The Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth, Vol. 1
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Maria Edgeworth >> The Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth, Vol. 1
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Pray tell my dear aunt that I am not ungrateful for all the kindness she
showed to me while I was with her: it rejoiced my heart to hear her say,
when she took leave of me, that she did not love me less for knowing me
better.
Kitty wakened me this morning saying, "Dear, ma'am, how charming you
smell of coals! quite charming!" and she snuffed the ambient air.
[Footnote: The coal burnt at Black Castle was naturally more agreeable
to Mrs. Billamore (a faithful servant) than the bog turf used at
Edgeworthstown.]
_To_ MISS SOPHY RUXTON.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _July_ 2, 1794,
having the honour to be the fair
day of Edgeworthstown, as is well
proclaimed to the neighbourhood
by the noise of pigs squeaking,
men bawling, women brawling,
and children squealing, etc.
I will tell you what is going on, that you may see whether you like your
daily bill of fare.
There are, an' please you, ma'am, a great many good things here. There
is a balloon hanging up, and another going to be put on the stocks:
there is soap made, and making from a receipt in Nicholson's
_Chemistry_: there is excellent ink made, and to be made by the same
book: there is a cake of roses just squeezed in a vice, by my father,
according to the advice of Madame de Lagaraye, the woman in the black
cloak and ruffles, who weighs with unwearied scales, in the frontispiece
of a book, which perhaps my aunt remembers, entitled _Chemie de gout et
de l'odorat._ There are a set of accurate weights, just completed by the
ingenious Messrs. Lovell and Henry Edgeworth, partners: for Henry is now
a junior partner, and grown an inch and a half upon the strength of it
in two months. The use and ingenuity of these weights I do, or did,
understand; it is great, but I am afraid of puzzling you and disgracing
myself attempting to explain it; especially as, my mother says, I once
sent you a receipt for purifying water with charcoal, which she avers to
have been above, or below, the comprehension of any rational being.
My father bought a great many books at Mr. Dean's sale. Six volumes of
_Machines Approuves_, full of prints of paper mills, gunpowder mills,
_machines pour remonter les batteaux, machines pour_--a great many
things which you would like to see I am sure over my father's shoulder.
And my aunt would like to see the new staircase, and to see a kitcat
view of a robin redbreast sitting on her nest in a sawpit, discovered by
Lovell, and you would both like to pick Emmeline's fine strawberries
round the crowded oval table after dinner, and to see my mother look so
much better in the midst of us.
If these delights thy soul can move,
Come live with us and be our love.
_To_ MRS. RUXTON.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Aug. 11, 1794._
Nothing wonderful or interesting, nothing which touches our hopes or
fears, which either moves us to laugh or to be doleful, can happen
without the idea of Aunt Ruxton immediately arising. This, you will
think, is the preface to at least either death or marriage; but it is
_only_ the preface to a history of Defenders.
There have been lately several flying reports of Defenders, but we never
thought the danger _near_ till to-day. Last night a party of forty
attacked the house of one Hoxey, about half a mile from us, and took, as
usual, the arms. They have also been at Ringowny, where there was only
one servant left to take care of the house; they took the arms and broke
all the windows. To-day Mr. Bond, our high sheriff, paid us a _pale_
visit, thought it was proper something should be done for the internal
defence of the town of Edgeworthstown and the County of Longford, and
wished my father would apply to him for a meeting of the county. My
father first rode over to the scene of action, to inquire into the truth
of the reports; found them true, and on his return to dinner found Mr.
Thompson of Clonfin, and Captain Doyle, nephew to the general and the
wounded colonel, who is now at Granard. Captain Doyle will send a
sergeant and twelve to-morrow; to-night a watch is to sit up, but it is
supposed that the sight of two redcoats riding across the country
together will keep the evil sprites from appearing to mortal eyes "this
watch." My father has spoken to many of the householders, and he
imagines they will come here to a meeting to-morrow, to consider how
best they can defend their lands and tenements; they bring their arms to
my father to take care of. You will be surprised at our making such a
mighty matter of a visit from the Defenders, you who have had soldiers
sitting up in your kitchen for weeks; but you will consider that this is
our first visit.
The arts of peace are going on prosperously. The new room is almost
built, and the staircase is completed: long may we live to run up and
down it.
_To_ MISS RUXTON.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, 1794.
I will treat you, my dear Letty, like a lady for once, and write to you
upon blue-edged paper, because you have been ill: if you should be well
before you receive this, I shall repent of the extravagance of my
friendship. I believe it was you--or my aunt, the teller of all good
things--who told me of a lady who took a long journey to see her sister,
who she heard was very ill; but, unfortunately, the sister was well
before she got to her journey's end, and she was so provoked, that she
quarrelled with her well sister, and would never have anything more to
do with her.
