The Life and Letters of Maria Edgeworth, Vol. 2
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Maria Edgeworth >> The Life and Letters of Maria Edgeworth, Vol. 2
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At last the music was heard, and very pretty it was, and mother and
children were happy; and Sir Walter stopped on his fine gray horse, and
said, "You see, I have kept my word," and then galloped off. A sergeant
then came up to me with a slip of paper in his hand, saying, "Can you
read _write?_" I said, I believed I could, and made out for him the
route to Castle Pollard: the sound of the music died away, and we
returned to breakfast. "Sire, il n'y a de circonstance ou on ne prend
pas de dejeuner," as the man said to Buonaparte.
You will have seen in the newspapers the court-martial about Lord
Brudenell and the 15th Hussars: Lord Forbes, in giving me an account of
the matter, said, "Walter Scott, by his conduct, and the way in which he
gave his testimony, covered himself with glory,"--told the truth like a
man and a gentleman.
You may have also seen mentioned the murder of Captain Skyring, of the
_Aetna_, of which Henry Beddoes was second lieutenant, off the coast of
Africa. He wrote a few lines to Fanny after the catastrophe; happily for
him he was kept by some duty on board. It was imprudent of Captain
Skyring to attempt to land, and take observations, without having his
ship near enough to defend him. The natives, all with arms, came round
him, and began by stealing everything they could lay their hands on.
Captain Skyring drew a circle round his circle, forbidding the thieves
to pass it; but they passed it, and one was seizing the instrument in
his hand, when the captain fired and killed the man; and then they all
fell upon him, stabbed him with their pikes and knives, stripped the
body, and left it with seventeen wounds. Our people afterwards got it
back. We know no more as yet, but that Captain Beaufort was extremely
shocked and grieved.
I have no domestic occurrence to tell you, except that a robin, who for
several seasons has frequented this house, and Lucy's room particularly,
has this spring grown so familiar, that he began to build his nest in
Lucy's old bonnet, laid a great heap of leaves in it, which we used to
see him bringing in his bill, the leaves often as large as his body.
Yesterday morning Betty the housemaid said to your mother, "Ma'am, when
I opened the hall door this morning, the robin flew in over my head, and
knowing his way wherever he wanted to go through the doors, just as if
he was master of the house, ma'am! And he sits down before a door, and
_looks_ to have it opened for him." Dear little, impudent fellow! This
packet concludes my chronicle of Connemara.
_To_ C.S. EDGEWORTH.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _March 14, 1834_.
Having now done with business I may turn to a little pleasure; a great
deal you have given me, my dear Sneyd, by your friend Mr. Smedley's
approbation of _Helen_. His polite playful allusion to the names of the
horses, which names at this moment I forget, reminds me of a similar
touch of the Duchess of Wellington in describing one of the Duke's
battles, she quoted from the _Knapsack_, "Let the sugar basin be my
master."
I have written to Fanny about Lady Charlotte Fitzgerald's death. I was
very much shocked at it: I loved her; she was one of my earliest
friends--"Leaf by leaf drops away."
_To_ MISS RUXTON.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _March 22, 1834_.
With all my heart I congratulate you on being in possession of your
cottage. [Footnote: Dunmoe Cottage, at the end of the Black Castle
demesne, about two miles from the house.] Harriet Butler told us how
happy the people of Black Castle and Navan were, when they heard you
were coming to live amongst them again. You are now as busy as possible
arranging your things and considering how all and each of your friends
will like what you do, and I am--very conceited--sure that you often
think of Maria among the number, and that you have even already thought
of a footstool for her. Emmeline has, by the bye, invented and executed,
and given to my mother, the most ingenious footstool I ever saw, which
folds up and can be put into a work-bag. She has also sent the nicest
most agreeable presents to the little Foxes--a kaleidoscope, a little
watering-pot, and a pair of little tin scales with weights; they set
about directly weighing everything that could be put into them, ending
with sugar-plums and sugar-candy.
We have been much amused with _The Kuzzilbash_ and by _Bubbles from the
Brunnen_, by Captain Head.
_To_ MISS RUXTON.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _July 29, 1834_.
I cannot, my dear Lady of Dunmoe, tell when I can be with you; go I will
before autumn runs away with all your leaves, but I am afraid I must let
autumn turn them of a sober hue, though I will not let it go to the sear
and yellow. In plain prose I am tied down now by rents and business.
