Chapter VIII: Part 8

To save myself trouble, I send a list of the visits we made just as my mother marked them on the card by which we steered. GOD knows how I should steer without her. The crosses mark the three places where we were let in. Lady Milbanke is very agreeable, and has a charming well-informed daughter. Mrs. Weddell is a perfectly well-bred, most agreeable old lady, sister to Lady Rockingham, who lived in the Sir Joshua Reynolds set: tells anecdotes of Burke, Fox, and Windham--magnificent house--fine pictures. We spoke of having just seen the exhibition of Sir Joshua Reynolds's pictures. "Perhaps if you are fond of paintings you would take the trouble of walking into the next room, and I will show you what gives me a particular interest in Sir Joshua Reynolds's pictures." Large folding-doors opened--large room full of admirable copies from Sir Joshua Reynolds in crayons, done by Mrs. Weddell herself. My mother says they are quite astonishing. Her conversation, as good as her painting, passed through many books lightly with touch-and-go ease. I mentioned a curious anecdote of Madame d'Arblay: that when she landed at Portsmouth, a few months ago, and saw on a plate at Admiral Foley's a head of Lord Nelson, and the word Trafalgar, she asked what Trafalgar meant! She actually, as Lady Spencer told me, who had the anecdote from Dr. Charles Burney, did not know that the English had been victorious, or that Lord Nelson was dead! This is the mixed effect of the recluse life she led, and of the care taken in France to keep the people ignorant of certain events. I mentioned a similar instance in Thiebault's _Memoirs_, of the Chevalier Mason, living at Potsdam, and not knowing anything of the Seven Years' War. Then Mrs. Weddell went through Thiebault and Madame de Bareith's _Memoirs_, and asked if I had ever happened to meet with an odd entertaining book, Madame de Baviere's _Memoirs._ How little I thought, my dear Aunt Ruxton, when you gave me that book, that it would stand me _in stead_ at Mrs. Weddell's--we talked it over and had a great deal of laughing and diversion.

Came home: found my father dressing to go to Sir Samuel Romilly's--we two were to dine at Lady Levinge's; while we were dressing a long note from Miss Berry, sent by her own maid, to apologise for a mistake of her servants who had said "not at home," and to entreat we would look in on her this evening--much hurried. Lady Levinge's dinner, which was not on the table till eight o'clock, was very entertaining, because quite a new set of people. Called in the evening at Miss Berry's--quite like French society, most agreeable--had a great deal of conversation with Lady Charlotte Lindsay. Mr. Ward was there, but I did not hear him. Went, shamefully late, to Mrs. Sneyd's--then home: found my father in bed--stood at the foot of it, and heard his account of his dinner. Dr. Parr, Dumont, Malthus, etc., but I have not time to say more. I have been standing in my dressing-gown writing on the top of a chest of drawers, and now I must dress for a breakfast at Lady Davy's, where we are to meet Lord Byron: but I must say, that at the third place where we were let in yesterday, Lady Wellington's, we spent by far the most agreeable half-hour of the day.

* * * * *

Mrs. Edgeworth continues:

One day, coming late to dinner at Mr. Horner's, we found Dr. Parr very angry at our having delayed, and then interrupted dinner, but he ended by giving Maria his blessing. One of our pleasantest days was a breakfast at Mr. and Mrs. Carr's, at Hampstead, where we met General and Mrs. Bentham, just come from Russia, full of interesting information. Maria also spent a day in the country with Sir Samuel and Lady Romilly--who was so beautiful and so engaging; and to this day's happiness Maria often recurred. We met one evening at Lady Charleville's Mrs. Abington, with whom Maria was much entertained; she recited two epilogues for us with exquisite wit and grace--she spoke with frankness and feeling of her career, when often after the triumph of success in some brilliant character, splendidly dressed, in the blaze of light, with thunders of applause, she quitted the theatre for her poor little lonely lodging--and admirably described her disenchanted, dispirited sensations.

One morning Maria and I went to Westminster Abbey with some friends, among whom was Sir James Macintosh--only one morning; days might have been spent without exhausting the information he so easily, and with such enjoyment to himself, as well as to his hearers, poured forth with quotations, appropriate anecdotes, and allusions historical, poetical, and biographical, as we went along.

We unfortunately missed seeing Madame d'Arblay, and we left London before the arrival of Madame de Staël. We went on the 16th of June to Clifton, where we spent some days with Mr. and Mrs. King. [Footnote: Mr. Edgeworth's second daughter Emmeline.]

From Clifton we went to Gloucester, where Maria took up a link of her former life, paying a visit to Mrs. Chandler, from whom she had received much kindness at Mr. Day's when her eyes were inflamed. We then went on to Malvern, where Mrs. Beddoes [Footnote: The third daughter--Anna Edgeworth.] was then living.

MARIA to MRS. RUXTON.

MALVERN LINKS, _June 1813._

How good you have been, my dear aunt, in sparing Sophy to Edgeworthstown, and since you have been so good it is in encroaching human nature to expect that you will be still better, and that you and my uncle and Mag will come to Edgeworthstown for her; we shall be home in a fortnight. What joy, what delight to meet you among the dear faces who will welcome us there. The brilliant panorama of London is over, and I have enjoyed more pleasure and have had more amusement, infinitely more than I expected, and received more attention, more kindness than I could have thought it possible would be shown to me; I have enjoyed the delight of seeing my father esteemed and honoured by the best judges in England: I have felt the pleasure of seeing my true friend and mother, for she has been a mother to me, appreciated in the best society, and now with the fulness of content I return home, loving my own friends and my own mode of life preferably to all others, after comparison with all that is fine and gay, and rich and rare.

