The Life and Letters of Maria Edgeworth, Vol. 2 by Maria Edgeworth
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Maria Edgeworth >> The Life and Letters of Maria Edgeworth, Vol. 2
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I spent a morning and an evening very pleasantly at Lansdowne House.
They had begged me to come and drink tea with them in private, and to
come early: I went at nine: I had been expected at eight. All Lady
Lansdowne's own family, and as she politely said, "All my old friends at
Bowood" now living: Miss Fox, Lord John Russell, Lord Auckland, the
young Romillys, Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy, Mr. Wishaw, Mr. Turner,--whom I
must do myself the justice to say I recollected immediately, who showed
us the Bank seventeen years ago,--and Conversation Sharpe.
They say that Charles X. is quite at his ease, amusing himself, and not
troubling himself about the fate of Polignac, or any of his ministers:
there is great danger for them, but still I hope the French will not
disgrace this revolution by spilling their blood. Lord Lansdowne
mentioned an instance of the present King Louis Philippe's _présence
d'esprit_: a mob in Paris surrounded him--"Que desirez-vous, messieurs?"
"Nous désirons Napoléon." "Eh bien, allez donc le trouver." The mob
laughed, cheered, and dispersed.
I have seen dear good Joanna Baillie several times, and the Carrs. It
has been a great pleasure to me to feel myself so kindly received by
those I liked best in London years ago. It is always gratifying to find
old friends the same after long absence, but it has been particularly so
to me now, when not only the leaves of the pleasures of life fall
naturally in its winter, but when the great branches on whom happiness
depended are gone.
Dr. Holland's children are very fine, happy-looking children, and he
does seem so to enjoy them. His little boy, in reply to the commonplace,
aggravating question of
"Who loves you? Nobody in this world loves you!"
"Yes, there is somebody: papa loves me, I know--I am sure!" and throwing
himself on his back on his Aunt Mary's lap, he looked up at his father
with such a sweet, confident smile. The father was standing between Sir
Edward Alderson and Southey, the one sure he had him by the ear, and the
other by the imagination; but the child had him by the heart. He smiled
and nodded at his boy, and with an emphasis in which the whole soul
spoke low, but strong, said, "Yes, I _do_ love you." Neither the lawyer
nor the poet heard him.
All my friends understand that I keep out of all fine company and great
parties, and see only my friends.
Here the carriage came to the door, and we have been to see Mrs.
Calcott, who was Mrs. Graham, who was very glad to see me, and
entertaining; and Lady Elizabeth Whitbread as kind and affectionate as
ever. She is struggling between her natural pride on her brother's
ministerial appointment, and her natural affection which fears for his
health.
Joanna Baillie tells me that Lord Dudley wrote to Sir Walter, offering
to take upon himself the whole debt, and be paid by instalments. Sir
Walter wrote a charming note of refusal.
_Thursday_.
I saw Talleyrand at Lansdowne House--like a corpse, with his hair
dressed "_aîles de pigeon" bien poudré_. As Lord Lansdowne drolly said,
"How much those _aîles de pigeon_ have gone through unchanged! How many
revolutions have they seen! how many changes of their master's mind!"
Talleyrand has less countenance than any man of talents I ever saw. He
seems to think not only that _la parole était donné à l'homme pour
déguiser sa pensée_, but that expression of countenance was given to him
as a curse, to betray his emotions: therefore he has exerted all his
abilities to conquer all expression, and to throw into his face that "no
meaning" which puzzles more than wit; but I heard none. His niece, the
Duchesse de Dino, was there: little, and ugly--plain, I should
say--nobody is ugly now but myself.
_To_ MISS HONORA EDGEWORTH.
1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET,
_Jan. 8, 1831_.
Now I will tell you of my delightful young Christmas party at Mrs.
Lockhart's. After dinner she arranged a round table in the corner of the
room, on which stood a magnificent iced plum cake. There were to be
twelve children: impossible to have room for chairs all round the table:
it was settled that the king and queen alone should be invited to the
honours of the sitting; but Mr. Lockhart, in a low voice, said, "Johnny!
there must, my dear Sophia, you know, be a chair for Johnny here--all's
right now."
Enter first, Miss Binning, a young lady of fifteen, Johnny's particular
friend, who had been invited to make crowns for the king and queen--a
very nice elegant-looking girl with a slight figure.
Then came from the top of the stairs peals of merry laughter, and in
came the revel rout; the king and queen with their gilt paper admirable
crowns on their heads, and little coronation robes; the queen was Mrs.
