The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Life and Letters of Maria Edgeworth,
Vol. 2, by Maria Edgeworth
#8 in our series by Maria Edgeworth

Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing
this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.

This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project
Gutenberg file.  Please do not remove it.  Do not change or edit the
header without written permission.

Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the
eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file.  Included is
important information about your specific rights and restrictions in
how the file may be used.  You can also find out about how to make a
donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.


**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**

*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****


Title: The Life and Letters of Maria Edgeworth, Vol. 2

Author: Maria Edgeworth

Release Date: October, 2005 [EBook #9095]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on September 4, 2003]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFE AND LETTERS OF MARIA EDGEWORTH ***




Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Sandra Brown Distributed Proofreaders




THE

LIFE AND LETTERS

OF

MARIA EDGEWORTH


Edited By

AUGUSTUS J.C. HARE


VOL. II




MARIA EDGEWORTH


MARIA _to_ MISS WALLER.

COPPET, _Sept. 1, 1820_.

I am sure that you have heard of us, and of all we have done and seen
from Edgeworthstown as far as Berne: from thence we went to Thun: there
we took _char-a-bancs_, little low carriages, like half an Irish
jaunting car, with four wheels, and a square tarpaulin awning over our
heads. Jolting along on these vehicles, which would go over a house, I
am sure, without being overturned or without being surprised, we
went--the Swiss postillion jolting along at the same round rate up and
down, without ever looking back to see whether the carriages and
passengers follow, yet now and then turning to point to mountains,
glaciers, and cascades. The valley of Lauterbrunn is beautiful; a clear,
rushing cascady stream rushes through it: fine chestnuts, walnuts, and
sycamores scattered about, the verdure on the mountains between the
woods fresh and bright. Pointed mountains covered with snow in the midst
of every sign of flowery summer strike us with a sense of the sublime
which never grows familiar. The height of the Staubach waterfall, which
we saw early in the morning, astonished my mind, I think, more than my
eyes, looking more like thin vapour than water--more like _strings_ of
water; and I own I was disappointed, after all I had heard of it.

We went on to the valley of Grindelwald, where we saw, as we thought two
fields off, a glacier to which we wished to go; and accordingly we left
the _char-a-bancs_, and walked down the sloping field, expecting to
reach it in a few minutes, but we found it a long walk--about two miles.
To this sort of deception about distances we are continually subject,
from the clearness of the air, and from the unusual size of the objects,
for which we have no points of comparison, and no previous habits of
estimating. We were repaid for our walk, however, when we came to the
source of the Lutzen, which springs under an arch of ice in the glacier.
The river runs clear and sparkling through the valley, while over the
arch rests a mountain of ice, and beside it a valley of ice; not smooth
or uniform, but in pyramids, and arches, and blocks of immense size, and
between them clefts and ravines. The sight and the sound of the waters
rushing, and the solemn immovability of the ice, formed a sublime
contrast.

On the grass at the very foot of this glacier were some of the most
delicious wood-strawberries I ever tasted.

At Interlaken we met Sneyd [Footnote: Her half-brother, son of the third
Mrs. Edgeworth, and his wife Henrica Broadhurst.] and Henrica in a very
pleasant situation in that most beautiful country. We parted on the
banks of the lake of Brienz. On this lake we had an hour's delightful
sailing, and _put into_ a little bay and climbed up a mountain to see
the cascade of the Giesbach, by far the most beautiful I ever beheld,
and beyond all of which painting or poetry had ever given me any idea.
Indeed it is particularly difficult, if not absolutely impossible, to
give a representation of cascades which depend for effect upon the
height from which they fall, the rush of motion, the sparkling and foam
of the water in motion, and the magnitude of the surrounding objects.

After passing the lake of Brienz, we came to the far-famed valley of
Meyringen, which had been much cried up to us; but, whether from the
usual perverseness of human nature, or from being spoiled by the luxury
of cascades, valleys, and Alps we had previously seen, we were
disappointed in it, though, to do it justice, it has nine cascades.

We slept at a wooden inn, and rose at three; and, before four, mounted
on our horses, set off for the Brunig; and after having gone up La
Flegere at Chamouni, the crossing the Brunig was a small consideration.
Brava! brava!

But--something happened to me and my horse; the result being that I went
up the Brunig and down the Brunig on my two legs instead of on the
horse's four, and was not the least tired with my three hours' scramble
up and scramble down. At the little town of Sarnen we ate eggs and drank
sour wine, and Mr. Moilliet, Fanny, and Harriet remounted their horses;
Mrs. Moilliet, Emily, Susan, and I went in a _char-a-banc_ of a
different construction; not sitting sideways, but on two phaeton seats,
one behind the other, facing the horses. Such jolting, such _trimming_
from side to side; but we were not overturned, and got out at the town
of Stanzstadt, where, after seeing in the dirtiest inn's dirtiest room a
girl with a tremendous black eye, besides the two with which nature had
favoured her, we took boat again about sunset, and had a two hours'
delicious rowing across the lake of Lucerne, which I prefer to every
other I have seen--the moon full and placid on the waters, the stars
bright in the deep blue sky, the town of Lucerne shadowed before us with
lights here and there in the windows. The air became still, and the sky
suddenly clouded over; thunder was heard; bright flashes of lightning
darted from behind the mountains and across the town, making it at
intervals distinctly visible for a moment. It was dark when we landed,
and we had to pass through two or three streets, servants, guides, bag,
and baggage, groping our way; and oh, wretched mortals, went to the
wrong place, and before we could reach the right one, down poured a
waterspout of a shower on our devoted heads and backs. In five minutes,
running as hard as we could, we were wet through; and Fanny, in crossing
the street and plucking at the guide's bundle for a cloak for me, was
nearly run over, but stood it; and, all dripping, we reached our inn, Le
Cheval Blanc. An hour spent in throwing off wet clothes and putting on
dry--tea, coffee--bed--bugs, and sleep, nevertheless.

We rejoined our landau and _caleche_ at Lucerne, and proceeded in them
to Zug, where there is a famous convent or _Frauenkloster_, which
escaped being destroyed during the Revolution, because the abbess and
nuns established a school for the female children of the neighbourhood,
where they still continue to teach them to read and work: Madame Gautier
had desired us to go and see it, and to it we walked: rang at the bell,
were told that the nuns were all in the refectory, and were asked to
wait. The nuns' repast was soon finished, and one came with a very
agreeable, open countenance and fresh, brown complexion, well fed and
happy-looking, becomingly dressed in snow-white hood and pelerine and
brown gown. Bowing courteously, she by signs--for she could speak
neither French nor English--invited us to follow her, and led us through
cloister and passage to the room of the boarders; not nuns, only there
for their education. A pretty Italian girl, with corkscrew ringlets of
dark hair, rose from her pianoforte to receive us, and spoke with much
grace and self-complacency Italian-French, and accompanied by way of
interpreter our own conductress, who _motioned_ us to the sitting-room,
where nuns and pensioners were embroidering, with silk, cotton,
chenille, and beads, various pretty, ugly, and fantastical, useless
things. Luckily, none were finished at that moment, and their empty
basket saved our purses and our taste from danger or disgrace.

I had spied in the corner of the Italian interpreter's apartment a daub
of a print of the King and Queen of France taking leave of their family,
with a German inscription; and thinking the Abbe Edgeworth had a good
right to be in it, and as a kind of German notion of an Abbe appeared in
the print, and something like Edgewatz in the German words, I put my
finger on the spot, and bade the interpreter tell the nuns and the
abbess, who now appeared, that we were nearly related to the Abbe
Edgeworth, Louis XVI.'s confessor. This with some difficulty was put
into the Italian's head, and through her into the nuns', and through
them, in German, into the abbess' superior head. I heard a mistake in
the first repetition, which ran, no doubt, through all the editions,
viz. that we were _proches parents_, not to the King's confessor, but to
the King! The nuns opened the whites of their eyes, and smiled regularly
in succession as the bright idea reached them and the abbess--a
good-looking soul, evidently of superior birth and breeding to the rest,
all gracious and courteous in demeanour to the strangers.

A thought struck me--or, as Mr. Barrett of Navan expressed it, "I took a
notion, ma'am"--that Fanny would look well in a nun's dress; and boldly
I went to work with my interpreter, who thought the request at first too
bold to make; but I forced it through to nun the first, who backed and
consulted nun the second, who at my instigation referred in the last
appeal to the abbess, who, in her supreme good-nature, smiled, and
pointed upstairs; and straight our two nuns carried Fanny and me off
with them up stairs and stairs, and through passages and passages, to a
little nun's room--I mean a nun's little room--nice with flowers and
scraps of relics and religious prints. The nuns ran to a press in the
wall, and took out ever so many plaited coifs and bands, and examined
them all carefully as birthnight beauty would have done, to fix upon one
which was most becoming. Nun the second ran for the rest of the
habiliments, and I the while disrobed Fanny of her worldly sprigged
cambric muslin and straw hat, which, by the bye, nun the second eyed
with a fond admiration which proved she had not quite forgotten this
world's conveniences. The eagerness with which they dressed Fanny, the
care with which they adjusted the frontlet, and tucked in the ringlets,
and placed the coif on her head, and pulled it down to exactly the right
becoming sit, was exceedingly amusing. No coquette dressing for Almack's
could have shown more fastidious nicety, or expressed more joy and
delight at the toilette's triumphant success. They exclaimed in German,
and lifted up hands and eyes in admiration of Fanny's beautiful
appearance in nun's attire. The universal language of action and the no
less universal language of flattery was not lost upon me: I really loved
these nuns, and thought of my Aunt Ruxton's nuns, who were so good to
her. Down corridors and stairs we now led our novice, and the nuns
showed her how to hold her hands tucked into her sleeves, and asked her
name; and having learned it was Fanny, Frances, Sister Frances, were
again overjoyed, because one of them was named Frances, the other was
Agnes. When, between Sister Agnes and Sister Frances the first, Sister
Frances the second entered the room, where we had left the abbess, Mrs.
Moilliet, Emily, and Susan, they did not know Fanny in the least, and
Harriet declared that, at the first moment, even she did not know her.
Mrs. Moilliet told me she said to herself, "What a very graceful nun is
coming now!"

After all had gathered round, and laughed, and admired, the abbess
signified to me, through our interpreter, that we could do no less than
leave her in the convent with them, and grew so mighty fond of Fanny,
that I was in as great a hurry to get her nun's dress off as I had been
to get it on; and when I had disrobed her, I could not think of a single
thing to give the poor nuns, having no pockets, and my bag left in the
carriage! At last, feeling all over myself, I twitched my little gold
earrings out of my ears, and gave one, and Fanny gave the other, to the
two nuns; and Sister Frances and Sister Agnes fell on their knees to
pray for and thank us.


_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

PREGNY, _Sept. 6, 1820_.

The account of the loss of the three guides at Chamouni is, alas! too
true: three perished by stepping into the new-fallen snow which covered
the crevasses; one was Joseph Carrier, who was Harriet's guide. Mrs.
Marcet has just told us that, at a breakfast given by M. Prevost to M.
Arago, and many scientific and literary people, a few days after the
accident, parties ran high on this as on all affairs: some said it was
all M. Hamel's fault; some, that it was all the guides' own fault. One
said he wished one of the English gentlemen who was of the party was
present, for then they should know the truth. At this moment the servant
announced a stranger, "Monsieur Rumford," the name sounded like as the
man pronounced it, and they thought it was Count Rumford come to life.
M. Prevost went out and returned with Mr. Dornford, one of the
Englishmen who had been of Dr. Hamel's party, who came, he said, to beg
permission to state the plain facts, as he heard they had been told to
Dr. Hamel's disadvantage. He, Dr. Hamel, Mr. Henderson, and M. Lelleque,
a French naturalist, set out: the guides had not dissuaded them from
attempting to go up Mont Blanc--only advised them to wait till a
threatening cloud had passed. When it was gone, they all set out in high
spirits; the guides cutting holes in the snow for their feet. This it is
supposed loosened the snow newly fallen, and a quantity poured down over
their heads. Mr. Dornford had pushed on before the guides; he shook off
the snow as it fell, and felt no apprehension: on the contrary, he
laughed as he _pawed_ it away, and was making his way on, when he heard
a cry from his companions, and looking back he saw some of them
struggling in the snow. He helped to extricate them, saw a point moving
in the snow, went to it, and pulled out Marie Coutay, one of the guides:
he was quite purple, but recovered in the air. Looked round--two guides
were missing: looked for them in vain, but saw a deep ravine covered
with fresh snow, into which they must have fallen.


_To_ MRS. RUXTON. LAUSANNE, _Sept 14, 1820_.

Ages ago I promised myself the pleasure of dating a letter from Lausanne
to my dear aunt, and now that I am at the place of which I have so often
heard her speak, which I have so often wished to see, I can hardly
believe it is not a dream. A fortnight ago we were here, returning from
our tour through les Petits Cantons; but at that time we could not enjoy
anything, as we had heard from Sneyd, whom we met at Interlaken, of
Lucy's [Footnote: Youngest daughter of the fourth Mrs. Edgeworth.]
terrible illness. What a comfort to my mother to think that she was
saved by your Sophy's steadiness and presence of mind, and by Lovell's
decision and Crampton's skill and kindness!

Yesterday we began our tour round the Lake of Geneva--Dumont, Fanny,
Harriet, and I--in one of the carriages of the country, a mixture of a
sociable and an Irish jingle, with some resemblance to a hearse, from a
covered top on iron poles, which keeps off the sun. It was late when we
arrived here, and so dark, with only a few lamps strung across the
street here and there, we could scarcely see the forms of the great
black horses scrambling and struggling up the almost perpendicular
streets. How could you ever have borne it, my dear aunt? You must have
been in perpetual fear of your life! Lord Bellamont's description of the
county of Cavan--all acclivity and declivity, without any intervention
of horizontality--I am sure applies to Lausanne. I am sure travelled
horses from all parts of the world say to each other when they meet in
the stable, "Were you ever at Lausanne? Don't you hate Lausanne? How
could men build a town in such a place? What asses! And how provoking,
while we are breaking our backs, to hear them talking of picturesque
beauty! I should like to see how they would look if we let them slip,
and roll down these picturesque situations!"

Lausanne is, nevertheless, so full that we could scarcely find room; and
after Dumont and his servant had gone back and forward to Le Faucon, the
Lion d'or, Les Balances, etc. etc., all full to the garrets, we were
thankful at finding ourselves in the worst inn's worst room, where,
however, the beds were clean and good. We are not grumblers, so we drank
coffee and were all very happy; and while the rooms were preparing
Dumont read to us a pretty little French piece, _Le faux Savant!_


_Sept. 15_.

Our first object this morning was to see Madame de Montolieu, the author
of _Caroline de Lichfield_, to whom I had a letter of introduction. She
was not at Lausanne, we were told, but at her country house, Bussigny,
about a league and a half from the town. We had a delicious fine
morning, and through romantic lanes and up and down hills, till we found
ourselves in the middle of a ploughed field, when the coachman's pride
of ignorance had to give up, and he had to beg his way to Bussigny, a
village of scattered Swiss cottages high upon rocks, with far-spreading
prospects below. In the court of the house which we were told was Madame
de Montolieu's we saw a lady, of a tall, upright, active-looking figure,
with much the appearance of a gentlewoman; but we could not think that
this was Madame de Montolieu, because for the last half-hour Dumont,
impatient at our losing our way, had been saying she must be too old to
receive us. She was very old thirty years ago; she must be
_quatre-vingt_, at least: at last it came to _quatre-vingt-dix_. This
lady did not look above fifty. She came up to the carriage as it
stopped, and asked whom we wished to see. The moment I saw her eyes, I
knew it was Madame de Montolieu, and stooping down from the open
carriage I put into her hand the note of introduction and our card. She
never opened the note, but the instant her eye had glanced upon the
card, she repeated the name with a voice of joyful welcome. I jumped out
of the carriage, and she embraced me so cordially, and received my
sisters so kindly, and M. Dumont so politely, that we were all at ease
and acquainted and delighted before we were half-way upstairs. While she
went into the ante-chamber for a basket of peaches, I had time to look
at the prints hung in the little drawing-room: they had struck me the
moment we came in as scenes from _Caroline de Lichfield_. Indifferent,
old-fashioned, provoking figures, Caroline and Count Walstein in the
fashions of thirty years ago.

When Madame de Montolieu returned, she bade me not look at them; "but I
will tell you how they came to be here." They had been given to her by
Gibbon: he was the person who published _Caroline de Lichfield_. She had
written it for the entertainment of an aunt who was ill: a German story
of three or four pages gave her the first idea of it. "I never could
invent: give me a hint, and I can go on and supply the details and the
characters." Just when _Caroline de Lichfield_ was finished, Gibbon
became acquainted with her aunt, who showed it to him: he seized upon
the MS., and said it must be published. It ran in a few months through
several editions; and just when it was in its first vogue, Gibbon
happened to be in London, saw these prints, and brought them over to
her, telling her he had brought her a present of prints from London, but
that he would only give them to her on condition that she would promise
to hang them, and let them always hang, in her drawing-room. After many
vain efforts to find out what manner of things they were, Gibbon and
curiosity prevailed; she promised, and there they hang.

She must have been a beautiful woman: she told me she is seventy: fine
dark, enthusiastic eyes, a quickly varying countenance, full of life,
and with all the warmth of heart and imagination which is thought to
belong only to youth.

We went into a wooden gallery reaching from one side of the house to the
other, at one end of which was a table, where she had been writing when
we arrived. We often took leave, but were loth to depart. Dumont luckily
asked if she could direct us to a fine old chateau in the neighbourhood,
which we had been told was particularly well worth seeing--Viernon. "It
is my brother's," she said, and she would go with us and show it. The
carriage was sent round to the high road, and we went by a walk along a
river, romantically beautiful. Just as we came to a cascade and a wooden
bridge, a little pug dog came running down, and the Baron and Madame de
Polier appeared. Madame de Montolieu ran on to her brother, and
explained who we were. Madame is an Englishwoman, and, to my surprise, I
found she was niece to my father's old friend, Mr. Mundy of Markeaton.
We were all very sorry to part with Madame de Montolieu; however, we
returned to Lausanne, and Dumont in the evening read out _Le
Somnambule_--very laughable when so well read.


PREGNY, _Sept. 20_.

Next day beautiful drive to Vevay, as you know. After visiting Chillon,
where Lord Byron's name and _coat of arms_ are cut upon Bonnivar's
pillar, I read the poem again, and think it most sublime and pathetic.
How can that man have perverted so much feeling as was originally given
to him!

Have you been at St. Maurice? If you have not, I cannot give you an idea
of the surprise and delight we felt at the first sight of the view going
down through the archway! But what a miserable town! After Fanny had
sketched from the window of the inn a group of children, we finished our
evening by hearing Dumont read, incomparably well, _Les Chateaux
d'Espagne_. In the night we were awakened by the most horrible female
voice, singing, or rather screeching, in the passage--the voice of a
person having a _goitre_, and either mad or drunk. There had been a
marriage of country people in the house, and this lady had drunk a
little too much. We heard Dumont's door open, and he silenced or drove
her away.

Next morning we went, on part of the Simplon route which Buonaparte
made, to St. Gingulph, where we spent some hours on the Lake. Dumont
told us he had been there with Rogers, who was so delighted with its
beauty, that instead of one he spent six days there.

Not having met the Moilliets as expected at St. Maurice, we became very
anxious about them; but upon our arrival at Pregny next day, found them
all very quietly there. Mrs. Moilliet's not being very well kept them at
home. Nothing can be kinder than they are to us.

We dined two days after our return to Pregny at Coppet: the Duke and
Duchess de Broglie are now there, and we met M. de Stein, [Footnote:
Carl, Baron Stein, the Minister of Frederick William IV. of Prussia.] a
great diplomatist, and M, Pictet Deodati, of whom Madame de Stael said,
if one could take hold of Pictet Deodati's neckcloth, and give him one
good shaking, what a number of good things would come out!


MALAGNY, DR. MARCET'S, _Sept_.

We came here last Friday, and have spent our time most happily with our
excellent friend Mrs. Marcet. His children are all so fond of Dr.
Marcet, we see that he is their companion and friend. They have all been
happily busy in making a paper fire-balloon, sixteen feet in diameter,
and thirty feet high. A large company were invited to see it mount. It
was a fine evening. The balloon was filled on the green before the
house. The lawn slopes down to the lake, and opposite to it magnificent
Mont Blanc, the setting sun shining on its summit. After some
heart-beatings about a hole in the top of the balloon, through which the
smoke was seen to issue--an evil omen--it went up successfully. The sun
had set, but we saw its reflection beautifully on one side of the
balloon, so that it looked like a globe half ice, half fire, or half
moon, half sun, self-suspended in the air. It went up exactly a mile. I
say exactly, because Pictet measured the height by an instrument of a
new invention, which I will describe when we meet. The air here is so
clear, that at this height we saw it distinctly.

M. Pictet de Rochemont, brother to our old friend, has taken most kind
pains to translate the best passages from my father's _Memoirs_ for the
_Bibliotheque Universelle_. We were yesterday at his house with a large
party, and met Madame Necker de Saussure--much more agreeable than her
book. Her manner and figure reminded us of our beloved Mrs. Moutray: she
is deaf, too, and she has the same resignation, free from suspicion, in
her expression when she is not speaking, and the same gracious attention
to the person who speaks to her.


CHATEAU DE COPPET, _Sept. 28_,

8 A.M.

We came here yesterday, and here we are in the very apartments occupied
by M. Necker, opening into what is now the library, but what was once
that theatre on which Madame de Stael used to act her own _Corinne_.
Yesterday evening, when Madame de Broglie had placed me next the oldest
friend of the family, M. de Bonstettin, he whispered to me, "You are now
in the exact spot, in the very chair where Madame de Stael used to sit!"
Her friends were excessively attached to her. This old man talked of her
with tears in his eyes, and with all the sudden change of countenance
and twitchings of the muscles which mark strong, uncontrollable feeling.

There is something inexpressibly melancholy, awful, in this house, in
these rooms, where the thought continually recurs, Here Genius _was!_
here _was_ Ambition, Love! all the great struggles of the passions; here
was Madame de Stael! The respect paid to her memory by her son and
daughter, and by M. de Broglie, is touching. The little Rocca, seven
years old, is an odd, cold, prudent, old-man sort of a child, as unlike
as possible to the son you would have expected from such parents. M.
Rocca, brother to the boy's father, is here: handsome, but I know no
more. M. Sismondi and his wife dined here, and three Saladins, father,
mother, and daughter. M. de Stael has promised to show to me Gibbon's
love-letters to his grandmother, ending regularly with "Je suis,
mademoiselle, avec les sentimens qui font le desespoir de ma vie," etc.

M. de Bonstettin--Gray the poet's friend--told me that in Sweden, about
thirty years ago, he saw potatoes in the corner of a gentleman's garden
as a curiosity. "They tell me, sir," said the gentleman, "that in some
countries they eat the roots of this plant!" Now they are cultivated
there, and the people have become fond of them.

       *       *       *       *       *

With M. de Stael and Madame de Broglie Miss Edgeworth was particularly
happy. It had been reported that Madame de Stael had said of Maria's
writings "que Miss Edgeworth etait digne de l'enthousiasme, mais qu'elle
s'est perdue dans la triste utilite." "Ma mere n'a jamais dit ca,"
Madame de Broglie indignantly declared, "elle etait incapable!" She saw,
indeed, the enthusiastic admiration which Maria felt for her mother's
genius, and she was gratified by the regard and esteem which Maria
showed for her and her brother, and the sympathy she expressed in their
affection for each other, and in their kindness to their little Rocca
brother.

       *       *       *       *       *

MARIA _to_ MISS HONORA EDGEWORTH.

LYONS, HOTEL DU NORD, _Oct. 22, 1820_.

Lyons! is it possible that I am really at Lyons, of which I have heard
my father speak so much? Lyons! where his active spirit once reigned,
and where now scarce a trace, a memory of him remains. The Perraches all
gone, Carpentiers no more to be heard of, Bons a name unknown; De la
Verpilliere--one descendant has a fine house here, but he is in the
country.

The look of the town and the fine facades of the principal buildings,
and the Place de Bellecour, were the more melancholy to me from knowing
them so well in the prints in the great portfolio, with such a radiance
thrown over them by his descriptions. I hear his voice saying, La Place
de Bellecour and l'Hotel de Ville--these remain after all the horrors of
the Revolution--but human creatures, the best, the ablest, the most full
of life and gaiety, all passed away.

It is a relief to my mind to pour out all this to you. I do not repent
having come to Lyons; I should not have forgiven myself if I had not.

I have been writing to dear Mrs. Moilliet--nothing could exceed her
kindness and Mr. Moilliet's. Dumont was excessively touched at parting
with us, and gave Fanny and Harriet _La Fontaine_ and _Gresset_, and to
me a map of the lake--of the tour we took so happily together.


_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

PARIS, _Nov. 1820_.

Never lose another night's sleep, or another moment's thought on the
_Quarterly Review_ [Footnote: An article on Maria Edgeworth's _Memoirs_
of her Father, full of doubt, ridicule, misrepresentation, and acrimony.
Miss Edgeworth never read this _Review_ till 1835, when she was induced
to do so by a letter from Mr. Peabody alluding to it. It was then
powerless to give her pain, for its anonymous falsehoods had long fallen
into oblivion.]--I have never read and never will read it.

I write this merely to tell you that I have at last had the pleasure of
seeing Madame la Comtesse de Vaudreuil, the daughter of your friend; she
is an exceedingly pleasing woman, of high fashion, with the remains of
great beauty, courteous and kind to us beyond all expectation. She had
but a few days in Paris, and she made out two for us; she took us to the
Conciergerie to see, by lamp-light, the dungeons where the poor Queen
and Madame Elizabeth were confined, now fitted up as little chapels. In
the Queen's is an altar inscribed with her letter to the King,
expressing forgiveness of her enemies. Tears streamed from the eyes of
the young Countess de Vaudreuil, the daughter-in-law, as she looked at
this altar, and the place where the Queen's bed was. Who do you think
accompanied us to this place? Lady Beauchamp, Lady Longford's mother, a
great friend of Madame de Vaudreuil's, with whom we dined the next day,
and who had procured for us the Duc de Choiseul's box at the Theatre
Francais, when the house was to be uncommonly crowded to see
Mademoiselle Duchenois in _Athalie_ "avec tous les choeurs," and a most
striking spectacle it was! I had never seen Mademoiselle Duchenois to
perfection before.


MRS. MARCET _to_ MARIA EDGEWORTH.

MALAGNY, _Nov. 15, 1820_.

I cannot make up my mind, my dear friend, to take my departure
[Footnote: Mrs. Marcet was just setting out for Italy.] for a still more
distant country without again bidding you adieu. I have hesitated for
some time past, "Shall I or shall I not write to Miss Edgeworth?" for I
felt that I could not write without touching on an article in the
_Quarterly_--a subject which makes my blood boil with indignation, and
which rouses every feeling of contempt and abhorrence. I might indeed
refrain from the expression of these sentiments, but how could I
restrain all those feelings of the warmest interest, the tenderest
sympathy, and the softest pity for your wounded feelings? I well
remember the wish you one day so piously expressed to me that your
father could look down from heaven and see the purity and zeal of your
intentions in writing his _Memoirs_; I am sure your HEAVENLY FATHER does
see them. And I feel that this unjust, unchristian, inquisitorial attack
will not only develop fresh sentiments of the tenderest nature in your
friends, but also rally every human being of sound sense around you.


MARIA EDGEWORTH _to_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

PARIS, _Nov. 15, 1820_.

You would scarcely believe, my dear friends, the calm of mind and the
sort of satisfied resignation I feel as to my father's _Life_. I suppose
the two years of doubt and extreme anxiety that I felt, exhausted all my
power of doubting. I know that I have done my very best, I know that I
have done my duty, and I firmly believe that if my dear father could see
the whole he would be satisfied with what I have done.

We have seen Mademoiselle Mars twice, or thrice rather, in the _Mariage
de Figaro_ and in the little pieces of _Le Jaloux sans amour_, and _La
jeunesse de Henri Cinq_, and admire her exceedingly. _En petit comite_
the other night at the Duchesse d'Escars, a discussion took place
between the Duchesse de la Force, Marmont, and Pozzo di Borgo, on the
_bon et mauvais ton_ of different expressions--_bonne societe_ is an
_expression bourgeoise_--you may say _bonne compagnie_ or _la haute
societe_. "Voila des nuances," as Madame d'Escars said. Such a wonderful
jabbering as these grandees made about these small matters. It put me in
mind of a conversation in the _World_ on good company which we all used
to admire.

We have seen a great deal of our dear Delesserts, and of Madame de
Rumford, [Footnote: First married to Lavoisier, the celebrated chemist,
then to Count Rumford, the scientist, from whom she was separated for
many years. She was now again a widow.] who gave us a splendid and most
agreeable dinner. And one evening with the Princess Potemkin, who
is--take notice--only a Princess by courtesy, as she has married a
Potemkin, who is not a Prince, and though she was born Princess
Galitzin, she loses her rank by marrying an inferior, according to
Russian and French custom, and they are, with reason, surprised at our
superior gallantry, once a lady always a lady. But whether Princess or
not Princess, our Madame Potemkin is most charming, and you may bless
your stars that you are not obliged to read a page of panegyric upon
her. She was as much delighted to see us again, as we were to see her;
she was alone with Madame de Noisville, that happy mixture of my Aunt
Fox [Footnote: Mary, wife of Francis Fox, elder sister of Mr. Edgeworth
and Mrs. Ruxton.] and Mrs. Lataffiere. We went from Madame Potemkin to
Madame d'Haussonville's, with her we found Madame de Bouille playing at
billiards, just in the attitude in which we had left her three months
ago. Saturday I had a bad headache, but recovered in the evening; and
Monday we dined at Madame Potemkin's, where we met her aunt, a Princess
Galitzin, a thin, tall, odd, very clever woman, daughter to that Prince
Shuvaloff, to whom Voltaire wrote eternally, and she is _imbued_ with
anecdotes of that period, very well bred, and quick in conversation. She
is always afraid of catching cold, and always wears a velvet cap, and is
always wrapped up in shawls and pelisses in going from house to
house--_a cela pres_, a reasonable woman.

After leaving Madame Potemkin's we went to see--whom do you think? Guess
all round the breakfast-table before you turn over the leaf; if anybody
guesses right, I guess it will be Aunt Mary.

Madame de la Rochejacquelin [Footnote: Widow of the Vendean hero.]--She
had just arrived from the country, and we found ourselves in a large
hotel, in which all the winds of heaven were blowing, and in which, as
we went upstairs and crossed the ante-chambers, all was darkness, except
one candle which the servant carried before us. In a small bedroom, well
furnished, with a fire just lighted, we found Madame de la
Rochejacquelin lying on a sofa--her two daughters at work--one spinning
with a distaff, and the other embroidering muslin. Madame is a large fat
woman, with a broad round fair face, with a most open benevolent
expression, as benevolent as Molly Bristow's or as Mrs. Brinkley's. Her
hair cut short, and perfectly gray, as seen under her cap; the rest of
her face much too young for such gray locks, not at all the hard
weatherbeaten look that had been described to us; and though her face
and bundled form and dress, all _squashed_ on a sofa, did not at first
promise much of gentility, you could not hear her speak or see her for
three minutes without perceiving that she was well-born and well-bred.
She had hurt her leg, which was the cause of her lying on the sofa. It
seemed a grievous penance, as she is of as active a temper as ever. She
says her health is perfect, but a nervous disease in her eyes has nearly
deprived her of sight--she could hardly see my face, though I sat as
close as I could go to the sofa.

"I am always sorry," said she, "when any stranger sees me, parceque je
sais que je detruis toute illusion. Je sais que je devrais avoir l'air
d'une heroine, et surtout que je devrais avoir l'air malheureuse ou
epuise an moins--rien de tout cela, helas!"

She is much better than a heroine--she is benevolence and truth itself.
She begged her daughters to take us into the _salon_ to show us what she
thought would interest us. She apologised for the cold of these
rooms--and well she might; when the double doors were opened I really
thought Eolus himself was puffing in our faces; we shawled ourselves
well before we ventured in. At one end of the _salon_ is a picture of M.
de Lescure, and at the other, of Henri de la Rochejacquelin, by Gerard
and Girardet, presents from the King. Fine military figures. In the
boudoir is one of M. de la Rochejacquelin, much the finest of all--she
has never yet looked at this picture. Far from being disappointed, I was
much gratified by this visit.


_To_ MISS LUCY EDGEWORTH.

CALAIS, _Dec. 5, 1820_.

It is a great satisfaction to me, my dear Lucy, to feel that we are now
so much nearer to you, and that before I finish this little note we
shall be still nearer to you in the same United Kingdom, so that in
eight days we can have an answer to questions about you; what a
difference from the three long weeks we used to wait at Geneva.

And now, my dear Lucy, I must employ you to break to my mother an
important secret. Choose a proper time for speaking to her on the
subject, when she is not very busy, when her mind is at ease, that is,
when you are pretty well. My aunts and Honora may be in the room, if you
think proper. Begin by saying that I know both my mother and Lovell are
so kind and have such confidence in me that I am sure they will not
hastily object to the introduction of a new person into the family,
though they may perhaps feel a little surprised at hearing of my having
actually decided upon such a measure without writing first to consult
them. I have actually brought with me from Paris, and intend, unless I
am actually forbidden, to bring with me to Edgeworthstown, a French
washerwoman. I cannot expect that Lovell should build a house for her,
though I know he has long had it in contemplation to build a laundry;
but my little French woman does not require a house, she can live in our
house, if he and my mother, and my aunts please, and I will engage that
she shall give no sort of trouble, and shall cost nothing. She is a
_sourde et muette_, an elderly woman with a very good countenance,
always cheerful, and going on with her own business without minding
other people's. She was recommended to me by Madame Francois Delessert,
and has lived for some time in their family, much liked by all,
especially by the children, for whom she washed constantly, till one of
her legs was hurt, so that she cannot work now quite as well as
formerly. But still she washed so as to give general satisfaction. Fanny
and Harriet like her washing, and I am sure my aunts will like it and
her very much; and I think she might, till some other place be found for
her, sleep in my mother's dressing-room.

And here, my dear Lucy, I beg you will pause and hear what everybody
says about this washerwoman and this plan.

And after five minutes given to deliberation, go on and say, that if no
better place can be found for my washerwoman, she may stand on my
mother's chimney-piece! [Footnote: A pretty little French toy given by
Madame Francois Delessert.]

No more nonsense at present.


_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

CALAIS, DESSIN'S HOTEL, _Dec. 5, 1820_.

Coming back to this place, to the same room where we were seven months
ago, the whole seems to me and to my companions like a delightful dream,
but in waking from Alps, and glaciers, and cascades, and _Mont Blanc_,
and troops of acquaintance in splendid succession and visionary
confusion, in waking from this wonderful dream, the sober certainty of
happiness remains and assures us that all which has passed is not a
dream. All our old friends at Paris are still more our friends than
ever, and many new ones made. Every expectation, every hope that I had
formed for this journey has been more than gratified, far surpassed by
the reality; and we return with thorough satisfaction to our own
country, looking to our dear home for permanent happiness, without a
wish unsatisfied or a regret for anything we have left behind, except
our friends.


_To_ MISS RUXTON.

MALI, CLIFTON, _Dec. 17, 1820_.

We have spent a week here with Emmeline, [Footnote: The eldest of Miss
Edgeworth's own sisters, wife of John King, Esq., of Clifton.] and very
happy I am that we were able to give her this pleasure. Zoe and Emmeline
are very nice-looking girls, pleasing in their manners and affectionate
in their dispositions.

We are not, tell my aunt, likely to be drawn in to talk or take any part
about the Queen, as we know nothing of her trial. She sent notice to
Lady Elizabeth Whitbread that she would dine with her if she knew the
hour. Lady Elizabeth answered that her hour varied from five to nine, as
it suited her son's convenience. The Queen took it as it was meant, as a
refusal.


_To_ MISS HONORA EDGEWORTH.

BOWOOD, _Dec. 20, 1820_.

I write to you sitting in the bow (or beau, or bay) window of the room
with yellow furniture with black stars, into which we were shown by Lady
Lansdowne. Oh, my dear Honora, how everything here reminds me of you!

Lady Lansdowne's reception of us was most cordial. She had been out
walking, and came to us only half dressed, with a shawl thrown over her.
Lord Lansdowne is at Bath, at an agricultural meeting. Mr. and Mrs. Ord
and their son, an Eton youth, are here; Lady Elizabeth and Captain
Fielding--he is very gentlemanlike and agreeable; Mr. Hallam; the two
Mr. Smiths, whom you remember, and Mr. Fazakerley--very clever; and best
of all, Miss Vernon and Miss Fox: she introduced to Fanny and Harriet
her niece, Miss Fox, very handsome and agreeable--not come out.


EASTON GREY, _Dec. 26_.

I intended this frank for my mother, but Mr. Ricardo turned it into Miss
instead of Mrs.; and why I asked for a frank at all I cannot tell,
except for the honour and glory of having one from David Ricardo. He has
been here one whole day, and is exceedingly agreeable. This house is
delightful, in a beautiful situation, fine trees, fine valleys, and soft
verdure, even at this season: the library-drawing-room with low sofas,
plenty of movable tables, open bookcases, and all that speaks the habits
and affords the means of agreeable occupation. Easton Grey might be a
happy model of what an English country gentleman's house should be; and
Mrs. Smith's kind, well-bred manners, and Mr. Smith's literary and
sensible conversation, make this house one of the most agreeable I ever
saw.

At Bowood there was a happy mixture of sense and nonsense. Lord
Lansdowne was talking to me on the nice little sofa by the fire very
seriously of Windham's life and death, and of a journal which he wrote
to cure himself of indecision of character. Enter suddenly, with a great
burst of noise from the breakfast-room, a tribe of gentlemen neighing
like horses. You never saw a man look more surprised than Lord
Lansdowne.

Re-enter the same performers on all-fours, grunting like pigs.

Then a company of ladies and gentlemen in dumb-show, doing a country
visit, ending with asking for a frank, curtseying, bowing, and
exit.--"_Neighbour_."

Then enter all the gentlemen, some with their fingers on their eyes,
some delighted with themselves.--"_I_."

Then re-enter Lord Lansdowne, the two Mr. Smiths, Mr. Hallam, and Mr.
Fazakerley, each with little dolls made of their pocket handkerchiefs,
nursing and playing with them.--"_Doll_."

Exit, and re-enter, carrying, and surrounding, and worshipping Mrs. Ord
in an arm-chair.--"_Idol_."

This does not do for sober reading, but it produced much laughter.


_27th_

We have been at Badminton: magnificent: library delightful. Here, as at
Trentham, a gallery opens into the chapel, also the village church, and
here is a great curiosity--Raphael's first chalk sketch of the
Transfiguration; that is, of all the figures in the lower part:
wonderfully fine, the woman kneeling, and the boy possessed, and the man
holding him--admirable. Some fine pictures, too, though not a professed
collection. Saw in the park a fine herd of red deer, the finest, it is
said, in England. How shall I find room to tell you of the Roman
pavements and Roman town found near this place, much better worth than
all I have been penning! For nonsense I always have time and space.


_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _March 21_.

The Archbishop of Tuam breakfasted here this morning and sat with Lucy
in her room: he said he thought he should be the better all his life for
having seen such an example of patience and resignation in so young a
person. He says he was amused during the Queen's trial by the sight of
the processions in honour of Her Majesty: the glass manufacturers with
their brilliant wares, ladies in landaus with feathers, the most
extraordinary figures; and the Queen complains that her garden has been
destroyed and all her furniture broken by her polite visitors.


_March 29_.

_So_ you like to hear of all our little doings, _so_ I will tell you
that, about eight o'clock, Fanny being by that time up and dressed, and
at her little table, Harriet comes and reads to me Madame de Sevigne's
letters, of which I never tire; and I almost envy Fanny and Harriet the
pleasure of reading them for the first time. After breakfast I take my
little table into Lucy's room, and write there for an hour; she likes to
have me in her room, though she only hears the scribble, scribble: she
is generally reading at that hour, or doing Margaret's delight--algebra.
I am doing the _Sequel to Frank_. Walking, reading, and talking fill the
rest of the day. I do not read much, it tires my eyes, and I have not
yet finished the _Life of Wesley_: I think it a most curious,
entertaining, and instructive book. A _Life of Pitt_ by the Bishop of
Winchester is coming out: he wrote to Murray about it, who asked his
friends, "Who is George Winton, who writes to me about publishing Pitt's
_Life_?"


_April 21._

Enclosed is a letter from our friend the American Jewess, [Footnote:
Miss Mordecai of Richmond, on Maria's _Life_ of her father.] written in
a spirit of Christian charity and kindness which it were to be wished
that all Christians possessed. It has given me exquisite pleasure; and
you know I never feel great pleasure without instantly wishing that you
should share it. Lovell has asked this good Jewess and her _futur_ to
come here, if she should visit Europe. He is at home now, and kind as
ever to every creature within reach of his benevolence.

We have been reading Fleury's _Memoirs of Napoleon_. Get it in French:
it is very interesting, or we never could have got through it in the
wretched translation to which we were doomed.

Tell Sophy that Peggy Tuite, who turned into Peggy Mulheeran, has had a
dead child. When my mother said to her brother, "Do not let people crowd
in and heat her room," "Oh, ma'am, sure I am standing at the door since
three in the morning, sentinel, to keep them out," the tears dropping
from his eyes fast on the ground as he spoke. And all the time the old
_ould_ mother Tuite (who doats on Mrs. Ruxton-dear) was sitting rocking
herself to and fro, and "crying under the big laurel, that Peggy might
not hear her."

You may all praise erysipelas as much as you please, but I never desire
to see or feel it again. Our boy, Mick Duffy, has been ill with it these
ten days. Honora said to his father, Brian, "How can you be so fond of
Michael; now that he lives with us, you hardly ever see him!" "Oh, how
could I but be fond of him, the crater that sends me every guinea he
gets!"


_July 8_.

So Buonaparte is dead! and no change will be made in any country by the
death of a man who once made such a figure in the world! He who
commanded empires and sovereigns, a prisoner in an obscure island,
disputing for a bottle of wine, subject to the petty tyranny of Sir
Hudson Lowe! I regret that England permitted that trampling upon the
fallen. What an excellent dialogue of the dead might be written between
Buonaparte and Themistocles!

Ages ago I sent _Bracebridge Hall_ to Merrion Street for you: have you
got it? Next week another book will be there for you--an American novel
Mrs. Griffith sent to me, _The Spy_; quite new scenes and characters,
humour and pathos, a picture of America in Washington's time; a surgeon
worthy of Smollett or Moore, and quite different from any of their
various surgeons; and an Irishwoman, Betty Flanagan, incomparable.


_August 3._

What do you think is my employment out of doors, and what it has been
this week past? My garden? no such elegant thing; but making a gutter! a
sewer and a pathway in the street of Edgeworthstown; and I do declare I
am as much interested about it as I ever was in writing anything in my
life. We have never here yet found it necessary to have recourse to
public contribution for the poor, but it is necessary to give some
assistance to the labouring class; and I find that making the said
gutter and pathway will employ twenty men for three weeks.

Did you ever hear these two excellent _Tory_ lines made by a celebrated
_Whig?_

  As bees alighting upon flowerets cease to hum,
  So, settling upon places, Whigs grow dumb.


_August 8._

We are all in the joy of Francis' [Footnote: From Charterhouse; eldest
son of the fourth Mrs. Edgeworth.] arrival: Pakenham at the tea-table
has been standing beside him feeding him with red currants well sugared,
and between every currant he told us, as well as he could, the history
of his journey. "Talbot," Lord Talbot's son, who is his schoolfellow at
the Charterhouse, was so kind as to go outside, that Francis might have
an inside place at night. He met with so much good-nature from first to
last in his journey, he wonders how people can be so good-natured.

       *       *       *       *       *

Many of Maria Edgeworth's friends in England having invited her to visit
them, she determined to spend the winter there, and set out in October
with her former travelling companions, Fanny and Harriet, the two eldest
daughters of the fourth Mrs. Edgeworth.

       *       *       *       *       *

MARIA _to_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

KENIOGE, _Oct. 23, 1821_.

We have had a most delightful day, after sleeping well at Gwindu: we
were in the carriage and off before the clock had finished striking six.
In an interval of showers in a bright gleam of sunshine we passed Bangor
Ferry: breakfasted nobly. Mr. Jackson, the old, old man, who some years
ago was all pear-shaped stomach, and stupid, has wonderfully shrunk and
revived, and is walking, alert and civil; and his fishy eyes brightened
with pleasure on hearing of his friend, Mr. Lovell. Fine old waiter, a
match in age and civility for the master; and a fine old dog, Twig, a
match for both, and as saucy as Foster; for Mrs. Twig would not eat
toast, unless buttered, forsooth!

Then on to Mrs. Worthington: excellent, motherly woman, the Mrs.
Brinkley of the slate quarries. Her first question about you and William
won my heart: she seemed so to have seen into you with that penetration
of the heart, which is full as quick as that of the head, if there be
any difference. She furnished us each with a pair of Devonshire clogs,
that fitted each as if made for us; and as young Mr. Worthington was
disappointed by a sore throat of the pleasure of accompanying us, he
gave us a note to Mr. Williams at the Quarries; and good, dear Mrs.
Williams, in her white gown and worked borders, trampoozed with us
through the splish splash to all the yards, and with her master of the
works showed us the saw-mills, and the mill for grinding flint, and for
the china works.

Waiving the description of all this, I will not tell you of the quarries
and the glaciers of slates, because I wish Harriet to write her own
fresh account of her first impressions. I feel that she was even more
pleased than I expected; and I rejoice that this first sight, which I
had promised myself the pleasure of showing her, is secure.

This day's drive through Wales has been charming: a few showers, but
always at the best time for us. I have at different times of my life
seen Wales at all seasons of the year, and after all I prefer the autumn
view of it. The withering red brown fern is a great addition of beauty
on the white and gray rocks, and often so resembles the tint of autumn
on beech trees, that you cannot at a distance tell ferns on the
mountains from young plantations, touched by autumn colour.

We have just dined at this delightful inn, where you and Fanny slept in
1818, kept as I am sure you remember by two sisters with sweet,
good-humoured countenances: most active, obliging people. I think the
most discontented of travellers--old growling Smollett himself, if he
could come from the grave in a fit of the gout--could not be
discontented at this inn. Fanny, Harriet, and I have just determined
that, if ever we are reduced to earn our bread, we will keep an inn like
this.

Lest you should think that all the little sense I had is gone to
nonsense, I must tell you that, during part of this day, we have been
very wise. When there came ugly bits of the road, Harriet read out
Humboldt's fifth volume; and I was charmed with it, and enjoyed it the
more from the reflection that Lucy can share this pleasure with us. She
has Humboldt, I hope; if not, pray get it for her. The account of the
venomous flies which _mount guard_ at different hours of the day is most
curious. Humboldt is the Shakespear of travellers; as much superior to
other travellers as Shakespear is to other poets. He seems to have at
once a _vue d'oiseau_ of one half of the world, and a perfect
recollection of the other half, so as to bring together from all parts
of the earth, and from all times, observations on the largest scale,
from which he draws the most ingenious and the most useful conclusions.
I will write to Madame Gautier to beg Humboldt to send to me portraits
of the insects which appear on the Orinoco at different hours of the day
and night, by which the natives mark the hours: it will make a fine
contrast to the Watch of Flora.


_To_ MISS HONORA EDGEWORTH.

SMETHWICK GROVE, _Oct. 25, 1821_.

Here we are, my dear Honora, once more at the dear, hospitable
Moilliets'; Emily making tea at the same well-furnished board, with her
near-sighted, beautiful eyes picking her way among the cups.

We missed, by not arriving last night, a Frenchman who has been
seventeen years learning to play on the flute, and cannot play, and who
has been ten years learning to speak English, and yet told Mrs. Moilliet
that he had a letter to Lord Porcelain, to whom his mother is related,
meaning the Duke of Portland. He left this, determined to see the
residence of "Lord Malbrouke." Mrs. Moilliet endeavoured to put him
right, and to put the song, "Va-t-en Malbrouke" out of his head; but he
quoted it with the authority of an old legend. "Blenheim," Mr. Moilliet
told him, was the name of the Duke of Marlborough's place. "Ah, _oui_,
yes; Blenheim, I know that is the inn." He would have "Malbrouke" as the
name of the place.


_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

WYCOMBE ABBEY, _Oct. 30, 1821_.

We spent two days instead of one at Smethwick. Nothing could be kinder
than the Moilliets were to us; nevertheless, as dearest friends must
part, we parted from them, and had a delightful drive to Woodstock.
Fanny and Harriet will tell you of Blenheim; they were pleased, and you
may be sure I was happy. At Oxford by twelve: found letter from Lord
Carrington--most punctual of men--appointing the 29th. But no letter
from Mr. Russell: sent the porter with note to him: "Mr. Russell gone to
see his brother at the Charter-house." Porter trudged again with two
notes, one to Tom Beddoes [Footnote: Her nephew]--"not come up this
term:" another note to Mr. Biddulph--most civil and best of College
cicerones--arrived almost as soon as the porter returned with his "very
happy;" and he walked us about to all those halls and gardens which we
had not seen before. Balliol and University gardens beautiful: at Corpus
Christi beautiful altar-piece. Rested at Mr. Biddulph's most comfortable
rooms at Maudlin: we went to Evening Service in the chapel: going in
from daylight, chapel lighted with many candles: dim light through brown
saints in the windows: chanting good, anthem very fine: two of the
finest voices I ever heard, one of a young boy. Good tea at Tetsworth:
amused ourselves next morning reading like ladies, and watching from our
gazabo window the arrival and departure of twelve stage-coaches, any one
of which would have been a study for Wilkie, besides the rubbing down of
a horse with a besom: at first we thought the horse would have been
affronted--no, quite agreeable. The dried flakes of yellow mud, first
besomed and then brushed, raised such a dust, that in the dust, man and
horse were lost.