We spent four days at Clifton with Emmeline, and if our journey to England had been productive of no other good, I should heartily rejoice at our having accomplished this purpose. My father was pleased and happy, and liked all his three grandchildren very much. You may imagine how much pleasure this gave me.

We came here the day before yesterday, and have spent our time delightfully with Anna and her children, and now the carriage is at the door to take us to Mrs. Clifford's. Yesterday we went to see Samuel Essington, [Footnote: The servant who was so faithful and so frightened at the time of the rebellion. He had saved some money and quitted the service of the Edgeworths in 1800.] at the Essington Hotel. He thought it was a carriage full of strangers and was letting down the steps when he beheld my father; his whole face glowed with delight, and the tears stood in his projecting eyes. "Master! Master, I declare! O sir, ma'am, miss, Mrs. Beddoes, Miss Edgeworth: how glad I am!"

He showed us his excellent house, and walked us round his beautiful little lawn and shrubberies, all his own making; and cut moss roses and blush roses for us with such eagerness and delight. "And all, all owing to you, sir, that first taught me."

* * * * *

Mrs. Edgeworth writes:

At Mrs. Clifford's we stayed some days--a beautiful country, not far from Ross which we visited, and Maria was delighted to see all the scenes of the Man of Ross. At Mrs. Clifford's we had one day of most brilliant conversation between Maria, her father, and Sir James Macintosh, who had just come into that neighbourhood. He joined us, unexpectedly, one morning as we were walking out, and touching a shawl Mrs. Clifford wore, "A thousand looms," he said, "are at work in Cashmere at this instant providing these for you."

MARIA _to_ MRS. MARY SNEYD AT EDGEWORTHSTOWN.

MRS. CLIFFORD'S, _June 1813._

_Saturday Evening._

Received Sneyd's letter. [Footnote: Announcing his engagement to Miss Broadhurst. It was singular that this was the name of the heroine in Miss Edgeworth's _Absentee_, who selected from her lovers the one who united _worth_ and wit, in reminiscence of an epigram of Mr. Edgeworth on himself, concluding--

There's an edge to his wit and there's worth in his heart.]

Astonishment! Dear Sneyd, I hope he will be as happy as love and fortune can make him. All my ideas are thrown into such confusion by this letter that I _can_ no more. We go to Derby on Tuesday.

To MRS. RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _July 26, 1813._

I have delayed a few days writing to you in the expectation of the arrival of two frankers to send an extract from Dr. Holland's last letter, which will, I hope, entertain you as much as it entertained us. I shall long to hear of our good friend Mrs. Elizabeth Hamilton's visit to Black Castle.

We have every reason to be in great anxiety at this moment about a certain trunk containing all our worldly _duds_, and "Patronage" to boot, but still I have not been able to work myself into any fears about it, though it is a month since we ought to have seen it, nor have we heard any news of it. In the meantime, as I cannot set about revising "Patronage," I have begun a new series of _Early Lessons_ [Footnote: The second parts of _Frank, Rosamond_, and _Harry and Lucy._] for which many mothers told me they wished. I feel that I return with fresh pleasure to literary work from having been so long idle, and I have a famishing appetite for reading. All that we saw in London, I am sure I enjoyed while it was passing as much as possible, but I should be very sorry to live in that whirling vortex, and I find my taste and conviction confirmed on my return to my natural friends and my dear home.

I am glad that some of those who showed us hospitality and kindness in England should have come so soon to Ireland, that we may have some little opportunity of showing our sense of their attentions. Lord Carrington, who franks this, is most amiable and benevolent, without any species of pretension, thinking the best that can be thought of everything and everybody. Mr. Smith, his son, whom we had not seen in London, accompanies him, and his tutor, Mr. Kaye, a Cambridge man, and Lord Gardner, Lord Carrington's son-in-law, suffering from the gouty rheumatism, or rheumatic gout--he does not know or care which: but between the twitches of his suffering he is entertaining and agreeable.

We have just seen a journal by a little boy of eight years old, of a voyage from England to Sicily: the boy is Lord Mahon's son, Lord Carrington's grandson. [Footnote: Philip Henry, afterwards fifth Earl Stanhope, the historian.] It is one of the best journals I ever read, full of facts: exactly the writing of a child, but a very clever child. It is peculiarly interesting to us from having seen Dr. Holland's letters from Palermo. Lord Mahon says that the alarm about the plague at Malta is much greater than it need be--its progress has been stopped: it was introduced by a shoemaker having, contrary to law and reason, surreptitiously brought some handkerchiefs from a vessel that had not performed quarantine. You will nevertheless rejoice that Dr. Holland did not go to Malta. How you will regret the loss of the portmanteau of which that vile Ali Pasha robbed him.

Mr. Fox dined with us to-day, and was very agreeable. Lord Carrington and his travelling companions were at Farnham, where they were most hospitably received. They had no letters of introduction or intention of going there; but, finding a horrid inn at Cavan, they applied for charity to a gentleman for lodging. The gentleman took them to walk in Lord Farnham's grounds. Lord and Lady Farnham saw and invited them to the house, and they are full of admiration and almost affection, I think, for Lord and Lady Farnham: they are so charmed by their hospitality, their goodness to the poor, their care of the young Foxes, their magnificent establishment, their neat cottages for their tenants, and, as Lord Gardner sensibly said, "their judicious economy in the midst of magnificence."

