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

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_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _March 18, 1824_.

The indissoluble knot is tied! What an awful ceremony it is! What an
awful deed! How can parents bear to be at the weddings of their children
where it is not a marriage of their own free choice? and how can a woman
herself pronounce that solemn vow when she is marrying for money, or for
grandeur, or from any earthly motive but the pure heart?--a purer heart
than my sister Sophy's I do believe never approached the altar, nor was
the hand ever given more entirely with the free heart. There was no one
at the wedding but our own family, Mr. Fox, Francis Fox, and William
Beaufort. We six ladies went in the carriage immediately after breakfast
to the church, where the gentlemen were waiting for us. The churchyard,
and church of course, crowded with the poor people of the village, but
as we drove out of our own lawn into Mr. Keating's, there was as little
annoyance from starers as possible. William Beaufort married them, as
had been Sophy's particular wish. The sun shone out with a bright
promise at the moment her marriage was completed. Barry handed her into
his chaise, the most commodious, prettiest, and plainest carriage I ever
saw, and away they drove.

_To_ MRS. O'BEIRNE. [Footnote: The Bishop of Meath died in 1823; and
Mrs. O'Beirne and her daughters went to reside in England.]

BLACK CASTLE, _July 6, 1824_.

In the little drawing-room at Black Castle, where we have been so often
happy together; in the little drawing-room to which you have so often
brought me to see my dear aunt, I now write to you, my dear friend, to
tell you how much I miss you. I feel a perpetual want of that part of my
happiness in this dear place which I owed to its neighbourhood to
another dear place to which I cannot now bear to go. Once, and but once,
in the two months I have been here have I been there; when the
indispensable civility of returning a formal visit required it, and then
I felt it to be as much, if not more, than I was able to do, with the
composure I felt to be proper. The sitting in that red drawing-room and
missing everything I had so loved--the saloon, the lawn--I really could
not speak, and heartily glad I was when I got away.

My plans of going to England this summer have been all broken up: you
know how, as you have heard of the death of my dear sister Anna,
[Footnote: Anna Edgeworth, Maria's whole sister, had married Dr. Beddoes
in 1794.] at Florence; the account of her loss reached me just when I
was joyfully expecting an answer to a letter full of projects which she
never lived to read. GOD'S will be done. We expect my nieces, Anna and
Mary, at Edgeworthstown as soon as they return from Italy.

_To_ MISS HONORA EDGEWORTH.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _July 17, 1824_.

I hope this will find you at Cheltenham with Barry and Sophy, and Fanny;
my mother and Margaret set off this fine morning for Black Castle, and
Lucy is now in the dining-room, her bed aslant across the open middle
window, the grass plot new-mown, and a sweet smell of fresh hay. They
are drawing home the hay, and men are driving past the windows on empty
cars, or leading loaded ones. The roses are still in full blow on the
trellis. Aunt Bess sitting by Lucy talking of the beautiful thorns in
the Phoenix Park, and I am sitting on the other side of Lucy's bed by
the pillar.

Margaret Ruxton when here was eager to pay her compliments to Peggy
Tuite; her husband has written for her to go to him, and she is now
"torn almost in two between the wish to go to her husband and her
lothness to leave her old mother." She gave Margaret and me the history
of her losing and finding her wedding ring. "Sure I knew my luck would
change when I found my wedding ring that I lost four years ago--down in
the quarry. I went across the fields to feed the pig, and looked and
looked till I was tired, and then concluded I had given it to the pig
mixed up and that he had swallowed it for ever--it was a real gold ring.
But the men that was clearing out the _rubbage_ in the quarry found it
and adjourned to the public house to share the luck of it. My brother
got scent of it and went directly to inform the man that found it whose
the ring was, and demanded it; he wouldn't hear of giving it back, and
sold it to a pensioner there above; my brother set off with himself to
the priest and told all, and the priest summoned the man and the
pensioner, and my brother, and in the presence of an honest man, Mr.
Sweeny, warned the pensioner to restore the wedding ring, since my
brother could tell the tokens on it. 'It's the woman's wedding ring to
remind her of her conjugal duties, and it's sacrilege to take it.' But
the man that sold it was hardened, and the pensioner said he had paid
for it, and so says the priest to Keegan, that's the master of the
quarry men, 'Turn this man out of the work, he is a bad man and he will
corrupt the rest. And, Peggy Tuite, I advise you and your brother to go
straight to Major Bond and summon these men.'" Then she described the
trial, when Tuite "swore to the tokens where it had been crushed by a
stone, and the goldsmith's mark, and the Major held it between him and
the light and plainly noticed the crush and the battered marks, and
handing me the ring said, 'Peggy Tuite, this is your ring sure enough.'"

