The Life and Letters of Maria Edgeworth, Vol. 2 by Maria Edgeworth

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Mrs. Hogan, excellent Mrs. Hogan, has grown much older, but in all other
respects the same, and next to our own dear Mrs. Billamore the most
active and attached person in her station I ever saw. But why waste my
time on housekeepers, when I should tell you of Lord Burford and his
sisters, Lady Maria and Lady Caroline Beauclerc, who arrived on Monday,
and Lady Westmeath and Mr. Smith (_Rejected Addresses_), and Mr. Lock,
son of Norbury Park Lock: all _come_ to _go_ to a ball at Dorking, of
which Mr. Hope is one of the stewards.

The Lady Beauclercs are beautiful, in the Vandyke style, and Lord
Burford very handsome, and so is Mr. Lock, with a curly head.

Fanny danced a great deal, and Harriet two quadrilles and Sir Roger de
Coverley, which ended at six in the morning. We met at this ball Mr.
Greenough, and Mr. Angerstein, Sneyd's friend, very agreeable, and Mrs.
Hibbert, of the beautiful cottage, and Lady Rothes. Mr. Smith
excessively entertaining; he sings humorous songs of his own composition
inimitably. Alas! he went away yesterday.

The evening after the ball they played at "the ring," a ring held on a
string in a circle, and the fool in the middle seeks and challenges any
suspected hand. This morning, the moment breakfast was over, they went
into the _hall of the marble table,_ and there played at _petits
pacquets_ (not time to describe), a great deal of running and laughing
among pretty men and pretty maids.

As I stood at the window with Mr. Hope looking at a ring of company
playing French blindman's-buff, we agreed we had never seen more beauty,
male and female, collected in a circle of fourteen persons.

Mrs. Hogan has just announced the arrival of "Prince Cimitelli, and
another name, ma'am, which I am ashamed to say I can never _twist out_
rightly, is to come here to-day."

Mr. Smith told Fanny that he had intended to put me into the _Rejected
Addresses_, and had written a part in the character of an Irish
labourer, but it was so flat he threw it aside.

_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

FROGNEL, HAMPSTEAD, _Dec. 29, 1821_.

We read--I mean we have heard read by Mr. Carr, who reads admirably,
half the first volume of the _Pirate_, stopped at the chapter ending
with the description of Norma of the Fitful Head. We were much pleased
and interested, especially with the beautiful description of Mordaunt's
education and employments: the sea-monsters, etc., most poetical, in
Scott's master style: the manner in which, by scarcely perceptible
touches, he wakens the reader's interest for his hero, admirable,
unequalled by all but Shakespear. Wonderful genius; who can raise an
interest even on the barren rocks of Zetland. Aladdin could only raise
palaces at will, but the mighty master Scott can transport us to the
most remote desert corner of the earth, ay, and keep us there, and make
us wish to stay among beings of his own creation. I send a sketch of the
room, and how we all sat last night as happy as possible listening to
Mr. Carr reading; show this ground-plan to Honora, who knows the room,
and she will _insense_ you.

_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

FROGNEL, HAMPSTEAD, _Jan. 2, 1822_.

We have been enjoying in this family every delight which affection and
cultivated tastes, and cheerful tempers can bestow. Upon nearer
acquaintance I find Dr. Lushington worthy of the prize he has obtained
in a wife, [Footnote: Miss Edgeworth's old friend, Miss Sarah Carr.] and
I have heard from friends, who differ from him in political opinions,
such honourable testimony to his integrity and strength of mind that my
heart is quite at ease about her happiness.

_To_ MISS RUXTON.

FROGNEL, _Jan. 3, 1822_.