_August 9._

I like Mrs. Elizabeth Hamilton better than ever upon further acquaintance. She is what the French would call _bonne à vivre_: so good-humoured, so cheerful, so little disposed to exact attention or to take an authoritative tone in conversation, so ready to give everybody their merits, so indulgent for the follies and frailties, and so hopeful of the reformation of even the faults and vices of the world, that it is impossible not to respect and love her. She wins upon us daily, and mixes so well with this family, that I always forget she is a stranger.

Lady Davy is in high glory at this moment, introducing Madame de Staël everywhere, enjoying the triumph and partaking the gale. They went down, a delightful party, to Cobham--Madame de Staël, Lady Davy, Lord Erskine, Rogers, etc.

Have you heard that Jeffrey, the reviewer, is gone to America in pursuit of a lady, or, as some say, to take possession of an estate left to him by an uncle: he is to be back in time for the _Edinburgh Review_ in September!

_August 19._

Lord and Lady Lansdowne came to us on Tuesday. Mr. Greenough comes on Saturday, and after that I think we shall get to Black Castle. Lord Longford came yesterday, and though he is not, you know, exuberant in praise, truly says Lord and Lady Lansdowne are people who must be esteemed and liked the more they are known.

Mr. Forbes, just returned from Russia, has this moment come, and is giving a most interesting account of Petersburgh and Moscow: give me credit for retiring to finish this letter. My father is calling, calling, calling.

_Nov. 19._

Last night a letter came from Lady Farnham, announcing Francis Fox's marriage, and naming next Monday for us to go to Farnham. We went last Monday to a play at Castle Forbes, or rather to three farces--"Bombastes Furioso," "Of Age To-morrow," and "The Village Lawyer," taken from the famous _Avocat Patelin_: the cunning servant-boy shamming simplicity was admirably acted by Lord Rancliffe.

Tell me whether you have seen Madame de Staël's _Essai sur la Fiction_, prefixed to Zulma, Adelaide, and Pauline--the essay is excellent: I shall be curious to know whether you think as I do of Pauline. Madame de Staël calls Blenheim "a magnificent tomb: splendour without, and the deathlike silence of ennui within." She says she is very proud of having made the Duke of Marlborough speak four words. At the moment she was announced he was distinctly heard to utter these words: "Let me go away." We have just got her _Allemagne._ We have had great delight in Mrs. Graham's _India_,--a charming woman, writing, speaking, thinking, or feeling.

_Nov. 25._

A letter from Lady Romilly--so easy, so like her conversation. All agree that Madame de Staël is frankness itself, and has an excellent heart. During her brilliant fortnight at Bowood--where, besides Madame de Staël, her Albertine, M. de Staël, and Count Palmella, there were the Romillys, the Macintoshes, Mr. Ward, Mr. Rogers, and M. Dumont--if it had not been for chess-playing, music, and dancing between times, poor human nature never could have borne the strain of attention and admiration.

_Jan. 1, 1814._

Hunter has sent a whole cargo of French translations--_Popular Tales_, with a title under which I should never have known them, _Conseils à mon Fils! Manoeuvring: La Mère Intrigante; Ennui_--what can they make of it in French? _Leonora_ will translate better than a better thing. _Emilie de Coulanges_, I fear, will never stand alone. _L'Absent, The Absentee_,--it is impossible that a Parisian can make any sense of it from beginning to end. But these things teach authors what is merely local and temporary. _Les deux Griseldis de Chaucer et Edgeworth_; and, to crown all, two works surreptitiously printed in England under our name, and which are _no better than they should be._

Pray read _Letters to Sir James Macintosh on Madame de Staël's Allemagne._ My mother says it is exactly what you would have written: we do not know who is the author.

_Jan. 25._

To-day it began to thaw, and thawed so rapidly that we were in danger of being flooded, wet pouring in at all parts, and tubs, and jugs, and pails, and mops running about in all directions, and voices calling, and avalanches of snow thrown by arms of men from gutters and roofs on all sides, darkening windows, and falling with thundering noise.

We have been charmed with a little French play, _Les deux Gendres._ I wish you could get it, and get Mr. Knox to read it to you: he is still blocked up by the snow at Pakenham Hall.

We have had an entertaining letter, giving an account of a gentleman who is now in England, a native of Delhi. He practised as an advocate in the native courts of Calcutta, from Calcutta to Prince of Wales' Island, and thence to London, and is now Professor of Oriental Languages at Addiscombe. He was at Dr. Malkins': Mrs. Malkin offered him coffee: he refused, and backed. "Not coffee in the house of Madam-Doctor. I take coffee to keep awake; no danger of being drowsy in the house of Madam-Doctor." He was at a great ball where Lord Cornwallis was expected, and he said he would go to him and "bless his father's memory for his conduct in India."

Poor old Robin Woods is very ill, and he has a tame robin that sits on his foot, and hops up for crumbs. One day that I went in, when they were at dinner with a bowl of potatoes between them, I said "How happy you two look!" "Yes, miss, we were that every day since we married."

