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

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_February 21._

I must and will write to my Aunt Ruxton to-day, if the whole College of
Physicians, and the whole conclave of cardinal virtues, with Prudence
primming up her mouth at the head of them, stood before me. I entirely
agree with you, my dearest aunt, on one subject, as indeed I generally
do on most subjects, but particularly about _Northanger Abbey_ and
_Persuasion._ The behaviour of the General in _Northanger Abbey_,
packing off the young lady without a servant or the common civilities
which any bear of a man, not to say gentleman, would have shown, is
quite outrageously out of drawing and out of nature. _Persuasion_--
excepting the tangled, useless histories of the family in
the first fifty pages--appears to me, especially in all that relates to
poor Anne and her lover, to be exceedingly interesting and natural. The
love and the lover admirably well drawn: don't you see Captain
Wentworth, or rather don't you in her place feel him taking the
boisterous child off her back as she kneels by the sick boy on the sofa?
And is not the first meeting after their long separation admirably well
done? And the overheard conversation about the nut? But I must stop: we
have got no farther than the disaster of Miss Musgrave's jumping off the
steps.

I am going on, but very slowly, and not to my satisfaction with my work.

_To_ MRS. SNEYD EDGEWORTH.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _March 27._

I agree with you in thinking the _MS. de Sainte-Helene_ a magnificent
performance. My father was strongly of opinion that it was not written
by Buonaparte himself, and he grounded this opinion chiefly upon the
passages relative to the Duc d'Enghien: _c'était plus qu'un crime,
c'était une faute_; no man, he thought, not even Nero, would, in writing
for posterity say that he had committed a crime instead of a fault. But
it may be observed that in the Buonaparte system of morality which runs
through the book, nothing is considered what we call a crime, unless it
be what he allows to be a fault. His proof that he did not murder
Pichegru is, that it would have been useless. Le _cachet de_ Buonaparte
is as difficult to imitate as _le cachet de Voltaire._ I know of but
three people in Europe who could have written it: Madame de Staël,
Talleyrand, or M. Dumont. Madame de Staël, though she has the ability,
could not have got so plainly and shortly through it. Talleyrand has
_l'esprit comme un démon_, but he could not for the soul of him have
refused himself a little more wit and wickedness. Dumont has not enough
audacity of mind.

_To_ MRS. STARK. [Footnote: Daughter of Mr. Bannatyne, of Glasgow.]

SPRING FARM, N.T. MOUNT KENNEDY, _June_ 1818.

I am, and have been ever since I could any way command my attention,
intent upon finishing those Memoirs of himself which my father left me
to finish and charged me to publish. Yet I have accepted an invitation
to Bowood, from Lady Lansdowne, whom I love, and as soon as I have
finished I shall go there. As to Scotland, I have no chance of getting
there at present, but if ever I go there, depend upon it, I shall go to
see you. Never, never can I forget those happy days we spent with you,
and the warmhearted kindness we received from you and yours: those were
"sunny spots" in my life.

_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

BOWOOD, _Sept._ 1818.

I will tell you how we pass our day. At seven I get up--this morning at
half-past six, to have the pleasure of writing to you, my dearest
mother, be satisfied I never write a word at night: breakfast is at half
after nine, very pleasant: afterwards we all _stray_ into the library
for a few minutes, and settle when we shall meet again for walking,
etc.: then Lady Lansdowne goes to her dear dressing-room and dear
children, Dumont to his attic, Lord Lansdowne to his out-of-door works,
and we to our elegant dressing-room, and Miss Carnegy to hers. Between
one and two is luncheon: happy time! Lady Lansdowne is so cheerful,
polite, and easy, just as she was in her walks at Edgeworthstown: but
very different walks are the walks we take here, most various and
delightful, from dressed shrubbery and park walks to fields with
inviting paths, wide downs, shady winding lanes, and happy cottages--not
_dressed_, but naturally well placed, and with evidence in every part of
their being suited to the inhabitants.

