The Galway boy got safe to Outerard, and next morning brought back Dr.
Davis, a very clever, agreeable man, who had had a great deal of
experience, having begun life as an army surgeon: at any rate, he was
not thinking of himself, but of his patient. He thought Isabella
dangerously ill--unsettled gout. I will not tire you with all the
history of her illness, and all our terrors; but never would I have left
home on this odd journey if I could have foreseen this illness. I cannot
give you an idea of my loneliness of feeling, my utter helplessness,
from the impossibility of having the advantage of the sympathy and sense
of any of my own family. We had not, for one whole week, the comfort of
even any one letter from any of our distant friends. We had expected to
be by this time at Castlebar, and we had desired Honora to direct our
letters there. Sir Culling with great spirit sent a Connemara messenger
fifty miles to Castlebar for the letters, and when he came back he
brought but one!

No mail-coach road comes near here: no man on horseback could undertake
to carry the letters regularly. They are carried three times a week from
Outerard to Clifden, thirty-six miles, by three gossoons, or more
properly bog-trotters, and very hard work it is for them. One runs a day
and a night, and then sleeps a day and a night, and then another takes
his turn; and each of these boys has £15 a year. I remember seeing one
of these postboys leaving Ballinahinch Castle, with his leather bag on
his back, across the heath and across the bog, leaping every now and
then, and running so fast! his bare, white legs thrown up among the
brown heath. These postboys were persons of the greatest consequence to
us: they brought us news from home, and to poor Lady Culling Smith
accounts of her baby, and of her friends in England. We began to think
we should never see any of them again.

I cannot with sufficient gratitude describe to you the hospitality and
unvaried kindness of Mr. and Mrs. Martin during all these trials. Mr.
Martin, rough man as he seemed outside, was all soft and tender within,
and so very considerate for the English servants. Mrs. Martin told me
that he said to her, "I am afraid that English man and maid must be very
uncomfortable here--so many things to which they have been used, which
we have not for them! Now we have no beer, you know, my dear, and
English servants are always used to beer." So Mr. Martin gave them cider
instead, and every day he took to each of them himself a glass of
excellent port wine; and to Isabella, as gout-cordial, he gave Bronte,
the finest, Sir Culling said, he ever tasted. And never all the time did
Mr. and Mrs. Martin omit anything it was in their power to do to make us
comfortable, and to relieve us from the dreadful feeling of being
burthensome and horrible intruders! They did succeed in putting me
completely at ease, as far as they were concerned. I do not think I
could have got through all the anxiety I felt during Lady Culling
Smith's illness, and away from all my own people, and waiting so
shockingly long for letters, if it had not been for the kindness of Mrs.
Martin, and the great fondness I soon felt for her. She is not literary;
she is very religious--what would be called VERY GOOD, and yet she
suited me, and I grew very fond of her, and she of me. Little things
that I could feel better than describe inclined me to her, and our minds
were open to one another from the first day. Once, towards the end, I
believe, of the first week, when I began some sentence with an apology
for some liberty I was taking, she put her hand upon my arm, and with a
kind, reproachful look exclaimed, "Liberty! I thought we were past that
long since: are not we?"

She told me that she had actually been brought up with a feeling of
reverence for my father, and particularly for me, by a near relation of
hers, old Mr. Kirwan, the President of the Royal Irish Academy, who was
a great friend of my father's and puffer of me in early days. Then her
acquaintance afterwards with Mr. Nimmo carried on the connection. She
told me he showed her that copy of _Harry and Lucy_ which you had in
making the index, and showed her the bridge which he helped me over when
Harry was building it. But what touched and won me first and most in
Mrs. Martin was the manner in which she spoke of William--her true
feeling for his character. "Whenever he could get me alone," she said,
"he would talk to me of Honora or Mrs. Edgeworth and his aunt Mary and
you."

Some of the expressions she repeated I could not but feel sure were his,
and they were so affectionate towards me, I was much touched. _Too
besides_ Mrs. Martin made herself very agreeable by her quantity of
anecdotes, and her knowledge of the people with whom she had lived in
her youth, of whom she could, with great ability and admirable composed
drollery, give the most characteristic traits.

Miss Martin--though few books beyond an _Edinburgh_ or _Quarterly
Review_ or two appeared in the sitting-room--has books in quantities in
a closet in her own room, which is within her mother's; and "every
morning," said Mrs. Martin, "she comes in to me while I am dressing, and
pours out upon me an inundation of learning, fresh and fresh, all she
has been reading for hours before I am up. Mary has read prodigiously."

I found Mary one of the most extraordinary persons I ever saw. Her
acquirements are indeed prodigious: she has more knowledge of books,
both scientific and learned, than any female creature I ever saw or
heard of at her age--heraldry, metaphysics, painting and painters'
lives, and tactics; she had a course of fortification from a French
officer, and of engineering from Mr. Nimmo. She understands Latin,
Greek, and Hebrew, and I don't know how many modern languages. French
she speaks perfectly, learned from the French officer who taught her
fortification, M. Du Bois, who was one of Buonaparte's legion of honour,
and when the Emperor was _ousted_, fled from France, and earned his
bread at Ballinahinch by teaching French, which Miss Martin talks as if
she had been a native, but not as if she had been in good Parisian
society; with an odd mixture of a _ton de garnison_ which might be
expected from a pupil of one of Buonaparte's officers. She imbibed from
him such an admiration, such an enthusiasm for Buonaparte, that she
cannot bear a word said to his disparagement; and when Sir Culling
sometimes offended in that way, Miss Martin's face and neck grew
carnation colour, and down to the tips of her fingers she blushed with
indignation.

Her father the while smiled and winked at me. The father as well as the
mother dote upon her; and he has a softened way of always calling her
"my child" that interested me for both. "My child, never mind; what
signifies about Buonaparte?"

One morning we went with Miss Martin to see the fine green Connemara
marble-quarries. Several of the common people gathered round while we
were looking at the huge blocks: these people Miss Martin called her
TAIL. Sir Culling wished to obtain an answer to a question from some of
these people, which he desired Miss Martin to ask for him, being
conscious that, in his English tone, it would be unintelligible. When
the question had been put and answered, Sir Culling objected: "But, Miss
Martin, you did not put the question exactly as I requested you to state
it."

"No," said she, with colour raised and head thrown back, "No, because I
knew how to put it so that people could understand it. _Je sais mon
métier de reine."

This trait gives you an idea of her character and manner, and of the
astonishment of Sir Culling at her want of sympathy with his really
liberal and philanthropic views for Ireland, while she is full of her
tail, her father's fifty-miles-long avenue, and Aeschylus and Euripides,
in which she is admirably well read. Do think of a girl of seventeen, in
the wilds of Connemara, intimately acquainted with all the beauties of
Aeschylus and Euripides, and having them as part of her daily thoughts!

There are immense caves on this coast which were the _free-traders'_
resort, and would have been worth any money to Sir Walter. "Quite a
scene and a country for him," as Miss Martin one day observed to me;
"don't you think your friend Sir Walter Scott would have liked our
people and our country?"

It is not exactly a feudal state, but the _tail_ of a feudal state. Dick
Martin, father of the present man, was not only lord of all he surveyed,
but lord of all the lives of the people: now the laws of the land have
come in, and rival proprietors have sprung up in rival castles. Hundreds
would still, I am sure, start out of their bogs for Mr. Martin, but he
is called _Mister_, and the prestige is over. The people in Connemara
were all very quiet and submissive till some _refugee Terry-alts_ took
asylum in these bog and mountain fastnesses. They spread their
principles, and soon the clan combined against their chief, and formed a
plan of seizing Ballinahinch Castle, and driving him and all the
Protestant gentry out of the country. Mr. Martin is a man of desperate
courage, some skill as an officer, and _prodigious_ bodily strength,
which altogether stood him in stead in time of great danger. I cannot
tell you the whole long story, but I will mention one anecdote which
will show you how like the stories in Walter Scott are the scenes that
have been lately passing in Connemara. Mr. Martin summoned one of his
own followers, who had he knew joined the Terry-alts, to give up a gun
lent to him in days of trust and favour: no answer to the summons. A
second, a third summons: no effect. Mr. Martin then warned the man that
if he did not produce the gun at the next sessions he would come and
seize it. The man appeared at the house where Mr. Martin holds his
sessions--about the size of Lovell's schoolroom, and always fuller than
it can hold: Mr. Martin espied from his end of the room his friend with
the gun, a powerfully strong man, who held his way on, and stood full
before him.

"You sent for my gun, your honour, did you?"

"I did--three times; it is well you have brought it at last; give it to
me."

The man kneeled down on one knee, and putting the gun across the other
knee, broke it asunder, and throwing the pieces to Mr. Martin, cried,
"There it is for you. I swore that was the only way you should ever have
it, dead or alive. You have warned me, and now I warn you; take care of
yourself."

He strode out of the crowd. But he was afterwards convicted of Terry-alt
practices and transported. Now all is perfectly quiet, and Mr. Martin
goes on doing justice in his own peculiar fashion every week. When the
noise, heat, and crowd in his sessions court become beyond all bearing,
he roars with his stentorian voice to clear the court; and if that be
not done forthwith, he with his own two Herculean arms seizes the
loudest two disputants, knocks their heads together, thrusts them
bawling as they go out of the door and flings them asunder.

In his own house there never was a more gentle, hospitable, good-natured
man, I must say again and again, or else I should be a very ungrateful
woman.

Miss Martin has three ponies, which she has brought every day to the
great Wyatt window of the library, where she feeds them with potatoes.
One of them is very passionate; and once the potato being withheld a
moment too long at the hall door he fell into a rage, pushed in at the
door after her, and she ran for her life, got upstairs and was safe.

I asked what he would have done if he had come up to her?

"Set his two feet on my shoulders, thrown me down, and trampled upon
me."

The other day the smith hurt his foot in shoeing him, and up he reared,
and up jumped the smith on the raised part of his forge--the pony jumped
after him, and if the smith had not scrambled behind his bellows, "would
have killed him to be sure."

After hearing this I declined riding this pony, though Miss Martin
pressed me much, and assured me he was as quiet as a lamb--provided I
would never strike him or look cross. Once she got me up on his back,
but I looked so miserable, she took me down again. She described to me
her nursing of one of these ponies; "he used to stand with his head over
my shoulder while I rubbed his nose for an hour together; but I suppose
I must throw off these Bedouin habits before I go to London."

They are now spending the season in town. I had an opportunity of seeing
her perfect freedom from coquetry in company with a Mr. Smith--no
relation of Sir Culling's--a very handsome fine gentleman who came here
unexpectedly.

