Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “I have that letter at home,” said Mr. Percy: “your lordship shall see it. I perfectly recollect the circumstances of Mr. Henry’s having been brought up in Ireland by a Dublin merchant, and having received constantly a remittance in quarterly payments of four hundred pounds a year, from a banker in Cork.”

  “Did he inquire why, or from whom?” said Lord Oldborough; “and does he know his mother?”

  “Certainly not: the answer to his first inquiries prevented all further questions. He was told by the bankers that they had directions to stop payment of the remittance if any questions were asked.”

  Lord Oldborough listened with profound attention as Mr. Percy went on with the history of Mr. Henry, relating all the circumstances of his honourable conduct with respect to Miss Panton — his disinterestedness, decision, and energy of affection.

  Lord Oldborough’s emotion increased — he seemed to recognize some traits of his own character.

  “I hope this youth is my son,” said his lordship, in a low suppressed voice.

  “He deserves to be yours, my lord,” said Mr. Percy.

  “To have a son might be the greatest of evils — to have such a son must be the greatest of blessings,” said his lordship. He was lost in thought for a moment, then exclaimed, “I must see the letter — I must see the man.”

  “My lord, he is at my house.”

  Lord Oldborough started from his seat—”Let me see him instantly.”

  “To-morrow, my lord,” said Mr. Percy, in a calm tone, for it was necessary to calm his impetuosity—”to-morrow. Mr. Henry could not be brought here to-night without alarming him, or without betraying to him the cause of our anxiety.”

  “To-morrow, let it be — you are right, my dear friend. Let me see him without his suspecting that I am any thing to him, or he to me — you will let me have the letter to-night.”

  “Certainly, my lord.”

  Mr. Percy sympathized with his impatience, and gratified it with all the celerity of a friend: the letter was sent that night to Lord Oldborough. In questioning his sons more particularly concerning Mr. Henry, Mr. Percy learnt from Erasmus a fresh and strong corroborating circumstance. Dr. Percy had been lately attending Mr. Gresham’s porter, O’Brien, the Irishman; who had been so ill, that, imagining himself dying, he had sent for a priest. Mr. Henry was standing by the poor fellow’s bedside when the priest arrived, who was so much struck by the sight of him, that for some time his attention could scarcely be fixed on the sick man. The priest, after he had performed his official duties, returned to Mr. Henry, begged pardon for having looked at him with so much earnestness, but said that Mr. Henry strongly reminded him of the features of an Italian lady who had committed a child to his care many years ago. This led to farther explanation, and upon comparing dates and circumstances, Mr. Henry was convinced that this was the very priest who had carried him over to Ireland — the priest recognized him to be the child of whom he had taken charge; but farther, all was darkness. The priest knew nothing more — not even the name of the lady from whom he had received the child. He knew only that he had been handsomely rewarded by the Dublin merchant, to whom he had delivered the boy — and he had heard that this merchant had since become bankrupt, and had fled to America. This promise of a discovery, and sudden stop to his hopes, had only mortified poor Mr. Henry, and had irritated that curiosity which he had endeavoured to lull to repose.

  Mr. Percy was careful, both for Mr. Henry’s sake and for Lord Oldborough’s, not to excite hopes which might not ultimately be accomplished. He took precautions to prevent him from suspecting any thing extraordinary in the intended introduction to Lord Oldborough.

  There had been some dispute between the present minister and some London merchant, about the terms of a loan which had been made by Lord Oldborough — Mr. Gresham’s house had some concern in this transaction; and it was now settled between Mr. Percy and Lord Oldborough, that his lordship should write to desire to see Mr. Henry, who, as Mr. Gresham’s partner, could give every necessary information. Mr. Henry accordingly was summoned to Clermont-park, and accompanied Mr. Percy, with his mind intent upon this business.

  Mr. Henry, in common with all who were capable of estimating a great public character, had conceived high admiration for Lord Oldborough; he had seen him only in public, and at a distance — and it was not without awe that he now thought of being introduced to him, and of hearing and speaking to him in private.

  Lord Oldborough, meanwhile, who had been satisfied by the perusal of the letter, and by Mr. Percy’s information, waited for his arrival with extreme impatience. He was walking up and down his room, and looking frequently at his watch, which he believed more than once to have stopped. At length the door opened.

  “Mr. Percy, and Mr. Henry, my lord.”