We have been dining at Mrs. Blackall's, and there met her pretty sister,
Mrs. Johnstone, and very intelligent Captain Johnstone, a Berkshire man
from near Hare Hatch, and had a very agreeable day, and much
conversation on books and authors, and found that the _Diary of an
Ennuyee_ and _Female Characters of Shakespeare_, both very clever books,
are by a lady who was governess to Mrs. Blackall and her sisters. Mrs.
Rolle, her mother, read the _Diary of an Ennuyee_, and wondered when she
saw "Mr. and Mrs. R.," and all the places and people they had seen
abroad, till she came to the name of Laura, and some lines to her by
which she discovered that the author must be their former governess,
Miss Murphy, now married to a very clever lawyer. [Footnote: Mrs.
Jameson.] All the woes and heart-breakings are mere fable in the
_Diary_. Her last book, _Visits and Sketches at Home and Abroad_, I
like; there is a great deal of thought and feeling in it.
* * * * *
Miss Edgeworth's _Helen_ would never have been finished but for the
encouragement shown by her sister Harriet, and her interest in the
story. It is more of a "novel" than any of its predecessors, has more
imagination, and its interest centres more around one person. Its object
is to show how many of the troubles of social life arise from want of
absolute truthfulness. Its principle is depicted in the explanation of
one of its characters: "I wish that the word _fib_ was out of the
English language, and _white lie_ drummed after it. Things by their
right names, and we should all do much better. Truth must be told,
whether agreeable or not."
_Helen_ was well received by the public, but Miss Edgeworth had great
diffidence about it. To Dr. Holland she wrote:
* * * * *
I am very glad that you have been pleased with _Helen_--far above my
expectations! and I thank you for that warmth of kindness with which you
enter into all the details of the characters and plan of the story.
Nothing but regard for the author could have made you give so much
importance to my tale. It has always been my fault to let the moral I
had in view appear too soon and too clearly, and I am not surprised that
my old fault, notwithstanding some pains which I certainly _thought_ I
took to correct it, should still abide by me.
_To_ MRS. STARK. [Footnote 1: Who had sent Miss Edgeworth a long
criticism from her cousin, Colonel Matthew Stewart (son of Dugald
Stewart), on her _Helen_.]
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Sept. 6, 1834_.
Some of my friends, knowing the timidity, not to say cowardice, of my
nature, have feared that I should be _daunted_ by Colonel Stewart's most
just observations upon the defects and deficiencies of my past manner
and principles of novel-writing; but, on the contrary, I, who know
myself better, feel that, _in spite_ of my timidity, I am, instead of
being daunted, encouraged by such criticism. Such a writer and such a
noble mind as Colonel Stewart's having bestowed so much thought and time
upon me and my fictions, raises both them and myself in my own opinion
far more than could the largest "draught of unqualified praise"
[Footnote: Quoted from Mr. Croker, who said that nothing ever satisfied
an author, but _large draughts of unqualified praise_.] from any common
critic. From feeling that he does justice in many points to the past, I
rely upon his prophecies as to the future, and I feel my ambition
strongly excited by his belief that I CAN, and his prognostic that I
shall do better hereafter. Boileau says, "Trust a critic who puts his
finger at once upon what you know to be your infirm part." I had often
thought and said to myself some of those things which Colonel Stewart
has written, but never so strongly expressed, so fully brought home: my
own rod of feathers did not do my business. I had often and often a
suspicion that my manner was too Dutch, too minute; and very, very
often, and warmly, admired the bold, grand style of the master hand and
master genius. I _know_ I feel how much _more is to be done, ought to
be_ done, by suggestion than by delineation, by creative fancy than by
facsimile copying,--how much more by skilful selection and fresh and
consistent combination--than can be effected by the most acute
observation of individuals, or diligent accumulation of particulars.
But where I have erred or fallen short of what it is thought I might
have done, it has not been from "drawing from the life, or from
individuals, or from putting together actions or sayings noted in
commonplace books from observation or hearsay in society." I have seldom
or ever drawn any one character--certainly not any ridiculous or faulty
character, from any individual. Wherever, in writing, a real character
rose to my view, from memory or resemblance, it has always been hurtful
to me, because, to avoid that resemblance, I was tempted by cowardice or
compelled by conscience to throw in differences, which often ended in
making my character inconsistent, unreal.
