In answer to a letter from Mr. Ticknor, describing to her his library, in which the only picture was one of Sir Walter Scott, Miss Edgeworth wrote a reply, of which a portion has been published, but which contains besides an able parallel, or rather contrast, between Washington and Napoleon, worthy of preservation for its own sake, and as a testimony to her unimpaired powers: —
Trim, Nov. 19th, 1840.
“Who talks of ‘Boston’ in a voice so sweet?” Who wishes to see me there? and to show me their home, their family, their country? I have been there — at Boston! “Yes, and in Mr. and Mrs. Ticknor’s happy, beautiful home.” I have been up “the slope of the Boston hillside,” have seen “the fifty acres of public park” in all its verdure, with “its rich and venerable trees,” its graveled promenade surrounding it, with those noble rows of venerable elms on either side. I have gone up the hillside and the steps profusely decked with luxuriant creepers; I have walked into Mr. and Mrs. Ticknor’s house, as I was desired — have seen the three rooms opening into one another, have sat in the library, too, and thought — and thought it all charming. Looking into the country, as you know the windows all do, I saw down through “the vista of trees” to the quiet bay and the “beautiful” hills beyond, and I “watched the glories of the setting sun” lighting up country and town, “trees, turf and water!” — an Italian sun not more gorgeously attended than this “New England luminary” setting or rising. I met Sir Walter Scott in Mr. Ticknor’s library with all his benign, calm expression of countenance, his eye of genius and his mouth of humor — such as he was before the life of life was gone, such as genius loved to see him, such as American genius has given him to American friendship, immortalized in person as in mind. His very self I see feeling, thinking and about to speak — and to a friend to whom he loved to speak; and well placed and to his liking he seems in this congenial library, presiding and sympathizing. But my dear madam, ten thousand books, “about ten thousand books,” do you say this library contains? My dear Mrs. Ticknor! Then I am afraid you must have double rows — and that is a plague. But you may ask why do I conceive you have double rows? Because I cannot conceive how else the book-cases could hold the ten thousand. Your library is 34 by 22, you say. But to be sure you have not given me the height, and that height may make out room enough. Pray have it measured for me, that I may drive this odious notion of double rows out of my head—”and what a head,” you may say, “that must be that could calculate in such a place and at such a time!” It was not my poor head, I assure you, my dear Mrs. Ticknor, but Captain Beaufort’s ultra-accurate head. I gave him through Honora the description of your library, and he (jealous, I am clear, for the magnitude and number of his own library and volumes) set to work at 22 by 34 — and there I leave him — till I have the height to confound him completely. You see, my dear friends, that you need not again ask me to go to see you — for I have seen and I know everything about your home; full as well I know Boston and your home as you know ours at Edgeworthstown. It is your turn now to come and see us again. But I am afraid to invite you, lest you should be disenchanted, and we should lose the delightful gratification we enjoy in your glamor of friendship. Aunt Mary, however, is really all you think and saw her, and in her ninety-first year still a proof as you describe her — and a remarkable proof — of the power of mind over time, suffering and infirmities; and an example of Christian virtues making old age lovely and interesting.
Your prayer, that she might have health and strength to enjoy the gathering of friends round her, has been granted. Honora and her husband, and Fanny and her husband, have all been with us this summer for months; and we have enjoyed ourselves as much as your kind heart could wish. Especially “that beautiful specimen of a highly-cultivated gentlewoman” as you so well called Mrs. E., has been blest with the sight of all her children round her, all her living daughters and their husbands, and her grandchildren. Francis will settle at home and be a good country gentleman and his own agent — to Mrs. E.’s and all our inexpressible comfort and support, also for the good of the country, as a resident landlord and magistrate much needed. As he is at home I can be spared from the rent-receiving business, etc., and leaving him with his mother, Aunt Mary and Lucy, I can indulge myself by accepting an often-urged invitation from my two sisters Fanny and Honora, to spend some months with them in London. I have chosen to go at this quiet time of year, as I particularly wish not to encounter the bustle and dissipation and lionizing of London. For tho’ I am such a minnikin lion now, and so old, literally without teeth or claws, still there be, that might rattle at the grate to make me get up and come out and stand up to play tricks for them — and this I am not able or inclined to do. I am afraid I should growl — I never could be as good-humored as Sir Walter Scott used to be, when rattled for and made to “come out and stand on his hind legs,” as he used to describe it, and then go quietly to sleep again.
