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

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BLACK CASTLE, _Dec. 6, 1822_.

How do you all do, my dear friends, after last night's hurricane?
[Footnote: Numbers of the finest trees were blown down. The staircase
skylight was blown away, and the lead which surrounded it rolled up as
neatly as if just out of the plumber's: roofs were torn off and cabins
blown down.] Have any trees been blown away? Has the spire stood? Is
Madgy Woods alive? How many roofs of houses in the town have been blown
away, and how many hundred slates and panes of glass must be replaced?
The glass dome over the staircase at Ardbraccan has been blown away; two
of the saloon windows blown in. The servants in this house sat up all
night; I slept soundly. My aunt, roused at an unwonted hour from her bed
this morning, stood at the foot of mine while I was yet dreaming; and
she avers that when she told me that eight trees and the great green
gates were blown down, that I sat up in my bed, and, opening one eye,
answered, "Is it in the newspaper, ma'am?" When I came out to breakfast,
the first object I beheld was the uprooted elms lying prostrate opposite
the breakfast-room windows; and Mr. Fitzherbert says more than a hundred
are blown down in the uplands.

Now I have done with the hurricane, I must tell you a dream of Bess's:
she thought she went to call upon a lady, and found her reading a pious
tract called "The Penitent Poodle!"

_To_ MRS. O'BEIRNE.

BLACK CASTLE, _Jan. 15, 1823_.

We are delighted with _Peveril_, though there is too much of the dwarfs
and the elfie. Scott cannot deny himself one of these spirits in some
shape or other; I hope that we shall find that this elfin page, who has
the power of shrinking or expanding, as it seems, to suit the occasion,
is made really necessary to the story. I think the dwarf more allowable
and better drawn than the page, true to history, and consistent; but
Finella is sometimes handsome enough to make duke and king ready to be
in love with her, and sometimes an odious little fury, clenching her
hands, and to be lifted up or down stairs out of the hero's way. The
indistinctness about her is not that indistinctness which belongs to the
sublime, but that which arises from unsteadiness in the painter's hand
when he sketched the figure. He touched and retouched at different
times, without having, as it seems, a determined idea himself of what he
would make her; nor had he settled whether she should bring with her
"airs from heaven," or blasts from that place which is never named to
ears polite.

* * * * *

In May 1823 Miss Edgeworth took her half-sisters Harriet and Sophy to
Scotland. It was a very happy time to her, chiefly because there she
made an acquaintance with Sir Walter Scott, which soon ripened into an
intimate and lasting friendship. He had already admired her stories,
which he spoke of as "a sort of _essence_ of common sense."

* * * * *

MARIA _to_ MISS HONORA EDGEWORTH.

KINNEIL, _June 2, 1823_.

I wish you were here with us. We arrived between nine and ten last
night. The sea-shore approaching Kinneil House is exactly the idea I had
of the road to Glenthorn Castle; the hissing sound of the wheels and
all, and at last the postillion stopped where one road sloped directly
down into the Frith of Forth, and another turned abruptly up hill. He
said, "This is a-going into the water; I ha' come the wrong way." And up
the narrow road up the hill he went and turned the carriage, and down
again, and back the road we had come some little distance, and splash
across to a road on the opposite side, and then by the oddest back way
that seemed to be leading us into the stables, till at last we saw the
door of the real house, an old but white-washed castle-mansion. A
short-faced old butler in black came out of a sort of sentry-box back
door to receive us, and through odd passages and staircases we reached
the drawing-room, where we found fire and candles, and Mrs. Stewart and
a young tall man; Mrs. Stewart, just as you saw her at Bowood, received
Harriet and Sophy in her arms, spoke of their dear mother and of Honora,
and seated us on the sofa, and told Sophy to open a letter from Fanny,
which she put into her hand, and "feel herself at home," which indeed we
did. The tall young man was no hindrance to this feeling; an intimate
friend, a Mr. Jackson, who has been staying with Mr. Stewart as his
companion ever since his illness.