I believe I left off where I had mentioned the _Pirate_, which I hope
you are reading to my aunt. The characters of the two sisters are
beautiful. The idea of Brenda not believing in supernatural agency, and
yet being afraid, and Minna not being afraid though she believes in
Norma's power, is new and natural and ingenious. This was Joanna
Baillie's idea. The picture of the sisters sleeping and the lacing scene
is excellent, and there are not only passages of beautiful picturesque
description, but many more deep philosophical reflections upon the human
mind, and the causes of human happiness, than in any of his other works.
The satire upon agriculturists imported from one country to another, who
set to work to improve the land and the habits of the people without
being acquainted with the circumstances of either, is excellent. I am
sure my uncle will like and laugh with Magnus Troil. It is wonderful how
genius can make even barren Zetland fertile in novelty. Both Morton and
Tom Carr are very amiable and both handsome. Tom dark, like an Italian
portrait; Morton fair, with light hair and quick-colouring with every
emotion: a high sense of honour, chivalrous sentiments, and delicacy of
taste.

New Year's Day was Mr. and Mrs. Carr's wedding day, and it was kept as
it always is, with family rejoicings; Dr. Holland, as he has done for
many years, and Joanna Baillie and Miss Mulso, an intimate friend, a
niece of Mrs. Chapone's, dined here, which, with the whole family and
ourselves, made a party of twenty. Mr. Carr gave many toasts; some so
affectionate they made the tears roll down the cheeks of his children.
In the evening there was a merry dance, in which Joanna and her sister
joined, and then as agreed upon, at a given signal, we all ran up to our
rooms and dressed in different characters. We did not know what the
others were to be, but Fanny was a nun in a white muslin veil and
drapery over her black gown--dressed in a moment, and I fell to decking
Harriet, a pert travelled young lady just returned from Paris, in the
height of the fashion: feathers of all colours, gold diadem, a profusion
of artificial flowers, a nosegay of vast size, rose-coloured gauze
dress, darkened eyebrows, and ringlets of dark hair which so completely
altered her that no creature guessed who she was till Mrs. Carr at last
knew her by her likeness to her mother; she supported her character with
great spirit. I was an Irish nurse in a red cloak, come all the way from
Killogonsawee, "for my two childer that left me last year for foreign
parts." Little Francis was Triptolemus, in the _Pirate_, an excellent
figure, and Mrs. Carr his sister Baby. Isabella, an old lady in an
old-fashioned dress, and Laura as her daughter in a court dress and
powder; Anna, a French troubadour singing beautifully and speaking
French perfectly; William, the youngest son, a half-pay officer, king of
the coffee house; Tom, a famous London black beggar, Billy Waters, with
a wooden leg; Morton, Meg Merillics; Dr. Lushington, a housemaid; Miss
Mulso, an English ballad singer; Mr. Burrell (I forgot to mention him,
an old family friend at dinner) as a Spanish gentleman, Don Pedro
Velasquez de Tordesillas; very good ruff and feathers, but much wanting
a sword when the wooden-legged black trod on his toes. In the scuffle of
dressing, for which only ten minutes were allowed, no sword could be
found. From the quickness of preparation, and our all being a family
party, this little masquerade went off remarkably well, and was very
diverting to the persons concerned.

I heard yesterday from a friend of Lady Lansdowne's that Miss Kitty
Malone has had the operation performed upon her eye; saw the ring on
Alexander's finger, and exclaimed, "How happy you must be, sir, who can
give sight to the blind!"

_To_ MISS LUCY EDGEWORTH.

MISS BAILLIE'S, HAMPSTEAD, _Jan. 12, 1822_.

I have been four days resolving to get up half an hour earlier that I
might have time to tell you, my dear Lucy, the history of a cat of
Joanna and Agnes Baillie's.