After our walk we dress and make haste for dinner. Dinner is always
pleasant, because Lord and Lady Lansdowne converse so agreeably--Dumont
also--towards the dessert. After dinner, we find the children in the
drawing-room: I like them better and better the more I see of them. When
there is company there is a whist table for the gentlemen. Dumont read
out one evening one of Corneille's plays, "Le Florentin," which is
beautiful, and was beautifully read. We asked for one of Molière, but he
said to Lord Lansdowne that it was impossible to read Molière aloud
without a quicker eye than he had _pour de certains propos_: however,
they went to the library and brought out at last as odd a choice as
could well be made, with Mr. Thomas Grenville as auditor, "Le vieux
Célibataire," an excellent play, interesting and lively throughout, and
the old bachelor himself a charming character. Dumont read it as well as
Tessier could have read it; but there were things which seemed as if
they were written on purpose for the Célibataire who was listening, and
the Célibataire who was reading.

Lord Lansdowne, when I asked him to describe Rocca [Footnote: Second
husband of Madame de Staël.] to me, said he heard him give an answer to
Lord Byron which marked the indignant frankness of his mind. Lord Byron
at Coppet had been going on abusing the stupidity of the good people of
Geneva: Rocca at last turned short upon him--"Eh! milord, pourquoi donc
venez-vous vous _fourrer_ parmi ces honnêtes gens?"

Madame de Staël--I jumble anecdotes together as I recollect them--Madame
de Staël had a great wish to see Mr. Bowles, the poet, or as Lord Byron
calls him, the sonneteer; she admired his sonnets, and his Spirit of
Maritime Discovery, and ranked him high as an English genius. In riding
to Bowood he fell, and sprained his shoulder, but still came on. Lord
Lansdowne alluded to this in presenting him to Madame de Staël before
dinner in the midst of the listening circle. She began to compliment him
and herself upon the exertion he had made to come and see her: "O ma'am,
say no more, for I would have done a great deal more to see so great a
_curiosity!_"

Lord Lansdowne says it is impossible to describe the _shock_ in Madame
de Staël's face--the breathless astonishment and the total change
produced in her opinion of the man. She afterwards said to Lord
Lansdowne, who had told her he was a simple country clergyman, "Je vois
bien que ce n'est qu'un simple curé qui n'a pas le sens commun, quoique
grand poète."

Lady Lansdowne, just as I was writing this, came to my room and paid me
half an hour's visit. She brought back my father's MS., which I had lent
to her to read: she was exceedingly interested in it: she says, "It is
not only entertaining but interesting, as showing how such a character
was formed."

_To_ MISS RUXTON.

BOWOOD, _Sept. 19, 1818._

You know our history up to Saturday last, when Lord and Lady Grenville
left Bowood: there remained Mr. Thomas Grenville, Le vieux Célibataire,
two Horts, Sir William and his brother, Mr. Gally Knight, and Lord and
Lady Bathurst, with their two daughters. Mr. Grenville left us
yesterday, and the rest go to-day. Mr. Grenville was very agreeable:
dry, quiet humour: grave face, dark, thin, and gentlemanlike: a lie-by
manner, entertained, or entertaining by turns. It is curious that we
have seen within the course of a week one of the heads of the
ministerial, and one of the ex-ministerial party. In point of ability,
Lord Grenville is, I think, far superior to any one I have seen here.
Lord Lansdowne, with whom I had a delightful _tête-à-tête_ walk
yesterday, told me that Lord Grenville can be fully known only when
people come to do political business with him: there he excels. You know
his preface to Lord Chatham's _Letters._ His manner of speaking in the
House is not pleasing, Lord Lansdowne says: from being very near-sighted
he has a look of austerity and haughtiness, and as he cannot see all he
wants to see, he throws himself back with his chin up, determined to
look at none. Lord Lansdowne gave me an instance--I may say a
warning--of the folly of judging hastily of character at first sight
from small circumstances. In one of Cowper's letters there is an absurd
character of Lord Grenville, in which he is represented as a
_petit-maître._ This arose from Lord Grenville taking up his
near-sighted glass several times during his visit. There cannot, in
nature or art, be a man further from a _petit-maître._

