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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M. de Bonstettin--Gray the poet's friend--told me that in Sweden, about
thirty years ago, he saw potatoes in the corner of a gentleman's garden
as a curiosity. "They tell me, sir," said the gentleman, "that in some
countries they eat the roots of this plant!" Now they are cultivated
there, and the people have become fond of them.
* * * * *
With M. de Stael and Madame de Broglie Miss Edgeworth was particularly
happy. It had been reported that Madame de Stael had said of Maria's
writings "que Miss Edgeworth etait digne de l'enthousiasme, mais qu'elle
s'est perdue dans la triste utilite." "Ma mere n'a jamais dit ca,"
Madame de Broglie indignantly declared, "elle etait incapable!" She saw,
indeed, the enthusiastic admiration which Maria felt for her mother's
genius, and she was gratified by the regard and esteem which Maria
showed for her and her brother, and the sympathy she expressed in their
affection for each other, and in their kindness to their little Rocca
brother.
* * * * *
MARIA _to_ MISS HONORA EDGEWORTH.
LYONS, HOTEL DU NORD, _Oct. 22, 1820_.
Lyons! is it possible that I am really at Lyons, of which I have heard
my father speak so much? Lyons! where his active spirit once reigned,
and where now scarce a trace, a memory of him remains. The Perraches all
gone, Carpentiers no more to be heard of, Bons a name unknown; De la
Verpilliere--one descendant has a fine house here, but he is in the
country.
The look of the town and the fine facades of the principal buildings,
and the Place de Bellecour, were the more melancholy to me from knowing
them so well in the prints in the great portfolio, with such a radiance
thrown over them by his descriptions. I hear his voice saying, La Place
de Bellecour and l'Hotel de Ville--these remain after all the horrors of
the Revolution--but human creatures, the best, the ablest, the most full
of life and gaiety, all passed away.
It is a relief to my mind to pour out all this to you. I do not repent
having come to Lyons; I should not have forgiven myself if I had not.
I have been writing to dear Mrs. Moilliet--nothing could exceed her
kindness and Mr. Moilliet's. Dumont was excessively touched at parting
with us, and gave Fanny and Harriet _La Fontaine_ and _Gresset_, and to
me a map of the lake--of the tour we took so happily together.
_To_ MRS. RUXTON.
PARIS, _Nov. 1820_.
Never lose another night's sleep, or another moment's thought on the
_Quarterly Review_ [Footnote: An article on Maria Edgeworth's _Memoirs_
of her Father, full of doubt, ridicule, misrepresentation, and acrimony.
Miss Edgeworth never read this _Review_ till 1835, when she was induced
to do so by a letter from Mr. Peabody alluding to it. It was then
powerless to give her pain, for its anonymous falsehoods had long fallen
into oblivion.]--I have never read and never will read it.
I write this merely to tell you that I have at last had the pleasure of
seeing Madame la Comtesse de Vaudreuil, the daughter of your friend; she
is an exceedingly pleasing woman, of high fashion, with the remains of
great beauty, courteous and kind to us beyond all expectation. She had
but a few days in Paris, and she made out two for us; she took us to the
Conciergerie to see, by lamp-light, the dungeons where the poor Queen
and Madame Elizabeth were confined, now fitted up as little chapels. In
the Queen's is an altar inscribed with her letter to the King,
expressing forgiveness of her enemies. Tears streamed from the eyes of
the young Countess de Vaudreuil, the daughter-in-law, as she looked at
this altar, and the place where the Queen's bed was. Who do you think
accompanied us to this place? Lady Beauchamp, Lady Longford's mother, a
great friend of Madame de Vaudreuil's, with whom we dined the next day,
and who had procured for us the Duc de Choiseul's box at the Theatre
Francais, when the house was to be uncommonly crowded to see
Mademoiselle Duchenois in _Athalie_ "avec tous les choeurs," and a most
striking spectacle it was! I had never seen Mademoiselle Duchenois to
perfection before.
MRS. MARCET _to_ MARIA EDGEWORTH.
MALAGNY, _Nov. 15, 1820_.
I cannot make up my mind, my dear friend, to take my departure
[Footnote: Mrs. Marcet was just setting out for Italy.] for a still more
distant country without again bidding you adieu. I have hesitated for
some time past, "Shall I or shall I not write to Miss Edgeworth?" for I
felt that I could not write without touching on an article in the
_Quarterly_--a subject which makes my blood boil with indignation, and
which rouses every feeling of contempt and abhorrence. I might indeed
refrain from the expression of these sentiments, but how could I
restrain all those feelings of the warmest interest, the tenderest
sympathy, and the softest pity for your wounded feelings? I well
remember the wish you one day so piously expressed to me that your
father could look down from heaven and see the purity and zeal of your
intentions in writing his _Memoirs_; I am sure your HEAVENLY FATHER does
see them. And I feel that this unjust, unchristian, inquisitorial attack
will not only develop fresh sentiments of the tenderest nature in your
friends, but also rally every human being of sound sense around you.
