Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  These are, without reserve, the only faults we found, or can find in this work of genius. We should scarcely have thought them worth mentioning, except to give you proof positive that we are not flatterers. Believe me, I have not, nor can I convey to you the full idea of the pleasure, the delight we have had in reading Waverley, nor of the feeling of sorrow with which we came to the end of the history of persons whose real presence had so filled our minds — we felt that we must return to the flat realities of life, that our stimulus was gone, and we were little disposed to read the “Postscript, which should have been a Preface.”

  “Well, let us hear it,” said my father, and Mrs. Edgeworth read on.

  Oh! my dear sir, how much pleasure would my father, my mother, my whole family, as well as myself have lost, if we had not read to the last page! And the pleasure came upon us so unexpectedly — we had been so completely absorbed that every thought of ourselves, of our own authorship, was far, far away.

  Thank you for the honour you have done us, [Footnote: Walter Scott, in his “Postscript,” said that it had been his desire in Waverley “in some distant degree to emulate the admirable Irish portraits drawn by Miss Edgeworth.”] and for the pleasure you have given us, great in proportion to the opinion we had formed of the work we had just perused — and believe me, every opinion I have in this letter expressed, was formed before any individual in the family had peeped to the end of the book, or knew how much we owed you. — Your obliged and grateful

  MARIA EDGEWORTH.

  To MISS RUXTON. EDGEWORTHSTOWN, Dec. 26, 1814.

  “A merry Christmas and a happy New Year” to you, my dear Sophy, and to my aunt, and uncle, and Margaret. I have just risen from my bed, where I had been a day and a half with a violent headache and pains, or as John Langan calls them, pins in my bones. We have been much entertained with Mansfield Park. Pray read Eugène et Guillaume, a modern Gil Blas; too much of opera intrigues, but on the whole it is a work of admirable ability. Guillaume’s character beautiful, and the gradual deterioration of Eugène’s character finely drawn; but the following it out becomes at last as disgusting and horrible as it would be to see the corruption of the body after the spirit had fled.

  January 1815.

  I send you some beautiful lines to Lord Byron, by Miss Macpherson, daughter of Sir James Macpherson. As soon as my father hears from the Dublin Society we shall go to Dublin.

  To MISS RUXTON. 15 BAGGOT STREET, DUBLIN, Feb 1815.

  Our time here has been much more agreeably spent than I had any hopes it would be. My father has been pleased at some dinners at Mr. Knox’s, Mr. Leslie Foster’s, and at the Solicitor-General’s. Mrs. Stewart is admirable, and Caroline Hamilton the most entertaining and agreeable good person I ever saw; she is as good as any saint, and as gay, and much gayer, than any sinner I ever happened to see, male or female.

  The Beauforts are at Mrs. Waller’s: they came up in a hurry, summoned by a Mrs. Codd, an American, or from America, who has come over to claim a considerable property, and wants to be identified. She went a journey when she was thirteen, with Doctor and Mrs. Beaufort and my mother, and they are the only people in this country who can and will swear to her and for her. I will tell you when we meet of her entrée with Sir Simon Bradstreet, — and I will tell you of Honora’s treading on the parrot at Mrs. Westby’s party, — and I will tell you of Fenaigle and his ABC. I think him very stupid. Heaven grant me the power of forgetting his Art of Memory.

  To C.S. EDGEWORTH. BLACK CASTLE, May 10, 1815.

  We, that is my father, mother, little Harriet, and I, went on Sunday last to Castletown — the two days we spent there, delightful. Lady Louisa Connolly is one of the most respectable, amiable, and even at seventy, I may say, charming persons I ever saw or heard. Having known all the most worthy, as well as the most celebrated people who have lived for the last fifty years, she is full of characteristic anecdote, and fuller of that indulgence for human creatures which is consistent with a thorough knowledge of the world, and a quick perception of all the foibles of human nature — with a high sense of religion, without the slightest tincture of ostentation, asperity, or bigotry. She is all that I could have wished to represent in Mrs. Hungerford, and her figure and countenance gave me back the image in my mind.

  Her niece, Miss Emily Napier, is graceful, amiable, and very engaging.