You may, perhaps, have heard the name of a celebrated Mr. Brodie, who
wrote on Poisons, and whose papers on this subject are to be found in
the _Transactions of the Royal Society_, and reviewed in the _Edinburgh
Review_, in 1811. He brought some of the Woorara poison, with which the
natives poison their arrows and destroy their victims. It was his theory
that this poison destroys by affecting the nervous system only, and that
after a certain time its effects on the nerves would cease as the
effects of intoxicating liquors cease, and that the patient might
recover, if the lungs could be kept in play, if respiration were not
suspended during the trance or partial death in which the patient lies.
To prove the truth of this by experiment he fell to work upon a cat; he
pricked the cat with the point of a lancet dipped in Woorara. It was
some minutes before the animal became convulsed, and then it lay, to all
appearance, dead. Mr. Brodie applied a tube to its mouth, and blew air
into it from time to time; after lying some hours apparently lifeless it
recovered, shook itself and went about its own affairs as usual. This
was tried several times, much to the satisfaction of the philosophical
spectators, but not quite to the satisfaction of poor puss, who grew
very thin and looked so wretched that Dr. Baillie's son, then a boy,
took compassion on this poor subject of experiment, and begged Mr.
Brodie would let him carry off the cat. With or without consent, he did
carry her off, and brought her to his aunts, Joanna and Agnes Baillie.
Then puss's prosperous days began. Agnes made a soft bed for her in her
own room, and by night and day she was the happiest of cats; she was
called Woorara, which in time shortened into Woory. I wish I could wind
up Woory's history by assuring you that she was the most attached and
grateful of cats, but truth forbids. A few weeks after her arrival at
Hampstead she marched off and never was heard of more. It is supposed
that she took to evil courses: tasted the blood and bones of her
neighbours' chickens, and fell at last a sacrifice to the vengeance of a
cook-maid.

After this cat's departure Agnes took to heart a kitten, who was very
fond of her. This kitten, the first night she slept in her room, on
wakening in the morning looked up from the hearth at Agnes, who was
lying awake, but with her eyes half-shut, and marked all puss's motions;
after looking some instants, puss jumped up on the bed, crept softly
forward and put her paw, with its glove on, upon one of Miss Baillie's
eyelids and pushed it gently up; Miss Baillie looked at her fixedly, and
puss, as if satisfied that her eyes were _there_ and safe, went back to
her station on the hearth and never troubled herself more about the
matter.

To finish this chapter of cats. I saw yesterday at a lady's house at
Hampstead, a real Persian cat, brought over by a Navy Captain, her
brother. It has long hair like a dog, and a tail like a terrier's, only
with longer hair. It is the most gentle, depressed-looking creature I
ever saw; it seems to have the _mal du pays_, and moreover, had the
cholic the morning I saw it, and Agnes Baillie had a spoonful of castor
oil poured out for it, but it ran away.

Joanna quoted to me the other day an excellent proverb applied to
health: "Let well alone." If the Italian valetudinarian had done this
his epitaph would not have arrived at the _sto qui_.

Captain Beaufort tells me that they have found out that the wool under
the buffalo's long hair is finer than the material of which the Cashmere
shawls are made, and they are going to manufacture shawls of buffalo's
wool, which are to shame and silence the looms of Cashmere. Would my
mother choose to wait for one of these?

_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

HAMPSTEAD, _Jan. 14, 1822_.

We are come to our last morning at this hospitable house. Most
affectionate hospitality has been shown to us by these two excellent
sisters. I part with Agnes and Joanna Baillie, confirmed in my opinion
that the one is the most amiable literary woman I ever beheld, and the
other one of the best informed and most useful. I wish you had seen
Joanna and Agnes each evening laying Fanny's feet up on the sofa,
spreading their bright _Stuart_ plaid over her, and a silk handkerchief
hooded over her head so comfortable and so pretty, as Joanna said, she
looked like one of Guido's pictures.