MARIA EDGEWORTH _to_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.
PARIS, _Nov. 15, 1820_.
You would scarcely believe, my dear friends, the calm of mind and the
sort of satisfied resignation I feel as to my father's _Life_. I suppose
the two years of doubt and extreme anxiety that I felt, exhausted all my
power of doubting. I know that I have done my very best, I know that I
have done my duty, and I firmly believe that if my dear father could see
the whole he would be satisfied with what I have done.
We have seen Mademoiselle Mars twice, or thrice rather, in the _Mariage
de Figaro_ and in the little pieces of _Le Jaloux sans amour_, and _La
jeunesse de Henri Cinq_, and admire her exceedingly. _En petit comite_
the other night at the Duchesse d'Escars, a discussion took place
between the Duchesse de la Force, Marmont, and Pozzo di Borgo, on the
_bon et mauvais ton_ of different expressions--_bonne societe_ is an
_expression bourgeoise_--you may say _bonne compagnie_ or _la haute
societe_. "Voila des nuances," as Madame d'Escars said. Such a wonderful
jabbering as these grandees made about these small matters. It put me in
mind of a conversation in the _World_ on good company which we all used
to admire.
We have seen a great deal of our dear Delesserts, and of Madame de
Rumford, [Footnote: First married to Lavoisier, the celebrated chemist,
then to Count Rumford, the scientist, from whom she was separated for
many years. She was now again a widow.] who gave us a splendid and most
agreeable dinner. And one evening with the Princess Potemkin, who
is--take notice--only a Princess by courtesy, as she has married a
Potemkin, who is not a Prince, and though she was born Princess
Galitzin, she loses her rank by marrying an inferior, according to
Russian and French custom, and they are, with reason, surprised at our
superior gallantry, once a lady always a lady. But whether Princess or
not Princess, our Madame Potemkin is most charming, and you may bless
your stars that you are not obliged to read a page of panegyric upon
her. She was as much delighted to see us again, as we were to see her;
she was alone with Madame de Noisville, that happy mixture of my Aunt
Fox [Footnote: Mary, wife of Francis Fox, elder sister of Mr. Edgeworth
and Mrs. Ruxton.] and Mrs. Lataffiere. We went from Madame Potemkin to
Madame d'Haussonville's, with her we found Madame de Bouille playing at
billiards, just in the attitude in which we had left her three months
ago. Saturday I had a bad headache, but recovered in the evening; and
Monday we dined at Madame Potemkin's, where we met her aunt, a Princess
Galitzin, a thin, tall, odd, very clever woman, daughter to that Prince
Shuvaloff, to whom Voltaire wrote eternally, and she is _imbued_ with
anecdotes of that period, very well bred, and quick in conversation. She
is always afraid of catching cold, and always wears a velvet cap, and is
always wrapped up in shawls and pelisses in going from house to
house--_a cela pres_, a reasonable woman.
After leaving Madame Potemkin's we went to see--whom do you think? Guess
all round the breakfast-table before you turn over the leaf; if anybody
guesses right, I guess it will be Aunt Mary.
Madame de la Rochejacquelin [Footnote: Widow of the Vendean hero.]--She
had just arrived from the country, and we found ourselves in a large
hotel, in which all the winds of heaven were blowing, and in which, as
we went upstairs and crossed the ante-chambers, all was darkness, except
one candle which the servant carried before us. In a small bedroom, well
furnished, with a fire just lighted, we found Madame de la
Rochejacquelin lying on a sofa--her two daughters at work--one spinning
with a distaff, and the other embroidering muslin. Madame is a large fat
woman, with a broad round fair face, with a most open benevolent
expression, as benevolent as Molly Bristow's or as Mrs. Brinkley's. Her
hair cut short, and perfectly gray, as seen under her cap; the rest of
her face much too young for such gray locks, not at all the hard
weatherbeaten look that had been described to us; and though her face
and bundled form and dress, all _squashed_ on a sofa, did not at first
promise much of gentility, you could not hear her speak or see her for
three minutes without perceiving that she was well-born and well-bred.
She had hurt her leg, which was the cause of her lying on the sofa. It
seemed a grievous penance, as she is of as active a temper as ever. She
says her health is perfect, but a nervous disease in her eyes has nearly
deprived her of sight--she could hardly see my face, though I sat as
close as I could go to the sofa.
