Chapter XI: Part 11

Yesterday we dined--for the last time, alas! this season--with excellent Benjamin Delessert. The red book which you will receive with this letter was among the many other pretty books lying on the table before dinner, and I was so much delighted with it, and wished so much that Pakenham was looking at it with me, that dear François Delessert procured a copy of _Les Animaux savants_ for me the next morning. We never saw Les Cerfs at Tivoli, but we saw a woman walk down a rope in the midst of the fireworks, and I could not help shutting my eyes. As I was looking at the picture of the stag rope-dancer in this book, and talking of the wonderful intelligence and feeling of animals, an old lady who was beside me told me that some Spanish horses she had seen were uncommonly proud-spirited, always resenting an insult more than an injury. One of these, who had been used to be much caressed by his master, saw him in a field one day talking to a friend, and came up, according to his custom, to be caressed. The horse put his head in between the master and his friend, to whom he was talking; the master, eager in conversation, gave him a box on the ear; the horse withdrew his head instantly, took it for an affront, and never more would he permit his master to caress or mount him again.

The little _dessert_ directed for Pakenham [Footnote: Her youngest brother.] was picked out for him from a dish of bonbons at the last dessert at Benjamin's. It is impossible to tell you all the little exquisite instances of kindness and attention we have received from this excellent family. The respect, affection, and admiration with which, _à propos_ to everything great and small, they remember my father and mother, is most touching and gratifying.

Yesterday morning we had been talking of Mrs. Hofland's _Son of a Genius_, which is very well translated under the name of _Ludovico._ I told Madame Gautier the history of Mrs. Hofland, and then went to look for the lines which she wrote on my father's birthday. Madame Gautier followed me into this cabinet to read them. I then showed to her Sophy's lines, which I love so much.

Sophy! I see your colour rising; but trust to me! I will never do you any harm.

Madame Gautier was exceedingly touched with them. She pointed to the line,

Those days are past which never can return,

and said in English, "This is the day on which we all used to celebrate my dear mother's birthday, but I never _keep_ days now, except that, according to our Swiss custom, we carry flowers early in the morning to the grave. She and my father are buried in this garden, in a place you have not seen; I have been there at six o'clock this morning. You will not wonder, then, my dear friend, at my being touched by your sister Sophy's verses. I wish to know her; I am sure I shall love her. Is she most like Fanny or Harriet?" This led to a conversation on the difference between our different sisters and brothers; and Madame Gautier, in a most eloquent manner, described the character of each of her brothers, ending with speaking of Benjamin. "Men have often two kinds of consideration in society; one derived from their public conduct, the other enjoyed in their private capacity. My brother Benjamin has equal influence in both. We all look up to him; we all apply to him as to our guardian friend. Besides the advantage of having such a friend, it gives us a pleasure which no money can purchase--the pleasure of feeling the mind elevated by looking up to a character we perfectly esteem, and that repose which results from perfect confidence."

I find always, when I come to the end of my paper, that I have not told you several entertaining things I had treasured up for you. I had a history of a man and woman from Cochin China, which must now be squeezed almost to death. Just before the French Revolution a French military man went out to India, was wrecked, and with two or three companions made his way, LORD knows how, to Cochin China. It happened that the King of Cochin China was at war, and was glad of some hints from the French officer, who was encouraged to settle in Cochin China, married a Cochin Chinese lady, rose to power and credit, became a mandarin of the first class, and within the last month has arrived in France with his daughter. When his relations offered to embrace her, she drew back with horror. She is completely Chinese, and her idea of happiness is to sit still and do nothing, not even to blow her nose. I hope she will not half change her views and opinions while she is in France, or she would become wholly unhappy on her return to China. Her father is on his word of honour to return in two years.

I send by Lord Carrington a cutting of cactus, for my mother, from this garden: it is carefully packed, and will, I think, grow in the greenhouse.

_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

AT MR. MOILLIET'S, PREGNY, GENEVA,

_August 5, 1820._

Whenever I feel any strong emotion, especially of pleasure, you, friend of my youth and age,--you, dear resemblance of my father,--are always present to my mind; and I always wish and want immediately to communicate to you my feelings.

