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

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A young man, a Mr. Davy,[Footnote: Sir Humphry Davy, the distinguished
chemist and philosopher, born 1778, died 1829.] at Dr. Beddoes', who has
applied himself much to chemistry, has made some discoveries of
importance, and enthusiastically expects wonders will be performed by
the use of certain gases, which inebriate in the most delightful manner,
having the oblivious effects of Lethe, and at the same time giving the
rapturous sensations of the Nectar of the Gods! Pleasure even to madness
is the consequence of this draught. But faith, great faith, is I believe
necessary to produce any effect upon the drinkers, and I have seen some
of the adventurous philosophers who sought in vain for satisfaction in
the bag of _Gaseous Oxyd_, and found nothing but a sick stomach and a
giddy head.

Our stay at Clifton was made very agreeable (writes Mrs. Edgeworth) by
the charm of Dr. and Mrs. Beddoes' society; [Footnote: Dr. Beddoes,
described by Sir Humphry Davy as "short and fat, with nothing
_externally_ of genius or science," was very peculiar. One of his
hobbies was to convey cows into invalids' bedrooms, that they might
"inhale the breath of the animals," a prescription which naturally gave
umbrage to the Clifton lodging-house-keepers, who protested that they
had not built or furnished their rooms for the hoofs of cattle. Mrs.
Beddoes had a wonderful charm of wit and cheerfulness.] her grace,
genius, vivacity, and kindness, and his great abilities, knowledge, and
benevolence, rendered their house extremely pleasant. We met at Clifton
Mr. and Mrs. Barbauld. He was an amiable and benevolent man, so eager
against the slave-trade, that when he drank tea with us, he always
brought some East India sugar, that he might not share our wickedness in
eating that made by the negro slave. Mrs. Barbauld, whose _Evenings at
Home_ had so much delighted Maria and her father, was very pretty, and
conversed with great ability in admirable language.

MARIA _to_ MRS. RUXTON.

CLIFTON, _June 5, 1799._

Good news, my dearest aunt, my mother is fast asleep: she has a fine
little daughter, who has just finished eating a hearty supper. At nine
minutes before six this evening, to my great joy, my little sister Fanny
came into the world.

We are impatient for dear Sophy's arrival. My father sends his kindest
love to his dear sister, who has been always the sharer of his pains and
pleasures. I said my mother was asleep, and though my father and I talk
in our sleep, all people do not; if she did, I am sure she would say,
"Love to my Sister Ruxton, and my friend Letty."

* * * * *

During this summer the Edgeworths visited Dr. Darwin, whom Maria
Edgeworth considered not only a first-rate genius, but one of the most
benevolent, as well as wittiest of men. He stuttered, but far from this
lessening the charm of his conversation, Miss Edgeworth used to say that
the hesitation and slowness with which his words came forth added to the
effect of his humour and shrewd good sense. Dr. Darwin's sudden death,
17th April 1802, whilst he was writing to Mr. Edgeworth, was a great
sorrow to his Irish friends.

The family returned home in September 1799.

* * * * *

MARIA _to_ MISS RUXTON, LIVING AT ARUNDEL IN SUSSEX.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN,

_Jan, 29, 1800._

More precious to us than Arundelian marbles are letters from Arundel,
and after an interval of almost three months dear Sophy's letter was
most welcome. I have no complaints to make of you--_sorrow_ bit of right
have I to complain of you. Some time ago we took a walk to see the old
castle of Cranalagh, from which in the last Rebellion (but one) Lady
Edgeworth was turned out: part of it, just enough to swear by, remains
to this day, and with a venerable wig of ivy at top cuts a very
respectable figure; and, moreover, there are some of the finest laurels
and hollies there that I ever saw, and as fine a smell of a pigsty as
ever I smelt, and an arbor-vitae tree, of which I gathered a leaf, and
thought that I and my gloves should never for the remainder of our lives
get rid of the smell of bad apples, of which this same tree of life
smells. But I have not yet come to the thing I was going to say about
the castle of Cranalagh, viz.--for I love old-fashioned viz.--when we
got near the ruined castle, out comes a barking dog, just such another
as assailed us at the old castle near Black Castle, to which we walked
full fifteen years ago; the first walk I ever took with Sophy, and how
she got home without her shoe, to this hour I cannot comprehend. It was
this barking dog which brought you immediately to my mind, and if I have
given you too much of it you must forgive me. Now we are upon the
subject of old castles, do you remember my retailing to you, at second
hand, a description of my father's visit to the Marquis de la Poype's
old château in Dauphiny, with the cavern of bats and stalactites? A
little while ago my father received a letter in a strange hand, which I
copy for my aunt and you, as I think it will please you as it did us, to
see that this old friend of my father's remembers him with so much
kindness through all the changes and chances that have happened in
France. The letter is from the Marquis de la Poype, who addressed it to
the Abbé Edgeworth, in hopes that the Abbé could transmit it to my
father--the lines at the end are in the Abbé's own hand--the handwriting
of so great and good a man is a curiosity.

