A happy new year to you, my dearest aunt, — to you to whom I now look as much as I can to any one now living, for the rays of pleasure that I expect to gild my bright evening of life. As we advance in life we become more curious, more fastidious in gilding and gilders; we find to our cost that all that glitters is not gold, and your everyday bungling carvers and gilders will not do. Our evening-gilders must be more skilful than those who flashed and daubed away in the morning of life, and gilt with any tinsel, the weather-cock for the morning sun.
You may perceive, my dear aunt, by my having got so finely to the weather-cock, and the rising sun, that I am out of the hands of all my dear apothecaries, and playing away again with a superfluity of life. (N.B. I am surprisingly prudent.) Honora’s cough has almost subsided, and Lucy can sit upright the greater part of the day. “GOD bless the mark!” as Molly Bristow would say, if she heard me, “don’t be bragging.”
Jan. 6.
I have to give you the most cheering accounts of Honora and Lucy. Honora is now on the sofa opposite to me, working with her candle beside her on a bracket — my new year’s gift to the sofas, a mahogany bracket on each side of the chimney-piece to fold up or down, and large enough to hold a candlestick and a teacup or work-box. Mary Beddoes and I are on the sofa next the door; Honora and Anna on the other, and somebody sitting in the middle talking by turns to each sofa. Who can that be? Not Harriet, for tea is over and she has seceded to Lucy’s room — not my mother, nor William, nor Mrs. Beaufort, nor Louisa, for the carriage has carried them away some hours ago, poor souls, and full-dressed bodies, to dine at Ardagh. But who can this Unknown be? A gentleman it must be to constitute the happiness of two sofas of ladies.
My nephew, Henry Beddoes! and the joy of ladies he certainly will be, not merely of aunts and sisters, but of all who can engage or be engaged by prepossessing manners and appearance, and the promise of all that is amiable and intelligent. I am delighted with him, and he would charm you.
Lady Bathurst has done me another good turn for Fanny Stewart, that is, for her husband; there was a charming letter from Fanny Stewart a few days ago. I send for your amusement the famous little Valoe in its elegantissimo binding, and Lady Bathurst’s letter about it, elegantissima also. You remember, I hope, the story of its publication, written by a governess of the Duchess of Beaufort’s, assisted by all the conclave of quality young-lady-governesses, with little traits of character of their pupils. The authoress sent it to the Duchess of Beaufort, asking permission to publish and dedicate it to her Grace. The Duchess never read it, and returned it to the Governess with a compliment, and, “publish it by all means, and dedicate it to me.” Out came the publication; and though each young lady was flattered, yet all quarrelled with the mode of compliment, and in many there was a little touch of blame, which moved their or their mothers’ anger, and with one accord they attacked the Duchess of Beaufort for her permission to publish, and the edition was all bought up in a vast hurry.
In a few days I trust — you know I am a great truster — that you will receive a packet franked by Lord Bathurst, containing only a little pocket-book — Friendships Offering, for 1825, dizened out; I fear you will think it too fine for your taste, but there is in it, as you will find, the old “Mental Thermometer,” which was once a favourite of yours. You will wonder how it came there — simply thus. Last autumn came by the coach a parcel containing just such a book as this for last year, and a letter from Mr. Lupton Relfe — a foreigner settled in London — and he prayed in most polite bookseller strain that I would look over my portfolio for some trifle for this book for 1825. I might have looked over “my portfolio” till doomsday, as I have not an unpublished scrap, except “Take for Granted.” [Footnote: “Take for Granted” was an idea which Maria never worked out into a story, though she had made many notes for it.] But I recollected the “Mental Thermometer,” and that it had never been out, except in the Irish Farmer’s Journal — not known in England. So I routed in the garret under pyramids of old newspapers, with my mother’s prognostics, that I never should find it, and loud prophecies that I should catch my death, which I did not, but dirty and dusty, and cobwebby, I came forth after two hours’ grovelling with my object in my hand! Cut it out, added a few lines of new end to it, and packed it off to Lupton Relfe, telling him that it was an old thing written when I was sixteen. Weeks elapsed, and I heard no more, when there came a letter exuberant in gratitude, and sending a parcel containing six copies of the new Memorandum book, and a most beautiful twelfth edition of Scott’s Poetical Works, bound in the most elegant manner, and with most beautifully engraved frontispieces and vignettes, and a £5 note. I was quite ashamed — but I have done all I could for him by giving the Friendship’s Offerings to all the fine people I could think of. The set of Scott’s Works made a nice New Year’s gift for Harriet; she had seen this edition at Edinburgh and particularly wished for it. The £5 I have sent to Harriet Beaufort to be laid out in books for Fanny Stewart. Little did I think the poor old “Thermometer” would give me so much pleasure.
Here comes the carriage rolling round. I feel guilty; what will my mother say to me, so long a letter at this time of night? — Yours affectionately in all the haste of guilt, conscience-stricken: that is, found out.