Arrived here just at dressing-time. Lord Carrington had asked the
Lushingtons and Dr. Holland--can't come. Count and Countess Ludolf
expected to-morrow: he is ambassador from Sicily. Fanny says you and she
met them at Lady Davy's.


_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

WYCOMBE ABBEY, _Nov. 2, 1821_.

It is impossible to be kinder than Lord Carrington is to us: he wrote to
invite everybody that he thought we should like to meet. We have had Mr.
Wilberforce for several days, and I cannot tell you how glad I am to
have seen him again, and to have had an opportunity of hearing his
delightful conversation, and of seeing the extent and variety of his
abilities. He is not at all anxious to show himself off; he converses,
he does not merely talk. His thoughts flow in such abundance, and from
so many sources, that they often cross one another; and sometimes a
reporter would be quite at a loss. As he literally seems to speak all
his thoughts as they occur, he produces what strikes him on both sides
of any question. This often puzzles his hearers, but to me it is a proof
of candour and sincerity; and it is both amusing and instructive to see
him thus balancing accounts aloud. He is very lively, and full of odd
contortions: no matter. His indulgent, benevolent temper strikes me
particularly: he makes no pretension to superior sanctity or strictness.
He spoke with much respect and tenderness for my feelings, of my father,
and of the Life.

We have had, besides, Mr. Manning and his son, very unaffected and
agreeable; and Mr. Abel Smith, a nephew of Lord Carrington's; and Mr.
Hales, an old bachelor diplomatist, who told me the name which the Abbe
de Pradt gave to Buonaparte--Jupiter-Scapin. Does not this name contain
a volume?


_To_ MISS LUCY EDGEWORTH.

WYCOMBE ABBEY, _Nov. 4, 1821_.

God bless Mr. King! My dear Lucy, we have the best hopes now that your
admirable patience and fortitude will be rewarded, and soon. We
regretted the three-quarters of an hour Mr. King might have spent with
you which were wasted at the coach office, but these are among the
_minnikin_ miseries of human life. You must often wonder how people in
health, and out of pain, and with the use of their limbs and all their
locomotive faculties, can complain of anything. But man is a grumbling
animal, not woman.

We are reading Madame de Stael's _Dix Annees d'Exil_ with delight.
Though there may be too much egotism, yet it is extremely interesting;
and though she repeats too often, and uses too many words, yet there are
so many brilliant passages, and things which no one but herself could
have thought or said, that it will last as long as the memory of
Buonaparte lasts on earth. Pray get it and read it; not the plays or
poetry which make up the last volume--why will _friends_ publish all the
trash they can scrape together of celebrated people?

Mr. Hales, my dry diplomatist, tells me that Madame de Stael, he was
assured by the Swedish minister, provoked Buonaparte, by intriguing to
set Bernadotte on the throne of France, and that letters of hers on this
subject were intercepted. You will not care much about this, but you may
tell it to some of your visitants, who will be in due time as full of
Madame de Stael's _Dix Annees d'Exil_ as I am at this moment.

Here is an old distich which my dry diplomatist came out with yesterday
at dinner, on the ancestor of Hampden. The remains of the Hampden estate
are in this neighbourhood, and as we were speaking of our wish to see
the place in which the patriot lived, Mr. Hales observed that it is
curious how the spirit of dislike to kings had run in the blood of the
Hampdens some centuries before Charles' time: they lost three manors in
this county, forfeit for a Hampden having struck the Black Prince.

  Tring, Wing, and Ivanhoe,
  Old Hampden did forego,
  For striking the Black Prince a blow.

When this is read you will say he deserved to lose three manors for
striking such a Prince.

Besides two spacious bed-chambers and a dressing-room, munificent Lord
Carrington would insist upon our having a sitting-room to ourselves, and
we have one that is delightful: windows down to the ground, and
prospect--dark woods and river, so pretty that I can scarcely mind what
I am saying to you.

Yesterday arrived a Mr. Hay, very well informed about mummies and Egypt,
talks well, and as if he lived with all the learned and all the
fashionable in London: his account of the unrolling of a mummy which he
lately saw in London was most entertaining. All the folds of the
thinnest linen which were unwound were laid more smoothly and
dextrously, as the best London surgeons declared, than they can now
apply bandages: they stood in amazement. The skin was quite tough, the
flesh perfect: the face quite preserved, except the bridge of the nose,
which had fallen in. Count Ludolf, who has been a fine painter in his
day, says he has used mummy pitch, or whatever it is in which mummies
are preserved, as a fine brown paint, like bistre, "only bitter to the
taste when one sucks one's brush."

Mr. Hay, I find, is private secretary to Lord Melville. It is too much
to have a Mr. _Hales_ and a Mr. _Hay_.


_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

GATCOMBE PARK, _Nov. 9, 1821_.

We arrived here on Wednesday evening to tea--beautiful moonlight night.
At the gate, the first operation was to lock the wheel, and we went
down, down a hill not knowing where it would end or when the house would
appear; that it was a beautiful place was clear even by moonlight. Hall
with lights very cheerful--servants on the steps. Mr. Ricardo very glad
to see us. Mrs. Ricardo brilliant eyes and such cordial open-hearted
benevolence of manner, no affectation, no thought about herself.
[Footnote: David Ricardo (1772-1823), long M.P. for Portarlington, a
great speaker and writer on Political Economy. He married Catherine,
daughter of W.T. St. Quentin of Seampston Hall, York.] "My
daughter-in-law, Mrs. Osman Ricardo," a beautiful tall figure, and fine
face, fair, and a profusion of light hair. Mr. Ricardo, jun., and two
young daughters, Mary, about fifteen, handsome, and a child of ten,
Bertha, beautiful.

I was frightened about Fanny, tired and giddy after the journey;
however, her first answer in the morning, "much better," set my heart at
ease. A very fine day, all cheerful, a delightfully pleasant house, with
uphill and downhill wooded views from every window. Rides and drives
proposed. I asked to see a cloth manufactory in the neighbourhood. Mrs.
Osman Ricardo offered her horse to Fanny, and Mr. Osman rode with her.
Mr. Ricardo drove me in his nice safe and comfortable phaeton; Harriet
and Mrs. Osman in the seat behind. The horses pretty and strong, and,
moreover, quiet, so that though we drove up and down hills almost
perpendicular, and along a sort of _Rodborough Siemplon_, I was not in
the least alarmed. Mr. Ricardo is laughed at, as they tell me, for his
driving, but I prefer it to more dashing driving. Sidney Smith, who was
here lately, said, that "a new surgeon had set up in Minchin Hampton
since Mr. Ricardo has taken to driving."

We had delightful conversation, both on deep and shallow subjects. Mr.
Ricardo, with a very composed manner, has a continual life of mind, and
starts perpetually new game in conversation. I never argued or discussed
a question with any person who argues more fairly or less for victory
and more for truth. He gives full weight to every argument brought
against him, and seems not to be on any side of the question for one
instant longer than the conviction of his mind on that side. It seems
quite indifferent to him whether you find the truth, or whether he finds
it, provided it be found. One gets at something by conversing with him;
one learns either that one is wrong or that one is right, and the
understanding is improved without the temper being ever tried in the
discussion; but I must come to an end of this letter. Harriet has
written to Pakenham an account of the cloth manufactory which Mr.
Stephens explained admirably, and we are going out to see Mrs. Ricardo's
school; she has 130 children there, and takes as much pains as Lovell.


_Nov. 10_.

Yesterday evening a Mr. and Miss Strachey dined here: he pleasing, and
she with a nice pretty-shaped small head like Honora's, very agreeable
voice. Mr. and Mrs. Smith of Easton Grey had come, and there was a great
deal of agreeable conversation. An English bull was mentioned: Lord
Camden put the following advertisement in the papers:--"Owing to the
distress of the times Lord Camden will not shoot himself or any of his
tenants before the 4th of October next."

Much conversation about cases of conscience, whether Scott was right to
deny his novels? Then the Effie Deans question, and much about
smugglers. Lord Carrington says all ladies are born smugglers. Lady
Carrington once staying on the coast of Devonshire wrote to Lord
Carrington that his butler had got from a wreck a pipe of wine for L36,
and that it was in her cellar. "Now," said Lord Carrington to himself,
"here am I in the king's service; can I permit such a thing? No." He
wrote to the proper excise officers and gave them notice, and by the
same post to Lady Carrington, but he did not know that taking goods from
a wreck was a felony. As pale as death the butler came to Lady
Carrington. "I must fly for it, my lady, to America." They were thrown
into consternation; at last they staved the wine, so that when the
excise officers came nothing was to be found. Lord Carrington of course
lost his L36 and saved his honour. Mr. Ricardo said he might have done
better by writing to apprise the owners of the vessel that he was ready
to pay a fair price for it, and the duties.


_To_ MISS LUCY EDGEWORTH.

GATCOMBE PARK, _Nov. 12_.

We are perfectly happy here; delightful house and place for walking,
riding, driving. Fanny has a horse always at her command. I a phaeton
and Mr. Ricardo to converse with. He is altogether one of the most
agreeable persons, as well as the best informed and most clever, that I
ever knew. My own pleasure is infinitely increased by seeing that Fanny
and Harriet are so much liked and so very happy here.

In the evenings, in the intervals of good conversation, we have all
sorts of merry plays. Why, when and where: our words were--_Jack, Bar,
Belle, Caste, Plum_, the best.

We acted charades last night. _Pillion_ excellent. Maria, Fanny, and
Harriet, little dear, pretty Bertha, and Mr. Smith, the best hand and
head at these diversions imaginable. First we entered swallowing pills
with great choking: _pill_. Next on all-fours, roaring _lions_; Fanny
and Harriet's roaring devouring lions much clapped. Next Bertha riding
on Mr. Smith's back. _Pillion_.

_Coxcomb_.--Mr. Smith, Mr. Ricardo, Fanny, Harriet, and Maria _crowing_.
Ditto, ditto, _combing_ hair. Mr. Ricardo, solus strutting, a _coxcomb_,
very droll.

_Sinecure_.--Not a good one.

_Monkey_.--Very good. Mr. Ricardo and Mr. Smith as monks, with coloured
silk handkerchiefs, as cowls, a laughable solemn procession. Re-enter
with _keys_. Mr. Ricardo as _monkey_.

_Fortune-tellers_.--The best: Fanny as Fortune; unluckily we forgot to
blind her, and she had only my leather bag for her purse, but
nevertheless, she made a beautiful graceful _Fortune_, and scattered her
riches with an air that charmed the world. 2nd scene: Mr. Smith and
Harriet _tellers_ of the house--"the ayes have it." Fanny, Maria, and
Harriet, _fortune-tellers_; much approved.

_Love-sick_.--Bertha, with a bow made by Mr. Smith in an instant, with a
switch and red tape and a long feathered pen. Bertha was properly blind
and made an irresistible Cupid; she entered and shot, and all the
company fell: _Love_. 2nd: Harriet, Mr. Smith, and Maria, all very
_sick_. 3rd: Fanny, a _love-sick_ young lady. Maria, her duenna,
scolding, and pitying, and nursing her with a smelling bottle.

_Fire-eater_.--1st: Harriet and I acted alarm of _fire_, and alarmed Mr.
Ricardo so well--he was going to call for assistance, 2nd: I was an
epicure, and _eating_ always succeeds on the stage. 3rd: Harriet
devoured lighted spills to admiration, and only burnt her lip a little.

In "conundrum," Mrs. Osman was a beautiful nun; she is a charming
creature, most winning countenance and manner, very desirous to improve
herself, and with an understanding the extent and excellence of which I
did not at first estimate.



_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

EASTON GREY, _Nov. 22, 1821_.

Lady Catherine Bisset came with her two little nieces to call upon us,
and Fanny won little Lady Mary-Rose's heart, partly by means of some
Madeira and Portuguese figures from the chimney-piece, which she ranged
on the table for her amusement, and partly by a whiz-gig, which Fanny
plays to admiration.

And what is a whiz-gig? If you do not know, you must wait till I send
you one.

Lady Catherine, when no one was seeing or looking, laid her hand on my
arm most affectionately, and looking up in my face, said, "Do you know I
have been half my life trying to be your good French governess. I love
her."

We went to see her at her cottage, near her brother, Lord Suffolk's, and
saw many curiosities from Ceylon, made entertaining to us by the
comments and anecdotes of Captain Fenwick, who had been years at Ceylon.
On our return we stopped to see Malmesbury Abbey--beautifully placed;
the height of the arch sublime.


BOWOOD, _Nov. 26_.

We were fortunate enough to find Lord and Lady Lansdowne just returned
from their tour. They looked at the Pyrenees, but they could not go into
Spain, for the yellow fever rages there. A cordon of troops prevent any
travellers who might be disposed to brave the danger of the fever, and
fire if any attempt is made to pass. Lady Lansdowne would quite satisfy
you by her love of the Italian women. Here are Miss Vernon, and Miss
Fox, Lord Holland's sister, and Miss Fox, Lord Holland's daughter, and
Mr. Ogden, the widower of that beautiful and extraordinary lady whom we
met here three years ago. He has a great deal of cool, grave,
gentlemanly humour, and has been amusing us with an account of his visit
to Bowles, the poet, yesterday, and his musical sheep-bells and his
susceptibility to criticism and his credulity. He wrote with all the
simplicity of egotism to Murray to desire him, whenever any one who came
into his shop was seen to look into the review of his controversy with
Lord Byron on Pope, to pop into his hand his pamphlet by way of
antidote.

Miss Vernon and Miss Fox are both very agreeable, and Miss Fox,
[Footnote: Mary Elizabeth, who married, 1830, the third Lord Lilford.]
the young lady, beautiful, timid, and charming.


_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

MALL, CLIFTON, _Dec. 3, 1821_.

Our visit here and its object have been happily accomplished, my dear
mother, for my sister and Mr. King seem quite pleased and gratified.
Emmeline looks and is in much better health than when I was here before.
I must go to breakfast now as the carriage is to be at the door to carry
us to see Mr. Miles's pictures.


CIRENCESTER, _Dec. 5_.

Our picture day at Leigh Court surpassed our expectations. Poussin's
famous "Land Storm;" "St. John," by Domenichino, the most striking, with
a divine head of our SAVIOUR, by Leonardo da Vinci, and many others too
tantalising to mention. Mr. King, Emmeline, Mr. Elton, and ourselves,
filled the coach. Mr. King in high spirits, talked all the way there and
back, and was exceedingly entertaining and instructive. He has great
variety of tastes and acquirements, and we were delighted to hear him.

There was a large party the last night at Clifton, and I heard one new
thing, a great deal to hear at one party. This new thing I shall keep
for Pakenham; I wakened this morning with an intention of getting up
remarkably early to write it for him, and I got up thinking myself a
miracle of virtue and peep-o'-day woman; but lo! and behold, it was just
nine o'clock. Good-bye to Pakenham and the Deadman's head, of which my
own was full two seconds before; all that could be done was to scuffle
about the room and rummage the imperials for gowns, frills, shoes, and
gloves; all happily found, and on the right owners, and looking
charmingly, ma'am, by breakfast time. Fanny and Harriet in their lilac
and maroon tabinets. I am now writing in a delightful armchair,
high-backed antiquity, and modern cushions. Company at dinner
yesterday--Lord and Lady Bathurst, Lord Apsley, Mr. William Bathurst,
Lady Georgiana, Lady Emily, Lady Georgiana Lennox, Major Colebrook, and
Mr. Fortescue, whom we met at Paris, very agreeable, "melancholy and
gentlemanlike." The conversation goes on here remarkably well: Lady
Bathurst is perfectly well-bred and easy; Lord Apsley and Lady Georgiana
very agreeable.

The Duchess of Beaufort's French governess published in 1817 a story
called _Valoe_, which threw all high-bred London into confusion.
Everybody, who is anybody in it, under feigned names, the picture of all
the persons, manners, and character of all the young ladies who are
supposed to file off before the Duke of Devonshire. No wit, but
tittle-tattle truths. You can't buy the book if you were to give your
eyes for it: all bought up by the Duchess of Beaufort. [Footnote: It was
written by a governess whom she had dismissed.] Lord Apsley, who has a
copy with all the names in it, lent it to me. Fanny had a pleasant ride
this morning with Lord Bathurst, Mr. Fortescue, Major Colebrook, and Mr.
Bathurst, who all returned charmed with her manner of riding, and she
with her ride. Harriet and I had driven out with Lady Bathurst and Lady
Georgiana--a delightful drive through this magnificent park. The meeting
of the pine avenues in a star--superb. "Who plants like Bathurst?" etc.
We saw Pope's seat, and "Cotswold's wild and Saperton's fair dale"--a
most beautiful dale it is.

News from the best authority; probably it will be in the newspapers
before you see this: Lord Wellesley is to be lord-lieutenant, and Mr.
Goulburn, secretary.


_To MISS_ HONORA EDGEWORTH.

WINCHESTER, _Dec. 12, 1821_.

Lest you should be staying in Dublin, I write this epitome to tell you
what we have done. We spent two days at Cirencester, very entertaining.
Delightful woods.

Friday to Dr. Fowler's, Salisbury, and stayed till today after
breakfast; our four days deliciously spent. We have seen Salisbury
Cathedral, and Wilton, pictures, and statues, and Lady Pembroke and her
children, worth them all.

We were at Longford Castle yesterday; the strangest castle in the world.
Finest private collection of pictures I have seen, or at least that in
which there are the fewest indifferent ones.

We have seen Stonehenge! and spend to-morrow with Mrs. Moutray at Mr.
Coxe's, Twyford.


THE DEEPDENE, _Dec. 19_.

We arrived here on Saturday. The first day there were Lady Mary Bennet,
Miss Burrowes, and Prince Cariati, a banished Neapolitan, in very
long-skirted coat, which he holds up by tucking one hand inside behind;
good-humoured, and plays all sorts of _petits jeux_. Mrs. Hope has
recovered her beauty, and she and Mr. Hope are as kind as ever, and
asked affectionately after you, and so did Henry.

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 _tete-a-tete_ with
silent Lord Grenville; but to his astonishment, he found him
_tete-a-tete_ 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 _goitres_, 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, L10,000, 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 Stael, 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 maitre,
  Il est, le fut, ou le doit etre.

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.

Do you recollect American Mrs. Griffith writing to tell me that Mr.
Ralston would come to see us, and my extreme disappointment at his
finding in Dublin that Miss Edgeworth was not at home, and so not going
down to Edgeworthstown, and not seeing Lovell's school? He has found us
out now, and Lady Elizabeth invited him here. He has travelled over half
Europe and is going to Spain; but upon my giving him a note to
Macintosh, with a draft upon him for five minutes' conversation, and
notes to some other celebrated people, he, like a sensible man,
determined to delay his journey on purpose to see them. Lady Elizabeth
has been so kind to ask him to dine here to-day, and commissioned me to
invite whoever I pleased to meet him. First we wrote to your brother,
but be could not come; and then to Dr. Holland, but he was engaged to
Holland House. In his note to me he says, "I have seen Mr. Ralston
several times, and have been greatly pleased with his ingenuousness,
acquirements, and agreeable manners." His father and mother are
grand--and what is rather better, most benevolent--people in
Philadelphia. Meantime I must go and write a letter of introduction for
him to Count Edouard de la Grange, who is just returned from Spain to
Paris, and may serve him. But I forgot to finish my sentence about the
invitations to dinner. My third invitation was to Mr. Calcott, the
painter, with whom we made acquaintance a few days ago. He has been more
civil than I can tell you, promising us his ticket for the Exhibition,
and preparing the way for our seeing pictures at Lord Liverpool's, Sir
John Swinburne's, etc.; so I was glad to have this opportunity of asking
him, and he breaks an engagement to the Academy to accept of Lady
Elizabeth's invitation.

Now I must "put on bonnet" to go to Lady Grey's. She is the most
touching sight! and Lady Elizabeth's affection and respect for her! She
has desired to see Fanny and Harriet to-day.


_Feb. 9_.

Like a child who keeps the plums of his pudding for the last, but who is
so tedious in getting through the beginning, that his plate is taken
away before he gets to his plums, _so_ I often put off what I think the
plums of my letters till "the post, ma'am," hurries it off without the
best part.

In my hurried conclusion I forgot to tell you that Mr. Ralston has
lately become acquainted with Mr. Perkins, the American, who has tried
experiments on the compressibility of water, the results of which have
astonished all the scientific world.

Wollaston, as Mr. Ralston affirms, has verified and warrants the truth
of these experiments, which have not yet been published. The most
wonderful part appeared to me incredible: under a great degree of
compression the water, Mr. Ralston said, _turned to gas_!


_Feb. 20_.

Lady Lansdowne was here yesterday while I was in town; she heard that
Fanny and Harriet were at home: got out and sat with them: very
agreeable. Lady Bathurst has been here, and Lady Georgiana: asked us to
a select party--Princess Lieven, etc.,--but we declined: could not leave
Lady Elizabeth. I do not know that there is any truth in the report that
Lady Georgiana is to marry Lord Liverpool: I should think not; for when
we were at Cirencester, Lady Bathurst read out of a letter, "So I hear
Lady Georgiana is to be our Prime Minister," which she would not have
done if the thing were really going on; and when I went to Lord
Liverpool's a few days ago, he was in deep mourning, the hatchment still
up on his house, his note-paper half an inch black border. If he were
_courting_, surely the black border would diminish, and the hatchment
would be taken down. I wish it were true, for I like both parties, and
think it would be remarkably well suited.


_Feb. 24_.

Yesterday Captain Beaufort walked here to see us, and then walked with
Harriet and me to Lady Listowel's, _ci-devant_ Lady Ennismore, looking
just the same as when we saw her at Kilkenny: excessively civil to us.
Two curious pictures there done by an Irish boy, or man, of the name of
Grogan, of Cork: one of these is an Irish wake; there is a great deal of
original humour and invention in it, of the Wilkie, or, better still, of
the Hogarth style.

But all this time you would be glad to know whether I am likely to have
a house over my head or not? it cannot be decided till Tuesday--8, or
12, Holles Street.

Yesterday we went to see Mrs. Moutray at Mr. Sumner's most comfortable
and superb house. She had been to see the poor Queen's pictures and
goods, which are now for sale: a melancholy sight; all her dress, even
her stays, laid out, and tarnished finery, to be purchased by the lowest
of the low. There was a full-length picture of her when she was young
and happy; another, beautiful, by Opie or Lawrence, standing screwing up
a harp with one hand, and playing with her little daughter with the
other.


_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

8 HOLLES STREET, _March 9_.

We are comfortably settled in this good central situation. We were last
Monday at a select early party at Mrs. Hope's. The new gallery of
Flemish pictures given to Mr. Hope by his brother is beautifully
arranged.

I have had the greatest pleasure in Francis Beaufort [Footnote: Brother
of the fourth Mrs. Edgeworth.] going with us to our delightful
breakfasts at Mr. Ricardo's--they enjoy each other's conversation so
much. It has now become high fashion with blue ladies to talk Political
Economy, and make a great jabbering on the subject, while others who
have more sense, like Mrs. Marcet, hold their tongues and listen. A
gentleman answered very well the other day when asked if he would be of
the famous Political Economy Club, that he would, whenever he could find
two members of it that agree in any one point. Meantime, fine ladies
require that their daughters' governesses should teach Political
Economy. "Do you teach Political Economy?" "No, but I can learn it." "O
dear, no; if you don't teach it, you won't do for me."

Another style of governess is now the fashion,--the _ultra-French_: a
lady-governess of this party and one of the Orleans' or _liberaux_ met
and came to high words, till all was calmed by the timely display of a
ball-dress, trimmed with roses alternately red and white,--"Garniture
aux prejuges vaincus." This should have been worn by those who formerly
invented in the Revolution "Bals aux victimes."

Yesterday we breakfasted at Mrs. Somerville's, and sat in her
painting-room. Left her at one o'clock, and went by appointment to
Lansdowne House. Lady Lansdowne quite affectionate to Fanny and Harriet;
had fire and warm air in the superb new statue saloon on purpose for
them. Mrs. Kennedy,--Sir Samuel Romilly's daughter,--came in, invited to
meet us, very pleasing manners. Mrs. Nicholls,--Lady Lansdowne's
niece,--"I like that you should know all I love."

Then we went with Captain and Mrs. Beaufort to Belzoni's tomb,--the
model first, and then the tomb as large as life, painted in its proper
colours,--a very striking spectacle, but I need not describe it; the
book represents it perfectly.

Next door to the tomb are the Laplanders, the man about my size, at
work, intently, but stupidly, on making a wooden spoon. The wife was
more intelligent: a child of five years, very quiet gray eyes. In the
middle of the apartment is a pen full of reindeer,--very gentle and
ravenously eager for moss, of which there was a great basket. This moss,
which they love as well as their own, has been found in great quantities
on Bagshot Heath.

We went one night to the House of Commons: Mr. Whitbread took us there.
A garret the whole size of the room--the former chapel--now the House of
Commons; below, _kitcats_ of Gothic chapel windows stopped up appear on
each side above the floor: above, roof-beams. One lantern with one
farthing candle, in a tin candlestick, all the light. In the middle of
the garret is what seemed like a sentry-box of deal boards and old
chairs placed round it: on these we got and stood and peeped over the
top of the boards. Saw the large chandelier with lights blazing,
immediately below: a grating of iron across veiled the light so that we
could look down and beyond it: we saw half the table with the mace lying
on it and papers, and by peeping hard two figures of clerks at the
further end, but no eye could see the Speaker or his chair,--only his
feet; his voice and terrible "ORDER" was soon heard. We could see part
of the Treasury Bench and the Opposition in their places,--the tops of
their heads, profiles, and gestures perfectly. There was not any
interesting debate,--the Knightsbridge affair and the Salt Tax,--but it
was entertaining to us because we were curious to see and hear the
principal speakers on each side. We heard Lord Londonderry, Mr. Peel,
and Mr. Vansittart; and on the other side, Denman, Brougham, and
Bennett, and several hesitating country gentlemen, who seemed to be
speaking to please their constituents only. Sir John Sebright was as
much at ease as in his own drawing-room at Beechwood: Mr. Brougham we
thought the best speaker we heard, Mr. Peel next; Mr. Vansittart the
best language, and most correct English, though there was little in what
he said. The Speaker, we were told, had made this observation on Mr.
Vansittart, that he never makes a mistake in grammar. Lord Londonderry
makes the most extraordinary blunders and _mal-a-propos_. Mr. Denman
speaks well. The whole, the speaking and the interest of the scene
surpassed our expectations, and we felt proud to mark the vast
difference between the English House of Commons and the French Chambre
des Deputes. _Nevertheless_, there are disturbances in Suffolk, and Lord
Londonderry had to get up from dinner to order troops to be sent there.


_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

8 HOLLES STREET, _March, 1822_.

Your brother Francis is kind to us beyond description, and lets us take
him where we will; he dined with us at Mrs. Weddell's,--this dear old
lady copied last year in her seventy-second year a beautiful crayon
picture of Lady Dundas,--and here we met Lady Louisa Stuart, Mr. Stanley
of Alderley, and many others.

Yesterday we went the moment we had swallowed our breakfast,--N.B.
superfine green tea given to us by Mrs. Taddy,--by appointment to
Newgate. The private door opened at sight of our tickets, and the great
doors and the little doors, and the thick doors, and doors of all sorts,
were unbolted and unlocked, and on we went through dreary but clean
passages, till we came to a room where rows of empty benches fronted us.
A table on which lay a large Bible. Several ladies and gentlemen entered
and took their seats on benches at either side of the table, in silence.

Enter Mrs. Fry in a drab-coloured silk cloak, and plain borderless
Quaker cap; a most benevolent countenance,--Guido-Madonna face,--calm,
benign. "I must make an inquiry,--Is Maria Edgeworth here? and where?" I
went forward; she bade us come and sit beside her. Her first smile as
she looked upon me I can never forget.

The prisoners came in, and in an orderly manner ranged themselves on the
benches. All quite clean, faces, hair, caps, and hands. On a very low
bench in front, little children were seated and were _settled_ by their
mothers. Almost all these women, about thirty, were under sentence of
transportation, some few only were for imprisonment. One who did not
appear was under sentence of death,--frequently women when sentenced to
death become ill, and unable to attend Mrs. Fry; the others come
regularly and voluntarily.

She opened the Bible, and read in the most sweetly solemn, sedate voice
I ever heard, slowly and distinctly, without anything in the manner that
could distract attention from the matter. Sometimes she paused to
explain, which she did with great judgment, addressing the convicts,
"_we_ have felt; _we_ are convinced." They were very attentive,
unaffectedly interested I thought in all she said, and touched by her
manner. There was nothing put on in their countenances, not any
appearance of hypocrisy. I studied their countenances carefully, but I
could not see any which, without knowing to whom they belonged, I should
have decided was bad; yet Mrs. Fry assured me that all those women had
been of the worst sort. She confirmed what we have read and heard, that
it was by their love of their children that she first obtained influence
over these abandoned women. When she first took notice of one or two of
their fine children, the mothers said that if she could but save their
children from the misery they had gone through in vice, they would do
anything she bid them. And when they saw the change made in their
children by her schooling, they begged to attend themselves. I could not
have conceived that the love of their children could have remained so
strong in hearts in which every other feeling of virtue had so long been
dead. The Vicar of Wakefield's sermon in prison is, it seems, founded on
a deep and true knowledge of human nature,--"the spark of good is often
smothered, never wholly extinguished."

Mrs. Fry often says an extempore prayer; but this day she was quite
silent while she covered her face with her hands for some minutes: the
women were perfectly silent with their eyes fixed upon her, and when she
said, "you may go," they went away _slowly_. The children sat quite
still the whole time,--when one _leaned_, the mother behind set her
upright.

Mrs. Fry told us that the dividing the women into classes has been of
the greatest advantage, and putting them under the care of monitors.
There is some little pecuniary advantage attached to the office of
monitor which makes them emulous to obtain it.

We went through the female wards with Mrs. Fry, and saw the women at
various works,--knitting, rug-making, etc. They have done a great deal
of needlework very neatly, and some very ingenious. When I expressed my
foolish wonder at this to Mrs. Fry's sister, she replied, "We have to
do, recollect, ma'am, not with fools, but with rogues."

There is only one being among all those upon whom she has tried to make
salutary impression, on whom she could make none,--an old Jewess. She is
so depraved, and so odiously dirty that she cannot be purified, body or
mind; wash her and put clean clothes on, she tears and dirties them, and
swarms with vermin again in twenty-four hours. I saw her in the kitchen
where they were served with broth: a horrible spectacle, which haunted
me the whole day and night afterwards. One eye had been put out and
closed up, and the other glared with malignant passion. I asked her if
she was not happier since Mrs. Fry had come to Newgate. She made no
direct reply, but said, "It is hard to be happy in a jail; if you tasted
that _broth_ you'd find it is nothing but dishwater." I did taste it,
and found it was very good.

Far from being disappointed with the sight of what Mrs. Fry has
effected, I was delighted. We emerged again from the thick, dark, silent
walls of Newgate to the bustling city, and thence to the elegant part of
the town; and before we had time to arrange our ideas, and while the
mild Quaker face and voice, and wonderful resolution and successful
exertions of this admirable woman were fresh in our minds, morning
visitors flowed in, and common life again went on.

Three or four of these visitors were very agreeable, Sir Humphry Davy,
Major Colebrook, Lord Radstock, and Mrs. Scott,--Mrs. Scott of
Danesfield, whom and which we saw when at Lord Carrington's. The
Bellman.


_April 3_.

Fanny and Harriet have been with me at that grand exclusive paradise of
fashion, Almack's. Observe that the present Duchess of Rutland who had
been a few months away from town, and had offended the Lady Patronesses
by not visiting them, could not at her utmost need get a ticket from any
one of them, and was kept out to her amazing mortification. This may
give you some idea of the importance attached to admission to Almack's.
Kind Mrs. Hope got tickets for us from Lady Gwydyr and Lady Cowper; the
Patronesses can only give tickets to those whom they _personally know_;
on that plea they avoided the Duchess of Rutland's application, she had
not visited them,--"they really did not know her Grace;" and Lady Cowper
swallowed a camel for me, because she did not really know me; I had met
her, but had never been introduced to her till I saw her at Almack's.
Fanny and Harriet were beautifully dressed: their heads by Lady
Lansdowne's hairdresser, Trichot: Mrs. Hope lent Harriet a wreath of her
own French roses. Fanny was said by many to be, if not the prettiest,
the most elegant looking young woman in the room, and certainly
"elegance, birth, and fortune were there assembled," as the newspapers
would truly say.

Towards the close of the evening Captain Waldegrave came to me with Mr.
Bootle Wilbraham, who has been alternately Wilbraham Bootle and Bootle
Wilbraham, till nobody knows how to call him: no matter for me, he came
to say he was at our service and our most devoted humble servant to show
us the Millbank Penitentiary whenever we pleased. He is a grand man, and
presently returned with a grander,--the Marquis of Londonderry, who by
his own account had been dying some time with impatience to be
introduced to us; talked much of _Castle Rackrent_, etc., and of
Ireland. Of course I thought his manner and voice very agreeable. He is
much fatter and much less solemn than when I saw him in the Irish House
of Commons. He introduced us to jolly fat Lady Londonderry, who was
vastly gracious, and invited us to one of the four grand parties which
she gives every season: _and_ it surprised me very much to perceive the
rapidity with which a minister's having talked to a person spread
through the room. Everybody I met afterwards that night and the next day
_observed_ to me that they had seen Lord Londonderry talking to me for a
great while!

We had a crowded party at Lady Londonderry's, but they had no elbows.


_April 4_.

I recollect that I left off yesterday in the midst of a well-bred crowd
at Lady Londonderry's,--her Marchioness-ship standing at her
drawing-room door all in scarlet for three hours, receiving the world
with smiles; and how it happened that her fat legs did not sink under
her I cannot tell. The chief, I may say the only satisfaction we had at
Lady Londonderry's, while we won our way from room to room, nodding to
heads, or touching hands, as we passed,--besides the prodigious
satisfaction of feeling ourselves at such a height of fashion, etc.--was
in meeting Mr. Bankes, and Lady Charlotte, and Mr. Lemon behind the door
of one of the rooms, and proceeding in the tide along with them into an
inner sanctuary, in which we had cool air and a sight of the great
Sevres china vase, which was presented by the King of France to Lord
Londonderry at the signing of the peace. Much agreeable conversation
from this travelled Mr. Bankes. We heard from Lady Charlotte that her
entertaining sister, Lady Harriet Frampton, had just arrived, and when I
expressed our wish to become acquainted with her, Mr. Bankes exclaimed,
"She is so eager to know you that she would willingly have come to you
in worsted stockings, just as she alighted from her travelling carriage,
with sandwiches in one pocket and letters and gloves stuffing out the
other."

Enter Mr. and Mrs. Hope. Mr. Hope, characteristically curious in vases,
turned me round to a famous malachite vase which was given by the
Emperor of Russia to Lord Londonderry--square, upon a pedestal high as
my little table; and another, a present of I forget who. So, you see, he
has a congress of vases, _en desire-t-il mieux_?

Many, many dinners and evening parties have rolled over one another, and
are swept out of my memory by the tide of the last fortnight: one at
Lady Lansdowne's, and one at Mrs. Hope's, and I will go on to one at
Miss White's. Mr. Henry Fox, Lord Holland's son, is lame. I sat between
him and young Mr. Ord, Fanny between Mr. Milman (the Martyr of Antioch)
and Sir Humphry Davy (the Martyr of Matrimony), Harriet between Dr.
Holland and young Ord: Mr. Moore (Canterbury) and old-ish Ord completed
this select dinner. In the evening the principal personages were Lord
James Stuart and Mrs. Siddons: she was exceedingly entertaining, told
anecdotes, repeated some passages from _Jane Shore_ beautifully, and
invited us to a private evening party at her house.

We have become very intimate with Wollaston and Kater, Mr. Warburton,
and Dr. and Mrs. Somerville: they and Dr. and Mrs. Marcet form the most
agreeable as well as scientific society in London. We have been to
Greenwich Observatory. You remember Mr. and Mrs. Pond? I liked him for
the candour and modesty with which he spoke of the parallax dispute
between him and Dr. Brinkley, of whom he and all the scientific world
here speak with the highest reverence.

We went yesterday with Lord Radstock to the Millbank Penitentiary, where
by appointment we were met by Mr. Wilbraham Bootle. We had the pleasure
of taking with us Alicia and Captain Beaufort. Solitary confinement for
the worst offences: solitary confinement in _darkness_ at first. There
are many young offenders; the governors say they are horrid plagues, for
they are not allowed to flog them, and they are little influenced by
darkness and solitary confinement: oldish men much afraid of it. The
disease most common in this prison is scrofula; and it is a curious fact
that those who work with their arms at the mills are free from it, those
who work with their feet at the tread-mills are subject to it.

Adieu. I must here break off, as Mrs. Primate Stuart has come in, and
left me no time for more. The Primate has recovered, and has set out
this day with his son for Winchester, to see some haunts of his youth,
takes a trip to Bath, and returns in a few days, when I hope we shall
see him.

_April 6_.

I left off in the Millbank Penitentiary, but what more I was going to
say I cannot recollect; so, my dear mother, you must go without that
wisdom. All that I know now is that I saw a woman who is under sentence
of death for having poisoned her sister. She appeared to me to be
insane; but it is said that it is a frequent attempt of the prisoners to
sham madness, in order to get to Bedlam, from which they can get out
when _cured_. One woman deceived all the medical people, clergyman,
jailer, and turnkeys, was removed to Bedlam as incurably mad, and from
Bedlam made her escape. I saw a girl of about eighteen, who had been
educated at Miss Hesketh's school, and had been put to service in a
friend's family. She was in love with a footman who was turned away: the
old housekeeper refused the girl permission to go out the night this man
was turned away: the girl went straight to a drawer in the housekeeper's
room, where she had seen a letter with money in it, took it, and put a
coal into the drawer, to set the house on fire! For this she was
committed, tried, convicted, and would have been hanged, but for Sir
Thomas Hesketh's intercession: he had her sent to the Penitentiary for
ten years. Would you not think that virtue and feeling were extinct in
this girl? No: the task-mistress took us into the cell, where she was
working in company with two other women; she has earned by her constant
good conduct the privilege of working in company. One of the Miss
Wilbrahams, when all the other visitors except myself had left the cell,
turned back and said, "I think I saw you once when I was with Miss
Hesketh at her school." The girl blushed, her face gave way, and she
burst into an agony of tears, without being able to answer one word.

Yesterday we breakfasted at Mrs. Somerville's, and I put on for her a
blue crape turban, to show her how Fanny's was put on, with which she
had fallen in love. We dined at Mrs. Hughan's, [Footnote: Jean, daughter
of Robert Milligan, Esq., of Cotswold, Gloucestershire.] niece to Joanna
Baillie: select party for Sir William Pepys, who is eighty-two, a most
agreeable, lively old gentleman, who tells delightful anecdotes of Mrs.
Montague, Sir Joshua, Burke, and Dr. Johnson. Mrs. Montague once
whispered to Sir William, on seeing a very awkward man coming into the
room, "There is a man who would give one of his hands to know what to do
with the other." Excellent house of Mrs. Hughan's, full of flowers and
luxuries. In the evening many people; the Baillies, and a Miss Jardine,
granddaughter of Bruce, the traveller. We carried Sir William off with
us at half-past nine to Mrs. Somerville's, and after we had been gone
half an hour, Mr. Pepys, a _young_ man between forty and fifty, arrived,
and putting his glass up to his eye, spied about for his uncle,
discovered that he was gone, and could not tell how or where! Miss
Milligan, sister to Mrs. Hughan, told him Miss Edgeworth had carried him
off. His own carriage arrived at eleven, and carried Mr. Pepys, by
private orders, not knowing where he was going, to Mrs. Somerville's. We
had brought Sir William there to hear Mrs. Kater sing and play Handel's
music, of which he is passionately fond. It was worth while to bring him
to hear her singing, he so exceedengly enjoyed it, and so does
Wollaston, who sits as mute as a mouse and as still as the statue of a
philosopher charmed.

I forgot to tell you that Lady Elizabeth Belgrave, [Footnote: Daughter
of the first Duke of Sutherland] as pretty and winning as ever, came to
see us with Lady Stafford; and yesterday, the third time of calling at
her door, I was told by a pimpled, red-blotched door-holder that "her
ladyship was not at home," but after he had turned the card to another
form out of livery, he said, "My lady is at home to you, ma'am." So up
we went, and she was very entertaining, with fresh observations from
Paris, and much humour. She said she was sure there was some peculiar
charm in the sound of the clinking of their swords in walking up and
down the gallery of the Tuileries, which the old stupid ones pace every
day for hours. She says she has met with much grateful attention from
the royal family, and many of the French whom she had formerly known,
but cannot give entertainments, because they have not the means. The
Count d'Artois apologised; he has no separate dinner--always dined with
the King, and "_very_ sorry for it." Lady Stafford asked us all to
dinner, but we were engaged to Mr. Morritt. She is to ask again after
our return from the Deepdene, where we spend Monday and Tuesday with the
dear Hopes.


_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

8 HOLLES STREET, _April 10, 1822._

The great variety of society in London, and the solidity of the sense
and information to be gathered from conversation, strike me as far
superior to Parisian society. We know, I think, six different and
totally independent sets, of scientific, literary, political, travelled,
artist, and the fine fashionable, of various shades; and the different
styles of conversation are very entertaining.

Through Lydia White we have become more acquainted with Mrs. Siddons
than I ever expected to be. She gave us the history of her first acting
of _Lady Macbeth_, and of her resolving, in the sleep scene, to lay down
the candlestick, contrary to the precedent of Mrs. Pritchard and all the
traditions, before she began to wash her hands and say, "Out, vile
spot!" Sheridan knocked violently at her door during the five minutes
she had desired to have entirely to herself, to compose her spirits
before the play began. He burst in, and prophesied that she would ruin
herself for ever if she persevered in this resolution _to lay down the
candlestick!_ She persisted, however, in her determination, succeeded,
was applauded, and Sheridan begged her pardon. She described well the
awe she felt, and the power of the excitement given to her by the sight
of Burke, Fox, Sheridan, and Sir Joshua Reynolds in the pit. She invited
us to a private reading-party at her own house: present only her
daughter, a very pretty young lady, a Mrs. Wilkinson, Mr. Burney, Dr.
Holland, Lydia White, Mr. Harness and ourselves. She read one of her
finest parts, and that best suited to a private room--Queen Katherine.
She was dressed so as to do well for the two parts she was to perform
this night, of gentlewoman and queen--black velvet, with black velvet
cap and feathers. She sat the whole time, and with a large Shakespear
before her; as she knew the part of Katherine by heart, she seldom
required the help of glasses, and she recited it incomparably well: the
changes of her countenance were striking. From her first burst of
indignation when she objects to the Cardinal as her judge, to her last
expiring scene, was all so perfectly natural and so touching, we could
give no applause but tears. Mrs. Siddons is beautiful even at this
moment. Some who had seen her on the stage in this part assured me that
it had a much greater effect upon them in a private room, because they
were near enough to see the changes of her countenance, and to hear the
pathos of her half-suppressed voice. Some one said that, in the dying
scene, her very pillow seemed sick.

She spoke afterwards of the different parts which she had liked and
disliked to act; and when she mentioned the characters and scenes she
had found easy or difficult, it was curious to observe that the feelings
of the actress and the sentiments and reasons of the best critics meet.
Whatever was not natural, or inconsistent with the main part of the
character, she found she never could act well.

We spent three days at Easter at the Deepdene; the company there were
Mr. C. Moore, Mr. Philip Henry Hope, Mr. and Miss Burrowes, Mr. Harness,
Lord Fincastle, Lady Clare, and Lady Isabella Fitzgibbon, and Lord
Archibald Hamilton. Deepdene is beautiful at this time of the year--the
hawthorn hedges, the tender green of the larch and the sycamore in full
leaf.


To MRS. EDGEWORTH.

HOLIES STREET, _April 20._

We are going at two o'clock, and it is now half-past one, to a private
view of Sir John Swinburne's pictures, and we are to dine nine miles out
of town, at Flasket House, with Mrs. Fry.

Barry Fox came yesterday to Grove House, and looked much like a
gentleman, as he is, and seemed pleased with his cousins, as well he
might be.

I wish, my dearest mother, you would write a note to Dr. Holland in your
next; he has been so kind and sympathising. [Footnote: On the death of
Miss Edgeworth's beloved "aunt", Mrs. Charlotte Sneyd of
Edgeworthstown.] Miss Bessy Holland has come to stay some weeks with her
brother--good for her, and for us; she is very amiable. I find a card
from Jeffrey was left here while we were at Grove House.

Just returned from water--colour pictures; some of Prout's of old towns
abroad, like Chester; met there--not at Chester--Lord Grey, Wilkie,
Mulready, Lord Radstock, and the Miss Waldegraves, and Lady Stafford,
who has more ready and good five minutes' conversation than anybody I
know. She says the French have lost all their national recollections; in
travelling through France she asked for various places famous in
history, of which they had lost all memory.

Carriage at the door, and I have not begun to dress!


_April 24._

The day before yesterday we saw Mrs. Tuite at Lady Sunderlin's. They
have an admirable house. Miss Kitty Malone sees, and is most grateful
for it.

Mrs. Fry's place at Flasket is beautiful, and she is delightful at home
or at Newgate.

Paid a visit to Lady Derby; full as agreeable as when we saw her, half
as fat, and twice as old; asked most kindly for you, and received your
daughters with gracious grace.

Monday, went with Mr. Cohen and Mr. Cockerell to St. Paul's; he showed
us his renovations done in excellent taste. Dined at Miss White's with
Mr. Luttrell, Mr. Hallam, Mr. Sharpe, and Mr. and Mrs. Stewart
Nicholson; she is Lady Davy's half-sister. Most agreeable conversation;
no dinners more agreeable than Lydia White's. Poor creature! how she can
go through it I cannot imagine, she is dying. It is dreadful to look at
her!

In the evening at Miss Stable's, Anna's friend; met there Mrs. Cunliffe,
who was Miss Crewe, very agreeable and, though not regularly handsome,
very pleasing in countenance and person.

Tuesday, spent a happy hour at the Museum. We dined at Mrs. Marcet's,
with only herself and children. Then to an "at home," at Mrs. Ricardo's,
merely for ten minutes to see the famous Mr. Hume. Don't like him much;
attacks all things and persons, never listens, has no judgment.


_May 3._

Since Harriet last wrote we have been to Harrow to hear the speeches of
the first class of boys, our future orators. It was a very interesting
scene, attended by many ladies, as well as gentlemen. Two of the
speeches were from _Henry IV.,_ one the crown tried on, well repeated.
The situation of the school is beautiful, the lawn laid out with great
taste; the master, Dr. Butler, a very well-informed agreeable man, with
a picturesque head. We had a very elegant collation, and I sat beside a
very agreeable thin old nobleman of the old school, Lord Clarendon. Upon
the whole, after hearing the speeches and recitations of these youths, I
said to myself, how much better my father taught to read and recite than
any of these masters can.


_May 10._

The sudden death of the Primate [Footnote: Hon. William Stuart,
Archbishop of Armagh, fifth son of the third Earl of Bute; he married
Sophia, daughter of Thomas Penn of Stoke Poges.] and the horrible
circumstances attending it have incapacitated me from any more
home-writing at this moment. Mrs. Stuart gave him the medicine; he had
twice asked for his draught, and when she saw the servant come in she
ran down, seized the bottle and poured it out without looking at the
label, which was most distinct "for external application." When dying,
and when struggling under the power of the opium, he called for a pencil
and wrote these words for a comfort to his wife: "I could not have lived
long, my dear love, at all events."


_May 22._

I enclose a note from Lady Louisa Stuart, the Primate's sister; it is
most touching, especially the account of the feelings of his
parishioners.

We have been at the Caledonian ball--Harriet has written a description
of it to Pakenham; and also to a very pleasant dance at Mrs. Shaw
Lefevre's, [Footnote: Daughter of Lady Elizabeth Whitbread, married to
Charles Shaw Lefevre, afterwards Viscount Eversley.] where Fanny and
Harriet had good partners.

I have subscribed L10 to the Irish poor subscription. Spring Rice, whom
I very much like, tells me he has been touched to the heart by the
generous eagerness with which the English merchants and city people have
contributed to this fund. A very large sum is already at his disposal,
and he has wisely considered that if this money be not judiciously
applied it will do more harm than good. He has done me the honour to
consult me about his plan, of which I enclose a copy.

At Captain Kater's breakfast yesterday we met Greenough, Captain
Beaufort, Warburton, and young Herschel, a man of great
abilities,[Footnote: Afterwards Sir John Herschel, the famous astronomer
and philosopher.] to whom Sir Humphry Davy paid an elegant compliment
the other day in a speech as President to the Royal Society. "His father
must rejoice in such a son, who secures to him a double immortality."

Just received yours of the 17th. Curious that you should have been
saying to me the same thing I was saying to you about the Irish
subscriptions. Poor Peggy Mulheeran! her letter is most pathetic. Fanny
and Harriet are at this moment dining at dear Mrs. Lushington's, and I
am going alone to a dinner at _Lydia's,_ to meet Sidney Smith--_they_
come in the evening. We met Lady Byron lately at Mrs. Lushington's.
Dinner at Lord and Lady Darnley's--all manner of attention. Greenough
has been most kind; admirable collection of fossils--taking out all his
thousand drawers for us. Bellman.


_May 28._

In the hurried life we have led for some weeks past, and among the great
variety of illustrious and foolish people we have seen pass in rapid
panoramas before us, some remain for ever fixed in the memory, and some
few touch the heart. We have just breakfasted with Spring Rice and Lady
Theodosia. She has a placid, amiable, and winning countenance--pretty
curly-haired children, such as you or Sir Joshua would paint.