Before this reaches you my father will be in Dublin, he goes on Saturday
next to the call of the House for the grand Union business. Tell my aunt
that he means to speak on the subject on Monday. His sentiments are
unchanged: that the Union would be advantageous to all the parties
concerned, but that England has not any right to do to Ireland _good
against her will._

Will you tell me what means you have of getting parcels from London to
Arundel? because I wish to send to my aunt a few "Popular Tales," which
I have finished, as they cannot be wanted for some months by Mr. Johnson.
We have begged Johnson to send _Castle Rackrent_, [Footnote: Published
without the author's name in 1800]. I hope it has reached you: do not
mention to any one that it is ours. Have you seen _Minor Morals_, by
Mrs. Smith? There is in it a beautiful little botanical poem called the
"Calendar of Flora."

* * * * *

_Castle Rackrent_, the story of an Irish estate, as told by Thady, the
old steward, was first published anonymously in 1800. Its combination of
Irish humour and pathos, and its illustration of the national character,
first led Walter Scott to try his own skill in depicting Scottish
character in the same way. "If I could," he said to James Ballantyne,
"but hit Miss Edgeworth's wonderful power of vivifying all her persons,
and making them live as _beings_ in your mind, I should not be afraid."
With the publication of _Castle Rackrent_, which was intended to depict
the follies of fashionable life, and was speedily followed by _Belinda_
[Footnote: There is no doubt that _Belinda_ was much marred by the
alterations made by Mr. Edgeworth, in whose wisdom and skill his far
cleverer daughter had unlimited and touching confidence.] the Edgeworths
immediately became famous, and the books were at once translated into
French and German.

* * * * *

MARIA EDGEWORTH _to_ MISS SOPHY RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN,

_Oct. 20, 1800._

This morning dear Henry [Footnote: Eldest son of Mrs. Elizabeth
Edgeworth.] took leave of home, and set out for Edinburgh. "God prosper
him," as I in the language of a fond old nurse keep continually saying
to myself.

Mr. Chenevix, a famous chemist, was so good as to come here lately to
see my father upon the faith of Mr. Kirwan's assurance that he would
"like Mr. Edgeworth." I often wished for you, my dear Sophy, whilst this
gentleman was here, because you would have been so much entertained with
his conversation about bogs, and mines, and airs, and acids, etc. etc.
His history of his imprisonment during the French Revolution in Paris, I
found more to my taste. When he was thrown into prison he studied
Chaptal and Lavoisier's _Chemistry_ with all his might, and then
represented himself as an English gentleman come over to study chemistry
in France, and M. Chaptal got him released, and employed him, and he got
acquainted with all the chemists and scientific men in France. Mr.
Chenevix has taken a house in Brook Street, London, and turned the
cellar into a laboratory; the people were much afraid to let it to him,
they expected he would blow it up.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN,

_Dec. 2, 1800._

My mother has had a sore throat, and Aunt Charlotte and Honora have had
feverish attacks, and John Jenkins has had fever, so that my father was
obliged to remove him to his own house in the village. There has been
and is a fever in the lanes of Edgeworthstown, and so quickly does ill
news fly, that this got before us to Collon, to the Speaker's, where we
were invited, and had actually set out last week to spend a few days
there. When we got to Allenstown, we were told that a servant from the
Speaker's had arrived with a letter, and had gone on to Edgeworthstown
with it: we waited for his return with the letter, which was to forbid
our going to Collon, as Mrs. Foster, widow of the Bishop, was there with
her daughters, and was afraid of our bringing infection! We performed
quarantine very pleasantly for a week at Allenstown. Mrs. Waller's
inexhaustible fund of kindness and generosity is like Aboulcasin's
treasure, it is not only inexhaustible, but take what you will from it
it cannot be perceptibly diminished. Harriet Beaufort [Footnote: Sister
of Mrs. Edgeworth.] is indeed a charming excellent girl; I love and
esteem her more and more as I know her better: she has been at different
times between three and four months in the house with us, and I have had
full opportunities of seeing down to the kitchen, and up to the garret
of her mind.