Lockhart's youngest child, like a dear little fairy; and the king to
match. All the others in various ways pleasing and prettily simply
dressed in muslins of a variety of colours; plenty of ringlets of glossy
hair, fair or brown, none black, with laughing blue eyes. And now they
look at the tickets they have drawn for their twelfth-night characters,
and read them out. After eating as much as well could be compassed, the
revel rout ran upstairs again to the drawing-room, where open space and
verge enough had been made for hunt the slipper; and down they all
popped in the circle, of which you may see the likeness in the
_Pleasures of Memory_. Then came dancing; and as the little and large
dancers were all Scotch, I need not say how good it was. Mrs. Lockhart
is really a delightful creature, the more lovable the closer one comes
to her and in _London_. How very, very kind of her to invite me to this
quite family party; if she had invented for ever, she could not have
found what would please me more.
_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.
LONDON, _January 20_.
I write this "certificate of existence," and moreover, an affidavit of
my being a-foot [Footnote: Miss Edgeworth had twisted her foot a few
nights before in getting out of the carriage, and was unable to use it
for some days.] again, and can go downstairs with one foot foremost like
a child, and wore a black satin shoe like another last night at Mrs.
Elliot's.
Now sign, seal, and deliver for the bare life--of Mrs. Hope and the
Duchess of Wellington in my next.
_January 22_.
I left off at the Duchess of Wellington. I heard she was ill and
determined to write and ask if she wished to see me; a hundred of the
little London _remoras_ delayed and stopped me and fortunately--I almost
always find cause to rejoice instead of deploring when I have delayed to
execute an intention, so that I must conclude that my fault is
precipitation not procrastination. The very day I had my pen in my hand
to write to her and was called away to write some other letter, much to
my annoyance; much to my delight a few hours afterwards came a little
pencil note, begging me to come to Apsley House if I wished to please an
early friend who could never forget the kindness she had received at
Edgeworthstown. I had not been able to put my foot to the ground, but I
found it easy with motive to trample on impossibilities, and there is no
going upstairs at Apsley House, for the Duke has had apartments on the
ground floor, a whole suite, appropriated to the Duchess now that she is
so ill, and I had only to go leaning on Fanny's arm, through a long
passage to a magnificent room--not magnificent from its size, height,
length, or breadth, but from its contents: the presents of Cities,
Kingdoms, and Sovereigns. In the midst, on a high, narrow, mattressed
sofa like Lucy's, all white and paler than ever Lucy was, paler than
marble, lay as if laid out a corpse, the Duchess of Wellington. Always
little and delicate-looking, she now looked a miniature figure of
herself in wax-work. As I entered I heard her voice before I saw her,
before I could distinguish her features among the borders of her cap;
only saw the place where her head lay on the huge raised pillow; the
head moved, the head only, and the sweet voice of Kitty Pakenham
exclaimed, "O! Miss Edgeworth, you are the truest of the true--the
kindest of the kind." And a little, delicate, death-like white hand
stretched itself out to me before I could reach the couch, and when I
got there I could not speak--not a syllable, but she, with most perfect
composure, more than composure, cheerfulness of tone, went on speaking;
as she spoke, all the Kitty Pakenham expression appeared in that little
shrunk face, and the very faint colour rose, and the smile of former
times. She raised herself more and more, and spoke with more and more
animation in charming language and with all her peculiar grace and
elegance of kindness recollected so much of past times and of my father
particularly, whose affection she convinced me had touched her deeply.
Opposite her couch hung the gold shield in imitation of the shield of
Achilles with all the Duke's victories embossed on the margin, the Duke
and his staff in the centre, surrounded with blazing rays, given by the
city of London. On either side the great candelabras belonging to the
massive plateau given by Portugal, which cannot be lifted without
machinery. At either end, in deep and tall glass cases, from top to
bottom ranged the services of Dresden and German china, presented by the
Emperor of Austria and the King of Prussia. While I looked at these, the
Duchess raising herself quite up, exclaimed with weak-voiced,
strong-souled enthusiasm, "All tributes to merit! there's the value, all
pure, no corruption ever suspected even. Even of the Duke of Marlborough
that could not be said so truly."
The fresh, untired enthusiasm she feels for his character, for her own
still youthful imagination of her hero, after all she has gone through,
is most touching. There she is, fading away, still feeding when she can
feed on nothing else, on his glories, on the perfume of his incense. She
had heard of my being in London from Lord Downes, who had seen me at the
Countess de Salis's, where we met him and Lady Downes; when I met her
again two days after we had been at Apsley House she said the Duchess
was not so ill as I supposed, that her physicians do not allow that they
despair. But notwithstanding what friends and physicians say, my own
impression is, that she cannot be much longer for this world.