At this breakfast were Mr. Rice's sister, Lady Hunt, a charming woman.
Mr. Grant, our late secretary, with sense, goodness, and indolence in
his countenance, and Mr. Randolph, the American, very tall and thin, as
if a stick instead of shoulders stretched out his coat; his hair tied
behind with a black ribbon, but not pigtailed, it flows from the ribbon,
like old Steele's, with a curl at the end, mixed brown and gray; his
face wrinkled like a peach-stone, but all pliable, muscles moving with
every sensation of a feeling soul and lively imagination; quick dark
eyes, with an indefinable expression of acquired habitual sedateness, in
despite of nature; his tone of voice mild and repressed, yet in this
voice he speaks thoughts that breathe and words that burn; he is one of
the most eloquent men I ever heard speak, and there is a novelty in his
view of things, and in his new world of allusions, in art and nature,
which is highly interesting.

Besides the pleasure we should naturally have taken in his conversation,
we have been doubly pleased by his gratifying attention to ourselves,
and, my dearest mother, still more by the manner in which he
distinguished your Francis,[Footnote: Her half-brother, son of Mrs.
Edgeworth.] who was with us. Spring Rice told us that Mr. Abercromby,
who had met him at Joanna Baillie's, told him he was one of the finest
and most promising boys he had ever seen.

Do, for heaven's sake, some good soul or body, write forthwith to Black
Castle, and learn whether Aunt Ruxton likes the gown I sent her--gray
cloth. If not, I will get her another.


FROGNEL, HAMPSTEAD, _June 3._

A few lines ever so short and hurried are better than none. We gave up
our house and paid all our bills on Saturday; left London and came to
Frognel [Footnote: To Mr. Carr's]--delicious Frognel! Hay-making--profusion
of flowers--rhododendrons as fine as four of mine, flowering down to the
grass. All our friends with open arms on steps in the verandah to receive
us.

A large party of Southebys, etc., including Mrs. Tuite, put by for
future description. Second day: Wollaston, Dr. and Miss Holland. Harriet
sat beside Wollaston at dinner, and he talked unusually, veiling for her
the terror of his beak and lightning of his eye. He has indeed been very
kind and amiable in distinguishing your daughters as worth speaking to.

To-day I came to town with Mrs. Carr, and my sisters, and the Miss
Carrs, and they went to a Prison Discipline meeting to hear Macintosh
speak; but I was not able to go, and have done worlds of business since.

We have changed our plans a little: going to Portsmouth first, and to
Slough on our return; we were to have gone by Slough, but the Prince of
Denmark and the King going to Ascot took up all horses and beds, so we
were obliged to go the other road.


51 MANCHESTER STREET, LONDON,

_June 10_.

We have accomplished, much to our satisfaction, our long-intended
journey to Portsmouth. On Tuesday, at nine o'clock in the morning, we
found ourselves according to appointment, in our own dear carriage, at
your brother's door, and he and Francis seated themselves on the
barouche seat. The weather was bronzing and melting hot, but your
brother would insist on being bronzed and melted there during the heat
of the day, in a stoical style disdaining a parasol, though why it
should be more unmanly to use a parasol than a parapluie I cannot, for
the sense of me, understand.

Lady Grey, wife of the commissioner--he is away--ordered all the works
and dockyard to be open to us, and the Government boat to attend upon
us; saw the _Nelson_--just finished; and went over the _Phaeton_, and
your brother showed us his midshipman's berth and his lieutenant's
cabin. And now for the Block machinery, you will say, but it is
impossible to describe this in a letter of moderate or immoderate size.
I will only say that the ingenuity and successful performance far
surpassed my expectations. Machinery so perfect appears to act with the
happy certainty of instinct and the foresight of reason combined.

We took a barge to the Isle of Wight--charming day. You take a sociable,
and the _Felicity-hunter_ goes in it as far as the horses can take him.
It was the most gratifying thing to me to see "Uncle Francis" and all of
them so happy. We slept at Steephill; and in the morning went to see
Carisbrook Castle. Dined at Portsmouth with Sir James and Lady Lyon.

But oh, my dear mother, at the little pretty flowery-lawned inn where we
dined on our way to Slough, as your brother was reading the newspaper,
he came to the death of our dear Mr. Smith, of Easton Grey. At Sir
Benjamin Hobhouse's, a few months ago, he was the gayest of the gay, and
she the fondest and happiest of wives.

At Slough we saw the great telescope--never used now. Drove to
Windsor--building and terrace equal to my expectations. At night the
clouds were so good as to disperse, and we saw a double star.

       *       *       *       *       *

Miss Edgeworth's wonderful conversational powers, combined with her
homely aspect, and perfectly unassuming manners, made a great impression
upon many of those who met her in London. Ticknor says of Maria
Edgeworth: "There was a life and spirit about her conversation, she
threw herself into it with such _abandon_, she retorted with such
brilliant repartee, and, in short, she talked with such extraordinary
flow of natural talent, that I don't know whether anything of the kind
could be finer."

On 27th June Miss Edgeworth returned with her half-sisters to
Edgeworthstown, taking up the thread of her domestic affairs as if there
had been no interruption, and she immediately set to work on the sequel
to _Harry and Lucy_.

       *       *       *       *       *

MARIA _to_ MRS. RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _July 23, 1822_.

Honora is staying at Lough Glyn with Mr. and Mrs. Strickland; they are
making judicious and incessant exertions for the relief of the poor and
the improvement of the people in their neighbourhood. It is very
extraordinary that, in the part of the County of Monaghan to which Mr.
Strickland went last week for flax seed for the poor tenants in his
neighbourhood, he found that there is plenty of everything--no distress
felt. The famine seems to have been as capricious as the malaria in
passing over some places and settling upon others. Here we go on in our
parish without having recourse to public subscription.



_August 7_.

We have just returned, all of us, from walking two miles on the
Mullingar road, in hopes of meeting Francis, who was expected in a
chaise from Mullingar, as the coach _sleeps_ there. Just as we had
reached the hall door by moonlight, in despair, we heard a doubtful
noise, which none but a maternal ear--a very nice ear on some
occasions--could judge whether of cart or chaise: it was a chaise, with
Francis in it; and here he is, one of the most agreeable and happy boys
I ever saw.

I have written to Walter Scott, claiming his promise of coming here; but
I doubt his being in Ireland: I agree with you that his play is very
stupid. Joanna Baillie [Footnote: Halidon Hill] suggested the subject,
and he wrote it as a contribution to a miscellany formed of
_voluntaries_ from all the poets and wits of the day, to make a fund for
some widowed friend of hers in great distress. He wrote it with good
intentions; but, as Madame de Stael says, "Les bons intentions ne sont
pour rien dans les ouvrages d'esprit."

Never read _The Lollards_ if it falls in your way, unless you like to
see John Huss burned over again. What pleasure have people in such
horrid subjects?

You ask me what I am doing besides _Early Lessons_, and if I have made
any progress in "Travellers." [Footnote: A tale she had thought of
writing, but she never even made a sketch of it.] Do you think, my
dearest aunt, that I can write _Early Lessons_ with my left hand and
"Travellers" with my right? You have too good an opinion of my
dexterity. I assure you it is all I can do to satisfy myself tolerably
as I go on with this sequel to _Harry and Lucy_, which engages all my
attention. I am particularly anxious to finish that _well_, as it was
my dear father's own and _first_ book. As it must be more scientific
than the other _Early Lessons_, it is more difficult to me, who have so
little knowledge on those subjects, and am obliged to go so warily, lest
I should teach error, or pretend to teach what I do not know. I have
written about fifty pages. I fear you will not like it as well as you
were so kind as to like _Frank_. I could never be easy writing anything
else for my own amusement till I have done this, which I know my father
wished to have finished. You will see in Dr. Holland's letter some
admirable hints for "Travellers," and I expect many more, from you, dear
aunt: we will talk it over in the days of October. How many things we
have talked over together! _Rackrent_ especially, which you first
suggested to me, and encouraged me to go on with.

_August 10_.

My dear aunt, I know how you must have been shocked when you heard of
the manner of Lord Londonderry's death. As Dr. Holland says, "If we were
to have looked from one end of the British Empire to the other, we could
not have pitched on an individual that seemed less likely to commit
suicide."

Whitbread, Sir Samuel Romilly, Lord Londonderry--all to perish in the
same manner!

_Sept. 10_.

In this frank you will receive a copy of a very interesting letter from
Fanny Stewart. The post and steam vessels bring the most distant parts
of the world now so much within our reach that friends cannot be much
more separated by being at "Nova Zembla, or the LORD knows where," than
by being in different counties of the same kingdom. There is Fanny
Stewart dining with Sneyd's friends, the Bishop of Quebec's family; and
young Mountain was in Switzerland when we were at Interlachen with Sneyd
and Henrica, and the year before at Ardbraccan and Edgeworthstown.
Things are odd till they pair off, and so become even. Sneyd and
Henrica, who were at Geneva, have been invited to the Baron Polier's,
near Lausanne, the brother of Madame de Montolieu, whom I told you of.
Madame Polier was the intimate friend of an intimate friend of
Henrica's, Miss French, of Derby, who has married a Cambridge friend of
Sneyd's, Mr. Smedley, and they are now on a visit at the said Madame
Polier's--a Derbyshire party in the heart of Switzerland, and by various
connections _felted_ together!

When Honora is on the sofa beside you, make her give you an account of
Francis's play, _Catiline_, which he and Fanny, and Harriet and Sophy,
and James Moilliet and Pakenham _got up_ without our being in the
secret, and acted the night before last, as it were impromptu, to our
inexpressible surprise and pleasure. Francis, during his holidays with
us in London, used to be often scribbling something; but I never
inquired or guessed what it was. Fanny and Harriet, in the midst of the
hurry of London dissipation, and of writing all manner of notes, etc.,
for me, and letters home innumerable, contrived to copy out fair for him
all his scraps; and when put together they made a goodly tragedy in two
acts, wonderfully well written for his age--some parts, for any age,
excellent.

After tea the library became empty suddenly of all the young people. My
aunt Mary, my brother Lovell, and I remaining with Quin, who had dined
here, talking on, never missed them; and the surprise was as great as
heart could wish when my mother put into our hands the play-bills, and
invited us to follow her to her dressing-room.


  CATILINE,

  A Tragedy, in Two Acts.

  Catiline (in love with Aurelia)    Francis.
  Cato (father of Aurelia)           Pakenham.
  Cicero (in love with Aurelia)      Harriet.
  Caesar                             Moilliet.
  Aurelia (daughter of Cato)         Sophy.
  Julia (wife to Cato)               Fanny.

We found Lucy on her sofa, with her feet towards the green-house; a
half-circle of chairs for the audience, with their backs touching the
wardrobe--candlestick-footlights, well shaded with square sofa-cushions
standing on end.

Prologue spoken by Harriet; curtain drew back, and Catiline and Aurelia
appeared. Fanny had dressed Francis, from Kennet's _Antiquities_, out of
an old rag-chest, and a more complete little Roman figure I never saw,
though made up no mortal can tell how, like one of your own doings, dear
aunt, with a crown of ilex leaves. Aurelia was perfectly draped in my
French crimson shawl; she looked extremely classical and pretty, and her
voice was so sweet, and her looks alternately so indignant to Catiline
and so soft when she spoke of the man she loved, that I do not wonder
Catiline was so desperately enamoured.

Pakenham was wonderful: he had received no instructions. They had
determined to leave him to himself, and see what would come of it. He
had brought down an old wig from the garret, and Catiline and Cato could
not settle which it became best or worst; so Catiline wore his ilex
crown, and Pakenham a scarlet cap and black velvet cloak, his eyebrows
and chin darkened, a most solemn, stern countenance, a roll of white
paper in his hand, the figure immovable, as if cut in stone: the soul of
Cato seemed to have got into him. I never heard any actor speak better,
nor did I ever see a part better sustained; it seemed as if one saw Cato
through a diminishing glass. In one scene he interrupts Cicero, who is
going off into a fine simile--"Enough: the tale." He said these three
words so well, with such severity of tone, and such a piercing look,
that I see and hear him still. His voice was as firm as a man's, and his
self-possession absolute. He had his part so perfectly, that he was as
independent of the prompter as of all the rest of the world.

Moilliet recited and played his part of Caesar wondrous well. You may
think how well Pakenham and all of them must have acted, when we could
stand the ridicule of Pakenham's Cato opposite to Moilliet's Caesar. One
of James Moilliet's eyes would have contained all the eyes of Cato,
Catiline, and Cicero. Fanny, as Julia, was beautiful.


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 _a-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 L500 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."

The next day we took a beautiful walk to the territory and near the
residence of Lochiel, through a wood where groups of clansmen and
clanswomen were barking trees that had been cut down; and the faggoting
and piling the bark was as picturesque as heart could wish.

This day's journey was through fine wild Highland scenery, where rocks
and fragments of rocks were tumbled upon each other, as if by giants in
a passion, and now and then by giants playing at bowls with huge round
bowls. These roads--some of them for which we "lift up our eyes and
bless Marshal Wade," and some made by Telford, the vast superiority in
the laying out of which William has had the pleasure of pointing out to
his sisters--beautifully wind over hill and through valley, by the sides
of streams and lakes. We saw the eight locks joining together on the
Caledonian Canal, called Neptune's Stairs; and at another place on the
canal William, who had been asleep, _instinctively_ wakened just in time
to see a dredging machine at work: we stopped the carriage, and walked
down to look at it: took a boat and rowed round the vessel, and went on
board and saw the machinery. A steam-engine works an endless chain of
buckets round and round upon a platform with rollers. The buckets have
steel mouthpieces, some with quite sharp projecting lips, which cut into
the sand and gravelly bottom, and scoop up what fills each bucket. At
the bottom of each are cullender holes, through which the water drains
off as the buckets go on and pass over the platform and empty themselves
on an inclined plane, down which the contents fall into a boat, which
rows away when full, and deposits the contents wherever wanted. If you
ever looked at a book at Edgeworthstown called _Machines Approuves_, you
would have the image of this machine. It brought my father's drawings of
the Rhone machine before my eyes.

The whole day's drive was delightful--mountains behind mountains as far
as the eye could reach, in every shade, from darkest to palest
Indian-ink cloud colour; an ocean of mountains, with perpetually
changing foreground of rocks, sometimes bare as ever they were born,
sometimes wooded better than ever the hand of mortal taste clothed a
mountain in reality or in picture, with oak, aspen, and the beautiful
pendant birch.

At Fort Augustus the house was painting, and the beds looked wretched;
but all was made plausible with the help of fires and fair words, and we
slept as well, or better, than kings and queens. As to any real
inconvenience at Highland inns, we have met with none; always good fish,
good eggs, good butter, and good humour.

Next day we had another delightful drive: saw the Fall of Foyers: fine
scrambling up and down to a rock, and on this rock such huge tumbledown
stones, like Druids' temples, half-fallen, half-suspended. The breath
was almost taken away and head dizzy looking at them above and the depth
below; one could hardly believe we stood safe. Yet here we are safe and
sound at Inverness, the Capital of the North, as Scott calls it. This
Bennet's Hotel, where we are lodged, is as good as any in London or
Edinburgh, and cleaner than almost any I ever was in, with a waiter the
perfection of intelligence. We are going to see a place called the
Dream, the name translated from the Gaelic.

I forgot to tell you that, when at Edinburgh, we went to see Sir James
and Lady Foulis's friends, the Jardines, who were also friends of
Henry's. They are in a very pretty house, Laverock Bank, a few miles
from Edinburgh. We "felicity hunters" have found more felicity than such
hunters usually meet with.


_To_ MISS LUCY EDGEWORTH.

KINROSS, _July 23, 1823_.

I left off in my yesterday's letter to my mother just as we were
changing horses at Dunkeld, at six o'clock in the evening, to go on to
Perth; but I had in that note arrived prematurely at Dunkeld, and had
not time to fill up the history of our day. Be pleased, therefore, to go
back to Moulinan, and see us eat luncheon; for, in spite of Mr. Grant's
contempt of these _bon-vivant_ details, habit will not allow me to
depart from my Swiss, Parisian, and English practice of giving the bill
of fare.

First course, cold: two roast chickens, better never were; a ham, finer
never seen, even at my mother's luncheons; pickled salmon, and cold
boiled round.

Second course, hot: a large dish of little trout from the river; new
potatoes, and, as I had professed to be unable to venture on new
potatoes, a dish of mashed potatoes for me; fresh greens, with toast
over, and poached eggs.

Then, a custard pudding, a gooseberry tart, and plenty of Highland
cream--_highly_ superior to Lowland--and butter, ditto.

And for all this how much did we pay? Six shillings.

Our drive in evening sunshine from Moulinan to Dunkeld was delightful,
along the banks, no longer of the dear little, sparkling, foaming,
fretting Garry, but of the broad, majestic, quiet, dark bottle-green
coloured Tay; the road a perfect gravel walk; the bank, all the way down
between us and the river, copsewood, with now and then a clump of fine
tall larch, or a single ash or oak, with spreading branches showing the
water beneath; the mountain side chiefly oak and alder, a tree which I
scarcely knew till Sophy _mentioned_ it to me; sometimes the wood broken
with glades of fern, heath, and young _stubble_ oaks, all the way up to
white rocks on the summit; the young shoots of these stubble oaks tinted
with pink, so as to have in the evening sun the appearance of autumn
rich tints; and between these oaks and the green fern and broom a giant
race of foxglove, which I verily believe, from the root to the spike,
would measure four good feet, all rich in bells of brightest crimson, so
bright that they crimsoned the whole bank.

All these ten miles of wooded road run, I understand, through the
territory of the Duke of Athol. Now I see his possessions, I am sure I
do not wonder the lady left her lack-gold lover in the lurch for
"Athol's duke." Along the whole road he has raised a footpath,
beautifully gravelled. Oh! how I wish our walks had one inch off the
surface of this footpath, or that the African magician, or the English
equally potent magician of steam, could convey to my mother's _elbow_ in
the Dingle one yard of one bank of the gravel which here wastes its
pebbles on the mountain side! How in a trice she would summon round her
her choice spirits, Briny Duffy, Micky Mulheeran, and Mackin, and how
they would with shovel and loy fall to!

Through the wood at continual openings we saw glimpses of beautiful
paths or gravelled walks, which this munificent duke has made through
his woods for the accommodation of the public. I forgive him for being
like an over-ripe Orleans plum, and for not saying a word, good or bad,
the day we met him at Mr. Morrit's.

At Dunkeld, alas! we bade adieu to the dear Highlands. I have not time
now to tell you of Killiecrankie and Dundee's Stone.

Arrived at Perth at nine o'clock: tea, with silver urn and silver
candlesticks, and all luxurious: cold chicken, ham, and marmalade
inclusive.

The drive from Perth this morning to Kinross is beautiful, but in a more
civilised and less romantic way than our Highland scenery. We are now
within view of Lochleven, Queen Mary's island.

During this morning's drive, Sophy sang "In April, when primroses blow"
most charmingly. Her singing was much admired in Edinburgh by Sir Walter
Scott, etc., but still more at Mrs. Macpherson's. One day, she sang
several of Moore's melodies, and some Scotch songs. Mrs. Macpherson, who
is excessively fond of music, was so charmed, she told me afterwards she
never heard a voice she thought so sweet and clear, and unaffected. She
rejoiced to hear it without music, or any accompaniment that could drown
it, or spoil its distinct simplicity. She observed what a charm there is
in her distinct pronunciation of the words, in her just emphasis, and in
her never forgetting the words, or keeping you in any anxiety for her,
or requiring to be pressed. "How delightful," said she, "to have such an
accomplishment, such a power to please always with her, without
requiring instruments, or music-books, or any preparation." I was afraid
her singing of Scotch might not suit the Scotch, and she never ventured
it till we were at Mrs. Macpherson's, who was quite charmed with it.
Indeed, her soft voice is very different from the screeching some
songstresses make, with vast execution. I am particularly full of the
pleasure of Sophy's singing at present, because I felt so much delight
from it when I was just recovering from my illness. I did not think it
was in the nature of my body or soul to feel so much pleasure from
singing or music; but the fact is as I tell you. After three nights of
pulse at ninety-six and delirium, in which I one night saw the arches of
Roslin Chapel, with roses of such brilliant light crowning them that I
shut my eyes to avoid the blaze; and another night was haunted with the
words "a soldier [Footnote: Miss Edgeworth had been reading Stewart's
_History of Highland Regiments_ the day before she was taken ill with an
attack of erysipelas.] of the forty-second has lost his portmanteau,"
and continual marching and countermarching, and rummaging of Highland
officers and privates in search of it, and an officer laughing at me and
saying, "Don't you know this is a common Highland saying, A soldier of
the forty-second has lost his portmanteau? It means"--but he never could
or would tell me what it meant, when another officer said, "Madam, there
is a Lowland saying to match it"; and this also I could never hear.
Another night the words of a song called the "Banks of Aberfeldy"
crossed my imagination, and a fat, rubicund man stood before me,
continually telling me that he was "John Aberfeldy, the happy." I cannot
tell you how this John Aberfeldy tormented me. After these three
horrible nights, when I awoke with my tongue so parched I could not
speak till a spoonful of lemon-juice was inserted, I asked Sophy to
sing, and she directly sang, "Dear harp of my country." I never shall
forget the sort of pleasure; it soothed, it "rapt my" _willing_ not my
"_imprisoned_ soul in elysium," and I was so happy to feel I could again
follow a rational chain of ideas, and comprehend the words of the
beautiful poetry, to which music added such a charm and force. She sang,
"Believe me, if all those endearing young charms," and "Farewell, but
whenever you welcome the hour," and "Oh, Nanny, wilt thou gang wi' me?"
and "Vive Henri Quatre!" which I love for the sake of Mrs. Henry
Hamilton, and for the sake of Lady Longford's saying to me, with a
mother's pride and joy in her enthusiastic eyes, "My Caroline will sing
to me at any time, in any inn, or anywhere." I am sure I may say the
same of my sister Sophy, who will sing for me at an inn by my sick bed,
and with more power of voice than all the stimulus of company and
flattery can draw from other young ladies. I never wish to hear a fine
singer; I always agree with Dr. Johnson in wishing that the difficulties
had been impossibilities, with all their falsettos and tortures of
affectation to which they put themselves. How I hate them, and all the
aimings at true Italian pronunciation and true Italian manner, which
after all is, nine times out of ten, quite erroneous, and such as the
Italians themselves would laugh at, or most probably no more comprehend
than I did De Leuze repeating the "Botanic Garden": I was just going to
ask what language it was, when my mother, good at need, saved me from
the irreparable blunder by whispering, "It is English." The words were,
I believe, all right, but the accents were all thrown wrong. As Lady
Spencer said, "It is wonderful that foreigners never _by accident_
throw the accents right." Milton says:

  For eloquence the soul, song moves the sense;

but if he had heard Moore's poetry sung by Sophy, he would have
acknowledged that song moved not only the sense, but the soul.

I have dilated upon this to you, my dear Lucy, because you have at times
felt the same about Sophy's singing. During my illness, day and night,
whenever pain and delirium allowed me rational thought, you and your
admirable patience recurred to my mind. I said to myself, "How can she
bear it so well, and in her young days, the spring-time of life? how
admirable is her resignation and cheerfulness! never a cross word, or
cross look, or impatient gesture, and for four years; when I, with all
my strength of experience and added philosophy from education, moan and
groan aloud, and can scarce bear ten days' illness, with two really
angel sisters to nurse me, and watch my 'asking eye'!" You have at least
the reward of my perfect esteem and admiration, after comparison with
myself, the only true standard by which I can estimate your worth.

       *       *       *       *       *

Miss Edgeworth and her sisters spent a most happy fortnight with Sir
Walter Scott and his family. "Never," writes his son-in-law, "did I see
a brighter day at Abbotsford than that on which Miss Edgeworth first
arrived there: never can I forget her look and accent when she was
received by him at his archway, and exclaimed: 'Everything about you is
exactly what one ought to have had wit enough to dream!'"

Sir Walter delighted in Miss Sophy Edgeworth's singing, especially of
Moore's Irish melodies. "Moore's the man for songs," he said. "Campbell
can write an ode, and I can make a ballad; but Moore beats us all at a
song." Sir Walter was then at the height of his fame and "in the glory
of his prime," surrounded by his family; both his sons were at home, and
his daughter Anne; and he had then staying with him his nephew, "Little
Walter." Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart were living at Chiefswood, but they were
continually at Abbotsford, or some of the party were continually at
Chiefswood; and Sir Walter's joyous manner and life of mind, his looks
of fond pride in his children, the pleasantness of his easy manners, the
gay walks, the evening conversations, and the drives in the sociable,
enchanted Miss Edgeworth. In these drives the flow of story, poetry,
wit, and wisdom never ceased; Sir Walter sitting with his dog Spicer on
his lap, and Lady Scott with her dog Ourisk on her lap.

Lady Scott one day expressed her surprise that Scott and Miss Edgeworth
had not met when the latter was in Edinburgh in 1803. "Why," said Sir
Walter, with one of his queer looks, "you forget, my dear, Miss
Edgeworth was not a lion then, and my mane, you know, was not grown at
all." [Footnote: _Life of George Ticknor_.]

       *       *       *       *       *

MARIA _to_ MISS HONORA EDGEWORTH.

ABBOTSFORD, _July 31, 1823_.

I take a pen merely to say that I will not write! I have so much to say,
that I dare not trust myself, as I am still so far from strong, I must
not venture to play tricks with that health which it cost my dear, kind
nurses so much to preserve. I am as careful of myself as any creature
can be without becoming an absolute, selfish egotist. Lady Scott is
really so watchful and careful of me, that even when my own family
guardian angels are not on either or both sides of me, I can do no
wrong, and can come to no harm.

It is quite delightful to see Scott in his family in the country:
breakfast, dinner, supper, the same flow of kindness, fondness, and
genius, far, far surpassing his works, his letters, and all my hopes and
imagination. His castle of Abbotsford is magnificent, but I forget it in
thinking of him.


_To_ MR. RUXTON.

ABBOTSFORD, _Aug. 9, 1823_.

I remember that you requested one of our party to write a few lines from
Abbotsford. I think I mentioned to my aunt or Sophy the impression which
I first experienced from Sir Walter Scott's great simplicity of manner,
joined to his wonderful superiority of intellect. This impression has
been strengthened by all I have seen of him since. In living with him in
the country, I have particularly liked his behaviour towards his variety
of guests, of all ranks, who come to his hospitable castle. Many of
these are artists, painters, architects, mechanists, antiquarians,
people who look up to him for patronage--none of them permitted to be
hangers on or parasites; his manners perfectly kind and courteous, yet
such as to command respect; and I never heard any one attempt to flatter
him. I never saw an author less of an author in his habits. This I early
observed, but have been the more struck with it the longer I have been
with him. He has, indeed, such variety of occupations, that he has not
time to think of his own works: how he has time to write them is the
wonder. You would like him for his love of trees; a great part of his
time out of doors is taken up in pruning his trees. I have within this
hour heard a gentleman say to him, "You have had a good deal of
experience in planting, Sir Walter; do you advise much thinning, or
not?"--"I should advise much thinning, but little at a time. If you thin
much at a time, you let in the wind, and hurt your trees."

I hope to show you a sketch of Abbotsford Sophy has made--better than
any description. Besides the Abbey of Melrose, we have seen many
interesting places in this neighbourhood. To-day we have been a
delightful drive through Ettrick Forest, and to the ruins of Newark--the
hall of Newark, where the ladies bent their necks of snow to hear the
Lay of the Last Minstrel. Though great part of Ettrick Forest was cut
down years ago, yet much of it has grown up again to respectable height,
and many most beautiful oak, ash, and alder trees remain. We had a happy
walk by the river, and after refreshing ourselves with a luncheon in a
summer-house beautifully situated, we went to look at the ruins of
Newark. It was a pity that this fine old building was let to go to ruin,
which it has done only within the last seventy years. The late Duke and
Duchess of Buccleuch, to whom it belonged, had in their youth lived
abroad, and were so ignorant about their own estate in Scotland, that
when they first came to live here they supposed there were no trees, and
no wood they thought could be had, and brought with them, among other
things, a barrel full of skewers for the cook.

It is very agreeable to observe how many friends of long standing Scott
has in this neighbourhood: they have been here, and we have been at
their houses: very good houses, and the style of living excellent.
Except one Prussian prince and one Swiss baron, no grand foreign
visitors have been here; indeed, this house is in such a state of
painting and papering, and carpenters finishing new rooms and chasing
the inhabitants out of the old, that it was impossible to have much
company.

Sir Walter's eldest son was here for some days--now gone back to
Sandhurst; he is excessively shy, very handsome, not at all literary,
but he has sense and honourable principle, and is very grateful to those
who were kind to him in Ireland. His younger brother, Charles, who is
now at home, has more easy manners, is more conversible, and has more of
his father's literary taste. I am sorry to say we are to leave
Abbotsford the day after to-morrow; but the longer we stay the more
sorry we shall feel to go. We had intended to have paid a visit to Lady
Selkirk at St. Mary's Isle, but this would be a hundred miles out of our
way, and I have no time for it, which I regret, as I liked very much the
little I saw of Lady Selkirk in London.

       *       *       *       *       *

After visits at Glasgow and Dalwharran, Miss Edgeworth and her sisters
returned to Ireland.

       *       *       *       *       *

_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Nov. 20, 1823_.

It is a long time since I have written to you, always waiting a day
longer for somebody's coming or going, or sailing or landing. You ask
what I am doing: nothing, but reading and idling, and paving a gutter
and yard to Honora's pig-stye, and school-house. What have I been
reading? The "Siege of Valencia," by Mrs. Hemans, which is an hour too
long, but it contains some of the most beautiful poetry I have read for
years. I have read Quin's letters from Spain, entertaining; the review
of it in the _Quarterly_ is by Blanco White. Dr. Holland's letters
continue to be as full of information and interest as ever, though he is
a married man. Tell Sophy that the subject of electricity and
electro-magnetism is every day affording new facts, and all the
philosophers on the Continent are busy about it. Sir Humphry Davy had a
narrow escape of breaking his neck by a fall down stairs, but he is not
hurt, _tout an contraire_. I had a letter, written in very good English,
the other day from M. de Stael; he is now in London, and tells me the
French and the Holy Alliance are tyrannising sadly at Geneva, and have
ordered all the Italian patriots who had taken refuge there to decamp.
There is one of these, Count Somebody or other, whose name I cannot
persuade myself to get up to look for, whom M. de Stael wishes I would
take by the hand in London, and what I am to do with him when I have him
by the hand I don't know.

I had a letter from Walter Scott, who has been delighted with the
history of Caraboo, [Footnote: Caraboo is alluded to in _St. Roman's
Well_, published in the autumn of this year. Sir Walter had never heard
of her till Miss Edgeworth told her history to him at Abbotsford.] which
I sent to him: a pamphlet published at the time. He says that nobody
with a reasonable head could attempt to calculate the extent of popular
credulity, and observes that she, like all the great cheats who have
imposed upon mankind, was touched with insanity, half knave, half mad,
at last the dupe of her own acting of enthusiasm.

Prince Hohenlohe and the pamphlets, pro and con, occupy us much.
Crampton's second edition of his I think excellent. Some very curious
facts have been brought out of the effect of the imagination upon the
bodily health. And while Scott is writing novels to entertain the world,
and the philosophers in France trying experiments on electro-magnetism,
Davy tumbling down stairs, and Denham and Co. in Africa looking for the
Niger, here is all London rushing out to look at the cottage in which a
swindler lived who murdered another swindler, and buying bits of the
sack in which the dead body was put! Have your newspapers given what we
have had in the _Morning Chronicle_? views of Roberts's cottage and the
pond with Thurtell and Hunt dragging the body out of it? Shakespear
understood John Bull right well, and always gave him plenty of murders
and dead bodies. I am glad there are no Irishmen in this base as well as
savage gang.


_To_ MISS RUXTON.

PAKENHAM HALL, _Jan. 21_.

We, my mother, Lovell, Fanny, and I, came here yesterday, glad to see
Lord Longford surrounded by his friends in old Pakenham Hall hospitable
style,--he always cordial, unaffected, and agreeable. The house has been
completely new-modelled, chimneys taken down from top to bottom, rooms
turned about from lengthways to broad-ways, thrown into one another, and
out of one another, and the result is that there is a comfortable
excellent drawing-room, dining-room, and library, and the bedchambers
are admirable. Mrs. Smyth, of Gaybrook, and her daughter are here, and
Mr. Knox; and I have been so lucky as to be seated next to him at dinner
yesterday, and at breakfast this morning; he is very agreeable when he
speaks, and when he is silent it is "silence that speaks."

Lady Longford [Footnote: Georgiana, daughter of the first Earl
Beauchamp.] has been very attentive to us. She has the finest and most
happy open-faced children I ever saw--not the least troublesome, yet
perfectly free and at their case with the company and with their
parents.

A box will be left in Dublin for you on Monday morning. There is no
telling you how happy I have been getting ready and packing and fussing
about the said box for you, flying about the house from the library to
the garret. And all for what? When Sophy, whom I beg to be the unpacker,
opens it, you will see a certain dabbed-up crooked pasteboard tray in
which are four frills for you: I hemmed every inch of them myself, to
give them the only value they could have in your eyes.



_To_ MRS. BANNATYNE.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Feb. 16, 1824_.

My dear Mr. and Mrs. Bannatyne--my dear Mrs. Starke and Miss Bannatyne,
and Andrew and Dugald, and all of you kind friends, put your heads close
together to hear a piece of intelligence which will, I know, rejoice
your kind hearts.

_Our_ dear Sophy and _your_ dear Sophy is going to be married to a
person whom her mother, and every one of her own family completely
approve, who has been tenderly attached to her for some time, whose
principles, understanding, manners, and honourable manly character are
such as to deserve such a wife as I may proudly say he will have in
Sophy. His birth, family connections, and fortune are all such as we
could wish. The gentleman is a cousin of our own Captain Barry Fox; he
is an officer, but will probably leave the army, and settle in his own
country; we hope within reach of us. He has been so kind and considerate
about poor Lucy, so anxious not to deprive her too suddenly of her
beloved, and best of nurses, that he has endeared himself the more to us
all.


_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? Ingenieur des Ponts et Chaussees
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 _fete champetre_.

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 L5 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 L5 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."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Taking for Granted" was laid aside by Miss Edgeworth for ten years
after this. When Mr. Ticknor was at Edgeworthstown in 1835, he says:

       *       *       *       *       *

Miss Edgeworth was anxious to know what instances I had ever witnessed
of persons suffering from "taking for granted" what proved false, and
desired me quite earnestly, and many times, to write to her about it;
"for," she added, "you would be surprised if you knew how much I pick up
in this way." "The story," she said, "must begin lightly, and the early
instances of mistake might be comic, but it must end tragically." I told
her I was sorry for this. "Well," said she, "I can't help it, it must be
so. The best I can do for you is, to leave it quite uncertain whether it
is possible the man who is to be my victim can ever be happy again or
not."

       *       *       *       *       *

On her father's death, Miss Edgeworth had resigned the management of his
estates to their new owner, her half-brother Lovell, but, in the
universal difficulties which affected the money market in 1826, she was
induced to resume her post, acting in everything as her brother's agent,
but taking the entire responsibility. By consummate care and prudence
she weathered the storm which swamped so many in this financial crisis.
The great difficulty was paying everybody when rents were not to be had;
but she undertook the whole, borrowing money in small sums, paying off
encumbrances, and repaying the borrowed money as the times improved;
thus enabling her brother to keep the land which so many proprietors
were then obliged to sell, and yet never distressing the tenants.

The second part of _Harry and Lucy_ was published this year, having been
written at various intervals since 1813. Like its predecessor, it had as
its object to induce children to become their own instructors.

       *       *       *       *       *

MARIA _to_ MRS. RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Jan. 27, 1826_.

These last three weeks I have had multitudes of letters to write, but
not one of them have I written with the least pleasure, except that sort
of pleasure which we have in doing what we think a duty. Lovell has put
the management of his affairs into my hands, and the receiving of his
rents; and this is, except one letter which I wrote to the author of
_Granby_, as soon as we had finished that delightful book, the only
letter of pleasure in which I have indulged myself.


SONNA, _April 6_.

Most grateful am I, my dearest aunt, for your wonderful preservation
after such a terrible fall! Often and often as I have gone down those
three steep stairs have I feared that some accident would occur. Thank
GOD that you are safe! I really have but this one idea. We have had
agreeable letters from Harriet E. and Sophy Fox, who are very happy at
Cloona: the accounts of their little daily employments and pleasures are
the most cheering thoughts I can call up at this moment. Happy in the
garden looking at crocuses, contriving new beds, etc.; happy in the
house, when Harriet reads out, while Sophy works, _Granby_ at night and
Peel's and Robinson's speeches by day.


_May 27_.

You have seen in the papers the death of Lady Scott. In Sir Walter's
last letter he had described her sufferings from water on the chest, but
we had no idea the danger was so immediate. She was a most kind-hearted,
hospitable person, and had much more sense and more knowledge of
character and discrimination than many of those who ridiculed her. I
know I never can forget her kindness to me when I was ill at Abbotsford.
Her last words at parting were, "GOD bless you! we shall never meet
again." At the time it was much more likely that I should have died, I
thought, than she. Sir Walter said he had been interrupted in his letter
by many domestic distresses. The first two pages had been begun two
months ago, and were in answer to a letter of mine inquiring about the
truth of his losses, etc. Of these he spoke with cheerful fortitude, but
with no bravado. He said that his losses had been great, but that he had
enough left to live on; that he had had many gratifying offers of
assistance, but that what he had done foolishly he would bear manfully;
that he would take it all upon his own shoulders, and that he had great
comfort in knowing that Lady Scott was not a person who cared about
money, and that "Beatrice," as he calls Anne Scott, bore her altered
prospects with cheerfulness. "She is of a very generous disposition, and
poor Janie proffered her whole fortune as if it had been a gooseberry."

After writing this much the letter appeared to have been thrown aside
and forgotten to be sent, till he was roused again by a letter from me
about poor Mr. Jephson. The domestic distresses which had interrupted
the course of his thoughts were, the illness of his dear little grandson
Lockhart, one of the finest and most engaging children I ever saw; and
then Lady Scott's illness and death. He says that the letters of Malachy
Malagrowther cost him but a day apiece.


_July 10_.

Sir Humphry Davy has been with us since Thursday, and his visit has been
delightful; he has always been kind and constant in his friendship to
us. I had expressed a great wish to see the "Discourses" which he
annually addressed to the Royal Society, as President, on the
presentation of the medals. He has been urged to publish them, but to
this he has never yet consented. I had the courage--indeed, I thought at
the time the rashness--to ask him to let me see the MS. of one which I
was particularly anxious to see, as it related to Dr. Brinkley: Sir
Humphry was so very kind to have a copy made for me of _all_ his
Discourses. I found them fully equal to my expectations, quite worthy of
the genius and reputation of Sir Humphry Davy, and becoming the
President of the Royal Society of England; giving a complete view of the
discoveries and progress of science in England within the last six
years, compressed into the smallest compass compatible with clearness,
written with all the dignity of perfect simplicity and candour, like one
sensible to national glory, but free from national jealousy; whose great
object as a philosopher is the general advancement of science over the
whole world, and whose great pleasure is in conferring well-earned
praise. His addresses to those to whom he presents the medals are
NOBLE--always appreciating the past with generous satisfaction, yet
continually exciting to future exertion. In each new discovery he opens
views beyond what the discoverer had foreseen, and from each new
invention shows how fresh combinations present themselves, so that in
the world of science there must be room enough for the exertions of all:
the best and truest moral against envy, and all those petty jealousies
which have disgraced scientific as well as literary men.

Travelling, and his increased acquaintance with the world, has enlarged
the _range_ without lowering the _pitch_ of Sir Humphry's mind--an
allusion I have borrowed from an entertaining essay on training hawks
sent to me by Sir John Sebright. Do you know that there is at this
moment a gentleman in Ireland, near Belfast, who trains hawks and goes
a-hawking--a Mr. Sinclair?

Sir Humphry repeated to us a remarkable criticism of Buonaparte's on
Talma's acting: "You don't play Nero well; you gesticulate too much; you
speak with too much vehemence. A despot does not need all that; he need
only _pronounce. Il sait qu'il se suffit_." "And," added Talma, who told
this to Sir Humphry, "Buonaparte, as he said this, folded his arms in
his well-known manner, and stood as if his attitude expressed the
sentiment."

Sir Humphry thinks that, of all of royal race he has seen, legitimate or
illegitimate, _noble par l'epee_, or noble by "just hereditary sway,"
the late Emperor of Russia was the most really noble-minded and the
least ostentatious. A vast number of his munificent gifts to men of
letters are known only to those by whom they were received. He has
frequently sent tokens of approbation to scientific men in various
foreign countries for inventions in arts and sciences which he had found
useful in his dominions. A _caisse_ arrived from Russia for Sir Humphry,
which he thought were some mineralogical specimens which had been
promised to him; but on opening it there appeared a superb piece of
plate, with a letter from the Emperor of Russia presenting it to him, as
a mark of gratitude for the safety lamp. The design on the plate, the
Emperor adds, was his own: it represents the genius of fire, with his
bow and arrows broken.

Among other good things which Sir Humphry accomplished in his travels
was the abolition of the _corda_, of ancient use in Naples,--an
instrument of torture by which the criminal was hung up by a cord tied
round his joined wrists, and then pulled down and let fall from a
height, dislocating his wrists to a certainty, and giving a chance of
breaking his arms and legs. This instrument chanced to be set up near
the hotel where Sir Humphry and Lady Davy resided: they could not bear
the sight, and changed their lodgings. The next time Sir Humphry was at
Court the King asked why he had changed his residence. Sir Humphry
explained, and expressed himself so strongly, that he awakened dormant
Royal feeling, and this instrument of torture was abolished. Sir Humphry
had previously represented to our Queen Caroline, then at Naples, that
here was an opportunity of doing good, and of rendering herself
deservedly popular. She was struck with the idea at the time, but forgot
it; and then Sir Humphry took it up, and with the assistance of the
public opinion of all the English, it was accomplished.

Yesterday, when I came down to breakfast, I found Sir Humphry with a
countenance radiant with pleasure, and eager to tell me that Captain
Parry is to be sent out upon a new Polar expedition.


_August 14_.

This day, my dearest aunt, our wishes have been accomplished--the
sacred, awful vow has been pronounced, and Harriet and Mr. Butler drove
from the church door to Cloona. [Footnote: Harriet, second daughter of
the fourth Mrs. Edgeworth, married the Rev. Richard Butler, Rector of
Trim, and afterwards Dean of Clonmacnoise.]

Lucy bore the trials of the day wonderfully well. She was at the
wedding, and much agitated when it came to the conclusion and the
parting; but there was, fortunately, something to be done immediately
afterwards--Sophy's [Footnote: Mrs. Barry Fox.] child to be christened;
a very nice, pretty little child it is--Maxwell.

William Beaufort alarmed us by a sudden illness on Saturday: however, he
was able to appear today and perform both ceremonies, and does not seem
to have suffered by the double exertion.


_To_ MISS HONORA EDGEWORTH.

BLACK CASTLE, _Sept. 3, 1826_.

Thank you for wishing to be with me, but I am sure it will be better for
you to be at the sea. Here, though I am obliged to think of actual
business between-times, I have every motive and means for diversion for
myself, both on my own account and on my aunt's. We run in and out, and
laugh and talk nonsense; and every little thing amuses us together: the
cat, the dog, the hog, Mr. Barry, or a _parachute_ blown from the
dandelion.


_Nov. 19_.

Bess Fitzherbert has written an entertaining letter to Mrs. Barry, in
which she mentions one of the dishes they had just had at dinner at
Pozzo, between Modena and Bologna: cold boiled eels, with preserved
pears, a toothpick or skewer stuck in each to take them up by, instead
of a fork. My aunt's friend, Madame Boschi, near Bologna, offered to
send a garden-chair drawn by bullocks for Bess, the road not being
passable for _common cattle_.


_To_ C.S. EDGEWORTH.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Dec. 26, 1826_.

I send your account, and have done my best. I have not read _Boyne
Water_, but have got Lindley Murray's _Memoir_, and thank you for
mentioning it. Harriet and Mr. Butler come to-morrow. Sophy Fox and
Barry, and their beautiful and amiable little Maxwell, are here. How you
will like that child, and make it see "upper air!" How long since those
times when you used to show its mother and Harriet upper air! Do you
remember how you used to do it to frighten me, and how I used to shut my
eyes when you threw them up, and you used to call to me to look? Ah! _le
bon temps!_ But we are all very happy now, and it is delightful to hear
a child's voice cooing, or even crying again in this house. Never did
infant cry less than Maxwell: in short, it is the most charming little
animal I ever saw. "Animal yourself, sir!" [Footnote: Mr. Edgeworth,
admiring a baby in a nurse's arms, called it "a fine little animal." To
which the nurse indignantly replied, "Animal yourself, sir!"]

Pakenham ornamented the library yesterday with holly, and crowned
plaster-of-Paris Sappho with laurels, and Mrs. Hope's picture with
myrtle (i.e. box), and perched a great stuffed owl in an ivy bush on the
top of a great screen which shades the sofa by the fire from the window
at its back. I am excessively happy to be at home again, after my four
months' absence at Black Castle.


_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Dec. 28, 1826_.

After spending four months with you, it is most delightful to me to
receive from you such assurances that I have been a pleasure and a
comfort to you. I often think of William's most just and characteristic
expression, that you have given him a desire to live to advanced age, by
showing him how much happiness can be felt and conferred in age, where
the affections and intellectual faculties are preserved in all their
vivacity. In you there is a peculiar habit of allowing constantly for
the _compensating_ good qualities of all connected with you, and never
unjustly expecting impossible perfections. This, which I have so often
admired in you, I have often determined to imitate; and in this my
sixtieth year, to commence in a few days, I will, I am resolved, make
great progress. "Rosamond at sixty," says Margaret.

We are all a very happy party here, and I wish you could see at this
moment sitting opposite to me on sofa and in arm-chair the mother and
daughter and grand-child.


_To_ MRS. BANNATYNE.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Feb. 26, 1827_.

By some strange chance I was taken away from home just after the time
when Colonel Stewart's pamphlet on India, which you were so kind as to
send me, arrived; in short, I never read it till a few days ago. I am in
admiration of it; it is beautifully written, with such clearness, lucid
order, simplicity, dignity, strength, and eloquence--eloquence resulting
from strong feeling. The views of its vast subject are comprehensive and
masterly; the policy sound, both theoretically and practically
considered; the morality as sound as the policy, indeed no policy can be
sound unless joined with morality. The sensibility and philanthropy that
not only breathe but live and act in this book are of the true, manly,
enduring sort--not the affected, sickly, spurious kind, which is
displayed only for the trick of the poet or orator. It is a book which a
good and wise man must ever rejoice in having written, and which will be
satisfactory to him even to the last moment of his life.

Have you seen the _Tales of the O'Hara Family_--the second series? They
are of unequal value; one called the "Nowlans" is a work of great
genius. Another book has much amused us, Captain Head's _Rough
Sketches_, most animated and masterly sketches of his journey across the
Pampas. There is much information and much good political economy
condensed in his three chapters on speculators.


_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _March 4, 1827_.

I went with Pakenham to meet my mother at Castle Pollard, and we had
such a nice long talk in the carriage coming back, our tongues never
intermitting one single second, I believe. I am glad you liked my
graceful gentleman-like bear, and his graceful gentleman-like Italian
leader. [Footnote: A travelling showman and bear.] We have had a
succession of actors and actresses, as I may call them, personating
beggars, all at the last gasp of distress; so perfect, too, was one
Englishwoman that she set at defiance all the combined ingenuity of the
Library in cross-questioning her, and after writing a long letter for
her to a Rev. Mr. Strainer, of Athlone, I was quite at a loss to decide
whether she was a cheat or not, when one of the Longford police officers
chanced to dine with us, I mentioned her, and out came the truth; she
had imposed on him and every one at Longford, and had borrowed a child
to pass for her own. We sent for our distressed lady, who was very "sick
and weak with a huge blister on her chest," and low voice and delicate
motions. Oh! if you had seen her when the police officer came into the
room and charged her with the borrowed child. Her countenance, voice,
and motions all at once changed; her voice went up at once to
_scold-pitch_, and turning round on her chair she faced the chief; but
words in writing cannot do justice to the scene. I must act it for you.

We are now reading the _Voyage of the "Blonde" to the Sandwich Islands_,
with the remains of the King and the Queen. [Footnote: King Kamehameha
II., of the Sandwich Islands, and his Queen, who died of the measles in
John Street, Adelphi, in 1824.] Pray get this book, it will delight you.
Of the _Blonde_, you know the present Lord Byron is commander--the name
strikes the ear continually--new fame, new associations; reverting, too,
to the old Commodore Byron's sort of fame. How curious, how fleeting
"this life in other's breath!"

A little box of curiosities from my most amiable American Jewess my
mother presented to me this morning at the breakfast table: I was in an
ecstasy, but shortlived was my joy, for I was thunderstruck the next
instant by my mother's catching my arm and stopping my hand with the
vehement exclamation, "Stop, stop, child, you don't know what you are
doing."--"No, indeed, ma'am, I don't--what _am_ I doing?" She took the
_wreath_ of cotton wool from my passive hand and showed me, wrapped up in
it, a humming-bird, luckily unhurt, unsquelched. The humming-bird's nest
is more beautiful than the creature itself. Poor Lord Liverpool--no one
can wish his existence prolonged.

  The painful family of death
  More hideous than their queen.


_April 8_.

I am quite well and in high good-humour and good spirits in consequence
of having received the whole of Lovell's half-year's rents in full, with
pleasure to the tenants, and without the least fatigue or anxiety to
myself.

We are reading the second part of _Vivian Grey_, which we like better
than the first. There is a scene of gamesters and swindlers wonderfully
well done. I know who wrote _Almack's_. Lady de Ros tells me it is by
Mrs. Purvis, sister to Lady Blessington; this accounts for both the
knowledge of high, and the habits of low, life which appear in the book.
"Poor dear Almack's," Lady de Ros says, is not what it was--when people
were poor in London, and there were few private balls, Almack's was all
in all. Her sailor son is going to publish a Journal of a Tour,
including the United States and Niagara.


_To_ C.S. EDGEWORTH.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _April 12, 1827_.