_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

15 BAGGOT STREET, [Footnote: Mr. and Mrs. Sneyd Edgeworth's house in Dublin.] DUBLIN,

_March 1814._

Here we are: arrived at three o'clock: found Henrica looking very well. Such a nice, pretty, elegant house! and they have furnished it so comfortably. It is delightful to see my father here; he enjoys himself so much in his son's house, and Sneyd and Henrica are so happy seeing him pleased with everything. Lady Longford has been here this morning; told us Sir Edward Pakenham was so fatigued by riding an uneasy horse at the battle of Vittoria, he was not able to join for four days. A buckle of Lord Wellington's sword-belt saved him: he wrote four times in one week to Lady Wellington, without ever mentioning his wound. I long for you to see Henrica; she is so kind, and so well-bred and easy in her manners.

* * * * *

In April Mr. Edgeworth had a dangerous illness. He was just out of danger, when, late at night on the 10th of May, his son Lovell arrived from Paris, liberated by the peace after eleven years' detention.

* * * * *

MARIA EDGEWORTH _to_ MRS. RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _May 16, 1814/._

My father's contentment at Lovell's [Footnote: The only son of Mr. Edgeworth's second marriage, with Miss Honora Sneyd.] return has done him more good than all the advice of all the surgeons, I do believe, now that the danger is over. If you have suffered from suspense in absence, yet, my dear aunt, you have been spared the torturing terrors we have felt at the sight of the daily, hourly changes, so rapid, so unaccountable: one day, one hour, all hope, the next all despair! The lamp of life, now bright, starting up high and brilliant, then sinking suddenly almost to extinction; the flame flitting, flickering, starting, _leaping_, as it were, on and off by fits. Some day we shall talk it over in security; now I can hardly bear to look back to it.

All that has passed in France in the last few weeks! a revolution without bloodshed! Paris taken without being pillaged! the Bourbons, after all hope and reason for hope had passed, restored to their capital and their palaces! With what mixed sensations they must enter those palaces! I daresay it has not escaped my aunt that the Venus de Medicis and Apollo Belvidere are both missing together: I make no remarks. I hate scandal--at least I am not so fond of it as the lady of whom it was said she could not see the poker and tongs standing together without suspecting something wrong! I wonder where our ideas, especially those of a playful sort, go at some times? and how it is that they all come junketing back faster than there is room for them at other times? How is it that hope so powerfully excites, and fear so absolutely depresses all our faculties?

_Aug. 24._

Sneyd has received a very polite letter from the Marquis de Bonay, who is now ambassador at the Court of Denmark. Mrs. O'Beirne and the Bishop, who like Mons. de Bonay so much, and who have not heard of him for such a length of time, will be delighted to hear of his emerging into light and life. What is more to our purpose is, that he says he can furnish Sneyd with some notes for the Abbé Edgeworth's life, which he had once intended to write himself: he did put a short notice of his life into the foreign papers at Mittau. He says he never knew so perfect a human creature as the Abbé.

I had a letter from Dr. Holland this morning saying at the beginning I should be surprised at its contents; and so I was. The Princess of Wales has invited him to accompany her abroad as her physician! After consulting with his friends he accepted the invitation.

_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Oct 13, 1814._

I had a letter from the Duchess of Wellington the day before yesterday, dated from Deal, just when she was going to embark for France. The whole of the letter was full of her children and of sorrow for quitting them.

Two days ago came a young gentleman, Mr. James Gordon, a nephew of Lady Elizabeth Whitbread's, with a very polite introductory note from Lady Elizabeth. He has a great deal of anecdote and information. He has just come from Paris, and he has given me a better account of Paris, and more characteristic, well-authenticated anecdotes than I have heard from anybody else. He mentioned some instances of the gratitude which Louis XVIII. has shown to people of inferior note in England from whom he had received kindness, especially to the innkeeper's wife at Berkhampstead. I am glad for the honour of human nature that this is so.

What do you think Walter Scott says is the most poetical performance he has read for years? That account of the battle of Leipsic which Richard lent to us.

We went to Coolure and had a pleasant day. _Waverley_ was in everybody's hands. The Admiral does not like it: the hero, he says, is such a shuffling fellow. While he was saying this I had in my pocket a letter from Miss Fanshawe, received that morning, saying it was delightful. Lady Crewe tells me that Madame d'Arblay cannot settle in England because the King of France has lately appointed M. d'Arblay to some high situation in consequence of his distinguished services.

Shall I tell you what they, my father and all of them, are doing at this moment? Sprawling on the floor looking at a new rat-trap. Two pounds of butter vanished the other night out of the dairy; they had been put in a shallow pan with water in it, and it is averred the rats ate it, and Peggy Tuite, the dairymaid, to make the thing more credible, gives the following reason for the rats' conduct. "Troth, ma'am, they were affronted at the new rat-trap, they only licked the milk off it, and that occasioned them to run off with the butter!"

Mr. and Mrs. Pollard have spent a day here, and brought with them Miss Napier. My father is charmed with her beauty, her voice, and her manners. We talked over _Waverley_ with her. I am more delighted with it than I can tell you: it is a work of first-rate genius.

_To the_ AUTHOR of "WAVERLEY."

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Oct. 23, 1814._

Aut Scotus, Aut Diabolus!