_To_ MISS HONORA EDGEWORTH.
NORTH AUDLEY STREET,
_Feb. 10, 1831_.
I am just come home from breakfasting with Sir James Macintosh. Fanny
was with me, double, double pleasure, but we both feel as we suppose
dramdrinkers do after their "mornings." My hand and my mind are both
unsteadied and unfitted for business after this intoxicating draught. O
what it is to "come within the radiance of genius," [Footnote: Quoted
from a letter of her sister Anna after the death of Dr. Beddoes.] not
only every object appears so radiant, but I feel myself so much
increased in powers, in range of mind, a _vue d'oiseau_ of all things
raised above the dun dim fog of commonplace life. How can any one like
to live with their inferiors and prefer it to the delight of being
raised up by a superior to the bright regions of genius? The inward
sense of having even this perception of excellence is a pleasure far
beyond what flattery _can_ give. Flattery is like a bad perfume,
nauseous and overpowering after the first waft, and hurtful as well as
nauseous. But as luncheon is coming and we must go directly to the
Admiralty to see Captain Beaufort, and then to the Carrs'--no more
rhodomontading to-day.
_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.
NORTH AUDLEY STREET, _Feb. 11, 1831_.
You must have seen in the papers the death of Mr. Hope, and I am sure it
shocked you. But it was scarcely possible that it could strike you so much
as it did me. I, who had seen him but a few days before, and who had been
rallying him upon his being hypochondriac. I, who had been laughing at him
along with Mrs. Hope, for being, I thought, merely in the cold fit after
having been in the hot fit of enthusiasm while finishing his book. He knew
too well, poor man, what we did not know. I believe that I never had time
to describe to you the impression that visit to him made upon me. I had
actually forced Mrs. Hope to go up and say he must see me; that such an
old friend, and one who had such a regard for him, and for whom I knew he
had a sincere regard, must be admitted to see him even in his bed-chamber.
He sent me word that if I could bear to see a poor sick man in his
night-cap, I might come up.
So I did, and followed Mrs. Hope through all the magnificent apartments,
and then up to the attics, and through and through room after room till
we came to his retreat, and then a feeble voice from an arm-chair--
"O! my dear Miss Edgeworth, my kind friend to the last."
And I saw a figure sunk in his chair like La Harpe, in figured silk
_robe de chambre_ and night-cap; death in his paled, sunk, shrunk face;
a gleam of affectionate pleasure lighted it up for an instant, and
straight it sunk again. He asked most kindly for my two sisters--"tell
them I am glad they are happy."
The half-finished picture of his second son was in the corner, beside
his arm-chair, as if to cheer his eyes.
"By an Irish artist," he politely said to me, "of great talent."
When I rallied him at parting on his low spirits, and said, "How much
younger you are than I am!"
"No, no; not in mind, not in the powers of life. GOD bless you;
good-bye."
I told him I would only say _au revoir_, and that never came; it was
only the next day but one after this that Fanny read to me his death in
the paper. It was dreadfully sudden to us; what must it have been to
Mrs. Hope? I am sure she had no idea of its coming so soon. I forgot to
say that as I got up to go away, I told him laughing, that he was only
ill of a plethora of happiness, that he had everything this world could
give, and only wanted a little adversity.
"Yes," said he, "I am happy, blessed with such a wife and such a son!"
He looked with most touching gratitude up to her, and she drew back
without speaking.
Oh! I cannot tell you the impression the whole scene left on my mind.
_March 14_.
I hope your mother is better, and now inhaling spring life. Tell her,
with my love, that I have exhibited her work [Footnote: A scarf
embroidered with flowers, worked for Miss Edgeworth by Mrs. Beaufort,
when she was ninety-two.] at various places to the admiration and almost
incredulity of all beholders--such beautiful flowers at ninety-two!
At last we were fortunately at home when Lady Wellesley and Miss Caton
called, and, thanks to my impudence in having written to him the moment
he landed, and thanks to his good nature, Sir John Malcolm came at the
same moment, and Lady Wellesley and he talked most agreeably over former
times in India and later times in Ireland. Lady Wellesley is not nearly
so tall or magnificent a person as I expected. Her face beautiful, her
manner rather too diplomatically studied. People say "she has a
remarkably good manner;" perfectly good manners are never "remarkable,"
felt, not seen. Sir John is as entertaining and delightful as his
Persian sketches, and as instructive as his _Central India_.
_To_ HER SISTER HARRIET--MRS. R. BUTLER.
1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET,
_March 16, 1831_.