_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _August 16, 1824_.

We have heard from Sophy Fox, who tells us that they have been delighted
with their journey to Aberystwith, especially the devil's bridge. Can
you tell me why the devil has so many bridges, sublime and beautiful, in
every country of the habitable world? Ingénieur des Ponts et Chaussées
to his Satanic majesty would be a place of great business, profit and
glory, and would require a man of first-rate abilities. Lucy has painted
a beautiful portrait of her bullfinch, picking at a bunch of white
currants--the currants would, I am sure, be picked by any live bird.

Tell me how you like _Haji Baba_.

_To_ MISS HONORA EDGEWORTH.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _August 28, 1824_.

I am impatient to set my dear Aunt Mary's [Footnote: After the death of
her sister Charlotte in 1822, Mrs. Mary Sneyd resided occasionally with
her brother in England till 1828, when she returned finally to
Edgeworthstown, where she remained for the rest of her life, deeply
attached to all the family, but regarding her niece Honora as peculiarly
her own child.] mind free from the anxiety I am sure she feels about her
decision to stay in England this winter; whatever disappointment and
regret I felt was mitigated by her beautifully kind and tender note.

Your entertaining account of the archery meeting at Lord Bagot's came
yesterday evening. What a magnificent entertainment, and in what good
taste! It was a delightful house for a _fête champêtre_.

The Roman Catholic Bishop, M'Gaurin, held a confirmation the day before
yesterday, and dined here on a God-send haunch of venison. Same day Mr.
Hunter arrived, and Mr. Butler came with young Mr. Hamilton, an
"admirable Crichton" of eighteen; a real prodigy of talents, who Dr.
Brinkley says may be a second Newton--quite gentle and simple. Mr. and
Mrs. Napier arrived on Wednesday, and spent two most agreeable days with
us; he is an extremely well-informed man, and both are perfectly
well-bred. Mr. Butler and Mr. Hamilton suited them delightfully. Mr.
Butler and Mr. Napier found they were both Oxford men, and took to each
other directly. Mr. Napier's conversation is quite superior and easy.
Those two days put me in mind of former times. Hunter is very happy here
in spite of his cockney prejudices; he says _Harry and Lucy_ must be
ready by October.

_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

_Jan. 1, 1825_.

A happy new year to you, my dearest aunt,--to you to whom I now look as
much as I can to any one now living, for the rays of pleasure that I
expect to gild my bright evening of life. As we advance in life we
become more curious, more fastidious in gilding and gilders; we find to
our cost that all that glitters is not gold, and your everyday bungling
carvers and gilders will not do. Our _evening-gilders_ must be more
skilful than those who flashed and daubed away in the morning of life,
and gilt with any tinsel, the weather-cock for the morning sun.

You may perceive, my dear aunt, by my having got so finely to the
weather-cock, and the rising sun, that I am out of the hands of all my
dear apothecaries, and playing away again with a superfluity of life.
(N.B. I am surprisingly prudent.) Honora's cough has almost subsided,
and Lucy can sit upright the greater part of the day. "GOD bless the
mark!" as Molly Bristow would say, if she heard me, "don't be bragging."

_Jan. 6_.

I have to give you the most cheering accounts of Honora and Lucy. Honora
is now on the sofa opposite to me, working with her candle beside her on
a bracket--my new year's gift to the sofas, a mahogany bracket on each
side of the chimney-piece to fold up or down, and large enough to hold a
candlestick and a teacup or work-box. Mary Beddoes and I are on the sofa
next the door; Honora and Anna on the other, and somebody sitting in the
middle talking by turns to each sofa. Who can that be? Not Harriet, for
tea is over and she has seceded to Lucy's room--not my mother, nor
William, nor Mrs. Beaufort, nor Louisa, for the carriage has carried
them away some hours ago, poor souls, and full-dressed bodies, to dine
at Ardagh. But who can this Unknown be? A gentleman it must be to
constitute the happiness of two sofas of ladies.

My nephew, Henry Beddoes! and the joy of ladies he certainly will be,
not merely of aunts and sisters, but of all who can engage or be engaged
by prepossessing manners and appearance, and the promise of all that is
amiable and intelligent. I am delighted with him, and he would charm
you.

