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

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We spent four days at Clifton with Emmeline, and if our journey to
England had been productive of no other good, I should heartily rejoice
at our having accomplished this purpose. My father was pleased and
happy, and liked all his three grandchildren very much. You may imagine
how much pleasure this gave me.

We came here the day before yesterday, and have spent our time
delightfully with Anna and her children, and now the carriage is at the
door to take us to Mrs. Clifford's. Yesterday we went to see Samuel
Essington, [Footnote: The servant who was so faithful and so frightened
at the time of the rebellion. He had saved some money and quitted the
service of the Edgeworths in 1800.] at the Essington Hotel. He thought
it was a carriage full of strangers and was letting down the steps when
he beheld my father; his whole face glowed with delight, and the tears
stood in his projecting eyes. "Master! Master, I declare! O sir, ma'am,
miss, Mrs. Beddoes, Miss Edgeworth: how glad I am!"

He showed us his excellent house, and walked us round his beautiful
little lawn and shrubberies, all his own making; and cut moss roses and
blush roses for us with such eagerness and delight. "And all, all owing
to you, sir, that first taught me."

* * * * *

Mrs. Edgeworth writes:

At Mrs. Clifford's we stayed some days--a beautiful country, not far
from Ross which we visited, and Maria was delighted to see all the
scenes of the Man of Ross. At Mrs. Clifford's we had one day of most
brilliant conversation between Maria, her father, and Sir James
Macintosh, who had just come into that neighbourhood. He joined us,
unexpectedly, one morning as we were walking out, and touching a shawl
Mrs. Clifford wore, "A thousand looms," he said, "are at work in
Cashmere at this instant providing these for you."

MARIA _to_ MRS. MARY SNEYD AT EDGEWORTHSTOWN.

MRS. CLIFFORD'S, _June 1813._

_Saturday Evening._

Received Sneyd's letter. [Footnote: Announcing his engagement to Miss
Broadhurst. It was singular that this was the name of the heroine in
Miss Edgeworth's _Absentee_, who selected from her lovers the one who
united _worth_ and wit, in reminiscence of an epigram of Mr. Edgeworth
on himself, concluding--

There's an edge to his wit and there's worth in his heart.]

Astonishment! Dear Sneyd, I hope he will be as happy as love and fortune
can make him. All my ideas are thrown into such confusion by this letter
that I _can_ no more. We go to Derby on Tuesday.

To MRS. RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _July 26, 1813._

I have delayed a few days writing to you in the expectation of the
arrival of two frankers to send an extract from Dr. Holland's last
letter, which will, I hope, entertain you as much as it entertained us.
I shall long to hear of our good friend Mrs. Elizabeth Hamilton's visit
to Black Castle.

We have every reason to be in great anxiety at this moment about a
certain trunk containing all our worldly _duds_, and "Patronage" to
boot, but still I have not been able to work myself into any fears about
it, though it is a month since we ought to have seen it, nor have we
heard any news of it. In the meantime, as I cannot set about revising
"Patronage," I have begun a new series of _Early Lessons_ [Footnote: The
second parts of _Frank, Rosamond_, and _Harry and Lucy._] for which many
mothers told me they wished. I feel that I return with fresh pleasure to
literary work from having been so long idle, and I have a famishing
appetite for reading. All that we saw in London, I am sure I enjoyed
while it was passing as much as possible, but I should be very sorry to
live in that whirling vortex, and I find my taste and conviction
confirmed on my return to my natural friends and my dear home.

I am glad that some of those who showed us hospitality and kindness in
England should have come so soon to Ireland, that we may have some
little opportunity of showing our sense of their attentions. Lord
Carrington, who franks this, is most amiable and benevolent, without any
species of pretension, thinking the best that can be thought of
everything and everybody. Mr. Smith, his son, whom we had not seen in
London, accompanies him, and his tutor, Mr. Kaye, a Cambridge man, and
Lord Gardner, Lord Carrington's son-in-law, suffering from the gouty
rheumatism, or rheumatic gout--he does not know or care which: but
between the twitches of his suffering he is entertaining and agreeable.

