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

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There is one thing more we could wish changed or omitted in Flora's
character. I have not the volume, and therefore cannot refer to the
page; but I recollect in the first visit to Flora, when she is to sing
certain verses, there is a walk, in which the description of the place
is beautiful, but _too long_, and we did not like the preparation for a
_scene_--the appearance of Flora and her harp was too like a common
heroine, she should be far above all stage effect or novelist's trick.

These are, without reserve, the only faults we found, or _can_ find in
this work of genius. We should scarcely have thought them worth
mentioning, except to give you proof positive that we are not
flatterers. Believe me, I have not, nor can I convey to you the full
idea of the pleasure, the delight we have had in reading _Waverley_, nor
of the feeling of sorrow with which we came to the end of the history of
persons whose real presence had so filled our minds--we felt that we
must return to the _flat realities_ of life, that our stimulus was gone,
and we were little disposed to read the "Postscript, which should have
been a Preface."

"Well, let us hear it," said my father, and Mrs. Edgeworth read on.

Oh! my dear sir, how much pleasure would my father, my mother, my whole
family, as well as myself have lost, if we had not read to the last
page! And the pleasure came upon us so unexpectedly--we had been so
completely absorbed that every thought of ourselves, of our own
authorship, was far, far away.

Thank you for the honour you have done us, [Footnote: Walter Scott, in
his "Postscript," said that it had been his desire in _Waverley_ "in
some distant degree to emulate the admirable Irish portraits drawn by
Miss Edgeworth."] and for the pleasure you have given us, great in
proportion to the opinion we had formed of the work we had just
perused--and believe me, every opinion I have in this letter expressed,
was formed before any individual in the family had peeped to the end of
the book, or knew how much we owed you.--Your obliged and grateful

MARIA EDGEWORTH.

_To_ MISS RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Dec. 26, 1814._

"A merry Christmas and a happy New Year" to you, my dear Sophy, and to
my aunt, and uncle, and Margaret. I have just risen from my bed, where I
had been a day and a half with a violent headache and pains, or as John
Langan calls them, _pins_ in my bones. We have been much entertained
with _Mansfield Park._ Pray read _Eugène et Guillaume_, a modern _Gil
Blas_; too much of opera intrigues, but on the whole it is a work of
admirable ability. Guillaume's character beautiful, and the gradual
deterioration of Eugène's character finely drawn; but the following it
out becomes at last as disgusting and horrible as it would be to see the
corruption of the body after the spirit had fled.

_January 1815._

I send you some beautiful lines to Lord Byron, by Miss Macpherson,
daughter of Sir James Macpherson. As soon as my father hears from the
Dublin Society we shall go to Dublin.

_To_ MISS RUXTON.

15 BAGGOT STREET, DUBLIN,

_Feb 1815._

Our time here has been much more agreeably spent than I had any hopes it
would be. My father has been pleased at some dinners at Mr. Knox's, Mr.
Leslie Foster's, and at the Solicitor-General's. Mrs. Stewart is
admirable, and Caroline Hamilton the most entertaining and agreeable
_good_ person I ever saw; she is as good as any saint, and as gay, and
much gayer, than any sinner I ever happened to see, male or female.

The Beauforts are at Mrs. Waller's: they came up in a hurry, summoned by
a Mrs. Codd, an American, or from America, who has come over to claim a
considerable property, and wants to be identified. She went a journey
when she was thirteen, with Doctor and Mrs. Beaufort and my mother, and
they are the only people in this country who can and will swear _to_ her
and _for_ her. I will tell you when we meet of her entrée with Sir Simon
Bradstreet,--and I will tell you of Honora's treading on the parrot at
Mrs. Westby's party,--and I will tell you of Fenaigle and his ABC. I
think him very stupid. Heaven grant me the power of forgetting his Art
of Memory.

_To_ C.S. EDGEWORTH.

BLACK CASTLE, _May 10, 1815._

We, that is my father, mother, little Harriet, and I, went on Sunday
last to Castletown--the two days we spent there, delightful. Lady Louisa
Connolly is one of the most respectable, amiable, and even at seventy, I
may say, charming persons I ever saw or heard. Having known all the most
worthy, as well as the most celebrated people who have lived for the
last fifty years, she is full of characteristic anecdote, and fuller of
that indulgence for human creatures which is consistent with a thorough
knowledge of the world, and a quick perception of all the foibles of
human nature--with a high sense of religion, without the slightest
tincture of ostentation, asperity, or bigotry. She is all that I could
have wished to represent in Mrs. Hungerford, and her figure and
countenance gave me back the image in my mind.