An hour after I had read your letter, arrived the gentleman who franks
this letter, [Footnote: Mr. Abercromby--Lord Dunfermline.] one of the
most sensible, well-bred conversers I ever heard. He began by giving us
an account of all Lord Wellesley has been doing in Ireland, and
entertained us for three hours with anecdotes of Fox and Mrs. Fox, and
Lord Grenville, with whom he has been staying at Dropmore. He said that
when he first went there and heard there was no company in the house, he
was frightened out of his wits at the idea of a _tête-à-tête_ with
silent Lord Grenville; but to his astonishment, he found him
_tête-à-tête_ the most communicative and talkative of men; he had only
to ask him what he pleased to set him off delightfully, like the
Primate; those who can venture to talk to him freely, please him, and
conquer his constitutional bashfulness. At breakfast he has three or
four spaniels jumping upon him, he feeding, and protecting from them the
newspaper, which he is reading all the time. He is remarkably fond of
children. Mr. Abercromby saw him with two little boys, sons of a friend,
and all the morning he was diverting them in the library, hunting for
entertaining books and pictures for them. Such a new idea of Lord
Grenville!

SIR JOHN SEBRIGHT'S,

BEECHWOOD PARK, _Jan. 16_.

A very fine park it is, with magnificently large beech trees, which well
deserve to give their name to the place. The house, a fine-looking
house, was a convent in the days of Edward VI. Library forty feet long;
books in open shelves, handsome and comfortable. Dr. Wollaston kindly
recognised Fanny. Mrs. Marcet--we were glad to secure her. Mrs.
Somerville--little, slightly made; fair hair, pink colour; small gray,
round, intelligent, smiling eyes; very pleasing countenance; remarkably
soft voice, strong, but well-bred Scotch accent; timid, not
disqualifying timid, but naturally modest, yet with a degree of
self-possession through it, which prevents her being in the least
awkward, and gives her all the advantage of her understanding; at the
same time, that it adds a prepossessing charm to her manner, and takes
off all dread of her superior scientific learning.

_To_ MISS RUXTON.

BEECHWOOD PARK, _Jan. 17, 1822_.

I have this moment heard an anecdote, which proves beyond a doubt--if
any doubt remained--that Walter Scott is the author of the novels. He
edited _The Memorie of the Somervilles_, and in the MS. copy are his
marks of what was to be omitted; and among these what suggested to him
the idea of Lady Margaret and the famous _dis_ jeune which His Majesty
did her the honour to take with her--continually referred to by an
ancestor of Lord Somerville's.

We have spent two days pleasantly here with Dr. Wollaston, Dr. and Mrs.
Somerville, Mr. Giles, and Mr. Franks, besides our own dear friend, Mrs.
Marcet. Mrs. Somerville is the lady whom La Place mentions as the only
woman in England who understands his works. She draws beautifully; and
while her head is among the stars, her feet are firm upon the earth. Sir
John Sebright himself is very entertaining--quite a new character: he
amused me incessantly: strong head, and warm heart, and oddity enough
for ten. He showed us his pigeons, one which he said he would not part
with for a hundred guineas; he took it up in his hands to show me its
pretty white head, but I could not see the difference between it and one
not worth ten shillings. The pouting pigeons, who have _goîtres_, as
Mrs. Marcet said, are frightful; they put in their heads behind these
bags of wind, and strut about as if proud of deformity. We saw four
Antwerp pigeons, one of which went, Sir John told us, from Tower Hill to
Antwerp in six hours.

_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

MARDOAKS, _Jan. 19, 1822._

We called at Hatfield on our way here: a fine pile of old house with
many pictures--Burleigh, Cecil, Leicester, and Elizabeth. Do you
remember meeting Lady Salisbury [Footnote 1: Amelia, daughter of the
first Marquis of Downshire, and wife of the first Marquis of Salisbury.
She was burnt to death in Hatfield House, 27th November 1835.] at Lady
Darnley's? little, lively, good-humoured, very alert and active. What do
you think of her fox-hunting, though past seventy? Mr. Franks and Mr.
Giles, whom we met at Beechwood, and all the young men, declare that she
is more lively and good-humoured out hunting than any of them. An old
groom goes out with her on a hunter a little better than her own, always
a little before her, to show her where she may go, and turns to her
every now and then, "Come on! why the d---l don't you leap?" or "You
must not go there! why the d---l do you go there?"