All this time poor Isabella has been left by me in torture in her bed.
At the end of three weeks she was pronounced out of danger, and in spite
of the kind remonstrances of our hospitable hosts, not tired of the sick
or the well, on a very wet odious day away we went. As there are no inns
or place where an invalid could pass the night, I wrote to beg a night's
lodging at Renvyle, Mr. Blake's. He and Mrs. Blake, who wrote _Letters
from the Irish Highlands_, were not at home, in Galway on a visit, but
they answered most politely that they begged me to consider their house
as my own, and wrote to their agent who was at Renvyle to receive us.

Captain Bushby, of the Water Guard--married to a niece of Joanna
Baillie's--was very kind in accompanying us on our first day's journey.
"I must see you _safe out_," said he. "Safe out" is the common elision
for safe out of Connemara. And really it was no easy matter to get us
safe out; but I spare you a repetition of sloughs; we safely reached
Renvyle, where the agent received us in a most comfortable
well-furnished, well-carpeted, well-lighted library, filled with
books--excellent dining-room beyond, and here Lady Smith had a day's
rest, without which she could not have proceeded, and well for her she
had such a comfortable resting-place.

Next day we got into _Joyce's Country_, and had hot potatoes and cold
milk, and Renvyle cold fowl at The Lodge, as it is styled, of Big Jacky
Joyce--one of the descendants of the ancient proprietors, and quite an
original Irish character. He had heard my name often, he said, from Mr.
Nimmo, and knew I was a writing lady, and a friend to Ireland, and he
was civil to me, and I was civil to him, and after eyeing Sir Culling
and Lady Smith, and thinking, I saw, that she was affecting to be
languishing, and then perceiving that she was really weak and ill, he
became cordial to the whole party, and entertained us for two hours,
which we were obliged to wait for the going out of the tide before we
could cross the sands. Here was an arm of the sea, across which Mr.
Nimmo had been employed to build a bridge, and against Big Jack Joyce's
advice, he would build it where Jack prophesied it would be swept away
in the winter, and twice the bridge was built, and twice it was swept
away, and still Nimmo said it was the fault of the masons; the
embankment and his theory could not be wrong, and a third time he built
the bridge, and there we saw the ruins of it on the sands--all the
embankments swept away and all we had for it was to be dragged over the
sand by men--the horses taken off. We were pushed down into a gully-hole
five feet deep, and thence pulled up again; how it was I cannot tell
you, for I shut my eyes and resigned myself, gave up my soul and was
much surprised to find it in my body at the end of the operation: Big
Jacky Joyce and his merry men having somehow managed it.

There was an end of our perils by gullies, sloughs, and bog-holes. We
now got on Mr. Nimmo's and Mr. Killalla's really good roads, and now our
four horses began to tell, and that night we reached Westport, and in
consequence of Mrs. Martin's introduction to her friend Lord Sligo were
received by him and Lady Sligo most courteously.

Westport is a beautiful place, with a town, a port, industrious people
all happy, and made so by the sense and energy of a good landlord and a
good agent. We regretted that we could stay only this night and the next
morning to breakfast; it was so delightful and extraordinary to us again
to see trees and shrubberies, and to find ourselves again in the midst
of flowers from green-house and conservatory. Isabella said she was so
delighted, she could hardly forbear, with her crippled, gouty hands,
embracing every tree she met. Lord Sligo, himself a martyr to the gout,
and with a son at Eton just then attacked with gout, had great
compassion for her: he and all his family high-bred and cordial.

The next morning we pursued our journey, and at the next stage came upon
a real mail-coach road, where we had post-horses again, and dismissed
our Galway horses. This night brought us to Lough Glyn, where Mr.
Strickland received us very kindly, and we had the joy of finding
letters waiting for us from home; but we found that the cholera had been
for the last ten days killing the poor people at Edgeworthstown--Condy
Keegan's son-in-law, M'Glaughlin the carpenter, and a great many more.
How dreadfully anxious Honora must have been with the charge of baby,
and this cholera close to our gates!

The last day's journey was the longest of all, from the suspense, though
all was smooth upon the road. When we saw the lights in the windows at
home, you may guess how our hearts went pit-a-pat. We found all WELL;
and glad we all were to meet again, and to have Isabella safe with her
child: not in her arms, poor crippled creature--it was not possible for
her to hold the infant; she could but just hobble about, and was a
quarter of an hour going upstairs. Aunt Mary and Honora, after all the
warnings my letters had given, were surprised and shocked at the first
sight of her. For ten days after her arrival she was unable to travel,
impatient as they both were to be at home again. They did reach it, baby
and all, safely at last, and you may imagine how relieved we were when
we heard of her being safe with her own family again, and with London
physicians: five months since then and she is not yet quite
re-established. We feel now how very serious her illness was.

But now that it is all over, and I can balance pains and pleasures, I
declare that, upon the whole, I had more pleasure than pain from this
journey; the perils of the road were far overbalanced by the diversion
of seeing the people, and the seeing so many to me perfectly new
characters and modes of living. The anxiety of Isabella's illness,
terrible as it was, and the fear of being ill myself and a burthen upon
their hands, and even the horrid sense of remoteness and impossibility
of communication with my own friends, were altogether overbalanced by
the extraordinary kindness, and tenderness, and generous hospitality of
the Martins. It will do my heart good all the days of my life to have
experienced such kindness, and to have seen so much good in human nature
as I saw with them--red M'Hugh included. I am sure I have a friend in
Mrs. Martin: it is an extraordinary odd feeling to have made a friend at
sixty-six years of age! You, my dear young Pakenham, can't understand
this; but you will live, I hope, to understand it, and perhaps to say,
"Now I begin to comprehend what Maria, poor old soul! meant by that
_odd_ feeling at the end of her Connemara journey."

When we were regretting to Lord Sligo that we had missed seeing so many
persons and places on our tour whom we had at first setting out made it
our object to see--Clifden, the Barony of Erris, and the wonderful Major
Bingham--Lord Sligo comforted us by saying, "Depend upon it, you have
seen more really of Connemara than any strangers who have ever travelled
through it, exactly because you remained in one place and in one family,
where you had time to see the habits of the people, and to see them
nearly and familiarly, and without their being shown off, or thinking of
showing themselves off to you."

_March 29_.

I have been so busy at rents and odious accounts, that I have never been
able to go on to you. Your mother returned home a few days ago, after
seven months' absence! You may guess how happy we were to have her
again, and how we have been talking and hearing. Lucy bore the parting
with her wonderfully well; indeed, she was anxious that her mother
should return to us.

Young Walter--now Sir Walter--Scott has been quartered at Longford, and
is now going to Dublin: he dined here on Saturday, and was just the same
as when we saw him in 1825. Sophy and her three children round her must
have surprised him not a little. [Footnote: Mrs. Fox, as Sophy
Edgeworth, had been with her sister at Abbotsford in 1823.] It is a pity
Maxwell was not in the group. Little fair-haired Willy, nothing daunted
by the nearly seven-feet-high major in full uniform, marched up to him
and patted his knee, and in return the major patted his head. His soft
Scotch voice, and often the kind and playful turns in his conversation,
reminded me both pleasurably and painfully of his father. Sophy wished
that her children should hear the band of the regiment, and he promised
that he would halt at Tuite's gate, as a _select_ party with the band
were to go by Castle Pollard; and this morning, when I opened my eyes, I
saw it was snowing so bitterly, I gave up all hopes of our being able to
take the children to hear the band; but between seven, when I wakened,
and half after nine, the appointed hour, many changes of the sky took
place, and at the right moment the sun shone out, the clouds blew over
the beech-trees, and Sophy was drawn in Willy Waller's little carriage,
with him in her lap; Honora, Mary Anne, Charlotte, and I accompanying.
We had to wait some time, and went into what you would call Tuite's
house, but it is now Jem Newman's; and there was his nice little wife,
with her mouth full of the last potato she had eaten for breakfast; and
she put away the half-full potato basket, and the boy with his can of
milk retreated from the stool by the fire, and she welcomed us with
Irish heart's welcome in lip and eye; and the children were delighted
watching the pig and the chickens feeding at the door.

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 où on ne prend
pas de déjeuner," 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
Ennuyée_ 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 Ennuyée_, 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 Célèbres_, 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, _aperçus_, 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'Abrantès_,
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.

MARIA _to_ C. SNEYD EDGEWORTH, ESQ.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Feb. 12, 1835_.

I feel your kindness now most particularly in giving me your full
opinion, and desiring mine without one word of reproach on not having
heard from me. I had written a long letter, but thinking it better Barry
should write to you himself, I determined to burn and burnt what I had
written to you, and scribbled a page in its stead of I know not
what--nonsense I believe. And now what remains to do? My sense, if I
have any, is quite as much at your service as my nonsense has been. And
first for _General Principles_, to those independently of the particular
case we should recur. I quite agree with you, as you do with my father,
in the general principle that according to the British Constitution the
voters at elections should be free, that the landlords should not
_force_ their tenants to vote. But a landlord must and should and ever
will have _influence_, and this is one way in which property is
represented and the real balance of the constitution preserved. My
father in fact always did use the influence of being a good kind
landlord, as well as the favour of leaving a hanging half-year in their
hands. I never knew him in any instance _revenge_ a tenant's voting
against him, but I have heard him say, and I know it was his principle,
that he was not bound to show favour or affection to any tenant who
voted what is called against his landlord. The calling for the
_hanging-gale_ may, in this point of view, come under his principles, as
it is only the withdrawing of a favour--the resumption of a landlord's
right; it may be said not to be the infliction of an injury or the going
one tittle beyond the law; nor even putting yourself in the power of
Parliament to notice it as unconstitutional. This is literally true--so
far--and further I admit, for I say candidly the whole on both sides
that occurs to me--I admit, that I believe if my father were at this
moment living, and knew how shamefully the priests have conducted
themselves at the last election, how they had _forced_ his tenants and
all others whom they could _bully_ to vote against their own will, full
as much as against their landlord, he might himself be inclined to
depart from his principle and to use force over his tenants to balance
the brutal force and violence on the other side.

I say, my father might be so inclined, and his first warmth of temper
and indignation doubtless would so urge him, but still,

  The golden curb discretion sets on bravery,

would act and rein in his temper in the first instance, and his reason
would rally and represent that it is never either morally lawful or
politically wise to do evil that good may come of it. Because the
priests have used force and intimidation, such as their situation and
means put in their power, are landlords to do likewise? and are the poor
tenants in this world and the next to be ruined and excommunicated
between them? Are we to recriminate and revenge because the priests and
the people have done so? beaten or beating as brutal force decides?

