Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  We instantly met Sneyd and William, and the two Mr. Foxes. Music and the most festive scene in the gardens: the balloon, the beautiful many-coloured balloon, chiefly maroon colour, with painted eagles, and garlands, and arms of Ireland, hung under the trees, and was filling fast from pipes and an apparatus which I leave for William’s scientific description: terrace before Belvidere House — well-dressed groups parading on it: groups all over the gardens, mantles, scarves, and feathers floating: all the commonalty outside in fields at half-price. We soon espied Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, and joined company, and were extremely happy, and wished for you and dear Honora. Sun shining, no wind. Presently we met the Solicitor-General: he started back, and made me such a bow as made me feel my own littleness; then shook my hands most cordially, and in a few moments told me more than most men could tell in an hour: just returned from Edinburgh — Mrs. Bushe and daughters too much fatigued to come and see the balloon.

  The Duke and Duchess of Richmond, and Sir Charles Vernon, and Sir Charles Saxton. The Miss Gunns seated themselves in a happily conspicuous place, with some gentlemen, on the roof of Belvidere House, where, with veils flying and telescopes and opera-glasses continually veering about, they attracted sufficient attention.

  Walking on, Sneyd exclaimed, “My Uncle Ruxton!” I darted to him: “Is my aunt here?”—”Yes, and Sophy, and Margaret, but I have lost them; I’m looking for them.”—”Oh, come with me and we’ll find them.” Soon we made our way behind the heels of the troopers’ horses, who guarded a sacred circle round the balloon: found my aunt, and Sophy, and Mag — surprise and joy on both sides: got seats on the pedestal of some old statue, and talked and enjoyed ourselves: the balloon filling gradually. Now it was that my uncle proposed our returning by Black Castle.

  The drum beats! the flag flies! balloon full! It is moved from under the trees over the heads of the crowd: the car very light and slight — Mr. Sadler’s son, a young lad, in the car. How the horses stood the motion of this vast body close to them I can’t imagine, but they did. The boy got out. Mr. Sadler, quite composed, this being his twenty-sixth aërial ascent, got into his car: a lady, the Duchess of Richmond, I believe, presented to him a pretty flag: the balloon gave two majestic nods from side to side as the cords were cut. Whether the music continued at this moment to play or not, nobody can tell. No one spoke while the balloon successfully rose, rapidly cleared the trees, and floated above our heads: loud shouts and huzzas, one man close to us exclaiming, as he clasped his hands, “Ah, musha, musha, GOD bless you! GOD be wid you!” Mr. Sadler, waving his flag and his hat, and bowing to the world below, soon pierced a white cloud, and disappeared; then emerging, the balloon looked like a moon, black on one side, silver on the other; then like a dark bubble; then less and less, and now only a speck is seen; and now the fleeting rack obscures it. Never did I feel the full merit of Darwin’s description till then.

  Next day, at eight in the morning, my father and William (who proceed to the Bishop of Derry’s) and Fanny went to Collon. Sneyd, Harriet, and I came here.

  To MRS. RUXTON. EDGEWORTHSTOWN, Oct. 26, 1812.

  Elections have been the order of the day with us as well as with you. I am glad to tell you that Lord Longford’s troubles are over; he is now here, and has just been telling us that his victory for Colonel Hercules was as complete as his heart could wish. There would have been a duel but for Admiral Pakenham. One gentleman in his speech said that another had made the drummer of his corps play “Protestant Boys.” The other said, “That’s a lie;” and both were proceeding to high words, when the Admiral stepped between them, and said, very gravely, “Gentlemen, I did not know this meeting was a music meeting, but since you appeal to us electors to decide your cause by your musical merits, let the past be past; and now for the present give us each of you a song, and here’s the sheriff,” — who has no more ear than a post—”shall be judge between you.” Everybody laughed, and the two angry gentlemen had to laugh off their quarrel.

  Another gentleman said to the Admiral, after the election was over, “Do you know, I had a mind to have stood myself; if I had, what would you have said?”—”That it was all a game of brag, and that, as you had the shuffling of the pack, there was no knowing what knave might turn up.”