We have just seen a journal by a little boy of eight years old, of a
voyage from England to Sicily: the boy is Lord Mahon's son, Lord
Carrington's grandson. [Footnote: Philip Henry, afterwards fifth Earl
Stanhope, the historian.] It is one of the best journals I ever read,
full of facts: exactly the writing of a child, but a very clever child.
It is peculiarly interesting to us from having seen Dr. Holland's
letters from Palermo. Lord Mahon says that the alarm about the plague at
Malta is much greater than it need be--its progress has been stopped: it
was introduced by a shoemaker having, contrary to law and reason,
surreptitiously brought some handkerchiefs from a vessel that had not
performed quarantine. You will nevertheless rejoice that Dr. Holland did
not go to Malta. How you will regret the loss of the portmanteau of
which that vile Ali Pasha robbed him.

Mr. Fox dined with us to-day, and was very agreeable. Lord Carrington
and his travelling companions were at Farnham, where they were most
hospitably received. They had no letters of introduction or intention of
going there; but, finding a horrid inn at Cavan, they applied for
charity to a gentleman for lodging. The gentleman took them to walk in
Lord Farnham's grounds. Lord and Lady Farnham saw and invited them to
the house, and they are full of admiration and almost affection, I
think, for Lord and Lady Farnham: they are so charmed by their
hospitality, their goodness to the poor, their care of the young Foxes,
their magnificent establishment, their neat cottages for their tenants,
and, as Lord Gardner sensibly said, "their judicious economy in the
midst of magnificence."

_August 9._

I like Mrs. Elizabeth Hamilton better than ever upon further
acquaintance. She is what the French would call _bonne à vivre_: so
good-humoured, so cheerful, so little disposed to exact attention or to
take an authoritative tone in conversation, so ready to give everybody
their merits, so indulgent for the follies and frailties, and so hopeful
of the reformation of even the faults and vices of the world, that it is
impossible not to respect and love her. She wins upon us daily, and
mixes so well with this family, that I always forget she is a stranger.

Lady Davy is in high glory at this moment, introducing Madame de Staël
everywhere, enjoying the triumph and partaking the gale. They went down,
a delightful party, to Cobham--Madame de Staël, Lady Davy, Lord Erskine,
Rogers, etc.

Have you heard that Jeffrey, the reviewer, is gone to America in pursuit
of a lady, or, as some say, to take possession of an estate left to him
by an uncle: he is to be back in time for the _Edinburgh Review_ in
September!

_August 19._

Lord and Lady Lansdowne came to us on Tuesday. Mr. Greenough comes on
Saturday, and after that I think we shall get to Black Castle. Lord
Longford came yesterday, and though he is not, you know, exuberant in
praise, truly says Lord and Lady Lansdowne are people who must be
esteemed and liked the more they are known.

Mr. Forbes, just returned from Russia, has this moment come, and is
giving a most interesting account of Petersburgh and Moscow: give me
credit for retiring to finish this letter. My father is calling,
calling, calling.

_Nov. 19._

Last night a letter came from Lady Farnham, announcing Francis Fox's
marriage, and naming next Monday for us to go to Farnham. We went last
Monday to a play at Castle Forbes, or rather to three farces--"Bombastes
Furioso," "Of Age To-morrow," and "The Village Lawyer," taken from the
famous _Avocat Patelin_: the cunning servant-boy shamming simplicity was
admirably acted by Lord Rancliffe.

Tell me whether you have seen Madame de Staël's _Essai sur la Fiction_,
prefixed to Zulma, Adelaide, and Pauline--the essay is excellent: I
shall be curious to know whether you think as I do of Pauline. Madame de
Staël calls Blenheim "a magnificent tomb: splendour without, and the
deathlike silence of ennui within." She says she is very proud of having
made the Duke of Marlborough speak four words. At the moment she was
announced he was distinctly heard to utter these words: "Let me go
away." We have just got her _Allemagne._ We have had great delight in
Mrs. Graham's _India_,--a charming woman, writing, speaking, thinking,
or feeling.