We have this moment finished _Waverley._ It was read aloud to this large family, and I wish the author could have witnessed the impression it made--the strong hold it seized of the feelings both of young and old--the admiration raised by the beautiful descriptions of nature--by the new and bold delineations of character--the perfect manner in which character is ever sustained in every change of situation from first to last, without effort, without the affectation of making the persons speak in character--the ingenuity with which each person introduced in the drama is made useful and necessary to the end--the admirable art with which the story is constructed and with which the author keeps his own secrets till the proper moment when they should be revealed, whilst in the meantime, with the skill of Shakspear, the mind is prepared by unseen degrees for all the changes of feeling and fortune, so that nothing, however extraordinary, shocks us as improbable: and the interest is kept up to the last moment. We were so possessed with the belief that the whole story and every character in it was real, that we could not endure the occasional addresses from the author to the reader. They are like Fielding: but for that reason we cannot bear them, we cannot bear that an author of such high powers, of such original genius, should for a moment stoop to imitation. This is the only thing we dislike, these are the only passages we wish omitted in the whole work: and let the unqualified manner in which I say this, and the very vehemence of my expression of this disapprobation, be a sure pledge to the author of the sincerity of all the admiration I feel for his genius.

I have not yet said half we felt in reading the work. The characters are not only finely drawn as separate figures, but they are grouped with great skill, and contrasted so artfully, and yet so naturally as to produce the happiest dramatic effect, and at the same time to relieve the feelings and attention in the most agreeable manner. The novelty of the Highland world which is discovered to our view powerfully excites curiosity and interest: but though it is all new to us it does not embarrass or perplex, or strain the attention. We never are harassed by doubts of the probability of any of these modes of life: though we did not know them, we are quite certain they did exist exactly as they are represented. We are sensible that there is a peculiar merit in the work which is in a measure lost upon us, the _dialects_ of the Highlanders, and the Lowlanders, etc. But there is another and a higher merit with which we are as much struck and as much delighted as any true-born Scotchman could be: the various gradations of Scotch feudal character, from the high-born chieftain and the military baron, to the noble-minded lieutenant Evan Dhu, the robber Bean Lean, and the savage Callum Beg. The _Pre_--the Chevalier, is beautifully drawn--

A prince: ay, every inch a prince!

His polished manners, his exquisite address, politeness, and generosity, interest the reader irresistibly, and he pleases the more from the contrast between him and those who surround him. I think he is my favourite character: the Baron Bradwardine is my father's. He thinks it required more genius to invent, and more ability uniformly to sustain this character than any other of the masterly characters with which the book abounds. There is indeed uncommon art in the manner in which his dignity is preserved by his courage and magnanimity, in spite of all his pedantry and his _ridicules_, and his bear and bootjack, and all the raillery of M'Ivor. M'Ivor's unexpected "bear and bootjack" made us laugh heartily.

But to return to the dear good baron: though I acknowledge that I am not as good a judge as my father and brothers are of his recondite learning and his law Latin, yet I feel the humour, and was touched to the quick by the strokes of generosity, gentleness, and pathos in this old man, who is, by the bye, all in good time worked up into a very dignified father-in-law for the hero. His exclamation of "Oh! my son! my son!" and the yielding of the fictitious character of the baron to the natural feelings of the father is beautiful. (Evan Dhu's fear that his father-in-law should die quietly in his bed made us laugh almost as much as the bear and bootjack.)

Jinker, in the battle, pleading the cause of the mare he had sold to Balmawhapple, and which had thrown him for want of the proper bit, is truly comic: my father says that this and some other passages respecting horsemanship could not have been written by any one who was not master both of the great and little horse.

I tell you without order the great and little strokes of humour and pathos just as I recollect, or am reminded of them at this moment by my companions. The fact is that we have had the volumes--only during the time we could read them, and as fast as we could read--lent to us as a great favour by one who was happy enough to have secured a copy before the first and second editions were sold in Dublin. When we applied, not a copy could be had; we expect one in the course of next week, but we resolved to write to the author without waiting for a second perusal. Judging by our own feeling as authors, we guess that he would rather know our genuine first thoughts, than wait for cool second thoughts, or have a regular eulogium or criticism put in the most lucid manner, and given in the finest sentences that ever were rounded.

Is it possible that I have got thus far without having named Flora or Vich Ian Vohr--the _last Vich Ian Vohr!_ Yet our minds were full of them the moment before I began this letter: and could you have seen the tears forced from us by their fate, you would have been satisfied that the pathos went to our hearts. Ian Vohr from the first moment he appears, till the last, is an admirably-drawn and finely-sustained character--new, perfectly new to the English reader--often entertaining--always heroic--sometimes sublime. The gray spirit, the Bodach Glas, thrills _us_ with horror. _Us!_ What effect must it have upon those under the influence of the superstitions of the Highlands! This circumstance is admirably introduced: this superstition is a weakness quite consistent with the strength of the character, perfectly natural after the disappointment of all his hopes, in the dejection of his mind, and the exhaustion of his bodily strength.

Flora we could wish was never called _Miss MacIvor_, because in this country there are tribes of vulgar Miss _Macs_, and this association is unfavourable to the sublime and beautiful of _your_ Flora--she is a true heroine. Her first appearance seized upon the mind and enchanted us so completely, that we were certain she was to be your heroine, and the wife of your hero--but with what inimitable art, you gradually convince the reader that she was not, as she said of herself, _capable of making Waverley happy._ Leaving her in full possession of our admiration, you first make us pity, then love, and at last give our undivided affection to Rose Bradwardine--sweet Scotch Rose! The last scene between Flora and Waverley is highly pathetic--my brother wishes that _bridal garment_ were _shroud:_ because when the heart is touched we seldom use metaphor, or quaint alliteration-bride-favour, bridal garment.

There is one thing more we could wish changed or omitted in Flora's character. I have not the volume, and therefore cannot refer to the page; but I recollect in the first visit to Flora, when she is to sing certain verses, there is a walk, in which the description of the place is beautiful, but _too long_, and we did not like the preparation for a _scene_--the appearance of Flora and her harp was too like a common heroine, she should be far above all stage effect or novelist's trick.