  Lord Longford told us of Colonel Hercules Pakenham, at the siege of Badajos, walking with an engineer. A bomb whizzed over their heads and fell among the soldiers, as they were carrying off the wounded. When the Colonel expressed some regret, the engineer said, “I wonder you have not steeled your mind to these things. These men are carried to the hospital, and others come in their place. Let us go to the depot.” Here the engineer had his wheelbarrows all laid out in nice order, and his pickaxes arranged in stars and various shapes; but, just as they were leaving the depot, a bomb burst in the midst of them. “Oh, heavenly powers, my picks!” cried the engineer, with clasped hands, in despair.

  To C. SNEYD EDGEWORTH, IN DUBLIN. EDGEWORTHSTOWN, Feb. 10, 1813.

  Rokeby is, in my opinion — and let every soul speak for themselves — most beautiful poetry: the four first cantos and half the fifth are all I have yet read. I think it a higher and better, because less Scotch, more universal style of poetry than any Walter Scott has yet produced, though not altogether perfect of its kind. It has more discrimination of character, more knowledge of human nature, more generalised reflection, much more moral aim.

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  In March, Miss Edgeworth accompanied her father and stepmother to

  England.

  * * * * *

  MARIA to MRS. MARY SNEYD. BANGOR FERRY, March 31, 1813.

  “I will go and write a few lines of a letter to my dear Aunt Mary.”

  “Oh! why should you write now, my dear? You have nothing new to tell her.”

  “Nothing new, but I love her, and wish to write to her; if I did not love her, I should be worse than Caliban.”

  “Well, write only a few lines.”

  “That is just what I mean to do, and go on with my letter at any odd place where we stop the night.”

  You have heard of all we saw at Howth, so I go on from Holyhead. Breakfasted in company with Mr. Grainger: he has lived in very good company abroad, and told us a variety of entertaining anecdotes: Caulaincourt, now Due de Vincennes, was brought up in the family of the Prince de Condé, l’enfant de la Maison, the playfellow of the Due d’Enghien. Buonaparte employed Caulaincourt to seize the Due d’Enghien; the wretch did so, and has been repaid by a dukedom.

  We asked how the present Empress was liked in France. “Not at all by the Parisians; she is too haughty, has the Austrian scornful lip, and sits back in her carriage when she goes through the streets.” The same complaint was made against Marie Antoinette. On what small things the popularity of the high and mighty depends!

  Josephine is living very happily, amusing herself with her gardens and her shrubberies. This ci-devant Empress and Kennedy and Co., the seedsmen, are, as Mr. Grainger says, in partnership; she has a licence to send to him what shrubs and seeds she chooses from France, and he has licence to send cargoes in return to her. Mr. Grainger will carry over my box to Madame Recamier.

  At the inn door at Bangor Ferry we saw a most curiously packed curricle, with all manner of portmanteaus and hat-boxes slung in various ingenious ways, and behind the springs two baskets, the size and shape of Lady Elizabeth Pakenham’s basket. A huge bunch of white feathers was sticking out from one end of one of these baskets; and as we approached to examine it, out came the live head of a white peacock — a Japan peacock and peahen. The gentleman to whom the carriage belonged appeared next, carrying on a perch a fine large macaw. This perch was made to fasten behind the carriage. The servant who was harnessing the horses would not tell to whom the carriage belonged. He replied to all inquiries, “It belongs to that there gentleman.”

  We have enjoyed this fine day: had a delightful walk before dinner in a hanging wood by the water-side — pretty sheep-paths, wood anemonies in abundance, with the
ir white flowers in full blow. Two ploughs going in the field below the wood: very cheerful the sound of the Welshmen’s voices talking to their horses. The ploughing, giving the idea of culture and civilisation, contrasted agreeably with the wildness of the wood and mountains. Good-night.

  Thursday.

  This morning we set out for the slate quarries; we took our time, full time to see everything at leisure. The railways are above six miles long; they are very narrow. I had formed an idea of their being much more magnificent, but in this country canals and railways are made as useful and as little splendid as possible. I was surprised to see these railways winding round the rocks, and going over heaps of rubbish where you would think no wheelbarrow even could go.