At the hazard of talking too much of myself, which people usually do
when once they begin, I must tell my penetrating critic exactly the
facts, as far as I know them, about my _habits of composition_. He will
at least see, by my throwing open my mind thus, that he has not made me
afraid of him, but has won my confidence, and made me look for his
future sympathy and assistance. I have no "vast magazine of a
commonplace book." In my whole life, since I began to write, which is
now, I am concerned to state, upwards of forty years, I have had only
about half a dozen little note-books, strangely and irregularly kept,
sometimes with only words of reference to some book, or fact I could not
bring accurately to mind. At first I was much urged by my father to note
down remarkable traits of character or incidents, which he thought might
be introduced in stories; and he often blamed that idleness or laziness,
as he thought it in me, which resisted his urgency. But I was averse to
noting down, because I was conscious that it did better for me to keep
the things in my head, if they suited my purpose; and if they did not,
they would only encumber me. I knew that, when I wrote down, I put the
thing out of my care, out of my head; and that, though it might be put
by very safe, I should not know where to look for it; that the labour of
looking over a note-book would never do when I was in the warmth and
pleasure of inventing; that I should never recollect the facts or ideas
at the right time, if I did not put them up in my own way in my own
head: that is, if I felt with hope or pleasure "that thought or that
fact will be useful to me in such a character or story, of which I have
now a first idea, the same fact or thought would recur, I knew, when I
wanted it, in right order for invention." In short, as Colonel Stewart
guessed, the process of combination, generalisation, invention, was
carried on always in my head best. Wherever I brought in _bodily_
unaltered, as I have sometimes done, facts from real life, or sayings,
or recorded observations of my own, I have almost always found them
objected to by good critics as unsuited to the character, or in some way
_de trop_. Sometimes, when the first idea of a character was taken from
life from some ORIGINAL, and the characteristic facts noted down, or
even noted only in my head, I have found it necessary entirely to alter
these, not only from propriety, to avoid individual resemblance, but
from the sense that the character would be only an EXCEPTION to general
feeling and experience, not a rule. In short, exactly what Colonel
Stewart says about "the conical hills" being the worst subjects for
painters. As an instance I may mention King Corny, who is, I believe,
considered more of a fancy piece, more as a _romantic_ character than my
usual common-life Dutch figures: the _first idea_ of him was taken from
the facts I heard of an oddity, a man, I believe, like no other, who
lived in a remote part of Ireland, an ingenious despot in his own
family, who blasted out of the rock on which his house was built half a
kitchen, while he and family and guests were living in the house; who
was so passionate, that children, grown-up sons, servants and all, ran
out of the house at once when he fell into a passion with his own
tangled hair; a man who used, in his impatience and rages, to call at
the head of the kitchen stairs to his servants, "Drop whatever you have
in your hand, and come here and be d----d!" He was generous and
kind-hearted, but despotic, and conceited to the most ludicrous degree:
for instance, he thought he could work gobelin tapestry and play on the
harp or mandolin better than any one living.
One after another, in working out King Corny, from the first wrong hint
I was obliged to give up every fact, except that he propped up the roof
of his house and built downwards, and to generalise all; to make him a
man of expedients, of ingenious substitutes, such as any clever Irishman
in middle life is used to. I was obliged to retain, but soften, the
despotism, and exalt the generosity, to make it a character that would
interest. Not one word I ever heard said by the living man, or had ever
heard repeated of his saying, except "Drop what you have," etc., went
into my King Corny's mouth--would not have suited him. I was obliged to
make him according to the general standard of wit and acuteness, shrewd
humour and sarcasm, of that class of _unread_ natural geniuses, an
overmatch for Sir Ulick, who is of a more cultivated class of acute and
roguish Irish gentlemen. Colonel Stewart sees from this how far he has
guessed rightly as to several points, but I think I have always aimed
more at making my characters representatives of classes than he
conceives. It is plain that I have not attained my aim.