These are, without reserve, the only faults we found, or _can_ find in this work of genius. We should scarcely have thought them worth mentioning, except to give you proof positive that we are not flatterers. Believe me, I have not, nor can I convey to you the full idea of the pleasure, the delight we have had in reading _Waverley_, nor of the feeling of sorrow with which we came to the end of the history of persons whose real presence had so filled our minds--we felt that we must return to the _flat realities_ of life, that our stimulus was gone, and we were little disposed to read the "Postscript, which should have been a Preface."

"Well, let us hear it," said my father, and Mrs. Edgeworth read on.

Oh! my dear sir, how much pleasure would my father, my mother, my whole family, as well as myself have lost, if we had not read to the last page! And the pleasure came upon us so unexpectedly--we had been so completely absorbed that every thought of ourselves, of our own authorship, was far, far away.

Thank you for the honour you have done us, [Footnote: Walter Scott, in his "Postscript," said that it had been his desire in _Waverley_ "in some distant degree to emulate the admirable Irish portraits drawn by Miss Edgeworth."] and for the pleasure you have given us, great in proportion to the opinion we had formed of the work we had just perused--and believe me, every opinion I have in this letter expressed, was formed before any individual in the family had peeped to the end of the book, or knew how much we owed you.--Your obliged and grateful

MARIA EDGEWORTH.

_To_ MISS RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Dec. 26, 1814._

"A merry Christmas and a happy New Year" to you, my dear Sophy, and to my aunt, and uncle, and Margaret. I have just risen from my bed, where I had been a day and a half with a violent headache and pains, or as John Langan calls them, _pins_ in my bones. We have been much entertained with _Mansfield Park._ Pray read _Eugène et Guillaume_, a modern _Gil Blas_; too much of opera intrigues, but on the whole it is a work of admirable ability. Guillaume's character beautiful, and the gradual deterioration of Eugène's character finely drawn; but the following it out becomes at last as disgusting and horrible as it would be to see the corruption of the body after the spirit had fled.

_January 1815._

I send you some beautiful lines to Lord Byron, by Miss Macpherson, daughter of Sir James Macpherson. As soon as my father hears from the Dublin Society we shall go to Dublin.

_To_ MISS RUXTON.

15 BAGGOT STREET, DUBLIN,

_Feb 1815._

Our time here has been much more agreeably spent than I had any hopes it would be. My father has been pleased at some dinners at Mr. Knox's, Mr. Leslie Foster's, and at the Solicitor-General's. Mrs. Stewart is admirable, and Caroline Hamilton the most entertaining and agreeable _good_ person I ever saw; she is as good as any saint, and as gay, and much gayer, than any sinner I ever happened to see, male or female.

The Beauforts are at Mrs. Waller's: they came up in a hurry, summoned by a Mrs. Codd, an American, or from America, who has come over to claim a considerable property, and wants to be identified. She went a journey when she was thirteen, with Doctor and Mrs. Beaufort and my mother, and they are the only people in this country who can and will swear _to_ her and _for_ her. I will tell you when we meet of her entrée with Sir Simon Bradstreet,--and I will tell you of Honora's treading on the parrot at Mrs. Westby's party,--and I will tell you of Fenaigle and his ABC. I think him very stupid. Heaven grant me the power of forgetting his Art of Memory.

_To_ C.S. EDGEWORTH.

BLACK CASTLE, _May 10, 1815._

We, that is my father, mother, little Harriet, and I, went on Sunday last to Castletown--the two days we spent there, delightful. Lady Louisa Connolly is one of the most respectable, amiable, and even at seventy, I may say, charming persons I ever saw or heard. Having known all the most worthy, as well as the most celebrated people who have lived for the last fifty years, she is full of characteristic anecdote, and fuller of that indulgence for human creatures which is consistent with a thorough knowledge of the world, and a quick perception of all the foibles of human nature--with a high sense of religion, without the slightest tincture of ostentation, asperity, or bigotry. She is all that I could have wished to represent in Mrs. Hungerford, and her figure and countenance gave me back the image in my mind.

Her niece, Miss Emily Napier, is graceful, amiable, and very engaging.

My father went home with Harriet direct from Castletown, but begged my mother and me to return to Dublin for a fancy ball. We did not go to the Rotunda, but saw enough of it at Mrs. Power's. Lady Clarke (Lady Morgan's sister), as "Mrs. Flannigan, a half gentlewoman, from Tipperary," speaking an admirable brogue, was by far the best character, and she had presence of mind and a great deal of real humour--her husband attending her with kitten and macaw.

Next to her was Mrs. Robert Langrishe, as a Frenchwoman, admirably dressed. Mrs. Airey was a Turkish lady, in a superb dress, given to her by Ali Pasha. There were _thatched_ "Wild Men from the North," dancing and stamping with whips and clumping of the feet, from which Mrs. Bushe and I fled whenever they came near us. Having named Mrs. Bushe, I must mention that whenever I have met her, she has been my delight and admiration from her wit, humour, and variety of conversation.