Now I have done all my agent business, I will tell you what Mr. Hope, in
a letter I had from him this morning, says of _Almack's_. "It might have
been a pretty thing, but I think it but a poor one. Of all slangs, that
of fashion is easiest overdone. People do not _hold forth_ about what is
with them a matter of course. Willis, or his waiters, might have
furnished all the characteristic materials. The author ever and anon
makes up for want of wit by stringing together common French milliner
phrases, which have no merit but that of being exotics in England. The
point consists in his _italics_. Besides, he only describes the
proceedings, not the spirit of the institution of Almack's. It was
rather a bold thing in London to put FEASTING out of fashion, and to
make a seven-shilling ball the thing to which all aspired to be
admitted, and many without the least hope of succeeding. It was the
triumph of aristocracy over mere wealth. It put down the Grimes's of
former days, with their nectarines and peaches at Christmas, and in so
far it improved society."

All this is very true, but I do not think he does justice to the author.
I particularly like the dialogue in the third volume, where Lady Anne
Norbury debits and credits her hopes of happiness with her two admirers:
no waiting-maid could have written that. In the second volume, also, I
think there is a scene between Lord and Lady Norbury in their
dressing-room, about getting rid of their guests and making room for
others, which is nicely touched: the Lord and Lady are politely
unfeeling; it is all kept within bounds.

Mr. Hope begs me to read _Truckleborough Hall_. Of late novels he says
it is that which has amused him most. "Both sides of the political
question are reviewed most impartially; both quizzed a little, and the
reader left in doubt to which the author leans. The transition in the
hero from rank Radicalism to a seat on the Treasury Bench, while
persuading himself all the time that he remains consistent, is
exceedingly well managed. Interest in the story there is none, because
the subject admits not of it. Like the high-finished Dutch pictures,
mere truth, well and minutely told, makes all its merit."

Then follows a sentence so complimentary to myself that I cannot copy
it, and perhaps you have had enough. I trust you will give me credit,
dear Harriet and Sneyd, for copying for you other people's letters, when
I have nothing in my own but stupid pounds, shillings, and pence.

In a letter from my friend Mr. Ralston, from Philadelphia, he tells me
that seven volumes of Sir Walter Scott's _Life of Napoleon_ have been
already printed there, and reviewed in the _North American Review_.
Scott sends his MS. at the same time to London and to America. I tremble
for this publication. Anne Scott writes to Harriet that her father is so
busy writing, that she scarcely sees anything of him, though they are
alone together at Abbotsford. Lockhart is much admired in London for his
beauty.


_To_ CAPTAIN BASIL HALL [Footnote: Who had lent a volume of his London
_Journal_ to Miss Edgeworth to read.]

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _April 25, 1827_.

I really cannot express to you how much you have gratified me by the
proof of confidence you have given me. No degree of praise or admiration
could flatter me so much: confidence implies something much higher--real
esteem for the character. I thank you; you shall not find your
confidence misplaced. I trust you will not think I have gone beyond your
permission in considering my own family now with me--viz. Mrs.
Edgeworth, my sisters, and my brother--as myself. The _Journal_ was read
aloud in our library: not a line or a word of it has been copied; and
though some passages have, I know, sunk indelibly into the memories of
those present, you may rest perfectly secure that they will never _go
out_ beyond ourselves. No vanity will ever tempt any one of us to boast
of what we have been allowed to read; we shall strictly adhere to your
terms, and never mention or allude to the book. It is delightful, most
interesting, and entertaining. You may, perhaps, imagine, by conceiving
yourself in my place, remote in the middle of Ireland, _how_
entertaining and interesting it must be to be thus suddenly transported
into the midst of the best company in London, scientific, political, and
fashionable; and not merely into the midst of them, but behind the
scenes with you, and after seeing and hearing and knowing your private
opinion of all. Considering all this, and further, that numbers of the
persons you mention in your _Journal_ we were well acquainted with when
we were in London, you may, perhaps, comprehend how much pleasure, of
various kinds, we enjoyed while we read on.

The first page I opened upon was the character of Captain Beaufort. Do
not shrink at the notion of his most intimate friend, or his sister Mrs.
Edgeworth, or his nieces Fanny and Sophy, having seen this character.
You need not: we all agree that it does him perfect justice.

Your manner of mentioning Lydia White was quite touching, as well as
just. She was all you say of her, and her house and society were the
most agreeable of the sort in London, since the time of Lady Crewe.
Lydia White, besides being our kind friend, was a near connection of
ours by the marriage of her nephew to a cousin of ours; and we have had
means of knowing her solid good qualities, as well as those brilliant
talents which charmed in society. You may guess, then, how much we were
pleased by all you said of her. Of all the people who ever sold
themselves to the world, I never knew one who was so well paid as Lydia
White, or any one but herself who did not, sooner or later, repent the
bargain; but she had strength of mind never to expect more than the
world can give, and the world in return behaved to the last remarkably
well to her.

All you say of the ill-managed dinner of wits and scientific men I have
often felt. There must be a mixture of nonsense with sense, or it will
not amalgamate: all wits and no fools, all actors and no audience, make
dinners dull things. The same men in their boots, as you say, are quite
other people. "Two or three ladies, too"--we were delighted with your
finding them useful as well as agreeable on such occasions.

Your account of Sidney Smith's conversation is excellent, and the manner
in which you took his criticism showed how well you deserved it. He will
be your friend in all the future, and I do not know any man whom I
should wish more to make my friend: supereminent talents and an
excellent heart, which in my opinion almost always go together. His
remarks on the views you should take of America, to work out your own
purpose in softening national animosities, are excellent; also all he
says of American egotism and nationality. But I should be as ready to
forgive vanity in a nation as in an individual, and to make it turn to
good account. I have always remarked that little and envious minds are
the most acute in detecting vanity in others, and the most intolerant of
it. Having nothing to be proud or vain of, they cannot endure that
others should enjoy a self-complacency they cannot have.

There is a sentence in one of Burke's letters, which, as far as England
is concerned, might do for a motto for your intended travels: "America
and we are no longer under the same crown; but if we are united by
mutual goodwill and reciprocal good offices, perhaps it may do almost as
well."

Will you, my dear sir, trust me with more of your _Journals_? I think
you must see, by the freedom of this letter, that you have truly pleased
and obliged me: I have no other plea to offer. It is a common one in
this country of mine--common, perhaps, to human nature in all places as
well as Ireland--to expect that, when you have done much, you will do
more; and you will, won't you? If I could get your little Eliza to say
this in a coaxing voice for us, we should be sure of your compliance.


_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _May 10, 1827_.

I get up every morning at seven o'clock, and walk out, and find that
this does me a vast deal of good. After three-quarters of an hour's
walk, [Footnote: Miss Edgeworth continued her early walks for many
years. A lady who lodged in the village used to be roused by her maid in
the morning with "Miss Edgeworth's walking, ma'am; it's eight o'clock."]
I come in to the delight of hearing Fanny read the oddest book I ever
heard--a Chinese novel translated into French; a sort of Chinese
_Truckleborough Hall_; politicians and courtiers, with mixture of love
and flowers, and court intrigue, and challenging each other to make
verses upon all occasions.

My garden is beautiful, and my mother is weeding it for me at this
moment. A seedswoman of Philadelphia, to whom Mr. Ralston applied to
purchase some seeds for me, as soon as she heard the name, refused to
take any payment for a parcel of forty different kinds of seeds. She
said she knew my father, as she came from Longford: her name was Hughes.


_To_ MISS RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Sept. 26_.

The day before yesterday we were amusing ourselves by telling who, among
literary and scientific people, we should wish to come here next day.
Francis said Coleridge; I said Herschel. Yesterday morning, as I was
returning from my morning walk at half-past eight, I saw a bonnet-less
maid on the walk, with letter in hand, in search of me. When I opened
the letter, I found it was from Mr. Herschel! and that he was waiting
for an answer at Mr. Briggs's inn. I have seldom been so agreeably
surprised; and now that he has spent twenty-four hours here, and that he
is gone, I am confirmed in my opinion; and if the fairy were to ask me
the question again, I should more eagerly say, "Mr. Herschel, ma'am, if
you please." It was really very kind of him to travel all night in the
mail, as he did, to spend a few hours here. He is not only a man of the
first scientific genius, but his conversation is full of information on
all subjects, and he has a taste for humour and playful nonsense, though
with a melancholy exterior.

His companion, Mr. Babbage, and he, saw the Giant's Causeway on a stormy
day, when the foamy waves beat high against the rocks, and added to the
sublimity of the scene. Then he went from the great sublime of Nature to
the sublime of Art. He arrived at the place where Colonel Colby is
measuring the base line, just at the time when they had completed the
repetition of the operation; and he saw, by the instrument, which had
not been raised from the spot, that the accuracy of the repetition was
within half a dot--the twelve-thousandth part of an inch.

Mr. Herschel has travelled on the Continent. He was particularly pleased
with the character of the Tyrolese--their national virtue founded on
national piety. One morning, wakening in a cottage inn, he rose, and
called in vain in kitchen and parlour: not a body was to be seen, not a
creature in yard or stable. At last he heard a distant sound: listening
more attentively, and following the sound, he came to a room remote from
that in which he had slept, where he found all the inhabitants joining
in a hymn, with beautiful voices.

You may remember having seen in the newspapers an account of a
philosopher in Germany who made caterpillars manufacture for him a veil
of cobweb. The caterpillars were enclosed in a glass case, and, by
properly-disposed conveniences and impediments, were induced to work
their web up the sides of the glass case. When completed it weighed
four-fifths of a grain. Herschel saw it lying on a table, looking like
the film of a bubble. When it collapsed a little, and was in that state
wafted up into the air, it wreathed like fine smoke. Chantrey, who was
present, after looking at it in silent admiration, exclaimed, "What a
fool Bernini was to attempt transparent draperies in stone!"

Have you heard of the live camelopard, "twelve foot high, if he is an
inch, ma'am?" Herschel is well acquainted with him, and was so fortunate
as to see the first interview between him and a kangaroo: it stood and
gazed for one instant, and the next leaped at once over the camelopard's
head, and he and his great friend became hand and glove.


_To_ MR. BANNATYNE.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Nov. 14, 1827_.

I send the letter you wished for--not to Clery, who is dead, but to
Louis Bousset, who was the Abbe Edgeworth's servant, and after his death
was taken into Louis XVIII.'s household, accompanied the Royal family to
Hartwell, returned with them to France, and now lives on a pension from
the French Government and his wife's income; she was widow to the King's
saddler. They showed much respect, my brother Sneyd says, to our pious
cousin the Abbe Edgeworth's memory, and he was much edified by their
manner of living together, Bousset and his wife--he a Catholic, and she
a German Protestant, "perfect Christian happiness thoroughly existing
between two persons of different Churches, but of the same faith."

Though I admire the instance and exception to general rules, I should
not wish a similar experiment to be often repeated, being very much of
Dr. Johnson's opinion, that there are so many causes naturally of
disagreement between people yoked together, that there is no occasion to
add another unnecessarily.


_To_ MR. BANNATYNE.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Dec. 4, 1827_.

I am very glad to hear that the author of _Cyril Thornton_ is Mrs.
Bannatyne's _nephew_. I have just finished reading it, and had made up
my opinion of it, and so had all my family, before we knew that the
author was any way connected with you. I am not weary of repeating that
I think, and that we all think it the most interesting novel we have
read for years; indeed, we could not believe it to be fiction. We read
it with all the intense interest which the complete belief in reality
commands. Officers of our acquaintance all speak to the reality and
truth of the scenes described. Military men and gentlemen are delighted
with _Cyril Thornton_, because he is a gentleman, ay, every inch a
gentleman; and with the cut in his face, and all the hashing and mashing
he met with in the wars, we are firmly and unanimously of opinion that
he must be very engaging. We hope that the author is like his hero in
all saving these scars and the loss of his arm; but were the likeness
exact even in these, he would be sure of interesting at Edgeworthstown;
and we hope that, if ever he comes to Ireland, you and Mrs. Bannatyne
will do us the favour to persuade him to come to see us, and to bring
his charming wife. We hear she is charming; and, from the good taste and
good feeling of his writings, we can readily take it for granted that
his choice must be charming, in the best sense of that hackneyed, but
still comprehensive word. There is a peculiar delicacy in this book,
which delights from being accompanied, as it is, with the strongest
evidence of deep sensibility.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Mary Sneyd, sister of the second and third Mrs. Edgeworths, who had
partially lived with her brother in Staffordshire after the death of her
sister Charlotte, returned in 1828 to spend the rest of her life at
Edgeworthstown. Here the beautiful and venerable old lady was a central
figure in the family home, where all the family vied in loving
attentions to her. Mrs. Farrar [Footnote: Author of _The Children's
Robinson Crusoe_, etc.] describes her there:--

"It was a great pleasure to me to see the sister of two of Mr.
Edgeworth's wives,--one belonging to the same period, and dressed in the
same style as the lovely Honora. She did not appear till lunch-time,
when we found her seated at the table in a wheel-chair, on account of
her lameness. She reminded me of the pictures of the court beauties of
Louis XIV. Her dress was very elaborate. Her white hair had the effect
of powder, and the structure on it defies description. A very white
throat was set off to advantage by a narrow black velvet ribbon,
fastened by a jewel. The finest lace ruffles about her neck and elbows,
with a long-waisted silk dress of rich texture and colour, produced an
effect that was quite bewitching. She was wonderfully well preserved for
a lady over eighty years of age, and it was pleasant to see the great
attention paid her by all the family. She was rather deaf, so I was
seated by her side and requested to address my conversation to her. When
lunch was over she was wheeled into the library, and occupied herself in
making a cotton net to put over the wall-fruit to keep it from the
birds. It was worth a journey to Edgeworthstown to see this beautiful
specimen of old age."

       *       *       *       *       *

MARIA EDGEWORTH _to_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _May 13, 1828_.

We had a serious alarm this morning, and serious danger, but it is
perfectly over now, and no damage done but what a few days' work of
plasterer and carpenter can repair. At seven o'clock this morning a
roaring was heard in the servants' hall, and Mulvanny, [Footnote:
Mulvanny, the knife boy.] who had put on the blower, found the chimney
on fire, and Anne [Footnote: Anne, ladies'-maid.] saw dreadful smoke
breaking out in the passage going from the anteroom of my aunt's
dressing-room. Barney Woods, [Footnote: The steward.] perceiving that
it was no common affair of a chimney on fire, had the sense to ring the
workman's bell. I was dressed, heard it, and Anne met me coming from my
room to inquire what was the matter, and told me--indeed her face told
me! Lovell was up and ready--most active and judicious. Thirty men were
assembled; water in abundance. Frank Langan indefatigable and most
courageous. The long ladder was put up against the house near the pump;
up the men went, and bucket after bucket poured down, Mulvanny standing
on the top of the chimney. Meantime the great press, next the maid's
room, was torn down by men working for life and death, for the smoke was
bursting through, and the whole wall horribly hot. The water poured
into the chimney would not, for half an hour, go down to the bottom;
something stopped it. A terrible smell of burning wood. The water ran
through all manner of flues and places and flooded the whole ceiling of
the hall. Holes were made to let it through, or the whole ceiling would
have come down _en masse_; the water poured through in floods on the
floor; Margaret [Footnote: The housemaid.] and boys sweeping it out of
the hall door continually. While the men were at work under Lovell's
excellent orders, Honora and I were having all papers and valuables
carried out, for we knew that if the flames reached the garrets nothing
could save the house. All the title-deed boxes, and lease presses, and
all Lovell's, and all your papers, and my grandfather's books, and my
father's picture, were safe on the grass in less than one hour. It took
three hours before the fire was extinguished, or, I should say, got
under. The pump was pumped dry, but Lovell had sent long before a cart
with barrels for water to the river--tons of water were used, pouring,
pouring incessantly, and this alone could have saved us.

By eleven o'clock all the boxes and papers, and pictures, were in their
places, and we sent for the chimney-sweepers, not the old ones, who, as
we rightly guessed, were the cause of the mischief. The chimney has been
broken open, and a boy has been working incessantly tearing down an
incrustation of soot--immense pieces of black _tufo_,--in fact, the
chimney became a volcano--fire, water, and steam all operating together.
The fire was found still burning inside at five this evening, but is all
out now, the boy has been up at the top.

The zeal, the sense, the generosity, the courage of the people, is
beyond anything I can describe, I can only feel it. But what astonished
me was their steadiness and silence, no advising or pushing in each
other's way--all working and obeying. Lovell had lines of boys from the
ladder to the cow's pool handing the buckets passed up by the men on the
ladder to the frightful top. Thank GOD not a creature was hurt.

       *       *       *       *       *

Honora Edgeworth adds:

       *       *       *       *       *

I need add nothing to what Maria has said about others, but I must say
about herself, that nobody who has seen her in small alarms, such as the
turning of a carriage, or such things, could believe the composure,
presence of mind, and courage she showed in our great alarm to-day. I
hope she has not suffered; as yet she does not appear the worse for her
exertions.


MARIA EDGEWORTH _to_ MRS. RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Nov. 16. 1828_.

Thank you, thank you for the roses; the yellow Scotch and Knight's dark
red, and the ever-blowing, came quite fresh, and just at the moment I
wanted them, when I had taken to my garden, after finishing my gutters.
Lady Hartland told me that the common people call the _rose des quatre
saisons_, the quarter session rose.

Have you read the _Recollections of Hyacinth O'Gara_? It is a little
sixpenny book; I venture to say you would like it; I wish I was reading
it to you. I am much pleased with Napier's _History of the Peninsular
War_. The Spanish character and all that influenced it, accidentally and
permanently, is admirably drawn. There is the evidence of truth in the
work. Heber is charming, but I haven't read him! People often say
"charming" of books they have not read; but I have read extracts in two
reviews, and have the pleasure of the book on the table before me.

I have not a scrap of news for you, except that an ass and a calf walked
over my flower-beds, and that I did not kill either of them. If the ass
had not provoked me to this degree, I was in imminent danger of growing
too fond of him, as I never could meet him drawing loads without
stopping to pat him, till clouds of dust rose from his thick hide. But
now, I will take no more notice of him--for a week!


_To_ MISS RUXTON

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Jan. 1, 1829_.

Fanny Edgeworth is now Fanny Wilson; [Footnote: Frances Maria, eldest
daughter of the fourth Mrs. Edgeworth, married Lestock P. Wilson, Esq.,
of London.] I can hardly believe it! She is gone! I feel it, and long
must feel it, with anguish, selfish anguish. But she will be happy--of
that I have the most firm, delightful conviction; and therefore all that
I cannot help now feeling is, I know, only _surface_ feeling, and will
soon pass away. The more I have seen and known of Lestock, the more I
like him and love him, and am convinced I shall always love him, whose
every word and look bears the stamp and value of sincerity.

Both their voices pronounced the words of the marriage vow with perfect
clearness and decision. Mr. Butler performed the ceremony with great
feeling and simplicity. I will tell my dearest aunt and you all the
little circumstances; at present they are all in confusion, great and
small, near and distant, and I am sick at heart in the midst of it all
with the shameful, weak, selfish, uppermost sorrow of parting with this
darling child.


_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

BLOOMFIELD, _Jan. 19, 1829_.

An immense concourse of people, cavalcade and carriages innumerable,
passed by here to-day. We saw it, and you will see it all in the
newspapers. Banners with _Constitutional Agitation_ printed in black,
_M_obility and Nobility in black, crape hatbands, etc. Lord Anglesea's
two little sons riding between two officers, in the midst of the
hurricane mob, struck me most. One of the boys, a little midge, seemed
to stick on the horse by accident, or by mere dint of fearlessness: the
officer put his arm round him once, and set him up, the boy's head
looking another way, and the horse keeping on his way, through such
noise, and struggling, and waves multitudinous of mob.

There is an entertaining article in the _Quarterly Review_ on _The
Subaltern_. I do not like that on Madame de Genlis--coarse, and
over-doing the object by prejudice and virulence. The review of Scott's
Prefaces is ungrounded and confused--how different from his own writing!
But there is an article worth all the rest put together, on Scientific
Institutions, written in such a mild, really philosophical spirit, such
a pure, GREAT MAN'S desire to do good; I cannot but wish and hope it
might prove to be Captain Beaufort's. If you have not read it, never
rest till you do.


_To_ CAPTAIN BASIL HALL.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _March 12, 1829_.

... If I could, as you say, flatter myself that Sir Walter Scott was in
any degree influenced to write and publish his novels from seeing my
sketches of Irish character, I should indeed triumph in the "thought of
having been the proximate cause of such happiness to millions."

In what admirable taste Sir Walter Scott's introduction [Footnote: To
the new edition of _Waverley_.] is written! No man ever contrived to
speak so delightfully of himself, so as to gratify public curiosity, and
yet to avoid all appearance of egotism,--to let the public into his
mind, into all that is most interesting and most useful to posterity to
know of his history, and yet to avoid all improper, all impertinent, all
superfluous disclosures.

Children's questions are often simply _sublime_: the question your
three-years-old asked was of these--"Who sanded the seashore?"


_To_ MISS RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _May 29, 1829_.

I cannot forbear writing specially to you, as I know you will feel so
much about Captain Beaufort's appointment to the Hydrographership; I
wish poor William had been permitted the pleasure of hearing of it.
[Footnote: William Edgeworth had died of consumption on 7th May after a
two months' illness.] It would have given him pleasure even on his dying
bed, noble, generous creature as he was; he would have rejoiced for his
friend, and have felt that merit is sometimes rewarded in this world.
This appointment is, in every respect, all that Captain Beaufort wished
for himself, and all that his friends can desire for him. As one of the
first people in the Admiralty said, "Beaufort is the only man in England
fit for the place."

Very touching letters have come to us from people whom we scarcely knew,
whom William had attached so much; and many whom he had employed speak
of him as the kindest of masters, and as a benefactor whose memory will
be ever revered.


_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Sept. 27, 1829_.

I am now able, with the consent of all my dear guardians, to write with
my own hand to assure you that I am quite well.

I enjoyed the snatches I was able to have of Wordsworth's conversation,
and I think I had quite as much as was good for me. He has a good
philosophical bust, a long, thin, gaunt face, much wrinkled and
weatherbeaten: of the Curwen style of figure and face, but with a more
cheerful and benevolent expression.

While confined to my sofa and forbidden my pen, I have been reading a
good deal: 1st, _Cinq Mars_, a French novel, with which I think you
would be charmed, because I am; 2nd, _The Collegians_, in which there is
much genius and strong drawing of human nature, but not elegant:
terrible pictures of the passions, and horrible, breathless interest,
especially in the third volume, which never flags till the last huddled
twenty pages. My guardians turn their eyes reproachfully upon me. Mr.
William Hamilton has been with us since the day before Wordsworth came,
and we continue to like him.


_May 3, 1830_.

It is very happy for your little niece that you have so much the habit
of expressing to her your kind feelings; I really think that if my
thoughts and feelings were shut up completely within me, I should burst
in a week, like a steam-engine without a snifting-clack, now called by
the grander name of a safety-valve.

You want to know what I am doing and thinking of: of ditches, drains,
and sewers; of dragging quicks from one hedge and sticking them down
into another, at the imminent peril of their green lives; of two houses
to let, one tenant promised from the Isle of Man, and another from the
Irish Survey; of two bull-finches, each in his cage on the table--one
who would sing if he could, and the other who could sing, I am told, if
he would. Then I am thinking for three hours a day of _Helen_, to what
purpose I dare not say. At night we read Dr. Madden's _Travels to
Constantinople_ and elsewhere, in which there are most curious facts:
admirable letter about the plague; a new mode of treatment, curing
seventy-five in a hundred; and a family living in a mummy vault, and
selling mummies. You must read it.

My peony tree is the most beautiful thing on earth. Poor dear Lord Oriel
gave it me. His own is dead, and he is dead; but love for him lives in
me still.

Sir Stamford Raffles is one of the finest characters I ever read of, and
_did_ more than is almost credible. I have been amused with _The
Armenians_, [Footnote: A novel by Macfarlane.]--amused with its pictures
of Greek, Armenian, and Turkish life, and interested in its very
romantic story.


_July 19_.

If there should not be any insuperable objection to it on your part, I
will do myself the pleasure of being in your arms the first week in
August, that I may be some time with you before I take my departure for
England for the winter.

The people about us are now in great distress, having neither work nor
food; and we are going to buy meal to distribute at half-price. Meal was
twenty-three shillings a hundred, and potatoes sevenpence a stone, last
market-day at Granard. Three weeks longer must the people be supported
till new food comes from the earth.

       *       *       *       *       *

This is the last letter Maria Edgeworth addressed to her aunt. She paid
her intended visit to her in August, but had left her before her last
illness began. Mrs. Ruxton died on the 1st of November, while Maria was
in London with her sister Fanny--Mrs. Lestock Wilson. The loss of her
aunt was the greatest Miss Edgeworth had sustained since the death of
her father. She had ever been the object of exceeding love, one with
whom every thought and feeling was shared, one of her greatest sources
of happiness.

       *       *       *       *       *

MARIA _to_ MISS RUXTON.

69 WELBECK STREET, LONDON.

_Dec. 8, 1830_.

All my friends have been kind in writing to me accounts of you, my dear
Sophy. You and Margaret are quite right to spend the winter at Black
Castle; and the pain you must endure in breaking through all the old
associations and deep remembrances will, I trust, be repaid, both in the
sense of doing right and in the affection of numbers attached to you.

I spent a fortnight with Sneyd very happily, in spite of mobs and
incendiaries. Brandfold is a very pretty place, and to me a very
pleasant house. The library, the principal room, has a trellis along the
whole front, with 'spagnolette windows opening into it, and a pretty
conservatory at the end, with another glass door opening into it. The
views seen between the arches of the trellis beautiful; flower-knots in
the grass, with stocks, hydrangeas, and crimson and pale China roses in
profuse blow. Sneyd enjoys everything about him so much, it is quite
delightful to see him in his home. You have heard from Honora of the
sense and steadiness with which he resisted the mob at Goudhurst.

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 _presence
d'esprit_: a mob in Paris surrounded him--"Que desirez-vous, messieurs?"
"Nous desirons Napoleon." "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 "_ailes de pigeon" bien poudre_. As Lord Lansdowne drolly said,
"How much those _ailes 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 etait donne a l'homme pour
deguiser sa pensee_, 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.

We left Chevening, and can never forget it, and drove through the wealds
and the charts, called, as Mr. Jones tells me, from the charters, and
see a chapel built by Porteus to civilise some of the wicked ones of the
wealds or wilds, and Ireton's house, [Footnote: Groombridge Place.]
where some say Cromwell lived, now belonging to Perkins the brewer. Then
"see to the right that rich green field, where King Henry VIII. used to
stop and wind his horn, that people might gather and drag himself and
suite through the slough," and it was near eight before we got to town,
and Lestock waiting dinner with the patience of Job. He, Lestock, not
Job, is a delightful person to live with, never annoyed about hours or
trifles of that kind.


1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET,

_April 30, 1831_.

On Monday last I drove to Apsley House, without the slightest suspicion
that the Duchess had been worse than when I had last seen her. When I
saw the gate only just opened enough to let out the porter's head, and
saw Smith parleying with him, nothing occurred to me but that the man
doubted whether I was a person who ought to be admitted; so I put out my
card, when Smith, returning, said, "Ma'am, the _Duchess of Wellington
died on Saturday morning!_"

The good-natured porter, seeing that I was "really a friend," as he
said, went into the house at my request, to ask if I could see her maid;
and after a few minutes the gates opened softly, and I went into that
melancholy house, into that great, silent hall: window-shutters closed:
not a creature to be seen or heard.

At last a man-servant appeared, and as I moved towards the side of the
house where I had formerly been--"Not that way, ma'am; walk in here, if
you please."

Then came, in black, that maid, of whose attachment the Duchess had, the
last time I saw her, spoken so highly and truly, as I now saw by the
first look and words. "Too true, ma'am--_she_ is gone from us! her Grace
died on Saturday."

"Was the Duke in town?"

"Yes, ma'am, BESIDE HER."

Not a word more, but I was glad to have that certain. Lord Charles had
arrived in time; not Lord Douro. The Duchess had remained much as I last
saw her on the sofa for a fortnight; then confined to her bed some days,
but then seemed much better; had been up again, and out in that room and
on that sofa, as when we heard her conversing so charmingly. They had no
apprehension of her danger, nor had she herself till Friday, when she
was seized with violent pain, and died on Saturday morning, "calm and
resigned."

The poor maid could hardly speak. She went in and brought me a lock of
her mistress's hair, silver gray, all but a few light brown, that just
recalled the beautiful Kitty Pakenham!

So ended that sweet, innocent--shall we say happy, or unhappy life?
Happy, I should think, _through all_; happy in her good feelings and
good conscience, and warm affections, still LOVING on! Happy in her
faith, her hope, and her charity!


_To_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

LONDON, _May 6, 1831_.

One of our farewell visits yesterday was to Mrs. Lushington; and when we
had talked our fill about our brother Pakenham, we went to politics, of
which every head in London is fuller than it can hold. Lord Suffield
described the scene in the House of Lords [Footnote: On the opening of
Parliament, when the King was to propose the bringing in of the Reform
Bill.] as more extraordinary than could have been imagined or believed.
One lord held down by force, and one bawling at the top of his voice,
even when the door opened, and the King appeared as his lordship
pronounced the word "RUIN!"

Ruin did not seize the King, however, nor was he in the least affected
by the uproar. He walked calmly on.

"I kept my eye upon him," Lord Suffield said; "I looked at his knees,
they did not tremble in the least. I am sure I could not have walked so
firmly; I do not believe another man present could have been so calm."

The King quietly took out his paper, felt for his spectacles, put them
on composedly, and read with a firm voice. They say nothing was ever
like the confusion and violence since the time of Charles I. and
Cromwell.

The day before yesterday we did a prodigious deal. Mr. Drummond came at
ten o'clock, by appointment, to take us to the Mint, to see the double
printing press; and we saw everything, from the casting the types to the
drying the sheet; and then to the India House. There was some little
stop while Pakenham's card, with a pencil message to Dr. Wilkins, was
sent up. While this was doing, a superb mock-majesty man, in scarlet
cloak and cocked hat, bedizened with gold, motioned us away. "Coachman,
drive on; no carriage can stand before the India House--that's the
rule."

Dr. Wilkins came out of his comfortable den to receive us, laid down his
book and spectacles, and showed us everything. The strangest thing we
saw was a toy of Tippoo Sahib's, worthy of a despot--an English soldier,
as large as life, in his uniform, hat, and everything, painted and
varnished, lying at full length, and a furious tiger over him; a handle,
invisible at a distance, in his ribs, which, when turned by the slave,
produced sounds like the growling of the tiger and the groans of the
man!

We had a very pleasant day at Epping. Mrs. Napier went with us; I inside
with her, Fanny on the barouche-seat with Pakenham, and Lestock behind
with Sneyd. The place is so much improved! I saw Fanny's horse Baronet:
very pretty.


_2 o'clock, Luncheon._

Pakenham is eating his last bit of gooseberry pie: enter Sneyd:
boxes--hammering--dreadful notes of preparation. Pakenham yesterday wore
the trefoil pin with his aunt's hair, and the sleeve-buttons with his
mother's and sister's hair; and I have added a locket to hang to his
watch-chain, with a bit, very scarce, of my own hair. The wind is fair:
we shall hear from him from Deal.


_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

NORTH AUDLEY STREET,

_May 7, 1831_.

I wrote to Harriet yesterday all about Pakenham to the moment he left
this house with Sneyd to join Lestock in the City, and go on to
Gravesend.

Half an hour after we had parted from Pakenham, and before we had
recovered sense, came a great rap at the door. "Will you see anybody,
ma'am?" I was going to say, "No, nobody," but I bid Smith ask the name,
when behind him, as I spoke, enter Mrs. Lushington. "I have forced my
way up--forgive me, it is for Pakenham; I hope I am not too late; I've
brought him _good_ letters from Mrs. Charles Lushington."

Comprehending instantly the value of the letters, and our carriage being
most luckily at the door, into it Fanny and I got, and drove as hard as
we could down to the dock, to the very place where they were to take the
Gravesend boat. You may imagine the anxiety we were in to be in time,
boat waiting for no one; and then the stoppages of odious carts and
hackney coaches in the City: I do not believe we spoke three words to
each other all that long way. At last, when within a few minutes of the
end of our time, we were encompassed with carts, drays, and omnibuses,
in an impenetrable line seemingly before us. Fanny sent Smith on foot
with the letters and a pencil note. We got on wonderfully, our coachman
being really an angel. We reached the wharf. "Is the Gravesend boat
gone?" "No, ma'am, not this half-hour; half after four, instead of four,
to-day."

We took breath, but were still anxious, watching each with head out on
our own side; for Smith had not appeared, and Lestock, Sneyd, and
Pakenham had not arrived: great fear of missing them and the letters in
the hurly-burly of packages, and packers, and passengers, and sailors,
and _orderers_, and hackney coaches, and coachmen, and boatmen, men,
women, and children swarming and bawling.

But at last Smith and Lestock appeared together, and the letters got
into Pakenham's hand: he and Sneyd had gone into the boat, so we saw no
more of them; but Lestock sent us off on a new hurry-skurry for pistols,
ordered but not brought. To the Minerva counting-house we drove, to send
the pistols by some boatswain there: got to counting-house: "Boatswain
gone?" "No, ma'am, not yet," said the dear, smiling clerk. So all was
right, and Pakenham had his pistols.


SALDEN HOUSE, MRS. CARR'S,

_June 6, 1831_.

My last days in London crowned the whole in all that was entertaining,
curious, gratifying, and delightful to head and heart. I am writing
while Isabella Carr is reading out _Destiny_, and very well she reads
the Scotch; so you may think I cannot enter into details of the past at
present, but I must just note--

Lady Elizabeth Whitbread and four Lady Harleys.

Opera with Lady Guilford and two daughters: _Medea_, Pasta: thrilling
shiver, gliding sideways to her children, and sudden retreat.

French play: Leontine Fay in _Une Faute_--the most admirable actress I
ever saw, and in the most touching piece. Three young men--Mr.
Whitbread, Major Keppel, and Lord Mahon--separately told me the
impression made on them by this actress was such that they could not
sleep afterwards! I had no trial how this would be with me, because we
went off from the playhouse to Sir James South's, to see the occultation
of Jupiter's satellites: that was indeed a sublime reality, and no
wonder we were broad awake till three o'clock.

Next morning St. Paul's: moral sublime. I sat next Rammohun Roy, and
heard all he said. One curious inquiry he made; "Why are the boys set
_above_ the girls?" Sermon by the Bishop of Nova Scotia: Judge
Haliburton sat between Fanny and me. Luncheon at the Bishop of
Llandaff's: forty people. Came home: packed up. Mr. Creed at dinner, and
this last day delightful.


_To_ CAPTAIN BASIL HALL.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _August 14, 1831_.

My last visit to universal London confirms to my own feelings your
eulogium. I never was so happy there in my life, because I had besides
all the external pleasures, the solid satisfaction of a home there, and
domestic pleasures, without which I should soon grow a-weary of the
world, and wish the business of the town were done. I should be very
sorry if I were told this minute that I was never to see London again,
and yet I am wondrous contented and happy at home. I hope you will come
and see some time whether I am only making believe or telling true.

You say I must never say a discouraging word to you, because you are so
easily discouraged: for shame! What is that but saying, "Flatter me"?
Now flattery can never do good; twice cursed in the giving and the
receiving, it ought to be. Instead of flattering I will give you this
wholesome caution: in your new volumes do not weaken the effect by
giving too much of a good thing; do not be lengthy; cut well before you
go to press, and then the rest will live all the better. With your
facility, this cannot cost you much.


_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

ROSTREVOR, [Footnote: Where the Miss Ruxtons were now living.]

_Oct. 2, 1831_.

Lestock was gratified by my joining him at Armagh. Mr. Allott was most
hospitable. We walked to the cathedral, and saw views of great extent
and beauty, and heard learned disquisitions about architecture, and a
curious anecdote in support of a favourite theory of his, that small
stones _grouted_ together, with lime and water put in hot, defies old
Time. Great alarm was excited some time ago at Winchester Cathedral: the
principal pillars seemed to be giving way, out of the perpendicular, and
_bulged_. They fell to work _shoring_ and propping; but, in spite of
all, the pillars still seemed to be giving way more and more, and they
feared the whole would come down. Rennie was sent for, but Rennie was
ill, and died. At last an architect looked at the pillars, picked at
them, took off a facing of stone, and found, what he had suspected, that
it was only this facing that had given way and bulged, and that the
inside was a solid pillar of masonry,--small stones grouted together so
firmly that the cement was as hard as the stone.

Dr. and Mrs. Robinson came in the evening: his conversation is
admirable; such an affluence of ideas, so full of genius and master
thoughts. He gave me an excellent disquisition on the effect which
transcendental mathematics produces on the mind, and traced up the
history of mathematics from Euclid, appealing to diagrams and resting on
images, to that higher sort where they are put out of the question,
where we reason by symbols as in algebra, and work on in the dark till
they get to the light, or till the light comes out of the dark--sure
that it will come out. He went over Newton, and on through the history
of modern times--Brinkley, Lagrange, Hamilton--just giving to me,
ignorant, a notion of what each had done.

Mrs. O'Beirne--dear, kind soul!--would accompany me on the jaunting-car
all the way from Newry to Rostrevor, and I am very glad she did; and as
the day was fine and the tide in, I thought it would be pleasant on that
beautiful road; and so it would have been, but for the droves of
cows--Oh, those weary cows with the longest horns!--and if ever I
laughed at you for being afraid of cows, you may have your revenge now.
Every quarter of a mile, at least, came a tangled mass of these brutes,
and their fright made them more terrible, for they knew no more what
they were doing than I did myself; and there I was sitting at their
mercy, and the horn of one or t'other continually within an inch of my
eye, my mouth, or my breast, and no retreat; and they might any moment
stick me on the top of one of these horns, and toss me with one jerk
into the sea! Mrs. O'Beirne kept telling me she was used to it, and that
nothing ever happened; but by the time I reached Rostrevor I was as poor
a worn-out rag as ever you saw.


_To_ MISS RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Dec. 22, 1831._

Francis was married on the 19th to Rosa Florentina Eroles; Sneyd, Fanny,
and Lestock were present. The bride was dressed in a plain white muslin,
with a mantilla lace veil of her own work on her head, without any hat,
after the fashion of her own country, with a small wreath of silver
flowers in her dark hair. Her sister was dressed English fashion, in a
bonnet. Both Sneyd and Fanny say that nothing could appear more
gentlemanlike, gentle, amiable, and happy than the bridegroom.


_To_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _April 20, 1832_.

Can you conceive yourself to be an old lamp at the point of extinction,
and dreading the smell you would make at going out, and the execrations
which in your dying flickerings you might hear? And then you can
conceive the sudden starting up again of the flame, when fresh oil is
poured into the lamp. And can you conceive what that poor lamp would
feel returning to light and life? So felt I when I had read your letter
on reading what I sent to you of _Helen_. You have given me new life and
spirit to go on with her. I would have gone on from principle, and the
desire to do what my father advised--to finish whatever I began; but now
I feel all the difference between working for a dead or a live horse.

My auriculas are superb, and my peony tree has eighteen full-swelled
buds: it will be in glory by the time Sophy and Mag arrive.


_To_ HER SISTER HARRIET--MRS. R. BUTLER.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN. _Aug. 1, 1832_.

It is impossible to tell you how much I miss you. Never, except at my
Aunt Ruxton's, did I ever pass my time away from home so entirely to my
own enjoyment. Not a cloud obscured the cheerful sky.

We are reading _Eugene Aram_; and almost all I have heard I think
affected as to language, and not natural as to character. I am sure the
real story and trial are much more interesting.


_Aug. 21_.

Perhaps you think I am at Lady Hartland's at this moment, poor
ignorants, as you are! You must know that I was so unwell on Friday, the
morning of the day we were to have gone there, that my poor mother was
obliged to send James in the rain (poor James!) to put off till Monday;
so Lord and Lady Hartland were very sorry and very glad, and sent us
divine peaches.

Sir James Calendar Campbell's _Memoirs_ are ill-written--all
higgledy-piggledy, facts and anecdotes, some without heads, and some
without tails; great cry and little wool, still, some of the wool is
good; and curious facts thrown out, of which he does not know the value,
and other things he values that have no value in nature.


_To_ MISS RUXTON.

PAKENHAM HALL, _Sept. 19, 1832_.

We came here yesterday to meet Caroline Hamilton--dear Caroline
Hamilton, and her sensible, agreeable husband. She is always the same,
and the sight of her affectionate, open, lively countenance does one's
heart good. Lord Longford quite well, and Lord Longford for ever: the
children beautiful.


FIVE P.M.

We have been walking and driving all morning, and seeing all that Lady
Longford has done in beautifying the place and employing the people. I
never saw, in England or Ireland, such beautiful gardens--the most
beautiful American garden my eyes ever beheld. She took advantage of a
group of superb old chestnut-trees, with oak and ash for a background,
which had never been noticed in that _terra incognita_; now it is a
fairy land, embowered round with evergreens.

To-morrow Hercules and Mrs. Pakenham come, with all their children--a
party of thirteen!


_To_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Oct. 9, 1832_.

I send you one dozen out of two dozen ranunculus roots, which good,
kind, dying Lady Pakenham sent to me, with a note as fresh in feeling as
youth could dictate.


_To_ MR. BANNATYNE.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Nov. 12, 1832_.

The death of Sir Walter Scott has filled us all, as his private friends
and admirers, with sorrow. I do not mean that we could have wished the
prolongation of his life such as it had been for the last months; quite
the contrary: but we feel poignant anguish from the thought that such a
life as his was prematurely shortened--that such faculties, such a
genius, such as is granted but once in an age, once in many ages, should
have been extinguished of its light, of its power to enlighten and
vivify the world, long before its natural term for setting! Whatever the
errors may have been, oh, what have been the unremitted, generous, alas!
overstrained exertions of that noble nature!


_To_ MISS RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Nov. 15, 1832_.

Thank you, I am quite well. My only _complaint_ is that I never can do
any day as much as I intended, and am always as much hurried by the
dressing-bell as I am at this instant.

Lord Longford and Lord Silchester called here to-day on their way back
from Longford and Castle Forbes; they sat till late; very agreeable.
When I congratulated Lord Longford on having done so much at Pakenham
Hall, and upon having still something to do, he answered, "Oh yes, I
never was intended for a finished gentleman!"


_To_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Dec. 28, 1832_.

I send Mr. Lockhart's letter on the subscription for Abbotsford; it does
him honour. I combated, however, his feelings with all the feelings and
reasons I have on the opposite side--that it is a national tribute,
honourable, not degrading. I refused to give him Scott's letters for
publication, and very painful it was to me to refuse him, at present,
anything he asked; but principle and consistency, painful or not,
required it, besides my own feelings. I could not bear to publish Sir
Walter's praises of myself, and affectionate expressions and private
sentiments. I did send one letter to Mr. Lockhart, exemplifying what I
mean--the beautiful letter on his changing fortunes. As to the
subscription, all depends on whether the quantity of good produced will
balance the pain to the family. It would gratify me to give the L100 I
set apart for the purpose, but then comes the question, with or without
my name? If with, there is staring me in the face OSTENTATION. If
without--set down as from an "Unknown Friend"--AFFECTATION.

Crampton said my name would be useful, and so I suppose I should do what
would best serve the cause, and put out of the question all
consideration of what may be thought of myself.

       *       *       *       *       *

Miss Edge worth's novel of _Helen_, begun in 1830, was finished in the
summer of 1833, and read for family criticism, before being sent to the
press.

       *       *       *       *       *

C.S. EDGEWORTH _to_ MRS. C.S. EDGEWORTH.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _May 27, 1833_.

After breakfast yesterday I had a stroll with Mrs. Edgeworth through
Maria's flower-garden. I wish you could see her peony tree: it is in the
very perfection of bloom, as indeed everything is here. After luncheon
dinner, the pony-carriage came round, but was refused by all: however,
as I was putting in execution my long-formed project of getting a ladder
and making the ladies go up into the sycamore-tree with me, we drove
that far. I fixed the ladder: I went up, and Fanny, Harriet, and Honora,
with a little hesitation, followed. They were all delighted with this
airy parlour, lined with the softest, thickest moss; natural seats with
backs, a delightful peep of the house, gay parterres and groves. It was
amusing, Mrs. Edgeworth's and Maria's surprise when called to from
above, as they passed in the carriage. Then we drove round Francis's new
walk through the Horse Park fields: beautiful. Then the ladies flocked
to their flower-beds, and I was accompanied by one or two in my rambles,
speaking to old workmen, and bribing new to banish the sparrows. After
tea much talking, and a little reading; Harriet read out a new story by
Mr. Brittain, who wrote _Hyacinth O'Gara_, and whom I knew at college.

This morning was everything that was exquisite, and I have since
breakfast had the gardener and heaps of workmen, and have been sawing
beech-branches, to my great satisfaction and the approval of others; and
in criticism I have found all agree with me, for _Helen_ is begun, and
at eleven we meet in the library; and Harriet has read aloud four
chapters. It is altogether in Maria's best style; and I think the public
will like it as hers, the return to an old friend.


_31st_.

I am sure you would like the cheerful fusion of this home party: each
star is worthy of separate observation for its serenity, brilliancy, or
magnitude; but it is as a constellation they claim most regard, linked
together by strong attachment, and moving in harmony through their
useful course. The herons sail about and multiply, the rookery is
banished, the reign of tulips now almost o'er, and peonies of many bells
are taking their place.

I am a stranger to any book but _Helen_, scarcely looking at the
newspaper, which Mr. Butler devours. Harriet has gone in the
pony-carriage for Molly, and she is to be driven by Francis's walk and
Maria's garden.


_June 1_.

Aunt Mary's [Footnote: Mrs. Mary Sneyd.] interest in _Helen_ is
delightful. Never did the whole family appear to more advantage; the
accordance of opinion, yet cheerfulness of discussion, is charming.

When the evening reading of _Helen_ was finished, Harriet and I walked
round the lawn; the owls shrieking and flitting by in pursuit of bats:
clouds in endless varieties in the unsettled heavens. The library, as we
looked in at it through the windows, with all its walls and pictures
lighted up by the lamps, looked beautiful. I thought how my father would
have been touched to look in as we did on his assembled family.


MARIA _to_ M. PAKENHAM EDGEWORTH, ESQ.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN,

_Valentine's Day, 1834_.

The herons this day (according to their custom as Sophy tells me) sat
all in a row in the horse park in solemn deliberation upon their own
affairs: the opening of their budget I suppose. They have much upon
their hands this session, and there must be a battle soon, on which the
fate of the empire must depend; magpies and scarecrows abound, and such
clouds of starlings darkened the air for many minutes opposite the
library window, settling at last upon the three great beech trees, that
Sophy and I would have given a crown imperial you had been by, dear
Pakenham, to see them.

You ended your Journal and the announcement of your appointment to
Amballa with exulting in the new kingdoms of flowers you would have to
subdue, and with the hope that your mother would write to Lady Pakenham
for her delightful letter to her son. You will have heard long before
this reaches you, my dear, that Lady Pakenham is no more; she died last
autumn. I wish that this news could have reached that kind heart of
hers. Honora and I went the very day we received your journal to
Coolure, to thank Admiral Pakenham; he met us on the steps in a tapestry
nightcap. He has grown very old, and has had several strokes of palsy,
but none have touched his heart. When Honora read to him the whole
passage out of your journal and your own warm expressions of pleasure
and gratitude, life and joy lighted in his dear old eyes. Honora only
changed the words, "dear Lady Pakenham" into the "dear Pakenhams of
Coolure." He asked, "Who wrote?" and looked very earnestly in my eyes. I
was afraid to say Lady Pakenham, and I answered, "You know," and pressed
his hand. He did know, passed his hand over his eyes and said, "Like
her: she was a good woman."


_February 19_.

I yesterday found in my writing-desk a copy I had made of the letter
Lord Carrington wrote to me in answer to mine announcing your former
Futtehgur appointment; and now that it can go free I enclose it. I like
an expression of Lord Mahon's about him in a note I lately received from
him. "My grandfather is in excellent health, and I cannot offer you a
better wish than that you may at eighty-one possess the same activity,
the same quickness of intellect, the same gushing, warm-hearted
benevolence which distinguishes him." Gushing benevolence: I like that
expression.

Sophy despatched a letter for you last week, in which I am sure she told
you all domestic occurrences. Barry has bought Annaghmore in the King's
County: an excellent house; and Sophy and Barry and all the children are
to stay with us till Sophy's health--very delicate--is strengthened, and
till they have furnished what rooms they mean to inhabit at Annamore;
this looks better than with the _gh_, but Sophy stickles for the old
Irish spelling.

Molly and Hetty, and Crofton and child, are all flourishing; poor old
George is declining as gently and comfortably as can be. When we go to
see him, his eyes light up and his mouth crinkles into smiles, and he,
as well as Molly, never fails to ask for Master Pakenham. Though _Helen_
cannot reach you for a year, Fanny has desired Bentley to send you a
copy before it is published. I should tell you beforehand that there is
no humour in it, and no Irish character. It is impossible to draw
Ireland as she now is in a book of fiction--realities are too strong,
party passions too violent to bear to see, or care to look at their
faces in the looking-glass. The people would only break the glass, and
curse the fool who held the mirror up to nature--distorted nature, in a
fever. We are in too perilous a case to laugh, humour would be out of
season, worse than bad taste. Whenever the danger is past, as the man in
the sonnet says,

  We may look back on the hardest part and laugh.

Then I shall be ready to join in the laugh. Sir Walter Scott once said
to me, "Do explain to the public why Pat, who gets forward so well in
other countries, is so miserable in his own." A very difficult question:
I fear above my power. But I shall think of it continually, and listen,
and look, and read.