  From the slate-cutting we went to the slate quarries. We had been admiring the beauty of the landscape. My father did not say anything to raise my expectations, but when we arrived near the place, he took me by the hand, and led me over a heap of rubbish, on the top of which there was a railway. We walked on until we came between two slate mountains, and found ourselves in the midst of the quarries. It was the most sublime sight of all the works of man I ever beheld. The men looked like pigmies. There is a curious cone of grayish-coloured slate standing alone, which the workmen say is good for nothing; but it is good for its picturesque appearance. A heavy shower of hail came on, which, falling between the rifts of the rocks, and blown by the high wind, added to the sublimity of the scene: we were comfortably sheltered in one of the sheds.

  Finding that Mr. Worthington was at Liverpool, my father determined to go there, and we have come on to Conway. During a storm of wind, thunder, and lightning last night it snowed just enough to cover the tops of the mountains with white, to increase the beauty of the prospect for us: they appeared more majestic from the strong contrast of bright lights and broad shades: the leaves of the honeysuckles all green in the hedges, fine hollies, primroses in abundance: it was literally spring in the lap of winter. Penmanmawr has, my father says, considerably altered its appearance, since he knew it first, from the falling of masses of rock, and the crumbling away of the mighty substance. Cultivation has crept up its sides to a prodigious height. A little cottage nestled just under the mountain’s huge stone cap. The fragments of rock that have rolled down, some of them across the road, are ten times the size of the rock in Mr. Keating’s lawn, [Footnote: A curious isolated stone, about ten feet by four, which stood in the Vicarage lawn at Edgeworthstown, said to have been aimed at the church by a Pagan giant from the Hill of Ardagh. It is now destroyed.] and in contrast with this idea of danger are sheep and lambs feeding quietly; the lambs looking not larger than little Francis’s deceased kittens Muff and Tippet.

  We reached Conway at six o’clock. The landlady of the Harp Inn knew my father, and recollected Lovell and my Aunt Ruxton. The boy to whom Lovell used to be so good, and who stopped my father on Penmanmawr to tell him that Lovell had given him Lazy Lawrence, was drowned with many others crossing the Ferry in a storm. The old harper who used to be the delight of travellers is now in a state of dotage. There was no harper at Bangor: the waiter told us “they were no profit to master, and was always in the way in the passage; so master never lets them come now.”

  In the midst of all the sublime and beautiful I had a happy mixture of the comic, for we had a Welsh postillion who entertained us much by his contracted vocabulary, and still more contracted sphere of ideas. He and my father could never understand one another, because my father said “quarry,” and the Welshman said “querry”; and the burthen of all he said was continually asking if we would not like to be “driven to Caernarvon.”

  Friday morning, seven o’clock, dressed, and ready to go on with my scribbling. I assure you, my dear kind Aunt Mary, it is a great pleasure to me to write this letter at odd minutes while the horses are changing, or after breakfast or dinner for a quarter of an hour at a time, so that it is impossible that it should tire me. I owe all my present conveniencies for writing to various Sneyds: I use Emma Sneyd’s pocket-inkstand; my ivory-cutter penknife was the gift of my Aunt Charlotte, and my little Sappho seal a present of Aunt Mary’s.

  For miles we have had beautiful hollies in the hedges; I wish my Aunt Charlotte would be so kind as to have a few small hollies out of Wilkinson’s garden planted in the new ditch between Wood’s and Duffy’s; also some cuttings of honeysuckles and pyracanthus — enough can be had from my garden. I must finish abruptly.

  To MRS. RUXTON. LIVERPOOL, April 6, 1813.

  Many times — a hundred times within this week — have I wished, my dearest aunt, to talk over with you the things and people I have seen. I am very well, very happy, and much entertained and interested.