The days are hardly long enough to read all men's speeches in
Parliament. I get the result into me from Fanny, and read only the
notables. Mr. North's speech was, as you say, the best and plainest he
ever made, and was so esteemed. Macaulay's reads better than it was
spoken, quite marred in the delivery, and he does not look the orator;
but no matter, in spite of his outside, his inside will get him on: he
has far more power in him than Mr. North.
Get the eleventh volume of the new edition of Sir Walter's poems,
containing a new Introduction and Essay on Ballads and ballad writing,
all entertaining, and a model for egotists which very few will be able
to follow, though many will strive and be laughed at for their pains.
_March 29_.
Old as I am and imaginative as I am thought to be, I have really always
found that the pleasures I have expected would be great have actually
been greater in the enjoyment than in the anticipation. This is written
in my sixty-fourth year. The pleasure of being with Fanny [Footnote:
Lestock Wilson.] has been far, far greater than I had expected. The
pleasures here altogether, including the kindness of old friends and the
civilities of acquaintances, are still more enhanced than I had
calculated upon by the home and the quiet library, and easy-chair
morning retreat I enjoy. Our long-expected visit to Herschel above all
has far surpassed my expectations, raised as they were and warm from the
fresh enthusiasm kindled by his last work.
Mrs. Herschel, who by the bye is very pretty, which does no harm, is
such a delightful person, with so much simplicity and so much sense, so
fit to sympathise with him in all things intellectual and moral, and
making all her guests comfortable and happy without any apparent effort;
she was extremely kind to Fanny, and Mr. Herschel to Lestock.
Thursday I went down to Slough alone in Fanny's carriage, as Lestock was
not well, and she would not leave him. There was no company, and the
evening was delightfully spent in hearing and talking. I had made
various pencil notes in my copy of his book to ask for explanations, and
so patient and kind and clear they were.
On Saturday I began to grow very anxious about six o'clock, and Mrs.
Herschel good-naturedly sympathised with me, and we stood at the window
that looks out on a distant turn of the London road, and at last I saw a
carriage glass flash and then an outline of a well-known coachman's
form, and then the green chaise, and all right.
There were at dinner the Provost of Eton in his wig, a large fine
presence of a Provost--Dr. Goodall; Mrs. Hervey, very pretty, and gave
me a gardenia like a Cape jessamine, white, sweet smelling--much talking
of it and smelling and handing it about; Mrs. Gwatkin, one of Sir Joshua
Reynold's nieces, has been very pretty, and though deaf is very
agreeable--enthusiastically and affectionately fond of her
uncle--indignant at the idea of his not having himself written the
_Discourses_; "Burke or Johnson indeed! no such thing--he wrote them
himself. I am evidence, he used to employ me as his secretary: often I
have been in the room when he has been composing, walking up and down
the room, stopping sometimes to write a sentence," etc.
On Sunday to Windsor Chapel; saw the King and the Queen, and little
Prince George of Cambridge, seen each through the separate compartments
of their bay window up aloft. The service lasted three hours, and then
we went, by particular desire, to Eton College, to see the Provost and
Mrs. Goodall, and the pictures of all the celebrated men. Some of these
portraits taken when very young are interesting; some from being like,
some from being quite unlike what one would expect from their after
characters. We saw the books of themes and poems that had been judged
worth preserving. Canning's and Lord Wellesley's much esteemed. Drawers
full of prints; many rare books; the original unique copy of _Reynard
the Fox_--the table of contents of which is so exceedingly diverting I
would fain have copied it on the spot, but the Provost told me a copy
could be had at every stall for one penny.
Got home to Herschel's while the sun yet shone, and I having the day
before begged the favour of him to repeat for Fanny and Lestock the
experiments and explanations on polarised light and periodical colours,
he had everything ready, and very kindly went over it all again, and
afterwards said to Mrs. Herschel, "It is delightful to explain these
things to Mrs. Wilson; she can understand anything with the least
possible explanation."
It was a fine moonlight night, and he took us out to see Saturn and his
rings, and the Moon and her volcanoes. Saturn, I thought, looked very
much as he used to do; but the Moon did surprise and charm me--very
different from anything I had seen or imagined of the moon. A large
portion of a seemingly immense globe of something like rough ice,
resplendent with light and all over protuberances like those on the
outside of an oyster shell, supposing it immensely magnified in a
Brobdingnag microscope, a lustrous-mica look all over the protuberances,
and a distinctly marked mountain-in-a-map in the middle shaded
delicately off.
I must remark to you that all the time we were seeing we were eighteen
feet aloft, on a little stage about eight feet by three, with a slight
iron rod rail on three sides, but quite open to fall in front, and
Lestock repeatedly warned me not to forget and step forwards.