You will look very blank when you come back from the sea, and find what
doings there have been at Black Castle in your absence. Anna was
extremely sorry that she could not see you again before she left
Ireland; but you will soon be in the same kingdom again, and _that is
one great point gained_, as Mr. Weaver, a travelling astronomical
lecturer, who carried the universe about in a box, told us. "Sir," said
he to my father, "when you look at a map, do you know that the east is
always on your right hand, and the west on your left?"--"Yes," replied
my father, with a very modest look, "I believe I do."--"Well," said the
man of learning, "_that's one great point gained._"
_To_ MRS. RUXTON.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, 1795.
My father returned late on Friday night, bringing with him a very bad
and a very good thing; the bad thing was a bad cold--the good is Aunt
Mary Sneyd. Emmeline was delayed some days at Lichfield by the broken
bridges, and bad roads, floods and snows, which have stopped man, and
beast, and mail coaches. Mr. Cox, the man who sells camomile drops under
the title of Oriental Pearls, wrote an apology to my Aunt Mary for
neglecting to send the Pearls in the following elegant phrase: "That the
mistake she mentioned he could no ways account for but by presuming that
it must have arisen from impediments occasioned by the inclemencies of
the season!"
When my father went to see Lord Charlemont, he came to meet him, saying,
"I must claim relationship with you, Mr. Edgeworth. I am related to the
Abbe Edgeworth, who is I think an honour to the kingdom--I should say to
human nature."
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _April 11, 1795._
My father and Lovell have been out almost every day, when there are no
robbers to be committed to jail, at the Logograph.[Footnote: A name
invented to suit the anti-Gallican prejudices of the day.] This is the
new name instead of the Telegraph, because of its allusion to the
logographic printing press, which prints words instead of letters.
Phaenologue was thought of, but Logograph sounds better. My father will
allow me to manufacture an essay on the Logograph, he furnishing the
solid materials and I spinning them. I am now looking over, for this
purpose, Wilkins's _Real Character, or an Essay towards a Universal
Philosophical Language._ It is a scarce and very ingenious book; some of
the phraseology is so much out of the present fashion, that it would
make you smile: such as the synonym for a little man, a Dandiprat.
Likewise two prints, one of them a long sheet of men with their throats
cut, so as to show the windpipe whilst working out the different letters
of the alphabet. The other print of all the birds and beasts packed
ready to go into the ark.
Sir Walter James has written a very kind and sensible letter to my
father, promising all his influence with his Viceregal brother-in-law
about the telegraph. My father means to get a letter from him to Lord
Camden, and present it himself, though he rather doubts whether, all
things taken together, it is prudent to tie himself to Government. The
raising the militia has occasioned disturbances in this county. Lord
Granard's carriage was pelted at Athlone. The poor people here are
robbed every night. Last night a poor old woman was considerably
roasted: the man, who called himself Captain Roast, is committed to
jail, he was positively sworn to here this morning. Do you know what
they mean by the White Tooths? Men who stick two pieces of broken
tobacco pipes at each corner of the mouth, to disguise the face and
voice.
_April_ 20.
Here is a whirlwind in our county, and no angel to direct it, though
many booted and spurred desire no better than to ride _in_ it. There is
indeed an old woman in Ballymahon, who has been the guardian angel of
General Crosby; she has averted a terrible storm, which was just ready
to burst over his head. The General, by mistake, went into the town of
Ballymahon, before his troops came up; and while he was in the inn, a
mob of five hundred people gathered in the street. The landlady of the
inn called General Crosby aside, and told him, that if the people found
him they would certainly tear him to pieces. The General hesitated, but
the abler general, the landlady, sallied forth and called aloud in a
distinct voice, "Bring round the chaise-and-four for the gentleman
_from_ Lanesborough, who is going _to_ Athlone." The General got into
the chaise incog., and returning towards Athlone met his troops, and
thus effected a most admirable retreat.
_Monday Night._
Richard [Footnote: His last visit to Ireland. He returned to America,
and died there in 1796.] and Lovell are at the Bracket Gate. I hope you
know the Bracket Gate, it is near Mr. Whitney's, and so called, as
tradition informs me, from being painted red and white like a bracket
cow. I am not clear what sort of an animal a bracket cow is, but I
suppose it is something not unlike a dun cow and a gate joined together.
Richard and Lovell have a nice tent, and a clock, and white lights, and
are trying nocturnal telegraphs, which are now brought to satisfactory
perfection.