_Nov. 25._

A letter from Lady Romilly--so easy, so like her conversation. All agree
that Madame de Staël is frankness itself, and has an excellent heart.
During her brilliant fortnight at Bowood--where, besides Madame de
Staël, her Albertine, M. de Staël, and Count Palmella, there were the
Romillys, the Macintoshes, Mr. Ward, Mr. Rogers, and M. Dumont--if it
had not been for chess-playing, music, and dancing between times, poor
human nature never could have borne the strain of attention and
admiration.

_Jan. 1, 1814._

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._

Here we are: arrived at three o'clock: found Henrica looking very well.
Such a nice, pretty, elegant house! and they have furnished it so
comfortably. It is delightful to see my father here; he enjoys himself
so much in his son's house, and Sneyd and Henrica are so happy seeing
him pleased with everything. Lady Longford has been here this morning;
told us Sir Edward Pakenham was so fatigued by riding an uneasy horse at
the battle of Vittoria, he was not able to join for four days. A buckle
of Lord Wellington's sword-belt saved him: he wrote four times in one
week to Lady Wellington, without ever mentioning his wound. I long for
you to see Henrica; she is so kind, and so well-bred and easy in her
manners.

* * * * *

In April Mr. Edgeworth had a dangerous illness. He was just out of
danger, when, late at night on the 10th of May, his son Lovell arrived
from Paris, liberated by the peace after eleven years' detention.

* * * * *

MARIA EDGEWORTH _to_ MRS. RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _May 16, 1814/._

My father's contentment at Lovell's [Footnote: The only son of Mr.
Edgeworth's second marriage, with Miss Honora Sneyd.] return has done
him more good than all the advice of all the surgeons, I do believe, now
that the danger is over. If you have suffered from suspense in absence,
yet, my dear aunt, you have been spared the torturing terrors we have
felt at the sight of the daily, hourly changes, so rapid, so
unaccountable: one day, one hour, all hope, the next all despair! The
lamp of life, now bright, starting up high and brilliant, then sinking
suddenly almost to extinction; the flame flitting, flickering, starting,
_leaping_, as it were, on and off by fits. Some day we shall talk it
over in security; now I can hardly bear to look back to it.

All that has passed in France in the last few weeks! a revolution
without bloodshed! Paris taken without being pillaged! the Bourbons,
after all hope and reason for hope had passed, restored to their capital
and their palaces! With what mixed sensations they must enter those
palaces! I daresay it has not escaped my aunt that the Venus de Medicis
and Apollo Belvidere are both missing together: I make no remarks. I
hate scandal--at least I am not so fond of it as the lady of whom it was
said she could not see the poker and tongs standing together without
suspecting something wrong! I wonder where our ideas, especially those
of a playful sort, go at some times? and how it is that they all come
junketing back faster than there is room for them at other times? How is
it that hope so powerfully excites, and fear so absolutely depresses all
our faculties?

_Aug. 24._

Sneyd has received a very polite letter from the Marquis de Bonay, who
is now ambassador at the Court of Denmark. Mrs. O'Beirne and the Bishop,
who like Mons. de Bonay so much, and who have not heard of him for such
a length of time, will be delighted to hear of his emerging into light
and life. What is more to our purpose is, that he says he can furnish
Sneyd with some notes for the Abbé Edgeworth's life, which he had once
intended to write himself: he did put a short notice of his life into
the foreign papers at Mittau. He says he never knew so perfect a human
creature as the Abbé.

I had a letter from Dr. Holland this morning saying at the beginning I
should be surprised at its contents; and so I was. The Princess of Wales
has invited him to accompany her abroad as her physician! After
consulting with his friends he accepted the invitation.

_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Oct 13, 1814._

I had a letter from the Duchess of Wellington the day before yesterday,
dated from Deal, just when she was going to embark for France. The whole
of the letter was full of her children and of sorrow for quitting them.