We arrived here in our usual happy time--firelight, an hour before
dinner: most cordially received both by Sir James and Lady Macintosh:
house pretty, library comfortable, hall and staircase beautiful: house
filled with books.

I must tell you an anecdote of Wilberforce and a dream of Dr.
Wollaston's. Mr. Wilberforce, you know, sold his house at Kensington
Gore: the purchaser was a Chinaman, or, I should say, the keeper of a
china-shop in Oxford Street--Mr. Mortlock. When the purchase-money was
paid, £10,000, and the deeds executed, Mr. Mortlock waited upon Mr.
Wilberforce, and said, "This house suits you, Mr. Wilberforce, so well
in every respect, that I am sure your only motive in parting with it is
to raise the money: therefore permit me to return these title-deeds.
Accept this testimony of esteem, due to your public character and
talents."

Wilberforce did not accept this handsome offer.

Dr. Wollaston told us that he was much pleased with his own ingenuity in
a dream. He wished to weigh himself, but suddenly fell, and was hurried
forward on the ground till he came to a spot where the power of gravity
ceased to act. He bethought himself of a spring steelyard, and with the
joy of successful invention, wakened. Sir John Sebright, however, would
not allow Wollaston to be proud of this, as it would have occurred to
him, or any one acquainted with the principle of a steelyard. We argued
this point for a quarter of an hour, and each went away, as usual, of
his or her original opinion.

HERTFORD COLLEGE, _Jan. 23_.

Do you recollect a Cornish friend of Davy's who supped with him the
night when Lady Darnley and the Russian Prince and the Sneyds were
there? and Davy saying that this Cornish friend was a very clever man,
and that he was anxious to do him honour, and be kind? This Cornish
friend was Mr., now Dr. Batten, at the head of Hertford College. He had
with him a rosy-cheeked, happy-looking, open-faced son, of nine years
old, whom we liked much, and whose countenance and manner gave the best
evidence possible in favour of father and mother.

Le Bas is as deaf as a post; but that is no matter, as he is professor
of mathematics, and deals only in demonstration. He has a very
good-natured, intelligent countenance. He laughed heartily at some
nonsense of mine which caught his ear, and that broke the mournful
gravity of his countenance.

Fanny had some rides with little Macintosh while at Mardoaks--Robert, a
very intelligent boy of fifteen, little for his age; like his father,
but handsomer, and he listens to his conversation with a delight which
proves him worthy to be the son of such a father, and promises future
excellence better than anything he could say at his age. Sir James is
improved in the art of conversation since we knew him; being engaged in
great affairs with great men and great women has perfected him in the
use and management of his wonderful natural powers and vast accumulated
treasures of knowledge. His memory now appears to work less; his
eloquence is more easy, his wit more brilliant, his anecdotes more
happily introduced. Altogether his conversation is even more delightful
than formerly; superior to Dumont's in imagination, and almost equal in
wit. In Dumont's mind and conversation, wit and reason are kept
separate; but in Macintosh they are mixed, and he uses both in argument,
knowing the full value and force of each: never attempting to pass wit
for logic, he forges each link of the chain of demonstration, and then
sends the electric spark of wit through it. The French may well exclaim,
in speaking of him, "Quelle abondance!"

He told us that, at Berlin, just before a dinner at which were all the
principal ambassadors of Europe, Madame de Staël, who had been invited
to meet them, turned to a picture of Buonaparte, then at the height of
his power, and addressed it with Voltaire's lines to Cupid:

Qui que ce soit, voici ton maître,
Il est, le fut, ou le doit être.