We passed through numerous ante-chambers, nooks, and halls--broad white
stone corner staircase, winding with low-arched roof. Our two rooms open
into one another--mine large, with four black doors, one locked and two
opening into closets, and back stairs, and if you mount to another
story, all the rooms are waste garrets. Mrs. Stewart told us this
morning that there were plenty of ghosts at our service belonging to
Kinneil House. One in particular, Lady Lilyburn, who is often seen all
in white, as a ghost should be, and with white wings, fluttering on the
top of the castle, from whence she leaps into the sea--a prodigious leap
of three or four hundred yards, nothing for a well-bred ghost. At other
times she wears boots, and stumps up and down stairs in them, and across
passages, and through bedchambers, frightening ladies' maids and others.
We have not heard her _yet_.

When we looked out of our windows this morning we saw fine views, and in
the shrubbery near the house some of the largest lilacs I ever saw in
rich flower. From another window, half a mile length of avenue with
gates through which we should by rights have approached the front of the
house. But all this time I have not said one word of what I had intended
to be the subject of this: Lanark and Mr. Owen's school. I am called
down to Lady Anna Maria Elliot; [Footnote: Afterwards Countess Russell.]
my mother may remember her in former days--she is said to be like Die
Vernon.

_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

EDINBURGH, 32 ABERCROMBY PLACE,

_June 8, 1823_.

You have had our history up to Kinneil House. Mr. and Miss Stewart
accompanied us some miles on our road to show us the palace of
Linlithgow--very interesting to see, but not to describe. The drive from
Linlithgow to Edinburgh is nothing extraordinary, but the road
approaching the city is grand, and the first view of the castle and
"mine own romantic town" delighted my companions; the day was fine and
they were sitting outside on the barouche seat--a seat which you, my
dear aunt, would not have envied them with all their fine prospects. By
this approach to Edinburgh there are no suburbs; you drive at once
through magnificent broad streets and fine squares. All the houses are
of stone, darker than the Ardbraccan stone, and of a kind that is little
injured by weather or time. Margaret Alison [Footnote: Margaret,
daughter of Dr. James Gregory, married to William Pulteney Alison,
Professor of Medicine in the University of Edinburgh.] had taken
lodgings for us in Abercromby Place--finely built, with hanging
shrubbery garden, and the house as delightful as the situation. As soon
as we had unpacked and arranged our things the evening of our arrival,
we walked, about ten minutes' distance from us, to our dear old friends,
the Alisons. We found them shawled and bonneted, just coming to see us.
Mr. Alison and Sir Walter Scott had settled that we should dine the
first day after our arrival with Mr. Alison, which was just what we
wished; but on our return home we found a note from Sir Walter:

"DEAR MISS EDGEWORTH,

"I have just received your kind note, just when I had persuaded myself
it was most likely I should see you in person or hear of your arrival.
Mr. Alison writes to me you are engaged to dine with him to-morrow,
which puts Roslin out of the question for that day, as it might keep you
late. On Sunday I hope you will join our family-party at five, and on
Monday I have asked one or two of the Northern Lights on purpose to meet
you. I should be engrossing at any time, but we shall be more disposed
to be so just now, because on the 12th I am under the necessity of going
to a different kingdom (only the kingdom of _Fife_) for a day or two.
To-morrow, if it is quite agreeable, I will wait on you about twelve,
and hope you will permit me to show you some of our improvements.

"I am always,

"Most respectfully yours,

"WALTER SCOTT.

"EDINBURGH, _Friday._

"_Postscript._--Our old family coach is _licensed_ to carry _six_; so
take no care on that score. I enclose Mr. Alison's note; truly sorry I
could not accept the invitation it contains.

"_Postscript._--My wife insists I shall add that the Laird of Staffa
promised to look in on us this evening at eight or nine, for the purpose
of letting us hear one of his clansmen sing some Highland boat-songs and
the like, and that if you will come, as the Irish should to the Scotch,
without any ceremony, you will hear what is perhaps more curious than
mellifluous. The man returns to the isles to-morrow. There are no
strangers with us; no party; none but all our own family and two old
friends. Moreover, all our woman-kind have been calling at Gibbs's
hotel, so if you are not really tired and late, you have not even pride,
the ladies' last defence, to oppose to this request. But, above all, do
not fatigue yourself and the young ladies. No dressing to be thought of."