Two days ago came a young gentleman, Mr. James Gordon, a nephew of Lady
Elizabeth Whitbread's, with a very polite introductory note from Lady
Elizabeth. He has a great deal of anecdote and information. He has just
come from Paris, and he has given me a better account of Paris, and more
characteristic, well-authenticated anecdotes than I have heard from
anybody else. He mentioned some instances of the gratitude which Louis
XVIII. has shown to people of inferior note in England from whom he had
received kindness, especially to the innkeeper's wife at Berkhampstead.
I am glad for the honour of human nature that this is so.

What do you think Walter Scott says is the most poetical performance he
has read for years? That account of the battle of Leipsic which Richard
lent to us.

We went to Coolure and had a pleasant day. _Waverley_ was in everybody's
hands. The Admiral does not like it: the hero, he says, is such a
shuffling fellow. While he was saying this I had in my pocket a letter
from Miss Fanshawe, received that morning, saying it was delightful.
Lady Crewe tells me that Madame d'Arblay cannot settle in England
because the King of France has lately appointed M. d'Arblay to some high
situation in consequence of his distinguished services.

Shall I tell you what they, my father and all of them, are doing at this
moment? Sprawling on the floor looking at a new rat-trap. Two pounds of
butter vanished the other night out of the dairy; they had been put in a
shallow pan with water in it, and it is averred the rats ate it, and
Peggy Tuite, the dairymaid, to make the thing more credible, gives the
following reason for the rats' conduct. "Troth, ma'am, they were
affronted at the new rat-trap, they only licked the milk off it, and
that occasioned them to run off with the butter!"

Mr. and Mrs. Pollard have spent a day here, and brought with them Miss
Napier. My father is charmed with her beauty, her voice, and her
manners. We talked over _Waverley_ with her. I am more delighted with it
than I can tell you: it is a work of first-rate genius.

_To the_ AUTHOR of "WAVERLEY."

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Oct. 23, 1814._

Aut Scotus, Aut Diabolus!

We have this moment finished _Waverley._ It was read aloud to this large
family, and I wish the author could have witnessed the impression it
made--the strong hold it seized of the feelings both of young and
old--the admiration raised by the beautiful descriptions of nature--by
the new and bold delineations of character--the perfect manner in which
character is ever sustained in every change of situation from first to
last, without effort, without the affectation of making the persons
speak in character--the ingenuity with which each person introduced in
the drama is made useful and necessary to the end--the admirable art
with which the story is constructed and with which the author keeps his
own secrets till the proper moment when they should be revealed, whilst
in the meantime, with the skill of Shakspear, the mind is prepared by
unseen degrees for all the changes of feeling and fortune, so that
nothing, however extraordinary, shocks us as improbable: and the
interest is kept up to the last moment. We were so possessed with the
belief that the whole story and every character in it was real, that we
could not endure the occasional addresses from the author to the reader.
They are like Fielding: but for that reason we cannot bear them, we
cannot bear that an author of such high powers, of such original genius,
should for a moment stoop to imitation. This is the only thing we
dislike, these are the only passages we wish omitted in the whole work:
and let the unqualified manner in which I say this, and the very
vehemence of my expression of this disapprobation, be a sure pledge to
the author of the sincerity of all the admiration I feel for his genius.

I have not yet said half we felt in reading the work. The characters are
not only finely drawn as separate figures, but they are grouped with
great skill, and contrasted so artfully, and yet so naturally as to
produce the happiest dramatic effect, and at the same time to relieve
the feelings and attention in the most agreeable manner. The novelty of
the Highland world which is discovered to our view powerfully excites
curiosity and interest: but though it is all new to us it does not
embarrass or perplex, or strain the attention. We never are harassed by
doubts of the probability of any of these modes of life: though we did
not know them, we are quite certain they did exist exactly as they are
represented. We are sensible that there is a peculiar merit in the work
which is in a measure lost upon us, the _dialects_ of the Highlanders,
and the Lowlanders, etc. But there is another and a higher merit with
which we are as much struck and as much delighted as any true-born
Scotchman could be: the various gradations of Scotch feudal character,
from the high-born chieftain and the military baron, to the noble-minded
lieutenant Evan Dhu, the robber Bean Lean, and the savage Callum Beg.
The _Pre_--the Chevalier, is beautifully drawn--

A prince: ay, every inch a prince!