Thank you, my dear brother, for your excellent and to me particularly
interesting last letter, in which you copied for me the good
observations on the state of your part of India, and the collection of
the revenue, rents, etc. Many of the observations on India apply to
Ireland; similarity of certain general causes operating on human nature
even in countries most different and with many other circumstances
dissimilar, produce a remarkable resemblance in human character and
conduct. I admire your generous indignation against oppression and
wringing by "any indirection from the poor peasant his vile trash." Some
of the disputes that you have to settle at Cucherry, and some of the
viewings that you record of boundaries, etc., about which there are
quarrels, put me in mind of what I am called upon to do here continually
in a little way. I hope Honora and Sophy have given you satisfaction
about the exact place of the new walks; as I cannot draw I can do
nothing in that way, but I can tell you that I have been planting
rhododendrons and arbutus in front of the euonymus tree. I hope you will
have a good garden in your new residence, and that you will not be too
hot in it. How you could find that your having more to do, made you more
able to endure the horrid heat you describe, passes my comprehension.
Heat always makes me so indolent, imbecile, and irritable. I remember
all this in the only heat _to call heat_, that I was ever exposed to in
Paris and Switzerland; I could not even speak, much less write. If I had
been under your 107 degrees I should have melted away to the very bone,
and never, never, never could have penned that _dropping_ letter as you
did to Honora, and with that _puddle_ ink too. Well! we are very, very,
very much obliged to you, dear Pakenham, for all the labour you go
through for us, and we hope that under the shade of the Himalaya
mountains you will be able to write, at your ease and without all manner
of _stodge_ in your ink.


_21st_.

This morning brought through Harriet, Margaret Craig's joy at your
promotion, and--Honora says I must go out this delightful sunshine
morning, and look at all the full-blown crocuses, violets, heath, and
pyrus japonica. I have a standard pyrus now--vulgar things compared with
your _Indian Prides_.

Oh! my dear Pakenham, I am sure you are shocked at the death of Sir John
Malcolm! both he and Sir James Macintosh, the two whose genius you so
admired, and whose conversation you so enjoyed just before you left
England--both gone!


_March 8_.

Ever since I finished my last to you I have had my head so immersed in
accounts that I have never been able till this moment to fulfil my
intention of giving you my travels in Connemara.

I travelled with Sir Culling and Lady Smith (Isabella Carr). Sir
Culling, of old family, large fortune and great philanthropy, extending
to poor little Ireland and her bogs, and her Connemara, and her
penultimate barony of Erris and her ultimate Giants' Causeway, and her
beautiful lake of Killarney. And all these things he determined to see.
Infant and nurse, and lady's-maid, and gentleman's gentleman, and Sir
Culling and the fair Isabella all came over to Ireland last September,
just as Fanny had left us, and she meeting them in Dublin, and
conceiving that nurse and baby would not do for Connemara, wrote
confidentially to beg us to invite them to stay at Edgeworthstown, while
father and mother, and maid, and man, were to proceed on their travels.
They spent a pleasant week, I hope, at Edgeworthstown. I am sure Honora
did everything that was possible to make it pleasant to them, and we
regretted a million of times that your mother was not at home. Sir
Culling expected to have had all manner of information as to roads,
distances, and time, but Mrs. Edgeworth not being at home, and Miss
Edgeworth's local knowledge being such as you know, you may guess how he
was disappointed. Mr. Shaw and the Dean of Ardagh, who dined with him
here, gave him directions as far as Ballinasloe and a letter to the
clergyman there. The fair of Ballinasloe was just beginning, and Sir
Culling was determined to see that, and from thence, after studying the
map of Ireland and roadbooks one evening, he thought he should get
easily to Connemara, Westport, and the Barony of Erris, see all that in
a week, and come back to Edgeworthstown, take up Bambino and proceed on
a northern or a southern tour.

You will be surprised that I should--seeing they knew so little what
they were about--have chosen to travel with them; and I confess it was
imprudent and very unlike my usual dislike to leave home without any of
my own people with me. But upon this occasion I fancied I should see all
I wanted to see of the wonderful ways of going on and manners of the
natives better for not being with any of my own family, and especially
for its not being suspected that I was an authoress and might put them
in a book. In short, I thought it was the best opportunity I could ever
have of seeing a part of Ireland which, from time immemorial, I had been
curious to see. My curiosity had been raised even when I first came to
Ireland fifty years ago, by hearing my father talk of the King of
Connemara, and his immense territory, and his ways of ruling over his
people with almost absolute power, with laws of his own, and setting all
other laws at defiance. Smugglers and caves, and murders and mermaids,
and duels, and banshees, and fairies, were all mingled together in my
early associations with Connemara and Dick Martin,--"Hair-trigger Dick,"
who cared so little for his own life or the life of man, and so much for
the life of animals, who fought more duels than any man of even his
"Blue-blaze-devil" day, and who brought the bill into Parliament for
preventing cruelty to animals; thenceforward changing his cognomen from
"Hair-trigger Dick" to "Humanity Martin." He was my father's
contemporary, and he knew a number of anecdotes of him. _Too besides_, I
once saw him, and remember that my blood crept slow and my breath was
held when he first came into the room, a pale, little insignificant-
looking mortal he was, but he still kept hold of my imagination, and his
land of Connemara was always a land I longed to visit. Long afterwards,
a book which I believe you read, _Letters from the Irish Highlands_,
written by the family of Blakes of Renvyle, raised my curiosity still
further, and wakened it for new reasons, in a new direction. Further and
further and higher, Nimmo and William deepened my interest in that
country, and, in short, and at length all these motives worked together.
Add to them a book called _Wild Sports of the West_, of which Harriet
read to me all the readable parts till I rolled with laughing. Add also
that I had lately heard Mr. Rothwell give a most entertaining account of
a tour he had taken in Erris, and to the house of a certain Major
Bingham who must be the most diverting and extraordinary original upon
earth--and shall I die without seeing him? thought I--now or never.

At the first suggestion I uttered that I should like to see him and
Erris, and the wonders of Connemara, Lady Culling Smith and Sir Culling
burst into delight at the thought of having me as their travelling
companion, so it was all settled in a moment. Honora approved, Aunt Mary
hoped it would all turn out to my satisfaction, and off we set with four
horses mighty grand in their travelling carriage, which was a summer
friend, open or half-open. A half head stuck up immovable with a window
at each ear, an apron of wood, varnished to look like japanned leather
hinged at bottom, and having at top where it shuts a sort of fairy-board
window which lets down in desperately bad weather.

Our first day was all prosperous and sunshine, and what Captain Beaufort
would call plain sailing. To Ballymahon the first stage. Do you remember
Ballymahon, and the first sight of the gossamer in the hedges sparkling
with dew, going there packed into the chaise with your four sisters and
me to see the museum of a Mr. Smith, who had a Cellini cup and a Raphael
plate, and miniatures of Madame de Maintenon, and wonders
innumerable--but Sophy at this moment tells me that I am insisting upon
your remembering things that happened before you were born, and that
even Francis was only one year old at the time of this breakfast, and it
was she herself who was so delighted with that first view of the
gossamer in the glittering sunshine.

But I shall never get on to Athlone, much less to Connemara. Of Athlone
I have nothing to say but what you may learn from the _Gazetteer_,
except that, while we were waiting in the antiquated inn there, while
horses were changing, I espied a print hanging smoked over the
chimney-piece, which to my _connoisseur_ eyes seemed marvellously good,
and upon my own judgment I proposed for it to the landlady, and bought
it for five shillings (frame excepted); and when I had it out of the
frame, and turned it round, I found my taste and judgment gloriously
justified. It was from a picture of Vandyke's--the death of Belisarius;
and here it is now hanging up in the library, framed in satin wood, the
admiration of all beholders, Barry Fox above all.

But to proceed. It was no easy matter to get out of Athlone, for at the
entrance to the old-fashioned, narrowest of narrow bridges we found
ourselves wedged and blocked by drays and sheep, reaching at least a
mile; men cursing and swearing in Irish and English; sheep baaing, and
so terrified, that the shepherds were in transports of fear brandishing
their crooks at our postillions, and the postillions in turn brandishing
their whips on the impassive backs of the sheep. The cocked gold-edged
hat of an officer appeared on horseback in the midst, and there was
silence from all but the baaing sheep. He bowed to us ladies, or to our
carriage and four, and assured us that he would see us safe out, but
that it would be a work of time. While this work of time was going on,
one pushed his way from behind, between sheep and the wheel on my side
of the carriage, and putting in his head called out to me, "Miss
Edgeworth, if you are in it, my master's in town, and will be with you
directly almost, with his best compliments. He learned from the landlady
your name. He was in the inn that minute, receiving rents he is, if you
will be kind enough to wait a minute, and not stir _out of that_."

Kind enough I was, for I could not help myself, if I had been ever so
unkindly disposed towards my unknown friend. Up came, breathless, a
well-known friend, Mr. Strickland. Introduced amidst the baaing of the
sheep to my travelling companions, and, as well as I could make myself
heard in the din, I made him understand where we were going next, and
found, to my great satisfaction, that he would overtake us next day at
Ballinasloe, if we could stay there next day; and we could and must, for
it was Sunday. I cannot tell you--and if I could you would think I
exaggerated--how many hours we were in getting through the next ten
miles; the road being continually covered with sheep, thick as wool
could pack, all _coming from_ the sheep-fair of Ballinasloe, which, to
Sir Culling's infinite mortification, we now found had taken place the
previous day. I am sure we could not have had a better opportunity and
more leisure to form a sublime and just notion of the thousands and tens
of thousands which must have been on the field of sale. This retreat of
the ten thousand never could have been effected without the generalship
of these wonderfully skilled shepherds, who, in case of any disorder
among their troops, know how dexterously to take the offender by the
left leg or the right leg with their crooks, pulling them back without
ever breaking a limb, and keeping them continually in their ranks on the
weary, long march.

We did not reach Ballinasloe till it was almost dark. There goes a
story, you know, that no woman must ever appear at Ballinasloe Fair;
that she would be in imminent peril of her life from the mob. The
daughters of Lord Clancarty, it was said, "had tried it once, and scarce
were saved by fate." Be this as it may, we were suffered to drive very
quietly through the town; and we went quite through it to the outskirts
of scattered houses, and stopped at the door of the Vicarage. And well
for us that we had a letter from the Dean of Ardagh to the Rev. Mr.
Pounden, else we might have spent the night in the streets, or have paid
guineas apiece for our beds, all five of us, for three nights. Mr. and
Mrs. Pounden were the most hospitable of people, and they were put to a
great trial--dinner just over, and that day had arrived unexpectedly one
family of relations, and expectedly another, with children without end.
And how they did stow them and us, to this hour I cannot conceive: they
had, to be sure, one bed-chamber in a house next door, which, luckily,
Lord and Lady Somebody had not arrived to occupy. Be it how it might,
here we stayed till Monday; and on Sunday there was to be a charity
sermon for the benefit of the schools, under the patronage of Lord and
Lady Clancarty, and the sermon was preached by Archdeacon Pakenham; and
after the sermon--an excellent sermon on the appropriate text of the
good Samaritan--an immense crowd before the windows filled the fair
green, and we went out to see. The crowd of good, very good-natured
Irishmen, gentle and simple mixed, opened to let the ladies and English
stranger in to see: and fine horses and fine leaping we saw, over a
loose wall built up for the purpose in the middle of the fair green; and
such shouting, and such laughing, and such hurraing for those that
cleared and for those that missed. As for the rest of the cattle-fair,
we _lift_ on Monday morning before the thick of it came on.

I forgot to tell you that on Sunday arrived Mr. Strickland, and he with
maps and road-books explained to Sir Culling where he should go, and how
he was to accomplish his objects. It was settled that we were to go to
Loughrea, and to see certain ruins by going a few miles out of our way;
and this we accomplished, and actually did see, by an uncommonly fine
sunset, the beautiful ruins of Clonmacnoise; and we slept this night at
Loughrea, where we had been assured there was a capital inn, and may be
it was, but the rats or the mice ran about my room so, and made such a
noise in the holes of the floor, that I could not sleep, but was
thankful they did not get on or into my bed.

Next day to Galway, and still it was fine weather, and bright for the
open carriage, and we thought it would always be so. Galway, wet or dry,
and it was dry when I saw it, is the dirtiest town I ever saw, and the
most desolate and idle-looking. As I had heard much from Captain
Beaufort and Louisa of the curious Spanish buildings in Galway, I was
determined not to go through the town without seeing these; so, as soon
as we got to the inn, I summoned landlord and landlady, and begged to
know the names of the principal families in the town. I thought I might
chance to light upon somebody who could help us. In an old history of
Galway which Mr. Strickland picked up from a stall at Ballinasloe, I
found prints of some of the old buildings and names of the old families;
and the landlord having presented me with a list as long as an
alderman's bill of fare of the names of the gentlemen and ladies of
Galway, I pitched upon the name of a physician, a Dr. Veitch, of whom I
had found a fine character in my book. He had been very good to the poor
during a year of famine and fever. To him I wrote, and just as I had
finished reading his panegyric to Lady Smith, in he walked; and he
proved to be an old acquaintance. He was formerly a surgeon in the army,
and was quartered at Longford at the time of the rebellion: remembered
our all taking shelter there, how near my father was being killed by the
mob, and how courageously he behaved. Dr. Veitch had received some
kindness from him, and now he seemed anxious, thirty-five years
afterwards, to return that kindness to me and my companions. He walked
with us all over Galway, and showed us all that was worth seeing, from
the new quay _projecting_, and the new green Connemara marble-cutters'
workshop, to the old Spanish houses with projecting roofs and piazza
walks beneath; and, wading through seas of yellow mud thick as
stirabout, we went to see archways that had stood centuries, and above
all to the old mayoralty house of that mayor of Galway who hung his own
son; and we had the satisfaction of seeing the very window from which
the father with his own hands hung his own son, and the black marble
marrowbones and death's head, and inscription and date, 1493. I daresay
you know the story; it formed the groundwork very lately of a tragedy.
The son had--from jealousy as the tragedy has it, from avarice according
to the vulgar version--killed a Spanish friend; and the father, a modern
Brutus, condemns him, and then goes to comfort him. I really thought it
worth while to wade through mud to see these awful old relics of other
times and other manners. But, coming back again, at every turn it was
rather disagreeable to have "fish" bawled into one's ears, and "fine
flat fish" flapped in one's face. The fish-market was fresh supplied,
and Galway is famous for _John Dorees_. "A John Doree, ma'am, for
eighteen-pence--a shilling--sixpence!" A John Doree could not be had for
guineas in London. Quin, the famous actor, wished he was all throat when
he was eating a John Doree. But still it was not pleasant, at every turn
and every crossing, to have ever so fine John Dorees flapped in one's
face. Sir Culling bought one for sixpence, and it was put into the
carriage; and we took leave of Dr. Veitch, and left Galway.

From Galway Sir Culling was obliged to take job horses, as he was warned
that we were entering a country where post horses were not to be found,
and were never even heard of. Dr. Veitch bid us not think of entering
Connemara this night. "You will have to send after me soon, if you don't
take care. You have no idea of the places you are going into, and that
you may have to sleep in."

The next place we were to go to, and where Dr. Veitch advised us to
sleep, was Outerard, a small town or village, where he told us was an
inn, or an hotel, as even in these out-of-the-world regions it is now
called. It was but fifteen miles, and this with four horses was not two
hours' drive; and Sir Culling thought it would be sad waste of daylight
to sleep at Outerard, for still he measured his expected rate of
travelling by his Bath Road standard. Though we left Galway at three, we
were not at Outerard till past seven, with our fine, fresh horses; and
excellent horses they really were, and well harnessed too, with
well-accoutred postillions in dark blue jackets and good hats and boots,
all proper, and an ugly little dog running joyously along with the
horses. Outerard, as well as we could see it, was a pretty
mountain-scattered village, with a pond and trees, and a sort of
terrace-road, with houses and gardens on one side, and a lower road with
pond and houses on the other. There is a spa at Outerard to which
bettermost sort of people come in the season; but this was not the
season, and the place had that kind of desolate look, mixed with
_pretensions_ too, which a watering-place out of season always has.

When we came to the hotel, our hearts sank within us. Dusk as it was,
there was light enough to guess, at first sight, that it would never do
for sleeping--half covered with overgrown ivy, damp, forlorn, windows
broken, shattered look all about it. With difficulty we got at the
broken gate into the very small and dirty courtyard, where the four
horses could hardly stand with the carriage. Out came such a master and
such a maid! and such fumes of whiskey-punch and tobacco. Sir Culling
got down from his barouche-seat, to look if the house was practicable;
but soon returned, shaking his head, and telling us in French that it
was quite impossible; and the master of the inn, with half threats, half
laughter, assured us we should find no other place in Outerard. I
inquired for the Priest's house. I was on the point of asking, "Has the
Priest any family?" but recollected myself in time, and asked whether
the Priest's house was large enough to hold us. "Not an atom of room to
spare in it, ma'am." Then I inquired for the Chief of the Police, the
Clergyman, or the Magistrate? "Not in it, neither, none; but the Chief
of the Police's house is there on the top of the hill; but you will not
get in."

We went there, however, and up the hill toiled, and to the door of a
sort of spruce-looking lanthorn of a house, without tree or shrub near
it. But still it might be good to sleep in; and, nothing daunted by the
maid's prophecies and ominous voice, we determined to try our fate. Sir
Culling got down and rubbed his hands; while, after his man's knocking
at the door several times, no one came to open it, though through the
large drawing-room window we saw figures gliding about. At last the door
half opened by hands unseen, and Sir Culling, pushing it wholly open,
went in; and we sat in the carriage, waiting as patiently as we could.
The figures in black and white came to the window, and each had
pocket-handkerchiefs in their hands or at their eyes. Sir Culling
reappeared, ordered the horses to be turned about again; and when he had
remounted his barouche-seat, which he did with all convenient speed, he
informed us that a lady had died in this house a few days before, of
cholera; that she had this day been buried; that under any other
circumstances the master and mistress would have been happy to receive
us, but now it was quite impossible, for our sake and their own. The
damp, broken-windowed hole was preferable; so back we went. But as we
went along the _high_ road, down in the _low_ road on the other side of
the pond, through the duskiness we saw lights in several houses; and in
front of one long house which looked whiter than the rest, we stopped at
an opening in the road where was a path which led to the valley beneath,
and Sir Culling, who proved in this our need an active knight, sallied
down to adventure another trial; and in a few minutes after _im_merging
into this mud castle, and emerging from it, he waved his arm over his
head in sign of triumph, and made a sign to the postillions to turn down
into the valley, which they did without overturning us; and to our
satisfaction we found ourselves housed at Mrs. O'Flaherty's, who did not
keep an inn, observe; her admitting us, observe, depended upon our
clearly understanding that she did not so demean herself. But she in the
season let her house as a boarding-house to the quality, who came to
Outerard to drink the waters or to bathe. So, to oblige us poor
travellers, without disgrace to the blood and high descent of the
O'Flaherties, she took us in, as we were quality, and she turned her two
sons out of their rooms and their beds for us; and most comfortably we
were lodged. And we ate the John Doree we had brought with us, and I
thought it not worth all the talking about it I had heard; and, for the
first time in my days or nights, I this night tasted a _toombler_ of
anti-Parliament whiskey, _alias_ poteen, and water; and of all the
detestable tastes that ever went into my mouth, or smells that ever went
under my nose, I think this was the worst--literally smoke and fire
spirit. Isabella observed that she had often drank Innishowon and water
with dear Agnes and Joanna Baillie. There's no disputing about tastes;
therefore I did not dispute, only set down the tumbler, and sip took
never more; for I could as soon have drank the chimney smoking. The
doors, just opening with a latch, received us into our bed-rooms, with
good turf fires on the hearth, coved ceilings, and presses, and all like
bed-rooms in an English farm-house more than an Irish: wonderful
comfortable for Outerard, after fear of the cholera and the dead woman
especially.

Next day, sun shining and a good breakfast, our spirit of travelling
adventure up within us, we determined that, before proceeding on our
main adventure into Connemara, we would make a little episode to see a
wonderful cave in the neighbourhood. Our curiosity to see it had been
excited by the story of the lady and the white trout in _Lover's
Legends_. It is called the Pigeon-hole; not the least like a
pigeon-hole, but it is a subterraneous passage, where a stream flows
which joins the waters of Lough Corrib and Lough Mask. Outerard is on
the borders of Lough Corrib, and we devoted this day to boating across
Lough Corrib, to see this famous cavern, which is on the opposite side
of the lake, and also to see a certain ruined monastery. We passed over
the lake, admiring its beauty and its many islands--little bits of
islands, of which the boatmen tell there are three hundred and
sixty-five; be the same more or less, one for every day in the year at
least. We saw the ruins, which are very fine; but I have not time to say
more about them. We crossed the churchyard and a field or two, and all
was as flat, and bare, and stony as can be imagined; and as we were
going and going farther from the shore of the lake, I wondered how and
when we were to come to this cavern. The guide called me to stop, and I
stopped; and well I did: I was on the brink of the Pigeon-hole--just
like an unfenced entrance to a deep deep well. The guide went down
before us, and was very welcome! Down and down and down steps almost
perpendicular, and as much as my little legs could do to reach from one
to the other; darker and darker, and there were forty of them I am sure,
well counted--though certainly I never counted them, but was right glad
when I felt my feet at the bottom, on _terra firma_ again, even in
darkness, and was told to look up, and that I had come down sixty feet
and more. I looked up and saw glimmering light at the top, and as my
eyes recovered, more and more light through the large fern leaves which
hung over the opening at top, and the whole height above looked like the
inside of a limekiln, magnified to gigantic dimensions, with
lady-fern--it must be lady-fern, because of the fairies--and lichens,
names unknown, hanging from its sides. The light of the sun now
streaming in I saw plainly, and felt why the guide held me fast by the
arm--I was on the brink of the very narrow dark stream of water, which
flowed quite silently from one side of the cavern to the other! To that
other side, my eye following the stream as it flowed, I now looked, and
saw that the cavern opened under a high archway in the rock. How high
that was, or how spacious, I had not yet light enough to discern. But
now there appeared from the steps down which we had descended an old
woman with a light in her hand. Our boy-guide hailed her by the name of
Madgy Burke. She scrambled on a high jut of rock in the cavern; she had
a bundle of straw under one arm, and a light flickering in the other
hand, her grizzled locks streaming, her garments loose and tattered, all
which became suddenly visible as she set fire to a great wisp of straw,
and another and another she plucked from her bundle and lighted, and
waved the light above and underneath. It was like a scene in a melodrama
of Cavern and Witch--the best cavern scene I ever beheld. As she
continued to throw down, from the height where she stood, the lighted
bundles of straw, they fell on the surface of the dark stream below, and
sailed down the current, under the arch of the cavern, lighting its roof
at the vast opening, and looking like tiny fire-ships, one after another
sailing on, and disappearing. We could not help watching each as it
blazed, till it vanished. We looked till we were tired, then turned and
clambered up the steps we had scrambled down, and found ourselves again
in broad daylight, in upper air and on the flat field; and the illusion
was over, and there stood, turned into a regular old Irish beggar-woman,
the Witch of Outerard, and Madgy Burke stood confessed, and began to
higgle with Sir Culling and to flatter the English quality for a
sixpence more.

Meanwhile we were to cross Lough Corrib; and well for us that we had the
prudence to declare, early in the morning, that we would not take a
sail-boat, for a sail-boat is dangerous in the sudden squalls which rise
in these mountain regions and on these lakes, very like the Swiss lakes
for that matter. For instance, on the Lake de Lucerne, I have seen
sunshine and glassy surface change in five minutes to storm and cloud so
black and thick, that Mont Pilate himself could not be discerned through
it more than if he never stood there in all his sublimity.

Our day had changed, and very rough was the lake; and the boatmen, to
comfort us and no doubt amuse themselves, as we rose up and down on the
billows, told us stories of boats that had been lost in these storms,
and of young Mr. Brown last year, that was drowned in a boat within view
of his brother standing on that island, which we were just then to pass.
"And when so near he could almost have reached him, you'd have thought."

"And why didn't he, then?" said I.

"Oh, bless you, ma'am, he couldn't; for," said the boatman, dropping his
oar, which I did not like at all, "for, mind you, ma'am, it was all done
in the clap of one's hand," and he clapped his hands.

"Well, take up your oar," cried I; which he did, and rowed amain, and we
cleared Brown's Island, and I have no more dangers, fancied or other, to
tell you; and after two hours' hard rowing, which may give you the
measure of the width of Lough Corrib at this place, we landed, and were
right glad to eat Mrs. O'Flaherty's ready dinner, Lough Corrib
trout--not the White Lady trout.

Sir Culling had intended to pursue his road this evening and reach Lough
Corrib Lodge to sleep, but before we got the first mouthful of dinner
into our mouths it was stone-dark, whatever kind of darkness that is,
and we agreed on old George's excellent principle to leave it till
"morning, ma'am, if you please."

So the morning came, and a fine morning still it was; and we set out,
leaving Mrs. O'Flaherty curtseying and satisfied. I cannot make out any
wonders, or anything like an adventure between Outerard and Corrib
Lodge; only the road was rough and the country like the Isle of
Anglesea, as if stones and fragments of rock had showered down on the
earth and tracts of bog-heath such as England never saw and Scotland
seldom sees, except in the Highlands. We were only about twice the time
that Sir Culling had calculated on getting over this part of the road
with our powerful Galway horses and steady drivers, and reaching Corrib
Lodge Sir Culling said: "These roads are not so very bad, we shall get
on, Miss Edgeworth, very well, you will see."

Corrib Lodge is a neat bleak-looking house, which Mr. Nimmo built for
his own residence when he was overseer of the roads, now turned into an
inn, kept by his Scotch servant, who used to come with him to
Edgeworthstown, and he gave us bread and butter and milk, and moreover,
hare-soup, such as the best London tavern might have envied. For
observe, that hares abound in these parts, and there is no sin in
killing them, and how the cook came to be so good I cannot tell you, but
so it certainly was. Invigorated and sanguine, we were ready to get into
the carriage again, purposing to reach Clifden this evening--it was now
three o'clock; we had got through half our thirty-six miles; no doubt we
could easily, Sir Culling argued, manage the other half before dark. But
our wary Scotch host shook his head and observed, that if his late
master Mr. Nimmo's road was but open so we might readily, but Mr.
Nimmo's new road was not opened, and why, because it was not finished.
Only one mile or so remained unfinished, and as that one mile of unmade
unfinished road was impassable by man, boy, or Connemara pony, what
availed the new road for our heavy carriage and four horses? There was
no possibility of _going round_, as I proposed; we must go the old road,
if road it could be called, all bog and bog-holes, as our host explained
to us: "It would be wonderful if we could get over it, for no carriage
had ever passed, nor ever thought of attempting to pass, nothing but a
common car these two years at least, except the Marquis of Anglesea and
suite, _and_ his Excellency was on horseback." As for such a carriage as
Sir Culling's, the like, as men and boys at the door told us, had never
been seen in these parts.

Sir Culling stood a little daunted. We inquired--I particularly, how far
it was to Ballinahinch Castle, where the Martins live, and which I knew
was some miles on this side of Clifden. I went into Corrib Lodge and
wrote with ink on a visiting ticket with "Miss Edgeworth" on it, my
compliments, and Sir Culling and Lady Smith's, a petition for a night's
hospitality, to use in case of our utmost need.

The Scotchman could not describe exactly how many _bad steps_ there
were, but he forewarned us that they were bad enough, and as he
sometimes changed the words _bad steps_ into _sloughs_, our Galway
postillions looked graver and graver, hoped they should get their horses
over, but did not know; they had never been this road, never farther
than Outerard, but they would do all that men and beasts could do.

The first bad step we came to was indeed a slough, but only a couple of
yards wide across the road. The horses, the moment they set their feet
upon it, sank up to their knees, and were whipped and spurred, and they
struggled and floundered, and the carriage, as we inside passengers
felt, sank and sank. Sir Culling was very brave and got down to help.
The postillions leaped off, and bridles in hand gained the _shore_, and
by dint of tugging, and whipping, and hallooing, and dragging of men and
boys, who followed from Corrib Lodge, we were got out and were on the
other side.

Farther on we might fare worse from what we could learn, so in some
commotion we got out and said we would rather walk. And when we came to
the next bad step, the horses, seeing it was a slough like the first,
put back their ears and absolutely refused to set foot upon it, and they
were, the postillions agreed, quite right; so they were taken off and
left to look on, while by force of arms the carriage was to be got over
by men and boys, who shouting, gathered from all sides, from mountain
paths down which they poured, and from fields where they had been at
work or loitering; at the sight of the strangers they flocked to
help--such a carriage had never been seen before--to help common cars,
or jaunting cars over these bad steps they had been used. "This heavy
carriage! sure it was impossible, but sure they might do it." And they
talked and screamed together in English and Irish equally unintelligible
to us, and in spite of all remonstrance about breaking the pole--pole,
and wheels, and axle, and body, they seized of the carriage, and
standing and jumping from stone to stone, or any tuft of bog that could
bear them, as their practised eyes saw; they, I cannot tell you how,
dragged, pushed, and _screamed_ the carriage over. And Sir Culling got
over his way, and Lady Smith would not be carried, but leaping and
assisted by men's arms and shouts, she got to the other side. And a
great giant, of the name of Ulick Burke, took me up in his arms as he
might a child or a doll, and proceeded to carry me over--while I,
exceedingly frightened and exceedingly civil, and (as even in the moment
of most danger I could not help thinking and laughing within me at the
thought) very like Rory in his dream on the eagle's back, in his journey
to the moon, I kept alternately flattering my giant, and praying--"Sir,
sir, pray set me down; do let me down now, sir, pray."

"Be asy; be _quite_, can't you, dear, and I'll carry you over to the
other side safely, all in good time," floundering as he went.

"Thank you, sir, thank you. Now, sir, now set me down, if you will be so
very good, on the bank."

Just as we reached the bank he stumbled and sank knee-deep, but threw
me, as he would a sack, to shore, and the moment I felt myself on _terra
firma_, I got up and ran off, and never looked back, trusting that my
giant knew his own business; and so he did, and all dirt and bog water,
was beside me again in a trice. "Did not I carry you over well, my lady?
Oh, it's I am used to it, and helped the Lord Anglesea when he was in
it."

So as we walked on, while the horses were coming over, I don't know how,
Ulick and a tribe of wild Connemara men and boys followed us, all
talking at once, and telling us there were twenty or thirty such bad
steps, one worse than another, farther and farther on. It was clear that
we could not walk all the twelve miles, and the men and Sir Culling
assuring us that they would get us safe over, and that we had better get
into the carriage again, and in short that we _must_ get in, we
submitted.

I confess, Pakenham, I was frightened nearly out of my wits. At the next
trial Lady Culling Smith was wonderfully brave, and laughed when the
carriage was hauled from side to side, so nearly upset, that how each
time it escaped I could not tell; but at last, when down it sank, and
all the men shouted and screamed, her courage fell, and she confessed
afterwards she thought it was all over with us, and that we should never
be got out of this bog-hole. Yet out we were got; but how? what with the
noise, and what with the fright, far be it from me to tell you. But I
know I was very angry with a boy for laughing in the midst of it: a
little dare-devil of a fellow, as my giant Ulick called him; I could
with pleasure have seen him ducked in bog water! but forgot my anger in
the pleasure of safe landing, and now I vowed I could and would walk the
whole ten miles farther, and would a thousand times rather.

My scattered senses and common sense returning, it now occurred to me
that it would be desirable to avail myself of the card I had in my bag,
and beg a night's lodging at our utmost need. It was still broad
daylight, to be sure, and Sir Culling still hoped we should get on to
Clifden before dark. But I did request he would despatch one of these
gossoons to Ballinahinch Castle with my card immediately. It could do no
harm I argued, and Lady Smith seconded me with, "Yes, dear Culling,
_do_," and my dear giant Ulick backed me with, "Troth, you're right
enough, ma'am. Troth, sir, it will be dark enough soon, and long enough
before you're clean over them sloughs, farthest on beyant where we can
engage to see you over. Sure, here's my own boy will run with the speed
of light with the lady's card."

I put it into his hand with the promise of half a crown, and how he did
take to his heels!

We walked on, and Ulick, who was a professional wit as well as a giant,
told us the long-ago tale of Lord Anglesea's visit to Connemara, and how
as he walked beside his horse this gentleman-lord, as he was, had axed
him which of his legs he liked best.

Now Ulick knew right well that one was a cork leg, but he never let on,
as he told us, and pretended the one leg was just the same as t'other,
and he saw no differ in life, "which pleased my lord-liftenant greatly,
and then his lordship fell to explaining to me why it was cork, and how
he lost it in battle, which I knew before as well as he did, for I had
larned all about it from our Mr. Martin, who was expecting him at the
castle, but still I never let on, and handled the legs one side of the
horse and t'other and asy found out, and tould him, touching the cork,
'sure this is the more _honourable_.'"

Which observation surely deserved, and I hope obtained half a crown. Our
way thus beguiled by Ulick's Irish wit, we did not for some time feel
that we could not walk for ever. Lady Culling Smith complained of being
stiff and tired, and we were compelled to the carriage again, and
presently heavy dews of evening falling, we were advised to let down
those fairy-board shutters I described to you, which was done with care
and cost of nails. I did it at last, and oh! how I wished it up again
when we were boxed up, and caged in without the power of seeing more
than glimpses of our danger--glimpses heightening imagination, and, if
we were to be overturned, all this glass to be broken into our eyes and
ears.

Well! well! I will not wear your sympathy and patience eighteen times
out, with the history of the eighteen sloughs we went, or were got,
through at the imminent peril of our lives. Why the carriage was not
broken to pieces I cannot tell, but an excellent strong carriage it was,
thank Heaven, and the builder whoever he was.

I should have observed to you that while we yet could look about us, we
had continually seen, to increase our sense of vexation, Nimmo's new
road looking like a gravel walk running often parallel to our path of
danger, and yet for want of being finished there it was, useless and
most tantalising.

Before it grew quite dark, Sir Culling tapped at our dungeon window, and
bid us look out at a beautiful place, a paradise in the wilds. "Look
out? How?"--"Open the little window at your ear, and this just before
you--push the bolt back."--"But I can't."

With the help of an ivory cutter lever, however, I did accomplish it,
and saw indeed a beautiful place belonging, our giant guide told us, to
Dean Mahon, well wooded and most striking in this desert.

It grew dark, and Sir Culling, very brave, walking beside the carriage,
when we came to the next bad step, sank above his knees; how they
dragged him out I could not see, and there were we in the carriage stuck
fast in a slough, which, we were told, was the last but one before
Ballinahinch Castle, when my eyes were blessed with a twinkling light in
the distance--a boy with a lantern. And when, breathless, he panted up
to the side of the carriage and thrust up lantern and note (we still in
the slough), how glad I was to see him and it! and to hear him say,
"Then Mr. Martin's very unaasy about yees--so he is."

"I am very glad of it--very glad indeed," said I. The note in a nice
lady's hand from Mrs. Martin greeted us with the assurance that Miss
Edgeworth and her English friends should be welcome at Ballinahinch
Castle.

Then from our mob another shout! another heave! another drag, and
another lift by the spokes of the wheels. Oh! if they had broken!----but
they did not, and we were absolutely out of this slough. I spare you the
next and last, and then we wound round the _Lake-road_ in the dark, on
the edge of Ballinahinch lake on Mr. Martin's new road, as our dear
giant told us, and I thought we should never get to the house, but at
last we saw a chimney on fire, at least myriads of sparks and spouts of
flame, but before we reached it, it abated, and we came to the door
without seeing what manner of house or castle it might be, till the hall
door opened and a butler--half an angel he appeared to us--appeared at
the door. But then in the midst of our impatience I was to let down and
buckle up these fairy boards--at last swinging and slipping it was
accomplished, and out we got, but with my foot still on the step we all
called out to tell the butler we were afraid some chimney was on fire.
Without deigning even to look up at the chimney, he smiled and motioned
us the way we should go. He was as we saw at first view, and found
afterwards, the most imperturbable of men.

And now that we are safely housed, and housed in a castle too, I will
leave you, my dear Pakenham, for the present.


_March 12_.

What became of the chimney on fire, I cannot tell--the Imperturbable was
probably right in never minding it; he was used to its ways of burning
out, and being no more thought of.

He showed us into a drawing-room, where we saw by firelight a lady
alone--Mrs. Martin, tall and thin, in deep mourning. Though by that
light, but dimly visible, and by our eyes _dazed_ as they were just
coming out of the dark, but imperfectly seen, yet we could not doubt at
first sight that she was a lady in the highest sense of the word,
perfectly a gentlewoman. And her whole manner of receiving us, and the
ease of her motions, and of her conversation, in a few moments convinced
me that she must at some time of her life have been accustomed to live
in the best society--the best society in Ireland; for it was evident
from her accent that she was a _native_--high-life Dublin tone of about
forty years ago. The curls on her forehead, mixed with gray, prematurely
gray, like your mother's, much older than the rest of her person.

She put us at ease at once, by beginning to talk to us, as if she was
well acquainted with my family--and so she was from William, who had
prepossessed her in our favour, yet she did not then allude to him,
though I could not but understand what she meant to convey--I liked her.

Then came in, still by firelight, from a door at the farther end of the
room, a young lady, elegantly dressed in deep mourning. "My
daughter--Lady Culling Smith--Miss Edgeworth:" slight figure, head held
up and thrown back. She had the resolution to come to the very middle of
the room and make a deliberate and profound curtsey, which a
dancing-master of Paris would have approved; seated herself upon the
sofa, and seemed as if she never intended to speak. Mrs. Martin showed
us up to our rooms, begging us not to dress unless we liked it before
dinner; and we did not like it, for we were very much tired, and it was
now between eight and nine o'clock. Bedchambers spacious. Dinner, we
were told, was ready whenever we pleased, and, well pleased, down we
went: found Mr. Martin in the drawing-room--a large Connemara gentleman,
white, massive face; a stoop forward in his neck, the consequence of a
shot in the Peninsular War.

"Well! will you come to dinner? dinner's ready. Lady Culling Smith, take
my arm; Sir Culling, Miss Edgeworth."

A fine large dining-room, and standing at the end of the table an
odd-looking person, below the middle height, youngish, but the top and
back of his head perfectly bald, like a bird's skull, and at each temple
a thick bunch of carroty red curly hair, thick red whiskers and light
blue eyes, very fair skin and carnation colour. He wore a long green
coat, and some abominable coloured thing round his throat, and a look as
if he could not look at you, and would. I wondered what was to become of
this man, and he looked as if he wondered too. But Mr. Martin, turning
abruptly, said, "M'Hugh! where are you, man? M'Hugh, sit down man,
here!"

And M'Hugh sat down. I afterwards found he was an essential person in
the family: M'Hugh here, M'Hugh there; very active, acute, and ready,
and bashful, a daredevil kind of man, that would ride, and boat, and
shoot in any weather, and would at any moment hazard his life to save a
fellow-creature's. Miss Martin sat opposite to me, and with the light of
branches of wax candles full upon her, I saw that she was very young,
about seventeen, very fair, hair which might be called red by rivals and
auburn by friends, her eyes blue-gray, prominent, like pictures I have
seen by Leonardo da Vinci.

But Miss Martin must not make me forget the dinner, and such a dinner!
London _bon vivants_ might have blessed themselves! Venison such as Sir
Culling declared could not be found in England, except from one or two
immense parks of noblemen favoured above their peers; salmon, lobsters,
oysters, game, all well cooked and well served, and well placed upon the
table: nothing loaded, all _in_ good taste, as well as _to_ the taste;
wines, such as I was not worthy of, but Sir Culling knew how to praise
them; champagne, and all manner of French wines.

In spite of a very windy night, I slept admirably well, and wakened with
great curiosity to see what manner of place we were in. From the front
windows of my room, which was over the drawing-room, I looked down a
sudden slope to the only trees that could be seen, far or near, and only
on the tops of them. From the side window a magnificent but desolate
prospect of an immense lake and bare mountains.

When I went down, and to the hall door at which we had entered the night
before, I was surprised to see neither mountains, lake, nor river--all
flat as a pancake--a wild, boundless sort of common, with showers of
stones; no avenue or regular approach, no human habitation within view:
and when I walked up the road and turned to look at the castle, nothing
could be less like a castle. From the drawing I send you (who it was
done by I will tell you by and by), you would imagine it a real castle,
bosomed high in trees. Such flatterers as those portrait-painters of
places are! And yet it is all true enough, if you see it from the right
point of view. Much I wished to see more of the inhabitants of this
castle, but we were to pursue our way to Clifden this day; and with
these thoughts balancing in my mind of _wish_ to stay, and _ought_ to
go, I went to breakfast--coffee, tea, hot rolls, ham, all luxuries.

Isabella did not make her appearance, but this I accounted for by her
having been much tired. She had complained of rheumatic pains, but I had
thought no more about them. Little was I aware of all that was to be.
"L'homme propose: Dieu dispose." Lady Culling Smith at last appeared,
hobbling, looking in torture, leaning on her husband's arm, and trying
to smile on our hospitable hosts, all standing up to receive her. Never
did I see a human creature in the course of one night so changed. When
she was to sit down, it was impossible: she could not bend her knees,
and fell back in Sir Culling's arms. He was excessively frightened. His
large powerful host carried her upstairs, and she was put to bed by her
thin, scared-looking, but excellent and helpful maid; and this was the
beginning of an illness which lasted above three weeks. Little did we
think, however, at the beginning how bad it would be. We thought it only
rheumatism, and I wrote to Honora that we should be detained a few days
longer--from day to day put off. Lady Culling Smith grew alarmingly ill.
There was only one half-fledged doctor at Clifden: the Martins disliked
him, but he was sent for, and a puppy he proved, thinking of nothing but
his own shirt-buttons and fine curled hair. Isabella grew worse and
worse--fainting-fits; and Mrs. and Miss Martin, both accustomed to
prescribe for the country-people in want of all medical advice in these
lone regions, went to their pharmacopoeias and medicine-chest, and
prescribed various strong remedies, and ran up and down stairs, but
could not settle what the patient's disease was, whether gout or
rheumatism; and these required quite different treatment: hands and lips
were swelled and inflamed, but not enough to say it was positively gout,
then there was fear of drawing the gout to the stomach, and if it was
not gout!--All was terror and confusion; and poor Sir Culling,
excessively fond of Isabella, stood in tears beside her bed. He had sat
up two nights with her, and was now seized with asthmatic spasms himself
in his chest. It was one of the worst nights you can imagine, blowing a
storm and raining cats and dogs. Mr. and Mrs. Martin and Sir Culling
thought Lady Smith so dangerously ill that it was necessary to send a
man on horseback thirty miles to Outerard for a physician: and who could
be sent such a night? one of the Galway postillions on one of the
post-horses (you will understand that we were obliged to keep these
horses and postillions at Ballinahinch, as no other horses could be
procured). The postillion was to be _knocked up_, and Sir Culling and
Mr. Martin went to some den to waken him.

Meanwhile I was standing alone, very sorrowful, on the hearth in the
great drawing-room, waiting to hear how it could be managed, when in
came Mr. M'Hugh, and coming quite close up to me, said, "Them Galway
boys will not know the way across the bogs as I should: I'd be at
Outerard in half the time. I'll go, if they'll let me, and with all the
pleasure in life."

"Such a night as this! Oh no, Mr. M'Hugh!"

"Oh yes; why not?" said he. And this good-hearted, wild creature would
have gone that instant, if we would have let him!

However, we would not, and he gave instructions to the Galway boy how to
keep clear of the sloughs and bog-holes; observing to me that "them
stranger horses are good for little in Connemara--nothing like a
Connemara pony for that!" As Ulick Burke said, "The ponies are such
knowing little creatures, when they come to a slough they know they'd
sink in, and their legs of no use to them, they lie down till the men
that can stand drag them over with their legs kneeling under them."

The Galway boy got safe to Outerard, and next morning brought back Dr.
Davis, a very clever, agreeable man, who had had a great deal of
experience, having begun life as an army surgeon: at any rate, he was
not thinking of himself, but of his patient. He thought Isabella
dangerously ill--unsettled gout. I will not tire you with all the
history of her illness, and all our terrors; but never would I have left
home on this odd journey if I could have foreseen this illness. I cannot
give you an idea of my loneliness of feeling, my utter helplessness,
from the impossibility of having the advantage of the sympathy and sense
of any of my own family. We had not, for one whole week, the comfort of
even any one letter from any of our distant friends. We had expected to
be by this time at Castlebar, and we had desired Honora to direct our
letters there. Sir Culling with great spirit sent a Connemara messenger
fifty miles to Castlebar for the letters, and when he came back he
brought but one!

No mail-coach road comes near here: no man on horseback could undertake
to carry the letters regularly. They are carried three times a week from
Outerard to Clifden, thirty-six miles, by three gossoons, or more
properly bog-trotters, and very hard work it is for them. One runs a day
and a night, and then sleeps a day and a night, and then another takes
his turn; and each of these boys has L15 a year. I remember seeing one
of these postboys leaving Ballinahinch Castle, with his leather bag on
his back, across the heath and across the bog, leaping every now and
then, and running so fast! his bare, white legs thrown up among the
brown heath. These postboys were persons of the greatest consequence to
us: they brought us news from home, and to poor Lady Culling Smith
accounts of her baby, and of her friends in England. We began to think
we should never see any of them again.

I cannot with sufficient gratitude describe to you the hospitality and
unvaried kindness of Mr. and Mrs. Martin during all these trials. Mr.
Martin, rough man as he seemed outside, was all soft and tender within,
and so very considerate for the English servants. Mrs. Martin told me
that he said to her, "I am afraid that English man and maid must be very
uncomfortable here--so many things to which they have been used, which
we have not for them! Now we have no beer, you know, my dear, and
English servants are always used to beer." So Mr. Martin gave them cider
instead, and every day he took to each of them himself a glass of
excellent port wine; and to Isabella, as gout-cordial, he gave Bronte,
the finest, Sir Culling said, he ever tasted. And never all the time did
Mr. and Mrs. Martin omit anything it was in their power to do to make us
comfortable, and to relieve us from the dreadful feeling of being
burthensome and horrible intruders! They did succeed in putting me
completely at ease, as far as they were concerned. I do not think I
could have got through all the anxiety I felt during Lady Culling
Smith's illness, and away from all my own people, and waiting so
shockingly long for letters, if it had not been for the kindness of Mrs.
Martin, and the great fondness I soon felt for her. She is not literary;
she is very religious--what would be called VERY GOOD, and yet she
suited me, and I grew very fond of her, and she of me. Little things
that I could feel better than describe inclined me to her, and our minds
were open to one another from the first day. Once, towards the end, I
believe, of the first week, when I began some sentence with an apology
for some liberty I was taking, she put her hand upon my arm, and with a
kind, reproachful look exclaimed, "Liberty! I thought we were past that
long since: are not we?"

She told me that she had actually been brought up with a feeling of
reverence for my father, and particularly for me, by a near relation of
hers, old Mr. Kirwan, the President of the Royal Irish Academy, who was
a great friend of my father's and puffer of me in early days. Then her
acquaintance afterwards with Mr. Nimmo carried on the connection. She
told me he showed her that copy of _Harry and Lucy_ which you had in
making the index, and showed her the bridge which he helped me over when
Harry was building it. But what touched and won me first and most in
Mrs. Martin was the manner in which she spoke of William--her true
feeling for his character. "Whenever he could get me alone," she said,
"he would talk to me of Honora or Mrs. Edgeworth and his aunt Mary and
you."

Some of the expressions she repeated I could not but feel sure were his,
and they were so affectionate towards me, I was much touched. _Too
besides_ Mrs. Martin made herself very agreeable by her quantity of
anecdotes, and her knowledge of the people with whom she had lived in
her youth, of whom she could, with great ability and admirable composed
drollery, give the most characteristic traits.

Miss Martin--though few books beyond an _Edinburgh_ or _Quarterly
Review_ or two appeared in the sitting-room--has books in quantities in
a closet in her own room, which is within her mother's; and "every
morning," said Mrs. Martin, "she comes in to me while I am dressing, and
pours out upon me an inundation of learning, fresh and fresh, all she
has been reading for hours before I am up. Mary has read prodigiously."

I found Mary one of the most extraordinary persons I ever saw. Her
acquirements are indeed prodigious: she has more knowledge of books,
both scientific and learned, than any female creature I ever saw or
heard of at her age--heraldry, metaphysics, painting and painters'
lives, and tactics; she had a course of fortification from a French
officer, and of engineering from Mr. Nimmo. She understands Latin,
Greek, and Hebrew, and I don't know how many modern languages. French
she speaks perfectly, learned from the French officer who taught her
fortification, M. Du Bois, who was one of Buonaparte's legion of honour,
and when the Emperor was _ousted_, fled from France, and earned his
bread at Ballinahinch by teaching French, which Miss Martin talks as if
she had been a native, but not as if she had been in good Parisian
society; with an odd mixture of a _ton de garnison_ which might be
expected from a pupil of one of Buonaparte's officers. She imbibed from
him such an admiration, such an enthusiasm for Buonaparte, that she
cannot bear a word said to his disparagement; and when Sir Culling
sometimes offended in that way, Miss Martin's face and neck grew
carnation colour, and down to the tips of her fingers she blushed with
indignation.

Her father the while smiled and winked at me. The father as well as the
mother dote upon her; and he has a softened way of always calling her
"my child" that interested me for both. "My child, never mind; what
signifies about Buonaparte?"

One morning we went with Miss Martin to see the fine green Connemara
marble-quarries. Several of the common people gathered round while we
were looking at the huge blocks: these people Miss Martin called her
TAIL. Sir Culling wished to obtain an answer to a question from some of
these people, which he desired Miss Martin to ask for him, being
conscious that, in his English tone, it would be unintelligible. When
the question had been put and answered, Sir Culling objected: "But, Miss
Martin, you did not put the question exactly as I requested you to state
it."

"No," said she, with colour raised and head thrown back, "No, because I
knew how to put it so that people could understand it. _Je sais mon
metier de reine."

This trait gives you an idea of her character and manner, and of the
astonishment of Sir Culling at her want of sympathy with his really
liberal and philanthropic views for Ireland, while she is full of her
tail, her father's fifty-miles-long avenue, and Aeschylus and Euripides,
in which she is admirably well read. Do think of a girl of seventeen, in
the wilds of Connemara, intimately acquainted with all the beauties of
Aeschylus and Euripides, and having them as part of her daily thoughts!