Lady Bathurst has done me another good turn for Fanny Stewart, that is,
for her husband; there was a charming letter from Fanny Stewart a few
days ago. I send for your amusement the famous little _Valoe_ in its
elegantissimo binding, and Lady Bathurst's letter about it,
elegantissima also. You remember, I hope, the story of its publication,
written by a governess of the Duchess of Beaufort's, assisted by all the
conclave of quality young-lady-governesses, with little traits of
character of their pupils. The authoress sent it to the Duchess of
Beaufort, asking permission to publish and dedicate it to her Grace. The
Duchess never read it, and returned it to the Governess with a
compliment, and, "publish it by all means, and dedicate it to me." Out
came the publication; and though each young lady was flattered, yet all
quarrelled with the mode of compliment, and in many there was a little
touch of blame, which moved their or their mothers' anger, and with one
accord they attacked the Duchess of Beaufort for her permission to
publish, and the edition was all bought up in a vast hurry.

In a few days I trust--you know I am a great truster--that you will
receive a packet franked by Lord Bathurst, containing only a little
pocket-book--_Friendships Offering, for_ 1825, dizened out; I fear you
will think it too fine for your taste, but there is in it, as you will
find, the old "Mental Thermometer," which was once a favourite of yours.
You will wonder how it came there--simply thus. Last autumn came by the
coach a parcel containing just such a book as this for last year, and a
letter from Mr. Lupton Relfe--a foreigner settled in London--and he
prayed in most polite bookseller strain that I would look over my
portfolio for some trifle for this book for 1825. I might have looked
over "my portfolio" till doomsday, as I have not an unpublished scrap,
except "Take for Granted." [Footnote: "Take for Granted" was an idea
which Maria never worked out into a story, though she had made many
notes for it.] But I recollected the "Mental Thermometer," and that it
had never been _out_, except in the _Irish Farmer's Journal_--not known
in England. So I routed in the garret under pyramids of old newspapers,
with my mother's prognostics, that I never should find it, and loud
prophecies that I should catch my death, which I did not, but dirty and
dusty, and cobwebby, I came forth after two hours' grovelling with my
object in my hand! Cut it out, added a few lines of new end to it, and
packed it off to Lupton Relfe, telling him that it was an old thing
written when I was sixteen. Weeks elapsed, and I heard no more, when
there came a letter exuberant in gratitude, and sending a parcel
containing six copies of the new Memorandum book, and a most beautiful
twelfth edition of Scott's _Poetical Works_, bound in the most elegant
manner, and with most beautifully engraved frontispieces and vignettes,
and a £5 note. I was quite ashamed--but I have done all I could for him
by giving the _Friendship's Offerings_ to all the fine people I could
think of. The set of Scott's Works made a nice New Year's gift for
Harriet; she had seen this edition at Edinburgh and particularly wished
for it. The £5 I have sent to Harriet Beaufort to be laid out in books
for Fanny Stewart. Little did I think the poor old "Thermometer" would
give me so much pleasure.

Here comes the carriage rolling round. I feel guilty; what will my
mother say to me, so long a letter at this time of night?--Yours
affectionately in all the haste of guilt, conscience-stricken: that is,
found out.

No--all safe, all innocent--because _not found out.

Finis._

By the author of _Moral Tales_ and _Practical Education_.

Feb. 16_.

I hope my dearest aunt will not disdain the work of my little bungling
hands. The vandykes of this apron are such as Vandyke would scorn; poor
little pitiful things they be! and will be in rags in a fortnight no
doubt. But if you knew the pains I have taken with them, and what
pleasure I have had in doing them, even all wrong, you would hang them
round you with satisfaction. By the time it is completely _roved_ away I
shall be with you and _bind_ it over to its good behaviour, so that it
shall never rove _again_ me. Love me and laugh at me as you have done
many is the year.

The crocuses and snowdrops in my garden are beautiful; my
green-board-edged beds and green trellis make it absolutely a wooden
paradise.

I forgot to boast that I was up for three mornings at seven _vandyking_.

Henry Beddoes told us that Lord Byron was extremely beloved and highly
thought of by all whom he heard speak of him at Missolonghi, both Greeks
and his own country-men. He had regained public esteem by his latter
conduct. The place in which he died was not the worst inn's worst room,
but an absolute hovel, without any bed of any kind; he was lying on a
sack.

_March 15_.

You have probably seen in the papers the death of our admirable friend
Mrs. Barbauld. I have copied for you her last letter to me and some
beautiful lines written in her eightieth year. There is a melancholy
elegance and force of thought in both. Elegance and strength--qualities
rarely uniting without injury to each other, combine most perfectly in
her style, and this rare combination, added to their classical purity,
form, perhaps, the distinguishing characteristics of her writings.
England has lost a great writer, and we a most sincere friend.