Lady Bathurst is remarkably obliging to me: we have many subjects in
common--her brother, the Duke of Richmond, and all Ireland; her aunt,
Lady Louisa Connolly, and Miss Emily Napier, and all the Pakenhams, and
the Duchess of Wellington. The Duke lately said to Mrs. Pole, "After
all, home is what we must look to at last."

Lady Georgiana is a very pretty, and I need scarcely say,
fashionable-looking young lady, easy, agreeable, and quite unaffected.

This visit to Bowood has surpassed my expectation in every respect. I
much enjoy the sight of Lady Lansdowne's happiness with her husband and
her children: beauty, fortune, cultivated society, in short, everything
that the most reasonable or unreasonable could wish. She is so amiable
and so desirous to make others happy, that it is impossible not to love
her; and the most envious of mortals, I think, would have the heart
opened to sympathy with her. Then Lord and Lady Lansdowne are so fond of
each other, and show it, and _don't show it_, in the most agreeable
manner. His conversation is very various and natural, full of
information, given for the sake of those to whom he speaks, never for
display. What he says always lets us into his feelings and character,
and therefore is interesting.

_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH

THE GROVE, EFFING, _Oct. 4, 1818._

I mentioned one day at dinner at Bowood that children have very early a
desire to produce an effect, a sensation in company. "Yes," said Lord
Lansdowne, "I remember distinctly having that feeling, and acting upon
it once in a large and august company, when I was a young boy, at the
time of the French Revolution, when the Duke and Duchess de Polignac
came to Bowood, and my father was anxious to receive these illustrious
guests with all due honour. One Sunday evening, when they were all
sitting in state in the drawing-room, my father introduced me, and I was
asked to give the company a sermon. The text I chose was, quite
undesignedly, 'Put not your trust in princes.' The moment I had
pronounced the words, I saw my father's countenance change, and I saw
changes in the countenances of the Duke and Duchess, and of every face
in the circle. I saw I was the cause of this; and though I knew my
father wanted to stop me, I would go on, to see what would be the
effect. I repeated my text, and preached upon it, and as I went on, made
out what it was that affected the congregation."

Afterwards Lord Shelburne desired the boy to go round the circle and
wish the company good-night; but when he came to the Duchesse de
Polignac, he could not resolve to kiss her; he so detested the patch of
rouge on her cheek, he started back. Lord Shelburne whispered a bribe in
his ear--no, he would not; and they were obliged to laugh it off. But
his father was very much vexed.

HAMPSTEAD, _Oct. 13._

We had a delightful drive here yesterday from Epping. Joanna Baillie and
her sister, most kind, cordial, and warm-hearted, came running down
their little flagged walk to welcome us. Mrs. Hunter, widow of John
Hunter, dined here yesterday; she wrote "The son of Alnomac shall never
complain," and she entertained me exceedingly; and both Joanna and her
sister have most agreeable and new conversation--not old, trumpery
literature over again, and reviews, but new circumstance worth telling,
apropos to every subject that is touched upon: frank observations on
character, without either ill-nature or the fear of committing
themselves: no blue-stocking tittle-tattle, or habits of worshipping, or
being worshipped: domestic, affectionate, good to live with, and,
without fussing continually, doing what is most obliging, and whatever
makes us feel most at home. Breakfast is very pleasant in this house,
and the two good sisters look so neat and cheerful.

_Oct 15._

We went to see Mrs. Barbauld at Stoke Newington. She was gratified by
our visit, and very kind and agreeable.

BOWOOD, _Nov._ 3, 1818.