I never could use notes in writing Dialogues; it would have been as
impossible to me to get in the prepared good things at the right moment
in the warmth of writing conversation, as it would be to lug them in in
real conversation, perhaps more so--for I could not write dialogues at
all without being at the time fully impressed with the characters,
imagining myself each speaker, and that too fully engrosses the
imagination to leave time for consulting note-books; the whole fairy
vision would melt away, and the warmth and the pleasure of invention be
gone. I might often, while writing, recollect from books or life what
would suit, and often from note-book, but then I could not stop to look,
and often quoted therefore inaccurately. I have a quick recollective
memory and retentive for the sort of things I particularly want; they
will recur to me at the moment I want them years and years after they
have lain dormant, but alas! my memory is inaccurate, has hold of the
object only by one side--the side or face that struck my imagination,
and if I want more afterwards I do not know even where to look for it. I
mention this because Dugald Stewart once was curious to know what sort
of memory I had, whether recollective or retentive.
I understand what Colonel Stewart so admirably says about parable,
apologue, and fables being general truths and morals which cannot be
conveyed or depended upon equally when we come to modern novels, where
Lady B. or Lord D. are not universal characters like Fox or Goose. I
acknowledge that even a perfectly true character absolutely taken as a
fac-simile from real life would not be interesting in a fiction, might
not be believed, and could not be useful. The value of these odd
characters depends, I acknowledge, upon their being actually known to be
true. In history, extraordinary characters always interest us with all
their inconsistencies, feeling we thus add to our actual knowledge of
human nature. In fiction we have not this _conviction_, and therefore
not this sort or source of pleasure even if ever so well done; if it be
quite a new inconsistency we feel doubtful and averse; but we submit
when we know _it is_ true: we say, "don't therefore tell me it is not in
human nature."
I am not sure that I agree with Colonel Stewart about particular morals
to stories, but this point might lead to long and intricate discussion.
I feel and admire all he says so eloquently, I am sure from his own
heart, touching the advantage of raising the standard of our moral
ambition; and the higher this standard can be raised by works of fiction
the better. I feel and understand how many poets and novelists have
raised in the mind that sort of enthusiasm which exalts and purifies the
soul. Happy and gifted with heaven's best gift must be the poet, the
inventor of any sort of fiction that can raise this enthusiasm. I
recollect Mrs. Barbauld's lines describing--
Generous youth that feeds
On pictured tales of vast heroic deeds.
How I wish I could furnish, as Scott has, some of those pictured tales
coloured to the life; but I fear I have not that power, therefore it is
perhaps that I strive to console myself for my deficiencies by
flattering myself that there is much, though not such glorious use, in
my own lesser manner and department. The great virtues, the great vices
excite strong enthusiasm, vehement horror, but after all it is not so
necessary to warn the generality of mankind against these, either by
precept or example, as against the lesser faults; we are all
sufficiently aware that we must not break the commandments, and the
reasons against all vices all feel even to the force of demonstration,
but demonstration does not need and cannot receive additional force from
fiction. The Old Bailey trials, _Les Causes Celebres_, come with more
force, as with the force of actual truth, than can any of the finest
fictions producing what Colonel Stewart calls "momentary belief in the
reality of a fictitious character or event." Few readers do or can put
themselves in the places of great criminals, or fear to yield to such
and such temptations; they know that they cannot fall to the depth of
evil at once, and they have no sympathy, no fear; their spirits are not
"put in the act of falling." But show them the steep path, the little
declivity at first, the step by step downwards, and they tremble. Show
them the postern gates or little breaches in their citadel of virtue,
and they fly to guard these; in short, show to them their own little
faults which may lead on to the greatest, and they shudder; that is, if
this be done with truth and brought home to their consciousness. This is
all, which by reflection on my own mind and comparison with others and
with records in books full as much as observations on living subjects, I
feel or fancy I have sometimes done or can do.
But while I am thus _ladling_ out praise to myself in this way, I do not
flatter myself that I deserve the quantity of praise which Colonel
Stewart gives me for laborious observation, or for steadiness and nicety
of dissection. My father, to whose judgment I habitually refer to help
out my own judgment of myself, and who certainly must from long
acquaintance, to say no more, have known my character better than any
other person can, always reproached me for trusting too much to my hasty
glances, _apercus_, as he called them, of character or truths; and often
have I had, and have still (past my grand climacteric) to repent every
day my mistaken conclusions and hasty jumps to conclusions. Perhaps you
wish I should jump to conclusion now, and so I will.
_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.
DUNMOE COTTAGE, _Nov. 8, 1834_.
I hope, my dear mother, that you have been wondering every day, and
wondering _greatly_ that you have never yet heard from Maria. I like
that you should wonder and be provoked at not hearing from me, because
when a letter comes it is opened with much more appetite than if you had
not been kept famishing.