Fanny and Harriet say that Macintosh has far surpassed their
expectations. The two new persons Fanny wished most to see in England
were Ricardo and Macintosh: she has seen them in the best possible
manner, in their own families, at leisure not only to be wise and good,
but agreeable. Harriet and she have heard more of their conversation
than they could in a whole season in London. Think how happy I must feel
in seeing them quite satisfied. Sir James and Lady Macintosh seem to
like them, and I and they delight in Miss Macintosh: she is one of the
best-informed and most unaffected girls I ever knew, with a sweet voice
and agreeable conversation.

GROVE HOUSE, KENSINGTON,

_Jan. 27, 1822_.

As if wakening from a long dream, I find myself sitting in exactly the
same comer, on the same chair, in the same room where Fanny, and Honora,
and I were three years ago! Lady Elizabeth Whitbread [Footnote: Eldest
daughter of the first Earl Grey.] looks better than she did when we left
her, though much thinner: her kindness and the winning dignity of her
manners the same as ever. She was at breakfast with us at half-past nine
this morning, when she went to her church and we to Kensington--Mrs.
Batty's pew--Harriet and I. Fanny stayed at home for the good of her
body, and Lady Elizabeth left with her, for the good of her soul, that
wicked _Cain_. [Footnote: Lord Byron's _Cain_, which was preached
against in Kensington Church by Mr. Rennel.]

Miss Grant will be here on Monday, absent a fortnight nursing Mrs.
Nesbitt. A new dog, Jubal: Lady Elizabeth heard one of the little Battys
say, "Lion has _hatched_ a new dog," and the sister correcting her, "Oh,
my dear! _hatched!_ you mean _laid!_" Jubal is very like Lion, only
younger and handsomer: milk-white, and shorn poodle fashion.

_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

GROVE HOUSE, _Feb. 1822_.

I am glad you like the preface to _Frank_: the engineer and the
scientific part will tire you--skip and go on to the third volume.
Delightful breakfast to-day at Mr. Ricardo's. We have this last week
seen all Calcott's principal pictures, and those by Mulready, an Irish
artist: one of a messenger playing truant; the enraged mistress, and the
faces of the boys he is playing with, and the little child he had the
care of asleep, all tell their story well; but none of these come near
the exquisite humour and ingenuity of Hogarth. I have the face of that
imbecile, round-eyed, half-drunk friend of ours in the corner of the
"Election Dinner" now before me, and I can never think of it without
laughing.

We have seen Sir Thomas Lawrence's magnificent picture of the King in
his coronation robes, which is to be sent to the Pope. [Footnote: Now in
the Lateran Palace.] He flatters with great skill, choosing every
creature's best. An admirable picture of Walter Scott; ditto ditto of
Lady Jersey and Lady Conyngham. Lord Anglesea came in while we were with
Sir Thomas: he is no longer handsome, but a model for the "nice conduct"
of a wooden leg. It was within an inch of running through Walter Scott's
picture, which was on the floor leaning on the wall; but, by a skilful
sidelong manoeuvre, he bowed out of its way. His gray hair looks much
better than His Majesty's flaxen wig--bad taste.

_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

KENSINGTON GORE, _Feb. 6, 1822_.

A dreadful storm two nights ago, which blew down two fine old trees in
the park, and a miserable wet day, in which we made our way to the
dentist's.

Colonel Talbot dined here--cast in the same mould as all the other
Talbots I have ever seen: his face has been bronzed by hardships, and
_scorched_ by the reflection from American _snows_: his manner of
speaking slow--not too slow, only slow enough to be calmly distinct; and
when relating wonders and dangers, gives you at once the certainty of
truth, and the belief in his fortitude and intrepid presence of mind. He
related the visit from his European friend, when he had built his log
house, and was his own servant-of-all-work; and gave us an account of an
attack of the Indians upon Fort Talbot. He gives me the idea of the most
cool courage imaginable. I could not help looking at him, as if he were
Robinson Crusoe come to life again, and continuing stories from his own
book. He has now a very good house, or palace I should say; for he is
not only lord of all he surveys, but actually king.

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