His polished manners, his exquisite address, politeness, and generosity,
interest the reader irresistibly, and he pleases the more from the
contrast between him and those who surround him. I think he is my
favourite character: the Baron Bradwardine is my father's. He thinks it
required more genius to invent, and more ability uniformly to sustain
this character than any other of the masterly characters with which the
book abounds. There is indeed uncommon art in the manner in which his
dignity is preserved by his courage and magnanimity, in spite of all his
pedantry and his _ridicules_, and his bear and bootjack, and all the
raillery of M'Ivor. M'Ivor's unexpected "bear and bootjack" made us
laugh heartily.

But to return to the dear good baron: though I acknowledge that I am not
as good a judge as my father and brothers are of his recondite learning
and his law Latin, yet I feel the humour, and was touched to the quick
by the strokes of generosity, gentleness, and pathos in this old man,
who is, by the bye, all in good time worked up into a very dignified
father-in-law for the hero. His exclamation of "Oh! my son! my son!" and
the yielding of the fictitious character of the baron to the natural
feelings of the father is beautiful. (Evan Dhu's fear that his
father-in-law should die quietly in his bed made us laugh almost as much
as the bear and bootjack.)

Jinker, in the battle, pleading the cause of the mare he had sold to
Balmawhapple, and which had thrown him for want of the proper bit, is
truly comic: my father says that this and some other passages respecting
horsemanship could not have been written by any one who was not master
both of the great and little horse.

I tell you without order the great and little strokes of humour and
pathos just as I recollect, or am reminded of them at this moment by my
companions. The fact is that we have had the volumes--only during the
time we could read them, and as fast as we could read--lent to us as a
great favour by one who was happy enough to have secured a copy before
the first and second editions were sold in Dublin. When we applied, not
a copy could be had; we expect one in the course of next week, but we
resolved to write to the author without waiting for a second perusal.
Judging by our own feeling as authors, we guess that he would rather
know our genuine first thoughts, than wait for cool second thoughts, or
have a regular eulogium or criticism put in the most lucid manner, and
given in the finest sentences that ever were rounded.

Is it possible that I have got thus far without having named Flora or
Vich Ian Vohr--the _last Vich Ian Vohr!_ Yet our minds were full of them
the moment before I began this letter: and could you have seen the tears
forced from us by their fate, you would have been satisfied that the
pathos went to our hearts. Ian Vohr from the first moment he appears,
till the last, is an admirably-drawn and finely-sustained
character--new, perfectly new to the English reader--often
entertaining--always heroic--sometimes sublime. The gray spirit, the
Bodach Glas, thrills _us_ with horror. _Us!_ What effect must it have
upon those under the influence of the superstitions of the Highlands!
This circumstance is admirably introduced: this superstition is a
weakness quite consistent with the strength of the character, perfectly
natural after the disappointment of all his hopes, in the dejection of
his mind, and the exhaustion of his bodily strength.

Flora we could wish was never called _Miss MacIvor_, because in this
country there are tribes of vulgar Miss _Macs_, and this association is
unfavourable to the sublime and beautiful of _your_ Flora--she is a true
heroine. Her first appearance seized upon the mind and enchanted us so
completely, that we were certain she was to be your heroine, and the
wife of your hero--but with what inimitable art, you gradually convince
the reader that she was not, as she said of herself, _capable of making
Waverley happy._ Leaving her in full possession of our admiration, you
first make us pity, then love, and at last give our undivided affection
to Rose Bradwardine--sweet Scotch Rose! The last scene between Flora and
Waverley is highly pathetic--my brother wishes that _bridal garment_
were _shroud:_ because when the heart is touched we seldom use metaphor,
or quaint alliteration-bride-favour, bridal garment.

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