The honest constitutional means of resisting the horrible wrong the
priests have been guilty of in the last election is by publishing the
facts, bringing them as they now must be brought in all their enormity
before Parliament. As far as every private individual can assist in
bringing these truths to light and in influencing public opinion by the
eloquence of tongue or pen he does right, as a man and as a gentleman,
and a good member of society, and wisely in the present times, to stop,
if possible, the power of democracy. And this, I am sure, my dear
brother, is what you have done, and I do not wish you to do more or
less.

With respect to Charles Fox, I think he will certainly stand the first
opportunity. I am not sure that it will be for his happiness to be in
Parliament; but I think he will make an honest and moderate member and
will do well in Committees, and I think you may support him fairly; he
will not be bitter Orange; he has good sense and temper. I hate the term
I have just used--Orange, and I would avoid saying Whig or Tory if I
could, and consider only what is right and best to be done in our time.
I think the late Ultra-Reform Liberalists went too far, and had they
continued in power, would have overturned everything, both in England
and Ireland, would have let in upon us the ragamuffin democracy, cried
havoc, etc.

I think that nothing less than the decided, perhaps despotic hand of the
Duke of Wellington, could prevent this catastrophe, and the sense of Mr.
Peel will aid, I trust. The Duke has been a stander-by and has had
leisure to repent the error which turned him out before, viz. of
declaring that he would have no reform. Mr. Peel has well guarded
against this in his address on his return. What we must pray for is,
that the hands of the present Government may be strengthened
sufficiently to enable them to prevent the mischiefs prepared by the
last Administration, and that, having seen the error, they may be wise
in time.

Innumerable were the improvements which were effected by Mrs. and Miss
Edgeworth for the advantage of their poorer neighbours in the immediate
vicinity of their home. Cottagers' houses were rebuilt or made
comfortable, schools built, and roads improved. A legacy of diamonds
from a relation was sold by Miss Edgeworth that she might build a market
house in the village, with a room over it for the magistrates' Petty
Sessions. She endeavoured to be on the best terms with the Catholic
priests, to whom she showed constant kindness and hospitality. Her
poorer neighbours were made sharers in all her interests or pleasures,
and all those she employed were treated as friends rather than servants.
All her sympathies were in behalf of Ireland. Yet she met with no return
of affection or sympathy. In 1836 we find Mrs. Farrar writing of
Edgeworthstown:

It was market-day: so the main street was full of the lower order of
Irish, with their horses and carts, asses and panniers, tables and
stands full of eatables and articles of clothing. Sometimes the cart or
car served as a counter on which to display their goods. The women, in
bright-coloured cotton gowns and white caps with full double borders,
made a very gay appearance. But as we passed through the crowd to the
schoolhouse the enmity of the Papists to Protestant landholders was but
too evident.

Though Mrs. Edgeworth had been the Lady Bountiful of the village for
many years, there were no bows for her or her friends, no making way
before her, no touching of hats, no pleasant looks. A sullen expression
and a dogged immovability were on every side of us.

MARIA _to_ PAKENHAM EDGEWORTH.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN,

ST. PATRICK'S DAY IN THE MORNING, 1835.

How provoking, how chilling a feeling it gives of the distance between
us, my dear Pakenham, that we must wait twelve months for an answer to
any question the most important or the most trivial! But, thank heaven,
letters and journals--bating this year between--do bring us happily
together, almost face to face and smile to smile. I have often admired
the poor Irishman's oratorical bull when he exclaimed, as he looked
through a telescope for the first time and saw the people at a cottage
door, miles off, brought near, "Then I heard 'em speak quite plain, I
think." I think I sometimes hear you speaking and hear the people call
you Sahib.

You have seen in the papers the death of our amiable friend, Mr.
Malthus. How well he loved you! His lectureship on Political Economy has
been filled up by a very able and deserving friend of mine, Mr. Jones,
whose book on Rents you have just been reading, and whose book and self
I had the pleasure of first introducing to Lord Lansdowne, under whose
Administration this appointment was made. The pupils at Haileybury must
now learn from Jones's lectures the objections he made to Malthus's
system! I remember once hearing the answer of a sceptic in Political
Economy, when reproached with not being of some Political Economy Club.
"Whenever I see any two of you gentlemen agree, I shall be happy to
agree with you."

I hope your box of seeds will come safe and will grow. I daresay Harriet
will have told you of the Cornish gentleman she met at Black Castle, who
told of the blue hydrangea fifteen feet high, and bearing such a
profusion of flowers that they were counted, 2352 bunches, each bunch as
large as his head! We endeavoured to correct, and said florets for
bunches, presuming he so meant, but he distinctly said bunches--so make
what you can of it.

_March 19_.

Yesterday I am sure you recollected and honoured as Barry and Sophy's
wedding day. Honora had the breakfast table covered with flowers,
primroses, violets, polyanthus, and laurustinus, and some of Sophy's own
snowdrops, double and single, which obligingly lingered on purpose to
celebrate the day.

Did you see how Lord Darnley cut his foot with an axe while he was
hewing the root of a tree, and died in consequence of lock-jaw! Harriet,
who knew him and all the good he did in their neighbourhood, is very
sorry for him.

I have not, I believe, mentioned to you any books except my own; but we
have been amused with the _Invisible Gentleman_. You must swallow one
monstrous magical absurdity at the beginning, and the rest will go down
glibly--that is, _amusing_.

_Instructive and entertaining_: Burne's _Mission to Lahore and Bokhara_.

_Instructive, interesting, and entertaining_: Roget on _Physiology, with
reference to Theology_--one of the Bridgewater Treatises, full of facts
the most curious, arranged in the most beautifully luminous manner. The
infinitely large, and the infinitely small in creation, admirably
displayed.

Hannah More's _Letters_: many of them entertaining--many admirable for
manner and matter, altogether too much; two volumes would have been
better than four.

Inglis's _Ireland_: I think he is an honest writer, a man of great
observation and ability, and a true admirer of the beauties of nature.
He exaggerates and makes some mistakes, as all travellers do.

  Still drops from life some withering joy away.

Year after year, we must witness these sad losses. Aunt Alicia gone! and
Aunt Bess Waller, of whom you were so fond. What an amiable and highly
cultivated mind she had, and so hospitable and kind.

_To_ MISS RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _March 31, 1835_.

Harriet told me, my dear Sophy, that she found you in bed, reading
_Popular Tales_, or some of my old things--thank you, thank you, my
dear, for loving them. I hope that this will find you better, and that
your Black Castle walks, leaning on that kind Isabella's arm, will have
quite restored you.

I have been reading Roget's most admirable Bridgewater
Treatise--admirable in every way, scientific, moral, and religious, in
the most deep and exalted manner--religious, raising the mind through
nature's works up to nature's GOD, which must increase and exalt piety
where it exists, and create and confirm the devotional feelings where
they have lain dormant. All his facts are most curious, and the
exclamation, "how fearfully and wonderfully we are made," may be
extended to the ugliest tadpole that _wabbles_ in a ditch till he is a
frog, and the microscope invented by that creature man endowed with--

Luckily a hair in my pen stopped me, or I might have gone on to another
page, in my hot fit of enthusiasm.

_To MISS RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Sept. 1835_.

Have you seen in the papers reports about the marriage of Lord John
Russell to Lady R.? All true--Lady Ribblesdale, _ci-devant_ Adelaide
Lister, Aunt Mary's niece, a young widow with a charming little boy;
this morning Aunt Mary had a letter from Lady Ribblesdale herself. If
she was to marry again she could not have made a more suitable match. He
is a very domestic man, and, save his party violence and folly, very
amiable and sensible.

Mr. George Ticknor [Footnote: The well-known Professor of Modern
Literature at Harvard University, author of the _History of Spanish
Literature_, etc. Born 1791, died 1871.] and his family visited
Edgeworthstown in August 1835, and remained there several days, which
were a very interesting and happy time to Miss Edgeworth. Mr. Ticknor
describes his visit at great length in his journals, and the first
appearance of Miss Edgeworth:

A small, short, spare lady of about sixty-seven, with extremely frank
and kind manners, and who always looks straight into your face with a
pair of mild deep gray eyes whenever she speaks to you. Her
conversation, always ready, is as full of vivacity and variety as I can
imagine. It is also no less full of good-nature. She is disposed to
defend everybody, as far as she can, though never so far as to be
unreasonable. And in her intercourse with her family she is quite
delightful, referring constantly to Mrs. Edgeworth, who seems to be the
authority for all matters of fact, and most kindly repeating jokes to
her infirm aunt, Miss Sneyd, who cannot hear them, and who seems to have
for her the most unbounded affection and admiration.

About herself as an author she seems to have no reserve or secrets....
But, though she talks freely about herself and her works, she never
introduces the subject, and never seems glad to continue it. She talks
quite as well, and with quite as much interest, on everything else.

It is plain that the family make a harmonious whole, and by those who
visited Edgeworthstown when it was much larger, and were proud of the
children of all the wives of Mr. Edgeworth, with their connections
produced by marriage, so as to prove the most heterogeneous
relationships, I am told there was always the same striking union and
agreeable intercourse among them all, to the number of sometimes fifteen
or twenty.

...The house, and many of its arrangements--the bells, the doors,
etc.--bear witness to that love of mechanical trifling of which Mr.
Edgeworth was so often accused. But things in general are very
convenient and comfortable through the house, though, as elsewhere in
Ireland, there is a want of English exactness and finish. However, all
such matters, even if carried much farther than they are, would be mere
trifles in the midst of so much kindness, hospitality, and intellectual
pleasures of the highest order as we enjoyed under their roof, where
hospitality is so abundant that they have often had twenty or thirty
friends come upon them unexpectedly, when the family was much larger
than it is now.

Maria Edgeworth was now the real owner of Edgeworthstown. Her
half-brother Lovell's embarrassments had obliged him to sell his
paternal inheritance, and Miss Edgeworth gladly expended the fortune
which had come to her through literature in preserving it from falling
into the hands of strangers. She only stipulated that she herself should
remain as much "a background figure" as before. Lovell Edgeworth was
still the apparent owner of Edgeworthstown. Mrs. Edgeworth was still the
mistress of the house, consulted and deferred to in everything. In her
note of invitation to Mr. and Mrs. Ticknor she says: "The sooner you can
come to us the better, because Mrs. Edgeworth is now at home with us ...
as you would find this house much more agreeable when she is at home;
and in truth you never could see it to advantage, or see things as they
really are in this family, unless when she makes part of it, and when
she is at the head of it." [Footnote: _Life of George Ticknor_.] Maria
Edgeworth unconsciously depicted herself when describing Miss Emma
Granby, "The Modern Griselda."