I am finishing "Toys and Tasks;" I wish I might insert your letter to
Sneyd, [Footnote: Mrs. Elizabeth Edgeworth's second boy.] with the
receipt for the dye, as a specimen of experiments for children. Sneyd
with sparkling eyes returns you his sincere thanks, and my mother with
her love sends you the following lines, which she composed to-day for
him:
To give me all that art can give,
My aunt and mother try:
One teaches me the way to live,
The other how to _dye._
But though she makes epigrams, my mother is far from well.
* * * * *
This year _Letters for Literary Ladies_, Miss Edgeworth's first
published work, was produced by Johnson. In 1796 she published the
collection of stories known as _The Parent's Assistant._ In these, in
the simplest language, and with wonderful understanding of children, and
what would come home to their hearts, she continued to illustrate the
maxims of her father. The "Purple Jar" and "Lazy Laurence" are perhaps
the best-known stories of the first edition. To another was added
"Simple Susan," of which Sir Walter Scott said, "That when the boy
brings back the lamb to the little girl, there is nothing for it but to
put down the book and cry." Most of these stories were written in the
excitement of very troubled times in Ireland.
* * * * *
MARIA EDGEWORTH _to_ MRS. RUXTON.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN,
_Saturday Night, Jan. 1796._
My father is gone to a Longford committee, where he will I suppose hear
many dreadful Defender stories: he came home yesterday fully persuaded
that a poor man in this neighbourhood, a Mr. Houlton, had been murdered,
but he found he was only _kilt_, and "as well as could be expected,"
after being twice robbed and twice cut with a bayonet. You, my dear
aunt, who were so brave when the county of Meath was the seat of war,
must know that we emulate your courage; and I assure you in your own
words, "that whilst our terrified neighbours see nightly visions of
massacres, we sleep with our doors and windows unbarred."
I must observe though, that it is only those doors and windows which
have neither bolts nor bars, that we leave unbarred, and these are more
at present than we wish, even for the reputation of our valour. All that
I crave for my own part is, that if I am to have my throat cut, it may
not be by a man with his face blackened with charcoal. I shall look at
every person that comes here very closely, to see if there be any marks
of charcoal upon their visages. Old wrinkled offenders I should suppose
would never be able to wash out their stains; but in others a _very_
clean face will in my mind be a strong symptom of guilt--clean hands
proof positive, and clean nails ought to hang a man.
_To_ MISS S. RUXTON.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Feb. 27, 1796._
Long may you feel impatient to hear from your friends, my dear Sophy,
and long may you express your impatience as agreeably. I have a great
deal bottled, or rather bundled up for you. Though I most earnestly wish
that my father was in that situation [Footnote: M.P. for the County of
Longford.] which Sir T. Fetherstone now graces, and though my father had
done me the honour to let me copy his Election letters for him, I am not
the least infected with the electioneering rage. Whilst the Election
lasted we saw him only a few minutes in the course of the day, then
indeed he entertained us to our hearts' content; now his mind seems
relieved from a disagreeable load, and we have more of his company.
You do not mention Madame Roland, therefore I am not sure whether you
have read her; if you have only read her in the translation which talks
of her Uncle Bimont's dying of a "fit of the gout _translated_ to his
chest," you have done her injustice. We think some of her memoirs
beautifully written, and like Rousseau: she was a great woman and died
heroically, but I don't think she became more amiable, and certainly not
more happy by meddling with politics; _for_--her head is cut off, and
her husband has shot himself. I think if I had been Mons. Roland I
should not have shot myself for her sake, and I question whether he
would not have left undrawn the trigger if he could have seen all she
intended to say of him to posterity: she has painted him as a harsh,
stiff, pedantic man, to whom she devoted herself from a sense of duty;
her own superiority, and his infinite obligations to her, she has taken
sufficient pains to blazon forth to the world. I do not like all this,
and her duty work, and her full-length portrait _of_ herself _by_
herself. The foolish and haughty Madame de Boismorrel, who sat upon the
sofa, and asked her if she ever wore feathers, was probably one of the
remote causes of the French Revolution: for Madame Roland's Republican
spirit seems to have retained a long and lively remembrance of this
aristocratic visit.