I shall use my privilege of seventy-two — rising seventy-three — and shall keep in my comfortable den: I will not go out. “Nobody asked you, ma’am,” to play Lion, may perhaps be said or sung to me, and I shall not be sorry nor mortified by not being asked to exhibit, but heartily happy to be with my sisters and their family and family friends — all for which I go. Knowing my own mind very well, I speak the mere plain truth. I shall return home to Edgeworthstown before the London season, as it is called, commences, i.e., by the end of March or at the very beginning of April.
This is all I have for the present to tell you of my dear self, or of our family doings or plannings. You see I depend enough on the sincerity of your curiosity and sympathy, and I thank you in kind for all you have been so affectionately good to tell me of yourselves.
I have been lately reading Thibeaudeau’s ten volumes of the History of Napoleon — Le Consulat et l’Empire — immediately after having read the life of Washington by Sparks, a book which I think I mentioned to you had been sent to me by an American Jewess of Philadelphia, Miss Gratz. A most valuable present — a most interesting work it is. The comparison between the characters, power, deeds, fortune and fate of Washington and Napoleon continually pressed on my mind as I read their lives; and continually I wished that some modern Plutarch with more of religious, if not more of moral and political knowledge and philosophy than the ancient times afforded, would draw a parallel — no, not a parallel, for that could not be — but a comparison between Napoleon and Washington. It would give in the result a comparison between moral and intellectual power on the highest scale, and with the fullest display in which they have ever been seen in two national heroes. The superior, the universal abilities of Bonaparte, his power of perseverance, of transition of resource, of comprehensiveness, of adaptation of means to ends, and all tending to his own aggrandizement, and his appetite for dominion growing with what it fed upon, have altogether been most astonishingly displayed in the Frenchman’s history of Napoleon. The integrity, disinterestedness, discretion, persevering adherence to one great purpose, marking the character and the career of Washington, are all faithfully portrayed by his American biographer, and confirmed by state papers and by the testimony of an independent world. The comparison between what Napoleon and Washington did living, and left dying, of the fruits and consequences of their deeds, would surely be a most striking and useful moral and political lesson on true and false glory, and further, would afford the strongest illustrations of the difference in human affairs of what is called the power of fortune and the influence of prestige, and the power of moral character and virtue. See Napoleon deserted at his utmost need by those his prosperous bounty gorged. See Napoleon forced to abdicate his twice-snatched imperial sceptre! — and compare this with your Washington laying down his dictatorship, his absolute dominion, voluntarily, the moment he had accomplished his great purpose of making his beloved country, the New World, free and independent. Then the deep, silent attachment shown to him when he retired from the army, parted from military power, took leave of public life, is most touching — quite
sublime in its truth and simplicity, in as strong contrast as possible with all the French acclamations, inconstancy, frivolity, desertion, treachery, insult, toward their prostrate idol of an Emperor. I felt while I read, and I feel while I reflect, how much of the difference between Napoleon and Washington must be ascribed to the different times, nations, circumstances in which they were placed. But independent of all these, the comparison ably and clearly drawn would lie between the individual characters — between moral and religious power and influence, and intellectual powers even supported by military glory and political despotism. The comparison would ultimately lie between success and merit, and between their transient and durable effects — their worldly and never-dying consequences.