No — all safe, all innocent — because not found out.
Finis.
By the author of Moral Tales and Practical Education.
Feb. 16.
I hope my dearest aunt will not disdain the work of my little bungling hands. The vandykes of this apron are such as Vandyke would scorn; poor little pitiful things they be! and will be in rags in a fortnight no doubt. But if you knew the pains I have taken with them, and what pleasure I have had in doing them, even all wrong, you would hang them round you with satisfaction. By the time it is completely roved away I shall be with you and bind it over to its good behaviour, so that it shall never rove again me. Love me and laugh at me as you have done many is the year.
The crocuses and snowdrops in my garden are beautiful; my green-board-edged beds and green trellis make it absolutely a wooden paradise.
I forgot to boast that I was up for three mornings at seven vandyking.
Henry Beddoes told us that Lord Byron was extremely beloved and highly thought of by all whom he heard speak of him at Missolonghi, both Greeks and his own country-men. He had regained public esteem by his latter conduct. The place in which he died was not the worst inn’s worst room, but an absolute hovel, without any bed of any kind; he was lying on a sack.
March 15.
You have probably seen in the papers the death of our admirable friend Mrs. Barbauld. I have copied for you her last letter to me and some beautiful lines written in her eightieth year. There is a melancholy elegance and force of thought in both. Elegance and strength — qualities rarely uniting without injury to each other, combine most perfectly in her style, and this rare combination, added to their classical purity, form, perhaps, the distinguishing characteristics of her writings. England has lost a great writer, and we a most sincere friend.
To MISS HONORA EDGEWORTH. BLACK CASTLE, May 10, 1825.
Your list of presentation copies of Harry and Lucy, and your reasons for giving each, diverted me very much. Sophy and Margaret and I laughed over it and agreed that every reason was like Mr. Plunket’s speech, “unanswerable.”
To MRS. RUXTON. EDGEWORTHSTOWN, July 9, 1825.
With my whole soul I thank you for your most touching letter [Footnote: On the death of Mr. Ruxton.] to my mother, so full of true resignation to GOD’S will, and of those feelings which He has implanted in the human heart for our greatest happiness and our greatest trials. “Fifty-five years!” How much is contained in those words of yours! I loved him dearly, and well I might, most kind he ever was to me, and I felt all his excellent qualities, his manners, his delightful temper. How little did I think when last I saw his kind looks bent upon me that it was for the last time!
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, August 1825.
Sir Walter Scott, punctual to his promise, arrived on Friday in good time for dinner; he brought with him Miss Scott and Mr. Crampton. I am glad that kind Crampton had the reward of this journey; though frequently hid from each other by clouds of dust in their open carriage, they had as they told us never ceased talking. They like each other as much as two men of so much genius and so much benevolence should, and we rejoice to be the bond of union.
Scarcely had Crampton shaken the dust from his shoes when he said,
“Before I eat, and what is more, before I wash my hands, I must see
Lucy.” He says that he has now no doubt that, please GOD, and in all the
humility of hope and gratitude I repeat it, she will perfectly recover.
Captain and Mrs. Scott and Mr. Lockhart were detained in Dublin, and did not come till eleven o’clock, and my mother had supper, and fruit, and everything refreshing for them. Mrs. Scott is perfectly unaffected and rather pretty, with a sweet confiding expression of countenance and fine mild most loving eyes.
Sir Walter delights the hearts of every creature who sees, hears, and knows him. He is most benignant as well as most entertaining; the noblest and the gentlest of lions, and his face, especially the lower part of it, is excessively like a lion; he and Mr. Crampton and Mr. Jephson were delightful together. The school band, after dinner by moonlight, playing Scotch tunes, and the boys at leap-frog delighted Sir Walter. Next day we went to the school for a very short time and saw a little of everything, and a most favourable impression was left. It being Saturday, religious instruction was going on when we went in. Catholics, with their priest, in one room; Protestants, with Mr. Keating, in the other.
More delightful conversation I have seldom in my life heard than we have been blessed with these three days. What a touch of sorrow must mix with the pleasures of all who have had great losses! Lovell, my mother, and I, at twelve o’clock at night, joined in exclaiming, “How delightful! O! that he had lived to see and hear this!”
* * * * *
Maria Edgeworth and her sister Harriet accompanied Sir Walter and Miss Scott, Mr. Lockhart and Captain and Mrs. Scott to Killarney. They travelled in an open caleche of Sir Walter’s, and Captain Scott’s chariot, changing the combination from one carriage to another as the weather or accident suggested. When some difficulty occurred about horses Sir Walter said, “Swift, in one of his letters, when no horses were to be had, says, ‘If we had but had a captain of horse to swear for us we should have had the horses at once;’ now here we have the captain of horse, but the landlord is not moved even by him.”
The little tour was most enjoyable, and greatly was it enjoyed. Neither Sir Walter nor Miss Edgeworth were ever annoyed with the little discomforts of travel, and they found amusement in everything, shaming all with whom they came in contact. Their boatman on the lake of Killarney told Lord Macaulay twenty years afterwards that the pleasure of rowing them had made him amends for missing a hanging that day!