  Lord Oldborough’s eye darted upon Henry. Struck instantly with the resemblance to the mother, Lord Oldborough rushed forward, and clasping him in his arms, exclaimed, “My son!”

  Tenderness, excessive tenderness, was in his look, voice, soul, as if he wished to repair in a moment the injustice of years.

  “Yes,” said Lord Oldborough, “now I am happy — now, I also, Mr. Percy, may be proud of a son — I too shall know the pleasures of domestic life. Now I am happy!” repeated he,

  “And, pleased, resigned

  To tender passions all his mighty mind.”

  March 26th, 1813.

  THE END

  HARRINGTON

  Harrington was published in three volumes in 1817 by R. Hunter, who was J. Johnson’s successor. The novel was written in response to a letter Edgeworth received from a Jewish–American reader called Rachel Mordecai, who chastised the author for anti-Semitism in her works. Edgeworth decided to attempt to rectify her previous prejudices in Harrington, with somewhat mixed results. The eponymous character loathes Jews as a young child and his hatred is fostered and encouraged by his unpleasant father. At school his opinion begins to alter and an encounter with a Jewish-American woman cements his change of mind and awakens him to his childhood prejudice. A fairly traditional romance and courtship plot is then complicated by a series of obstacles that deal with the question of the pervasive anti-Semitism of English society in the 19th century. The ending of the novel is problematic with tackling the issue of anti-Semitism and it left the opportunity for prejudiced readings of the text by Edgeworth’s contemporaries. Harrington also largely relegates Jewish characters to the periphery and does not encourage the reader to identify with their situation. The story of prejudice and racism is mediated through a reformed perpetrator rather than those who experience it.

  In 1753 the Jewish Naturalization Act was passed by the parliament of Britain as a reward for Jewish support for the government in the Jacobite rising of 1745. However, the law resulted in outrage from Tories, who feared for the Christian nature of the country and the Act was repealed in 1764. Jews had been re-admitted to England by Oliver Cromwell in 1656 for financial reasons, and in the same year the political theorist James Harrington suggested a bizarre policy of creating a Jewish Ireland; of removing the Anglo-Irish and giving the land to Jews. This is an interesting link to Edgeworth as an Anglo-Irish author who is addressing anti-Semitism: both the Jewish community and the Irish were hideously stereotyped and persecuted by the English and Edgeworth had already attempted to refute the racist and xenophobic depictions of the Irish. While there would later be 19th century novels, such as George Elliot’s Daniel Deronda, that approached anti-Semitism, Harrington was an intriguing work for its time and one inspired by the genuine desire of the author to amend her previous failings and ignorance.

  The first edition

  CONTENTS

  TO THE READER.

  CHAPTER I.

  CHAPTER II.

  CHAPTER III.

  CHAPTER IV.

  CHAPTER V.

  CHAPTER VI.

  CHAPTER VII.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  CHAPTER IX.

  CHAPTER X


  CHAPTER XI.

  CHAPTER XII.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  CHAPTER XV.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  CHAPTER XIX.

  TO THE READER.

  In my seventy-fourth year, I have the satisfaction of seeing another work of my daughter brought before the public. This was more than I could have expected from my advanced age and declining health.

  I have been reprehended by some of the public critics for the notices which I have annexed to my daughter’s works. As I do not know their reasons for this reprehension, I cannot submit even to their respectable authority. I trust, however, the British public will sympathize with what a father feels for a daughter’s literary success, particularly as this father and daughter have written various works in partnership.

  The natural and happy confidence reposed in me by my daughter puts it in my power to assure the public that she does not write negligently. I can assert that twice as many pages were written for these volumes as are now printed.

  The first of these tales, HARRINGTON, was occasioned by an extremely well-written letter, which Miss Edgeworth received from America, from a Jewish lady, complaining of the illiberality with which the Jewish nation had been treated in some of Miss Edgeworth’s works.

  The second tale, ORMOND, is the story of a young gentleman, who is in some respects the reverse of Vivian. The moral of this tale does not immediately appear, for the author has taken peculiar care that it should not obtrude itself upon the reader.

  Public critics have found several faults with Miss Edgeworth’s former works — she takes this opportunity of returning them sincere thanks for the candid and lenient manner in which her errors have been pointed out. In the present Tales she has probably fallen into many other faults, but she has endeavoured to avoid those for which she has been justly reproved.

  And now, indulgent reader, I beg you to pardon this intrusion, and, with the most grateful acknowledgments, I bid you farewell for ever.

  RICHARD LOVELL EDGEWORTH.