Her niece, Miss Emily Napier, is graceful, amiable, and very engaging.

My father went home with Harriet direct from Castletown, but begged my
mother and me to return to Dublin for a fancy ball. We did not go to the
Rotunda, but saw enough of it at Mrs. Power's. Lady Clarke (Lady
Morgan's sister), as "Mrs. Flannigan, a half gentlewoman, from
Tipperary," speaking an admirable brogue, was by far the best character,
and she had presence of mind and a great deal of real humour--her
husband attending her with kitten and macaw.

Next to her was Mrs. Robert Langrishe, as a Frenchwoman, admirably
dressed. Mrs. Airey was a Turkish lady, in a superb dress, given to her
by Ali Pasha. There were _thatched_ "Wild Men from the North," dancing
and stamping with whips and clumping of the feet, from which Mrs. Bushe
and I fled whenever they came near us. Having named Mrs. Bushe, I must
mention that whenever I have met her, she has been my delight and
admiration from her wit, humour, and variety of conversation.

_To_ MISS RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Aug. 1815._

I send a note from Lady Romilly, and one from Mr. Whishaw: the four
travellers mentioned in that note called upon us yesterday,--Mr. and
Mrs. Smith, of Easton Grey, Miss Bayley, and Mr. Fuller. Mrs. Smith is
stepdaughter to a certain Mrs. Chandler, who was very kind to me at Mrs.
Day's, and I was heartily glad to see her daughter, even stepdaughter,
at Edgeworthstown, and _my_ kind, dear, best of stepmothers seconded my
intentions to my very heart's wish: I am sure they went away satisfied.
I gave them a note to Lady Farnham, which will I think produce a note of
admiration! While these visitors were with us Mrs. Moutray came over
from Lissard, and we rejoiced in pride of soul to show them our Irish
Madame de Sevigné. _Her_ Madame de Grignan is more agreeable than ever.
Mrs. Moutray told me of a curious debate she heard between Lady C.
Campbell, Lady Glenbervie, and others, on the Modern Griselda, with
another lady, and a wager laid that she would not read it out to her
husband. Wager lost by skipping.

_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

_October 16._

I send you a letter of Joanna Baillie's; her simple style is so
different from the _fine_ or the _gossip_ style.

Did you ever hear this epigram, a translation from Martial?

Their utmost power the gods have shown,
In turning Niobe to stone:
But man's superior power you see,
Who turns a stone to Niobe.

Here is an epigram quite to my taste, elegant and witty, without
ill-nature or satire.

Barry Fox has come home with his regiment,[Footnote: Captain Fox had
been serving in Canada. On Buonaparte's return from Elba, his regiment,
the 97th, was summoned home. When the transport entered Plymouth
harbour, and the officers were told that Buonaparte was in the vessel
they had just sailed past, they thought it an absurd jest.] and is very
gentlemanlike.

_January 10, 1816._

The authoress of _Pride and Prejudice_ has been so good as to send to me
a new novel just published, _Emma._ We are reading _France in 1814 and
1815_, by young Alison and Mr. Tytler: the first volume good. We are
also reading a book which delights us all, though it is on a subject
which you will think little likely to be interesting to us, and on which
we had little or no previous knowledge. I bought it on Mr. Brinkley's
recommendation, and have not repented--Cuvier's _Theory of the Earth._
It is admirably written, with such perfect clearness as to be
intelligible to the meanest, and satisfactory to the highest capacity.

I have enlarged my plan of plays, which are not now to be for young
people merely, but rather _Popular Plays_, [Footnote: Published in 1817,
in one volume, containing "Love and Law."] for the same class as
_Popular Tales._ Excuse huddling things together. Mrs. O'Beirne, of
Newry, who has been here, told us a curious story. A man near Granard
robbed a farmer of thirty guineas, and hid them in a hole in the church
wall. He was hurried out of the country by some accident before he could
take off his treasure, and wrote to the man he had robbed and told him
where he had hid the money: "Since it can be of no use to me you may as
well have it." The owner of the money set to work _grouting_ under the
church wall, and many of the good people of Granard were seized with Mr.
Hill's fear there was a plot to undermine the church, and a great piece
of work about it.

_March 21._

I send a letter of Mrs. O'Beirne's, telling of Archdeacon de Lacy's
[Footnote: It happened that when Albertine de Staël was to be married to
M. de Broglie, at Florence, the only Protestant clergyman to be had was
Archdeacon de Lacy, son-in-law to Mrs. Moutray, the friend of Nelson and
Collingwood.] marrying Madame de Staël's daughter to the Duc de Broglie!
My father is pretty well to-day, and has been looking at a fine bed of
crocuses in full blow in my garden, and is now gone out in the carriage,
and I must have a _scene_ ready for him on his return.