Mrs. Edgeworth relates:
* * * * *
The evening of the day they left Killarney, Sir Walter was unwell, and Maria was much struck by the tender affectionate attention of his son and Mr. Lockhart and their great anxiety. He was quite as usual, however, the next day, and on their arrival in Dublin, the whole party dined at Captain Scott’s house in Stephen’s Green; he and Mrs. Scott most hospitably inviting, besides Maria and Harriet, my two daughters, Fanny and Mrs. Barry Fox, who had just returned from Italy, and my two sons, Francis and Pakenham, who were coming home for the holidays. It happened to be Sir Walter’s birthday, the 15th of August, and his health was drunk with more feeling than gaiety. He and Maria that evening bade farewell to each other, never to meet again in this world.
* * * * *
Twenty-five years later we find Miss Edgeworth writing to Mr. Ticknor, how, in imagination, she could still meet Sir Walter, “with all his benign, calm expression of countenance, his eye of genius, and his mouth of humour — such as genius loved to see him. His very self I see, feeling, thinking, and about to speak.”
* * * * *
MARIA to MRS. EDGEWORTH. BLACK CASTLE, August 30, 1825.
I calculate that there can be no use in my writing to Dr. Holland, Killarney, at this time of day, because he must have departed that life. However, I write to Mr. Hallam [Footnote: Mr. Hallam was detained at Killarney by breaking his leg, and Dr. Holland had been staying with him.] this day with a message to Dr. Holland, if there. If you learn that Dr. Holland can come to Edgeworthstown, you will of course tell me, if it be within the possibility of time and space; I would go home even for the chance of spending an hour with him; therefore be prepared for the shock of seeing me. I do hope he will in his great kindness — which is always beyond what any one ought to hope — I do hope he will contrive to go to Edgeworthstown. How delightful to have Lucy sitting up like a lady beside you!
The Lords Bective and Darnley, and Sir Marcus Somerville, and LORD knows who, are all at this moment broiling in Navan at a Catholic meeting, saying and hearing the same things that have been said and heard 100,000,000 times; one certain good will result from it that I shall have a frank for you and save you sevenpence. I will send a number of the New Monthly Magazine as old as the hills to Fanny, with a review of Tremaine, which will interest her, as she will find me there, like Mahomet’s coffin, between heaven and earth. My Aunt Sophy and Mag are all reading Harry and Lucy, and all reading it bit by bit, the only way in which it can be fairly judged. My aunt’s being really interested and entertained by it, as I see she is, quite surpasses my hopes. Feelings of gratitude to Honora should have made me write this specially to her, only that I was afraid she might think that I thought that she thought of nothing but Harry and Lucy, which, upon the word of a reasonable creature, I do not. My aunt is entertained with Clarke’s Life, though he says that all literary ladies are horse godmothers. In the Evening Mail of Monday last there are extracts from some speculations of Dr. Barry, an English physician at Paris, on the effect of atmospheric pressure in causing the motion of the blood in the veins. If you see Dr. Holland, ask him about this and its application in preventing the effect of poison.
In Bakewell’s Travels in Switzerland there is an account apropos to ennui being the cause of suicide, of the death of Berthollet’s son, who shut himself up in a room with a brasier of charcoal; a paper was found on the table with an account of his feelings during the operation of the fumes of the charcoal upon him to the last moment that he could make his writing intelligible.
To MRS. STARK. EDGEWORTHSTOWN, Nov. 27, 1825.
Our two boys were at home in August, and the happiest of the happy with two ponies and four sisters. Francis’s poem of “Saul” won a medal, and Pakenham’s “Jacob,” a miniature Horace.
You may have seen in the papers the account of the burning of Castle Forbes, in the county of Longford. Lord Forbes was wakened by his dog, or he would have been suffocated and burned in his bed. He showed great presence of mind: carried out, first, a quantity of gunpowder which was in a closet into which the flames were entering; and next, the family papers and pictures. A valuable collection of prints and books were lost: key not to be found in the scuffle, and servants and other ignoramuses, conceiving the biggest volumes must be the most valuable, wasted their energies upon folios of Irish House of Commons Journals and Statutes. The castle was in three hours’ time reduced to the bare walls. I am forgetting a fact for which I began this story. A gentleman was, by the force of motive, endued with such extraordinary strength in the midst of that night’s danger, that he wrenched from its iron spike and pedestal a fine marble bust of Cromwell, carried it downstairs, and threw it on the grass. Next morning he could not lift it! and no one man who tried could stir it.
To MRS. RUXTON. EDGEWORTHSTOWN, Dec. 19, 1825.
I wish you to have a letter from Dr. Holland before it gets stale: therefore you must forgive me for writing on this thin paper, for no other would waft it to you free.
Your o
bservations 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.
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 671