  Liverpool is very fine and very grand, and my father soon found out Mr. Roscoe; he was so good as to come to see us, and invited us to his house, Allerton Hall, about seven miles from Liverpool. He is a benevolent, cheerful, gentlemanlike old man; tall, neither thin nor fat, thick gray hair. He is very like the prints you have seen of him; his bow courteous, not courtly; his manner frank and prepossessing, without pretension of any kind. He enters into conversation readily, and immediately tells something entertaining or interesting, seeming to follow the natural course of his own thoughts, or of yours, without effort. Mrs. Roscoe seems to adore her husband, and to be so fond of her children, and has such a good understanding and such a warm heart, it is impossible not to like her. Mr. Roscoe gave himself up to us the whole day. Allerton Hall is a spacious house, in a beautiful situation: fine library, every room filled with pictures, many of them presents from persons in Italy who admired his Leo the Tenth. One of Tasso has a sort of mad vigilance in the eyes, as if he that instant saw the genius that haunted him. Mr. Roscoe has arranged his collection admirably, so as to show, in chronological order, in edifying gradation, the progress of painting. The picture which he prized the most was by one of Raphael’s masters, not in the least valuable in itself, but for a frieze below it by Michael Angelo, representing the destruction of the Oracles; it is of a gray colour. Mr. Roscoe thinks it one of Michael Angelo’s earliest performances, and says it is conceded to be the only original Michael Angelo in England. Of this I know nothing, but I know that it struck me as full of genius, and I longed for you and Margaret when we looked at a portfolio full of Michael Angelo’s sketches, drawings, and studies. It is admirable to see the pains that a really great man takes to improve a first idea. Turning from these drawings to a room full of Fuseli’s horribly distorted figures, I could not help feeling astonishment, not only at the bad taste, but at the infinite conceit and presumption of Fuseli. How could this man make himself a name! I believe he gave these pictures to Mr. Roscoe, else I suppose they would not be here sprawling their fantastic lengths, like misshapen dreams. Instead of le beau, they exhibit le laid ideal.

  At dinner Darwin’s poetry was mentioned, and Mr. Roscoe neither ran him down nor cried him up. He said exactly the truth, that he was misled by a false theory of poetry — that everything should be picture — and that therefore he has not taken the means to touch the feelings; and Mr. Roscoe made what seemed to me a new and just observation, that writers of secondary powers, when they are to represent either objects of nature or feelings of the human mind, always begin by a simile: they tell you what it is like, not what it is.

  April 9.

  I finish this at Mr. Holland’s, at Knutsford. We spent a delightful day at Manchester, where we owed our chief pleasure to Dr. Ferrier and his daughter.

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  To MISS HONORA EDGEWORTH. DERBY, April 25, 1813.

  We have been now five days at Mr. Strutt’s. We have been treated with so much hospitality and kindness by him, and he showed such a high esteem, and I may say affection for my father, that even if he had not the superior understanding he possesses, it would be impossible for me not to like him. From the moment we entered his house he gave up his whole time to us, his servants, his carriage; everything and everybody in his family were devoted to us, and all w
as done with such simplicity of generosity, that we felt at ease even while we were loaded with favours. This house is indeed, as Sneyd and William described it, a palace; and it is plain that the convenience of the inhabitants has everywhere been consulted: the ostentation of wealth nowhere appears.

  Seven hours of one day Mr. Strutt and his nephew Jedediah gave up to showing us the cotton mills, and another whole morning he gave up to showing to us the infirmary; he built it — a noble building; hot air from below conveyed by a cockle all over the house. The whole institution a most noble and touching sight; such a GREAT thing, planned and carried into successful execution in so few years by one man!

  We dined at Mr. Joseph Strutt’s, and were in the evening at Mr. George Strutt’s; and I will name some of the people we met, for Sneyd and William will like to know whom we saw: — Dr. Forrester, Mr. French, Miss French, who has good taste, as she proved by her various compliments to Sneyd; Miss Broadhurst, not my heiress, though she says that, after the publication of the Absentee, people used to turn their heads when she was announced, and ask if that was Miss Edgeworth’s Miss Broadhurst! She met Sneyd in Dublin; has been lately at Kilkenny, and admired Mr. Rothe’s acting of Othello. We saw a good deal of Mr. Sylvester, [Footnote: The inventor of the Cockle or Sylvester stove.] who is, I think, a man of surprising abilities, of a calm and fearless mind: an original and interesting character. Edward Strutt is indeed all that Sneyd and William described — a boy of great abilities, affectionate, and with a frank countenance and manner which win at once. One of our greatest pleasures has been the hearing everybody, from Edward upwards, speak of Sneyd and William with such affection, and with such knowledge of their characters. We all like Miss Lawrence.