There are immense caves on this coast which were the _free-traders'_
resort, and would have been worth any money to Sir Walter. "Quite a
scene and a country for him," as Miss Martin one day observed to me;
"don't you think your friend Sir Walter Scott would have liked our
people and our country?"

It is not exactly a feudal state, but the _tail_ of a feudal state. Dick
Martin, father of the present man, was not only lord of all he surveyed,
but lord of all the lives of the people: now the laws of the land have
come in, and rival proprietors have sprung up in rival castles. Hundreds
would still, I am sure, start out of their bogs for Mr. Martin, but he
is called _Mister_, and the prestige is over. The people in Connemara
were all very quiet and submissive till some _refugee Terry-alts_ took
asylum in these bog and mountain fastnesses. They spread their
principles, and soon the clan combined against their chief, and formed a
plan of seizing Ballinahinch Castle, and driving him and all the
Protestant gentry out of the country. Mr. Martin is a man of desperate
courage, some skill as an officer, and _prodigious_ bodily strength,
which altogether stood him in stead in time of great danger. I cannot
tell you the whole long story, but I will mention one anecdote which
will show you how like the stories in Walter Scott are the scenes that
have been lately passing in Connemara. Mr. Martin summoned one of his
own followers, who had he knew joined the Terry-alts, to give up a gun
lent to him in days of trust and favour: no answer to the summons. A
second, a third summons: no effect. Mr. Martin then warned the man that
if he did not produce the gun at the next sessions he would come and
seize it. The man appeared at the house where Mr. Martin holds his
sessions--about the size of Lovell's schoolroom, and always fuller than
it can hold: Mr. Martin espied from his end of the room his friend with
the gun, a powerfully strong man, who held his way on, and stood full
before him.

"You sent for my gun, your honour, did you?"

"I did--three times; it is well you have brought it at last; give it to
me."

The man kneeled down on one knee, and putting the gun across the other
knee, broke it asunder, and throwing the pieces to Mr. Martin, cried,
"There it is for you. I swore that was the only way you should ever have
it, dead or alive. You have warned me, and now I warn you; take care of
yourself."

He strode out of the crowd. But he was afterwards convicted of Terry-alt
practices and transported. Now all is perfectly quiet, and Mr. Martin
goes on doing justice in his own peculiar fashion every week. When the
noise, heat, and crowd in his sessions court become beyond all bearing,
he roars with his stentorian voice to clear the court; and if that be
not done forthwith, he with his own two Herculean arms seizes the
loudest two disputants, knocks their heads together, thrusts them
bawling as they go out of the door and flings them asunder.

In his own house there never was a more gentle, hospitable, good-natured
man, I must say again and again, or else I should be a very ungrateful
woman.

Miss Martin has three ponies, which she has brought every day to the
great Wyatt window of the library, where she feeds them with potatoes.
One of them is very passionate; and once the potato being withheld a
moment too long at the hall door he fell into a rage, pushed in at the
door after her, and she ran for her life, got upstairs and was safe.

I asked what he would have done if he had come up to her?

"Set his two feet on my shoulders, thrown me down, and trampled upon
me."

The other day the smith hurt his foot in shoeing him, and up he reared,
and up jumped the smith on the raised part of his forge--the pony jumped
after him, and if the smith had not scrambled behind his bellows, "would
have killed him to be sure."

After hearing this I declined riding this pony, though Miss Martin
pressed me much, and assured me he was as quiet as a lamb--provided I
would never strike him or look cross. Once she got me up on his back,
but I looked so miserable, she took me down again. She described to me
her nursing of one of these ponies; "he used to stand with his head over
my shoulder while I rubbed his nose for an hour together; but I suppose
I must throw off these Bedouin habits before I go to London."

They are now spending the season in town. I had an opportunity of seeing
her perfect freedom from coquetry in company with a Mr. Smith--no
relation of Sir Culling's--a very handsome fine gentleman who came here
unexpectedly.

All this time poor Isabella has been left by me in torture in her bed.
At the end of three weeks she was pronounced out of danger, and in spite
of the kind remonstrances of our hospitable hosts, not tired of the sick
or the well, on a very wet odious day away we went. As there are no inns
or place where an invalid could pass the night, I wrote to beg a night's
lodging at Renvyle, Mr. Blake's. He and Mrs. Blake, who wrote _Letters
from the Irish Highlands_, were not at home, in Galway on a visit, but
they answered most politely that they begged me to consider their house
as my own, and wrote to their agent who was at Renvyle to receive us.

Captain Bushby, of the Water Guard--married to a niece of Joanna
Baillie's--was very kind in accompanying us on our first day's journey.
"I must see you _safe out_," said he. "Safe out" is the common elision
for safe out of Connemara. And really it was no easy matter to get us
safe out; but I spare you a repetition of sloughs; we safely reached
Renvyle, where the agent received us in a most comfortable
well-furnished, well-carpeted, well-lighted library, filled with
books--excellent dining-room beyond, and here Lady Smith had a day's
rest, without which she could not have proceeded, and well for her she
had such a comfortable resting-place.

Next day we got into _Joyce's Country_, and had hot potatoes and cold
milk, and Renvyle cold fowl at The Lodge, as it is styled, of Big Jacky
Joyce--one of the descendants of the ancient proprietors, and quite an
original Irish character. He had heard my name often, he said, from Mr.
Nimmo, and knew I was a writing lady, and a friend to Ireland, and he
was civil to me, and I was civil to him, and after eyeing Sir Culling
and Lady Smith, and thinking, I saw, that she was affecting to be
languishing, and then perceiving that she was really weak and ill, he
became cordial to the whole party, and entertained us for two hours,
which we were obliged to wait for the going out of the tide before we
could cross the sands. Here was an arm of the sea, across which Mr.
Nimmo had been employed to build a bridge, and against Big Jack Joyce's
advice, he would build it where Jack prophesied it would be swept away
in the winter, and twice the bridge was built, and twice it was swept
away, and still Nimmo said it was the fault of the masons; the
embankment and his theory could not be wrong, and a third time he built
the bridge, and there we saw the ruins of it on the sands--all the
embankments swept away and all we had for it was to be dragged over the
sand by men--the horses taken off. We were pushed down into a gully-hole
five feet deep, and thence pulled up again; how it was I cannot tell
you, for I shut my eyes and resigned myself, gave up my soul and was
much surprised to find it in my body at the end of the operation: Big
Jacky Joyce and his merry men having somehow managed it.

There was an end of our perils by gullies, sloughs, and bog-holes. We
now got on Mr. Nimmo's and Mr. Killalla's really good roads, and now our
four horses began to tell, and that night we reached Westport, and in
consequence of Mrs. Martin's introduction to her friend Lord Sligo were
received by him and Lady Sligo most courteously.

Westport is a beautiful place, with a town, a port, industrious people
all happy, and made so by the sense and energy of a good landlord and a
good agent. We regretted that we could stay only this night and the next
morning to breakfast; it was so delightful and extraordinary to us again
to see trees and shrubberies, and to find ourselves again in the midst
of flowers from green-house and conservatory. Isabella said she was so
delighted, she could hardly forbear, with her crippled, gouty hands,
embracing every tree she met. Lord Sligo, himself a martyr to the gout,
and with a son at Eton just then attacked with gout, had great
compassion for her: he and all his family high-bred and cordial.

The next morning we pursued our journey, and at the next stage came upon
a real mail-coach road, where we had post-horses again, and dismissed
our Galway horses. This night brought us to Lough Glyn, where Mr.
Strickland received us very kindly, and we had the joy of finding
letters waiting for us from home; but we found that the cholera had been
for the last ten days killing the poor people at Edgeworthstown--Condy
Keegan's son-in-law, M'Glaughlin the carpenter, and a great many more.
How dreadfully anxious Honora must have been with the charge of baby,
and this cholera close to our gates!

The last day's journey was the longest of all, from the suspense, though
all was smooth upon the road. When we saw the lights in the windows at
home, you may guess how our hearts went pit-a-pat. We found all WELL;
and glad we all were to meet again, and to have Isabella safe with her
child: not in her arms, poor crippled creature--it was not possible for
her to hold the infant; she could but just hobble about, and was a
quarter of an hour going upstairs. Aunt Mary and Honora, after all the
warnings my letters had given, were surprised and shocked at the first
sight of her. For ten days after her arrival she was unable to travel,
impatient as they both were to be at home again. They did reach it, baby
and all, safely at last, and you may imagine how relieved we were when
we heard of her being safe with her own family again, and with London
physicians: five months since then and she is not yet quite
re-established. We feel now how very serious her illness was.

But now that it is all over, and I can balance pains and pleasures, I
declare that, upon the whole, I had more pleasure than pain from this
journey; the perils of the road were far overbalanced by the diversion
of seeing the people, and the seeing so many to me perfectly new
characters and modes of living. The anxiety of Isabella's illness,
terrible as it was, and the fear of being ill myself and a burthen upon
their hands, and even the horrid sense of remoteness and impossibility
of communication with my own friends, were altogether overbalanced by
the extraordinary kindness, and tenderness, and generous hospitality of
the Martins. It will do my heart good all the days of my life to have
experienced such kindness, and to have seen so much good in human nature
as I saw with them--red M'Hugh included. I am sure I have a friend in
Mrs. Martin: it is an extraordinary odd feeling to have made a friend at
sixty-six years of age! You, my dear young Pakenham, can't understand
this; but you will live, I hope, to understand it, and perhaps to say,
"Now I begin to comprehend what Maria, poor old soul! meant by that
_odd_ feeling at the end of her Connemara journey."

When we were regretting to Lord Sligo that we had missed seeing so many
persons and places on our tour whom we had at first setting out made it
our object to see--Clifden, the Barony of Erris, and the wonderful Major
Bingham--Lord Sligo comforted us by saying, "Depend upon it, you have
seen more really of Connemara than any strangers who have ever travelled
through it, exactly because you remained in one place and in one family,
where you had time to see the habits of the people, and to see them
nearly and familiarly, and without their being shown off, or thinking of
showing themselves off to you."


_March 29_.

I have been so busy at rents and odious accounts, that I have never been
able to go on to you. Your mother returned home a few days ago, after
seven months' absence! You may guess how happy we were to have her
again, and how we have been talking and hearing. Lucy bore the parting
with her wonderfully well; indeed, she was anxious that her mother
should return to us.

Young Walter--now Sir Walter--Scott has been quartered at Longford, and
is now going to Dublin: he dined here on Saturday, and was just the same
as when we saw him in 1825. Sophy and her three children round her must
have surprised him not a little. [Footnote: Mrs. Fox, as Sophy
Edgeworth, had been with her sister at Abbotsford in 1823.] It is a pity
Maxwell was not in the group. Little fair-haired Willy, nothing daunted
by the nearly seven-feet-high major in full uniform, marched up to him
and patted his knee, and in return the major patted his head. His soft
Scotch voice, and often the kind and playful turns in his conversation,
reminded me both pleasurably and painfully of his father. Sophy wished
that her children should hear the band of the regiment, and he promised
that he would halt at Tuite's gate, as a _select_ party with the band
were to go by Castle Pollard; and this morning, when I opened my eyes, I
saw it was snowing so bitterly, I gave up all hopes of our being able to
take the children to hear the band; but between seven, when I wakened,
and half after nine, the appointed hour, many changes of the sky took
place, and at the right moment the sun shone out, the clouds blew over
the beech-trees, and Sophy was drawn in Willy Waller's little carriage,
with him in her lap; Honora, Mary Anne, Charlotte, and I accompanying.
We had to wait some time, and went into what you would call Tuite's
house, but it is now Jem Newman's; and there was his nice little wife,
with her mouth full of the last potato she had eaten for breakfast; and
she put away the half-full potato basket, and the boy with his can of
milk retreated from the stool by the fire, and she welcomed us with
Irish heart's welcome in lip and eye; and the children were delighted
watching the pig and the chickens feeding at the door.

At last the music was heard, and very pretty it was, and mother and
children were happy; and Sir Walter stopped on his fine gray horse, and
said, "You see, I have kept my word," and then galloped off. A sergeant
then came up to me with a slip of paper in his hand, saying, "Can you
read _write?_" I said, I believed I could, and made out for him the
route to Castle Pollard: the sound of the music died away, and we
returned to breakfast. "Sire, il n'y a de circonstance ou on ne prend
pas de dejeuner," as the man said to Buonaparte.

You will have seen in the newspapers the court-martial about Lord
Brudenell and the 15th Hussars: Lord Forbes, in giving me an account of
the matter, said, "Walter Scott, by his conduct, and the way in which he
gave his testimony, covered himself with glory,"--told the truth like a
man and a gentleman.

You may have also seen mentioned the murder of Captain Skyring, of the
_Aetna_, of which Henry Beddoes was second lieutenant, off the coast of
Africa. He wrote a few lines to Fanny after the catastrophe; happily for
him he was kept by some duty on board. It was imprudent of Captain
Skyring to attempt to land, and take observations, without having his
ship near enough to defend him. The natives, all with arms, came round
him, and began by stealing everything they could lay their hands on.
Captain Skyring drew a circle round his circle, forbidding the thieves
to pass it; but they passed it, and one was seizing the instrument in
his hand, when the captain fired and killed the man; and then they all
fell upon him, stabbed him with their pikes and knives, stripped the
body, and left it with seventeen wounds. Our people afterwards got it
back. We know no more as yet, but that Captain Beaufort was extremely
shocked and grieved.

I have no domestic occurrence to tell you, except that a robin, who for
several seasons has frequented this house, and Lucy's room particularly,
has this spring grown so familiar, that he began to build his nest in
Lucy's old bonnet, laid a great heap of leaves in it, which we used to
see him bringing in his bill, the leaves often as large as his body.
Yesterday morning Betty the housemaid said to your mother, "Ma'am, when
I opened the hall door this morning, the robin flew in over my head, and
knowing his way wherever he wanted to go through the doors, just as if
he was master of the house, ma'am! And he sits down before a door, and
_looks_ to have it opened for him." Dear little, impudent fellow! This
packet concludes my chronicle of Connemara.


_To_ C.S. EDGEWORTH.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _March 14, 1834_.

Having now done with business I may turn to a little pleasure; a great
deal you have given me, my dear Sneyd, by your friend Mr. Smedley's
approbation of _Helen_. His polite playful allusion to the names of the
horses, which names at this moment I forget, reminds me of a similar
touch of the Duchess of Wellington in describing one of the Duke's
battles, she quoted from the _Knapsack_, "Let the sugar basin be my
master."

I have written to Fanny about Lady Charlotte Fitzgerald's death. I was
very much shocked at it: I loved her; she was one of my earliest
friends--"Leaf by leaf drops away."


_To_ MISS RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _March 22, 1834_.

With all my heart I congratulate you on being in possession of your
cottage. [Footnote: Dunmoe Cottage, at the end of the Black Castle
demesne, about two miles from the house.] Harriet Butler told us how
happy the people of Black Castle and Navan were, when they heard you
were coming to live amongst them again. You are now as busy as possible
arranging your things and considering how all and each of your friends
will like what you do, and I am--very conceited--sure that you often
think of Maria among the number, and that you have even already thought
of a footstool for her. Emmeline has, by the bye, invented and executed,
and given to my mother, the most ingenious footstool I ever saw, which
folds up and can be put into a work-bag. She has also sent the nicest
most agreeable presents to the little Foxes--a kaleidoscope, a little
watering-pot, and a pair of little tin scales with weights; they set
about directly weighing everything that could be put into them, ending
with sugar-plums and sugar-candy.

We have been much amused with _The Kuzzilbash_ and by _Bubbles from the
Brunnen_, by Captain Head.


_To_ MISS RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _July 29, 1834_.

I cannot, my dear Lady of Dunmoe, tell when I can be with you; go I will
before autumn runs away with all your leaves, but I am afraid I must let
autumn turn them of a sober hue, though I will not let it go to the sear
and yellow. In plain prose I am tied down now by rents and business.

We have been dining at Mrs. Blackall's, and there met her pretty sister,
Mrs. Johnstone, and very intelligent Captain Johnstone, a Berkshire man
from near Hare Hatch, and had a very agreeable day, and much
conversation on books and authors, and found that the _Diary of an
Ennuyee_ and _Female Characters of Shakespeare_, both very clever books,
are by a lady who was governess to Mrs. Blackall and her sisters. Mrs.
Rolle, her mother, read the _Diary of an Ennuyee_, and wondered when she
saw "Mr. and Mrs. R.," and all the places and people they had seen
abroad, till she came to the name of Laura, and some lines to her by
which she discovered that the author must be their former governess,
Miss Murphy, now married to a very clever lawyer. [Footnote: Mrs.
Jameson.] All the woes and heart-breakings are mere fable in the
_Diary_. Her last book, _Visits and Sketches at Home and Abroad_, I
like; there is a great deal of thought and feeling in it.

       *       *       *       *       *

Miss Edgeworth's _Helen_ would never have been finished but for the
encouragement shown by her sister Harriet, and her interest in the
story. It is more of a "novel" than any of its predecessors, has more
imagination, and its interest centres more around one person. Its object
is to show how many of the troubles of social life arise from want of
absolute truthfulness. Its principle is depicted in the explanation of
one of its characters: "I wish that the word _fib_ was out of the
English language, and _white lie_ drummed after it. Things by their
right names, and we should all do much better. Truth must be told,
whether agreeable or not."

_Helen_ was well received by the public, but Miss Edgeworth had great
diffidence about it. To Dr. Holland she wrote:

       *       *       *       *       *

I am very glad that you have been pleased with _Helen_--far above my
expectations! and I thank you for that warmth of kindness with which you
enter into all the details of the characters and plan of the story.
Nothing but regard for the author could have made you give so much
importance to my tale. It has always been my fault to let the moral I
had in view appear too soon and too clearly, and I am not surprised that
my old fault, notwithstanding some pains which I certainly _thought_ I
took to correct it, should still abide by me.


_To_ MRS. STARK. [Footnote 1: Who had sent Miss Edgeworth a long
criticism from her cousin, Colonel Matthew Stewart (son of Dugald
Stewart), on her _Helen_.]

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Sept. 6, 1834_.

Some of my friends, knowing the timidity, not to say cowardice, of my
nature, have feared that I should be _daunted_ by Colonel Stewart's most
just observations upon the defects and deficiencies of my past manner
and principles of novel-writing; but, on the contrary, I, who know
myself better, feel that, _in spite_ of my timidity, I am, instead of
being daunted, encouraged by such criticism. Such a writer and such a
noble mind as Colonel Stewart's having bestowed so much thought and time
upon me and my fictions, raises both them and myself in my own opinion
far more than could the largest "draught of unqualified praise"
[Footnote: Quoted from Mr. Croker, who said that nothing ever satisfied
an author, but _large draughts of unqualified praise_.] from any common
critic. From feeling that he does justice in many points to the past, I
rely upon his prophecies as to the future, and I feel my ambition
strongly excited by his belief that I CAN, and his prognostic that I
shall do better hereafter. Boileau says, "Trust a critic who puts his
finger at once upon what you know to be your infirm part." I had often
thought and said to myself some of those things which Colonel Stewart
has written, but never so strongly expressed, so fully brought home: my
own rod of feathers did not do my business. I had often and often a
suspicion that my manner was too Dutch, too minute; and very, very
often, and warmly, admired the bold, grand style of the master hand and
master genius. I _know_ I feel how much _more is to be done, ought to
be_ done, by suggestion than by delineation, by creative fancy than by
facsimile copying,--how much more by skilful selection and fresh and
consistent combination--than can be effected by the most acute
observation of individuals, or diligent accumulation of particulars.

But where I have erred or fallen short of what it is thought I might
have done, it has not been from "drawing from the life, or from
individuals, or from putting together actions or sayings noted in
commonplace books from observation or hearsay in society." I have seldom
or ever drawn any one character--certainly not any ridiculous or faulty
character, from any individual. Wherever, in writing, a real character
rose to my view, from memory or resemblance, it has always been hurtful
to me, because, to avoid that resemblance, I was tempted by cowardice or
compelled by conscience to throw in differences, which often ended in
making my character inconsistent, unreal.

At the hazard of talking too much of myself, which people usually do
when once they begin, I must tell my penetrating critic exactly the
facts, as far as I know them, about my _habits of composition_. He will
at least see, by my throwing open my mind thus, that he has not made me
afraid of him, but has won my confidence, and made me look for his
future sympathy and assistance. I have no "vast magazine of a
commonplace book." In my whole life, since I began to write, which is
now, I am concerned to state, upwards of forty years, I have had only
about half a dozen little note-books, strangely and irregularly kept,
sometimes with only words of reference to some book, or fact I could not
bring accurately to mind. At first I was much urged by my father to note
down remarkable traits of character or incidents, which he thought might
be introduced in stories; and he often blamed that idleness or laziness,
as he thought it in me, which resisted his urgency. But I was averse to
noting down, because I was conscious that it did better for me to keep
the things in my head, if they suited my purpose; and if they did not,
they would only encumber me. I knew that, when I wrote down, I put the
thing out of my care, out of my head; and that, though it might be put
by very safe, I should not know where to look for it; that the labour of
looking over a note-book would never do when I was in the warmth and
pleasure of inventing; that I should never recollect the facts or ideas
at the right time, if I did not put them up in my own way in my own
head: that is, if I felt with hope or pleasure "that thought or that
fact will be useful to me in such a character or story, of which I have
now a first idea, the same fact or thought would recur, I knew, when I
wanted it, in right order for invention." In short, as Colonel Stewart
guessed, the process of combination, generalisation, invention, was
carried on always in my head best. Wherever I brought in _bodily_
unaltered, as I have sometimes done, facts from real life, or sayings,
or recorded observations of my own, I have almost always found them
objected to by good critics as unsuited to the character, or in some way
_de trop_. Sometimes, when the first idea of a character was taken from
life from some ORIGINAL, and the characteristic facts noted down, or
even noted only in my head, I have found it necessary entirely to alter
these, not only from propriety, to avoid individual resemblance, but
from the sense that the character would be only an EXCEPTION to general
feeling and experience, not a rule. In short, exactly what Colonel
Stewart says about "the conical hills" being the worst subjects for
painters. As an instance I may mention King Corny, who is, I believe,
considered more of a fancy piece, more as a _romantic_ character than my
usual common-life Dutch figures: the _first idea_ of him was taken from
the facts I heard of an oddity, a man, I believe, like no other, who
lived in a remote part of Ireland, an ingenious despot in his own
family, who blasted out of the rock on which his house was built half a
kitchen, while he and family and guests were living in the house; who
was so passionate, that children, grown-up sons, servants and all, ran
out of the house at once when he fell into a passion with his own
tangled hair; a man who used, in his impatience and rages, to call at
the head of the kitchen stairs to his servants, "Drop whatever you have
in your hand, and come here and be d----d!" He was generous and
kind-hearted, but despotic, and conceited to the most ludicrous degree:
for instance, he thought he could work gobelin tapestry and play on the
harp or mandolin better than any one living.

One after another, in working out King Corny, from the first wrong hint
I was obliged to give up every fact, except that he propped up the roof
of his house and built downwards, and to generalise all; to make him a
man of expedients, of ingenious substitutes, such as any clever Irishman
in middle life is used to. I was obliged to retain, but soften, the
despotism, and exalt the generosity, to make it a character that would
interest. Not one word I ever heard said by the living man, or had ever
heard repeated of his saying, except "Drop what you have," etc., went
into my King Corny's mouth--would not have suited him. I was obliged to
make him according to the general standard of wit and acuteness, shrewd
humour and sarcasm, of that class of _unread_ natural geniuses, an
overmatch for Sir Ulick, who is of a more cultivated class of acute and
roguish Irish gentlemen. Colonel Stewart sees from this how far he has
guessed rightly as to several points, but I think I have always aimed
more at making my characters representatives of classes than he
conceives. It is plain that I have not attained my aim.

I never could use notes in writing Dialogues; it would have been as
impossible to me to get in the prepared good things at the right moment
in the warmth of writing conversation, as it would be to lug them in in
real conversation, perhaps more so--for I could not write dialogues at
all without being at the time fully impressed with the characters,
imagining myself each speaker, and that too fully engrosses the
imagination to leave time for consulting note-books; the whole fairy
vision would melt away, and the warmth and the pleasure of invention be
gone. I might often, while writing, recollect from books or life what
would suit, and often from note-book, but then I could not stop to look,
and often quoted therefore inaccurately. I have a quick recollective
memory and retentive for the sort of things I particularly want; they
will recur to me at the moment I want them years and years after they
have lain dormant, but alas! my memory is inaccurate, has hold of the
object only by one side--the side or face that struck my imagination,
and if I want more afterwards I do not know even where to look for it. I
mention this because Dugald Stewart once was curious to know what sort
of memory I had, whether recollective or retentive.

I understand what Colonel Stewart so admirably says about parable,
apologue, and fables being general truths and morals which cannot be
conveyed or depended upon equally when we come to modern novels, where
Lady B. or Lord D. are not universal characters like Fox or Goose. I
acknowledge that even a perfectly true character absolutely taken as a
fac-simile from real life would not be interesting in a fiction, might
not be believed, and could not be useful. The value of these odd
characters depends, I acknowledge, upon their being actually known to be
true. In history, extraordinary characters always interest us with all
their inconsistencies, feeling we thus add to our actual knowledge of
human nature. In fiction we have not this _conviction_, and therefore
not this sort or source of pleasure even if ever so well done; if it be
quite a new inconsistency we feel doubtful and averse; but we submit
when we know _it is_ true: we say, "don't therefore tell me it is not in
human nature."

I am not sure that I agree with Colonel Stewart about particular morals
to stories, but this point might lead to long and intricate discussion.

I feel and admire all he says so eloquently, I am sure from his own
heart, touching the advantage of raising the standard of our moral
ambition; and the higher this standard can be raised by works of fiction
the better. I feel and understand how many poets and novelists have
raised in the mind that sort of enthusiasm which exalts and purifies the
soul. Happy and gifted with heaven's best gift must be the poet, the
inventor of any sort of fiction that can raise this enthusiasm. I
recollect Mrs. Barbauld's lines describing--

           Generous youth that feeds
  On pictured tales of vast heroic deeds.

How I wish I could furnish, as Scott has, some of those pictured tales
coloured to the life; but I fear I have not that power, therefore it is
perhaps that I strive to console myself for my deficiencies by
flattering myself that there is much, though not such glorious use, in
my own lesser manner and department. The great virtues, the great vices
excite strong enthusiasm, vehement horror, but after all it is not so
necessary to warn the generality of mankind against these, either by
precept or example, as against the lesser faults; we are all
sufficiently aware that we must not break the commandments, and the
reasons against all vices all feel even to the force of demonstration,
but demonstration does not need and cannot receive additional force from
fiction. The Old Bailey trials, _Les Causes Celebres_, come with more
force, as with the force of actual truth, than can any of the finest
fictions producing what Colonel Stewart calls "momentary belief in the
reality of a fictitious character or event." Few readers do or can put
themselves in the places of great criminals, or fear to yield to such
and such temptations; they know that they cannot fall to the depth of
evil at once, and they have no sympathy, no fear; their spirits are not
"put in the act of falling." But show them the steep path, the little
declivity at first, the step by step downwards, and they tremble. Show
them the postern gates or little breaches in their citadel of virtue,
and they fly to guard these; in short, show to them their own little
faults which may lead on to the greatest, and they shudder; that is, if
this be done with truth and brought home to their consciousness. This is
all, which by reflection on my own mind and comparison with others and
with records in books full as much as observations on living subjects, I
feel or fancy I have sometimes done or can do.

But while I am thus _ladling_ out praise to myself in this way, I do not
flatter myself that I deserve the quantity of praise which Colonel
Stewart gives me for laborious observation, or for steadiness and nicety
of dissection. My father, to whose judgment I habitually refer to help
out my own judgment of myself, and who certainly must from long
acquaintance, to say no more, have known my character better than any
other person can, always reproached me for trusting too much to my hasty
glances, _apercus_, as he called them, of character or truths; and often
have I had, and have still (past my grand climacteric) to repent every
day my mistaken conclusions and hasty jumps to conclusions. Perhaps you
wish I should jump to conclusion now, and so I will.


_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

DUNMOE COTTAGE, _Nov. 8, 1834_.

I hope, my dear mother, that you have been wondering every day, and
wondering _greatly_ that you have never yet heard from Maria. I like
that you should wonder and be provoked at not hearing from me, because
when a letter comes it is opened with much more appetite than if you had
not been kept famishing.

I have not told you how very nice and comfortable Sophy and Margaret
Ruxton have made this cottage, and the situation is charming, and the
view beautiful. I am reading Hannah More's _Letters_, and am entertained
with them. I found at Black Castle four volumes of _Madame d'Abrantes_,
which I had never read: the eleventh volume begins with her going to
Portugal, and though half may be lies _well dressed_, yet almost all are
entertaining.


_To_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

DUNMOE COTTAGE, _Nov. 28, 1834_.

I have got the cushions, and am sitting on one of them, and Sophy and
Margaret like them, and think how happy I am, though it is pouring rain,
which affects my happiness very little, except for the boy's sake who is
to carry this. I have some boy-anity.

  The glorious orb the day refines,
  The gossoon warms his shins and dines.


_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Jan. 27, 1835_.

We have been amusing ourselves with Lady Morgan's _Princess_,
exceedingly amusing, both by its merits and its absurdities,--that
harlequin princess in her blouse is wonderfully clever and
preposterous,--a Belgian Corinna. Mr. Butler has detected various errors
in her historical remarks and allusions, but that it is excessively
entertaining nobody can deny. The hero is like one of the seven sleepers
not quite awakened, or how could he avoid finding out who this woman is
who pursues him in so many forms? But we must grant a romance writer a
few impossibilities.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Edgeworth adds:

       *       *       *       *       *

Maria was always so much interested in a story that she would not stop
to reason upon it. I remember when Lady Morgan's _O'Donnell_ was being
read out in the year 1815, at the scene of M'Rory's appearance in the
billiard room, when Mr. Edgeworth said, "This is quite improbable;"
Maria exclaimed, "Never mind the improbability, let us go on with the
entertainment."


MARIA _to_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Jan. 28, 1835_.

The other night Harriet stood beside my bed before tea-time, and when I
started up and said, "Tea is ready, I suppose," she told me that Mr. and
Mrs. Danvers Butler and Miss Taylor were coming to tea. I thought it was
a dream, but she explained,--they had come to Briggs's inn on their way
to the County of Cavan, and could get no beds. Luckily we had two
unoccupied rooms. Honora managed it all exceedingly well, and Barry took
Mr. Danvers Butler in hand while he had dinner; the ladies preferred tea
and coffee. They seemed much pleased by their reception. Mrs. Danvers
Butler was a Miss Freemantle, and when I mentioned Lady Culling Smith
and our Connemara adventures, she said she knew her very well and the
Carrs, "all musical, highly accomplished, and such a united family." How
oddly these little _feltings_ of society go on in this way, working into
one another little fibres of connection so strangely!

In the morning Briggs's four horses were put to their heavy chaise, and
with main difficulty it was got through the yard and to the door, but
not all the power of all the servants and four or five people besides
could prevail upon these half-flayed-alive beasts to stir from the
door--they would only _back_. So at last Barry was so kind as to send
his man Philip with our black horses with them to Granard. We had as
many thanks as well-bred people could give, and a cordial invitation to
Leicestershire, if that could do us any good. Mr. Danvers Butler is
handsome and gentleman-like, and she is charming: she had with her a
favourite little Italian greyhound, with a collar of little gilt bells
round her neck, which delighted the children, and she in return admired
the children, Willy especially.

Lady Stafford--or the Countess-Duchess of Sutherland's magnificent
memoir of her Duke, bound in morocco, with a beautiful engraving of him,
reached me yesterday, but I have been in such a bother of tenants and
business, I have had time only to look at the engraving and the kind
inscription to myself.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Edgeworth writes:

       *       *       *       *       *

At the time of the general election in 1835, Maria was placed in a
painful position as her brother's agent. The tenants were forced by the
priests to vote against their landlord, and in his absence my
son-in-law, Captain Fox, who had been much interested for the defeated
candidate, wished to punish the refractory tenants by forcing them to
pay up what is called the _hanging gale_ of rent. Maria was grieved at
any proceeding which would interrupt the long-continued friendship
between these tenants and their landlord, and she was also anxious that
there should be no misunderstanding between her brother and her
brother-in-law. Captain Fox wrote to Sneyd to explain his views, and
upon receiving Sneyd's letter in reply Maria writes to him of her
sentiments on the occasion.


MARIA _to_ C. SNEYD EDGEWORTH, ESQ.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Feb. 12, 1835_.

I feel your kindness now most particularly in giving me your full
opinion, and desiring mine without one word of reproach on not having
heard from me. I had written a long letter, but thinking it better Barry
should write to you himself, I determined to burn and burnt what I had
written to you, and scribbled a page in its stead of I know not
what--nonsense I believe. And now what remains to do? My sense, if I
have any, is quite as much at your service as my nonsense has been. And
first for _General Principles_, to those independently of the particular
case we should recur. I quite agree with you, as you do with my father,
in the general principle that according to the British Constitution the
voters at elections should be free, that the landlords should not
_force_ their tenants to vote. But a landlord must and should and ever
will have _influence_, and this is one way in which property is
represented and the real balance of the constitution preserved. My
father in fact always did use the influence of being a good kind
landlord, as well as the favour of leaving a hanging half-year in their
hands. I never knew him in any instance _revenge_ a tenant's voting
against him, but I have heard him say, and I know it was his principle,
that he was not bound to show favour or affection to any tenant who
voted what is called against his landlord. The calling for the
_hanging-gale_ may, in this point of view, come under his principles, as
it is only the withdrawing of a favour--the resumption of a landlord's
right; it may be said not to be the infliction of an injury or the going
one tittle beyond the law; nor even putting yourself in the power of
Parliament to notice it as unconstitutional. This is literally true--so
far--and further I admit, for I say candidly the whole on both sides
that occurs to me--I admit, that I believe if my father were at this
moment living, and knew how shamefully the priests have conducted
themselves at the last election, how they had _forced_ his tenants and
all others whom they could _bully_ to vote against their own will, full
as much as against their landlord, he might himself be inclined to
depart from his principle and to use force over his tenants to balance
the brutal force and violence on the other side.

I say, my father might be so inclined, and his first warmth of temper
and indignation doubtless would so urge him, but still,

  The golden curb discretion sets on bravery,

would act and rein in his temper in the first instance, and his reason
would rally and represent that it is never either morally lawful or
politically wise to do evil that good may come of it. Because the
priests have used force and intimidation, such as their situation and
means put in their power, are landlords to do likewise? and are the poor
tenants in this world and the next to be ruined and excommunicated
between them? Are we to recriminate and revenge because the priests and
the people have done so? beaten or beating as brutal force decides?

The honest constitutional means of resisting the horrible wrong the
priests have been guilty of in the last election is by publishing the
facts, bringing them as they now must be brought in all their enormity
before Parliament. As far as every private individual can assist in
bringing these truths to light and in influencing public opinion by the
eloquence of tongue or pen he does right, as a man and as a gentleman,
and a good member of society, and wisely in the present times, to stop,
if possible, the power of democracy. And this, I am sure, my dear
brother, is what you have done, and I do not wish you to do more or
less.

With respect to Charles Fox, I think he will certainly stand the first
opportunity. I am not sure that it will be for his happiness to be in
Parliament; but I think he will make an honest and moderate member and
will do well in Committees, and I think you may support him fairly; he
will not be bitter Orange; he has good sense and temper. I hate the term
I have just used--Orange, and I would avoid saying Whig or Tory if I
could, and consider only what is right and best to be done in our time.
I think the late Ultra-Reform Liberalists went too far, and had they
continued in power, would have overturned everything, both in England
and Ireland, would have let in upon us the ragamuffin democracy, cried
havoc, etc.

I think that nothing less than the decided, perhaps despotic hand of the
Duke of Wellington, could prevent this catastrophe, and the sense of Mr.
Peel will aid, I trust. The Duke has been a stander-by and has had
leisure to repent the error which turned him out before, viz. of
declaring that he would have no reform. Mr. Peel has well guarded
against this in his address on his return. What we must pray for is,
that the hands of the present Government may be strengthened
sufficiently to enable them to prevent the mischiefs prepared by the
last Administration, and that, having seen the error, they may be wise
in time.

       *       *       *       *       *

Innumerable were the improvements which were effected by Mrs. and Miss
Edgeworth for the advantage of their poorer neighbours in the immediate
vicinity of their home. Cottagers' houses were rebuilt or made
comfortable, schools built, and roads improved. A legacy of diamonds
from a relation was sold by Miss Edgeworth that she might build a market
house in the village, with a room over it for the magistrates' Petty
Sessions. She endeavoured to be on the best terms with the Catholic
priests, to whom she showed constant kindness and hospitality. Her
poorer neighbours were made sharers in all her interests or pleasures,
and all those she employed were treated as friends rather than servants.
All her sympathies were in behalf of Ireland. Yet she met with no return
of affection or sympathy. In 1836 we find Mrs. Farrar writing of
Edgeworthstown:

       *       *       *       *       *

It was market-day: so the main street was full of the lower order of
Irish, with their horses and carts, asses and panniers, tables and
stands full of eatables and articles of clothing. Sometimes the cart or
car served as a counter on which to display their goods. The women, in
bright-coloured cotton gowns and white caps with full double borders,
made a very gay appearance. But as we passed through the crowd to the
schoolhouse the enmity of the Papists to Protestant landholders was but
too evident.

Though Mrs. Edgeworth had been the Lady Bountiful of the village for
many years, there were no bows for her or her friends, no making way
before her, no touching of hats, no pleasant looks. A sullen expression
and a dogged immovability were on every side of us.


MARIA _to_ PAKENHAM EDGEWORTH.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN,

ST. PATRICK'S DAY IN THE MORNING, 1835.

How provoking, how chilling a feeling it gives of the distance between
us, my dear Pakenham, that we must wait twelve months for an answer to
any question the most important or the most trivial! But, thank heaven,
letters and journals--bating this year between--do bring us happily
together, almost face to face and smile to smile. I have often admired
the poor Irishman's oratorical bull when he exclaimed, as he looked
through a telescope for the first time and saw the people at a cottage
door, miles off, brought near, "Then I heard 'em speak quite plain, I
think." I think I sometimes hear you speaking and hear the people call
you Sahib.

You have seen in the papers the death of our amiable friend, Mr.
Malthus. How well he loved you! His lectureship on Political Economy has
been filled up by a very able and deserving friend of mine, Mr. Jones,
whose book on Rents you have just been reading, and whose book and self
I had the pleasure of first introducing to Lord Lansdowne, under whose
Administration this appointment was made. The pupils at Haileybury must
now learn from Jones's lectures the objections he made to Malthus's
system! I remember once hearing the answer of a sceptic in Political
Economy, when reproached with not being of some Political Economy Club.
"Whenever I see any two of you gentlemen agree, I shall be happy to
agree with you."

I hope your box of seeds will come safe and will grow. I daresay Harriet
will have told you of the Cornish gentleman she met at Black Castle, who
told of the blue hydrangea fifteen feet high, and bearing such a
profusion of flowers that they were counted, 2352 bunches, each bunch as
large as his head! We endeavoured to correct, and said florets for
bunches, presuming he so meant, but he distinctly said bunches--so make
what you can of it.


_March 19_.

Yesterday I am sure you recollected and honoured as Barry and Sophy's
wedding day. Honora had the breakfast table covered with flowers,
primroses, violets, polyanthus, and laurustinus, and some of Sophy's own
snowdrops, double and single, which obligingly lingered on purpose to
celebrate the day.

Did you see how Lord Darnley cut his foot with an axe while he was
hewing the root of a tree, and died in consequence of lock-jaw! Harriet,
who knew him and all the good he did in their neighbourhood, is very
sorry for him.

I have not, I believe, mentioned to you any books except my own; but we
have been amused with the _Invisible Gentleman_. You must swallow one
monstrous magical absurdity at the beginning, and the rest will go down
glibly--that is, _amusing_.

_Instructive and entertaining_: Burne's _Mission to Lahore and Bokhara_.

_Instructive, interesting, and entertaining_: Roget on _Physiology, with
reference to Theology_--one of the Bridgewater Treatises, full of facts
the most curious, arranged in the most beautifully luminous manner. The
infinitely large, and the infinitely small in creation, admirably
displayed.

Hannah More's _Letters_: many of them entertaining--many admirable for
manner and matter, altogether too much; two volumes would have been
better than four.

Inglis's _Ireland_: I think he is an honest writer, a man of great
observation and ability, and a true admirer of the beauties of nature.
He exaggerates and makes some mistakes, as all travellers do.

  Still drops from life some withering joy away.

Year after year, we must witness these sad losses. Aunt Alicia gone! and
Aunt Bess Waller, of whom you were so fond. What an amiable and highly
cultivated mind she had, and so hospitable and kind.


_To_ MISS RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _March 31, 1835_.

Harriet told me, my dear Sophy, that she found you in bed, reading
_Popular Tales_, or some of my old things--thank you, thank you, my
dear, for loving them. I hope that this will find you better, and that
your Black Castle walks, leaning on that kind Isabella's arm, will have
quite restored you.

I have been reading Roget's most admirable Bridgewater
Treatise--admirable in every way, scientific, moral, and religious, in
the most deep and exalted manner--religious, raising the mind through
nature's works up to nature's GOD, which must increase and exalt piety
where it exists, and create and confirm the devotional feelings where
they have lain dormant. All his facts are most curious, and the
exclamation, "how fearfully and wonderfully we are made," may be
extended to the ugliest tadpole that _wabbles_ in a ditch till he is a
frog, and the microscope invented by that creature man endowed with--

Luckily a hair in my pen stopped me, or I might have gone on to another
page, in my hot fit of enthusiasm.


_To MISS RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Sept. 1835_.

Have you seen in the papers reports about the marriage of Lord John
Russell to Lady R.? All true--Lady Ribblesdale, _ci-devant_ Adelaide
Lister, Aunt Mary's niece, a young widow with a charming little boy;
this morning Aunt Mary had a letter from Lady Ribblesdale herself. If
she was to marry again she could not have made a more suitable match. He
is a very domestic man, and, save his party violence and folly, very
amiable and sensible.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. George Ticknor [Footnote: The well-known Professor of Modern
Literature at Harvard University, author of the _History of Spanish
Literature_, etc. Born 1791, died 1871.] and his family visited
Edgeworthstown in August 1835, and remained there several days, which
were a very interesting and happy time to Miss Edgeworth. Mr. Ticknor
describes his visit at great length in his journals, and the first
appearance of Miss Edgeworth:

       *       *       *       *       *

A small, short, spare lady of about sixty-seven, with extremely frank
and kind manners, and who always looks straight into your face with a
pair of mild deep gray eyes whenever she speaks to you. Her
conversation, always ready, is as full of vivacity and variety as I can
imagine. It is also no less full of good-nature. She is disposed to
defend everybody, as far as she can, though never so far as to be
unreasonable. And in her intercourse with her family she is quite
delightful, referring constantly to Mrs. Edgeworth, who seems to be the
authority for all matters of fact, and most kindly repeating jokes to
her infirm aunt, Miss Sneyd, who cannot hear them, and who seems to have
for her the most unbounded affection and admiration.

About herself as an author she seems to have no reserve or secrets....
But, though she talks freely about herself and her works, she never
introduces the subject, and never seems glad to continue it. She talks
quite as well, and with quite as much interest, on everything else.

It is plain that the family make a harmonious whole, and by those who
visited Edgeworthstown when it was much larger, and were proud of the
children of all the wives of Mr. Edgeworth, with their connections
produced by marriage, so as to prove the most heterogeneous
relationships, I am told there was always the same striking union and
agreeable intercourse among them all, to the number of sometimes fifteen
or twenty.

...The house, and many of its arrangements--the bells, the doors,
etc.--bear witness to that love of mechanical trifling of which Mr.
Edgeworth was so often accused. But things in general are very
convenient and comfortable through the house, though, as elsewhere in
Ireland, there is a want of English exactness and finish. However, all
such matters, even if carried much farther than they are, would be mere
trifles in the midst of so much kindness, hospitality, and intellectual
pleasures of the highest order as we enjoyed under their roof, where
hospitality is so abundant that they have often had twenty or thirty
friends come upon them unexpectedly, when the family was much larger
than it is now.

       *       *       *       *       *

Maria Edgeworth was now the real owner of Edgeworthstown. Her
half-brother Lovell's embarrassments had obliged him to sell his
paternal inheritance, and Miss Edgeworth gladly expended the fortune
which had come to her through literature in preserving it from falling
into the hands of strangers. She only stipulated that she herself should
remain as much "a background figure" as before. Lovell Edgeworth was
still the apparent owner of Edgeworthstown. Mrs. Edgeworth was still the
mistress of the house, consulted and deferred to in everything. In her
note of invitation to Mr. and Mrs. Ticknor she says: "The sooner you can
come to us the better, because Mrs. Edgeworth is now at home with us ...
as you would find this house much more agreeable when she is at home;
and in truth you never could see it to advantage, or see things as they
really are in this family, unless when she makes part of it, and when
she is at the head of it." [Footnote: _Life of George Ticknor_.] Maria
Edgeworth unconsciously depicted herself when describing Miss Emma
Granby, "The Modern Griselda."

       *       *       *       *       *

All her thoughts were intent upon making her friends happy. She seemed
to live in them more than in herself, and from sympathy rose the
greatest pleasure and pain of her existence. Her sympathy was not of
that useless kind which is called forth only by the elegant fictitious
sorrows of a heroine of romance; hers was ready for all the occasions of
real life; nor was it to be easily checked by the imperfections of those
to whom she could be of service.

       *       *       *       *       *

Amongst those who visited Edgeworthstown about this time was the
American authoress, Mrs. Farrar, who writes:

       *       *       *       *       *

When shown to our bedroom we found such an extraordinary lock to the
door [Footnote: One of Mr. Edgeworth's inventions.] that we dared not
shut it for fear of not being able to open it again. That room, too, was
unlike any I ever saw. It was very large, with three huge windows, two
of them heavily curtained, and the third converted into a small
wardrobe, with doors of pink cotton on a wooden frame. It had two very
large four-post bedsteads, with full suits of curtains, and an immense
folding-screen that divided the room in two, making each occupant as
private as if in a separate room, with a dressing-table and ample
washing conveniences on each side. A large grate filled with turf, and
all ready for lighting, with a peat basket lined with tin, and also
filled with the same fuel, reminded us strongly that we were in Ireland.
Large wax candles were on the mantelpiece, and every convenience
necessary to our comfort.

Miss Edgeworth was very short, and carried herself very upright, with a
dapper figure and quick movements. She was the remains of a blonde, with
light eyes and hair; she was now gray, but wore a dark frisette, whilst
the gray hair showed through her cap behind. In conversation we found
her delightful. She was full of anecdotes about remarkable people, and
often spoke from her personal knowledge of them. Her memory, too, was
stored with valuable information, and her manner of narrating was so
animated that it was difficult to realise her age. In telling an
anecdote of Mirabeau, she stepped out before us, and, extending her
arms, spoke a sentence of his in the impassioned manner of a French
orator, and did it so admirably that it was quite thrilling.

       *       *       *       *       *

Another American visitor, in the same year of 1836, the Rev. William B.
Sprogue, writes: [Footnote: _European Celebrities_, 1855.]

       *       *       *       *       *

The Edgeworth house is a fine spacious old mansion, with a splendid lawn
stretching before it, and everything to indicate opulence and hereditary
distinction.... Miss Edgeworth was the first person to meet me; and she
immediately introduced me to her mother, Mrs. Edgeworth, her father's
fourth wife, and her sister, Miss Honora Edgeworth. Miss Edgeworth, in
her personal appearance, was below middle size; her face was exceedingly
plain, though strongly indicative of intellect; and though she seemed to
possess great vigour of body as well as of mind, it was, after all, the
vigour of old age. I supposed her to be about sixty-five, but I believe
she was actually on the wrong side of seventy. Her stepmother, Mrs.
Edgeworth, must have been, I think, rather younger than Maria, and was
not only a lady of high intelligence, but of great personal attractions,
and withal of a very serious turn of mind. As Miss Edgeworth knew that
my visit was to be limited to a single day, she told me almost
immediately that she wished to know in what way she could contribute
most to my gratification,--whether by remaining in the house or walking
over the grounds. She talked upon a great variety of subjects, but there
was nothing about her that had ever any affinity to showing off or
trying to talk well: she evidently did not know how to talk otherwise.
Circumstances led her to speak of her experience with some of her
publishers. She mentioned that one of them had repeatedly requested her
to abate from the amount which he had engaged to pay her, and that she
had done so; but at length, after she had told him explicitly to make
proposals he would abide by, he wrote her a letter, saying that he
wished another abatement, and that he found that on the whole he had
lost by her works; and she then wrote him in reply, that in consequence
of the loss he had sustained, she would transfer her publications to
other hands. He afterwards earnestly requested that she would excuse him
for having thus written, and desired to retain the works; but _she_ was
inflexible, and _he_ very angry. Her former publisher, she said, when he
found himself dying, called for a letter to her which was then
unfinished, and requested that there should be inserted a promise of ten
or twelve hundred pounds more than he had engaged to give her for one of
her works; for it had been so much more profitable to him than he
expected, that he could not die in peace till he had done justly by her.
And his heirs executed his will in accordance with this dying
suggestion.

       *       *       *       *       *

Home interests, home cares, and home sorrows were henceforth
increasingly to occupy Miss Edgeworth's life.

       *       *       *       *       *

MARIA _to_ MISS RUXTON.

LOUGH GLYN, _Sept. 16, 1836_.

You may suppose how I felt the kindness of your note. You are now my
friend of longest standing and dearest parentage in this world; and in
this world, in which I have lived nearly three quarters of a century, I
have found nothing one quarter so well worth living for as old friends.

We go to Moore Hall to-morrow. We had here yesterday a party at dinner,
all exquisite in their way; Lord and Lady Dillon and Miss Dillon, Lord
Oranmore and his son, Mr. Brown, and two Miss Stricklands and their
brothers; and coloured fireworks in the evening: of all of which you
shall hear more when we meet. Breakfast-bell ringing in my ears.