All her thoughts were intent upon making her friends happy. She seemed
to live in them more than in herself, and from sympathy rose the
greatest pleasure and pain of her existence. Her sympathy was not of
that useless kind which is called forth only by the elegant fictitious
sorrows of a heroine of romance; hers was ready for all the occasions of
real life; nor was it to be easily checked by the imperfections of those
to whom she could be of service.

Amongst those who visited Edgeworthstown about this time was the
American authoress, Mrs. Farrar, who writes:

When shown to our bedroom we found such an extraordinary lock to the
door [Footnote: One of Mr. Edgeworth's inventions.] that we dared not
shut it for fear of not being able to open it again. That room, too, was
unlike any I ever saw. It was very large, with three huge windows, two
of them heavily curtained, and the third converted into a small
wardrobe, with doors of pink cotton on a wooden frame. It had two very
large four-post bedsteads, with full suits of curtains, and an immense
folding-screen that divided the room in two, making each occupant as
private as if in a separate room, with a dressing-table and ample
washing conveniences on each side. A large grate filled with turf, and
all ready for lighting, with a peat basket lined with tin, and also
filled with the same fuel, reminded us strongly that we were in Ireland.
Large wax candles were on the mantelpiece, and every convenience
necessary to our comfort.

Miss Edgeworth was very short, and carried herself very upright, with a
dapper figure and quick movements. She was the remains of a blonde, with
light eyes and hair; she was now gray, but wore a dark frisette, whilst
the gray hair showed through her cap behind. In conversation we found
her delightful. She was full of anecdotes about remarkable people, and
often spoke from her personal knowledge of them. Her memory, too, was
stored with valuable information, and her manner of narrating was so
animated that it was difficult to realise her age. In telling an
anecdote of Mirabeau, she stepped out before us, and, extending her
arms, spoke a sentence of his in the impassioned manner of a French
orator, and did it so admirably that it was quite thrilling.

Another American visitor, in the same year of 1836, the Rev. William B.
Sprogue, writes: [Footnote: _European Celebrities_, 1855.]

The Edgeworth house is a fine spacious old mansion, with a splendid lawn
stretching before it, and everything to indicate opulence and hereditary
distinction.... Miss Edgeworth was the first person to meet me; and she
immediately introduced me to her mother, Mrs. Edgeworth, her father's
fourth wife, and her sister, Miss Honora Edgeworth. Miss Edgeworth, in
her personal appearance, was below middle size; her face was exceedingly
plain, though strongly indicative of intellect; and though she seemed to
possess great vigour of body as well as of mind, it was, after all, the
vigour of old age. I supposed her to be about sixty-five, but I believe
she was actually on the wrong side of seventy. Her stepmother, Mrs.
Edgeworth, must have been, I think, rather younger than Maria, and was
not only a lady of high intelligence, but of great personal attractions,
and withal of a very serious turn of mind. As Miss Edgeworth knew that
my visit was to be limited to a single day, she told me almost
immediately that she wished to know in what way she could contribute
most to my gratification,--whether by remaining in the house or walking
over the grounds. She talked upon a great variety of subjects, but there
was nothing about her that had ever any affinity to showing off or
trying to talk well: she evidently did not know how to talk otherwise.
Circumstances led her to speak of her experience with some of her
publishers. She mentioned that one of them had repeatedly requested her
to abate from the amount which he had engaged to pay her, and that she
had done so; but at length, after she had told him explicitly to make
proposals he would abide by, he wrote her a letter, saying that he
wished another abatement, and that he found that on the whole he had
lost by her works; and she then wrote him in reply, that in consequence
of the loss he had sustained, she would transfer her publications to
other hands. He afterwards earnestly requested that she would excuse him
for having thus written, and desired to retain the works; but _she_ was
inflexible, and _he_ very angry. Her former publisher, she said, when he
found himself dying, called for a letter to her which was then
unfinished, and requested that there should be inserted a promise of ten
or twelve hundred pounds more than he had engaged to give her for one of
her works; for it had been so much more profitable to him than he
expected, that he could not die in peace till he had done justly by her.
And his heirs executed his will in accordance with this dying
suggestion.

Home interests, home cares, and home sorrows were henceforth
increasingly to occupy Miss Edgeworth's life.

MARIA _to_ MISS RUXTON.

LOUGH GLYN, _Sept. 16, 1836_.

You may suppose how I felt the kindness of your note. You are now my
friend of longest standing and dearest parentage in this world; and in
this world, in which I have lived nearly three quarters of a century, I
have found nothing one quarter so well worth living for as old friends.

We go to Moore Hall to-morrow. We had here yesterday a party at dinner,
all exquisite in their way; Lord and Lady Dillon and Miss Dillon, Lord
Oranmore and his son, Mr. Brown, and two Miss Stricklands and their
brothers; and coloured fireworks in the evening: of all of which you
shall hear more when we meet. Breakfast-bell ringing in my ears.

_March 5, 1837_.

The last accounts will have prepared you--more prepared, perhaps, than I
was, for hope had lived in spite of reason when life was gone--your
beloved and most amiable, angelic-tempered goddaughter [Footnote: Her
sister Sophy. Mrs. Barry Fox, who died March 1.] is gone. She preserved
her charming mind quite clear all through, and had her mother with her,
and the comfort of knowing that her children were in the care of Mr.
Butler and Harriet.

_To_ MISS MARGARET RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Dec. 17, 1837_.

We are very anxious indeed to hear of Sophy: [Footnote: Miss Ruxton,
Miss Edgeworth's cousin and dearest friend, died at Black Castle,
December 30.] the last account Harriet gave was quite alarming. I see
Richard going about the house with his watch in his hand to feel Sophy's
pulse, and looking so anxious. How glad he must be that he had returned
home, and to Sophy what a comfort it must be, to have the certainty of
his affection, and to have the earliest companion of her childhood and
her manly friend beside her now! I will go to her instantly if she
desires it.

I long to hear that you have had, and that you like, the _Memoirs of Mr.
Smedley_. I am sure that, when Sophy is well enough to hear or to read
anything, that book will be the very thing for her.

_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

TRIM, _July 25, 1838_.

Mrs. Lazarus's [Footnote: Formerly Miss Mordecai.] death did indeed
shock and grieve me. But it is, as you say, the condition, the doom of
advancing, advanced age, to see friend after friend go; but in
proportion as it detaches one from life, it still more makes us value
the friends we have left. And continually, at every fresh blow, I really
_wonder_, and am thankful, most truly thankful, that I have so many, so
much left.

_To_ MISS MARGARET RUXTON.

_Oct. 10, 1838_.

I am sure, my dear Margaret, you were pleased at Honora's communication:
you wrote a most kind and pleasant letter of congratulation.[Footnote:
On the engagement of her sister Honora to Captain Beaufort, her
stepmother's brother.] She has hitherto been most fortunate in pleasing
all her friends, both as to the fact and as to the time and manner of
telling. Do you remember a conversation we had standing upon the hearth
in my room one night, between eleven and twelve, the witching hour, and
what you asked me about Captain Beaufort? The secret had then been
confided to me; and I hope you will do me the justice to acknowledge
that, open-hearted and open-mouthed as I am, I can keep a secret
WONDERFUL well.

_To_ MR. AND MRS. TICKNOR.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Nov. 1, 1838_.

. . . My sister Honora is going to be married to a person every way
suited to her, and that is saying a great deal, as you, who most kindly
and justly appreciated her, will readily join with me in thinking. The
gentleman's name, Captain Beaufort, R.N., perhaps you may be acquainted
with, as he is in a public situation, and not unknown to literary and
scientific fame. He is a naval officer (I hope you like this officer's
name?). He made some years ago a survey of the coast of Karamania, and
wrote a small volume on that survey, which has obtained for him a good
reputation. He has been for some years Hydrographer-Royal ... in one
word, he is a person publicly esteemed, and privately he is beloved and
esteemed by all who know him, most by those who love him best. He is and
has been well known to us ever since the present Mrs. Edgeworth's
marriage with my father; Captain Beaufort is Mrs. Edgeworth's youngest
brother. As Mrs. E. is Honora's _step_mother, you see that he is no
relation whatever to Honora. But the nearness of the connection has
given us all the best means of knowing him thoroughly. He was my dear
father's most beloved pupil and friend; by pupil I mean that being so
much younger made him look up to my father with reverence, and learn
from him in science and literature with delight. Thus he has been long
connected with all I love. He has been a widower two years. He has three
sons and four daughters.... The youngest daughter, Emily, is a
delightful child. Captain Beaufort lives in London, 11 Gloucester Place:
has a very comfortable house and sufficient fortune for all their
moderate wishes. Honora's fortune, which is ample, will give them
affluence.

My dear Mrs. Ticknor, I know you particularly liked Honora, and that you
will be interested in hearing all these particulars, though it seems
impertinent to detail them across the Atlantic to one who will, I fear,
never see any one of the persons I have mentioned. Yet affections such
as yours keep warm very long and at a great distance.

I feel that I have got into a snug little corner in both your hearts,
and that you will excuse a great deal from me, therefore I go on without
scruple drawing upon your sympathy, and you will not protest my draft.

You saw how devoted Honora was to her aunt, Mrs. Mary Sneyd, whom you
liked so much; and you will easily imagine what a struggle there has
been in Honora's mind before she would consent to a marriage with even
such a man as Captain Beaufort, when it must separate her from her aunt.
Captain Beaufort himself felt this so much that he would never have
pressed it. He once thought that she might be prevailed upon to
accompany them to London, and to live with them. But Mrs. Mary Sneyd
could not bear to leave Mrs. Edgeworth, and this place which she has
made her heart's home. She decided Captain Beaufort and her niece to
make her happy by completing their union, and letting her feel that she
did not prevent the felicity of the two persons she loves best now in
the world. She remains with us.

The marriage is to take place next Tuesday or Thursday, and my Aunt Mary
will go to church with her niece and give her away. I must tell you a
little characteristic trait of this aunt, the least selfish of all human
beings. She has been practising getting up early in the morning, which
she has not done for two years--has never got up for breakfast. But she
has trained herself to rising at the hour at which she must rise on the
wedding day, and has walked up and down her own room the distance she
must walk up and down the aisle of the church, to ensure her being
accustomed to the exertion, and able to accomplish it easily. This she
did for a long time without our knowing it, till Honora found it out.
Mrs. Mary Sneyd is quite well and in excellent spirits.

