Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  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 raisonnée 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 Sevigné’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 Sevigné’s reply to Madame de Grignan, having called Les Rochers “humide”—”Humide! humide vous-même!” 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.