Monday, our visit, alas! was to come to an end. Mr. Herschel offered to
take Lestock to town in his gig, which he accepted with pleasure, and
Fanny and I went with Mrs. Herschel to see Sir Joshua's pictures at Mrs.
Gwatkin's. There is one of Charles Fox done when he was eighteen: the
face so faded that it looks like an unfinished sketch, not the least
like any other picture I have ever seen of the jolly, moon-faced Charles
Fox, but some resemblance to the boy of thirteen in the print I begged
from Lord Buchan. The original "Girl with a muff" is here; the original
also of "Simplicity," who has now flowers in her lap in consequence of
the observation of a foolish woman who, looking at the picture as it was
originally painted, with the child's hands interlaced, with the backs of
the hands turned up, "How beautiful! How natural the dish of prawns the
dear little thing has in her lap!"
Sir Joshua threw the flowers over the prawns.
There appeared in this collection many sad results of Sir Joshua's
experiments on colours; a very fine copy of his from Rembrandt's picture
of himself, all but the face so black as to be unintelligible. There was
the first Sir Joshua ever drew of himself--and his last; this invaluable
last is going--black cracks and masses of bladdery paint. He painted
Mrs. Gwatkin seven times. "But don't be vain, my dear, I only use your
head as I would that of any beggar--as a good practice."
Her husband is a true Roast Beef of Old England King and Constitution
man, who most good-naturedly hunted out from his archives a letter of
Hannah More's, which happened to be particularly interesting to me, on
Garrick in the character of Hamlet; it was good, giving a decided view
of what Garrick at least thought the unity of the character.
From metaphysics to physics, we finished with a noble slice of the roast
beef of Old England, "fed, ma'am," said Mr. Gwatkin, "by his present
Majesty, GOD bless him."
Arrived at No. 1 in good time, and dined yesterday at Lady Davy's.
Rogers, Gally Knight, Lord Mahon, and Lord Ashburner, who was very
agreeable. He has been eleven years roaming the world, and is not
foreign-fangled. Mrs. Marcet, who came in the evening, was the happiness
of it to me.
_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.
1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET,
_April 1831_.
Such a day as yesterday! sun shining--neither too hot nor too cold. This
was just the time of year, I think, that you saw Knowle, and I never did
see a place and house which pleased me more; exceedingly entertained
with the portraits, endless to particularise. Several of Grammont's
beauties, not so good in colours as in black and white. Sir Walter's
black and white portrait of James I. made the full length of his
unkingly Majesty a hundred times more interesting to me than it could
otherwise have been,--mean, odd, strange-looking mortal. And then the
silver room, as it is called, how it was gilt to me by the genius of
romance, all Heriot's masterpieces there, would have been but cups and
boxes ranged on toilette table and India cabinet but for the master
magician touch. But we had to leave Knowle as we had engaged the day
before at Brandfold to go to Mr. Jones (on the Distribution of Wealth)
at Brasted. Such crowds of ideas as he poured forth, uttering so rapidly
as to keep one quite on the stretch not to miss any of the good things.
Half of them, I am sure, I have forgotten, but note for futurity;
specially a fair-haired heiress now living, shut up in an old place
called the Moate, old as King John's time. Mr. Jones had invited Dr. and
Mrs. Felton, and had a luncheon _comme il y en a peu_ and wines of every
degree: hock from Bremen, brought over by our mutual friend Mr. Jacob,
and far too valuable for an ignoramus like me to swallow.
Chevening? You are afraid we shall not have time to see Chantrey's
monument. "O! but you must see it," said Mr. Jones, and so he and Dr.
Felton ordered gig and pony carriage to let our horses rest, and follow
and meet us, and away we went. Mr. Jones driving me in his gig to a
beautiful parky place where Dr. Felton flourishes for the summer, and
saw his children, who had wished to see the mother of Frank and
Rosamond. Then through Mr. Manning's beautiful place--never travelling a
high road or a by-road all the way to Chevening churchyard. The white
marble monument of Lady Frederica Stanhope is in the church; plain
though she was in life, she is beautiful in death, something of
exquisite tenderness in the expression of her countenance, maternal
tenderness, and repose, matronly repose, and yet the freshness of youth
in the rounded arm and delicate hand that lightly, affectionately
presses the infant--she dies, if dying it can be called, so placid, so
happy; the head half-turned sinks into the pillow, which, without
touching, one can hardly believe to be marble. I am sure Harriet
recollects Lady Frederica at Paris, just before she was married.
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