  Edgeworthstown, May 31,1817.

  Note — Mr. Edgeworth died a few days after he wrote this Preface — the 13th June, 1817.

  CHAPTER I.

  When I was a little boy of about six years old, I was standing with a maid-servant in the balcony of one of the upper rooms of my father’s house in London — it was the evening of the first day that I had ever been in London, and my senses had been excited, and almost exhausted, by the vast variety of objects that were new to me. It was dusk, and I was growing sleepy, but my attention was awakened by a fresh wonder. As I stood peeping between the bars of the balcony, I saw star after star of light appear in quick succession, at a certain height and distance, and in a regular line, approaching nearer and nearer. I twitched the skirt of my maid’s gown repeatedly, but she was talking to some acquaintance at the window of a neighbouring house, and she did not attend to me. I pressed my forehead more closely against the bars of the balcony, and strained my eyes more eagerly towards the object of my curiosity. Presently the figure of the lamp-lighter with his blazing torch in one hand, and his ladder in the other, became visible; and, with as much delight as philosopher ever enjoyed in discovering the cause of a new and grand phenomenon, I watched his operations. I saw him fix and mount his ladder with his little black pot swinging from his arm, and his red smoking torch waving with astonishing velocity, as he ran up and down the ladder. Just when he reached the ground, being then within a few yards of our house, his torch flared on the face and figure of an old man with a long white beard and a dark visage, who, holding a great bag slung over one shoulder, walked slowly on, repeating in a low, abrupt, mysterious tone, the cry of “Old clothes! Old clothes! Old clothes!” I could not understand the words he said, but as he looked up at our balcony he saw me — smiled — and I remember thinking that he had a good-natured countenance. The maid nodded to him; he stood still, and at the same instant she seized upon me, exclaiming, “Time for you to come off to bed, Master Harrington.”

  I resisted, and, clinging to the rails, began kicking and roaring.

  “If you don’t come quietly this minute, Master Harrington,” said she, “I’ll call to Simon the Jew there,” pointing to him, “and he shall come up and carry you away in his great bag.”

  The old man’s eyes were upon me; and to my fancy the look of his eyes and his whole face had changed in an instant. I was struck with terror — my hands let go their grasp — and I suffered myself to be carried off as quietly as my maid could desire. She hurried and huddled me into bed, bid me go to sleep, and ran down stairs. To sleep I could not go, but full of fear and curiosity I lay, pondering on the thoughts of Simon the Jew and his bag, who had come to carry me away in the height of my joys. His face with the light of the torch upon it appeared and vanished, and flitted before my eyes. The next morning, when daylight and courage returned, I asked my maid whether Simon the Jew was a good or a bad man? Observing the impression that had been made upon my mind, and foreseeing that the expedient, which she had thus found successful, might be advantageously repeated, she answered with oracular duplicity, “Simon the Jew is a good man for naughty boys.” The threat of “Simon the Jew” was for some time afterwards used upon every occasion to reduce me to passive obedience; and when by frequent repetition this threat had lost somewhat of its power, she proceeded to tell me, in a mysterious tone, stories of Jews who had been known to steal poor children for the purpose of killing, crucifying, and sacrificing them at their secret feasts and midnight abominations. The less I understood, the more I believed.

  Above all others, there was one story — horrible! most horrible! — which she used to tell at midnight, about a Jew who lived in Paris in a dark alley, and who professed to sell pork pies; but it was found out at last that the pies were not pork — they were made of the flesh of little children. His wife used to stand at the door of her den to watch for little children, and, as they were passing, would tempt them in with cakes and sweetmeats. There was a trap-door in the cellar, and the children were dragged down; and — Oh! how my blood ran cold when we came to the terrible trap-door. Were there, I asked, such things in London now?

  Oh, yes! In dark narrow lanes there were Jews now living, and watching always for such little children as me; I should take care they did not catch me, whenever I was walking in the streets; and Fowler (that was my maid’s name) added, “There was no knowing what they might do with me.”

  In our enlightened days, and in the present improved state of education, it may appear incredible that any nursery-maid could be so wicked as to relate, or any child of six years old so foolish as to credit, such tales; but I am speaking of what happened many years ago: nursery-maids and children, I believe, are very different now from what they were then; and in further proof of the progress of human knowledge and reason, we may recollect that many of these very stories of the Jews, which we now hold too preposterous for the infant and the nursery-maid to credit, were some centuries ago universally believed by the English nation, and had furnished more than one of our kings with pretexts for extortion and massacres.