Ten o'clock struck as I read the note; we were tired--we were not fit to
be seen; but I thought it right to accept "Walter Scott's" cordial
invitation; sent for a hackney coach, and just as we were, without
dressing, went. As the coach stopped, we saw the hall lighted, and the
moment the door opened, heard the joyous sounds of loud singing. Three
servants--"The Miss Edgeworths" sounded from hall to landing-place, and
as I paused for a moment in the anteroom, I heard the first sound of
Walter Scott's voice--"The Miss Edgeworths _come_."

The room was lighted by only one globe lamp. A circle were singing loud
and beating time--all stopped in an instant, and Walter Scott in the
most cordial and courteous manner stepped forward to welcome us: "Miss
Edgeworth, this is so kind of you!"

My first impression was, that he was neither so large, nor so heavy in
appearance as I had been led to expect by description, prints, bust, and
picture. He is more lame than I expected, but not unwieldy; his
countenance, even by the uncertain light in which I first saw it,
pleased me much, benevolent, and full of genius without the slightest
effort at expression; delightfully natural, as if he did not know he was
Walter Scott or the Great Unknown of the North, as if he only thought of
making others happy. [Footnote: Miss Edgeworth describes Sir Walter
Scott in her _Helen_: "If you have seen Raeburn's admirable pictures, or
Chantrey's speaking bust, you have as complete an idea of Sir Walter
Scott as painting or sculpture can give. The first impression of his
appearance and manner was surprising to me, I recollect, from its quiet,
unpretending good-nature; but scarcely had that impression been made,
before I was struck with something of the chivalrous courtesy of other
times. In his conversation you would have found all that is most
delightful in all his works--the combined talents and knowledge of the
historian, novelist, antiquary, and poet. He recited poetry admirably,
his whole face and figure kindling as he spoke; but whether talking,
reading, or reciting, he never tired me, even with admiring. And it is
curious that, in conversing with him, I frequently found myself
forgetting that I was speaking with Sir Walter Scott; and, what is even
more extraordinary, forgetting that Sir Walter Scott was speaking to me,
till I was awakened to the conviction by his saying something which no
one else could have said. Altogether, he was certainly the most
perfectly agreeable and perfectly amiable great man I ever knew."] After
naming to us "Lady Scott, Staffa, my daughter Lockhart, Sophia, another
daughter Anne, my son, my son-in-law Lockhart," just in the broken
circle as they then stood, and showing me that only his family and two
friends, Mr. Clark and Mr. Sharpe, were present, he sat down for a
minute beside me on a low sofa, and on my saying, "Do not let us
interrupt what was going on," he immediately rose and begged Staffa to
bid his boatman strike up again. "Will you then join in the circle with
us?" he put the end of a silk handkerchief into my hand, and others into
my sisters'; they held by these handkerchiefs all in their circle again,
and the boatman began to roar out a Gaelic song, to which they all
stamped in time and repeated the chorus which, as far as I could hear,
sounded like "_At am Vaun! At am Vaun!_" frequently repeated with
prodigious enthusiasm. In another I could make out no intelligible sound
but "Bar! bar! bar!" But the boatman's dark eyes were ready to start out
of his head with rapture as he sung and stamped, and shook the
handkerchief on each side, and the circle imitated.

Lady Scott is so exactly what I had heard her described, that it seemed
as if we had seen her before. She must have been very handsome--French
dark large eyes; civil and good-natured. Supper at a round table, a
family supper, with attention to us, just sufficient and no more. The
impression left on my mind this night was, that Walter Scott is one of
the best-bred men I ever saw, with all the exquisite politeness which he
knows so well how to describe, which is of no particular school or
country, but which is of all countries, the politeness which arises from
good and quick sense and feeling, which seems to know by instinct the
characters of others, to see what will please, and put all his guests at
their ease. As I sat beside him at supper, I could not believe he was a
stranger, and forgot he was a great man. Mr. Lockhart is very handsome,
quite unlike his picture in _Peter's Letters_.