You are so near Johnson, [Footnote: The bookseller.] that you must of
course know more of Maria's sublime works than Maria knows of them
herself; and besides Lovell, who thinks of them ten times more than
Johnson, has not let you rest in ignorance. An octavo edition of
_Practical Education_ is to come out at Christmas: we have seen a
volume, which looks as well as can be expected. The two first parts of
_Early Lessons_, containing Harry and Lucy, two wee, wee volumes, have
just come over to us. Frank and Rosamond will, I suppose, come after
with all convenient speed. How _Moral Tales_ are arranged, or in what
size they are to appear, I do not know, but I guess they will soon be
published, because some weeks ago we received four engravings for
frontispieces; they are beautifully engraved by Neagle, and do justice
to the designs, two of which are by my mother, and two by Charlotte. I
hope you will like them. There are three stories which will be new to
you, "The Knapsack," "The Prussian Vase," and "Angelina."

Now, my dear friend, you cannot say that I do not tell you what I am
doing. My father is employed making out Charts of History and
Chronology, such as are mentioned in _Practical Education._ He has just
finished a little volume containing Explanations of Poetry for children:
it explains "The Elegy in a Country Churchyard," "L'Allegro," "Il
Penseroso," and "The Ode to Fear." It will be a very useful schoolbook.
It goes over to-night to Johnson, but how long it will remain with him
before you see it in print I cannot divine.

* * * * *

Mrs. Edgeworth narrates:

_Belinda_ was published in 1801. Maria was at Black Castle when the
first copy reached her; she contrived, before her aunt saw it, to tear
out the title-pages of the three volumes, and her aunt read it without
the least suspicion of who was the author, and excessively entertained
and delighted, she insisted on Maria's listening to passage after
passage as she went on. Maria affected to be deeply interested in some
book she held in her hand, and when Mrs. Ruxton exclaimed, "Is not that
admirably written?" Maria coldly replied, "Admirably read, I think." And
then her aunt, as if she had said too much, added, "It may not be so
very good, but it shows just the sort of knowledge of high life which
people have who live in the world." Then again and again she called upon
Maria for her sympathy, till quite provoked at her faint acquiescence,
she at last accused her of being envious: "I am sorry to see my little
Maria unable to bear the praises of a rival author."

At this Maria burst into tears, and showing her aunt the title-page she
declared herself the author. But Mrs. Ruxton was not pleased--she never
liked _Belinda_ afterwards, and Maria had always a painful recollection
of her aunt's suspecting her of the meanness of envy.

In 1801 a second edition of _Castle Rackrent_ was published, "By Maria
Edgeworth," as its success was so triumphant that some one--I heard his
name at the time but do not now remember it, and it is better
forgotten--not only asserted that he was the author, but actually took
the trouble to copy out several pages with corrections and erasures, as
if it was his original MS.!

The _Essay on Irish Bulls_ was published in 1802, "By R.L. Edgeworth and
Maria Edgeworth, author of _Castle Rackrent._" A gentleman, much
interested in improving the breed of Irish cattle, sent, on seeing the
advertisement, for this work on Irish Bulls; he was rather confounded by
the appearance of the classical bull at the top of the first page, which
I had designed from a gem, and when he began to read the book he threw
it away in disgust: he had purchased it as Secretary to the Irish
Agricultural Society.

* * * * *

Of the partnership in this book, Miss Edgeworth writes long afterwards:

* * * * *

The first design of the essay was my father's; under the semblance of
attack, he wished to show the English public the eloquence, wit, and
talents of the lower classes of people in Ireland. Working zealously
upon the ideas which he suggested, sometimes what was spoken by him was
afterwards written by me; or when I wrote my first thoughts, they were
corrected and improved by him; so that no book was ever written more
completely in partnership. On this, as on most subjects, whether light
or serious, when we wrote together, it would now be difficult, almost
impossible, to recollect which thoughts were originally his and which
were mine.

The notes on the Dublin shoeblacks' metaphorical language are chiefly
his. I have heard him tell that story with all the natural,
indescribable Irish tones and gestures of which written language can
give but a faint idea. He excelled in imitating the Irish, because he
never overstepped the modesty or the assurance of nature. He marked
exquisitely the happy confidence, the shrewd wit of the people, without
condescending to produce effect by caricature. He knew not only their
comic talents, but their powers of pathos; and often when he had just
heard from me some pathetic complaint, he has repeated it to me while
the impression was fresh. In his chapter on Wit and Eloquence in _Irish
Bulls_, there is a speech of a poor free-holder to a candidate who asked
for his vote: this speech was made to my father when he was canvassing
the county of Longford. It was repeated to me a few hours afterwards,
and I wrote it down instantly without, I believe, the variation of a
word.