_March 5, 1837_.

The last accounts will have prepared you--more prepared, perhaps, than I
was, for hope had lived in spite of reason when life was gone--your
beloved and most amiable, angelic-tempered goddaughter [Footnote: Her
sister Sophy. Mrs. Barry Fox, who died March 1.] is gone. She preserved
her charming mind quite clear all through, and had her mother with her,
and the comfort of knowing that her children were in the care of Mr.
Butler and Harriet.

_To_ MISS MARGARET RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Dec. 17, 1837_.

We are very anxious indeed to hear of Sophy: [Footnote: Miss Ruxton,
Miss Edgeworth's cousin and dearest friend, died at Black Castle,
December 30.] the last account Harriet gave was quite alarming. I see
Richard going about the house with his watch in his hand to feel Sophy's
pulse, and looking so anxious. How glad he must be that he had returned
home, and to Sophy what a comfort it must be, to have the certainty of
his affection, and to have the earliest companion of her childhood and
her manly friend beside her now! I will go to her instantly if she
desires it.

I long to hear that you have had, and that you like, the _Memoirs of Mr.
Smedley_. I am sure that, when Sophy is well enough to hear or to read
anything, that book will be the very thing for her.


_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

TRIM, _July 25, 1838_.

Mrs. Lazarus's [Footnote: Formerly Miss Mordecai.] death did indeed
shock and grieve me. But it is, as you say, the condition, the doom of
advancing, advanced age, to see friend after friend go; but in
proportion as it detaches one from life, it still more makes us value
the friends we have left. And continually, at every fresh blow, I really
_wonder_, and am thankful, most truly thankful, that I have so many, so
much left.


_To_ MISS MARGARET RUXTON.

_Oct. 10, 1838_.

I am sure, my dear Margaret, you were pleased at Honora's communication:
you wrote a most kind and pleasant letter of congratulation.[Footnote:
On the engagement of her sister Honora to Captain Beaufort, her
stepmother's brother.] She has hitherto been most fortunate in pleasing
all her friends, both as to the fact and as to the time and manner of
telling. Do you remember a conversation we had standing upon the hearth
in my room one night, between eleven and twelve, the witching hour, and
what you asked me about Captain Beaufort? The secret had then been
confided to me; and I hope you will do me the justice to acknowledge
that, open-hearted and open-mouthed as I am, I can keep a secret
WONDERFUL well.

       *       *       *       *       *

_To_ MR. AND MRS. TICKNOR.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Nov. 1, 1838_.

. . . My sister Honora is going to be married to a person every way
suited to her, and that is saying a great deal, as you, who most kindly
and justly appreciated her, will readily join with me in thinking. The
gentleman's name, Captain Beaufort, R.N., perhaps you may be acquainted
with, as he is in a public situation, and not unknown to literary and
scientific fame. He is a naval officer (I hope you like this officer's
name?). He made some years ago a survey of the coast of Karamania, and
wrote a small volume on that survey, which has obtained for him a good
reputation. He has been for some years Hydrographer-Royal ... in one
word, he is a person publicly esteemed, and privately he is beloved and
esteemed by all who know him, most by those who love him best. He is and
has been well known to us ever since the present Mrs. Edgeworth's
marriage with my father; Captain Beaufort is Mrs. Edgeworth's youngest
brother. As Mrs. E. is Honora's _step_mother, you see that he is no
relation whatever to Honora. But the nearness of the connection has
given us all the best means of knowing him thoroughly. He was my dear
father's most beloved pupil and friend; by pupil I mean that being so
much younger made him look up to my father with reverence, and learn
from him in science and literature with delight. Thus he has been long
connected with all I love. He has been a widower two years. He has three
sons and four daughters.... The youngest daughter, Emily, is a
delightful child. Captain Beaufort lives in London, 11 Gloucester Place:
has a very comfortable house and sufficient fortune for all their
moderate wishes. Honora's fortune, which is ample, will give them
affluence.

My dear Mrs. Ticknor, I know you particularly liked Honora, and that you
will be interested in hearing all these particulars, though it seems
impertinent to detail them across the Atlantic to one who will, I fear,
never see any one of the persons I have mentioned. Yet affections such
as yours keep warm very long and at a great distance.

I feel that I have got into a snug little corner in both your hearts,
and that you will excuse a great deal from me, therefore I go on without
scruple drawing upon your sympathy, and you will not protest my draft.

You saw how devoted Honora was to her aunt, Mrs. Mary Sneyd, whom you
liked so much; and you will easily imagine what a struggle there has
been in Honora's mind before she would consent to a marriage with even
such a man as Captain Beaufort, when it must separate her from her aunt.
Captain Beaufort himself felt this so much that he would never have
pressed it. He once thought that she might be prevailed upon to
accompany them to London, and to live with them. But Mrs. Mary Sneyd
could not bear to leave Mrs. Edgeworth, and this place which she has
made her heart's home. She decided Captain Beaufort and her niece to
make her happy by completing their union, and letting her feel that she
did not prevent the felicity of the two persons she loves best now in
the world. She remains with us.

The marriage is to take place next Tuesday or Thursday, and my Aunt Mary
will go to church with her niece and give her away. I must tell you a
little characteristic trait of this aunt, the least selfish of all human
beings. She has been practising getting up early in the morning, which
she has not done for two years--has never got up for breakfast. But she
has trained herself to rising at the hour at which she must rise on the
wedding day, and has walked up and down her own room the distance she
must walk up and down the aisle of the church, to ensure her being
accustomed to the exertion, and able to accomplish it easily. This she
did for a long time without our knowing it, till Honora found it out.
Mrs. Mary Sneyd is quite well and in excellent spirits.

A younger sister of mine, Lucy, of whom you have heard us speak as an
invalid, who was at Clifton with that dear Sophy whom we have lost, is
now recovered, and has returned home to take Honora's place with her
Aunt Mary; and Aunt Mary likes to have her, and Lucy feels this a great
motive to her to overcome a number of nervous feelings which formed part
of her illness. A regular course of occupations and duties, and feeling
herself essential to the happiness and the holding together of a family
she so loves, will be the best strengthening medicine for her. She
arrived at home last night. My sister Fanny and her husband, Lestock
Wilson, are with us. My sister has much improved in health: she is now
able to walk without pain, and bore her long journey and voyage here
wonderfully. I have always regretted, and always shall regret, that this
sister Fanny of mine had not the pleasure of becoming acquainted with
you. You really must revisit England. My sister Harriet Butler, and Mr.
Butler, and the three dear little Foxes, are all round me at this
instant. Barry Fox, their father, will be with us in a few days, and
Captain Beaufort returns from London on Monday. You see what a large and
happy family we are!

Mr. Butler will perform the happy, awful ceremony. How people who do not
love can even dare to marry, to approach the altar to pronounce that
solemn vow, I cannot conceive.

My thoughts are so engrossed by this subject that I absolutely cannot
tell you of anything else. You must tell me of everything that interests
you, else I shall not forgive myself for my egotism.


_To_ MISS MARGARET RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Nov. 8, 1838_.

You are the first person I write to upon returning from church after the
accomplishment of Honora and Captain Beaufort's marriage. Captain
Beaufort was affected more than any man I ever saw in the same
circumstances, yet in the most manly manner. Aunt Mary went to church,
as she had intended: they had both received her blessing, kneeling as to
a mother, the evening before in her own room. Lestock and Barry were at
the church door, to hand her up the aisle. Old Mr. Keating was there,
excellent, warm-hearted man; and Mr. Butler performed the ceremony. The
bride and bridegroom went off from the church door, and are, I suppose,
by this time, five o'clock, at Trim.


_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH, IN LONDON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Aug. 25, 1839_.

You will, I am sure, give me credit for having so well and pleasantly
performed our visits--Rosa, Lucy, and Francis with me--to the Pakenhams
and Pollards. Francis found Mr. Pollard very agreeable, and was charmed
with Mrs. Pollard's manners and conversation. We called on Mrs. Dease on
our return, and walked in her garden, in which, in all my seventy years,
I never walked before, and saw huge bunches of crimson Indian pinks,
some of which are now in my garden, and well doing there.

In the morning, before we went to Kinturk, came a note from a gentleman
at the _White Hart_, Edgeworthstown, waiting for an answer: an American
medical professor, Dr. Gibson. It was very unlucky that I was engaged to
go out--irrevocably settled: however, I sat two hours and a half with
Dr. Gibson, and very clever and agreeable I found him.


_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

TRIM, _Nov. 1, 1840_.

I am _perfect_, dearest mother, so no more about it, and thank you from
my heart and every component part of my precious self for all the care
and successful care you have taken of me, your old petted nursling.
Thank you and Mrs. Mitchell for the potted meat luncheon, and Mr. Tuite
for his grapes,--Mary Anne and Charlotte had some. I was less tired than
I could have expected when I reached Trim, and there was Mr. Butler on
the steps ready to welcome us, and candles and firelight in the
drawing-room so cheerful. I slept like a sleeping top. Harriet read out
_Ferdinand and Isabella_, which, with all its chivalresque interest, I
do like very much. I am sure Rosa's [Footnote: Mrs. Francis Edgeworth.]
Spanish interest in the book will grow by that it feeds upon, and I am
very glad that she who has such fresh genuine pleasure in literature
should have this book, which is so beautifully written, because it is so
well felt by the author. Poor kind man. I will write to Mr. Ticknor as
soon as I come to Finis.

The birds got home well; but travelling, Harriet tells me, does not
agree with them, because they cannot stick upon their perch, and it is a
perpetual struggle between cling and jolt.

_Nov. 10_.

I enclose a note of Miss Crampton's and two notes of Lady Normanby's. I
never read more unaffected, affectionate, wife-like letters. How
gratifying they must be to Crampton, and it raises one's opinion of Lord
Normanby himself to find he can so attach a woman and a wife.

The _History of a Flirt_, which Harriet is reading to me, is rather
entertaining but not interesting--a new and ingenious idea of a flirt,
who is not looking for establishment or match-making, and therefore her
disinterestedness charms all the lords and gentlemen who have been used
to match-making mothers and young-lady-hunters for titles, and under
favour of this disinterestedness her insolence and faithlessness is
passed over, while all the time she is in love with a captain with "soft
Venetian eyes," as Mrs. Thrale used to say of Piozzi.

_Nov. 16_.

The ear-comforter or earwig is beautiful and comfortable, and is, I
hear, as becoming to me as was the Chancellor's wig to Francis Forbes
when he acted _Of Age To-morrow_. I am acting of age to-day, and very
gay, and perhaps may arrive at years of discretion at eighty, if I live
so long. I certainly wish to live till next month that I may see you all
at home again. You know the classic distich, which my father pointed out
and translated for me, which was over the entrance door of the Cross
Keys inn, near Beighterton:

  If you are told you will die to-morrow you smile:
  If you are told you will die a month hence you will sigh.

I do not know where this may be in a book, but I know it is in human
nature.


_To_ MR. TICKNOR.

TRIM, _Nov. 19, 1840_.

... I am afraid to invite you to come and see us again, lest you should
be disenchanted, and we should lose the delightful gratification we
enjoy in your glamour of friendship. Aunt Mary, however, is really all
you think and saw her; and in her good years still a proof, as you
describe her--and a remarkable proof--of the power of mind over time,
suffering, and infirmities, and an example of Christian virtues, making
old age lovely and interesting.

Your prayer, that she might have health and strength to enjoy the
gathering of friends round her has been granted. Honora and her husband,
and Fanny and her husband, have been with us all this summer for months;
and we have enjoyed ourselves as much as your kind heart could wish.
Especially "that beautiful specimen of a highly cultivated gentlewoman,"
as you so well called Mrs. Edgeworth, has been blest with the sight of
all her children round her, all her living daughters and their husbands,
and her grandchildren. Francis will settle at home, and be a good
country gentleman and his own agent, to Mrs. Edgeworth's and all our
inexpressible comfort and support, also for the good of the county, as a
resident landlord and magistrate _much_ needed. As _he_ is at home I can
be spared from the rent-receiving business, etc., and leaving him with
his mother, Aunt Mary, and Lucy, I can indulge myself by accepting an
often-urged invitation from my two sisters, Fanny and Honora, to spend
some months with them in London. I have chosen to go at this quiet time
of year, as I particularly wish not to encounter the bustle and
dissipation and lionising of London. For though I am such a minnikin
lion now, and so old, literally without teeth or claws, still there be,
that might rattle at the grate to make me get up and come out, and stand
up to play tricks for them, and this I am not able or inclined to do. I
am afraid I should growl; I never could be as good-natured as Sir Walter
Scott used to be, when rattled for and made to "come out and stand on
his hind legs," as he used to describe it, and then go quietly to sleep
again.

I shall use my privilege of seventy-two--rising seventy-three--and shall
keep in my comfortable den; I will not go out. "Nobody asked you,
ma'am," to play lion, may perhaps be said or sung to me, and I shall not
be sorry nor mortified by not being asked to exhibit, but heartily happy
to be with my sisters and their family and family friends--_all_ for
which I go--knowing my own mind very well I speak the plain truth. I
shall return to Edgeworthstown before the London _season_, as it is
called, commences, i.e. by the end of March, or at the very beginning of
April.

This is all I have, for the present, to tell you of my dear self, or of
our family doings or plannings.

... I do not know whether I was most interested, dear Mrs. Ticknor, in
your picture of your domestic life and happy house and home, or in the
view you gave me of your public festivity and celebration of your
American day of days--your national festival in honour of your
Declaration of Independence. It was never, I suppose, more joyously,
innocently, and advantageously held than on the day you describe so
delightfully with the accuracy of an eye-witness. I think I too have
seen all this, and thank you for showing it to me. It is a picture that
will never leave the memory of my heart. I only wish that we could ever
hope to have in Ireland any occasion or possibility of such happy and
peaceable meetings, with united sympathy and for the keeping alive a
feeling of national patriotism. No such point of union can be found,
alas! in Ireland; no subject upon which sects and parties could coalesce
for an hour, or join in rejoicing or feeling for their country! Father
Matthews, one might have hoped, considering the good he has effected for
all Ireland, and considering his own unimpeachable character and his
great liberality, admitting all sects and all parties to take his pledge
and share his benevolent efforts, _might_ have formed a central point
round which all might gather. But no such hope! for I am just now
assured his very Christian charity and liberality are complained of by
his Catholic brethren, priests and laity, who now begin to abuse him for
giving the pledge to _Protestants_, and say, "What good our fastings,
our temperance, our being of the true faith, if Father Matthews treat
_heretics all as one_, as Catholics themselves! and would have them
saved in this world and the next too! Then I would not doubt but at the
last he'd _turn tail_! aye, turn Protestant himself _entirely_."


_To_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET, _Dec. 26_.

While Francis is _pro_-ing and con-ing with Fanny about alterations in
his house at Clewer, I may go on with my scribbling, and tell you that
Honora luncheoned here, and then off we went to Mrs. Debrizey's, Mrs.
Darwin's, Mrs. Hensleigh Wedgewood, Mrs. Guillemard, and Mrs. Marcet--at
Mrs. Edward Romilly's.

Mrs. Darwin is the youngest daughter of Jos. Wedgewood, and is worthy of
both father and mother; affectionate, and unaffected, and--young as she
is, full of old times, she has her mother's radiantly cheerful
countenance, even now, debarred from all London gaieties and all gaiety
but that of her own mind by close attendance on her sick husband.

Mrs. Marcet was ill in bed, but Mr. and Mrs. Edward Romilly were
pleasing and willing to be pleased, and he talked over his father's
_Memoirs_ candidly and sensibly, and like a good son and a man of sense.

"I had like to have forgotten "--strange expression! can Mr. Butler
explain it? _I had like to have_ forgotten and must tell Aunt Mary about
Mrs. Lister calling.


_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

_January 2, 1841_.

Thank you for your birthday good wishes. How many birthdays have brought
me the same never-failing kindness.

A very pleasant meeting we had yesterday at your brother's. [Footnote:
Recently married to Honora Edgeworth.] Honora, dear Honora, was so nice
and kind, nobody but ourselves. At second course appeared the essential
trifle, [Footnote: A trifle always appeared on Maria Edgeworth's
birthday, because once on New Year's Day when a trifle had been ordered
and the dish was placed on the table there was found under the flowers,
not cake and cream, but a little story Maria had written, "A Trifle."
The young folk had a real trifle afterwards.] and, trifle as it was, it
was quite delightful to me with Honora's smile.

Did you ever taste figs stuffed with almonds? I hope you never may taste
them! very bad, I assure you, but how the almonds got in puzzled me; all
tight and closed as the outer skin looks without ridge or joining.

Did you ever taste Imperial Tokay? Your brother gave me some of the best
ever tasted, I am told; and what do you think I said?

"Why, this cannot be Tokay!"

"Did you ever taste Tokay before?" said he.

"O yes, very often; but this is not Tokay."

"Be pleased to tell us what it is then," quoth Lestock.

"I don't know; but not Tokay, or a different sort from what I ever
tasted, for that was sour and always drunk in green glasses."

Suddenly I recollected that I meant _Hock_!

Do you recollect the history of the Irishman, who declared that he had
seen anchovies growing on the walls at Gibraltar? Challenged a gentleman
for doubting him, met, and fired, and hit his man, and when the man who
was hit, sprang up as he received the shot, and the second
observed--"How he capers!"

"By the powers! It was capers I meant 'stead of anchovies."


_To_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET, _Jan. 10, 1841_.

_A propos du pluie, a propos du beau temps_--I think of you and ten
thousand times a week. ("I hate exaggeration.") I wish for you when I am
in want of some unremembered or _disremembered_ name. I do love that
Irish verb disremember, and I conjugate it daily from the infinitive to
the preterpluperfect. Last week I preterpluperfectly disremembered when
talking to Morris of Fortunio's gifted men, whether the legs of him who
outrunneth the hare were tied with green or red? Parties run high for
green and for red--please to settle the question.

Fanny has been reading to me Darwin's _Voyage_; delightful it is.


_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET, _Jan. 13, 1841_.

Most agreeable dinner here yesterday; the _convives_ were: Dr.
Lushington, Mr. Andrews; Mrs. Andrews at the last sent a regret--ill in
bed with a headache. Honora came in her stead. Mr. Macintosh and Miss
Carr; Dr. Lushington beside Fanny, and carving remarkably well and most
entertaining and agreeable; he raised the heart's laugh frequently, and
the head's by fresh, not old-faded-London-diner-out bon-mots, anecdotes,
and facts worth knowing, all with the assistance of Mr. Andrews, so
remarkably agreeable and gentlemanly a gentleman; they played into each
other's hands and mine delightfully, and Fanny's, and Honora's, and the
ball came to everybody pat, in turn. The ball did I say? Boomerang I
should have said, for it came back always nicely to the thrower.

I must tell you an anecdote I heard yesterday from Mr. Kenyon, brother
of Lord Kenyon's, a saying of Mrs. Brooke, sister of Baron Garrow, who,
notwithstanding his bullying manner in court, was a man easily swayed in
private, always influenced by the last thing said by the last person in
his company--all which was compressed by Mrs. Brooke into: "With my
brother _presence is power_."


_To_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET, _Feb. 24, 1841_.

My ultimate intention and best hope for my own selfish satisfaction is
to go with you and Mr. Butler to that poor _uncentred_ [Footnote: Mrs.
Mary Sneyd died at the age of ninety, on the 10th of February 1841.]
desolate home at Edgeworthstown.

What an inexpressible comfort that you were with your mother, Lucy, and
Honora, and my dear lost aunt to the last.


_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

_March 14, 1841_.

Here I am, like a Sybarite, but with luxuries such as a Sybarite or
Sybaritess never dreamed of: a cup of good coffee and some dry toast and
butter, a good coal fire on my right, a light window on my left,
dressing-table opposite, with large looking-glass, which reflects, not
my face, which for good reasons of my own I never wish to see, but a
beautiful green lawn and cedars of Lebanon; and on my mantelpiece stand
jars of Nankin china, and shells from--Ocean knows where. And where do
you think I am? At Heathfield Lodge, Croydon, the seat of Gerard
Ralstone, Esq.; and met here at a large dinner yesterday Mr. Napier, and
he comes for me to-morrow, and takes me to Forest Hill. At this dinner
were two celebrated American gentlemen--Mr. Sparkes, who wrote
Washington's _Life_; and Mr. Clisson, a man of fortune, and benevolently
enthusiastic about colonisation in Liberia.

After luncheon I saw march by to church a whole regiment of youths from
Addiscombe, which is near here.

But now I must retrograde to tell you, as I have a few minutes more than
I expected, of a visit I had an hour before I set out, from a man fresh
from Africa--a Scotchman by birth, a missionary by vocation, who had
been twenty years abroad, almost all that time in Africa: sent to the
Hottentots in the first place, and he converted many. They were taught
to sow and to reap, and the women to _sew_ in the other way, all by this
indefatigable Mr. Moffatt; and they taught him on their part how to do
the CLUCK, and Mr. Moffatt did it for me. It is indescribable and
inimitable. It is not so loud as a hen's cluck to her chickens, but more
quick and abrupt.

He said that when he was ordered to return home, he felt it as a
sentence of banishment. "I had lived so long in Africa, I felt it my
home, and I had almost forgotten how to speak English. I almost dreaded
to be among white faces again."


1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET.

Mr. Napier brought me here by half after twelve.

I had a delightful drive with him in his little pony phaeton from
Croydon to Forest Hill. Mr. and Mrs. Napier are more and more
delightful to me in conversation and manners the more I see of them. A
brother, Captain Napier, very conversable, and full of humour; he has a
charming daughter, and has been in all parts of the world, and loves
Ireland and the Irish.


_To_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET, _April 1841_.

I must tell you now of my visit to Warfield Lodge. Henrietta and Wren
met me at the station, and all the way, when they spoke, it seemed as if
I had parted from them but yesterday. When I saw Miss O'Beirne, there
was, opposite to me, that fine, full-coloured, full of life, speaking
picture of Mrs. O'Beirne. The place is as pretty as ever, and it was
impossible for the most hospitable luxury to do more for me, and with
the most minute recollective attention to all my olden-times habits and
ways. I would not for anything that could be given or done for me, not
have paid this visit.

One evening Miss O'Beirne invited some friends I was particularly glad
to see--three daughters of my dear Sir John Malcolm, all very fine young
women, with fine souls, and vast energy and benevolence, worthy of him.


EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Sept. 27_.

I send you some Spanish books which I bought, with one eye upon you and
one upon Rosa. I sat up till past one o'clock a few nights ago, and
caught cold, looking through the whole of _Hudibras_, for what at last
could not be found in it, though I still am confident it is there--

  Murder is lawful made by the excess.

In the middle of my hunt my mind misgave me that it was in the _Fable of
the Bees_, and I went through it line by line, and for my pains can
swear it is not there. It is wonderful that, at seventy-four, I can be
so ardent in the chase, certainly not for the worth of the game, nor yet
for the triumph of finding; for I care not whether I am the person to
find it or not, so it is found. Pray find it for me.


EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _March 10, 1842_.

We have been much entertained and interested in Macaulay's "Life of
Hastings," in the _Edinburgh_; but some of it is too gaudily written,
and mean gaudiness, unsuited to the subject--such as the dresses of the
people at Westminster Hall; and I think Macaulay's indignation against
Gleig for his adulation of Hastings, and his not feeling indignation
against his crimes, is sometimes noble, and sometimes mean and
vituperative.


_To_ MRS. BEAUFORT.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _March 12_.

Mr. Creed, my dear good Mr. Creed, has been most kind in taking into his
employment one of the young Gerrards who behaved so gallantly in
recovering their father's arms from robbers. The poor people are seldom
rewarded when they do right, yet surely, in the government of human
creatures, Hope and Reward are strong and elevating powers, while Fear
and Punishment can at best only restrain from crime. Hope can produce
the finest and most permanent springs of action.

We have not been able to go on with our reading for some days. The more
I live I see more and more the misery of uncultivated minds, and the
happiness of the cultivated, when they can keep themselves free from
literary and scientific jealousies and party spirit.


_To_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _March 1842_.

I am surprised to find how much more history interests me now than when
I was young, and how much more I am now interested in the same events
recorded, and their causes and consequences shown, in this History of
the French Revolution, and in all the History of Europe during the last
quarter of a century, than I was when the news came fresh and fresh in
the newspapers. I do not think I had sense enough to take in the
relations and proportions of the events. It was like moving a magnifying
glass over the parts of a beetle, and not taking in the whole.


_To_ MISS MARGARET RUXTON, _then residing at_ HYERES.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _April 16, 1842_.

It seems such an immense time since I have heard from you, so now I sit
down to earn a letter.

And first I have to tell you that, on the 14th, between the hours of
eleven and twelve, a new cousin of yours was brought into this world, a
monstrous large boy: Rosa doing well: house very full, [Footnote: All
the family had assembled to meet Pakenham Edgeworth on his return, on
leave, from India.] but all as quiet as mice. We breakfast in the study,
to keep all noise from Rosa in the plume room.

It is time to tell you that Pakenham is here, and Fanny, and Honora, and
Harriet, and Mary Anne, and Charlotte; and we are as happy as ever we can
be. Pakenham's tastes are all domestic, yet he has the most perfect
knowledge of business, great penetration of eye, and cool, self-possessed
manners, like one used to judgment and command, yet not proud of doing
either. He has brought with him such proofs of his industry as are quite
astonishing; such collections of drawings, both botanical and sketches of
country. How he found time to do all this, and spend six hours per day at
Cucherry--all as one as sessions--and to write his journal of every day
for eleven years, I really cannot comprehend; but so it is.


_To_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _June 17, 1842_.

It is now five o'clock, and Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall have not come. It is
Lestock's last day, and he and Fanny and Lucy are so busy and so happy
putting the transit instrument to rights, and setting black spotted and
yellow backed spinning spiders at work to spin for the meridian lines. I
have just succeeded in catching the right sort by descending to the
infernal regions, and setting kitchenmaid and housemaid at work. I was
glad Mr. and Mrs. Hall did not arrive just at the crisis of the
operation--all completed now.

Ask Mr. Butler if there is any subscription necessary or expected from
me, now that I have been so honourably made an honorary member of the
Royal Irish Academy? I would not for the world omit anything that ought
to be done now that I am M.R.I.A.

_July 8_.

I am going literally to beg my bread and lodging at your door on my way
to Dublin, and I do so _sans phrase_. I remember that, when I used to
write to offer myself to Aunt Ruxton, I regularly added, "You know, my
dear aunt, I can sleep in a drawer;" and she used to answer, "I know you
can, my dear, and you are welcome; but write a day beforehand, that I
may have the drawer ready."


_To_ MRS. FRANCIS BEAUFORT.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Oct. 27, 1842_.

Most kind and most judiciously kind Honora, you have written the very
thing I had been thinking as I lay awake last night, I would write to
you, but scrupled. I certainly will take your advice, and spend my
Christmas at home with Pakenham, although I cannot, nor do I wish to,
fill up his feeling of the blanks in this house. There is something
mournful, yet pleasingly painful, in the sense of the ideal presence of
the long-loved dead. Those images people and fill the mind with
unselfish thoughts, and with the salutary feeling of responsibility and
constant desire to be and to act in this world as the superior friend
would have wished and approved.

There is such difficulty this season for the poor tenants to make up
their rents; cattle, oats, butter, potatoes, all things have so sunk in
price. In these circumstances it is not only humane, but absolutely
necessary, that landlords should give more time than usual. Some cannot
pay till after certain fairs in the beginning of November--that I must
have stayed for, at all events. Indeed, they have shown so much
consideration for me, and striven so to make up the money that they
might not _detain_ me, that I should be a brute and a tyrant if I did
not do all I could on my part to accommodate them.


_To_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Dec. 1842_.

Mrs. Hall has sent to me her last number, in which she gives
Edgeworthstown. All the world here are pleased with it, and so am I. I
like the way in which she has mentioned my father particularly. There is
an evident kindness of heart, and care to avoid everything that could
hurt any of our feelings, and at the same time a warmth of affectionate
feeling unaffectedly expressed, that we all like it, in spite of our
dislike to "that sort of thing."

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. S.C. Hall's is perhaps the best picture extant of the family life
at Edgeworthstown. She says:

       *       *       *       *       *

Our principal object, in Longford County, was to visit Edgeworthstown,
and to spend some time in the society of Miss Edgeworth. We entered the
neat, nice, and pretty town at evening; all around us bore--as we had
anticipated--the aspect of comfort, cheerfulness, good order,
prosperity, and their concomitant, contentment. There was no mistaking
the fact that we were in the neighbourhood of a resident Irish family,
with minds to devise, and hands to effect improvement everywhere within
reach of their control.

Edgeworthstown may almost be regarded as public property. From this
mansion has emanated so much practical good to Ireland, and not alone to
Ireland, but the civilised world.... The demesne is judiciously and
abundantly planted, and the dwelling-house of Edgeworthstown is large
and commodious. We drove up the avenue at evening. It was cheerful to
see the lights sparkle through the windows, and to feel the cold nose of
the house-dog thrust into our hands as an earnest of welcome; it was
pleasant to receive the warm greeting of Mrs. Edgeworth, and it was a
high privilege to meet Miss Edgeworth in the library, the very room in
which had been written the works that redeemed a character for Ireland,
and have so largely promoted the truest welfare of human-kind. We had
not seen her for some years--except for a few brief moments--and
rejoiced to find her in nothing changed; her voice as light and happy,
her laughter as full of gentle mirth, her eyes as bright and truthful,
and her countenance as expressive of goodness and loving-kindness, as
they have ever been.

Edgeworthstown was, and is, a large country mansion, to which additions
have been from time to time made, but made judiciously. An avenue of
venerable trees leads to it from the public road. It is distant about
seven miles from the town of Longford. The only room I need specially
refer to is the library; it belonged more peculiarly to Maria, although
the general sitting-room of the family. It was the room in which she did
nearly all her work; not only that which was to gratify and instruct the
world, but that which, in a measure, regulated the household--the
domestic duties that were subjects of her continual thought: for the
desk at which she usually sat was never without memoranda of matters
from which she might have pleaded a right to be held exempt. It is by no
means a stately, solitary room, but large, spacious, and lofty, well
stored with books, and furnished with suggestive engravings. Seen
through the window is the lawn, embellished by groups of trees. If you
look at the oblong table in the centre, you will see the rallying-point
of the family, who are usually around it, reading, writing, or working;
while Miss Edgeworth, only anxious that the inmates of the house shall
each do exactly as he or she pleases, sits in her own peculiar corner on
the sofa; a pen, given her by Sir Walter Scott while a guest at
Edgeworthstown (in 1825), is placed before her on a little, quaint,
unassuming table, constructed, and added to, for convenience. She had a
singular power of abstraction, apparently hearing all that was said, and
occasionally taking part in the conversation, while pursuing her own
occupation, and seemingly attending only to it. In that corner, and on
that table, she had written nearly all her works. Now and then she would
rise and leave the room, perhaps to procure a toy for one of the
children, to mount the ladder and bring down a book that could explain
or illustrate some topic on which some one was conversing; immediately
she would resume her pen, and continue to write as if the thought had
been unbroken for an instant. I expressed to Mrs. Edgeworth surprise at
this faculty, so opposed to my own habit. "Maria," she said, "was always
the same; her mind was so rightly balanced, everything so honestly
weighed, that she suffered no inconvenience from what would disturb and
distract an ordinary writer."

She was an early riser, and had much work done before breakfast. Every
morning during our stay at Edgeworthstown she had gathered a bouquet of
roses, which she placed beside my plate on the table, while she was
always careful to refresh the vase that stood in our chamber; and she
invariably examined my feet after a walk, to see that damp had not
induced danger; popping in and out of our room with some kind inquiry,
some thoughtful suggestion, or to show some object that she knew would
give pleasure. Maria Edgeworth never seemed weary of thought that could
make those about her happy.

A wet day was a "god-send" to us. She would enter our sitting-room and
converse freely of persons whose names are histories; and once she
brought us a large box full of letters--her correspondence with many
great men and women, extending over more than fifty years, authors,
artists, men of science, social reformers, statesmen, of all the
countries of Europe, and especially of America, a country of which she
spoke and wrote in terms of the highest respect and affection.

Although we had known Miss Edgeworth in London, it will be readily
understood how much more to advantage she was seen in her own house; she
was the very gentlest of lions, the most unexacting, apparently the
least conscious of her right to prominence. In London she did not
reject, yet she seemed averse to the homage accorded her. At home she
was emphatically at home!

In person she was very small--she was "lost in a crowd!" Her face was
pale and thin, her features irregular; they may have been considered
plain, even in youth, but her expression was so benevolent, her manners
were so perfectly well-bred, partaking of English dignity and Irish
frankness, that one never thought of her with reference either to beauty
or plainness. She ever occupied, without claiming attention, charming
continually by her singularly pleasant voice, while the earnestness and
truth that beamed from her bright blue--very blue--eyes increased the
value of every word she uttered. She knew how to _listen_ as well as to
_talk_, and gathered information in a manner highly complimentary to
those from whom she sought it; her attention seemed far more the effect
of respect than of curiosity. Her sentences were frequently
epigrammatic; she more than once suggested to me the story of the good
fairy from whose lips dropped diamonds and pearls whenever they were
opened. She was ever neat and particular in her dress, her feet and
hands were so delicate and small as to be almost childlike. In a word,
Maria Edgeworth was one of those women who do not seem to require
beauty.

Miss Edgeworth has been called "cold"; but those who have so deemed her
have never seen, as I have, the tears gather in her eyes at a tale of
suffering or sorrow, nor heard the genuine, hearty laugh that followed
the relation of a pleasant story. Never, so long as I live, can I forget
the evenings spent in her library in the midst of a family highly
educated and self-thinking, in conversation unrestrained, yet pregnant
with instructive thought.

       *       *       *       *       *

In January 1843 Miss Edgeworth was dangerously ill with a fever.
Afterwards she wrote to a friend:

       *       *       *       *       *

And, now that it is over, I thank God not only for my recovery, but for
my illness. In very truth, and without the least exaggeration or
affectation or sentiment, I declare that, on the whole, my illness was a
source of more pleasure than pain to me, and that I would willingly go
through all the fever and weakness to have the delight of the feelings
of warm affection, and the consequent unspeakable sensations of
gratitude. When I felt that it was more than probable that I should not
recover, with a pulse above a hundred and twenty, and at the entrance of
my seventy-sixth year, I was not alarmed. I felt ready to rise tranquil
from the banquet of life, where I had been a happy guest; I confidently
relied on the goodness of my Creator.


MARIA _to_ MISS MARGARET RUXTON _at_ HYERES.

TRIM, _March 20, 1843_.

Thank you, thank you, my dear Margaret, for all your anxiety about me.
[Footnote: In her severe illness during January.] I am strengthening. We
have no news or events; we live very happily here. On Friday last, being
St. Patrick's Day, there were great doings here, and not drunken doings,
not drowning the shamrock in whisky, but honouring the shamrock with
temperance rejoicings and music, that maketh the heart glad without
making the head giddy or raising the hand against law or
fellow-creatures. Leave was asked by the Temperance Band and company to
come into Mr. Butler's lawn to play a tune or two, as they were pleased
to express it, for Miss Edgeworth. The gates were thrown open, and in
came the band, a brass band, with glittering horns, etc., preceded by
Priest Halligan, whom you may recollect, in a blue and white scarf
floating graceful, and a standard flag in his hand. A numerous crowd of
men, women, and children came flocking after, kept in order by some
Temperance Society staff officers with blue ensigns.

I, an invalid, was not permitted to go out to welcome them, but I stood
at my own window, which I threw open, and thanked them as loud as I
could, and curtseyed as low as my littleness and my weakness would
allow, and was bowed to as low as saddle-bow by priests on horseback and
musicians and audience on foot: Harriet on the steps welcoming and
sympathising with these poor people; and delightful it was to see Mr.
Butler bareheaded shaking hands with the priest, who almost threw
himself from his horse to give him his hand.

Mr. Tuite, that dear good old gentleman, died a few days ago at Sonna,
in his ninety-seventh year; his good son, in his note to my mother
announcing the event, says, "It is a comfort to think that to the very
last he had all the comfort, spiritual and earthly, that he could need
or desire."

Miss Bremer, of Stockholm, has published a novel, translated by Mary
Howitt, which is one of the most interesting, new, and truly original
books I have seen this quarter-century. Its title does not do it
justice. _Our Neighbours_: which might lead you to expect a gossiping
book, or at best something like _Annals of my Parish--tout au
contraire_; it is sketches of family life, a romantic family, admirably
drawn--some characters perhaps a little overstrained, but in the
convulsions of the overstraining giving evidence of great strength--beg,
buy, or borrow it, if you can, and if not, envy us who have it.

Envy us, also, _La Vie du Grand Conde_, written in French, by Lord
Mahon, not published, only a hundred copies struck off, and he has
honoured me with a present of a copy. Of the style and correctness of
the French I am not so presumptuous as to pretend to be a competent
judge, but I can say that in reading it I quite forgot it was by an
Englishman, and never stopped to consider this or that expression, and I
wish, dear Margaret, that you had the satisfaction of reading this most
interesting, entertaining book.

Dickens's _America_ is a failure; never trouble yourself to read it;
nevertheless, though the book is good for little, it gives me the
conviction that the man is good for much more than I gave him credit
for; a real desire for the improvement of the lower classes, and this
reality of _feeling_ is, I take it, the secret, joined to his great
power of humour, of his ascendant popularity.


_To_ MISS BANNATYNE.

TRIM, _April 1843_.

I am eager, with my own hand, to assure you that I am quite recovered. I
have been so nursed and tended by all my friends that I really can think
of nothing but myself; nevertheless, I am sometimes able to think of
other things and persons. During my convalescence Harriet has read to me
many entertaining and interesting books: none to me so interesting, so
charming, as the Life and Letters of your countryman, that honour to
your country and to all Britain, and to human nature--Francis Horner: a
more noble, disinterested character could not be; in the midst of
temptations with such firm integrity, in the midst of party spirit as
much superior to its influence as mortal man could be! and if sympathy
with his friends, and the sense that public men must pull together to
effect any purpose may, as Lord Webb Seymour asserts, have swayed
Horner, or biased him a little from his original theoretic course, still
it never was from any selfish or in the slightest degree corrupt or
unworthy motive. I much admire Lord Webb Seymour's letter to Horner, and
not less Horner's candid, honest, and temperate answer. What friends he
made for himself of the best and most able of the land, not only admired
but trusted and consulted by them all, and not only trusted and
consulted, but beloved. This book really makes one think better of human
nature. Of all his friends I think more highly than I ever thought or
knew before I read his letters to them and theirs to him. There never
was such a unanimous tribute to integrity in a statesman as was paid to
Horner by the British Senate at his death: I remember it at the time,
and I am glad to see it recorded in this book. It will waken or keep
alive the spirit of public and private virtue in many a youthful mind. I
see with pleasure your father's name in the book, and the names and
characters of many of our dear Scotch friends. My head and heart are so
full of it that I really know not how to stop in speaking of it.

I am just going to write to Lady Lansdowne how much I was delighted by
seeing her and Lord Henry Petty, but especially herself, mentioned
exactly in the manner in which I thought of her and of him, when we
first became acquainted with them, which was just at the very time of
which Mr. Horner speaks. Lady Lansdowne gave me a drawing of Little
Bounds, which is now hanging up in our library unfaded. It is a
gratification to me to feel that I appreciated both her talents and her
character as Horner did, before all the world found out that she was a
SUPERIOR person.

My brother Pakenham was delighted with his tour in Scotland, and with
his renewal of personal intercourse with his dear Scotch friends: all
steady as Scotch friends ever are and kind and warm--the warmth once
raised in them never cooling--anthracite coal--layer after layer, hot to
the very inside kernel. Pakenham is now in London with my sisters Fanny
and Honora--Fanny has wonderfully recovered her health. She has several
Scotch friends in London, of whom she is very fond, from Joanna Baillie
to her young friends, Mrs. Andrews and her sisters. Mr. Andrews is a
very agreeable, sensible, conversable man; I saw something of him when I
was last in London, and hope to see more when I return there. If I
continue as well as I am now I intend, please God, to make my promised
visit to London some time this autumn, when the hurly-burly of the
fashionable season is over.

       *       *       *       *       *

While at Trim, Maria received the announcement of her youngest sister
Lucy's engagement to Dr. Robinson, which gave her exquisite pleasure:
"never," as she wrote at the time, "never was a marriage hailed with
more family acclaim of universal joy." The marriage took place on June
8.

       *       *       *       *       *

MARIA _to_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _August 1, 1843_.

I have just wakened and risen from the sofa rejoicing, like a dwarf, "to
run my course." I was put to sleep, not by magnetism, but by the
agreeable buzz of dear Pakenham's voice reading out a man's
peregrinations from Egypt to Australia--"the way was long, the road was
dark," and the reader declares I was asleep before we got to Egypt.

Mr. Maltby _is_ wondrous tall, and Pakenham has had the diversion
long-looked-for of seeing "Maltby hand Maria in to dinner." Mr. Maltby
is a very gentlemanlike man, every inch of him, many as they are, and
very conversable--really conversable, he both hears and talks, and
follows and leads.


_To_ MRS. BEAUFORT.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Sept. 14, 1843._ "_Choisissez, mon enfant, mais prenez
du veau." Choose, my dear Honora, whichever pattern you please, but take
this which I enclose. We have had a very pleasant visit to Newcastle,
where we met Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton Gray, and I liked both very much. I
thought her perfectly unpretending and unaffected; slight figure, a
delicate woman, pretty dark hair and dark eyes, and pleasing expression
of countenance. I never should have suspected her of being so learned or
so laborious and persevering as she is.

       *       *       *       *       *

In November 1843 Miss Edgeworth went to London, and spent the winter
with her sister Harriet, Mrs. Wilson.

       *       *       *       *       *

MARIA _to_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

NORTH AUDLEY STREET, _Dec. 3, 1843_.

We dined at Dr. Lushington's last Thursday--the dinner was very merry
and good-humoured. Mr. Richardson was there, and delighted I was to see
him, and he talked so affectionately of Sir Walter and auld lang syne
times; and Mr. Bentham, the botanist, too, was there, Pakenham's friend,
a very agreeable man. After dinner too was to me very entertaining, for
I found that a lady, introduced to me as Mrs. Hawse, was daughter to
Brunel, and she told me all the truth of her brother and the half-guinea
in his throat, and the incision in his windpipe, and his coughing it up
at last, and Brodie seeing and snatching it from between his teeth, and
driving over all London to show it.

And now we are going to tea at Dr. Holland's.


_Monday morning._

That we had a very pleasant evening I need scarcely say, but to Boswell
Sydney Smith would out-Boswell Boswell. He talked of course of Ireland
and the Priests, and I gave good, and I trust true testimony to their
being, before they took to politics--excellent parish priests, and he
talked of Bishop Higgins and Repeal agitations, and I told him of "Don't
be anticipating," and laughing at brogue (how easy!) led him to tell me
of a conversation of his with Bishop Doyle in former days--beginning
with "My lord," propitiously and propitiatingly, "My lord, don't you
think it would be a good plan to have your clergy paid by the State?"

Bishop Doyle assured him it would never be accepted. "But, suppose every
one of your clergy found, L150 lodged in the bank for them, and at 5 per
cent for arrears?"

"Ah! Mr. Smith, you have a way of putting things!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Sydney Smith, on his side, was enchanted with Maria Edgeworth--"Miss
Edgeworth was delightful, so clever and sensible. She does not say witty
things, but there is such a perfume of wit runs through all her
conversation as makes it very brilliant."

       *       *       *       *       *

MISS EDGEWORTH _to_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

_Christmas Day._

A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

With the addition which Lestock has just been telling to Waller--

With your pockets full of money and your cellars full of beer.

Yesterday, Sunday, your kind friends, the Andrews', took Waller with us
to the Temple church--it has been, you know, all new painted and dressed
since I saw it last, and the knights in dark bronze-coloured marble
repaired. The tiled floor is too new, not like Mr. Butler's most
respectable reverend old tiles. Mr. Andrews took us all over the church
after service, and in particular pointed out one old window of painted
glass, in which the bright red colour is so bright in such full
freshness as is inimitable in modern art.

We went from church to luncheon at Mrs. Andrews', and such a luncheon; I
refrain from a whole page which might be spent on it. Then Mrs. Andrews
took Waller and me a drive three times round the park, a most pleasant
drive in such a bright sunshiny day. So many happy little children under
the trees and on the pathways.

_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET, _Jan. 1844_.

Thank you, and pray do you thank for me all the dear kind brothers,
sisters, nephews, and nieces, all round you, their centre and spring of
good, for all the pleasure they, on my seventy-seventh birthday, from
Barry's to dear little Mary's, all gave me--pleasure such as cannot be
bought for money. Who would not like to live to be old if they could be
so happy in friends as I am? I cannot help enclosing to you Lucy's and
Dr. Robinson's greeting, as you will feel with me the pleasure both gave
me.

Dumb Francis was here on that happy first of January and assured me on
his slate that he was very happy and grateful. I never see him without
my Francis's sonnet repeating itself, "The soul of honour," etc.

_To_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET, _Jan. 5, 1844_.

I have been reading and am reading Bentham's _Memoirs_; he could write
plain English before he invented his strange lingo, and the account of
his childhood and youth is exceedingly entertaining. Fanny reads to us
at night, much to Waller's interest and entertainment, Lieutenant Eyre's
account of that horrid Cabul expedition--what a disgrace to the British
arms and name in India. Mr. Pakenham and his nice wife came in while I
was writing this, and when I asked him if the prestige of British
superiority would be destroyed in India, he said, "No: we have redeemed
ourselves so nobly."

Waller is occupied every spare moment perfecting a Leyden phial, coated
and chained properly, and giving quite large and grand sparks and pretty
sharp shocks.


_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET, _Jan. 1844_.

The day before yesterday Fanny and I walked to see Mrs. Napier, all in
black for Lady Clare--the suddenness of whose death, scarcely a moment's
interval between the bright flash of life and the dark silence of death,
was most striking and awful.

Yesterday we went to see dear Lady Elizabeth Whitbread, all as it used
to be, beautiful camellias, but she herself so sad--Miss Grant is dying.
Nothing can surpass her true tenderness to this faithful, gentle,
sincere old friend. All these illnesses and deaths are the more striking
I think in a bustling capital city, than they would be in the country
surrounded by one's family. There is something shocking in seeing the
bustling, struggling crowd who care nothing for one another dead or
alive: and they may say, so much the better, we are spared unavailing
thought and anguish, and yet I would rather have the thought and even
the anguish--for without pain there is no pleasure for the heart no
prayer for Indifference for me! Every _memento mori_ comes with some
force to me at seventy-seven, and I do pray most earnestly and devoutly
to God, as my father did before me, that my body may not survive my
mind, and that I may leave a tender not unpleasing recollection in their
hearts.

Though I have written this, my dear mother, and feel it truly, I am not
the least melancholy, or apprehensive or afraid of dying, and as to the
rest I am truly resigned, and trust to the goodness of my Creator living
or dying.

_Jan. 13_.

Thursday evening at Rogers's--the party was made for us and as small as
possible, Lady Charlotte Lindsay, Lady Davy, Mr. and Mrs. Empson, and
Mr. Compton and Lord Northampton. Mr. Empson is very little altered in
twelve years: the same affectionate heart and the same excellent head.
Lord Northampton is very conversable; and Mr. Compton brought me sugared
words from troops of children.


HALF-PAST SIX P.M.

Just returned from Mrs. Drummond's--beautiful house and two pretty
children--and we went to see Anna Carr's beautiful drawings of Ceylon,
and no time for more.


_Feb. 1_.

Miss Fox's illness detained Lord and Lady Lansdowne at Bowood--she is
rather better. We went to Lansdowne House yesterday, and saw Lady
Shelburne for the first time, handsome, and very amiable in countenance.
Lady Louisa was most charming in her attention to me, and she has a most
sensible, deep-thinking face.


_Feb. 2_.

Snowing and fogging, as white and as dark and disagreeable as ever it
can be. Thank heaven, to-day was not yesterday, which was dry, bright
sunshine, on purpose to grace the Queen, and to pleasure us three in
particular. Fanny ended yesterday by telling you how fortunate, or
rather how kind, people had been in working out three tickets for me, at
the last hour, at the last moment; for Lord Lovelace came himself
between eleven and twelve at night with a ticket, which he gave me, at
Lady Byron's request. You may guess how happy I was to have the third
ticket for Honora, and we were all full dressed, punctual to the minute,
in Fanny's carriage, and with my new-dressed opossum cloak covering our
knees, as warm as young toasts.

I spare you all that you will see in the newspapers. The first view of
the House did not strike me as so grand as the old House, but my mouth
was stopped by "_Pro tempore_ only, you know." We went up an
ignominiously small staircase, and the man at the bottom, piteously
perspiring, cried out, "On, on, ladies! don't stop the way! room enough
above!" But there was one objection to going on, that there were no
seats above: however, we made ourselves small--no great difficulty--and,
taking to the wall, we left a scarcely practicable pass for those who,
less wary and more obedient than ourselves, went up one by one to the
highmost void. Fanny feared for me that I should never be able to
_stand_ it, when somehow or another my name was pronounced and heard by
one of the Miss Southebys, who stretched her cordial hand.
"Glad--proud--glad--we'll squeeze--we'll make room for you between me
and my friend Miss Fitzhugh;" and so I was bodkin, but never touched the
bench till long after. I cast a lingering look at my deserted sisters
twain. "No, no, we can't do that!" so, that hope killed off, I took to
make the best of my own selfish position, and surveyed all beneath me,
from the black heads of the reporter gentlemen, with their pencils and
papers before them in the form and desk immediately below me, to the
depths of the hall, in all its long extent; and sprawling and stretching
in the midst--with the feathered and lappeted and jewelled peeresses on
their right, and their foreign excellencies on the left--were the
long-robed, ermined judges, laying their wigs together and shaking
hands, their wigs' many-curled tails shaking on their backs. And the
wigs jointly and severally looked like so many vast white and gray
birds'-nests from Brobdingnag, with a black hole at the top of each, for
the birds to creep out or in. More and more scarlet-ermined dignitaries
and nobles swarmed into the hall, and then, in at the scarlet door,
came, with white ribbon shoulder-knots and streamers flying in all
directions, a broad scarlet five-row-ermined figure, with high, bald
forehead, facetious face, and jovial, hail-fellow-well-met countenance,
princely withal, H.R.H. the Duke of Cambridge, and the sidelong peeress
benches stretched their fair hands, and he his ungloved royal hand
hastily here and there and everywhere, and chattering so loud and long,
that even the remote gallery could hear the "Ha, ha, haw!" which
followed ever and anon; and we blessed ourselves, and thought we should
never hear the Queen; but I was told he would be silent when the Queen
came, and so it proved.