When we wakened in the morning, the whole scene of the preceding night
seemed like a dream; however, at twelve came the real Lady Scott, and we
called for Scott at the Parliament House, who came out of the Courts
with joyous face as if he had nothing on earth to do or to think of, but
to show us Edinburgh. Seeming to enjoy it all as much as we could, he
carried us to Parliament House--Advocates' Library, Castle, and Holyrood
House. His conversation all the time better than anything we could see,
full of _à-propos_ anecdote, historic, serious or comic, just as
occasion called for it, and all with a _bon-homie_, and an ease that
made us forget it was any trouble even to his lameness to mount flights
of eternal stairs. Chantrey's statues of Lord Melville and President
Blair are admirable. There is another by Roubillac, of Duncan Forbes,
which is excellent. Scott is enthusiastic about the beauties of
Edinburgh, and well he may be, the most magnificent as well as the most
romantic of cities.

We dined with the dear good Alisons. Mr. Alison met me at the
drawing-room door, took me in his arms and gave me a hearty hug. I do
not think he is much altered, only that his locks are silvered over. At
this dinner were, besides his two sons and two daughters, and Mrs.
Alison, Mr. and Mrs. Skene. In one of Scott's introductions to _Marmion_
you will find this Mr. Skene, Mr. Hope, the Scotch Solicitor-General (it
is curious the Solicitor-Generals of Scotland and Ireland should be Hope
and Joy!), Dr. Brewster, and Lord Meadowbank, and Mrs. Maconachie, his
wife. Mr. Alison wanted me to sit beside everybody, and I wanted to sit
by him, and this I accomplished; on the other side was Mr. Hope, whose
head and character you will find in _Peter's Letters:_ he was very
entertaining. Sophy sat beside Dr. Brewster, and had a great deal of
conversation with him.

Next day, Sunday, went to hear Mr. Alison; his fine voice but little
altered. To me he appears the best preacher I have ever heard. Dined at
Scott's; only his own family, his friend Skene, his wife and daughter,
and Sir Henry Stewart; I sat beside Scott; I dare not attempt at this
moment even to think of any of the anecdotes he told, the fragments of
poetry he repeated, or the observations on national character he made,
lest I should be tempted to write some of them for you, and should never
end this letter, which must be ended some time or other. His strong
affection for his early friends and his country gives a power and a
charm to his conversation, which cannot be given by the polish of the
London world and by the habit of literary conversation.

_Quentin Durward_ was lying on the table. Mrs. Skene took it up and
said, "This is really too barefaced." Scott, when pointing to the
hospital built by Heriot, said, "That was built by one Heriot, you know,
the jeweller, in Charles the Second's time."

There was an arch simplicity in his look, at which we could hardly
forbear laughing.

_June 23_.

I remember, my dearest aunt, how fond you used to be of the song of
Roslin Castle, and how fond my father used to be of it, from having
heard you sing it when you were young. I think you charged me to see
Roslin if ever I came to Scotland; this day I have seen it with Walter
Scott. It is about seven miles from Edinburgh, I wish it had been twice
as far; Scott was so entertaining and agreeable during the drive there
and back again. The castle is an ugly old ruin, not picturesque, but the
chapel is most beautiful, altogether the most beautiful florid Gothic I
ever saw. There is infinite variety in the details of the ornaments, and
yet such a unity in the whole design and appearance that we admire at
once the taste and the ingenuity of the architect. I wished for you, my
dear aunt, continually during parts of the walk by the river and through
the woods--not during the whole, for it would have been much too long.
How Walter Scott can find time to write all he writes I cannot conceive,
he appears to have nothing to think of but to be amusing, and he never
tires, though he is so entertaining--he far surpasses my expectation.

Mr. Lockhart is reserved and silent, but he appears to have much
sensibility under this reserve. Mrs. Lockhart is very pleasing; a slight
elegant figure and graceful simplicity of manner, perfectly natural.
There is something most winning in her affectionate manner to her
father: he dotes upon her.