Forgive me, my dear Mrs. Ticknor, for my having been actually run away with thus, and forgetting what I was going to say when I began. I was going to say that I wish Mr. Ticknor would draw the comparison between these two heroes of false and true glory — between real patriotism, true and great to the last, and ambition using patriotism as a mask, and having it struck from his hand powerless at the last. There is no one more able, better fitted to draw this than your husband. Channing has said well of the character of Napoleon as far as he went. But Mr. Ticknor, I conceive, has wider views, more means of information, and a less rhetorical style than Channing: and Sparks, having been the biographer of Washington, might be considered as a party too much concerned to be quite impartial. I am ashamed to have written so much that must seem common-place to him. But I will not tear the pages, as I am tempted to do, because there is a possibility that when you read them to him it might turn his mind to the subject — and no matter for the rest.
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I do not know whether I was most interested, dear Mrs. Ticknor, in your picture of your domestic life and happy house and home, or by the view you gave me of your public festivity and celebration of your American day of days — your national festival in honor of your Declaration of Independence.
It was never, I suppose, more joyously, innocently and advantageously held than on the day you describe so delightfully with the accuracy of an eye-witness. I think I too have seen all this, and thank you for showing it to me. It is a picture that will never leave the memory of my heart. I only wish that we could ever hope to have in Ireland any occasion or possibility of such happy and peaceable meetings, with united sympathy and for the keeping alive a feeling of national patriotism. No such point of union can be found, alas! in Ireland — no subject upon which sects and parties could coalesce for one hour, or join in rejoicing or feeling for their country. Father Mathew, one might have hoped, considering the good he has effected for all Ireland, and considering his own unimpeachable character and his real liberality, admitting all sects and all parties to take his pledge and share his benevolent efforts, might have formed a central point round which all might gather. But no such hope! for as I am just now assured, his very Christian charity and liberality are complained of by his Catholic brethren, priests and laity, who now begin to abuse him for giving the pledge to Protestants and say, “What good our fastings, our temperance, our being of the true faith, if Father Mathew treats heretics all as one, as Catholics themselves! and would have ’em saved in this world and the next too?” Then I would not doubt but at the last he’d turn tail! aye, turn Protestant himself ENTIRELY. I have written so much to Mr. Ticknor about Father Mathew that I must here stop, or take care lest I run on with him again. Once set a-running, you see how I go on. You having encouraged me, and I from having conversed with you even for a few days, we have so much knowledge of each other’s minds that it is as easy and pleasant to me to write as to speak to you. I will send you some Irish tales newly published by Mrs. Hall, which I think you will like, both from their being well-written and interesting portraitures of Irish life and manners, and from the conciliating, amiable and truly feminine (not meaning feeble) tone in which they are written.
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I have not yet thanked you enough, I feel, for Rollo. Our children all, and we ourselves, delight in him at play and at work, and every way, and we wish to see more of him. If there be any more of him, pray pack him up bag and baggage and send him off by first steamer, steam-haste. By the by, are you or your children acquainted with the elephant who in his haste forgot to pack up his trunk?
If you are not acquainted with him, I shall have the pleasure of introducing him to you and yours.
Meantime, if you wish to be amused, and with what is new and what is true, read Mrs. Wilmot’s Memoirs of the Princess Dashkoff, and her own residence in Russia. We know enough of the author to warrant the whole to be true. I do not say that she tells the whole truth, but that all she does tell is true, and what she does not tell she was bound in honor and friendship, and by the tacit, inviolable compact between confidence shown and accepted, never to reveal, much less to publish. Both in the Princess Dashkoff’s own memoirs (very able and curious) and in Mrs. Wilmot’s continuation (very amusing and new) there are from time to time great gaps, on coming to which the reader cries Ha! Ha! and feels that he must skip over. These gaps are never covered over; and when we come even to dangerous ground we see that we must not turn that way, or hope to get on in utter darkness and our guide deserting — or, if not deserting, standing stock still, obstinately dumb. These memoirs are not a book on which history could absolutely be founded, but a book to which the judicious historian might safely refer illustrations, and even for materials, all which it affords being sound and solid. Much more, in short, may these memoirs be depended upon than any or many of the French varnished and vamped-up Memoires pour servir à l’Histoire.