The guns were heard: once, twice, and at the second all were silent:
even His Royal Highness of Cambridge ceased to rustle and flutter, and
stood nobly still.

Enter the crown and cushion and sword of state and mace--the Queen,
leaning on Prince Albert's arm. She did not go up the steps to the
throne well--caught her foot and stumbled against the edge of the
footstool, which was too high. She did not seat herself in a decided,
queenlike manner, and after sitting down pottered too much with her
drapery, arranging her petticoats. That footstool was much too high! her
knees were crumpled up, and her figure, short enough already, was
foreshortened as she sat, and her drapery did not come to the edge of
the stool: as my neighbour Miss Fitzhugh whispered, "Bad effect."
However and nevertheless, the better half of her looked perfectly
ladylike and queenlike; her head finely shaped, and well held on her
shoulders with her likeness of a kingly crown, that diadem of diamonds.
Beautifully fair the neck and arms; and the arms moved gracefully, and
never too much. I could not at that distance judge of her countenance,
but I heard people on the bench near me saying that she looked "divinely
gracious."

Dead silence: more of majesty implied in that silence than in all the
magnificence around. She spoke, low and well: "My lords and gentlemen,
be seated." Then she received from the lord-in-waiting her speech, and
read: her voice, perfectly distinct and clear, was heard by us ultimate
auditors; it was not quite so fine a voice as I had been taught to
expect; it had not the full rich tones nor the varied powers and
inflections of a perfect voice. She read with good sense, as if she
perfectly understood, but did not fully or warmly feel, what she was
reading. It was more a girl's well-read lesson than a Queen pronouncing
her speech. She did not lay emphasis sufficient to mark the gradations
of importance in the subjects, and she did not make pauses enough. The
best-pronounced paragraphs were those about France and Ireland, her firm
determination to preserve inviolate the legislative union; and "I am
resolved to act in strict conformity with this declaration" she
pronounced strongly and well. She showed less confidence in reading
about the suspension of the elective franchise, and in the conclusion,
emphasis and soul were wanting, when they were called for, when she
said, "In full confidence of your loyalty and wisdom, and with an
earnest prayer to Almighty GOD," etc.

Her Majesty's exit I was much pleased to look at, it was so graceful and
so gracious. She took time enough for all her motions, noticing all
properly, from "my dear uncle"--words I distinctly heard as she passed
the Duke of Cambridge--to the last expectant fair one at the doorway.
The Queen vanished: buzz, noise, the clatter rose, and all were in
commotion, and the tide of scarlet and ermine flowed and ebbed; and
after an immense time the throngs of people bonneted and shawled, came
forth from all the side niches and windows, and down from the upper
galleries, and then places unknown gave up their occupants, and all the
outward halls were filled with the living mass: as we looked down upon
them from the back antechamber, one sea of heads. We sat down on a side
seat with Mrs. Hamilton Grey and her sister, and we made ourselves happy
criticising or eulogising all that passed down the centre aisle: not the
least chance of getting to our carriage, for an hour to come. One of the
blue and silver officials of the House, at a turn in one of the
passages, had loudly pronounced, pointing, rod in hand, to an outer
vestibule and steps, "All who are not waiting for carriages, this way,
be pleased;" and vast numbers, ill pleased, were forced to make their
exit. We went farther and fared worse. While we were waiting in
purgatory, several angelic wigs passed that way who noticed me, most
solemnly, albeit cordially: my Lord Chief Justice Tindal, Baron
Alderson, Mr. Justice Erskine, the Bishop of London--very warm indeed;
had never cooled since I had met him the night before at Sir Robert
Inglis's.

Harriet de Salis, very well dressed and very unaffected and
warm-hearted, actually left her chaperon, and sat down on the steps, and
talked and laughed the heart's laugh. Honora and Fanny had gone on a
voyage of discovery through the sea of heads, and had found that most
excellent and sensible John stuck close to the door; but as to getting
the carriage up, impracticable. We had only to wait and be ready
instantly, as it would have to drive off as soon as called. Workmen,
bawling to one another, were hauling and hoisting out all the peeresses'
benches, stripped of their scarlet; and the short and the very long of
it is that we did at last hear "Mrs. Wilson's carriage," and in we ran,
and took Mrs. Hamilton Grey in too: Fanny sat on Honora's lap, and all
was right and happy; and even little I not at all tired.

When I had got thus far, Sir Thomas Acland came in; I had met him at Sir
Robert Inglis's. He was full of Edgeworthstown and your kindness to him,
my dear mother. He repeated to me all the good advice he received from
you forty years ago, and says that you made him see Ireland, and have
common-sense. You put him in the way, and he has made his way. He is
very good, very enthusiastic, and wonderfully fond of me and of _Castle
Rackrent_.


_To_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

WARFIELD LODGE, _April 3, 1844_.

I am so glad I came here, and I am so glad I have my own dear Fanny with
me; and she was rewarded for coming by Miss O'Beirne's most cordial
reception of her; so kindly well-bred. Dear Miss Wren! for dear she has
always been to me for her own merits, which are great, and from her
perfect love for Mrs. O'Beirne, in which I sympathise.

I am as well as I am happy, and not the least tired, thank you, my dear
ma'am, after having seen and heard and done enough yesterday morning to
have tired a young body of seventeen, instead of one in her
seventy-eighth year.

We went a charming drive through this smiling, well-wooded,
well-cottaged country, to the Malcolms: met Colonel Malcolm and his
eldest sister Olympia on horseback at the door, just returned from their
ride, and straight Fanny fell in love with Olympia's horse--"such a
beautiful animal!" But I care much more for the Colonel! charming
indeed, unaffected, polite, and kind. Never had I so kind a reception!
and if I were to give you a _catalogue raisonnee_ of all we saw in their
rich and rare, as well as happy home, it would reach from this to Trim.

_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

COLLINGWOOD, _April 8, 1844_.

Fine sunshiny day, and from my window I see a beautiful lawn, and two
children rolling on the grass, and I hear their happy voices and their
father's with them. I should have told you that on Friday Lestock took
me and Emmeline, and Emmeline Gibbons and her little girl, to the
Zoological Gardens, and we all were mightily delighted; but of the
beasts and birds when I return.

Here are Lord and Lady Adair--she is grateful to Sophy Palmer for her
kindness when she was ill at Oxford--and Sir Edward Ryan, and one whom I
was right glad to meet, "Jones on Rent;" and I have attacked, plagued,
and gratified him by urging him to write a new volume. Jones and
Herschel are very fond of one another, often differing, but always
agreeing to differ, like Malthus and Ricardo, who hunted together in
search of Truth, and huzzaed when they found her, without caring who
found her first: indeed, I have seen them both put their able hands to
the windlass to drag her up from the bottom of that well in which she so
strangely delights to dwell.

I must go back to the 23rd, which was a full and well-filled day. In the
morning Rogers kindly determined to catch us: came before luncheon-time,
and was very agreeable and very good-natured about a drawing I showed to
him by a niece of Mrs. Holland's, a young girl of fifteen, who has
really an inventive genius. I suggested to her, among the poems it is
now the fashion to illustrate, Parnell's fairy tale: she has sketched
the first scene--the old castle, lighted up: fairies dancing in the
hall: Edwin crouching in the corner. Rogers praised it so warmly, that I
regretted the girl could not hear him; it would so encourage her. He got
up, dear, good-natured old man, from his chair as I spoke, and went
immediately to Lower Brook Street with the drawing to the young lady.

Luncheon over, we drove to the city, to see an old gentleman of
ninety-three, Mr. Vaughan, whom I am sure you remember so kindly showing
the London Docks to us in 1813, with his understanding and all his
faculties as clear and as fresh now as they were then; and after
returning from Mr. Vaughan's, we went to the bazaar, where I wanted to
buy a churn, and other toys that shall be nameless, for the children;
and after all this I lay down and slept for three-quarters of an hour,
before time to dress for dinner. This dinner was at Lambeth: arrived
exactly in time: found Mrs. Howley ready in her beautiful drawing-room,
and I had the pleasure of five minutes' conversation alone with her.
Oddly, it came out that she had a fine picture in the room, given to her
by Mr. Legge, who inherited Aston Hall, which Mr. Legge I used to hear
of continually ages ago as a sort of bugbear, being the heir-at-law to
Sir Thomas Holte and Lady Holte's property. "Very natural they could
never bear the name of Legge," said Mrs. Howley, "but he was my relative
and excellent friend;" and she pointed to an inscription in grateful
honour of him under the picture. How oddly connections come out, and
between people one should never have thought had heard of each other,
and at such distant times.

This dinner and evening at Lambeth proved very agreeable to me. At the
dinner were Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton Grey, Dean Milman, the Bishop of
Lichfield, Sir Thomas Sinclair, and some others whose names I do not
remember--fourteen altogether. I was on the Archbishop's right hand,
Mrs. Hamilton Grey on his left. Dear, simple, dignified, yet playful
Archbishop, who talked well of all things, from nursery rhymes to deep
metaphysics and physics. Apropos to dreams and acting in character in
the strangest circumstances, I mentioned Dr. Holland's _Medical Notes_,
and the admirable chapter on Reverie and Dreaming. He had not seen the
book, but seemed interested, and said he would read it directly--a great
pleasure to me (goose!). I must not go further into the conversation
with Milman, and the Archbishop's remarks upon Coleridge; it was all
very agreeable, and--early hours being the order of the day and night
there--I came away at ten; and as I drew up the glass, and was about to
draw up Steele's opossum cloak, I felt a slight resistance--Fanny! dear,
kind Fanny, so unexpected, come in the carriage for me; and a most
delightful drive we had home.


1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET, _April 15_.

"Slip on, for Time's Time!" said a man, coming forth with a pipe in his
mouth from an inn door, exhorting men and horses of railroad omnibus.
"Slip on, Time's Time!" I have been saying to myself continually; and
now I am coming to the last gasp, and Time slips so fast, that Time is
not Time--in fact, there's no Time.

Rosa's note to Fanny about glass shall be attended to, and I shall paste
on the outside, "GLASS--NOT TO BE THROWN DOWN;" for Lord Adair had a bag
thrown down the other day by reckless railway porters, in which was a
bottle of sulphuric acid, which, breaking and spilling, stained,
spoiled, and burned his Lordship's best pantaloons. I have packed up my
bottles with such elastic skill, that I trust my petticoats will not
share that sad fate.

       *       *       *       *       *

Miss Edgeworth now left London for the last time. This was her last
visit to her happy London home in North Audley Street, and in this last
visit she had enjoyed much with all the freshness of youth, though the
health of her sister and hostess often caused her anxiety. Mrs. L.H.
Sigourney, who had been a frequent visitor, writes: [Footnote: _Pleasant
Memories of Pleasant Lands_, by Mrs. L.H. Sigourney (1791-1865).]

       *       *       *       *       *

To have repeatedly met and listened to Miss Edgeworth, seated familiarly
with her by the fireside, may seem to her admirers in America a
sufficient payment for the hazards of crossing the Atlantic. Her
conversation, like her writings, is varied, vivacious, and delightful.
Her forgetfulness of self and happiness in making others happy are
marked traits in her character. Her person is small and delicately
proportioned, and her movements full of animation. The ill-health of the
lovely sister, much younger than herself, at whose house in London she
was passing the winter, called forth such deep anxiety, untiring
attention, and fervent gratitude for every favourable symptom, as seemed
to blend features of maternal tenderness with sisterly affection.


MARIA _to_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _May 2, 1844_.

Not the least tired with my journey. Francis read to me indefatigably
through _Australia_. [Footnote: Hood's _Letters from Australia_.] There
is an excellent anecdote of an old Scotch servant meeting his master
unexpectedly in Australia after many years' absence: "I was quite dung
down donnerit when I saw the laird, I canna' conceit what dooned me--I
was raal glad to see him, but I dinna ken hoo I couldna' speak it."

If anybody can conceive anything much more absurd than my copying this
out of a printed book of your own which you will have back in seven
days,--let them call aloud.

"I canna' speak it" how happy I was yesterday, at the tender, warm
reception I had from your dear mother, and all young and old.


_To_ MISS MARGARET RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Aug. 21, 1844_.

I am right glad to look forward to the hope of seeing you again and
talking all manner of nonsense and sense, and laughing myself and making
you laugh, as I used to do, though I am six years beyond the allotted
age and have had so many attacks of illness within the last two years;
but I am, as Bess Fitzherbert and poor dear Sophy used to say, like one
of those pith puppets that you knock down in vain, they always start up
the same as ever. I was particularly fortunate in my last attack of
erysipelas in all the circumstances, just having reached Harriet and
Louisa's comfortable home, and happy in having Harriet Butler coming to
me the very day she heard I was in this condition. Crampton had set out
for Italy the day before, but Sir Henry Marsh managed me with skill, and
let me recover slowly, as nature requires at advanced age. I am obliged
to repeat to myself, "advanced age," because really and truly neither my
spirits nor my powers of locomotion and facility of running up and down
stairs would put me in mind of it. I do not find either my love for my
friends or my love of literature in the least failing. I enjoyed even
when flattest in my bed hearing Harriet Butler reading to me till eleven
o'clock at night. Sir Henry Marsh prescribed some book that would
entertain and interest me without straining my attention or
over-exciting me, and Harriet chose Madame de Sevigne's _Letters_, which
perfectly answered all the conditions, and was as delightful at the
twentieth reading as at the first. Such lively pictures of the times and
modes of living in country, town, and court, so interesting from their
truth, simplicity, and elegance; the language so polished, and not the
least antiquated even at this day. Madame de Sevigne's reply to Madame
de Grignan, having called Les Rochers _"humide"--"Humide! humide
vous-meme!"_ I should not have thought it French; I did not know they
had that turn of colloquial drollery. But she has every good turn and
power of expression, and is such an amiable, affectionate, good
creature, loving the world too and the court, and all its sense and
nonsense mixed delightfully. Harriet often stopped to say, "How like my
mother! how like Aunt Ruxton!" At Trim, during the two delightfully
happy months I was there, during my convalescence and perfect recovery,
she read to me many other books, and often I wished that you had been as
you used to be with us, and Mr. Butler, who is very fond of you and
appreciates you, joined in the wish. One book was the _Journal of the
Nemesis_,--of breathless interest, from the great danger they were in
from the splitting of the iron vessel, and all the exertions and
ingenuity of the officers; and Prescott's _Mexico_ I found extremely
interesting. After these true, or warranted true histories, we read a
novel not half so romantic or entertaining, the _Widow Barnaby in
America_, and then we tried a Swedish story,--not by Miss Bremer,--of
smugglers and murderers, and a self-devoted lady, and an idiot boy, the
best drawn and most consistent character in the book. After--no, I
believe it was before--the _Rose of Tisleton_, we read _Ellen
Middleton_, by Lady Georgiana Fullerton, grand-daughter of the famous
Duchess-Beauty of Devonshire, and whatever faults that Duchess had she
certainly had genius. Do you recollect her lines on _William Tell_? or
do you know Coleridge's lines to her, beginning with

  O lady nursed in pomp and pleasure,
  Where learned you that heroic measure?

Look for them, and get _Ellen Middleton_, it is well worth your reading.
Lady Georgiana certainly inherits her grandmother's genius, and there is
a high-toned morality and religious principle through the book (where
got she "that heroic measure"?) without any cant or ostentation: it is
the same moral I intended in _Helen_, but exemplified in much deeper and
stronger colours. This is--but you must read it yourself.


_To_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

OBSERVATORY, ARMAGH, _Sept. 15, 1844_.

As well and as happy as the day is short--too short here for all that is
to be seen, felt, heard, and understood. It is more delightful to me
than I can express, but you can understand how delightful it is to see
Lucy so happy and to see her mother see it all. I sleep in the same room
with her, and fine talking we have, and we care not who hears us, we say
no harm of anybody, we have none to say.

Lucy has certainly made good use of her time and so improved the house I
should hardly have known it. In the dining-room is a fine picture of Dr.
Robinson when a boy, full of genius and romance, seated on a rock. It is
admirable and delicious to see how well and how completely Lucy has
turned her mind to all that can make her house and _houseband_, and all
belonging to him, happy and comfortable--omitting none of those smaller
creature comforts which, if not essential, are very desirable for all
human creatures learned or unlearned.

Robinson at home is not less wonderful and more agreeable even than
Robinson abroad,--his _abondance_ in literature equal to Macintosh,--in
science you know out of sight superior to anybody. In home life his
amiable qualities and amicable temper appear to the greatest advantage,
and I cannot say too much about the young people's kind and affectionate
manner to Lucy.

The Primate [Footnote: Lord John George Beresford, Archbishop of
Armagh.] and the Lady Beresfords were so kind and gracious as to come to
see us; and I have enjoyed a very agreeable luncheon-dinner at Caledon.
Lady Caledon is a _real_ person, doing a great deal of good sensibly.
Lord Caledon [Footnote: James Du Pre, third Earl of Caledon, was then
unmarried. His mother, Catherine, daughter of the third Earl of
Hardwicke, lived with him when he was in Ireland.] gave me a history of
his life in the backwoods of America, and gave me a piece of pemmican,
and I enclose a bit, and I hope it will not have greased everything! and
when I said that after a youth in the backwoods it was well to have such
a place as Caledon to fall back upon, there was a glance at his mother
that spoke volumes.


EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Aug. 7, 1845_.

How characteristic Joanna Baillie's letter is, so perfectly simple,
dignified, and touching.


_To_ MISS MARGARET RUXTON.

_August 7, 1845._

No pen or hand but my own shall answer your most affectionate letter, my
dear own Margaret, or welcome you again to your native country--damp as
it is--warm and comfortable with good old,--and young, friends--and
young, for your young friends Mary Anne and Charlotte were heartily glad
to see you. As to the old, I will yield to no mortal living. In the
first place is the plain immovable fact that I am the OLDEST friend you
have living, and as to actual knowledge of you I defy any one to match
me, ever since you were an infant at Foxhall, and through the Black
Castle cottage times with dear Sophy and all. What changes and chances,
and ups and downs, we have seen together!


_To_ MISS MARGARET RUXTON.

TRIM, _March 1, 1846_.

Pakenham and Christina [Footnote: In February, Pakenham Edgeworth had
married Christina, daughter of Dr. Hugh Macpherson of Aberdeen.] arrived
here in excellent time, charmed with their kind reception at Black
Castle. From the first moment I set eyes and ears upon Christina I liked
her,--it seemed to me as if she was not a new bride coming a stranger
amongst us, but one of the family fitting at once into her place as a
part of a joining map that had been wanting and is now happily found.


_To_ LADY BEAUFORT.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _May 31, 1846_.

I hope, dear Honora, that the rhododendrons will not exhaust themselves;
at this moment yours opposite the library window are in the most
beautiful profuse blow you can conceive, and at the end of my garden
indescribably beautiful, and scarlet thorn beside. The peony tree has
happily survived its removal, and is covered with flowers.


_To_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _June 24, 1846_.

I must try your patience a bit more in a most _thorny_ affair----How
"thorny"?

You will never know till a box arrives by the coach, Edward being under
orders to convey it to Granard in the gig. Why Edward? Why in the gig?
Because the box is too heavy for Mick Dolan or any other gossoon to
carry. "And what can be in it?" Wait till you see,--and I hope you may
only see and not feel. _Citoyenne, n'y touchez pas_. Vegetable, animal,
or mineral? Four-and-twenty questions might be spent upon it, and you
would be none the wiser.

Now to be plain, the box contains "the old man's head;" now you know.
Cacti sent to me by Sir William Hooker; your mother has not room for
more than two, which she kept. Thunderstorm and hail-shower, half-past
eleven.

       *       *       *       *       *

The death of Maria Edgeworth's half-brother Francis on 12th October 1846
was a great grief to the family. The same autumn saw the beginning of
the Irish famine.

       *       *       *       *       *

MARIA _to_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

_February 9, 1847_.

Mr. Powell instigated me to beg some relief for the poor from the Quaker
Association in Dublin--so, much against the grain, I penned a letter to
Mr. Harvey, the only person whose name I know on the committee, and
prayed some assistance for Mr. Powell, our vicar, to get us over the
next two months, and your mother represented to me that men and boys who
can get employment in draining especially, cannot _stand_ the work in
the wet for want of strong shoes; so, in for a penny, in for a pound;
ask for a lamb, ask for a sheep. I made _bould_ to axe my FRIENDS for as
many pairs of brogues as they could afford, or as much leather and
soles, which would be better still, as this would enable us to set
sundry starving shoemakers to work. By return of post came a letter to
"Most respected Friend," or something better, I forget what, and I have
sent the letter to Fanny--granting L30 for food--offering a soup boiler
for eighty gallons, if we had not one large enough, and sending L10 for
women's work: and telling me they would lay my shoe petition before the
Clothing Committee. [Footnote: Leather was sent by these benevolent
gentlemen, and brogues were made for men and boys, and proved to be of
the first service.]


_February 22_.

The people are now beginning to sow, and I hope they will accordingly
reap in due course. Mr. Hinds has laid down a good rule, not to give
seed to any tenants but those who can produce the receipt for the last
half-year's rent. Barry has been exceedingly kind in staying with us,
doing your mother all manner of good, looking after blunders in
draining, etc.


_March 13_.

I have been working as hard as an ass to get the pleasure of writing to
you, and have not been able to accomplish it. I have only time to say, a
gentleman from the Birmingham Relief Committee has sent me L5 for the
starving Irish. How good people are! I send Mrs. Cruger's letter, and
have written to the ladies of America, specially, as she desires, to
those of New York, and your mother approved, and I asked for barley
seed, which, as Mr. Powell and Gahan and your mother say, to be of any
use must come before May--but I asked for money as well as seed.--Sturdy
beggars.


_March 22_.

You will see how good the Irish Americans [Footnote: The Irish porters
who carried the seed corn sent from Philadelphia to the shore for
embarkation refused to be paid.] have been, and are; I wish the rich
Argosie was come.


_April 9_.

"Ou peut-on etre mieux qu'au sein de sa famille?" I found it, my dear,
exactly where I knew it was, in Alison's _History_. On Buonaparte's
return from Egypt, the Old Guard surrounding him and the band playing
this. I know Mary Anne and Charlotte have the music. I have seen it with
my eyes and heard it with my ears; I have it in the memory of my
heart--I have made all the use I want of it now in the new story I am
writing, and mean to publish in Chambers's _Miscellany_, and to give the
proceeds to the Poor Relief Fund.


_April 26_.

Having seen in the newspapers that the Australians had sent a
considerable sum for the relief of the distressed Irish, and that they
had directed it to the care of "His Grace the Archbishop of Dublin,"
meaning Dr. Murray, I wrote to our Archbishop Whately, playing upon this
graceless proceeding towards him, and to the best of my capacity,
without flattery. I did what I could to make my letter honestly pleasing
to His Grace, and I received the most prompt, polite, and to the point
reply, assuring me that the Australians were not so graceless in their
doings as in their words, that they had made a remittance of a
considerable sum to him, and that if I apply to the Central Relief
Committee, in whose hands he placed it, he has no doubt my application
will be attended to.

This was nuts and apples to me, or, better at present, rice and oatmeal,
and I have accordingly written to "My Lords and Gentlemen." The
Archbishop, civilly, to show how valuable he deemed my approbation! has
sent me a corrected copy of his speech, with good new notes and protest
and preface. He says it is impossible to conceive how ignorant the
English still are of Ireland, and how positive in their ignorance.


_April 28_.

Mr. Powell has received from Government L105 on his sending up the list
of subscriptions here for a hundred guineas, according to their promise,
to give as much as any parish subscribed towards its own relief. This he
means to lay out in bread and rice and meal--not all in soup; that he
may encourage them to cook at home and not be mere craving beggars.


_To_ LADY BEAUFORT.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _May 8, 1847_.

Most heartily do I rejoice that we may hope that you may be able to
come; I do not say come with Fanny, for that might hurry and hazard you,
but in the days of harvest home, if harvest home does ever come again to
our poor country, and you will rejoice with us in the brightened day.

I cannot answer your Admiral's question as to the number of deaths
caused by the famine. I believe that no one can form a just estimate. In
different districts the estimates and assertions are widely different,
and the priests keep no registry. Mr. Tuite, who was here yesterday,
told us that in the House of Commons the contradictory statements of the
Irish members astonished and grieved him, as he knew the bad effect it
would have in diminishing their credit with the English. Two hundred and
fifty thousand is the report of the Police up to April. Mr. Tuite
thought a third more deaths than usual had been in his neighbourhood. My
mother and Mr. Powell say that the increase of deaths above ordinary
times has not in this parish been as much as one-third.


_To_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _May 19, 1847_.

The fever, or whatever it is, has been, Lucy says, dreadful about
Armagh; many gentlemen have it; one who exerted himself much for the
poor--was distributing meal, saw a poor girl so weak, she could not hold
her apron stretched out for it; he went and held it for her--she was in
the fever; he went home, felt ill, had the fever, and died.


_June 7_.

What magnificent convolvulus! we had not one blown for Fanny's birthday.
Do not trouble yourself about my cough or cold, for I am doing, and
shall do, very well; and I would have had twenty times the cough for the
really exquisite pleasure I have received from Sir Henry Marsh's letter:
no such generous offer was ever made with more politeness and good
taste. In the midst of all that may go wrong in the world there is
really _much good_, and so much that is honourable to our human nature.

When Margaret is with you, if she likes to see _Orlandino_ in his
present _deshabille_, she is welcome. [Footnote: This story was the
first of a series edited by William Chambers. It was practically "a
temperance story." Speaking in it of the influence of Father Matthews,
Miss Edgeworth says: "Since the time of the Crusades, never has one
single voice awakened such moral energies; never was the call of one man
so universally, so promptly, so long obeyed. Never, since the world
began, were countless multitudes so influenced and so successfully
diverted by one mind to one peaceful purpose. Never were nobler ends by
nobler means attained."]

_June 11_.

I am quite well, and half-eaten by midges, which proves that I have been
out, standing over Mackin, cutting away dead branches of laurestinus. He
could not stand it--took off hat, and rubbed with both hands all over
head and face. I wish we could put back the profuse blow of the
rhododendrons, peonies, and Himalayan poppies till Honora and Fanny
come. Have you any Himalayan poppies? If not, remember to supply
yourself when you are here--splendid!

       *       *       *       *       *

Of the publication of _Orlandino_, written for the benefit of the Irish
Poor Relief Fund, Miss Edgeworth wrote to Mrs. S.C. Hall:

       *       *       *       *       *

Chambers, as you always told me, acts very liberally. As this was to
earn a little money for our parish poor, in the last year's distress, he
most considerately gave prompt payment. Even before publication, when
the proof-sheets were under correction, came the ready order in the Bank
of Ireland. Blessings on him! and I hope he will not be the worse for
me. I am surely the better for him, and so are numbers now working and
eating; for Mrs. Edgeworth's principle and mine is to excite the people
to work for good wages, and not, by gratis feeding, to make beggars of
them, and ungrateful beggars, as the case might be.

       *       *       *       *       *

A most touching reward for her exertions in behalf of the Irish poor,
reached Miss Edgeworth from America. The children of Boston, who had
known and loved her through her books, raised a subscription for her,
and sent her a hundred and fifty pounds of flour and rice. They were
simply inscribed--"To Miss Edgeworth, for her poor." Nothing, in her
long life, ever pleased or gratified her more.

       *       *       *       *       *

MARIA EDGEWORTH _to_ MISS MARGARET RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Oct. 27, 1847_.

I have heard it said that no one should begin a letter with _I_, but
methinks this must be the dictum of some hypocritical body, or of
somebody who thinks more of themselves than they dare let appear. I am
so full of my own little self, that I am confident you, my dear
Margaret, will not think the worse of me for beginning with "I am very
well;" and I am a miracle of prudence and a model of virtue to sick and
well--with good looking-after understood. So I stayed in bed yesterday
morning, and roses and myrtles and white satin ribbon covered my bed, to
tie up a bouquet for a bride, very well wrapped up in my labada. You
don't know what a labada is: Harriet will tell you. This nosegay was to
be presented to the bride by little Mary, as Rosa was asked to the
wedding, and was to take Mary with her. But who is the bride? you will
ask, and ask you may; but you will not be a bit the wiser when I tell
you--Miss Thompson. Now your heads go to Clonfin, or to Thompsons near
Dublin, or in the County of Meath. This is one you never heard of--at
Mr. Armstrong's, of Moydow; and she was married yesterday to the eldest
son of Baron Greene.

At the breakfast, when Mr. Armstrong was to reply to the speech of the
bridegroom, who had expressed his gratitude to him as the uncle who had
brought her up, the old man attempted to speak; but when he rose he
could only pronounce the words, "My child."

Mary, after the breakfast, walked gracefully up to the bride and said,
"My Aunt Maria begged me to present this to you. The rose is called
Maria Leonida, her own name is Maria; and she hopes you will be very
happy." I was delighted.


_To_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Oct. 30, 1847_.

I hope the hyacinths "Maria Edgeworth" and "Apollo," and all the blues,
will not be destroyed in their journey to you. I spent an hour yesterday
doing up dahlias for Rosa, who wrote to me from Dublin that she was
heart-sick for flowers.

I advise and earnestly recommend you to read _Grantley Manor_. It does
not, Mr. Butler, end ill, and from beginning to end it is good, and not
stupidly good. It is not controversial either in dialogue or story, and
in word and deed it does justice to both Churches, in the distribution
of the qualities of the _dramatis personae_ and the action of the story.
It is beautifully written; pathetic, without the least exaggeration of
feeling or affectation. The characters are well contrasted; some nobly
high-minded, generous, and firm to principle, religious and moral
without any cant; and there are no monsters of wickedness. I never read
a more interesting story, new, and well developed.


_Nov. 13_.

Yesterday morning I received the enclosed note from that most conceited
and not over well-bred Mons. de Lamartine. I desired my friend Madame
Belloc to use her own discretion in repeating my criticisms on his
_Histoire des Girondins_, but requested that she would convey to him the
thanks and admiration of our family for the manner in which he has
mentioned the Abbe Edgeworth, and our admiration of the beauty of the
writing of that whole passage in the work. At the same time I regretted
that he had omitted "Fils de St. Louis," and also that he has not
mentioned the circumstance of the crowd opening and letting the Abbe
pass in safety immediately from the scaffold after the execution. This
it seems to me necessary to note, as part of the picture of the times: a
few days afterwards a price was set upon his head, and hundreds were
ready for the reward to pursue and give him up. I copied this from
Sneyd's _Memoir_, and the anecdote of the Abbe, when asked at a dinner
(Ministerial) in London whether he said the words "Fils de St. Louis,"
etc., and his answer that he could not recollect, his mind had been so
taken up with the event. I think Lamartine, in his note to me, turns
this unfairly; and I feel, and I am sure so will you and Mr. Butler,
"What an egotist and what a puppy it is!" But ovation has turned his
head.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the 4th of February 1848, after a very short illness, Mrs. Lestock
Wilson--Fanny Edgeworth--died. Maria survived her little more than a
year. She bore the shock without apparent injury to her health, and she
continued to employ herself with her usual benevolent interest and
sympathy in all the business and pleasures of her family and friends;
but strongly as she was attached to all her brothers and sisters, Fanny
had been the dearest object of her love and admiration. To her friend
Mrs. S.C. Hall, who wrote to her as usual on 1st January (1849), which
was her birthday, she answered, "You must not delay long in finding your
way to Edgeworthstown if you mean to see me again. Remember, you have
just congratulated me on my eighty-second birthday." In the spring she
spent some weeks at Trim, where her sister Lucy and Dr. Robinson were
with her. She seemed unusually agitated and depressed in taking leave of
her sister Harriet and Mr. Butler, but said as she went away, "At
Whitsuntide I shall return."

Only a few weeks before her death Miss Edgeworth wrote:

       *       *       *       *       *

Our pleasures in literature do not, I think, decline with age; last 1st
of January was my eighty-second birthday, and I think that I had as much
enjoyment from books as I ever had in my life.

       *       *       *       *       *

In her last letter to her sister, Honora Beaufort, she enclosed the
lines:

       *       *       *       *       *

  Ireland, with all thy faults, thy follies too,
  I love thee still: still with a candid eye must view
  Thy wit, too quick, still blundering into sense
  Thy reckless humour: sad improvidence,
  And even what sober judges follies call,
  I, looking at the Heart, forget them all!

MARIA E. _May 1849_.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the morning of the 22nd of May Miss Edgeworth drove out, apparently
in her usual health. On her return she was suddenly seized with pain of
the heart, and in a few hours breathed her last in the arms of her
devoted stepmother and friend.[Footnote: Mrs. Edgeworth herself lived
till 1865, greatly honoured and beloved.]

Mrs. Edgeworth writes:

       *       *       *       *       *

Maria had always wished that her friends should be spared the anguish of
seeing her suffer in protracted illness; she had always wished to die at
home, and that I should be with her--both her wishes were fulfilled.

Extremely small of stature, her figure continued slight, and all her
movements singularly alert to the last. No one ever conversed with her
for five minutes without forgetting the plainness of her features in the
vivacity, benevolence, and genius expressed in her countenance.[Footnote:
In her old age Miss Edgeworth used to say, "Nobody is anything worse than
'plain' now; no one is ugly now but myself,"--but no one thought her so.]

Particularly neat in her dress and in all her ways, she had everything
belonging to her arranged in the most perfect order--habits of order
early impressed upon her mind by Mrs. Honora Edgeworth, which, with her
methodical way of doing business, enabled her to get through a
surprising amount of multifarious work in the course of every day.

She wrote almost always in the library, undisturbed by the noise of the
large family about her, and for many years on a little desk her father
had made for her, and on which two years before his death he inscribed
the following words:

"On this humble desk were written all the numerous works of my daughter,
Maria Edgeworth, in the common sitting-room of my family. In these
works, which were chiefly written to please me, she has never attacked
the personal character of any human being or interfered with the
opinions of any sect or party, religious or political; while
endeavouring to inform and instruct others, she improved and amused her
own mind and gratified her heart, which I do believe is better than her
head.

"R.L.E."

She used afterwards a writing-desk which had been her father's, but when
at home it was always placed on a little table of his construction,
which is in my possession, and to which she had attached many ingenious
contrivances--a bracket for her candlestick, a fire-screen, and places
for her papers. This little table being on castors, she could move it
from the sofa by the fire to the window, or into a recess behind the
pillars of the library, where she generally sat in summer time. She
wrote on folio sheets of paper, which she sewed together in chapters.

To facilitate the calculation of the MS. for printing, and to secure
each page containing nearly the same amount of writing, she used to
prick the margin of her paper at equal distances, and her father made a
little machine set with points by which she could pierce several sheets
at once. A full sketch of the story she was about to write was always
required by her father before she began it, and though often much
changed in its progress, the foundation and purpose remained as
originally planned. She rose, as I have said, early, and after taking a
cup of coffee and reading her letters, walked out till breakfast-time, a
meal she always enjoyed especially (though she scarcely ate anything);
she delighted to read out and talk over her letters of the day, and
listened a little to the newspapers, but she was no politician. She came
into the breakfast-room in summer time with her hands full of roses, and
always had some work or knitting to do while others ate. She generally
sat down at her desk soon after breakfast and wrote till
luncheon-time,--her chief meal in the day,--after which she did some
needlework, often unwillingly, when eager about her letters or MSS., but
obediently, as she had found writing directly after eating bad for her.
Sometimes in the afternoon she drove out, always sitting with her back
to the horses, and when quite at ease about them exceedingly enjoyed a
short drive in an open carriage, not caring and often not knowing which
road she went, talking and laughing all the time. She usually wrote all
the rest of her afternoon, and in her latter years lay down and slept
for an hour after dinner, coming down to tea and afterwards reading out
herself, or working and listening to the reading out of some of the
family. Her extreme enjoyment of a book made these evening hours
delightful to her and to all her family. If her attention was turned to
anything else, she always desired the reader to stop till she was able
to attend, and even from the most apparently dull compositions she
extracted knowledge or amusement. She often lingered after the usual
bed-time to talk over what she had heard, full of bright or deep and
solid observations, and gay anecdotes _a propos_ to the work or its
author.

She had amazing power of control over her feelings when occasion
demanded, but in general her tears or her smiles were called forth by
every turn of joy and sorrow among those she lived with. When she met in
a stranger a kindred mind, her conversation upon every subject poured
forth, was brilliant with wit and eloquence and a gaiety of heart which
gave life to all she thought and said. But the charms of society never
altered her taste for domestic life; she was consistent from the
beginning to the end. Though so exceedingly enjoying the intercourse of
all the great minds she had known, she more enjoyed her domestic life
with her nearest relations, when her spirits never flagged, and her wit
and wisdom, which were never for show, were called forth by every little
incident of the day. When my daughters were with Maria at Paris, they
described to me the readiness with which she would return from the
company of the greatest philosophers and wits of the day to superintend
her young sisters' dress, or arrange some party of pleasure for them.
"We often wonder what her admirers would say, after all the profound
remarks and brilliant witticisms they have listened to, if they heard
all her delightful nonsense with us." Much as she was gratified by her
"success" in the society of her celebrated contemporaries, she never
varied in her love for Home.

       *       *       *       *       *

Her whole life, of eighty-three years, had been an aspiration after
good.




SUMMARY OF VOLUME II


1820-1821

Letters from Maria Edgeworth from Coppet, Pregny, Lausanne, Lyons,
Paris, Calais, Clifton, Bowood, Easton Grey, Edgeworthstown to Miss
Waller, Mrs. Edgeworth, Mrs. Ruxton, Miss Honora Edgeworth, Miss Lucy
Edgeworth, Miss Ruxton.

Journey through Switzerland: Madame de Montolieu, Dumont, Duke de
Broglie, M. de Stein, Pictet, Madame Necker, M. de Stael--Return to
England through France: Madame de Rumford, the Delesserts, Madame de la
Rochejacquelin--Attack of the _Quarterly Review_ on the
_Memoirs_--Visits to Bowood and Easton Grey: Lord Lansdowne, Hallam,
David Ricardo--Return to Edgeworthstown--Reading and home life.


1821-1822

Letters from Kenioge, Smethwick Grove, Wycombe Abbey, Gatcombe Park,
Easton Grey, Bowood, Clifton, Winchester, The Deepdene, Frognel,
Hampstead, Beechwood Park, Mardoaks to Mrs. Edgeworth, Miss Honora
Edgeworth, Miss Lucy Edgeworth, Mrs. Ruxton, Miss Ruxton.

Visits in England--Wycombe Abbey: Lord Carrington, Madame de Stael, and
Buonaparte--David Ricardo--Bowood: Lord Lansdowne, Bowles--Miss Joanna
Baillie's: Brodie, Dr. Holland, Lord Grenville--Anecdotes of Lady
Salisbury and Wilberforce--Le Bas, Sir James Macintosh, Dumont.


1822

Letters from London to Mrs. Edgeworth, Mrs. Ruxton.

Life in London--_Frank_--Lady Lansdowne, Lady Elizabeth Whitbread,
Calcott, Mrs. Somerville--Visit to the House of Commons: Peel, Brougham,
Vansittart--Mrs. Fry--Almack's--Dinners and parties: Sir Humphry Davy,
Dr. Holland, Miss Lydia White--Mrs. Siddons and Sheridan--Jeffrey, Hume,
Herschel, Lady Byron, Randolph--Ticknor on Maria Edgeworth's
conversation.


1822-1823

Letters from Edgeworthstown, Black Castle, Kinneil, Edinburgh,
Callander, Inverness, Kinross, Abbotsford to Mrs. Ruxton, Mrs. O'Beirne,
Miss Honora Edgeworth, Miss Lucy Edgeworth, Miss Ruxton, Mrs. Ruxton.

Return to Edgeworthstown--Literary work and reading: _Early Lessons,
Harry and Lucy_--Walter Scott and Joanna Baillie--Death of Lord
Londonderry--Visit to Scotland--Edinburgh: Evening at Sir Walter
Scott's--Sir Walter Scott, Lady Scott, and Lockhart--A fortnight at
Abbotsford.


1823-1830

Letters from Edgeworthstown, Pakenham Hall, Black Castle, Bloomfield to
Mrs. and Miss Ruxton, Mrs. Bannatyne, Mrs. O'Beirne, Miss Honora
Edgeworth, Mrs. Edgeworth, C.S. Edgeworth, Captain Basil Hall, Mr.
Bannatyne.

Return to Ireland--Reading and letters: Mrs. Hemans, Blanco White, Dr.
Holland, Walter Scott--Death of Anna Edgeworth--Death of Mrs.
Barbauld--Visit of Sir Walter Scott to Edgeworthstown--Visit to
Killarney with Scott and Lockhart--_Harry and Lucy_--Management of the
estate--Death of Lady Scott--Visit from Sir Humphry Davy--_Vivian Grey_
and Almack's--Sydney Smith's conversation--Visit from Herschel--Mrs.
Mary Sneyd settles at Edgeworthstown--Illness and recovery--General
interests and life at Edgeworthstown.


1830-1831

Letters from London to Miss Ruxton, Miss Honora Edgeworth, Mrs.
Edgeworth, Mrs. R. Butler.

Death of Mrs. Ruxton--Visit to London: Lord Lansdowne, Joanna Baillie,
Sir Henry Holland, Southey--Talleyrand--Duchess of Wellington, Sir James
Macintosh--Death of Mr. Hope--Macaulay--Visit to the Herschels: Sir
Joshua Reynolds's work--Rogers, Lord Mahon--Death of the Duchess of
Wellington--Scene in the House of Lords--Opera and plays.


1831-1840

Letters from Edgeworthstown, Rostrevor, Pakenham Hall, Dunmoe Cottage,
Lough Glyn, Trim to Captain Basil Hall, Mrs. L. Edgeworth, Miss Ruxton,
Mrs. R. Butler, Mr. Bannatyne, C.S. Edgeworth, Mr. Pakenham Edgeworth,
Mrs. Stark, Miss Margaret Ruxton, Mr. and Mrs. Ticknor.

Return to Ireland--Visits in Ireland--Lockhart's _Life--Helen_--Tour in
Ireland--Young Sir Walter Scott--Principles of novel-writing--General
election and relations with tenants--Views on Politics--Visit of Mr.
Ticknor to Edgeworthstown, and of Rev. William Sprogue--Maria becomes
real owner of Edgeworthstown--Home interests--Marriage of Honora
Edgeworth.


1840-1843

Letters from London, Edgeworthstown, Trim to Mrs. R. Butler, Mrs.
Edgeworth, Mrs. Beaufort, Miss Margaret Ruxton, Miss Bannatyne, Mrs.
Beaufort.

Visit to London: Darwin, Dr. Lushington, Macaulay--Return to
Edgeworthstown: Distress in Ireland--Mrs. Hall's description of the
family life at Edgeworthstown--Dangerous illness of Maria
Edgeworth--Reading and literary interests: Dickens, Francis
Horner--Marriage of Miss Lucy Edgeworth to Dr. Robinson.


1843-1849

Letters from London, Warfield Lodge, Collingwood, Edgeworthstown, Armagh
to Mrs. R. Butler, Mrs. Edgeworth, Miss Margaret Ruxton, Lady Beaufort,
Mrs. S.C. Hall.

Visit to London--Sydney Smith, Sir Henry Holland, Rogers, Mrs.
Drummond--Opening of the new Houses of Parliament--Visits in
England--Dean Milman, Herschel--Return to Edgeworthstown--Reading and
home interests--The Irish Famine--_Orlandino_--Death of Maria Edgeworth.


THE END





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Life and Letters of Maria
Edgeworth, Vol. 2, by Maria Edgeworth

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFE AND LETTERS OF MARIA EDGEWORTH ***

This file should be named 7edg210.txt or 7edg210.zip
Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 7edg211.txt
VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 7edg210a.txt

Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Sandra Brown Distributed Proofreaders

Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we usually do not
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance
of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing.
Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections,
even years after the official publication date.

Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til
midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.
The official release date of all Project Gutenberg eBooks is at
Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month.  A
preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment
and editing by those who wish to do so.

Most people start at our Web sites at:
http://gutenberg.net or
http://promo.net/pg

These Web sites include award-winning information about Project
Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new
eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!).


Those of you who want to download any eBook before announcement
can get to them as follows, and just download by date.  This is
also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the
indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an
announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter.

http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext03 or
ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext03

Or /etext02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90

Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want,
as it appears in our Newsletters.


Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)

We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work.  The
time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours
to get any eBook selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright
searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc.   Our
projected audience is one hundred million readers.  If the value
per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2
million dollars per hour in 2002 as we release over 100 new text
files per month:  1240 more eBooks in 2001 for a total of 4000+
We are already on our way to trying for 2000 more eBooks in 2002
If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total
will reach over half a trillion eBooks given away by year's end.

The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away 1 Trillion eBooks!
This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,
which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users.

Here is the briefest record of our progress (* means estimated):

eBooks Year Month

    1  1971 July
   10  1991 January
  100  1994 January
 1000  1997 August
 1500  1998 October
 2000  1999 December
 2500  2000 December
 3000  2001 November
 4000  2001 October/November
 6000  2002 December*
 9000  2003 November*
10000  2004 January*


The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created
to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium.

We need your donations more than ever!

As of February, 2002, contributions are being solicited from people
and organizations in: Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Connecticut,
Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois,
Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts,
Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New
Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio,
Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South
Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West
Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming.

We have filed in all 50 states now, but these are the only ones
that have responded.

As the requirements for other states are met, additions to this list
will be made and fund raising will begin in the additional states.
Please feel free to ask to check the status of your state.

In answer to various questions we have received on this:

We are constantly working on finishing the paperwork to legally
request donations in all 50 states.  If your state is not listed and
you would like to know if we have added it since the list you have,
just ask.

While we cannot solicit donations from people in states where we are
not yet registered, we know of no prohibition against accepting
donations from donors in these states who approach us with an offer to
donate.

International donations are accepted, but we don't know ANYTHING about
how to make them tax-deductible, or even if they CAN be made
deductible, and don't have the staff to handle it even if there are
ways.

Donations by check or money order may be sent to:

Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
PMB 113
1739 University Ave.
Oxford, MS 38655-4109

Contact us if you want to arrange for a wire transfer or payment
method other than by check or money order.

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been approved by
the US Internal Revenue Service as a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN
[Employee Identification Number] 64-622154.  Donations are
tax-deductible to the maximum extent permitted by law.  As fund-raising
requirements for other states are met, additions to this list will be
made and fund-raising will begin in the additional states.

We need your donations more than ever!

You can get up to date donation information online at:

http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html


***

If you can't reach Project Gutenberg,
you can always email directly to:

Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com>

Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message.

We would prefer to send you information by email.


**The Legal Small Print**


(Three Pages)

***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS**START***
Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers.
They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with
your copy of this eBook, even if you got it for free from
someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement
disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how
you may distribute copies of this eBook if you want to.

*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS EBOOK
By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
eBook, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept
this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive
a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this eBook by
sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person
you got it from. If you received this eBook on a physical
medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.

ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM EBOOKS
This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBooks,
is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart
through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project").
Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright
on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and
distribute it in the United States without permission and
without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth
below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this eBook
under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.

Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market
any commercial products without permission.

To create these eBooks, the Project expends considerable
efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain
works. Despite these efforts, the Project's eBooks and any
medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other
things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged
disk or other eBook medium, a computer virus, or computer
codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES
But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,
[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may
receive this eBook from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook) disclaims
all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including
legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR
UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE
OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE
POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.

If you discover a Defect in this eBook within 90 days of
receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)
you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that
time to the person you received it from. If you received it
on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and
such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement
copy. If you received it electronically, such person may
choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to
receive it electronically.

THIS EBOOK IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS
TO THE EBOOK OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A
PARTICULAR PURPOSE.

Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or
the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the
above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you
may have other legal rights.

INDEMNITY
You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation,
and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated
with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including
legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the
following that you do or cause:  [1] distribution of this eBook,
[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the eBook,
or [3] any Defect.

DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"
You may distribute copies of this eBook electronically, or by
disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this
"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,
or:

[1]  Only give exact copies of it.  Among other things, this
     requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the
     eBook or this "small print!" statement.  You may however,
     if you wish, distribute this eBook in machine readable
     binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,
     including any form resulting from conversion by word
     processing or hypertext software, but only so long as
     *EITHER*:

     [*]  The eBook, when displayed, is clearly readable, and
          does *not* contain characters other than those
          intended by the author of the work, although tilde
          (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may
          be used to convey punctuation intended by the
          author, and additional characters may be used to
          indicate hypertext links; OR

     [*]  The eBook may be readily converted by the reader at
          no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent
          form by the program that displays the eBook (as is
          the case, for instance, with most word processors);
          OR

     [*]  You provide, or agree to also provide on request at
          no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the
          eBook in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC
          or other equivalent proprietary form).

[2]  Honor the eBook refund and replacement provisions of this
     "Small Print!" statement.

[3]  Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the
     gross profits you derive calculated using the method you
     already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  If you
     don't derive profits, no royalty is due.  Royalties are
     payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation"
     the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were
     legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent
     periodic) tax return.  Please contact us beforehand to
     let us know your plans and to work out the details.

WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?
Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of
public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed
in machine readable form.

The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time,
public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses.
Money should be paid to the:
"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or
software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at:
hart@pobox.com

[Portions of this eBook's header and trailer may be reprinted only
when distributed free of all fees.  Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by
Michael S. Hart.  Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be
used in any sales of Project Gutenberg eBooks or other materials be
they hardware or software or any other related product without
express permission.]

*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END*