  But to proceed with my story. The impression made on my imagination by these horrible tales was greater than my nursery-maid intended. Charmed by the effect she had produced, she was next afraid that I should bring her into disgrace with my mother, and she extorted from me a solemn promise that I would never tell any body the secret she had communicated. From that moment I became her slave, and her victim. I shudder when I look back to all I suffered during the eighteen months I was under her tyranny. Every night, the moment she and the candle left the room, I lay in an indescribable agony of terror; my head under the bed-clothes, my knees drawn up, in a cold perspiration. I saw faces around me grinning, glaring, receding, advancing, all turning at last into the same face of the Jew with the long beard and the terrible eyes; and that bag, in which I fancied were mangled limbs of children — it
opened to receive me, or fell upon my bed, and lay heavy on my breast, so that I could neither stir nor scream; in short, it was one continued nightmare; there was no refreshing sleep for me till the hour when the candle returned and my tyrant — my protectress, as I thought her — came to bed. In due course she suffered in her turn; for I could not long endure this state, and, instead of submitting passively or lying speechless with terror, the moment she left the room at night I began to roar and scream till I brought my mother and half the house up to my bedside. “What could be the matter with the child?” Faithful to my promise, I never betrayed the secrets of my prison-house. Nothing could be learned from me but that “I was frightened,” that “I could not go to sleep;” and this, indeed, my trembling condition, and convulsed countenance, sufficiently proved. My mother, who was passionately fond of me, became alarmed for my health, and ordered that Fowler should stay in the room with me every night till I should be quite fast asleep.

  So Fowler sat beside my bed every night, singing, caressing, cajoling, hushing, conjuring me to sleep: and when in about an hour’s time, she flattered herself that her conjurations had succeeded; when my relaxing muscles gave her hope that she might withdraw her arm unperceived; and when slowly and dexterously she had accomplished this, and, watching my eyelashes, and cautiously shading the candle with her hand, she had happily gained the door; some slipping of the lock, some creaking of the hinge, some parting sound startled me, and bounce I was upright in my bed, my eyes wide open, and my voice ready for a roar: so she was compelled instantly to return, to replace the candle full in my view, to sit down close beside the bed, and, with her arm once more thrown over me, she was forced again to repeat that the Jew’s bag could not come there, and, cursing me in her heart, she recommenced her deceitful songs. She was seldom released in less than two hours. In vain she now tried by day to chase away the terrors of the night: to undo her own work was beyond her power. In vain she confessed that her threats were only to frighten me into being a good boy. In vain she told me that I was too old now to believe such nonsense. In vain she told me that Simon was only an old-clothes-man, that his cry was only “Old clothes! Old clothes!” which she mimicked to take off its terror; its terror was in that power of association which was beyond her skill to dissolve. In vain she explained to me that his bag held only my old shoes and her yellow petticoat. In vain she now offered to let me see with my own eyes. My imagination was by this time proof against ocular demonstration. One morning early, she took me down stairs into the housekeeper’s room, where Simon and his bag were admitted; she emptied the bag in my presence, she laughed at my foolish fears, and I pretended to laugh, but my laugh was hysterical. No power could draw me within arm’s-length of the bag or the Jew. He smiled and smoothed his features, and stroked his white beard, and, stooping low, stretched out his inoffensive hand to me; my maid placed sugared almonds on the palm of that hand, and bid me approach and eat. No! I stood fixed, and if the Jew approached, I ran back and hid my head in Fowler’s lap. If she attempted to pull or push me forwards I screamed, and at length I sent forth a scream that wakened my mother — her bell rang, and she was told that it was only Master Harrington, who was afraid of poor Simon, the old-clothes-man. Summoned to the side of my mother’s bed, I appeared nearly in hysterics — but still faithful to my promise, I did not betray my maid; — nothing could be learned from me but that I could not bear the sight of Old Simon the Jew. My mother blamed Fowler for taking me down to see such a sort of a person. The equivocating maid replied, that Master Harrington could not or would not be asy unless she did; and that indeed now it was impossible to know how to make him asy by day or by night; that she lost her natural rest with him; and that for her part she could not pretend to stand it much longer, unless she got her natural rest. Heaven knows my natural rest was gone! But, besides, she could not even get her cup of tea in an evening, or stir out for a mouthful of fresh air, now she was every night to sing Master Harrington to sleep.