"I am always sorry," said she, "when any stranger sees me, parceque je
sais que je detruis toute illusion. Je sais que je devrais avoir l'air
d'une heroine, et surtout que je devrais avoir l'air malheureuse ou
epuise an moins--rien de tout cela, helas!"
She is much better than a heroine--she is benevolence and truth itself.
She begged her daughters to take us into the _salon_ to show us what she
thought would interest us. She apologised for the cold of these
rooms--and well she might; when the double doors were opened I really
thought Eolus himself was puffing in our faces; we shawled ourselves
well before we ventured in. At one end of the _salon_ is a picture of M.
de Lescure, and at the other, of Henri de la Rochejacquelin, by Gerard
and Girardet, presents from the King. Fine military figures. In the
boudoir is one of M. de la Rochejacquelin, much the finest of all--she
has never yet looked at this picture. Far from being disappointed, I was
much gratified by this visit.
_To_ MISS LUCY EDGEWORTH.
CALAIS, _Dec. 5, 1820_.
It is a great satisfaction to me, my dear Lucy, to feel that we are now
so much nearer to you, and that before I finish this little note we
shall be still nearer to you in the same United Kingdom, so that in
eight days we can have an answer to questions about you; what a
difference from the three long weeks we used to wait at Geneva.
And now, my dear Lucy, I must employ you to break to my mother an
important secret. Choose a proper time for speaking to her on the
subject, when she is not very busy, when her mind is at ease, that is,
when you are pretty well. My aunts and Honora may be in the room, if you
think proper. Begin by saying that I know both my mother and Lovell are
so kind and have such confidence in me that I am sure they will not
hastily object to the introduction of a new person into the family,
though they may perhaps feel a little surprised at hearing of my having
actually decided upon such a measure without writing first to consult
them. I have actually brought with me from Paris, and intend, unless I
am actually forbidden, to bring with me to Edgeworthstown, a French
washerwoman. I cannot expect that Lovell should build a house for her,
though I know he has long had it in contemplation to build a laundry;
but my little French woman does not require a house, she can live in our
house, if he and my mother, and my aunts please, and I will engage that
she shall give no sort of trouble, and shall cost nothing. She is a
_sourde et muette_, an elderly woman with a very good countenance,
always cheerful, and going on with her own business without minding
other people's. She was recommended to me by Madame Francois Delessert,
and has lived for some time in their family, much liked by all,
especially by the children, for whom she washed constantly, till one of
her legs was hurt, so that she cannot work now quite as well as
formerly. But still she washed so as to give general satisfaction. Fanny
and Harriet like her washing, and I am sure my aunts will like it and
her very much; and I think she might, till some other place be found for
her, sleep in my mother's dressing-room.
And here, my dear Lucy, I beg you will pause and hear what everybody
says about this washerwoman and this plan.
And after five minutes given to deliberation, go on and say, that if no
better place can be found for my washerwoman, she may stand on my
mother's chimney-piece! [Footnote: A pretty little French toy given by
Madame Francois Delessert.]
No more nonsense at present.
_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.
CALAIS, DESSIN'S HOTEL, _Dec. 5, 1820_.
Coming back to this place, to the same room where we were seven months
ago, the whole seems to me and to my companions like a delightful dream,
but in waking from Alps, and glaciers, and cascades, and _Mont Blanc_,
and troops of acquaintance in splendid succession and visionary
confusion, in waking from this wonderful dream, the sober certainty of
happiness remains and assures us that all which has passed is not a
dream. All our old friends at Paris are still more our friends than
ever, and many new ones made. Every expectation, every hope that I had
formed for this journey has been more than gratified, far surpassed by
the reality; and we return with thorough satisfaction to our own
country, looking to our dear home for permanent happiness, without a
wish unsatisfied or a regret for anything we have left behind, except
our friends.
_To_ MISS RUXTON.
MALI, CLIFTON, _Dec. 17, 1820_.
We have spent a week here with Emmeline, [Footnote: The eldest of Miss
Edgeworth's own sisters, wife of John King, Esq., of Clifton.] and very
happy I am that we were able to give her this pleasure. Zoe and Emmeline
are very nice-looking girls, pleasing in their manners and affectionate
in their dispositions.
We are not, tell my aunt, likely to be drawn in to talk or take any part
about the Queen, as we know nothing of her trial. She sent notice to
Lady Elizabeth Whitbread that she would dine with her if she knew the
hour. Lady Elizabeth answered that her hour varied from five to nine, as
it suited her son's convenience. The Queen took it as it was meant, as a
refusal.
