The Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth, Vol. 1

M >> Maria Edgeworth >> The Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth, Vol. 1

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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 _ble 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
Flegere, 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--
Septembre, Octobre.

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 Dauphine. 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'hote_ 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-a-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 Stael 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 ca."_ She immediately, wiping the tears from
her eyes, answered, _"Eh! oui, Monsieur, mon pere songe a mon bonheur
present, maman songe a 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
cure 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 etes dans un pays ou la moitie
du peuple vous ouvre leurs coeurs, et l'autre moitie 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, adressees a 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 Side, 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 Scavans_ 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 Eloges, par M. Cuvier._ They contain the
_Lives_, not merely the _Eloges_, 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 Stael 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 Stael 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 Annees
d'Exil._ M. de Stael 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 Stael 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 concois
qu'un fils doit toujours faire la defense de sa mere, mais enfin, si
Monsieur veut ecrire 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-Helene_, a copy had been sent to the Duke of Wellington, who lent
it to Madame de Stael; 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 Stael 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 Stael. M. de Stael 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 Stael'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 Pere Gerard. But
this I keep for Lovell, as I shall tell him all about Pestalozzi,
Fellenburg, and Pere Gerard's schools. You shall not even know who Pere
Gerard 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 Stael 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.

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