I have been ever since you were here mending up the little plays;
cobbling work, which takes a great deal of time, and makes no show.

* * * * *

It was in January 1816 that Maria Edgeworth received a letter from Miss
Rachael Mordecai, of Richmond, Virginia, gently reproaching her with
having so often made Jews ridiculous in her writings, and asking her to
give a story with a good Jew. This was the origin of _Harrington_, and
the commencement of a correspondence with Miss Mordecai, and of a
friendship with her family.

* * * * *

_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

_July 24._

Mr. Strutt and his son have within these few minutes arrived here. He
wrote only yesterday to say that being at Liverpool, he would not be so
near Ireland without going to Edgeworthstown; I hope my father may be
able to enjoy their company, but he was very ill all last night and this
morning.

_August 25._

I lose not a moment, my dearest aunt, in communicating to you a piece of
intelligence which I am sure will give you pleasure: Lord Longford is
going to be married--to Lady Georgiana Lygon, daughter of Lord
Beauchamp. You will be glad to see the letter Lord Longford wrote upon
the occasion.

Everybody is writing and talking about Lord Byron, but I am tired of the
subject. _The all for murder, all for crime_ system of poetry will now
go out of fashion; as long as he appeared an outrageous mad villain he
might have ridden triumphant on the storm, but he has now shown himself
too base, too mean, too contemptible for anything like an heroic devil.
Pray, if you have an opportunity, read Haygarth's poem of "Greece." I
like it much, I like the mind that produced it; the poetry is not always
good, but there is a _spirit_ through the whole that sustains it and
that elevates and invigorates the mind of the reader.

_September_ 18.

You know, my dear aunt, it is a favourite opinion of my father's that
_things come in bundles:_ that _people_ come in bundles is, I think,
true, as, after having lived, without seeing a creature but our own
family for months, a press of company comes all at once. The very day
after the Brinkleys had come to us, and filled every nook in the house,
the enclosed letter was brought to me. I was in my own little den, just
beginning to write for an hour, as my father had requested I would, "let
who would be in the house." On opening the letter and seeing the
signature of Ward, I was in hopes it was the Mr. Ward who made the fine
speech and wrote the review of _Patronage_ in the _Quarterly_, and of
whom Madame de Staël said that he was the only man in England who really
understood the art of conversation. However, upon re-examining the
signature, I found that our gentleman who was waiting at the gate for an
answer was another Ward, who is called "the great R. Ward"--a very
gentlemanlike, agreeable man, full of anecdotes, bon-mots, and
compliments. I wish you had been here, for I think you would have been
entertained much, not only by his conversation, but by his character; I
never saw a man who had lived in the world so anxious about the opinions
which are formed of him by those with whom he is conversing, so quick at
discovering, by the countenance and by _implication_, what is thought of
him, or so incessantly alert in guarding all the suspected places in
your opinion. He disclaimed memory, though he has certainly the very
best of memories for wit and bon-mots that man was ever blessed with.
Mr. Ward was Under-secretary of State during a great part of Pitt's
administration, and has been one of the Lords of the Admiralty, and is
now Clerk of the Ordnance, and has been sent to Ireland to reform abuses
in the Ordnance. He speaks well, and in agreeable voice. He told me that
he had heard in London that I had a sort of Memoria Technica, by which I
could remember everything that was said in conversation, and by certain
motions of my fingers could, while people were talking to me, note down
all the ridiculous points!! He happened to have passed some time in his
early life at Lichfield, and knew Miss Seward, and Dr. Darwin, and
various people my father and aunts knew; so this added to his power of
making himself agreeable. Of all the multitude of good things he told
us, I can only at this moment recollect the lines which he repeated, by
Dr. Mansel, the Bishop of Bristol, on Miss Seward and Mr. Hayley's
flattery of each other:--

"Prince of poets, England's glory,
Mr. Hayley, _that_ is you!"
"Ma'am, you carry all before you,
Lichfield swan, indeed you do!"
"In epic, elegy, or sonnet,
Mr. Hayley, you're divine!"
"Madam, take my word upon it,
You yourself are all the Nine."

Some of his stories at dinner were so entertaining, that even old
George's face cut in wood could not stand it; and John Bristow and the
others were so bewildered, I thought the second course would never be on
the table.