_To_ MISS HONORA EDGEWORTH.
BOWOOD, _Dec. 20, 1820_.
I write to you sitting in the bow (or beau, or bay) window of the room
with yellow furniture with black stars, into which we were shown by Lady
Lansdowne. Oh, my dear Honora, how everything here reminds me of you!
Lady Lansdowne's reception of us was most cordial. She had been out
walking, and came to us only half dressed, with a shawl thrown over her.
Lord Lansdowne is at Bath, at an agricultural meeting. Mr. and Mrs. Ord
and their son, an Eton youth, are here; Lady Elizabeth and Captain
Fielding--he is very gentlemanlike and agreeable; Mr. Hallam; the two
Mr. Smiths, whom you remember, and Mr. Fazakerley--very clever; and best
of all, Miss Vernon and Miss Fox: she introduced to Fanny and Harriet
her niece, Miss Fox, very handsome and agreeable--not come out.
EASTON GREY, _Dec. 26_.
I intended this frank for my mother, but Mr. Ricardo turned it into Miss
instead of Mrs.; and why I asked for a frank at all I cannot tell,
except for the honour and glory of having one from David Ricardo. He has
been here one whole day, and is exceedingly agreeable. This house is
delightful, in a beautiful situation, fine trees, fine valleys, and soft
verdure, even at this season: the library-drawing-room with low sofas,
plenty of movable tables, open bookcases, and all that speaks the habits
and affords the means of agreeable occupation. Easton Grey might be a
happy model of what an English country gentleman's house should be; and
Mrs. Smith's kind, well-bred manners, and Mr. Smith's literary and
sensible conversation, make this house one of the most agreeable I ever
saw.
At Bowood there was a happy mixture of sense and nonsense. Lord
Lansdowne was talking to me on the nice little sofa by the fire very
seriously of Windham's life and death, and of a journal which he wrote
to cure himself of indecision of character. Enter suddenly, with a great
burst of noise from the breakfast-room, a tribe of gentlemen neighing
like horses. You never saw a man look more surprised than Lord
Lansdowne.
Re-enter the same performers on all-fours, grunting like pigs.
Then a company of ladies and gentlemen in dumb-show, doing a country
visit, ending with asking for a frank, curtseying, bowing, and
exit.--"_Neighbour_."
Then enter all the gentlemen, some with their fingers on their eyes,
some delighted with themselves.--"_I_."
Then re-enter Lord Lansdowne, the two Mr. Smiths, Mr. Hallam, and Mr.
Fazakerley, each with little dolls made of their pocket handkerchiefs,
nursing and playing with them.--"_Doll_."
Exit, and re-enter, carrying, and surrounding, and worshipping Mrs. Ord
in an arm-chair.--"_Idol_."
This does not do for sober reading, but it produced much laughter.
_27th_
We have been at Badminton: magnificent: library delightful. Here, as at
Trentham, a gallery opens into the chapel, also the village church, and
here is a great curiosity--Raphael's first chalk sketch of the
Transfiguration; that is, of all the figures in the lower part:
wonderfully fine, the woman kneeling, and the boy possessed, and the man
holding him--admirable. Some fine pictures, too, though not a professed
collection. Saw in the park a fine herd of red deer, the finest, it is
said, in England. How shall I find room to tell you of the Roman
pavements and Roman town found near this place, much better worth than
all I have been penning! For nonsense I always have time and space.
_To_ MRS. RUXTON.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _March 21_.
The Archbishop of Tuam breakfasted here this morning and sat with Lucy
in her room: he said he thought he should be the better all his life for
having seen such an example of patience and resignation in so young a
person. He says he was amused during the Queen's trial by the sight of
the processions in honour of Her Majesty: the glass manufacturers with
their brilliant wares, ladies in landaus with feathers, the most
extraordinary figures; and the Queen complains that her garden has been
destroyed and all her furniture broken by her polite visitors.
_March 29_.
_So_ you like to hear of all our little doings, _so_ I will tell you
that, about eight o'clock, Fanny being by that time up and dressed, and
at her little table, Harriet comes and reads to me Madame de Sevigne's
letters, of which I never tire; and I almost envy Fanny and Harriet the
pleasure of reading them for the first time. After breakfast I take my
little table into Lucy's room, and write there for an hour; she likes to
have me in her room, though she only hears the scribble, scribble: she
is generally reading at that hour, or doing Margaret's delight--algebra.
I am doing the _Sequel to Frank_. Walking, reading, and talking fill the
rest of the day. I do not read much, it tires my eyes, and I have not
yet finished the _Life of Wesley_: I think it a most curious,
entertaining, and instructive book. A _Life of Pitt_ by the Bishop of
Winchester is coming out: he wrote to Murray about it, who asked his
friends, "Who is George Winton, who writes to me about publishing Pitt's
_Life_?"