After reading the book I wrote to Mrs. Wilmot, and after homage due to her talents and her truth, I ventured to express, what I am sure you will feel if you read the volume, some horror, towards the close, at the Princess Dashkoff’s accepting for herself or her sister, or for whoever it was, a ball from Orloff, the murderer — that Orloff who with his own hand strangled his Emperor.
Mrs. Wilmot made me but a lame apology for her dear princess, I think, and an odd answer for herself. In the first place, she said, it was so long ago. As if such a murder could be a by-gone tale! or as if thirty or forty or any number of years could purify or cleanse a murderer in the eyes and sense of humanity or justice! In the next place she pleaded that she was so much pleased by Orloff’s angel daughter who stood beside him, and then with his parental delight in her beauty, simplicity and elegance in the dance.
Mrs. Wilmot was sure I should have felt as she did, and have forgotten the murderer in the father. But, on the contrary, I am afraid I should have forgotten the father in the murderer; I fear I should have seen only “the vile spot” which would never out of that hand! And oh! that horrible knee — I see it pressing on the body of the breathless Peter; and, through all the music of the ball-room band, methinks I hear “shrieks of an agonizing king.”
Possibly in Russia “murder is lawful made by the excess,” and may be palliated by the impartial historian’s observing, “It was then necessary that the Emperor should CEASE TO BE” — soft synonym for assassination.
I ought not to leave Mrs. Wilmot and the Princess Dashkoff, however this may be, with a tragical and unmerited impression on your mind. I am quite convinced the princess had nothing to do with this horrid affair, or that our countrywoman never would have gone or never would have staid with her.
I can also assure you that when you read these memoirs you will be convinced, as I am, that the Princess Dashkoff was quite pure from all the Empress Catherine’s libertine intrigues (I can use no softer phrase). This is proved by facts, not words, for no word does she say on the subject. But the fact is that during Orloff, the favorite Orloff’s reign and his numerous successors, the Princess Dashkoff was never at court, banished herself on her travels or at her far-distant territories; she over-rated, idolized Catharine, but was her real friend, not flatterer.
It is scarcely worth telling you, but I will for your
diversion mention that I asked Mrs. Wilmot whether the Princess Dashkoff evermore went about in the costume, which she described, of a man’s great-coat, with stars and strings over it, at the ball, and with the sentimental old souvenir silk handkerchief about her throat. Yes. But Mrs. Wilmot would not let me laugh at her friend, and I liked her all the better. She defended the oddity by the kindness of the motive. It was not affectation of singularity, but privilege of originality, that should be allowed to a being so feeling and so educated by circumstances and so isolated — so let the ragged handkerchief and the old gloves museumized pass, and even the old overall of the man’s coat on a woman and a princess — so be it.
But from the time of Cardinal Chigi and his one stump of a twenty-years-old pen on which he piqued himself, I quite agree with Cardinal Mazarin that these petty singularities are proofs of a little mind, instead of an originality of genius.
And now, my dear Mrs. Ticknor, “Bisogna levar l’incommodità” — to use the parting phrase of a vulgar Italian who feels that she has made an unconscionable visit: or, as the cockney would say as she got up to depart from a morning visitation, “Time for me to be going, I think.” And if you do not think so, or have not thought so ten pages ago, you are more indulgent and fonder of me than I had any right or reason to expect, even after all I have heard from and seen of you.
I promise you that you shall not be so tried again for a twelvemonth to come, at the least. Give my kind remembrances to your eldest daughter, who so kindly remembers me, and give a kiss for me to your youngest, that dear little plaything who cannot remember me, but whom I shall never forget; nor her father’s fond look at her, when the tear was forgotten as soon as shed.
Ever affectionately, dear Mrs. Ticknor,
Your obliged friend,
Maria Edgeworth.
Turn over, and as the children’s fairy-boards say, “you shall see what you shall see.”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 796