To MISS LUCY EDGEWORTH.

CALLANDER, _June 20, 1823_.

Here we are! I can hardly believe we are really at the place we have so
long wished to see: we have really been on Loch Katrine. We were
fortunate in the day; it was neither too hot, nor too cold, nor too
windy, nor too anything.

The lake was quite as beautiful as I expected, but that is telling you
nothing, as you cannot know how much I expected. Sophy has made some
memorandum sketches for home, though we are well aware that neither pen
nor pencil can bring before you the reality. William [Footnote: William,
one of Miss Edgeworth's half-brothers, had joined his sisters at
Edinburgh.] says he does not, however, fear for Killarney, even after
our having seen this. Here are no arbutus, but plenty of soft birch, and
twinkling aspen, and dark oak. On one side of the lake the wood has been
within these few years cut down. Walter Scott sent to offer the
proprietor £500 for the trees on one spot, if he would spare them; but
the offer came two days too late; the trees were stripped of their bark
before his messenger arrived. To us, who never saw this rock covered
with trees, it appeared grand in its bare boldness and in striking
contrast to the wooded island opposite. Tell Fanny that, upon the whole,
I think Farnham lakes as beautiful as Loch Katrine; as to mere beauty,
perhaps superior: but where is the lake of our own, or any other times,
that has such delightful power over the imagination by the recollections
it raises? As we were rowed along, our boatman, happily our only guide,
named to us the points we most wished to see; quietly named them,
without being asked, and seemingly with a full belief that he was
telling us plain facts, without any flowers of speech. "There's the
place on that rock, see yonder, where the king blew his horn." "And
there's the place where the Lady of the Lake landed." "And there is the
Silver Strand, where you see the white pebbles in the little bay
yonder."

He landed us just at the spot where the lady

From underneath an aged oak,
That slanted from the islet rock,

shot her little skiff to the silver strand on the opposite side. When
William asked him if the king's dead horse had been found, he smiled,
and said he only knew that bones had been found near where the king's
horse died, but he could not be sure that they were the bones of King
James's good steed. However, he seemed quite as clear of the existence
of the Lady of the Lake, and of all her adventures, as of the existence
of Benledi and Benvenue, and the Trossachs. He showed us the place on
the mountain of Benvenue, where formerly there was no means of ascent
but by the ladders of broom and hazel twigs, where the king climbed,

with footing nice,
A far-projecting precipice.

At the inn the mistress of the house lent me a copy of the _Lady of the
Lake_, which I took out with me and read while we were going to the
lake, and while Sophy was drawing. We saw an eagle hovering, and,
moreover, Sophy spied some tiny sea-larks flitting close to the shore,
and making their little, faint cry. Returning, we marked the place where
the armed Highlanders started up from the furzebrake before King James,
when Roderic Dhu sounded his horn, and we settled which was the spot at

Clan Alpine's outmost guard,

where Roderic Dhu's safe conduct ceased, and where the king and he had
their combat. I forgot to mention a little incident, which, though very
trifling, struck me at the moment. As I was walking on by myself on the
road by the river-side leading to the lake, I came up to a Highlander
who was stretched on the grass under a bush, while two little boys in
tartan caps were playing beside him. I stopped to talk to the children,
showed them my watch, and, holding it to their ears, asked if they had
ever seen the inside of a watch. They did not answer, but they did not
seem surprised, nor were they in the least shy. I asked the man if they
were his children.

"Mine! oh no! they are the sons of Glengyle--the Laird of Glengyle, he
who lives at the upper end of the lake yonder--McGreggor, that is, _the_
McGreggor, the chief of the McGreggor clan."

Rob Roy and his wife and children rose up before my imagination. Times
have finely changed. It may be a satisfaction to you, and all who admire
Rob Roy, to know that his burial-place is in a pretty, peaceful green
valley, where none will disturb him; and all will remember him for ages,
thanks to Walter Scott, a man he never kenned of, nor any of his
second-sighted seers. By the bye, Harriet on our journey read _Rob Roy_
to me, and I liked it ten times better than at the first reading. My
eagerness for the story being satisfied, I could stop to admire the
beauty of the writing: this happens to many, I believe, on a second
perusal of Scott's works.