I have not told you how very nice and comfortable Sophy and Margaret
Ruxton have made this cottage, and the situation is charming, and the
view beautiful. I am reading Hannah More's _Letters_, and am entertained
with them. I found at Black Castle four volumes of _Madame d'Abrantes_,
which I had never read: the eleventh volume begins with her going to
Portugal, and though half may be lies _well dressed_, yet almost all are
entertaining.
_To_ MRS. R. BUTLER.
DUNMOE COTTAGE, _Nov. 28, 1834_.
I have got the cushions, and am sitting on one of them, and Sophy and
Margaret like them, and think how happy I am, though it is pouring rain,
which affects my happiness very little, except for the boy's sake who is
to carry this. I have some boy-anity.
The glorious orb the day refines,
The gossoon warms his shins and dines.
_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Jan. 27, 1835_.
We have been amusing ourselves with Lady Morgan's _Princess_,
exceedingly amusing, both by its merits and its absurdities,--that
harlequin princess in her blouse is wonderfully clever and
preposterous,--a Belgian Corinna. Mr. Butler has detected various errors
in her historical remarks and allusions, but that it is excessively
entertaining nobody can deny. The hero is like one of the seven sleepers
not quite awakened, or how could he avoid finding out who this woman is
who pursues him in so many forms? But we must grant a romance writer a
few impossibilities.
* * * * *
Mrs. Edgeworth adds:
* * * * *
Maria was always so much interested in a story that she would not stop
to reason upon it. I remember when Lady Morgan's _O'Donnell_ was being
read out in the year 1815, at the scene of M'Rory's appearance in the
billiard room, when Mr. Edgeworth said, "This is quite improbable;"
Maria exclaimed, "Never mind the improbability, let us go on with the
entertainment."
MARIA _to_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Jan. 28, 1835_.
The other night Harriet stood beside my bed before tea-time, and when I
started up and said, "Tea is ready, I suppose," she told me that Mr. and
Mrs. Danvers Butler and Miss Taylor were coming to tea. I thought it was
a dream, but she explained,--they had come to Briggs's inn on their way
to the County of Cavan, and could get no beds. Luckily we had two
unoccupied rooms. Honora managed it all exceedingly well, and Barry took
Mr. Danvers Butler in hand while he had dinner; the ladies preferred tea
and coffee. They seemed much pleased by their reception. Mrs. Danvers
Butler was a Miss Freemantle, and when I mentioned Lady Culling Smith
and our Connemara adventures, she said she knew her very well and the
Carrs, "all musical, highly accomplished, and such a united family." How
oddly these little _feltings_ of society go on in this way, working into
one another little fibres of connection so strangely!
In the morning Briggs's four horses were put to their heavy chaise, and
with main difficulty it was got through the yard and to the door, but
not all the power of all the servants and four or five people besides
could prevail upon these half-flayed-alive beasts to stir from the
door--they would only _back_. So at last Barry was so kind as to send
his man Philip with our black horses with them to Granard. We had as
many thanks as well-bred people could give, and a cordial invitation to
Leicestershire, if that could do us any good. Mr. Danvers Butler is
handsome and gentleman-like, and she is charming: she had with her a
favourite little Italian greyhound, with a collar of little gilt bells
round her neck, which delighted the children, and she in return admired
the children, Willy especially.
Lady Stafford--or the Countess-Duchess of Sutherland's magnificent
memoir of her Duke, bound in morocco, with a beautiful engraving of him,
reached me yesterday, but I have been in such a bother of tenants and
business, I have had time only to look at the engraving and the kind
inscription to myself.
* * * * *
Mrs. Edgeworth writes:
* * * * *
At the time of the general election in 1835, Maria was placed in a
painful position as her brother's agent. The tenants were forced by the
priests to vote against their landlord, and in his absence my
son-in-law, Captain Fox, who had been much interested for the defeated
candidate, wished to punish the refractory tenants by forcing them to
pay up what is called the _hanging gale_ of rent. Maria was grieved at
any proceeding which would interrupt the long-continued friendship
between these tenants and their landlord, and she was also anxious that
there should be no misunderstanding between her brother and her
brother-in-law. Captain Fox wrote to Sneyd to explain his views, and
upon receiving Sneyd's letter in reply Maria writes to him of her
sentiments on the occasion.
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