A younger sister of mine, Lucy, of whom you have heard us speak as an
invalid, who was at Clifton with that dear Sophy whom we have lost, is
now recovered, and has returned home to take Honora's place with her
Aunt Mary; and Aunt Mary likes to have her, and Lucy feels this a great
motive to her to overcome a number of nervous feelings which formed part
of her illness. A regular course of occupations and duties, and feeling
herself essential to the happiness and the holding together of a family
she so loves, will be the best strengthening medicine for her. She
arrived at home last night. My sister Fanny and her husband, Lestock
Wilson, are with us. My sister has much improved in health: she is now
able to walk without pain, and bore her long journey and voyage here
wonderfully. I have always regretted, and always shall regret, that this
sister Fanny of mine had not the pleasure of becoming acquainted with
you. You really must revisit England. My sister Harriet Butler, and Mr.
Butler, and the three dear little Foxes, are all round me at this
instant. Barry Fox, their father, will be with us in a few days, and
Captain Beaufort returns from London on Monday. You see what a large and
happy family we are!

Mr. Butler will perform the happy, awful ceremony. How people who do not
love can even dare to marry, to approach the altar to pronounce that
solemn vow, I cannot conceive.

My thoughts are so engrossed by this subject that I absolutely cannot
tell you of anything else. You must tell me of everything that interests
you, else I shall not forgive myself for my egotism.

_To_ MISS MARGARET RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Nov. 8, 1838_.

You are the first person I write to upon returning from church after the
accomplishment of Honora and Captain Beaufort's marriage. Captain
Beaufort was affected more than any man I ever saw in the same
circumstances, yet in the most manly manner. Aunt Mary went to church,
as she had intended: they had both received her blessing, kneeling as to
a mother, the evening before in her own room. Lestock and Barry were at
the church door, to hand her up the aisle. Old Mr. Keating was there,
excellent, warm-hearted man; and Mr. Butler performed the ceremony. The
bride and bridegroom went off from the church door, and are, I suppose,
by this time, five o'clock, at Trim.

_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH, IN LONDON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Aug. 25, 1839_.

You will, I am sure, give me credit for having so well and pleasantly
performed our visits--Rosa, Lucy, and Francis with me--to the Pakenhams
and Pollards. Francis found Mr. Pollard very agreeable, and was charmed
with Mrs. Pollard's manners and conversation. We called on Mrs. Dease on
our return, and walked in her garden, in which, in all my seventy years,
I never walked before, and saw huge bunches of crimson Indian pinks,
some of which are now in my garden, and well doing there.

In the morning, before we went to Kinturk, came a note from a gentleman
at the _White Hart_, Edgeworthstown, waiting for an answer: an American
medical professor, Dr. Gibson. It was very unlucky that I was engaged to
go out--irrevocably settled: however, I sat two hours and a half with
Dr. Gibson, and very clever and agreeable I found him.

_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

TRIM, _Nov. 1, 1840_.

I am _perfect_, dearest mother, so no more about it, and thank you from
my heart and every component part of my precious self for all the care
and successful care you have taken of me, your old petted nursling.
Thank you and Mrs. Mitchell for the potted meat luncheon, and Mr. Tuite
for his grapes,--Mary Anne and Charlotte had some. I was less tired than
I could have expected when I reached Trim, and there was Mr. Butler on
the steps ready to welcome us, and candles and firelight in the
drawing-room so cheerful. I slept like a sleeping top. Harriet read out
_Ferdinand and Isabella_, which, with all its chivalresque interest, I
do like very much. I am sure Rosa's [Footnote: Mrs. Francis Edgeworth.]
Spanish interest in the book will grow by that it feeds upon, and I am
very glad that she who has such fresh genuine pleasure in literature
should have this book, which is so beautifully written, because it is so
well felt by the author. Poor kind man. I will write to Mr. Ticknor as
soon as I come to Finis.

The birds got home well; but travelling, Harriet tells me, does not
agree with them, because they cannot stick upon their perch, and it is a
perpetual struggle between cling and jolt.

_Nov. 10_.

I enclose a note of Miss Crampton's and two notes of Lady Normanby's. I
never read more unaffected, affectionate, wife-like letters. How
gratifying they must be to Crampton, and it raises one's opinion of Lord
Normanby himself to find he can so attach a woman and a wife.

The _History of a Flirt_, which Harriet is reading to me, is rather
entertaining but not interesting--a new and ingenious idea of a flirt,
who is not looking for establishment or match-making, and therefore her
disinterestedness charms all the lords and gentlemen who have been used
to match-making mothers and young-lady-hunters for titles, and under
favour of this disinterestedness her insolence and faithlessness is
passed over, while all the time she is in love with a captain with "soft
Venetian eyes," as Mrs. Thrale used to say of Piozzi.

_Nov. 16_.

The ear-comforter or earwig is beautiful and comfortable, and is, I
hear, as becoming to me as was the Chancellor's wig to Francis Forbes
when he acted _Of Age To-morrow_. I am acting of age to-day, and very
gay, and perhaps may arrive at years of discretion at eighty, if I live
so long. I certainly wish to live till next month that I may see you all
at home again. You know the classic distich, which my father pointed out
and translated for me, which was over the entrance door of the Cross
Keys inn, near Beighterton:

  If you are told you will die to-morrow you smile:
  If you are told you will die a month hence you will sigh.

I do not know where this may be in a book, but I know it is in human
nature.

_To_ MR. TICKNOR.

TRIM, _Nov. 19, 1840_.

... I am afraid to invite you to come and see us again, lest you should
be disenchanted, and we should lose the delightful gratification we
enjoy in your glamour of friendship. Aunt Mary, however, is really all
you think and saw her; and in her good years 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 been with us all 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. Edgeworth, 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. Edgeworth's and all our
inexpressible comfort and support, also for the good of the county, 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 lionising of London. For though 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-natured 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 plain truth. I
shall return 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.

... 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 in the
view you gave me of your public festivity and celebration of your
American day of days--your national festival in honour 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 an hour, or join in rejoicing or feeling for their country! Father
Matthews, one might have hoped, considering the good he has effected for
all Ireland, and considering his own unimpeachable character and his
great 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 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 Matthews treat
_heretics all as one_, as Catholics themselves! and would have them
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_."

_To_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET, _Dec. 26_.

While Francis is _pro_-ing and con-ing with Fanny about alterations in
his house at Clewer, I may go on with my scribbling, and tell you that
Honora luncheoned here, and then off we went to Mrs. Debrizey's, Mrs.
Darwin's, Mrs. Hensleigh Wedgewood, Mrs. Guillemard, and Mrs. Marcet--at
Mrs. Edward Romilly's.

Mrs. Darwin is the youngest daughter of Jos. Wedgewood, and is worthy of
both father and mother; affectionate, and unaffected, and--young as she
is, full of old times, she has her mother's radiantly cheerful
countenance, even now, debarred from all London gaieties and all gaiety
but that of her own mind by close attendance on her sick husband.

Mrs. Marcet was ill in bed, but Mr. and Mrs. Edward Romilly were
pleasing and willing to be pleased, and he talked over his father's
_Memoirs_ candidly and sensibly, and like a good son and a man of sense.

"I had like to have forgotten "--strange expression! can Mr. Butler
explain it? _I had like to have_ forgotten and must tell Aunt Mary about
Mrs. Lister calling.

_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

_January 2, 1841_.

Thank you for your birthday good wishes. How many birthdays have brought
me the same never-failing kindness.

A very pleasant meeting we had yesterday at your brother's. [Footnote:
Recently married to Honora Edgeworth.] Honora, dear Honora, was so nice
and kind, nobody but ourselves. At second course appeared the essential
trifle, [Footnote: A trifle always appeared on Maria Edgeworth's
birthday, because once on New Year's Day when a trifle had been ordered
and the dish was placed on the table there was found under the flowers,
not cake and cream, but a little story Maria had written, "A Trifle."
The young folk had a real trifle afterwards.] and, trifle as it was, it
was quite delightful to me with Honora's smile.

Did you ever taste figs stuffed with almonds? I hope you never may taste
them! very bad, I assure you, but how the almonds got in puzzled me; all
tight and closed as the outer skin looks without ridge or joining.

Did you ever taste Imperial Tokay? Your brother gave me some of the best
ever tasted, I am told; and what do you think I said?

"Why, this cannot be Tokay!"

"Did you ever taste Tokay before?" said he.

"O yes, very often; but this is not Tokay."

"Be pleased to tell us what it is then," quoth Lestock.

"I don't know; but not Tokay, or a different sort from what I ever
tasted, for that was sour and always drunk in green glasses."

Suddenly I recollected that I meant _Hock_!

Do you recollect the history of the Irishman, who declared that he had
seen anchovies growing on the walls at Gibraltar? Challenged a gentleman
for doubting him, met, and fired, and hit his man, and when the man who
was hit, sprang up as he received the shot, and the second
observed--"How he capers!"

"By the powers! It was capers I meant 'stead of anchovies."

_To_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET, _Jan. 10, 1841_.

_À propos du pluie, à propos du beau temps_--I think of you and ten
thousand times a week. ("I hate exaggeration.") I wish for you when I am
in want of some unremembered or _disremembered_ name. I do love that
Irish verb disremember, and I conjugate it daily from the infinitive to
the preterpluperfect. Last week I preterpluperfectly disremembered when
talking to Morris of Fortunio's gifted men, whether the legs of him who
outrunneth the hare were tied with green or red? Parties run high for
green and for red--please to settle the question.

Fanny has been reading to me Darwin's _Voyage_; delightful it is.

_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET, _Jan. 13, 1841_.

Most agreeable dinner here yesterday; the _convives_ were: Dr.
Lushington, Mr. Andrews; Mrs. Andrews at the last sent a regret--ill in
bed with a headache. Honora came in her stead. Mr. Macintosh and Miss
Carr; Dr. Lushington beside Fanny, and carving remarkably well and most
entertaining and agreeable; he raised the heart's laugh frequently, and
the head's by fresh, not old-faded-London-diner-out bon-mots, anecdotes,
and facts worth knowing, all with the assistance of Mr. Andrews, so
remarkably agreeable and gentlemanly a gentleman; they played into each
other's hands and mine delightfully, and Fanny's, and Honora's, and the
ball came to everybody pat, in turn. The ball did I say? Boomerang I
should have said, for it came back always nicely to the thrower.

I must tell you an anecdote I heard yesterday from Mr. Kenyon, brother
of Lord Kenyon's, a saying of Mrs. Brooke, sister of Baron Garrow, who,
notwithstanding his bullying manner in court, was a man easily swayed in
private, always influenced by the last thing said by the last person in
his company--all which was compressed by Mrs. Brooke into: "With my
brother _presence is power_."

_To_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET, _Feb. 24, 1841_.

My ultimate intention and best hope for my own selfish satisfaction is
to go with you and Mr. Butler to that poor _uncentred_ [Footnote: Mrs.
Mary Sneyd died at the age of ninety, on the 10th of February 1841.]
desolate home at Edgeworthstown.