We have just returned to dear Bowood. We went to Wimbledon, where Lady
Spencer was very attentive and courteous: she is, I may say, the
cleverest person I have seen since I came to England. At parting she
"GOD blessed" me. We met there Lady Jones, widow of Sir William--thin,
dried, tall old lady, nut-cracker chin, penetrating, benevolent,
often--smiling, black eyes; and her nephew, young Mr. Hare; [Footnote:
Augustus William Hare, one of the authors of _Guesses on Truth._] and,
the last day, Mr. Brunel. [Footnote: Afterwards Sir Mark Isambard
Brunel, engineer of the Thames Tunnel, Woolwich Arsenal, etc.,
1769-1849.]

This moment Mrs. Dugald Stewart, who was out walking, has come in--the
same dear woman! I have seen Mr. Stewart--very, very weak--he cannot
walk without an arm to lean on.

BOWOOD, _Nov. 4, 1818._

The newspapers have told you the dreadful catastrophe--the death, and
the manner of the death, of that great and good man, Sir Samuel Romilly.
My dearest mother, there seems no end of horrible calamities. There is
no telling how it has been felt in this house. I did not know till now
that Mr. Dugald Stewart had been so very intimate with Sir Samuel, and
so very much attached to him--forty years his friend: he has been
dreadfully shocked. He was just getting better, enjoyed seeing us,
conversed quite happily with me the first evening, and I felt reassured
about him; but what may be the consequence of this stroke none can tell.
I rejoice that we came to meet him here: they say that I am of use
conversing with him. Lord Lansdowne looks wretchedly, and can hardly
speak on the subject without tears, notwithstanding all his efforts.

_To_ MISS WALLER. [Footnote: Miss Waller was aunt of Captain Beaufort
and the fourth Mrs. Edgeworth.]

BYRKELY LODGE, _Nov. 24, 1818._

In the gloom which the terrible and most unexpected loss of Sir Samuel
Romilly cast over the whole society at Bowood during the last few days
we spent there, I recollect some minutes of pleasure. When I was
consulting Mrs. Dugald Stewart about my father's MS., I mentioned
Captain Beaufort's opinion on some point; the moment his name had passed
my lips, Mr. Stewart's grave countenance lighted up, and he exclaimed,
"Captain Beaufort! I have the very highest opinion of Captain Beaufort
ever since I saw a letter of his, which I consider to be one of the best
letters I ever read. It was to the father of a young gentleman who died
at Malta, to whom Captain Beaufort had been the best of friends. The
young man had excellent qualities, but some frailties. Captain
Beaufort's letter to the father threw a veil over the son's frailties,
and without departing from the truth, placed all his good qualities in
the most amiable light. The old man told me," continued Mr. Stewart,
"that this letter was the only earthly consolation he ever felt for the
loss of his son; he spoke of it with tears streaming from his eyes, and
pointed in particular to the passage that recorded the warm affection
with which his son used to speak of him."

It is delightful to find the effect of a friend's goodness thus coming
round to us at a great distance of time, and to see that it has raised
him in the esteem of those we most admire.

Mr. Stewart has not yet recovered his health; he is more alarmed, I
think, than he need to be by the difficulty he finds in recollecting
names and circumstances that passed immediately before and after his
fever. This hesitation of memory, I believe, everybody has felt more or
less after any painful event. In every other respect Mr. Stewart's mind
appears to me to be exactly what it ever was, and his kindness of heart
even greater than we have for so many years known it to be.

We are now happy in the quiet of Byrkely Lodge. We have not had any
visitors since we came, and have paid only one visit to the Miss
Jacksons. Miss Fanny is, you know, the author of _Rhoda_; Miss Maria,
the author of a little book of advice about _A Gay Garden._ I like the
Gay Garden lady best at first sight, but I will suspend my judgment
prudently till I see more.