As soon as the blind bookseller [Footnote: A pedlar who travelled
through the country, and sometimes picked up at sales curious books new
and old.] can find them for us, we shall read Miss Williams's _Letters._
I am glad we both prefer the same parts in Dr. Aikin's _Letters_: I
liked that on the choice of a wife, but I beg to except the word
_helper_, which is used so often and is associated with a helper in the
stables. Lovell dined with Mr. Aikin at Mr. Stewart's, at Edinburgh, and
has seen the Comte d'Artois, who he says has rather a silly face,
especially when it smiles. Sneyd is delighted with the four volumes of
_Evenings at Home_, which we have just got, and has pitched upon the
best stories, which he does not, like M. Dalambert, spoil in the
reading--"Perseverance against Fortune," "The Price of a Victory," and
"Capriole." We were reading an account of the pinna the other day, and
very much regretted that your pinna's brown silk tuft had been eaten by
the mice--what will they not eat?--they have eaten my thimble case! I am
sorry to say that, from these last accounts of the pinna and his cancer
friend, Dr. Darwin's beautiful description is more poetic than accurate.
The cancer is neither watchman nor market-woman to the pinna, nor yet
his friend: he has free ingress to his house, it is true, and is often
found there, but he does not visit on equal terms, or on a friendly
footing, for the moment the pinna gets him in he shuts the door and eats
him; or if he is not hungry, kills the poor shrimp and keeps him in the
house till the next day's dinner. I am sorry Dr. Darwin's story is not
true.
_Saturday Night._
I do not know whether you ever heard of a Mr. Pallas, who lives at
Grouse Hall. He lately received information that a certain Defender was
to be found in a lone house, which was described to him; he took a party
of men with him in the night, and got to the house very early in the
morning: it was scarcely light. The soldiers searched the house, but no
man was to be found. Mr. Pallas ordered them to search again, for that
he was certain the man was there: they searched again, in vain. They
gave up the point, and were preparing to mount their horses when one man
who had stayed a little behind his companions, saw something moving at
the end of the garden behind the house: he looked again, and beheld a
man's arm come out of the ground. He ran towards the spot and called his
companions, but the arm had disappeared; they searched, but nothing was
to be seen, and though the soldier persisted in his story he was not
believed. "Come," said one of the party, "don't waste your time here
looking for an apparition among these cabbage-stalks, come back once
more to the house." They went to the house, and there stood the man they
were in search of, in the middle of the kitchen.
Upon examination, it was found that a secret passage had been practised
from the kitchen to the garden, opening under an old meal chest with a
false bottom, which he could push up and down at pleasure. He had
returned one moment too soon.
I beg, dear Sophy, that you will not call my little stories by the
sublime title of "my works," I shall else be ashamed when the little
mouse comes forth. The stories are printed and bound the same size as
_Evenings at Home_, but I am afraid you will dislike the title; my
father had sent _The Parent's Friend_, [Footnote: Mr. Edgeworth had
wished the book to bear this title.] but Mr. Johnson has degraded it
into _The Parent's Assistant_, which I dislike particularly, from
association with an old book of arithmetic called _The Tutor's
Assistant._
* * * * *
This was the first appearance of _The Parent's Assistant_, in one small
volume, with the "Purple Jar," which afterwards formed part of
_Rosamond._
* * * * *
_To_ MRS. RUXTON.
1796.
We heard from Lovell [Footnote: Gone to London with Mr. Edgeworth's
telegraphic invention.] last post. He had reached London, and waited
immediately on Colonel Brownrigg, who was extremely civil, and said he
would present him any day he pleased to the Duke of York. He was
delighted with the telegraphic prospect in his journey: from Nettlebed
to Long Compton, a distance of fifty miles, he saw plainly. He was
afraid that the motion of the stage would have been too violent to agree
with his model telegraph--"his pretty, delicate little telly," as Lovell
calls it. He therefore indulged her all the way with a seat in a
post-chaise, "which I bestowed upon her with pleasure, because I am
convinced that, when she comes to stand in the world upon ground of her
own, she will be an honour to her guardian, her parents, and her
country."
* * * * *
Miss Edgeworth now began to write some of the stories which were
afterwards published under the title of _Moral Tales_, but which she at
first intended as a sequel to _The Parent's Assistant_; and she began to
think of writing _Irish Bulls._
* * * * *
_To_ MISS SOPHY RUXTON.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Oct. 1797._
I do not like to pour out the gratitude I feel for your unremitting
kindness to me, my dear Sophy, in vain thanks; but I may as well pour it
out in words, as I shall probably never be able to return the many good
turns you have done me. I am not nearly ready yet for _Irish Bulls._ I
am going directly to _Parent's Assistant._ Any good anecdotes from the
age of five to fifteen, good latitude and longitude, will suit me; and
if you can tell me any pleasing misfortunes of emigrants, so much the
better. I have a great desire to draw a picture of an anti-Mademoiselle
Panache, a well-informed, well-bred French governess, an emigrant.