What an inexpressible comfort that you were with your mother, Lucy, and
Honora, and my dear lost aunt to the last.

_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

_March 14, 1841_.

Here I am, like a Sybarite, but with luxuries such as a Sybarite or
Sybaritess never dreamed of: a cup of good coffee and some dry toast and
butter, a good coal fire on my right, a light window on my left,
dressing-table opposite, with large looking-glass, which reflects, not
my face, which for good reasons of my own I never wish to see, but a
beautiful green lawn and cedars of Lebanon; and on my mantelpiece stand
jars of Nankin china, and shells from--Ocean knows where. And where do
you think I am? At Heathfield Lodge, Croydon, the seat of Gerard
Ralstone, Esq.; and met here at a large dinner yesterday Mr. Napier, and
he comes for me to-morrow, and takes me to Forest Hill. At this dinner
were two celebrated American gentlemen--Mr. Sparkes, who wrote
Washington's _Life_; and Mr. Clisson, a man of fortune, and benevolently
enthusiastic about colonisation in Liberia.

After luncheon I saw march by to church a whole regiment of youths from
Addiscombe, which is near here.

But now I must retrograde to tell you, as I have a few minutes more than
I expected, of a visit I had an hour before I set out, from a man fresh
from Africa--a Scotchman by birth, a missionary by vocation, who had
been twenty years abroad, almost all that time in Africa: sent to the
Hottentots in the first place, and he converted many. They were taught
to sow and to reap, and the women to _sew_ in the other way, all by this
indefatigable Mr. Moffatt; and they taught him on their part how to do
the CLUCK, and Mr. Moffatt did it for me. It is indescribable and
inimitable. It is not so loud as a hen's cluck to her chickens, but more
quick and abrupt.

He said that when he was ordered to return home, he felt it as a
sentence of banishment. "I had lived so long in Africa, I felt it my
home, and I had almost forgotten how to speak English. I almost dreaded
to be among white faces again."

1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET.

Mr. Napier brought me here by half after twelve.

I had a delightful drive with him in his little pony phaeton from
Croydon to Forest Hill. Mr. and Mrs. Napier are more and more
delightful to me in conversation and manners the more I see of them. A
brother, Captain Napier, very conversable, and full of humour; he has a
charming daughter, and has been in all parts of the world, and loves
Ireland and the Irish.

_To_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET, _April 1841_.

I must tell you now of my visit to Warfield Lodge. Henrietta and Wren
met me at the station, and all the way, when they spoke, it seemed as if
I had parted from them but yesterday. When I saw Miss O'Beirne, there
was, opposite to me, that fine, full-coloured, full of life, speaking
picture of Mrs. O'Beirne. The place is as pretty as ever, and it was
impossible for the most hospitable luxury to do more for me, and with
the most minute recollective attention to all my olden-times habits and
ways. I would not for anything that could be given or done for me, not
have paid this visit.

One evening Miss O'Beirne invited some friends I was particularly glad
to see--three daughters of my dear Sir John Malcolm, all very fine young
women, with fine souls, and vast energy and benevolence, worthy of him.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Sept. 27_.

I send you some Spanish books which I bought, with one eye upon you and
one upon Rosa. I sat up till past one o'clock a few nights ago, and
caught cold, looking through the whole of _Hudibras_, for what at last
could not be found in it, though I still am confident it is there--

  Murder is lawful made by the excess.

In the middle of my hunt my mind misgave me that it was in the _Fable of
the Bees_, and I went through it line by line, and for my pains can
swear it is not there. It is wonderful that, at seventy-four, I can be
so ardent in the chase, certainly not for the worth of the game, nor yet
for the triumph of finding; for I care not whether I am the person to
find it or not, so it is found. Pray find it for me.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _March 10, 1842_.

We have been much entertained and interested in Macaulay's "Life of
Hastings," in the _Edinburgh_; but some of it is too gaudily written,
and mean gaudiness, unsuited to the subject--such as the dresses of the
people at Westminster Hall; and I think Macaulay's indignation against
Gleig for his adulation of Hastings, and his not feeling indignation
against his crimes, is sometimes noble, and sometimes mean and
vituperative.

_To_ MRS. BEAUFORT.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _March 12_.

Mr. Creed, my dear good Mr. Creed, has been most kind in taking into his
employment one of the young Gerrards who behaved so gallantly in
recovering their father's arms from robbers. The poor people are seldom
rewarded when they do right, yet surely, in the government of human
creatures, Hope and Reward are strong and elevating powers, while Fear
and Punishment can at best only restrain from crime. Hope can produce
the finest and most permanent springs of action.

We have not been able to go on with our reading for some days. The more
I live I see more and more the misery of uncultivated minds, and the
happiness of the cultivated, when they can keep themselves free from
literary and scientific jealousies and party spirit.

_To_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _March 1842_.

I am surprised to find how much more history interests me now than when
I was young, and how much more I am now interested in the same events
recorded, and their causes and consequences shown, in this History of
the French Revolution, and in all the History of Europe during the last
quarter of a century, than I was when the news came fresh and fresh in
the newspapers. I do not think I had sense enough to take in the
relations and proportions of the events. It was like moving a magnifying
glass over the parts of a beetle, and not taking in the whole.

_To_ MISS MARGARET RUXTON, _then residing at_ HYÈRES.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _April 16, 1842_.

It seems such an immense time since I have heard from you, so now I sit
down to earn a letter.

And first I have to tell you that, on the 14th, between the hours of
eleven and twelve, a new cousin of yours was brought into this world, a
monstrous large boy: Rosa doing well: house very full, [Footnote: All
the family had assembled to meet Pakenham Edgeworth on his return, on
leave, from India.] but all as quiet as mice. We breakfast in the study,
to keep all noise from Rosa in the plume room.

It is time to tell you that Pakenham is here, and Fanny, and Honora, and
Harriet, and Mary Anne, and Charlotte; and we are as happy as ever we can
be. Pakenham's tastes are all domestic, yet he has the most perfect
knowledge of business, great penetration of eye, and cool, self-possessed
manners, like one used to judgment and command, yet not proud of doing
either. He has brought with him such proofs of his industry as are quite
astonishing; such collections of drawings, both botanical and sketches of
country. How he found time to do all this, and spend six hours per day at
Cucherry--all as one as sessions--and to write his journal of every day
for eleven years, I really cannot comprehend; but so it is.

_To_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _June 17, 1842_.

It is now five o'clock, and Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall have not come. It is
Lestock's last day, and he and Fanny and Lucy are so busy and so happy
putting the transit instrument to rights, and setting black spotted and
yellow backed spinning spiders at work to spin for the meridian lines. I
have just succeeded in catching the right sort by descending to the
infernal regions, and setting kitchenmaid and housemaid at work. I was
glad Mr. and Mrs. Hall did not arrive just at the crisis of the
operation--all completed now.

Ask Mr. Butler if there is any subscription necessary or expected from
me, now that I have been so honourably made an honorary member of the
Royal Irish Academy? I would not for the world omit anything that ought
to be done now that I am M.R.I.A.

_July 8_.

I am going literally to beg my bread and lodging at your door on my way
to Dublin, and I do so _sans phrase_. I remember that, when I used to
write to offer myself to Aunt Ruxton, I regularly added, "You know, my
dear aunt, I can sleep in a drawer;" and she used to answer, "I know you
can, my dear, and you are welcome; but write a day beforehand, that I
may have the drawer ready."

_To_ MRS. FRANCIS BEAUFORT.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Oct. 27, 1842_.

Most kind and most judiciously kind Honora, you have written the very
thing I had been thinking as I lay awake last night, I would write to
you, but scrupled. I certainly will take your advice, and spend my
Christmas at home with Pakenham, although I cannot, nor do I wish to,
fill up his feeling of the blanks in this house. There is something
mournful, yet pleasingly painful, in the sense of the ideal presence of
the long-loved dead. Those images people and fill the mind with
unselfish thoughts, and with the salutary feeling of responsibility and
constant desire to be and to act in this world as the superior friend
would have wished and approved.

There is such difficulty this season for the poor tenants to make up
their rents; cattle, oats, butter, potatoes, all things have so sunk in
price. In these circumstances it is not only humane, but absolutely
necessary, that landlords should give more time than usual. Some cannot
pay till after certain fairs in the beginning of November--that I must
have stayed for, at all events. Indeed, they have shown so much
consideration for me, and striven so to make up the money that they
might not _detain_ me, that I should be a brute and a tyrant if I did
not do all I could on my part to accommodate them.

_To_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Dec. 1842_.

Mrs. Hall has sent to me her last number, in which she gives
Edgeworthstown. All the world here are pleased with it, and so am I. I
like the way in which she has mentioned my father particularly. There is
an evident kindness of heart, and care to avoid everything that could
hurt any of our feelings, and at the same time a warmth of affectionate
feeling unaffectedly expressed, that we all like it, in spite of our
dislike to "that sort of thing."

Mrs. S.C. Hall's is perhaps the best picture extant of the family life
at Edgeworthstown. She says:

Our principal object, in Longford County, was to visit Edgeworthstown,
and to spend some time in the society of Miss Edgeworth. We entered the
neat, nice, and pretty town at evening; all around us bore--as we had
anticipated--the aspect of comfort, cheerfulness, good order,
prosperity, and their concomitant, contentment. There was no mistaking
the fact that we were in the neighbourhood of a resident Irish family,
with minds to devise, and hands to effect improvement everywhere within
reach of their control.

Edgeworthstown may almost be regarded as public property. From this
mansion has emanated so much practical good to Ireland, and not alone to
Ireland, but the civilised world.... The demesne is judiciously and
abundantly planted, and the dwelling-house of Edgeworthstown is large
and commodious. We drove up the avenue at evening. It was cheerful to
see the lights sparkle through the windows, and to feel the cold nose of
the house-dog thrust into our hands as an earnest of welcome; it was
pleasant to receive the warm greeting of Mrs. Edgeworth, and it was a
high privilege to meet Miss Edgeworth in the library, the very room in
which had been written the works that redeemed a character for Ireland,
and have so largely promoted the truest welfare of human-kind. We had
not seen her for some years--except for a few brief moments--and
rejoiced to find her in nothing changed; her voice as light and happy,
her laughter as full of gentle mirth, her eyes as bright and truthful,
and her countenance as expressive of goodness and loving-kindness, as
they have ever been.