  My father went home with Harriet direct from Castletown, but begged my mother and me to return to Dublin for a fancy ball. We did not go to the Rotunda, but saw enough of it at Mrs. Power’s. Lady Clarke (Lady Morgan’s sister), as “Mrs. Flannigan, a half gentlewoman, from Tipperary,” speaking an admirable brogue, was by far the best character, and she had presence of mind and a great deal of real humour — her husband attending her with kitten and macaw.

  Next to her was Mrs. Robert Langrishe, as a Frenchwoman, admirably dressed. Mrs. Airey was a Turkish lady, in a superb dress, given to her by Ali Pasha. There were thatched “Wild Men from the North,” dancing and stamping with whips and clumping of the feet, from which Mrs. Bushe and I fled whenever they came near us. Having named Mrs. Bushe, I must mention that whenever I have met her, she has been my delight and admiration from her wit, humour, and variety of conversation.

  To MISS RUXTON. EDGEWORTHSTOWN, Aug. 1815.

  I send a note from Lady Romilly, and one from Mr. Whishaw: the four travellers mentioned in that note called upon us yesterday, — Mr. and Mrs. Smith, of Easton Grey, Miss Bayley, and Mr. Fuller. Mrs. Smith is stepdaughter to a certain Mrs. Chandler, who was very kind to me at Mrs. Day’s, and I was heartily glad to see her daughter, even stepdaughter, at Edgeworthstown, and my kind, dear, best of stepmothers seconded my intentions to my very heart’s wish: I am sure they went away satisfied. I gave them a note to Lady Farnham, which will I think produce a note of admiration! While these visitors were with us Mrs. Moutray came over from Lissard, and we rejoiced in pride of soul to show them our Irish Madame de Sevigné. Her Madame de Grignan is more agreeable than ever. Mrs. Moutray told me of a curious debate she heard between Lady C. Campbell, Lady Glenbervie, and others, on the Modern Griselda, with another lady, and a wager laid that she would not read it out to her husband. Wager lost by skipping.

  To MRS. RUXTON. October 16.

  I send you a letter of Joanna Baillie’s; her simple style is so different from the fine or the gossip style.

  Did you ever hear this epigram, a translation from Martial?

  Their utmost power the gods have shown,

  In turning Niobe to stone:

  But man’s superior power you see,

  Who turns a stone to Niobe.

  Here is an epigram quite to my taste, elegant and witty, without ill-nature or satire.

  Barry Fox has come home with his regiment,[Footnote: Captain Fox had been serving in Canada. On Buonaparte’s return from Elba, his regiment, the 97th, was summoned home. When the transport entered Plymouth harbour, and the officers were told that Buonaparte was in the vessel they had just sailed past, they thought it an absurd jest.] and is very gentlemanlike.

  January 10, 1816.

  The authoress of Pride and Prejudice has been so good as to send to me a new novel just published, Emma. We are reading France in 1814 and 1815, by young Alison and Mr. Tytler: the first volume good. We are also reading a book which delights us all, though it is on a subject which you will think little likely to be interesting to us, and on which we had little or no previous knowledge. I bought it on Mr. Brinkley’s recommendation, and have not repented — Cuvier’s Theory of the Earth. It is admirably written, with such perfect clearness as to be intelligible to the meanest, and satisfactory to the highest capacity.

  I have enlarged my plan of plays, which are not now to be for young people merely, but rather Popular Plays, [Footnote: Published in 1817, in one volume, containing “Love and Law.”] for the same class as Popular Tales. Excuse huddling things together. Mrs. O’Beirne, of Newry, who has been here, told us a curious story. A man near Granard robbed a farmer
of thirty guineas, and hid them in a hole in the church wall. He was hurried out of the country by some accident before he could take off his treasure, and wrote to the man he had robbed and told him where he had hid the money: “Since it can be of no use to me you may as well have it.” The owner of the money set to work grouting under the church wall, and many of the good people of Granard were seized with Mr. Hill’s fear there was a plot to undermine the church, and a great piece of work about it.

  March 21.