I have just heard a true story worthy of a postscript even in the
greatest haste. Two stout foxhunters in this neighbourhood who happened
each to have as great a dread of a spider as ever fine lady had or
pretended to have, chanced to be left together in a room where a spider
appeared, crawling from under a table, at which they were sitting.
Neither durst approach within arm's length of it, or touch it even with
a pair of tongs; at last one of the gentlemen proposed to the other, who
was in thick boots, to get on the table and jump down upon his enemy,
which was effected to their infinite satisfaction.

_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

BYRKELY LODGE, _Jan. 20, 1819._

I see my little dog on your lap, and feel your hand patting his head,
and hear your voice telling him that it is for Maria's sake he is there.
I wish I was in his place, or at least on the sofa beside you at this
moment, that I might in five minutes tell you more than my letters could
tell you in five hours.

I have scarcely yet recovered from the joy of having Fanny actually with
me, and with me just in time to go to Trentham, on which I had set my
foolish heart. We met her at Lichfield. We spent that evening there--the
children of four different marriages all united and happy together.
Lovell took Francis [Footnote: Son of the fourth Mrs. Edgeworth, who was
going to the Charter-house, and who had accompanied his sister Fanny,
with Lovell, from Edgeworthstown.] on with him to Byrkely Lodge, and we
went to Trentham.

When Honora and I had Fanny in the chaise to ourselves, ye gods! how we
did talk! We arrived at Trentham by moonlight, and could only just see
outlines of wood and hills: silver light upon the broad water, and
cheerful lights in the front of a large house, with wide-open hall door.
Nothing could be more polite and cordial than the reception given to us
by Lady Stafford, and by her good-natured, noblemanlike lord. During our
whole visit, what particularly pleased me was the manner in which they
treated my sisters: not as appendages to an authoress, not as young
ladies merely _permitted_, or to fill up as _personnages muets_ in
society; on the contrary, Lady Stafford conversed with them a great
deal, and repeatedly took opportunities of expressing to me how much she
liked and valued them for their own sake. "That sister Fanny of yours
has a most intelligent countenance: she is much more than pretty; and
what I so like is her manner of answering when she is asked any
question--so unlike the Missy style. They have both been admirably well
educated." Then she spoke in the handsomest manner of my father--"a
master-mind: even in the short time I saw him that was apparent to me."

Lady Elizabeth Gower is a most engaging, sensible, unaffected, sweet,
pretty creature. While Lady Stafford in the morning was in the library
doing a drawing in water colours to show Honora her manner of finishing
quickly, Fanny and I sat up in Lady Elizabeth's darling little room at
the top of the house, where she has all her drawings, and writing, and
books, and harp. She and her brother, Lord Francis, have always been
friends and companions: and on her table were bits of paper on which he
had scribbled droll heads, and verses of his, very good, on the
"Expulsion of the Moors from Spain"--Lady Elizabeth knew every line of
these, and had all that quick feeling, and _colouring_ apprehension, and
_slurring_ dexterity, which those who read out what is written by a dear
friend so well understand.

Large rooms filled with pictures, most of them modern--Reynolds,
Moreland, Glover, Wilkie; but there are a few ancient: one of Titian's,
that struck me as beautiful--"Hermes teaching Cupid to read." The chief
part of the collection is in the house in town. After a happy week at
Trentham we returned here.

Mercy on my poor memory! I forgot to tell you that Lady Harrowby and her
daughter were at Trentham, and an _exquisite_, or tiptop dandy, Mr.
Standish, and young Mr. Sneyd, of Keil--very fashionable. Lady Harrowby
deserves Madame de Staël's good word, she calls her "_compagne
spirituelle_"--a charming woman, and very quick in conversation.