_To_ MISS RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Aug. 1815._

I send a note from Lady Romilly, and one from Mr. Whishaw: the four travellers mentioned in that note called upon us yesterday,--Mr. and Mrs. Smith, of Easton Grey, Miss Bayley, and Mr. Fuller. Mrs. Smith is stepdaughter to a certain Mrs. Chandler, who was very kind to me at Mrs. Day's, and I was heartily glad to see her daughter, even stepdaughter, at Edgeworthstown, and _my_ kind, dear, best of stepmothers seconded my intentions to my very heart's wish: I am sure they went away satisfied. I gave them a note to Lady Farnham, which will I think produce a note of admiration! While these visitors were with us Mrs. Moutray came over from Lissard, and we rejoiced in pride of soul to show them our Irish Madame de Sevigné. _Her_ Madame de Grignan is more agreeable than ever. Mrs. Moutray told me of a curious debate she heard between Lady C. Campbell, Lady Glenbervie, and others, on the Modern Griselda, with another lady, and a wager laid that she would not read it out to her husband. Wager lost by skipping.

_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

_October 16._

I send you a letter of Joanna Baillie's; her simple style is so different from the _fine_ or the _gossip_ style.

Did you ever hear this epigram, a translation from Martial?

Their utmost power the gods have shown,
In turning Niobe to stone:
But man's superior power you see,
Who turns a stone to Niobe.

Here is an epigram quite to my taste, elegant and witty, without ill-nature or satire.

Barry Fox has come home with his regiment,[Footnote: Captain Fox had been serving in Canada. On Buonaparte's return from Elba, his regiment, the 97th, was summoned home. When the transport entered Plymouth harbour, and the officers were told that Buonaparte was in the vessel they had just sailed past, they thought it an absurd jest.] and is very gentlemanlike.

_January 10, 1816._

The authoress of _Pride and Prejudice_ has been so good as to send to me a new novel just published, _Emma._ We are reading _France in 1814 and 1815_, by young Alison and Mr. Tytler: the first volume good. We are also reading a book which delights us all, though it is on a subject which you will think little likely to be interesting to us, and on which we had little or no previous knowledge. I bought it on Mr. Brinkley's recommendation, and have not repented--Cuvier's _Theory of the Earth._ It is admirably written, with such perfect clearness as to be intelligible to the meanest, and satisfactory to the highest capacity.

I have enlarged my plan of plays, which are not now to be for young people merely, but rather _Popular Plays_, [Footnote: Published in 1817, in one volume, containing "Love and Law."] for the same class as _Popular Tales._ Excuse huddling things together. Mrs. O'Beirne, of Newry, who has been here, told us a curious story. A man near Granard robbed a farmer of thirty guineas, and hid them in a hole in the church wall. He was hurried out of the country by some accident before he could take off his treasure, and wrote to the man he had robbed and told him where he had hid the money: "Since it can be of no use to me you may as well have it." The owner of the money set to work _grouting_ under the church wall, and many of the good people of Granard were seized with Mr. Hill's fear there was a plot to undermine the church, and a great piece of work about it.

_March 21._

I send a letter of Mrs. O'Beirne's, telling of Archdeacon de Lacy's [Footnote: It happened that when Albertine de Staël was to be married to M. de Broglie, at Florence, the only Protestant clergyman to be had was Archdeacon de Lacy, son-in-law to Mrs. Moutray, the friend of Nelson and Collingwood.] marrying Madame de Staël's daughter to the Duc de Broglie! My father is pretty well to-day, and has been looking at a fine bed of crocuses in full blow in my garden, and is now gone out in the carriage, and I must have a _scene_ ready for him on his return.

I have been ever since you were here mending up the little plays; cobbling work, which takes a great deal of time, and makes no show.

* * * * *

It was in January 1816 that Maria Edgeworth received a letter from Miss Rachael Mordecai, of Richmond, Virginia, gently reproaching her with having so often made Jews ridiculous in her writings, and asking her to give a story with a good Jew. This was the origin of _Harrington_, and the commencement of a correspondence with Miss Mordecai, and of a friendship with her family.

* * * * *

_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

_July 24._

Mr. Strutt and his son have within these few minutes arrived here. He wrote only yesterday to say that being at Liverpool, he would not be so near Ireland without going to Edgeworthstown; I hope my father may be able to enjoy their company, but he was very ill all last night and this morning.

_August 25._

I lose not a moment, my dearest aunt, in communicating to you a piece of intelligence which I am sure will give you pleasure: Lord Longford is going to be married--to Lady Georgiana Lygon, daughter of Lord Beauchamp. You will be glad to see the letter Lord Longford wrote upon the occasion.

Everybody is writing and talking about Lord Byron, but I am tired of the subject. _The all for murder, all for crime_ system of poetry will now go out of fashion; as long as he appeared an outrageous mad villain he might have ridden triumphant on the storm, but he has now shown himself too base, too mean, too contemptible for anything like an heroic devil. Pray, if you have an opportunity, read Haygarth's poem of "Greece." I like it much, I like the mind that produced it; the poetry is not always good, but there is a _spirit_ through the whole that sustains it and that elevates and invigorates the mind of the reader.

_September_ 18.