I did not conceive it possible that I should feel so much pleasure from the beauties of nature as I have done since I came to this country. The first moment when I saw Mont Blanc will remain an era in my life--a new idea, a new feeling, standing alone in the mind.

We are most comfortably settled here: Dumont, Pictet, Dr. and Mrs. Marcet, and various others, dined and spent two most agreeable evenings here; and the fourth day after our arrival we set out on our expedition to Chamouni with M. Pictet, as kind, as active, and as warm-hearted as ever. Mrs. Moilliet was prevented, by the indisposition of Susan, from accompanying us; but Mr. Moilliet and Emily came with us at five o'clock in the morning in Mr. Moilliet's landau: raining desperately--great doubts--but on we went: rain ceased--the sun came out, the landau was opened, and all was delightful.

My first impression of the country was that it was like Wales; but snow-capped Mont Blanc, visible everywhere from different points of view, distinguished the landscape from all I had ever seen before. Then the sides of the mountains, quite different from Wales indeed-- cultivated with garden care, green vineyards, patches of _blé de Turquie_, hemp, and potatoes, all without enclosure of any kind, mixed with trees and shrubs: then the garden-cultivation abruptly ceasing--bare white rocks and fir above, fir measuring straight to the eye the prodigious height. Between the foot of the mountain and the road spread a border-plain of verdure, about the breadth of the lawn at Black Castle between the trellis and Suzy Clarke's, rich with chestnut and walnut trees, and scarlet barberries enlivening the green.

The inns on the Chamouni roads are much better than those on the road from Paris; we grew quite fond of the honest family of the hotel at Chamouni. Pictet knows all the people, and wherever we stopped they all flocked round him with such cordial gratitude in their faces, from the little children to the gray-headed men and women; all seemed to love "Monsieur le Professeur." The guides, especially Pierre Balmat and his son, are some of the best-informed and most agreeable men I ever conversed with. Indeed for six months of the year they keep company with the most distinguished travellers of Europe. With these guides, each of us armed with a long pole with an iron spike, such as my uncle described to me ages ago, and which I never expected to wield, we came down La Flegère, which we mounted on mules. In talking to an old woman who brought us strawberries, I was surprised to hear her pronounce the Italian proverb, "_Poco a poco fa lontano nel giorno._" I thought she must have been beyond the Alps--no, she had never been out of her own mountains. The patois of these people is very agreeable--a mixture of the Italian fond diminutives and accents on the last syllable-- Septembré, Octobré.

Our evening walk was to the arch of ice at the source of the Arveron, and we went in the dusk to see a manufactory of cloth, made by a single individual peasant--the machinery for spinning, carding, weaving, and all made, woodwork and ironwork, by his own hands. He had in his youth worked in some manufactory in Dauphiné. The workmanship was astonishing, and the modesty and philosophy of the man still more astonishing. When I said, "I hope all this succeeds in making money for you and your family," he answered, "Money was not my object: I make just enough for myself and my family to live by, and that is all I want; I made it for employment for ourselves in the long winter evenings. And if it lasts after me, it may be of service to some of them; but I do not much look to that. It often happens that sons are of a different way of thinking from their fathers: mine may think little of these things, and if so, no harm."

The _table-d'hôte_ at Chamouni--thirty people--was very entertaining. We had a most agreeable addition to our party in M. and Madame Arago: he was very civil to us at Paris, and very glad to meet us again. As we were walking to a cascade, he told me most romantic adventures of his in Spain and Algiers, which I will tell you hereafter; but I must tell you now a curious anecdote of Buonaparte. When he had abdicated after the battle of Waterloo, he sent for Arago, and offered him a considerable sum of money if he would accompany him to America. He had formed the project of establishing himself in America, and of carrying there in his train several men of science! Madame Bertrand was the person who persuaded him to go to England. Arago was so disgusted at his deserting his troops, he would have nothing more to do with him.