The morning after Mr. Standish's arrival, Lady Stafford's maid told her
that she and all the ladies' maids had been taken by his _gentleman_ to
see his toilette--"which, I assure you, my lady, is the thing best worth
seeing in this house, all of gilt plate, and I wish, my lady, you had
such a dressing box." Though an exquisite, Mr. Standish is clever,
entertaining, and agreeable. One day that he sat beside me at dinner, we
had a delightful battledore and shuttlecock conversation from grave to
gay as quick as your heart could wish: from _L'Almanac des Gourmandes_
and _Le Respectable Porc_, to _Dorriforth and the Simple Story._

_Jan 22._

My letter has been detained two days for a frank. My aunts [Footnote:
The Miss Sneyds were now living for a time at Byrkely Lodge.] are pretty
well, and we feel that we add to their cheerfulness. Honora plays
cribbage with Aunt Mary, and I read Florence Macarthy; I like the Irish
characters, and the Commodore, and Lord Adelm--that is Lord Byron; but
Ireland is traduced in some of her representations. "Marriage" is
delightful.

_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

BYRKELY LODGE, _Feb 8, 1819._

Mrs. Sneyd took me with her to-day to Lord Bagot's to return Lady
Dartmouth's visit; she is a charming woman, and appears most amiable,
taking care of all those grandchildren. Lord Bagot very melancholy,
gentlemanlike, and interesting. Fine old cloistered house, galleries,
painted glass, coats of arms, and family pictures everywhere. It was the
first time Lord Bagot had seen Mrs. Sneyd since his wife's death; he
took both her hands and was as near bursting into tears as ever man was.
He was very obliging to me, and showed me all over his house, and gave
me a most sweet bunch of Daphne Indica.

TETSWORTH INN, _March 4._

On Tuesday morning we left dear, happy, luxurious, warm Byrkely Lodge.
At taking leave of me, Mr. Sneyd began thanking me as if I had been the
person obliging instead of obliged, and when I got up from the breakfast
table and went round to stop his thanks by mine, he took me in his arms
and gave me a squeeze that left me as flat as a pancake, and then ran
out of the room absolutely crying.

We arrived at tea-time at Mrs. Moilliet's, [Footnote: Daughter of Mr.
Keir, Mrs. Edgeworth's old friend.] Smethwick, near Birmingham, much
pleased with our reception, and with Mr. Moilliet and their five
children. He has purchased a delightful house on the banks of the Lake
of Geneva, where they go next summer, and most earnestly pressed us to
visit them there.

Mr. Moilliet told us an anecdote of Madame la Comtesse de Rumford and
her charming Count; he, one day in a fit of ill-humour, went to the
porter and forbad him to let into his house any of the friends of Madame
la Comtesse or of M. Lavoisier's--all the society which you and I saw at
her house: they had been invited to supper; the old porter, all
disconsolate, went to tell the Countess the order he had received.
"Well, you must obey your master, you must not let them into the house,
but I will go down to your lodge, and as each carriage comes, you will
let them know what has happened, and that I am there to receive them."

They all came; and by two or three at a time went into the porter's
lodge and spent the evening with her; their carriages lining the street
all night to the Count's infinite mortification.

Mr. Moilliet also told Fanny of a Yorkshire farmer who went to the Bank
of England, and producing a Bank of England note for £30,000, asked to
have it changed. The clerk was surprised and hesitated, said that a note
for so large a sum was very uncommon, and that he knew there never had
been more than two £30,000 bank notes issued. "Oh yes!" said the farmer,
"I have the other at home."

We went to see dear old Mr. Watt: eighty-four, and in perfect possession
of eyes, ears, and all his comprehensive understanding and warm heart.
Poor Mrs. Watt is almost crippled with rheumatism, but as good-natured
and hospitable as ever, and both were heartily glad to see us. So many
recollections, painful and pleasurable, crowded and pressed upon my
heart during this half-hour. I had much ado to talk, but I did,
[Footnote: Mr. Watt had been one of Mr. Edgeworth's most intimate
friends.] and so did he,--of forgeries on bank notes, no way can he
invent of avoiding such but by having an inspecting clerk in every
country town. Talked over the committee report--paper-marks,
vain--Tilloch--"I have no great opinion of his abilities--Bramah--yes,
he is a clever man, but set down this for truth; no man is so ingenious,
but what another may be found equally ingenious. What one invents,
another can detect and imitate."

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