_November 18._

We are reading one of the most entertaining and interesting and NEW
books I ever read in my life--Tully's _Residence in Tripoli_, written by
the sister of the consul, who resided there for ten years, spoke the
language, and was admitted to a constant intercourse with the ladies of
the seraglio, who are very different from any seraglio ladies we ever
before heard of. No Arabian tale is equal in magnificence and
entertainment; no tragedy superior in strength of interest to the
tragedy recorded in the last ten pages of this incomparable book. Some
people affect to disbelieve, and say it is manufactured; but it would be
a miracle that it was invented with such consistency.

_Jan 1817._

Mr. Knox has come and gone: two of the plays were read to him. My father
gave him a sketch of each, and desired him to choose: he chose the
genteel comedy, "The Two Guardians," and I read it; and those who sat by
told me afterwards that Mr. Knox's countenance showed he was much
amused, and that he had great sympathy. For my part, I had a _glaze_
before my eyes, and never once saw him while I was reading. He made some
good criticisms, and in consequence I altered one scene, and dragged out
Arthur Onslow by the head and heels--the good boy of the piece; and we
found he was never missed, but the whole much lightened by throwing this
heavy character overboard. Next night "The Rose, Thistle, and Shamrock":
Mr. Knox laughed, and seemed to enjoy it much.

* * * * *

Mr. Edgeworth was now failing rapidly, though as much interested as ever
in all that was going on around. "How I do enjoy my existence!" he often
exclaimed. His daughter, however, says that "he did not for his own sake
desire length of life: he only prayed that his mind might not decay
before his body," and it did not; his mental powers were as bright and
vigorous as ever to the last.

On the 16th of February Maria Edgeworth read out to her father the first
chapter of _Ormond_ in the carriage going to Pakenham Hall to see Lord
Longford's bride. It was the last visit that Mr. Edgeworth paid
anywhere. He had expressed a wish to his daughter that she should write
a story as a companion to _Harrington_, and in all her anguish of mind
at his state of health, she, by a remarkable effort of affection and
genius, produced the earlier gay and brilliant pages of _Ormond_--some
of the gayest and most brilliant she ever composed. The interest and
delight which her father, ill as he was, took in this beginning,
encouraged her to go on, and she completed the story. _Harrington_,
written as an apology for the Jews, had dragged with her as she wrote
it, and it dragged with the public. But in _Ormond_ she was on Irish
ground, where she was always at her very best. Yet the characters of
King Corny and Sir Ulick O'Shane, and the many scenes full of wit,
humour, and feeling, were written in agony of anxiety, with trembling
hand and tearful eyes. As she finished chapter after chapter, she read
them out--the whole family assembling in her father's room to listen to
them. Her father enjoyed these readings so exceedingly, that she was
amply rewarded for the efforts she made.

* * * * *

MARIA _to_ MISS RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _May 31, 1817._

This day, so anxiously expected, has arrived--the only birthday of my
father's for many, many years which has not brought unmixed feelings of
pleasure. He had had a terrible night, but when I went into his room and
stood at the foot of his bed, his voice was strong and cheerful, as
usual. I put into his hand the hundred and sixty printed pages of
_Ormond_ which kind-hearted Hunter had successfully managed to get ready
for this day. How my dear father can, in the midst of such sufferings,
and in such an exhausted state of body, take so much pleasure in such
things, is astonishing. Oh, my dear Sophy, what must be the fund of warm
affection from which this springs! and what infinite, exquisite pleasure
to me! "Call Sneyd directly," he said, and swallowed some stir-about,
and said he felt renovated. Sneyd was seated at the foot of his bed.
"Now, Maria, dip anywhere, read on." I began: "King Corny recovered."
Then he said, "I must tell Sneyd the story up to this."

And most eloquently, most beautifully did he tell the story. No mortal
could ever have guessed that he was an invalid, if they had only _heard_
him _speak._ Just as I had here stopped writing my father came out of
his room, looking wretchedly, but ordered the carriage, and said he
would go to Longford to see Mr. Fallon about materials for William's
bridge. He took with him his three sons, and "Maria to read
_Ormond_"--great delight to me. He was much pleased, and this wonderful
father of mine drove all the way to Longford: forced our way through the
tumult of the most crowded market I ever saw--his voice heard clear all
the way down the street--stayed half an hour in the carriage on the
bridge talking to Mr. Fallon; and we were not home till half-past six.
He could not dine with us, but after dinner he sent for us all into the
library. He sat in the arm-chair by the fire; my mother in the opposite
arm-chair, Pakenham in the chair behind her, Francis on a stool at her
feet, Maria beside them; William next, Lucy, Sneyd; on the sofa opposite
the fire, as when you were here, Honora, Fanny, Harriet, and Sophy; my
aunts next to my father, and Lovell between them and the sofa. He was
much pleased at Lovell and Sneyd's coming down for this day.