We returned by the beautiful valley of Sallenches and St. Gervais to Geneva. I forgot to mention about a dozen cascades, one more beautiful than the other, and I thought of Ondine, which you hate, and _mon Oncle Friedelhausen._ We had left our carriage at St. Martin, and travelled in _char-à-bancs_, with which you and Sophy made me long ago acquainted--cousin-german to an Irish jaunting-car. We were well drenched by the rain; and as we had imprudently lined our great straw hats with green, we arrived at St. Gervais with chins and shoulders dyed green. The hotel at St. Gervais is the most singular-looking house I ever saw. You drive through a valley, between high pine-covered mountains that seem remote from human habitation--when suddenly in a scoop-out in the valley you see a large, low, strange wooden building round three sides of a square, half Chinese, half American-looking, with galleries, and domes, and sheds--the whole of unpainted wood. Under the projecting roof of the gallery stood a lady in a purple silk dress, plaiting straw, and various other figures in shawls, and caps, and flowered bonnets, some looking very fine, others deadly sick--all curious to see the new-comers. M. Goutar, the master, reminded me of Samuel Essington: [Footnote: An old servant.] full of gratitude to M. Pictet, who had discovered these baths for him, he whisked about with his round perspiring face, eager to say a hundred things at once, with a tongue too large for his mouth and a goitre which impeded his utterance, and showed us his douches and contrivances, and spits turned by water--very ingenious. Dinner was in a long, low, narrow room--about fifty people; and after dinner we were ushered into a room with calico curtains, very smart--a select party let in. Many unexpected compliments on _Patronage_ from a Dijon Marquise, who was at the baths to get rid of a redness in her nose. Enter, a sick but very gentlewomanlike Prussian Countess, _Patronage_ again: Walter Scott's novels, as well known as in England, admirably criticised. She promised me a letter to Madame de Montolieu.

At Chamouni there is a little museum of stones and crystals, etc., where MM. Moilliet and Pictet contrived to treat their geological souls to seven napoleons' worth of specimens. An English lady was buying some baubles, when her husband entered: "God bless my soul and body, _another_ napoleon gone!"

At the inn at Bonneville--_shackamarack_ gilt dirt, Irish-French. Pictet bought a sparrow some boys in the street threw up at the window, and said he would bring it home for his little grandson. It was ornamented with a topping made of scarlet cloth. He put it in his hat, and tied a handkerchief over it; and hatless in the burning sun he brought it to Geneva.

_August 6._

The day after our return we dined at Mrs. Marcet's with M. Dumont, M. and Madame Prevost, M. de la Rive, M. Bonstettin, and M. de Candolle, the botanist, a particularly agreeable man. He told us of many experiments on the cure of goitres. In proportion as the land has been cultivated in some districts the goitres have disappeared. M. Bonstettin told us of some cretins, the lowest in the scale of human intellect, who used to assemble before a barber's shop and laugh immoderately at their own imitations of all those who came to the shop, ridiculing them in a language of their own.

_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

PREGNY, _Aug. 10, 1820._

I wrote to my Aunt Ruxton a long--much too long an account of our Chamouni excursion, since which we have dined at Pictet's with his daughters, Madame Prevost Pictet and Madame Vernet, agreeable, sensible, and the remains of great beauty; but the grandest of all his married daughters is Madame Enard. M. Enard is building a magnificent house, the admiration, envy, and _scandal_ of Geneva; we have called it the Palais de la Republique.

Dumont, tell Honora, is very kind and cordial; he seems to enjoy universal consideration here, and he loves Mont Blanc next to Bentham, above all created things: I had no idea till I saw him here how much he enjoyed the beauties of nature. He gave us a charming anecdote of Madame de Staël when she was very young. One day M. Suard, as he entered the saloon of the Hotel Necker, saw Madame Necker going out of the room, and Mademoiselle Necker standing in a melancholy attitude with tears in her eyes. Guessing that Madame Necker had been lecturing her, Suard went towards her to comfort her, and whispered, _"Un caresse du papa vous dedommagera bien de tout ça."_ She immediately, wiping the tears from her eyes, answered, _"Eh! oui, Monsieur, mon père songe à mon bonheur present, maman songe à mon avenir."_ There was more than presence of mind, there was heart and soul and greatness of mind, in this answer.