_To_ MISS HONORA EDGEWORTH.

BLACK CASTLE, _May 10, 1825_.

Your list of presentation copies of _Harry and Lucy_, and your reasons
for giving each, diverted me very much. Sophy and Margaret and I laughed
over it and agreed that every reason was like Mr. Plunket's speech,
"unanswerable."

_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _July 9, 1825_.

With my whole soul I thank you for your most touching letter [Footnote:
On the death of Mr. Ruxton.] to my mother, so full of true resignation
to GOD'S will, and of those feelings which He has implanted in the human
heart for our greatest happiness and our greatest trials. "Fifty-five
years!" How much is contained in those words of yours! I loved him dearly,
and well I might, most kind he ever was to me, and I felt all his
excellent qualities, his manners, his delightful temper. How little did I
think when last I saw his kind looks bent upon me that it was for the last
time!

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _August 1825_.

Sir Walter Scott, punctual to his promise, arrived on Friday in good
time for dinner; he brought with him Miss Scott and Mr. Crampton. I am
glad that kind Crampton had the reward of this journey; though
frequently hid from each other by clouds of dust in their open carriage,
they had as they told us never ceased talking. They like each other as
much as two men of so much genius and so much benevolence should, and we
rejoice to be the bond of union.

Scarcely had Crampton shaken the dust from his shoes when he said,
"Before I eat, and what is more, before I wash my hands, I must see
Lucy." He says that he has now no doubt that, please GOD, and in all the
humility of hope and gratitude I repeat it, she will perfectly recover.

Captain and Mrs. Scott and Mr. Lockhart were detained in Dublin, and did
not come till eleven o'clock, and my mother had supper, and fruit, and
everything refreshing for them. Mrs. Scott is perfectly unaffected and
rather pretty, with a sweet confiding expression of countenance and fine
mild most loving eyes.

Sir Walter delights the hearts of every creature who sees, hears, and
knows him. He is most benignant as well as most entertaining; the
noblest and the gentlest of lions, and his face, especially the lower
part of it, is excessively like a lion; he and Mr. Crampton and Mr.
Jephson were delightful together. The school band, after dinner by
moonlight, playing Scotch tunes, and the boys at leap-frog delighted Sir
Walter. Next day we went to the school for a very short time and saw a
little of everything, and a most favourable impression was left. It
being Saturday, religious instruction was going on when we went in.
Catholics, with their priest, in one room; Protestants, with Mr.
Keating, in the other.

More delightful conversation I have seldom in my life heard than we have
been blessed with these three days. What a touch of sorrow must mix with
the pleasures of all who have had great losses! Lovell, my mother, and
I, at twelve o'clock at night, joined in exclaiming, "How delightful! O!
that he had lived to see and hear this!"

* * * * *

Maria Edgeworth and her sister Harriet accompanied Sir Walter and Miss
Scott, Mr. Lockhart and Captain and Mrs. Scott to Killarney. They
travelled in an open caleche of Sir Walter's, and Captain Scott's
chariot, changing the combination from one carriage to another as the
weather or accident suggested. When some difficulty occurred about
horses Sir Walter said, "Swift, in one of his letters, when no horses
were to be had, says, 'If we had but had a captain of horse to swear for
us we should have had the horses at once;' now here we have the captain
of horse, but the landlord is not moved even by him."

The little tour was most enjoyable, and greatly was it enjoyed. Neither
Sir Walter nor Miss Edgeworth were ever annoyed with the little
discomforts of travel, and they found amusement in everything, shaming
all with whom they came in contact. Their boatman on the lake of
Killarney told Lord Macaulay twenty years afterwards that the pleasure
of rowing them had made him amends for missing a hanging that day!

Mrs. Edgeworth relates:

* * * * *

The evening of the day they left Killarney, Sir Walter was unwell, and
Maria was much struck by the tender affectionate attention of his son
and Mr. Lockhart and their great anxiety. He was quite as usual,
however, the next day, and on their arrival in Dublin, the whole party
dined at Captain Scott's house in Stephen's Green; he and Mrs. Scott
most hospitably inviting, besides Maria and Harriet, my two daughters,
Fanny and Mrs. Barry Fox, who had just returned from Italy, and my two
sons, Francis and Pakenham, who were coming home for the holidays. It
happened to be Sir Walter's birthday, the 15th of August, and his health
was drunk with more feeling than gaiety. He and Maria that evening bade
farewell to each other, never to meet again in this world.