Edgeworthstown was, and is, a large country mansion, to which additions
have been from time to time made, but made judiciously. An avenue of
venerable trees leads to it from the public road. It is distant about
seven miles from the town of Longford. The only room I need specially
refer to is the library; it belonged more peculiarly to Maria, although
the general sitting-room of the family. It was the room in which she did
nearly all her work; not only that which was to gratify and instruct the
world, but that which, in a measure, regulated the household--the
domestic duties that were subjects of her continual thought: for the
desk at which she usually sat was never without memoranda of matters
from which she might have pleaded a right to be held exempt. It is by no
means a stately, solitary room, but large, spacious, and lofty, well
stored with books, and furnished with suggestive engravings. Seen
through the window is the lawn, embellished by groups of trees. If you
look at the oblong table in the centre, you will see the rallying-point
of the family, who are usually around it, reading, writing, or working;
while Miss Edgeworth, only anxious that the inmates of the house shall
each do exactly as he or she pleases, sits in her own peculiar corner on
the sofa; a pen, given her by Sir Walter Scott while a guest at
Edgeworthstown (in 1825), is placed before her on a little, quaint,
unassuming table, constructed, and added to, for convenience. She had a
singular power of abstraction, apparently hearing all that was said, and
occasionally taking part in the conversation, while pursuing her own
occupation, and seemingly attending only to it. In that corner, and on
that table, she had written nearly all her works. Now and then she would
rise and leave the room, perhaps to procure a toy for one of the
children, to mount the ladder and bring down a book that could explain
or illustrate some topic on which some one was conversing; immediately
she would resume her pen, and continue to write as if the thought had
been unbroken for an instant. I expressed to Mrs. Edgeworth surprise at
this faculty, so opposed to my own habit. "Maria," she said, "was always
the same; her mind was so rightly balanced, everything so honestly
weighed, that she suffered no inconvenience from what would disturb and
distract an ordinary writer."

She was an early riser, and had much work done before breakfast. Every
morning during our stay at Edgeworthstown she had gathered a bouquet of
roses, which she placed beside my plate on the table, while she was
always careful to refresh the vase that stood in our chamber; and she
invariably examined my feet after a walk, to see that damp had not
induced danger; popping in and out of our room with some kind inquiry,
some thoughtful suggestion, or to show some object that she knew would
give pleasure. Maria Edgeworth never seemed weary of thought that could
make those about her happy.

A wet day was a "god-send" to us. She would enter our sitting-room and
converse freely of persons whose names are histories; and once she
brought us a large box full of letters--her correspondence with many
great men and women, extending over more than fifty years, authors,
artists, men of science, social reformers, statesmen, of all the
countries of Europe, and especially of America, a country of which she
spoke and wrote in terms of the highest respect and affection.

Although we had known Miss Edgeworth in London, it will be readily
understood how much more to advantage she was seen in her own house; she
was the very gentlest of lions, the most unexacting, apparently the
least conscious of her right to prominence. In London she did not
reject, yet she seemed averse to the homage accorded her. At home she
was emphatically at home!

In person she was very small--she was "lost in a crowd!" Her face was
pale and thin, her features irregular; they may have been considered
plain, even in youth, but her expression was so benevolent, her manners
were so perfectly well-bred, partaking of English dignity and Irish
frankness, that one never thought of her with reference either to beauty
or plainness. She ever occupied, without claiming attention, charming
continually by her singularly pleasant voice, while the earnestness and
truth that beamed from her bright blue--very blue--eyes increased the
value of every word she uttered. She knew how to _listen_ as well as to
_talk_, and gathered information in a manner highly complimentary to
those from whom she sought it; her attention seemed far more the effect
of respect than of curiosity. Her sentences were frequently
epigrammatic; she more than once suggested to me the story of the good
fairy from whose lips dropped diamonds and pearls whenever they were
opened. She was ever neat and particular in her dress, her feet and
hands were so delicate and small as to be almost childlike. In a word,
Maria Edgeworth was one of those women who do not seem to require
beauty.

Miss Edgeworth has been called "cold"; but those who have so deemed her
have never seen, as I have, the tears gather in her eyes at a tale of
suffering or sorrow, nor heard the genuine, hearty laugh that followed
the relation of a pleasant story. Never, so long as I live, can I forget
the evenings spent in her library in the midst of a family highly
educated and self-thinking, in conversation unrestrained, yet pregnant
with instructive thought.

In January 1843 Miss Edgeworth was dangerously ill with a fever.
Afterwards she wrote to a friend:

And, now that it is over, I thank God not only for my recovery, but for
my illness. In very truth, and without the least exaggeration or
affectation or sentiment, I declare that, on the whole, my illness was a
source of more pleasure than pain to me, and that I would willingly go
through all the fever and weakness to have the delight of the feelings
of warm affection, and the consequent unspeakable sensations of
gratitude. When I felt that it was more than probable that I should not
recover, with a pulse above a hundred and twenty, and at the entrance of
my seventy-sixth year, I was not alarmed. I felt ready to rise tranquil
from the banquet of life, where I had been a happy guest; I confidently
relied on the goodness of my Creator.

MARIA _to_ MISS MARGARET RUXTON _at_ HYÈRES.

TRIM, _March 20, 1843_.

Thank you, thank you, my dear Margaret, for all your anxiety about me.
[Footnote: In her severe illness during January.] I am strengthening. We
have no news or events; we live very happily here. On Friday last, being
St. Patrick's Day, there were great doings here, and not drunken doings,
not drowning the shamrock in whisky, but honouring the shamrock with
temperance rejoicings and music, that maketh the heart glad without
making the head giddy or raising the hand against law or
fellow-creatures. Leave was asked by the Temperance Band and company to
come into Mr. Butler's lawn to play a tune or two, as they were pleased
to express it, for Miss Edgeworth. The gates were thrown open, and in
came the band, a brass band, with glittering horns, etc., preceded by
Priest Halligan, whom you may recollect, in a blue and white scarf
floating graceful, and a standard flag in his hand. A numerous crowd of
men, women, and children came flocking after, kept in order by some
Temperance Society staff officers with blue ensigns.

I, an invalid, was not permitted to go out to welcome them, but I stood
at my own window, which I threw open, and thanked them as loud as I
could, and curtseyed as low as my littleness and my weakness would
allow, and was bowed to as low as saddle-bow by priests on horseback and
musicians and audience on foot: Harriet on the steps welcoming and
sympathising with these poor people; and delightful it was to see Mr.
Butler bareheaded shaking hands with the priest, who almost threw
himself from his horse to give him his hand.

Mr. Tuite, that dear good old gentleman, died a few days ago at Sonna,
in his ninety-seventh year; his good son, in his note to my mother
announcing the event, says, "It is a comfort to think that to the very
last he had all the comfort, spiritual and earthly, that he could need
or desire."

Miss Bremer, of Stockholm, has published a novel, translated by Mary
Howitt, which is one of the most interesting, new, and truly original
books I have seen this quarter-century. Its title does not do it
justice. _Our Neighbours_: which might lead you to expect a gossiping
book, or at best something like _Annals of my Parish--tout au
contraire_; it is sketches of family life, a romantic family, admirably
drawn--some characters perhaps a little overstrained, but in the
convulsions of the overstraining giving evidence of great strength--beg,
buy, or borrow it, if you can, and if not, envy us who have it.

Envy us, also, _La Vie du Grand Condé_, written in French, by Lord
Mahon, not published, only a hundred copies struck off, and he has
honoured me with a present of a copy. Of the style and correctness of
the French I am not so presumptuous as to pretend to be a competent
judge, but I can say that in reading it I quite forgot it was by an
Englishman, and never stopped to consider this or that expression, and I
wish, dear Margaret, that you had the satisfaction of reading this most
interesting, entertaining book.

Dickens's _America_ is a failure; never trouble yourself to read it;
nevertheless, though the book is good for little, it gives me the
conviction that the man is good for much more than I gave him credit
for; a real desire for the improvement of the lower classes, and this
reality of _feeling_ is, I take it, the secret, joined to his great
power of humour, of his ascendant popularity.

_To_ MISS BANNATYNE.

TRIM, _April 1843_.

I am eager, with my own hand, to assure you that I am quite recovered. I
have been so nursed and tended by all my friends that I really can think
of nothing but myself; nevertheless, I am sometimes able to think of
other things and persons. During my convalescence Harriet has read to me
many entertaining and interesting books: none to me so interesting, so
charming, as the Life and Letters of your countryman, that honour to
your country and to all Britain, and to human nature--Francis Horner: a
more noble, disinterested character could not be; in the midst of
temptations with such firm integrity, in the midst of party spirit as
much superior to its influence as mortal man could be! and if sympathy
with his friends, and the sense that public men must pull together to
effect any purpose may, as Lord Webb Seymour asserts, have swayed
Horner, or biased him a little from his original theoretic course, still
it never was from any selfish or in the slightest degree corrupt or
unworthy motive. I much admire Lord Webb Seymour's letter to Horner, and
not less Horner's candid, honest, and temperate answer. What friends he
made for himself of the best and most able of the land, not only admired
but trusted and consulted by them all, and not only trusted and
consulted, but beloved. This book really makes one think better of human
nature. Of all his friends I think more highly than I ever thought or
knew before I read his letters to them and theirs to him. There never
was such a unanimous tribute to integrity in a statesman as was paid to
Horner by the British Senate at his death: I remember it at the time,
and I am glad to see it recorded in this book. It will waken or keep
alive the spirit of public and private virtue in many a youthful mind. I
see with pleasure your father's name in the book, and the names and
characters of many of our dear Scotch friends. My head and heart are so
full of it that I really know not how to stop in speaking of it.

I am just going to write to Lady Lansdowne how much I was delighted by
seeing her and Lord Henry Petty, but especially herself, mentioned
exactly in the manner in which I thought of her and of him, when we
first became acquainted with them, which was just at the very time of
which Mr. Horner speaks. Lady Lansdowne gave me a drawing of Little
Bounds, which is now hanging up in our library unfaded. It is a
gratification to me to feel that I appreciated both her talents and her
character as Horner did, before all the world found out that she was a
SUPERIOR person.

My brother Pakenham was delighted with his tour in Scotland, and with
his renewal of personal intercourse with his dear Scotch friends: all
steady as Scotch friends ever are and kind and warm--the warmth once
raised in them never cooling--anthracite coal--layer after layer, hot to
the very inside kernel. Pakenham is now in London with my sisters Fanny
and Honora--Fanny has wonderfully recovered her health. She has several
Scotch friends in London, of whom she is very fond, from Joanna Baillie
to her young friends, Mrs. Andrews and her sisters. Mr. Andrews is a
very agreeable, sensible, conversable man; I saw something of him when I
was last in London, and hope to see more when I return there. If I
continue as well as I am now I intend, please God, to make my promised
visit to London some time this autumn, when the hurly-burly of the
fashionable season is over.

While at Trim, Maria received the announcement of her youngest sister
Lucy's engagement to Dr. Robinson, which gave her exquisite pleasure:
"never," as she wrote at the time, "never was a marriage hailed with
more family acclaim of universal joy." The marriage took place on June
8.