Dumont speaks to me in the kindest, most tender, and affectionate manner of our _Memoirs_; he says he hears from England, and from all who have read them, that they have produced the effect we wished and hoped; the MS. had interested him, he said, so deeply that with all his efforts he could not then put himself in the place of the indifferent public.

M. Vernet, Pictet's son-in-law, mentioned a compliment of a Protestant curé at Geneva to the new Catholic Bishop which French politeness might envy, and which I wish that party spirit in Ireland and all over the world could imitate. "_Monseigneur, vous êtes dans un pays où la moitié du peuple vous ouvre leurs coeurs, et l'autre moitié vous tende les bras."

We have taken a pretty and comfortable caleche for our three weeks' tour with the Moilliets. But I must tell you of our visit to M. and Madame de Candolle; we went there to see some volumes of drawings of flowers which had been made for him. I will begin from the beginning; Joseph Buonaparte, who has been represented by some as a mere drunkard, did, nevertheless, some good things; he encouraged a Spaniard of botanical skill to go over to Mexico and make a Mexican flora; he employed Mexican artists, and expended considerable sums of money upon it; the work was completed, but the engraving had not been commenced when the revolution drove Joseph from his throne. The Spaniard withdrew from Spain, bringing with him his botanical treasure, and took refuge at Marseilles, where he met De Candolle, who, on looking over his Mexican flora, said it was admirably well done for Mexicans, who had no access to European books, and he pointed out its deficiencies; they worked at it for eighteen months, when De Candolle was to return to Geneva, and the Spaniard said to him, "Take the book--as far as I am concerned, I give it to you, but if my government should reclaim it, you will let me have it." De Candolle took it and returned to Geneva, where he became not only famous but beloved by all the inhabitants. This summer he gave a course of lectures on botany, which has been the theme of universal admiration. Just as the lectures finished, a letter came from the Spaniard, saying he had been unexpectedly recalled to Spain, that the King had offered to him the Professorship he formerly held, that he could not appear before the King without his book; and that, however unwilling, he must request him to return it in eight days. One of De Candolle's young-lady pupils was present when he received the letter and expressed his regret at losing the drawings: she exclaimed, "We will copy them for you." De Candolle said it was impossible--1500 drawings in eight days! He had some duplicates, however, and some which were not peculiar to Mexico he threw aside; this reduced the number to a thousand, which were distributed among the volunteer artists. The talents and the industry shown, he says, were astonishing; all joined in this benevolent undertaking without vanity and without rivalship; those who could not paint drew the outlines; those who could not draw, traced; those who could not trace made themselves useful by carrying the drawings backwards and forwards. One was by an old lady of eighty. We saw thirteen folio volumes of these drawings done in the eight days! Of course some were much worse than others, but even this I liked: it showed that individuals were ready to sacrifice their own _amour propre_ in a benevolent undertaking.

De Candolle went himself with the original Flora to the frontier; he was to send it by Lyons. Now the custom-house officers between the territory of Geneva and France are some of the most strict and troublesome in the universe, and when they saw the book they said, "You must pay 1500 francs for this." But when the chief of the Douane heard the story, he caught the enthusiasm, and with something like a tear in the corner of his eye, exclaimed, "We must let this book pass. I hazard my place; but let it pass."

_To_ MISS LUCY EDGEWORTH.

PREGNY, _Aug 13, 1820._

Ask to see _Lettres Physiques et Morales sur l'Histoire de la Terre et de l'Homme, adressées à la Reine d'Angleterre. Par M. de Luc._ 1778.

Ask your mother to send a messenger forthwith to Pakenham Hall to borrow this book; and if the gossoon does not bring it from Pakenham Hall, next morning at flight of night send off another or the same to Castle Forbes, and to Mr. Cobbe, who, if he has not the book, ought to be hanged, and if he has, drawn and quartered if he does not send it to you. But if, nevertheless, he should not send it, do not rest satisfied under three fruitless attempts; let another--not the same boy, as I presume his feet are weary--gossoon be off at the flight of night for Baronstown, and in case of a fourth failure there, order him neither to stint nor stay till he reaches Sonna, where I hope he will at last find it. Now if, after all, it should not amuse you, I shall be much mistaken, that's all. Skip over the tiresome parts, of which there are many, and you will find an account of the journey we are going to make, and of many of the feelings we have had in seeing glaciers, seas of ice and mountains.

I believe I mentioned in some former letter that we had become acquainted with M. Arago, who, in his height and size, reminded us of our own dear Dr. Brinckley, but I am sure I did not tell what I kept for you, my dear Lucy, that you might have the pleasure of telling it to your mother and all the friends around you.

When M. Arago was with us in our excursion to Chamouni, he was speaking of the voyage of Captain Scoresby to the Arctic regions, which he had with him and was reading with great delight. As I found he was fond of voyages and travels, and from what he said of this book perceived that he was an excellent judge of their merits, I asked if he had ever happened to meet with a book called _Karamania_, by a Captain Beaufort. He knew nothing of our connection with him, and I spoke with a perfect indifference from which he could not guess that I felt any interest about the book, or the person, but the sort of lighting up of pleasure which you have seen in Dr. Brinckley's face when he hears of a thing he much approves, immediately appeared in Monsieur Arago's face, and he said _Karamania_ was, of all the books of travels he had seen, that which he admired the most: that he had admired it for its clearness, its truth, its perfect freedom from ostentation. He said it contained more knowledge in fewer words than any book of travels he knew, and must remain a book of reference--a standard book. Then he mentioned several passages that he recollected having liked, which proved the impression they had made; the Greek fire, the amphitheatre at Sidé, etc. He knew the book as well as we do, and alluded to the parts we all liked with great rapidity and delight in perceiving our sympathy. He pointed out the places where an ordinary writer would have given pages of amplification. He was particularly pleased with the manner in which the affair of the sixty Turks is told, and said, "That marked the character of the man and does honour to his country."

I then told him that Captain Beaufort was uncle to the two young ladies with me!

He told me he had read an article in the _Journal des Sçavans_ in which _Karamania_ is mentioned and parts translated. I have recommended it to many at Paris who wanted English books to translate, but I am sorry to say that little is read there besides politics and novels. Science has, however, a better chance than literature.

Whenever any one in your Book Society wants to bespeak a book, perhaps you could order _Recueil des Éloges, par M. Cuvier._ They contain the _Lives_, not merely the _Éloges_, of all the men of science since 1880, written, and with an excellent introduction. The lives of Priestley and Cavendish are written with so much candour towards the English philosophers that even Mr. Chenevix cannot have anything to complain of.

_To_ MISS HONORA EDGEWORTH.

BERNE,

_August 19, 1820._

The day we set out from Pregny we breakfasted at Coppet; from some misunderstanding M. de Staël had not expected us and had breakfasted, but as he is remarkably well-bred, easy, and obliging in his manners he was not _put out_, and while our breakfast was preparing he showed us the house. All the rooms once inhabited by Madame de Staël we could not think of as common rooms--they have a classical power over the mind, and this was much heightened by the strong attachment and respect for her memory shown in every word and look, and _silence_ by her son and by her friend, Miss Randall. He is correcting for the press _Les dix Années d'Exil._ M. de Staël after breakfast took us a delightful walk through the grounds, which he is improving with good taste and judgment. He told me that his mother never gave any work to the public in the form in which she originally composed it; she changed the arrangement and expression of her thoughts with such facility, and was so little attached to her own first views of the subject that often a work was completely remodelled by her while passing through the press. Her father disliked to see her make any formal preparation for writing when she was young, so that she used to write often on the corner of the chimney-piece, or on a pasteboard held in her hand, and always in the room with others, for her father could not bear her to be out of the room--and this habit of writing without preparation she preserved ever afterwards.

M. de Staël told me of a curious interview he had with Buonaparte when he was enraged with his mother, who had published remarks on his government--concluding with "Eh! bien vous avez raison aussi. Je conçois qu'un fils doit toujours faire la defense de sa mère, mais enfin, si Monsieur veut écrire des libelles, il faut aller en Angleterre. Ou bien, s'il cherche la gloire, c'est en Angleterre qu'il faut aller. C'est l'Angleterre, ou la France--il n'y a que ces deux pays en Europe--dans le monde."

Before any one else at Paris, Miss Randall told me, had the _MS. de Sainte-Hélène_, a copy had been sent to the Duke of Wellington, who lent it to Madame de Staël; she began to read it eagerly, and when she had read about half, she stopped and exclaimed, "Where is Benjamin Constant? we will wait for him." When he came, she began to give him an account of what they had been reading; he listened with the indifference of a person who had already seen the book, and when she urged him to read up to them, he said he would go on where they were. When it was criticised, he defended it, or writhed under it as if the attack was personal. When accused of being the author, he denied it with vehemence, and Miss Randall said to him, "If you had simply denied it I might have believed you, but when you come to swearing, I am sure that you are the author."

M. de Staël called his little brother, Alphonse Rocca, to introduce him to us; he is a pleasing, gentle-looking, ivory-pale boy with dark-blue eyes, not the least like Madame de Staël. M. de Staël speaks English perfectly, and with the air of an Englishman of fashion. After our walk he proposed our going on the lake--and we rowed for about an hour. The deep, deep blue of the water, and the varying colours as the sun shone and the shadows of the clouds appeared on it were beautiful. When we returned and went to rest in M. de Staël's cabinet, Dumont, who had quoted from Voltaire's "Ode on the Lake of Geneva," read it to us. Read it and tell me where you think it ought to begin.

We slept at Morges on Tuesday, and arrived late and tired at Yverdun. Next morning we went to see Pestalozzi's establishment; he recognised me and I him; he is, tell my mother, the same wild-looking man he was, with the addition of seventeen years. The whole superintendence of the school is now in the hands of his masters; he just shows a visitor into the room, and reappears as you are going away with a look that pleads irresistibly for an obole of praise.

While we were in the school, and while I was stretching my poor little comprehension to the utmost to follow the master of mathematics, I saw enter a benevolent-looking man with an open forehead and a clear, kind eye. He was obviously an Englishman, and from his manner of standing I thought he was a captain in the navy. My attention was called away, and I was intent upon an account of a school for deaf and dumb, which I was interested in on account of William Beaufort, when a lady desired to be introduced to me; she said she had been talking to Mrs. Moilliet, taking her for Miss Edgeworth--she was "the wife of Captain Hillyar, Captain Beaufort's friend." What a revolution in all our ideas! We almost ran to Captain Hillyar, my benevolent--looking Englishman, and most cordially did he receive us, and insisted upon our all coming to dine with him. When I presented Fanny and Harriet to him as Captain Beaufort's nieces he did look so pleased, and all the way home he was praising Captain Beaufort with such delight to himself. "But I never write to the fellow, faith! I'll tell you the truth; I can't bring myself to sit down and write to him, he is such a superior being; I can't do it; what can I have to say worth his reading? Why, look at his letters, one page of them contains more sense than I could write in a volume."

At dinner, turning to Fanny and Harriet, he drank "Uncle Francis's health;" and when we took leave he shook us by the hand at the carriage door. "You know we sailors can never take leave without a hearty shake of the hand. It comes from the heart, and I hope will go to it."

From Yverdun our evening drive by the lake of Neufchatel was beautiful, and mounting gradually we came late at night to Paienne, and next day to Fribourg, at the dirtiest of inns, as if kept by chance, and such a mixture of smells of onions, grease, dirt, and dunghill! But, never mind! I would bear all that, and more, to see and hear Père Gèrard. But this I keep for Lovell, as I shall tell him all about Pestalozzi, Fellenburg, and Père Gèrard's schools. You shall not even know who Père Gèrard is.