By the blind bookseller my father will send you some books, and I hope
that we shall soon have finished Godwin, that he may set out for Black
Castle. There are some parts of his book [Footnote: _Essays_, by the
author of _Caleb Williams._] that I think you will like much--"On
Frankness," and "Self-taught Genius;" but you will find much to blame in
his style, and you will be surprised that he should have written a
dissertation upon English style. I think his essay on Avarice and
Profusion will please you, even after Smith: he has gone a step farther.
I am going to write a story for boys, [Footnote: _The Good Aunt._] which
will, I believe, make a volume to follow the _Good French Governess._ My
father thinks a volume of trials and a volume of plays would be good for
children. He met the other day with two men who were ready to go to law
about a horse which one had bought from the other, because he had one
little fault. "What is the fault?" said my father. "Sir, the horse was
standing with us all the other day in our cabin at the fire, and plump
he fell down upon the middle of the fire and put it out; and it was a
mercy he didn't kill my wife and children as he fell into the midst of
them all. But this is not all, sir; he strayed into a neighbour's field
of oats, and fell down in the midst of the oats, and spoiled as much as
he could have eaten honestly in a week. But that's not all, sir; one
day, please your honour, I rode him out in a hurry to a fair, and he lay
down with me in the ford, and I lost my fair."
* * * * *
For the last few years Mrs. Elizabeth Edgeworth's sisters, Charlotte and
Mary Sneyd, had lived entirely at Edgeworthstown, not only beloved and
honoured by the children of their two sisters, but tenderly welcomed and
cherished by the children of their predecessor, especially by Maria, to
whom no real aunts could have been more dear. During the seventeen years
through which her married life lasted, Mrs. Elizabeth Edgeworth had
become increasingly the centre of the family circle, to which she had
herself added five sons and four daughters. In every relation of life
she was admirable. Through the summer of 1797 her health rapidly
declined, and in November she died.
Mr. Edgeworth, then past fifty, had truly valued his third wife, of whom
he said that he had "never seen her out of temper, and never received
from her an unkind word or an angry look." Yet, when he lost her, after
his peculiar fashion, he immediately began to think of marrying again.
Dr. Beaufort, Vicar of Collon, was an agreeable and cultivated man, and
had long been a welcome guest at Mrs. Ruxton's house of Black Castle.
His eldest daughter, who was a clever artist, had designed and drawn
some illustrations for Maria Edgeworth's stories. With these Mr.
Edgeworth found fault, and the good-humour and sense with which his
criticisms were received charmed him, and led to an intimacy. Six months
after his wife's death he married Miss Beaufort.
It may sound strange, but it is nevertheless true, that, in Miss
Beaufort, even more than in her predecessors, he gave to his children a
wise and kind mother, and a most entirely devoted friend.
* * * * *
MISS EDGEWORTH _to_ MISS BEAUFORT.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _May 16, 1798._
Whilst you, my dear Miss Beaufort, have been toiling in Dublin, my
father has been delighting himself in preparations for June. The little
boudoir looks as if it intends to be pretty. This is the only room in
the house which my father will allow to be finished, as he wishes that
your taste should finish the rest. Like the man who begged to have the
eclipse put off, we have been here praying to have the spring put off,
as this place never looks so pretty as when the lilacs and laburnums are
in full flower. I fear, notwithstanding all our prayers, that their
purple and yellow honours will be gone before your arrival. There is one
other flower which I am sure will not be in blow for you, "a little
western flower called love in idleness." Amongst the many kindnesses my
father has shown me, the greatest, I think, has been his permitting me
to see his heart _a decouverte_; and I have seen, by your kind sincerity
and his, that, in good and cultivated minds, love is no _idle_ passion,
but one that inspires useful and generous energy. I have been convinced
by your example of what I was always inclined to believe, that the power
of feeling affection is increased by the cultivation of the
understanding. The wife of an Indian yogii (if a yogii be permitted to
have a wife) might be a very affectionate woman, but her sympathy with
her husband could not have a very extensive sphere. As his eyes are to
be continually fixed upon the point of his nose, hers in duteous
sympathy must squint in like manner; and if the perfection of his virtue
be to sit so still that the birds (_vide_ Sacontala) may unmolested
build nests in his hair, his wife cannot better show her affection than
by yielding her tresses to them with similar patient stupidity. Are
there not European yogiis, or men whose ideas do not go much further
than _le bout du nez_? And how delightful it must be to be chained for
better for worse to one of this species! I should guess--for I know
nothing of the matter--that the courtship of an ignorant lover must be
almost as insipid as a marriage with him; for "my jewel" continually
repeated, without new setting, must surely fatigue a little.
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