MARIA _to_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _August 1, 1843_.

I have just wakened and risen from the sofa rejoicing, like a dwarf, "to
run my course." I was put to sleep, not by magnetism, but by the
agreeable buzz of dear Pakenham's voice reading out a man's
peregrinations from Egypt to Australia--"the way was long, the road was
dark," and the reader declares I was asleep before we got to Egypt.

Mr. Maltby _is_ wondrous tall, and Pakenham has had the diversion
long-looked-for of seeing "Maltby hand Maria in to dinner." Mr. Maltby
is a very gentlemanlike man, every inch of him, many as they are, and
very conversable--really conversable, he both hears and talks, and
follows and leads.

_To_ MRS. BEAUFORT.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _Sept. 14, 1843._ "_Choisissez, mon enfant, mais prenez
du veau." Choose, my dear Honora, whichever pattern you please, but take
this which I enclose. We have had a very pleasant visit to Newcastle,
where we met Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton Gray, and I liked both very much. I
thought her perfectly unpretending and unaffected; slight figure, a
delicate woman, pretty dark hair and dark eyes, and pleasing expression
of countenance. I never should have suspected her of being so learned or
so laborious and persevering as she is.

In November 1843 Miss Edgeworth went to London, and spent the winter
with her sister Harriet, Mrs. Wilson.

MARIA _to_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

NORTH AUDLEY STREET, _Dec. 3, 1843_.

We dined at Dr. Lushington's last Thursday--the dinner was very merry
and good-humoured. Mr. Richardson was there, and delighted I was to see
him, and he talked so affectionately of Sir Walter and auld lang syne
times; and Mr. Bentham, the botanist, too, was there, Pakenham's friend,
a very agreeable man. After dinner too was to me very entertaining, for
I found that a lady, introduced to me as Mrs. Hawse, was daughter to
Brunel, and she told me all the truth of her brother and the half-guinea
in his throat, and the incision in his windpipe, and his coughing it up
at last, and Brodie seeing and snatching it from between his teeth, and
driving over all London to show it.

And now we are going to tea at Dr. Holland's.

_Monday morning._

That we had a very pleasant evening I need scarcely say, but to Boswell
Sydney Smith would out-Boswell Boswell. He talked of course of Ireland
and the Priests, and I gave good, and I trust true testimony to their
being, before they took to politics--excellent parish priests, and he
talked of Bishop Higgins and Repeal agitations, and I told him of "Don't
be anticipating," and laughing at brogue (how easy!) led him to tell me
of a conversation of his with Bishop Doyle in former days--beginning
with "My lord," propitiously and propitiatingly, "My lord, don't you
think it would be a good plan to have your clergy paid by the State?"

Bishop Doyle assured him it would never be accepted. "But, suppose every
one of your clergy found, £150 lodged in the bank for them, and at 5 per
cent for arrears?"

"Ah! Mr. Smith, you have a way of putting things!"

Sydney Smith, on his side, was enchanted with Maria Edgeworth--"Miss
Edgeworth was delightful, so clever and sensible. She does not say witty
things, but there is such a perfume of wit runs through all her
conversation as makes it very brilliant."

MISS EDGEWORTH _to_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

_Christmas Day._

A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

With the addition which Lestock has just been telling to Waller--

With your pockets full of money and your cellars full of beer.

Yesterday, Sunday, your kind friends, the Andrews', took Waller with us
to the Temple church--it has been, you know, all new painted and dressed
since I saw it last, and the knights in dark bronze-coloured marble
repaired. The tiled floor is too new, not like Mr. Butler's most
respectable reverend old tiles. Mr. Andrews took us all over the church
after service, and in particular pointed out one old window of painted
glass, in which the bright red colour is so bright in such full
freshness as is inimitable in modern art.

We went from church to luncheon at Mrs. Andrews', and such a luncheon; I
refrain from a whole page which might be spent on it. Then Mrs. Andrews
took Waller and me a drive three times round the park, a most pleasant
drive in such a bright sunshiny day. So many happy little children under
the trees and on the pathways.

_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET, _Jan. 1844_.

Thank you, and pray do you thank for me all the dear kind brothers,
sisters, nephews, and nieces, all round you, their centre and spring of
good, for all the pleasure they, on my seventy-seventh birthday, from
Barry's to dear little Mary's, all gave me--pleasure such as cannot be
bought for money. Who would not like to live to be old if they could be
so happy in friends as I am? I cannot help enclosing to you Lucy's and
Dr. Robinson's greeting, as you will feel with me the pleasure both gave
me.

Dumb Francis was here on that happy first of January and assured me on
his slate that he was very happy and grateful. I never see him without
my Francis's sonnet repeating itself, "The soul of honour," etc.

_To_ MRS. R. BUTLER.

1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET, _Jan. 5, 1844_.

I have been reading and am reading Bentham's _Memoirs_; he could write
plain English before he invented his strange lingo, and the account of
his childhood and youth is exceedingly entertaining. Fanny reads to us
at night, much to Waller's interest and entertainment, Lieutenant Eyre's
account of that horrid Cabul expedition--what a disgrace to the British
arms and name in India. Mr. Pakenham and his nice wife came in while I
was writing this, and when I asked him if the prestige of British
superiority would be destroyed in India, he said, "No: we have redeemed
ourselves so nobly."

Waller is occupied every spare moment perfecting a Leyden phial, coated
and chained properly, and giving quite large and grand sparks and pretty
sharp shocks.

_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.

1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET, _Jan. 1844_.

The day before yesterday Fanny and I walked to see Mrs. Napier, all in
black for Lady Clare--the suddenness of whose death, scarcely a moment's
interval between the bright flash of life and the dark silence of death,
was most striking and awful.

Yesterday we went to see dear Lady Elizabeth Whitbread, all as it used
to be, beautiful camellias, but she herself so sad--Miss Grant is dying.
Nothing can surpass her true tenderness to this faithful, gentle,
sincere old friend. All these illnesses and deaths are the more striking
I think in a bustling capital city, than they would be in the country
surrounded by one's family. There is something shocking in seeing the
bustling, struggling crowd who care nothing for one another dead or
alive: and they may say, so much the better, we are spared unavailing
thought and anguish, and yet I would rather have the thought and even
the anguish--for without pain there is no pleasure for the heart no
prayer for Indifference for me! Every _memento mori_ comes with some
force to me at seventy-seven, and I do pray most earnestly and devoutly
to God, as my father did before me, that my body may not survive my
mind, and that I may leave a tender not unpleasing recollection in their
hearts.

Though I have written this, my dear mother, and feel it truly, I am not
the least melancholy, or apprehensive or afraid of dying, and as to the
rest I am truly resigned, and trust to the goodness of my Creator living
or dying.

_Jan. 13_.

Thursday evening at Rogers's--the party was made for us and as small as
possible, Lady Charlotte Lindsay, Lady Davy, Mr. and Mrs. Empson, and
Mr. Compton and Lord Northampton. Mr. Empson is very little altered in
twelve years: the same affectionate heart and the same excellent head.
Lord Northampton is very conversable; and Mr. Compton brought me sugared
words from troops of children.

HALF-PAST SIX P.M.

Just returned from Mrs. Drummond's--beautiful house and two pretty
children--and we went to see Anna Carr's beautiful drawings of Ceylon,
and no time for more.

_Feb. 1_.

Miss Fox's illness detained Lord and Lady Lansdowne at Bowood--she is
rather better. We went to Lansdowne House yesterday, and saw Lady
Shelburne for the first time, handsome, and very amiable in countenance.
Lady Louisa was most charming in her attention to me, and she has a most
sensible, deep-thinking face.

_Feb. 2_.

Snowing and fogging, as white and as dark and disagreeable as ever it
can be. Thank heaven, to-day was not yesterday, which was dry, bright
sunshine, on purpose to grace the Queen, and to pleasure us three in
particular. Fanny ended yesterday by telling you how fortunate, or
rather how kind, people had been in working out three tickets for me, at
the last hour, at the last moment; for Lord Lovelace came himself
between eleven and twelve at night with a ticket, which he gave me, at
Lady Byron's request. You may guess how happy I was to have the third
ticket for Honora, and we were all full dressed, punctual to the minute,
in Fanny's carriage, and with my new-dressed opossum cloak covering our
knees, as warm as young toasts.

I spare you all that you will see in the newspapers. The first view of
the House did not strike me as so grand as the old House, but my mouth
was stopped by "_Pro tempore_ only, you know." We went up an
ignominiously small staircase, and the man at the bottom, piteously
perspiring, cried out, "On, on, ladies! don't stop the way! room enough
above!" But there was one objection to going on, that there were no
seats above: however, we made ourselves small--no great difficulty--and,
taking to the wall, we left a scarcely practicable pass for those who,
less wary and more obedient than ourselves, went up one by one to the
highmost void. Fanny feared for me that I should never be able to
_stand_ it, when somehow or another my name was pronounced and heard by
one of the Miss Southebys, who stretched her cordial hand.
"Glad--proud--glad--we'll squeeze--we'll make room for you between me
and my friend Miss Fitzhugh;" and so I was bodkin, but never touched the
bench till long after. I cast a lingering look at my deserted sisters
twain. "No, no, we can't do that!" so, that hope killed off, I took to
make the best of my own selfish position, and surveyed all beneath me,
from the black heads of the reporter gentlemen, with their pencils and
papers before them in the form and desk immediately below me, to the
depths of the hall, in all its long extent; and sprawling and stretching
in the midst--with the feathered and lappeted and jewelled peeresses on
their right, and their foreign excellencies on the left--were the
long-robed, ermined judges, laying their wigs together and shaking
hands, their wigs' many-curled tails shaking on their backs. And the
wigs jointly and severally looked like so many vast white and gray
birds'-nests from Brobdingnag, with a black hole at the top of each, for
the birds to creep out or in. More and more scarlet-ermined dignitaries
and nobles swarmed into the hall, and then, in at the scarlet door,
came, with white ribbon shoulder-knots and streamers flying in all
directions, a broad scarlet five-row-ermined figure, with high, bald
forehead, facetious face, and jovial, hail-fellow-well-met countenance,
princely withal, H.R.H. the Duke of Cambridge, and the sidelong peeress
benches stretched their fair hands, and he his ungloved royal hand
hastily here and there and everywhere, and chattering so loud and long,
that even the remote gallery could hear the "Ha, ha, haw!" which
followed ever and anon; and we blessed ourselves, and thought we should
never hear the Queen; but I was told he would be silent when the Queen
came, and so it proved.

The guns were heard: once, twice, and at the second all were silent: