts of Bacon and Newton excellent; but that of
Bacon looks more like a courtier than a philosopher: his ruff is
elegantly plaited in white marble. By Cipriani's painted window, with
its glorious anachronisms, we were much amused; and I regret that it is
not recorded in Irish Bulls. It represents the presentation of Sir Isaac
Newton to His Majesty George the _Third_, seated on his throne, and
_Bacon_ seated on the steps of the said throne writing! Cipriani had
made the King, Henry VIII., but the Fellows of the College thought it
would be pretty to pay a compliment to His Gracious Majesty George III.,
so they made Cipriani cut off Henry VIII.'s head, and stick King George
in his place: the junction is still to be seen in the first design of
the picture, covered with a pasted paper cravat! like the figure that
changes heads in the _Little Henry_ book.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22