You know, my dear aunt, it is a favourite opinion of my father's that _things come in bundles:_ that _people_ come in bundles is, I think, true, as, after having lived, without seeing a creature but our own family for months, a press of company comes all at once. The very day after the Brinkleys had come to us, and filled every nook in the house, the enclosed letter was brought to me. I was in my own little den, just beginning to write for an hour, as my father had requested I would, "let who would be in the house." On opening the letter and seeing the signature of Ward, I was in hopes it was the Mr. Ward who made the fine speech and wrote the review of _Patronage_ in the _Quarterly_, and of whom Madame de Staël said that he was the only man in England who really understood the art of conversation. However, upon re-examining the signature, I found that our gentleman who was waiting at the gate for an answer was another Ward, who is called "the great R. Ward"--a very gentlemanlike, agreeable man, full of anecdotes, bon-mots, and compliments. I wish you had been here, for I think you would have been entertained much, not only by his conversation, but by his character; I never saw a man who had lived in the world so anxious about the opinions which are formed of him by those with whom he is conversing, so quick at discovering, by the countenance and by _implication_, what is thought of him, or so incessantly alert in guarding all the suspected places in your opinion. He disclaimed memory, though he has certainly the very best of memories for wit and bon-mots that man was ever blessed with. Mr. Ward was Under-secretary of State during a great part of Pitt's administration, and has been one of the Lords of the Admiralty, and is now Clerk of the Ordnance, and has been sent to Ireland to reform abuses in the Ordnance. He speaks well, and in agreeable voice. He told me that he had heard in London that I had a sort of Memoria Technica, by which I could remember everything that was said in conversation, and by certain motions of my fingers could, while people were talking to me, note down all the ridiculous points!! He happened to have passed some time in his early life at Lichfield, and knew Miss Seward, and Dr. Darwin, and various people my father and aunts knew; so this added to his power of making himself agreeable. Of all the multitude of good things he told us, I can only at this moment recollect the lines which he repeated, by Dr. Mansel, the Bishop of Bristol, on Miss Seward and Mr. Hayley's flattery of each other:--

"Prince of poets, England's glory,
Mr. Hayley, _that_ is you!"
"Ma'am, you carry all before you,
Lichfield swan, indeed you do!"
"In epic, elegy, or sonnet,
Mr. Hayley, you're divine!"
"Madam, take my word upon it,
You yourself are all the Nine."

Some of his stories at dinner were so entertaining, that even old George's face cut in wood could not stand it; and John Bristow and the others were so bewildered, I thought the second course would never be on the table.

_November 18._

We are reading one of the most entertaining and interesting and NEW books I ever read in my life--Tully's _Residence in Tripoli_, written by the sister of the consul, who resided there for ten years, spoke the language, and was admitted to a constant intercourse with the ladies of the seraglio, who are very different from any seraglio ladies we ever before heard of. No Arabian tale is equal in magnificence and entertainment; no tragedy superior in strength of interest to the tragedy recorded in the last ten pages of this incomparable book. Some people affect to disbelieve, and say it is manufactured; but it would be a miracle that it was invented with such consistency.

_Jan 1817._

Mr. Knox has come and gone: two of the plays were read to him. My father gave him a sketch of each, and desired him to choose: he chose the genteel comedy, "The Two Guardians," and I read it; and those who sat by told me afterwards that Mr. Knox's countenance showed he was much amused, and that he had great sympathy. For my part, I had a _glaze_ before my eyes, and never once saw him while I was reading. He made some good criticisms, and in consequence I altered one scene, and dragged out Arthur Onslow by the head and heels--the good boy of the piece; and we found he was never missed, but the whole much lightened by throwing this heavy character overboard. Next night "The Rose, Thistle, and Shamrock": Mr. Knox laughed, and seemed to enjoy it much.

* * * * *

Mr. Edgeworth was now failing rapidly, though as much interested as ever in all that was going on around. "How I do enjoy my existence!" he often exclaimed. His daughter, however, says that "he did not for his own sake desire length of life: he only prayed that his mind might not decay before his body," and it did not; his mental powers were as bright and vigorous as ever to the last.

On the 16th of February Maria Edgeworth read out to her father the first chapter of _Ormond_ in the carriage going to Pakenham Hall to see Lord Longford's bride. It was the last visit that Mr. Edgeworth paid anywhere. He had expressed a wish to his daughter that she should write a story as a companion to _Harrington_, and in all her anguish of mind at his state of health, she, by a remarkable effort of affection and genius, produced the earlier gay and brilliant pages of _Ormond_--some of the gayest and most brilliant she ever composed. The interest and delight which her father, ill as he was, took in this beginning, encouraged her to go on, and she completed the story. _Harrington_, written as an apology for the Jews, had dragged with her as she wrote it, and it dragged with the public. But in _Ormond_ she was on Irish ground, where she was always at her very best. Yet the characters of King Corny and Sir Ulick O'Shane, and the many scenes full of wit, humour, and feeling, were written in agony of anxiety, with trembling hand and tearful eyes. As she finished chapter after chapter, she read them out--the whole family assembling in her father's room to listen to them. Her father enjoyed these readings so exceedingly, that she was amply rewarded for the efforts she made.

* * * * *

MARIA _to_ MISS RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _May 31, 1817._

This day, so anxiously expected, has arrived--the only birthday of my father's for many, many years which has not brought unmixed feelings of pleasure. He had had a terrible night, but when I went into his room and stood at the foot of his bed, his voice was strong and cheerful, as usual. I put into his hand the hundred and sixty printed pages of _Ormond_ which kind-hearted Hunter had successfully managed to get ready for this day. How my dear father can, in the midst of such sufferings, and in such an exhausted state of body, take so much pleasure in such things, is astonishing. Oh, my dear Sophy, what must be the fund of warm affection from which this springs! and what infinite, exquisite pleasure to me! "Call Sneyd directly," he said, and swallowed some stir-about, and said he felt renovated. Sneyd was seated at the foot of his bed. "Now, Maria, dip anywhere, read on." I began: "King Corny recovered." Then he said, "I must tell Sneyd the story up to this."