* * * * *

Mr. Edgeworth died on the 13th of June, in his seventy-second year. He
had been--by his different wives--the father of twenty-two children, of
whom thirteen survived him. The only son of his second marriage, Lovell
Edgeworth, succeeded to Edgeworthstown, but persuaded his stepmother and
his numerous brothers and sisters still to regard it as a home.

To enable the reader to understand the relationships of the large family
circle, it may be well to give the children of Mr. Edgeworth.

1st marriage with Anna Maria Elers.
Richard, b. 1765; d. s.p. 1796.
Maria, b. 1767; d. unmarried, 1849.
Emmeline married, 1802, John King, Esq.
Anna, married, 1794, Dr. Beddoes.

2nd marriage with Honora Sneyd.
Lovell, b. 1776; d. unmarried, 1841.
Honora, d. unmarried, 1790.

3rd marriage with Elizabeth Sneyd.
Henry, b. 1782; d. unmarried, 1813.
Charles Sneyd, b. 1786; d .s.p. 1864.
William, b. 1788; d. 1792.
Thomas Day, b. 1789; d. 1792.
William, b. 1794; d. s.p. 1829.
Elizabeth, d. 1800.
Caroline, d. 1807.
Sophia, d. 1785.
Honora, married, 1831, Admiral Sir J. Beaufort, and died,
his widow, 1858.

4th marriage with Frances Anna Beaufort.
Francis Beaufort, b. 1809; married, 1831, Rosa Florentina Eroles,
and had four sons and a daughter. The second son, Antonio Eroles,
eventually succeeded his uncle Sneyd at Edgeworthstown.
Michael Pakenham, b. 1812; married, 1846, Christina Macpherson,
and had issue.
Frances Maria (Fanny), married, 1829, Lestock P. Wilson, Esq.,
and died, 1848.
Harriet, married, 1826, Rev. Richard Butler, afterwards Dean of
Clonmacnoise.
Sophia, married, 1824, Barry Fox, Esq. and d. 1837.
Lucy Jane, married, 1843, Rev. T.R. Robinson, D.D.

During the months which succeeded her father's death, Maria wrote
scarcely any letters; her sight caused great anxiety. The tears, she
said, felt in her eyes like the cutting of a knife. She had overworked
them all the previous winter, sitting up at night and struggling with
her grief as she wrote _Ormond_; and she was now unable to use them
without pain.

In October she went to Black Castle, and remained there till January
1818, having the strength of mind to abstain almost entirely from
reading and writing.

It required all Maria Edgeworth's inherited activity of mind, and all
her acquired command over herself, to keep up the spirits of her family
on their return to Edgeworthstown: from which the master-mind was gone,
and where the light was quenched. But, notwithstanding all the
depression she felt, she set to work immediately at what she now felt to
be her first duty--the fulfilment of her father's wish that she should
complete the Memoirs of his life, which he had himself begun. Yet her
eyes were still so weak that she seldom allowed herself what had been
her greatest relaxation--writing letters to her friends.

* * * * *

MARIA _to_ MRS. RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Jan. 24, 1818._

My dearest aunt and friend--friend of my youth and age, and beloved
sister of my father, how many titles you have to my affection and
gratitude, and how delightful it is to me to feel them all! Since I have
parted from you, I have felt still more than when I was with you the
peculiar value to me of your sympathy and kindness. I find my spirits
sink beyond my utmost effort to support them when I leave you, and they
rise involuntarily when I am near you, and recall the dear trains of old
associations, and the multitude of ideas I used to have with him who is
gone for ever. Thank you, my dear aunt, for your most kind and touching
letter. You have been for three months daily and hourly soothing, and
indulging, and nursing me body and mind, and making me forget the sense
of pain which I could not have felt suspended in any society but yours.
My uncle's opinion and hints about the Life I have been working at this
whole week. Nothing can be kinder than Lovell is to all of us.

I have read two-thirds of Bishop Watson's life. I think he bristles his
independence too much upon every occasion, and praises himself too much
for it, and above all complains too much of the want of preferment and
neglect of him by the Court. I have Madame de Staël's Memoirs of her
father's private life: I have only read fifty pages of it--too much of a
French Éloge--too little of his private life. There is a _Notice_ by
Benjamin Constant of Madame de Staël's life prefixed to this work, which
appears to me more interesting and pathetic than anything Madame de
Staël has yet said of her father.

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