So we go on to Berne. The moment we entered this canton we perceived the superior cultivation of the land, the comfort of the cottagers, and their fresh-coloured, honest, jolly, independent, hard-working appearance. Trees of superb growth, beech and fir, beautifully mixed, grew on the sides of the mountains. On the road here we had the finest lightning I ever saw flashing from the horizon. Berne is chiefly built of a whitish stone, like Bath stone, and has flagged walks arched over, like Chester. A clear rivulet runs through the middle of each street: there are delightful public walks. On Sunday we saw the peasants in their holiday costume, very pretty, etc.

I have kept to the last that M. de Staël and Miss Randall spoke in the most gratifying terms of praise of my father's life.

SUMMARY OF VOLUME I

1767-1787

Childhood of Maria Edgeworth--Death of her mother and marriage of her father to Miss Honora Sneyd--Death of Mrs. Honora Edgeworth and marriage of Mr. Edgeworth to Miss Elizabeth Sneyd--Life at Edgeworthstown.

1787-1793

Letters from Maria Edgeworth from Edgeworthstown, Clifton, and London to Miss Charlotte Sneyd, Mr. and Mrs. Ruxton, and Miss Sophy Ruxton.

Journey to Clifton--Dr. Darwin, Mrs. Yearsly, and Hannah More--Visit to Mrs. Charles Hoare--Dr. Beddoes--Return to Ireland.

1793-1795

Letters from Edgeworthstown to Miss Sophy Ruxton, Mrs. Ruxton, Mrs. Elizabeth Edgeworth.

Literary occupations of Maria Edgeworth: _Letters for Literary Ladies, Practical Education_--Disturbances in Ireland: Lord Granard, the "White Tooths," General Crosby's adventure.

1795-1798

Letters from Edgeworthstown to Mrs. Ruxton, Miss S. Ruxton, Miss Beaufort.

Publication of _Letters for Literary Ladies_ and _The Parent's Assistant_--Mr. Edgeworth's election to the Irish Parliament--Literary work and study: _Moral Tales, Irish Bulls_--Madame Roland's Memoirs--Death of Mrs. Edgeworth, and marriage of Mr. Edgeworth to Miss Beaufort.

1798-1799

Letters from Edgeworthstown, Longford, and Dublin to Miss Sophy Ruxton, Mrs. Ruxton, Miss Charlotte Sneyd.

The Irish Rebellion: Lord Cornwallis, Lady Anne Fox--Flight from Edgeworthstown to Longford--Return to Edgeworthstown--Publication of _Practical Education_--Theatricals: _Whim for Whim_--At Dublin.

1799-1802

Letters from Clifton, Edgeworthstown, and Loughborough to Mrs. Ruxton, Miss Ruxton.

At Clifton: Sir Humphry Davy, Dr. Beddoes, Mrs. Barbauld--Death of Dr. Darwin--Literary work at Edgeworthstown: _Castle Rackrent, Belinda, Early Lessons, Moral Tales, Essay on Irish Bulls_--Visits of Mr. Chenevix and Professor Pictet--Journey to London.

1802-1803

Letters from London, Brussels, Chantilly, Paris, Calais, Edinburgh to Miss Sneyd, Miss Sophy Ruxton, Mrs. Mary Sneyd, Mrs. Ruxton, C.S. Edgeworth.

A visit to Miss Watts at Leicester--Journey to Paris: Calais, Dunkirk, Bruges, Ghent--Madame Talma in _Andromaque_ at Brussels--Palace of Chantilly--Paris: Madame Delessert, Madame Gautier, Madame de Pastoret, M. Dumont, Abbé Morellet, M. Suard, Marquis of Lansdowne, M. Degerando, M. Camille Jordan, Madame Campan, Madame Recamier, Baron de Prony, Rogers, M. Pictet, Kosciusko--Monsieur Edelcrantz proposes to Maria Edgeworth; her feelings towards him--Buonaparte--Madame d'Ouditot and Rousseau--Rumours of war--The Edgeworths return to England--Account of a visit to Madame de Genlis.