FINISHED AT TYNDRUM.

Very good inn at Callander, and another at Loch Katrine--both raised by
the genius of Scott as surely and almost as quickly as the slave of the
lamp raises the palace of Aladdin. We spent one day and part of another
at Callander and Loch Katrine, and yesterday went to, and slept at,
Killin, along a very beautiful, fine, wild, romantic road. At Killin
took a very pretty walk before tea, of about two miles and a half, and
back again, to see a waterfall, which fully answered our expectations:
you see, I am very strong. I had taken another walk in the morning to
see the Bridge of Brackland, another beautiful waterfall, with a
six-inch bridge over a chasm of rocks, which looked as if they had been
built together to imitate nature.

We are reading _Reginald Dalton_, and like it very much, the second
volume especially, which will be very useful, I think, and is very
interesting. I am sure Mr. Lockhart describes his own wife's singing
when he describes Ellen's.

We hope to reach King's House to-night, and at Inverness we hope to find
letters from home. We are all well and happy, and this I am sure is the
most agreeable thing I can end with.

To MISS RUXTON.

INVERNESS, BENNET'S HOTEL, _July 3, 1823_.

I sent a shabby note to my aunt some days ago, merely to tell her that
we had seen Roslin; and Sophy wrote from Fort William of our visit to
Fern Tower: good house, fine place; Sir David Baird a fine old soldier,
without an arm, but with a heart and a head: warm temper, as eager about
every object, great or small, as a boy of fifteen. He swallows me,
though an authoress, wonderful well.

Our Highland tour has afforded me and my companions great pleasure;
Sophy has enjoyed it thoroughly. William has had a number of objects in
his own line to interest him. From Fort William, which is close to Ben
Nevis, the highest mountain in Britain, we went to see a natural or
artificial curiosity called the Parallel Roads. On each side of a valley
called Glenroy, through which the river Roy runs, there appear several
lines of terraces at different heights, corresponding to each other on
each side of the valley at the same height. These terrace-roads are not
quite horizontal; they slope a little from the mountains. The learned
are at this moment fighting, in writing, much about these roads. Some
will have it that, in the days of Fingal, the Fingalians made them for
hunting-roads, to lie in ambush and shoot the deer from these long
lines. Others suppose that the roads were made by the subsiding of a
lake, which at different periods sank in this valley, and at last made
its way out. The roads, however made, are well worth seeing. We had a
most agreeable guide, not a professed guide, but a Highlander of the
Macintosh clan, an enthusiast for the beauties of his own country, and,
like the Swiss Chamouni guides, quite a well-informed and, moreover, a
fine-looking man, with an air of active, graceful independence; of whom
it might be said or sung, "_He's clever in his walking._" He spoke
English correctly, but as a foreign language, with _book_ choice of
expressions; no colloquial or vulgar phrases. He often seemed to take
time to translate his thoughts from the Gaelic into English. He knew
Scott's works, _Rob Roy_ especially, and knew all the theories about the
Parallel Roads, and explained them sensibly; and gave us accounts of the
old family feuds between his own Macintosh clan and the Macdonalds,
pointing to places where battles were fought, with a zeal which proved
the feudal spirit still lives in its ashes. When he found we were Irish,
he turned to me, and all reserve vanishing from his countenance, with
brightening eyes he said, as he laid his hand on his breast, "And you
are Irish! Now I know that, I would do ten times as much for you if I
could than when I thought you were Southerns or English. We think the
Irish have, like ourselves, more spirit." He talked of Ossian, and said
the English could not give the _force_ of the original Gaelic. He sang a
Gaelic song for us, to a tune like "St. Patrick's Day in the Morning."
He called St. Patrick Phaedrig, by which name I did not recognise him;
and our Highlander exclaimed, "Don't you know your own saint?" Sophy
sang the tune for him, with which he was charmed; and when he heard
William call her Sophy, he said to himself, "Sophia Western."

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