  I send a letter of Mrs. O’Beirne’s, telling of Archdeacon de Lacy’s

  [Footnote: It happened that when Albertine de Staël was to be married to

  M. de Broglie, at Florence, the only Protestant clergyman to be had was

  Archdeacon de Lacy, son-in-law to Mrs. Moutray, the friend of Nelson and

  Collingwood.] marrying Madame de Staël’s daughter to the Duc de Broglie!

  My father is pretty well to-day, and has been looking at a fine bed of

  crocuses in full blow in my garden, and is now gone out in the carriage,

  and I must have a scene ready for him on his return.

  I have been ever since you were here mending up the little plays; cobbling work, which takes a great deal of time, and makes no show.

  * * * * *

  It was in January 1816 that Maria Edgeworth received a letter from Miss Rachael Mordecai, of Richmond, Virginia, gently reproaching her with having so often made Jews ridiculous in her writings, and asking her to give a story with a good Jew. This was the origin of Harrington, and the commencement of a correspondence with Miss Mordecai, and of a friendship with her family.

  * * * * *

  To MRS. RUXTON. July 24.

  Mr. Strutt and his son have within these few minutes arrived here. He wrote only yesterday to say that being at Liverpool, he would not be so near Ireland without going to Edgeworthstown; I hope my father may be able to enjoy their company, but he was very ill all last night and this morning.

  August 25.

  I lose not a moment, my dearest aunt, in communicating to you a piece of intelligence which I am sure will give you pleasure: Lord Longford is going to be married — to Lady Georgiana Lygon, daughter of Lord Beauchamp. You will be glad to see the letter Lord Longford wrote upon the occasion.

  Everybody is writing and talking about Lord Byron, but I am tired of the subject. The all for murder, all for crime system of poetry will now go out of fashion; as long as he appeared an outrageous mad villain he might have ridden triumphant on the storm, but he has now shown himself too base, too mean, too contemptible for anything like an heroic devil. Pray, if you have an opportunity, read Haygarth’s poem of “Greece.” I like it much, I like the mind that produced it; the poetry is not always good, but there is a spirit through the whole that sustains it and that elevates and invigorates the mind of the reader.

  September 18.

  You know, my dear aunt, it is a favourite opinion of my father’s that things come in bundles: that people come in bundles is, I think, true, as, after having lived, without seeing a creature but our own family for months, a press of company comes all at once. The very day after the Brinkleys had come to us, and filled every nook in the house, the enclosed letter was brought to me. I was in my own little den, just beginning to write for an hour, as my father had requested I would, “let who would be in the house.” On opening the letter and seeing the signature of Ward, I was in hopes it was the Mr. Ward who made the fine speech and wrote the review of Patronage in the Quarterly, and of whom Madame de Staël said that he was the only man in England who really understood the art of conversation. However, upon re-examining the signature, I found that our gentleman who was waiting at the gate for an answer was another Ward, who is called “the great R. Ward” — a very gentlemanlike, agreeable man, full of anecdotes, bon-mots, and compliments. I wish you had been here, for I think you would have been entertained much, not only by his conversation, but by his character; I never saw a man who had lived in the world so anxious about the opinions which are formed of him by those with whom he is conversing, so quick at discovering, by the countenance and by implication, what is thought of him, or so incessantly alert in guarding all the suspected places in your opinion. He disclaimed memory, though he has certainly the very best of memories for wit and bon-mots that man was ever blessed with. Mr. Ward was Under-secretary of State during a great part of Pitt’s administration, and has been one of the Lords of the Admiralty, and is now Clerk of the Ordnance, and has been sent to Ireland to reform abuses in the Ordnance. He speaks well, and in agreeable voice. He told me that he had heard in London that I had a sort of Memoria Technica, by which I could remember everything that was said in conversation, and by certain motions of my fingers could, while people were talking to me, note down all the ridiculous points!! He happened to have passed some time in his early life at Lichfield, and knew Miss Seward, and Dr. Darwin, and various people my father and aunts knew; so this added to his power of making himself agreeable. Of all the multitude of good things he told us, I can only at this moment recollect the lines which he repeated, by Dr. Mansel, the Bishop of Bristol, on Miss Seward and Mr. Hayley’s flattery of each other: —

  ”Prince of poets, England’s glory,

  Mr. Hayley, that is you!”