* * * * *

Twenty-five years later we find Miss Edgeworth writing to Mr. Ticknor,
how, in imagination, she could still meet Sir Walter, "with all his
benign, calm expression of countenance, his eye of genius, and his mouth
of humour--such as genius loved to see him. His very self I see,
feeling, thinking, and about to speak."

* * * * *

MARIA _to_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

BLACK CASTLE, _August 30, 1825_.

I calculate that there can be no use in my writing to Dr. Holland,
Killarney, at this time of day, because he must have _departed_ that
life. However, I write to Mr. Hallam [Footnote: Mr. Hallam was detained
at Killarney by breaking his leg, and Dr. Holland had been staying with
him.] this day with a message to Dr. Holland, if there. If you learn
that Dr. Holland can come to Edgeworthstown, you will of course tell me,
if it be within the possibility of time and space; I would go home even
for the chance of spending an hour with him; therefore be prepared for
the shock of seeing me. I do hope he will in his great kindness--which
is always beyond what any one ought to hope--I do hope he will contrive
to go to Edgeworthstown. How delightful to have Lucy sitting up like a
lady beside you!

The Lords Bective and Darnley, and Sir Marcus Somerville, and LORD knows
who, are all at this moment broiling in Navan at a Catholic meeting,
saying and hearing the same things that have been said and heard
100,000,000 times; one certain good will result from it that I shall
have a frank for you and save you sevenpence. I will send a number of
the New Monthly Magazine as old as the hills to Fanny, with a review of
Tremaine, which will interest her, as she will find me there, like
Mahomet's coffin, between heaven and earth. My Aunt Sophy and Mag are
all reading _Harry and Lucy_, and all reading it bit by bit, the only
way in which it can be fairly judged. My aunt's being really interested
and entertained by it, as I see she is, quite surpasses my hopes.
Feelings of gratitude to Honora should have made me write this specially
to her, only that I was afraid she might think that I _thought_ that she
_thought_ of nothing but _Harry and Lucy_, which, upon the word of a
reasonable creature, I do not. My aunt is entertained with Clarke's
_Life_, though he says that all literary ladies are horse godmothers. In
the _Evening Mail_ of Monday last there are extracts from some
speculations of Dr. Barry, an English physician at Paris, on the effect
of atmospheric pressure in causing the motion of the blood in the veins.
If you see Dr. Holland, ask him about this and its application in
preventing the effect of poison.

In Bakewell's _Travels in Switzerland_ there is an account apropos to
ennui being the cause of suicide, of the death of Berthollet's son, who
shut himself up in a room with a brasier of charcoal; a paper was found
on the table with an account of his feelings during the operation of the
fumes of the charcoal upon him to the last moment that he could make his
writing intelligible.

_To_ MRS. STARK.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Nov. 27, 1825_.

Our two boys were at home in August, and the happiest of the happy with
two ponies and four sisters. Francis's poem of "Saul" won a medal, and
Pakenham's "Jacob," a miniature Horace.

You may have seen in the papers the account of the burning of Castle
Forbes, in the county of Longford. Lord Forbes was wakened by his dog,
or he would have been suffocated and burned in his bed. He showed great
presence of mind: carried out, first, a quantity of gunpowder which was
in a closet into which the flames were entering; and next, the family
papers and pictures. A valuable collection of prints and books were
lost: key not to be found in the scuffle, and servants and other
ignoramuses, conceiving the _biggest_ volumes must be the most valuable,
wasted their energies upon folios of Irish House of Commons Journals and
Statutes. The castle was in three hours' time reduced to the bare walls.
I am forgetting a fact for which I began this story. A gentleman was, by
the force of motive, endued with such extraordinary strength in the
midst of that night's danger, that he wrenched from its iron spike and
pedestal a fine marble bust of Cromwell, carried it downstairs, and
threw it on the grass. Next morning he could not lift it! and no one man
who tried could stir it.

_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Dec. 19, 1825_.

I wish you to have a letter from Dr. Holland before it gets stale:
therefore you must forgive me for writing on this thin paper, for no
other would waft it to you free.

Your observations about the difficulties of "Taking for Granted" are
excellent: I "take for granted" I shall be able to conquer them. If only
one instance were taken, the whole story must turn upon that, and be
constructed to bear on one point; and that _pointing_ to the moral would
not appear natural. As Sir Walter said to me in reply to my observing,
"It is difficult to introduce the moral without displeasing the reader,"
"The rats won't go into the trap if they smell the hand of the
ratcatcher."

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