_April 21._
Enclosed is a letter from our friend the American Jewess, [Footnote:
Miss Mordecai of Richmond, on Maria's _Life_ of her father.] written in
a spirit of Christian charity and kindness which it were to be wished
that all Christians possessed. It has given me exquisite pleasure; and
you know I never feel great pleasure without instantly wishing that you
should share it. Lovell has asked this good Jewess and her _futur_ to
come here, if she should visit Europe. He is at home now, and kind as
ever to every creature within reach of his benevolence.
We have been reading Fleury's _Memoirs of Napoleon_. Get it in French:
it is very interesting, or we never could have got through it in the
wretched translation to which we were doomed.
Tell Sophy that Peggy Tuite, who turned into Peggy Mulheeran, has had a
dead child. When my mother said to her brother, "Do not let people crowd
in and heat her room," "Oh, ma'am, sure I am standing at the door since
three in the morning, sentinel, to keep them out," the tears dropping
from his eyes fast on the ground as he spoke. And all the time the old
_ould_ mother Tuite (who doats on Mrs. Ruxton-dear) was sitting rocking
herself to and fro, and "crying under the big laurel, that Peggy might
not hear her."
You may all praise erysipelas as much as you please, but I never desire
to see or feel it again. Our boy, Mick Duffy, has been ill with it these
ten days. Honora said to his father, Brian, "How can you be so fond of
Michael; now that he lives with us, you hardly ever see him!" "Oh, how
could I but be fond of him, the crater that sends me every guinea he
gets!"
_July 8_.
So Buonaparte is dead! and no change will be made in any country by the
death of a man who once made such a figure in the world! He who
commanded empires and sovereigns, a prisoner in an obscure island,
disputing for a bottle of wine, subject to the petty tyranny of Sir
Hudson Lowe! I regret that England permitted that trampling upon the
fallen. What an excellent dialogue of the dead might be written between
Buonaparte and Themistocles!
Ages ago I sent _Bracebridge Hall_ to Merrion Street for you: have you
got it? Next week another book will be there for you--an American novel
Mrs. Griffith sent to me, _The Spy_; quite new scenes and characters,
humour and pathos, a picture of America in Washington's time; a surgeon
worthy of Smollett or Moore, and quite different from any of their
various surgeons; and an Irishwoman, Betty Flanagan, incomparable.
_August 3._
What do you think is my employment out of doors, and what it has been
this week past? My garden? no such elegant thing; but making a gutter! a
sewer and a pathway in the street of Edgeworthstown; and I do declare I
am as much interested about it as I ever was in writing anything in my
life. We have never here yet found it necessary to have recourse to
public contribution for the poor, but it is necessary to give some
assistance to the labouring class; and I find that making the said
gutter and pathway will employ twenty men for three weeks.
Did you ever hear these two excellent _Tory_ lines made by a celebrated
_Whig?_
As bees alighting upon flowerets cease to hum,
So, settling upon places, Whigs grow dumb.
_August 8._
We are all in the joy of Francis' [Footnote: From Charterhouse; eldest
son of the fourth Mrs. Edgeworth.] arrival: Pakenham at the tea-table
has been standing beside him feeding him with red currants well sugared,
and between every currant he told us, as well as he could, the history
of his journey. "Talbot," Lord Talbot's son, who is his schoolfellow at
the Charterhouse, was so kind as to go outside, that Francis might have
an inside place at night. He met with so much good-nature from first to
last in his journey, he wonders how people can be so good-natured.
* * * * *
Many of Maria Edgeworth's friends in England having invited her to visit
them, she determined to spend the winter there, and set out in October
with her former travelling companions, Fanny and Harriet, the two eldest
daughters of the fourth Mrs. Edgeworth.
* * * * *
MARIA _to_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.
KENIOGE, _Oct. 23, 1821_.
We have had a most delightful day, after sleeping well at Gwindu: we
were in the carriage and off before the clock had finished striking six.
In an interval of showers in a bright gleam of sunshine we passed Bangor
Ferry: breakfasted nobly. Mr. Jackson, the old, old man, who some years
ago was all pear-shaped stomach, and stupid, has wonderfully shrunk and
revived, and is walking, alert and civil; and his fishy eyes brightened
with pleasure on hearing of his friend, Mr. Lovell. Fine old waiter, a
match in age and civility for the master; and a fine old dog, Twig, a
match for both, and as saucy as Foster; for Mrs. Twig would not eat
toast, unless buttered, forsooth!
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