  ”Ma’am, you carry all before you,

  Lichfield swan, indeed you do!”

  ”In epic, elegy, or sonnet,

  Mr. Hayley, you’re divine!”

  ”Madam, take my word upon it,

  You yourself are all the Nine.”

  Some of his stories at dinner were so entertaining, that even old George’s face cut in wood could not stand it; and John Bristow and the others were so bewildered, I thought the second course would never be on the table.

  November 18.

  We are reading one of the most entertaining and interesting and NEW books I ever read in my life — Tully’s Residence in Tripoli, written by the sister of the consul, who resided there for ten years, spoke the language, and was admitted to a constant intercourse with the ladies of the seraglio, who are very different from any seraglio ladies we ever before heard of. No Arabian tale is equal in magnificence and entertainment; no tragedy superior in strength of interest to the tragedy recorded in the last ten pages of this incomparable book. Some people affect to disbelieve, and say it is manufactured; but it would be a miracle that it was invented with such consistency.

  Jan 1817.

  Mr. Knox has come and gone: two of the plays were read to him. My father gave him a sketch of each, and desired him to choose: he chose the genteel comedy, “The Two Guardians,” and I read it; and those who sat by told me afterwards that Mr. Knox’s countenance showed he was much amused, and that he had great sympathy. For my part, I had a glaze before my eyes, and never once saw him while I was reading. He made some good criticisms, and in consequence I altered one scene, and dragged out Arthur Onslow by the head and heels — the good boy of the piece; and we found he was never missed, but the whole much lightened by throwing this heavy character overboard. Next night “The Rose, Thistle, and Shamrock”: Mr. Knox laughed, and seemed to enjoy it much.

  * * * * *

  Mr. Edgeworth was now failing rapidly, though as much interested as ever in all that was going on around. “How I do enjoy my existence!” he often exclaimed. His daughter, however, says that “he did not for his own sake desire length of life: he only prayed that his mind might not decay before his body,” and it did not; his mental powers were as bright and vigorous as ever to the last.

  On the 16th of February Maria Edgeworth read out to her father the first chapter of Ormond in the carriage going to Pakenham Hall to see Lord Longford’s bride. It was the last visit that Mr. Edgeworth paid anywhere. He had expressed a wish to his daughter that she should write a story as a companion to Harrington, and in all her anguish of mind at his state of health, she, by a remarkable effort of affection and genius, produced the earlier gay and brilliant pages of Ormond — some of t
he gayest and most brilliant she ever composed. The interest and delight which her father, ill as he was, took in this beginning, encouraged her to go on, and she completed the story. Harrington, written as an apology for the Jews, had dragged with her as she wrote it, and it dragged with the public. But in Ormond she was on Irish ground, where she was always at her very best. Yet the characters of King Corny and Sir Ulick O’Shane, and the many scenes full of wit, humour, and feeling, were written in agony of anxiety, with trembling hand and tearful eyes. As she finished chapter after chapter, she read them out — the whole family assembling in her father’s room to listen to them. Her father enjoyed these readings so exceedingly, that she was amply rewarded for the efforts she made.

  * * * * *

  MARIA to MISS RUXTON. EDGEWORTHSTOWN, May 31, 1817.

  This day, so anxiously expected, has arrived — the only birthday of my father’s for many, many years which has not brought unmixed feelings of pleasure. He had had a terrible night, but when I went into his room and stood at the foot of his bed, his voice was strong and cheerful, as usual. I put into his hand the hundred and sixty printed pages of Ormond which kind-hearted Hunter had successfully managed to get ready for this day. How my dear father can, in the midst of such sufferings, and in such an exhausted state of body, take so much pleasure in such things, is astonishing. Oh, my dear Sophy, what must be the fund of warm affection from which this springs! and what infinite, exquisite pleasure to me! “Call Sneyd directly,” he said, and swallowed some stir-about, and said he felt renovated. Sneyd was seated at the foot of his bed. “Now, Maria, dip anywhere, read on.” I began: “King Corny recovered.” Then he said, “I must tell Sneyd the story up to this.”