_To_ MISS RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Aug. 1, 1802._

You are a goose or a gosling, whichever you like best, for I perceive
you are in great anxiety lest my poor little imagination should not have
been completely set to rights. Now set your heart at ease, for I,
putting my left hand upon my heart, because I could not conveniently put
my right, which holds the pen, though I acknowledge that would be much
more graceful, do hereby declare that I perfectly understood and
understand the explanation contained in your last, and am fully
satisfied, righted, and delighted therewith.

I have been much interested by the _Letters from Lausanne_; I think them
in some parts highly pathetic and eloquent, but as to the moral tendency
of the book I cannot find it out, turn it which way I will. I think the
author wrote merely with the intention of showing how well he could
paint passion, and he has succeeded. The Savage of Aveyron [Footnote: A
little history of a boy found in France, "a wild man of the woods." He
was brought to Paris, and the philosophers disputed much on his mental
powers; but he died before they came to any conclusion.] is a thousand
times more interesting to me than Caliste. I have not read anything for
years that interested me so much. Mr. Chenevix will be here in a few
days, when we will cross-question him about this savage, upon whom the
eyes of civilised Europe have been fixed. Mr. Chenevix and his sister,
Mrs. Tuite, and with them Mrs. Jephson, spent a day here last week: she
is clever and agreeable. What did you think of M. Pictet's account of
Edgeworthstown?

* * * * *

Professor Marc-Auguste Pictet, of Geneva, visited the Edgeworths this
summer, coming over from Mr. Tuite's, of Sonna, where he was staying
with Mr. Chenevix. He afterwards published an interesting account of his
visit to Edgeworthstown in the _Bibliothèque Britannique_, as well as in
his _Voyage de trois mots en Angleterre_, which was published at Geneva
in 1802. Of Maria Edgeworth he says:

* * * * *

I had persuaded myself that the author of the work on Education, and of
other productions, useful as well as ornamental, would betray herself by
a remarkable exterior. I was mistaken. A small figure, eyes nearly
always lowered, a profoundly modest and reserved air, with expression in
the features when not speaking: such was the result of my first survey.
But when she spoke, which was too rarely for my taste, nothing could
have been better thought, and nothing better said, though always timidly
expressed, than that which fell from her mouth.

* * * * *

M. Pictet's account of the society at Paris induced Mr. Edgeworth to
determine on going there. He set out in the middle of September, with
Mrs. Edgeworth, Maria, Emmeline, and Charlotte. Emmeline left the rest
of the family at Conway, and went to stay with Mrs. Beddoes at Clifton,
where she was married to Mr. King (or Konig, a native of Berne), a
distinguished surgeon.

In London Mr. Edgeworth purchased a roomy coach, in which his family
travelled very comfortably.

* * * * *

MARIA EDGEWORTH _to_ MISS SOPHY RUXTON.

LOUGHBOROUGH, _Sept. 25, 1802._

I calculate, my dear Sophy, that you have accused me at least a hundred
times of being lazy and good-for-nothing, because I have not written
since we left Dublin; but do not be angry, I was not well during the
time we were in Dublin, nor for two or three days after we landed: but
three days' rest at Bangor Ferry recovered me completely, and thanks to
Dr. Diet, Dr. Quiet, and Dr. Merryman, I am now in perfectly good
plight.

To take up things at the beginning. We had a tedious passage, but
Charlotte and I sat upon deck, and were well enough to be much amused
with all the manoeuvring of the sails, etc. The light reflected upon the
waters from the lighthouse contracted instead of diverging: I mention
this, because there was an argument held upon the subject either at
Black Castle or at Collon. As we were all sitting upon deck drinking tea
in the morning, a large, very large, woman who was reading opposite to
us, fell from her seat with a terrible noise. We all thought she had
fallen down dead: the gentlemen gathered round her, and when she was
lifted up, she was a shocking spectacle, her face covered with blood,
she had fallen upon one of the large nails in the deck. She recovered
her senses, but when she was carried down to the cabin she fainted
again, and remained two hours senseless. "She has a mother, ma'am," said
the steward, "who is lying a-dying at Holyhead, and she frets greatly
for her." We were told afterwards that this lady has for twenty years
crossed the sea annually to visit her mother, though she never could
make the passage without swooning. She was a coarse, housekeeper-looking
woman, without any pretence to sentimentality, but I think she showed
more affection and real heroism than many who have been immortalised by
the pen or pencil.

Nothing new or entertaining from Holyhead to Bangor. A delightful day at
Bangor, pleasant walk: Charlotte drew some Welsh peasants and children:
we tried to talk to them, but _Dumsarzna_, or words to that effect, "I
don't understand English," was the constant answer, and the few who
could speak English seemed to have no wish to enter into conversation
with us: the farmers intrenched themselves in their houses and shut
their doors as fast as they could when we approached. From Bangor Ferry
we took a pleasant excursion to Carnarvon--do not be afraid, I shall not
give you a long description of the castle--I know you have seen it, but
I wish I knew whether you and I saw it with the same ideas. I could not
have conceived that any building or ruin could have appeared to me so
sublime. The amazing size! the distinctness of the parts! the simplicity
of the design, the thickness of the walls, the air of grandeur even in
decay! In the courtyard of the castle an old horse and three cows were
grazing, and beneath the cornices on the walls two goats, half black
half white, were browsing. I believe that old castles interest one by
calling up ideas of past times, which are in such strong contrast with
the present. In the courtyard of this castle were brewing vessels in
vaults which had formerly perhaps been dungeons, and pitched sails
stretched upon the walls to dry: the spirit of old romance and modern
manufactures do not agree.

Mr. Waitman, the landlord of the Carnarvon Hotel, accompanied us to the
castle, and he was indeed a glorious contrast to the enthusiastic old
man who showed the ruins. This old man's eyes brightened when he talked
of the Eagle Tower, and he seemed to forget that he had a terrible
asthma whilst he climbed the flights of stone stairs. Our landlord, a
thorough Englishman, in shrewd, wilful independence, entertained my
father by his character and conversation, and pleased him by his praises
of Lovell, of whom he spoke with much gratitude. We returned at night to
Bangor Ferry. Early next morning my father and mother, on two Welsh
ponies, trotted off to see Lord Penrhyn's slate quarries. We had orders
to follow them in a few hours. In the meantime who do you think arrived?
Mr. and Mrs. Saunderson, with all their children. They seemed as glad to
see me as I was to see them. They had intended to go another road, but
went on to Conway on purpose to spend the day with us. A most pleasant
day we did spend with them. They were going to Bristol to see their son,
and when they found that Emmeline was going there, they offered in the
kindest and most polite manner to take her with them. We parted with
Emmeline and with them the next morning; they went to Keniogy, which I
can't spell, and we went to Holywell, and saw the copper works, a vast
manufactory, in which there seemed to be no one at work. We heard and
saw large wheels turning without any visible cause, "instinct with
spirit all." At first nothing but the sound of dripping water, then a
robin began to sing amongst the rafters of the high and strange roof.
The manufactory in which the men were at work was a strong contrast to
this desolate place, a stunning noise, Cyclops with bared arms dragging
sheets of red-hot copper, and thrusting it between the cylinders to
flatten it; while it passed between these, the flame issued forth with a
sort of screeching noise. When I first heard it I thought somebody was
hurt: the flame was occasioned by the burning of the grease put between
the rollers. There were a number of children employed drawing straight
lines on the sheets of copper, ready for a man with a large pair of
shears to cut. The whole process was simple.

Saw the famous well, in which the spring supplies a hundred tuns a
minute. Went on to Chester and Newcastle, in hopes of finding Jos.
Wedgwood at Etruria: were told he was not in the country, but just as
our chaise whips up, papa espied Wedgwood's partner, who told him Jos.
_was_ at Etruria: came last night, would stay but one day. Went to
Etruria, Jos. received us as you would expect, and all the time I was
with him I had full in my recollection the handsome manner in which you
told me he spoke of my father. The mansion-house at Etruria is
excellent; but, alas! the Wedgwoods have bought an estate in
Dorsetshire, and are going to leave Etruria. I do not mean that they
have given up their share in the manufactory. Saw a flint mill worked by
a steam-engine just finished, cannot stay to describe it--for two
reasons, because I cannot describe it intelligibly, and because I want
to get on to the Priory to Mrs. and the Miss Darwins. Poor Dr. Darwin!
[Footnote: Dr. Darwin died 17th April 1802.] It was melancholy to go to
that house to which, in the last lines he ever wrote, he had invited us.
The servants in deep mourning: Mrs. Darwin and her beautiful daughters
in deep mourning. She was much affected at seeing my father, and seemed
to regret her husband as such a husband ought to be regretted. I liked
her exceedingly; there was so much heart, and so little constraint or
affectation in all she said and did, or looked. There was a charming
picture of Dr. Darwin in the room, in which his generous soul appeared
and his penetrating benevolent genius. How unlike the wretched
misanthropic print we have seen! While I am writing this at
Loughborough, my father is a few miles off at Castle Donnington. I
forgot to tell you that we spent a delightful day, or remnant of a day,
on our return from the Priory, at Mr. Strutt's.

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