1803-1809

Letters from Edinburgh, Glasgow, Black Castle, Edgeworthstown, Rosstrevor, Allenstown, Pakenham Hall to Mrs. Ruxton, Miss Honora Edgeworth, Miss Charlotte Sneyd, Miss Ruxton, Henry Edgeworth, C. Sneyd Edgeworth, Mrs. Edgeworth.

Visit to Lindley Murray at Newcastle--Dugald Stewart at Edinburgh--Return to Edgeworthstown--Literary work: _Popular Tales, Leonora, Griselda_--Marriage of Miss Pakenham to Sir Arthur Wellesley (Duke of Wellington)--Death of Dr. Beddoes.

1809-1813

Letters from Edgeworthstown, Black Castle, Bangor Ferry, Liverpool, Derby, Cambridge, London to Miss Ruxton, Miss Honora Edgeworth, Mrs. Ruxton, C. Sneyd Edgeworth, Miss Sneyd, Mrs. Edgeworth.

Publication of _Tales of Fashionable Life_: Madame de Staël, Lord Dudley, Lord Jeffrey upon--Life at Edgeworthstown: Mr. Chenevix, Miss Lydia White, Sir Henry Holland, Mrs. Inchbald, Mrs. Barbauld, Hannah More, Lady Wellington--Marriage of Sir Humphry Davy--Literary pursuits: Byron's _English Bards_, Scott's _Lady of the Lake_ and _Rokeby_, Campbell: _Patronage, Tales of Fashionable Life_ (second series), _The Absentee_--Balloon ascent of Sadler--Journey to London: Roscoe, Dr. Ferrier, Sir Henry Holland--Visit to Cambridge and to Dr. Clarke at Trumpington.

1813-1817

Letters from London, Malvern Links, Ross, Edgeworthstown, Dublin, Black Castle to Miss Ruxton, Mrs. Ruxton, Sir Walter Scott, C.S. Edgeworth.

Visit to London: Madame de Staël, Davy, Byron, Miss Berry's, Lord Lansdowne, Lady Wellington, Mrs. Siddons, the Prince Regent, Lady Elizabeth Monk, Dukes of Kent and Sussex, Sir James Macintosh, Dumont, Sir Samuel Romilly, Dr. Parr, Malthus, Madame d'Arblay, Rogers--Return to, and life at Edgeworthstown: _Early Lessons, Popular Plays, Harrington, Ormond--Waverley_--Illness and Death of Mr. Edgeworth.

1817-1820

Letters from Edgeworthstown, Mount Kennedy, Bowood, Epping, Hampstead, Byrkely Lodge, Tetsworth, London, Dublin, Heathfield, Canterbury to Mrs. Ruxton, Mrs. Stark, Mrs. Edgeworth, Miss Ruxton, Miss Waller, Miss Lucy Edgeworth, Miss Honora Edgeworth.

Literary pursuits at Edgeworthstown: Miss Austen--Visits to Bowood: Lord Lansdowne, Dumont, Lord Grenville, Mr. Hare, Dugald Stewart--Death of Sir Samuel Romilly--Joanna Baillie, Watt, Campbell--London: Mill, Wilberforce, Duke and Duchess of Wellington, Lord Palmerston--Visit to Ireland--Journey to Paris.

1820

Letters from Paris, La Celle, Passy, Geneva, Pregny, Berne to Mrs. Edgeworth, Mrs. Ruxton, Miss Ruxton, Miss Lucy Edgeworth, Miss Honora Edgeworth.

Paris: Duchesse de Broglie, Madame Recamier, Camille Jordan, Cuvier--Prony's anecdotes of Buonaparte--Visit to M. de Vindé's country-house--A visit to the Duke of Orleans at Neuilly--Duchesse d'Angoulême, Casimir Périer, Duchesse d'Uzès, Humboldt, Malthus--Journey through Switzerland: Dumont, M. de Staël.

END OF VOL. I