We came here yesterday, and here we are in the very apartments occupied
by M. Necker, opening into what is now the library, but what was once
that theatre on which Madame de Staël used to act her own _Corinne_.
Yesterday evening, when Madame de Broglie had placed me next the oldest
friend of the family, M. de Bonstettin, he whispered to me, "You are now
in the exact spot, in the very chair where Madame de Staël used to sit!"
Her friends were excessively attached to her. This old man talked of her
with tears in his eyes, and with all the sudden change of countenance
and twitchings of the muscles which mark strong, uncontrollable feeling.
There is something inexpressibly melancholy, awful, in this house, in
these rooms, where the thought continually recurs, Here Genius _was!_
here _was_ Ambition, Love! all the great struggles of the passions; here
was Madame de Staël! The respect paid to her memory by her son and
daughter, and by M. de Broglie, is touching. The little Rocca, seven
years old, is an odd, cold, prudent, old-man sort of a child, as unlike
as possible to the son you would have expected from such parents. M.
Rocca, brother to the boy's father, is here: handsome, but I know no
more. M. Sismondi and his wife dined here, and three Saladins, father,
mother, and daughter. M. de Staël has promised to show to me Gibbon's
love-letters to his grandmother, ending regularly with "Je suis,
mademoiselle, avec les sentimens qui font le désespoir de ma vie," etc.
M. de Bonstettin--Gray the poet's friend--told me that in Sweden, about
thirty years ago, he saw potatoes in the corner of a gentleman's garden
as a curiosity. "They tell me, sir," said the gentleman, "that in some
countries they eat the roots of this plant!" Now they are cultivated
there, and the people have become fond of them.
* * * * *
With M. de Staël and Madame de Broglie Miss Edgeworth was particularly
happy. It had been reported that Madame de Staël had said of Maria's
writings "que Miss Edgeworth était digne de l'enthousiasme, mais qu'elle
s'est perdue dans la triste utilité." "Ma mère n'a jamais dit ça,"
Madame de Broglie indignantly declared, "elle était incapable!" She saw,
indeed, the enthusiastic admiration which Maria felt for her mother's
genius, and she was gratified by the regard and esteem which Maria
showed for her and her brother, and the sympathy she expressed in their
affection for each other, and in their kindness to their little Rocca
brother.
* * * * *
MARIA _to_ MISS HONORA EDGEWORTH.
LYONS, HOTEL DU NORD, _Oct. 22, 1820_.
Lyons! is it possible that I am really at Lyons, of which I have heard
my father speak so much? Lyons! where his active spirit once reigned,
and where now scarce a trace, a memory of him remains. The Perraches all
gone, Carpentiers no more to be heard of, Bons a name unknown; De la
Verpilliere--one descendant has a fine house here, but he is in the
country.
The look of the town and the fine facades of the principal buildings,
and the Place de Bellecour, were the more melancholy to me from knowing
them so well in the prints in the great portfolio, with such a radiance
thrown over them by his descriptions. I hear his voice saying, La Place
de Bellecour and l'Hotel de Ville--these remain after all the horrors of
the Revolution--but human creatures, the best, the ablest, the most full
of life and gaiety, all passed away.
It is a relief to my mind to pour out all this to you. I do not repent
having come to Lyons; I should not have forgiven myself if I had not.
I have been writing to dear Mrs. Moilliet--nothing could exceed her
kindness and Mr. Moilliet's. Dumont was excessively touched at parting
with us, and gave Fanny and Harriet _La Fontaine_ and _Gresset_, and to
me a map of the lake--of the tour we took so happily together.
_To_ MRS. RUXTON.
PARIS, _Nov. 1820_.
Never lose another night's sleep, or another moment's thought on the
_Quarterly Review_ [Footnote: An article on Maria Edgeworth's _Memoirs_
of her Father, full of doubt, ridicule, misrepresentation, and acrimony.
Miss Edgeworth never read this _Review_ till 1835, when she was induced
to do so by a letter from Mr. Peabody alluding to it. It was then
powerless to give her pain, for its anonymous falsehoods had long fallen
into oblivion.]--I have never read and never will read it.
I write this merely to tell you that I have at last had the pleasure of
seeing Madame la Comtesse de Vaudreuil, the daughter of your friend; she
is an exceedingly pleasing woman, of high fashion, with the remains of
great beauty, courteous and kind to us beyond all expectation. She had
but a few days in Paris, and she made out two for us; she took us to the
Conciergerie to see, by lamp-light, the dungeons where the poor Queen
and Madame Elizabeth were confined, now fitted up as little chapels. In
the Queen's is an altar inscribed with her letter to the King,
expressing forgiveness of her enemies. Tears streamed from the eyes of
the young Countess de Vaudreuil, the daughter-in-law, as she looked at
this altar, and the place where the Queen's bed was. Who do you think
accompanied us to this place? Lady Beauchamp, Lady Longford's mother, a
great friend of Madame de Vaudreuil's, with whom we dined the next day,
and who had procured for us the Duc de Choiseul's box at the Théâtre
Français, when the house was to be uncommonly crowded to see
Mademoiselle Duchenois in _Athalie_ "avec tous les choeurs," and a most
striking spectacle it was! I had never seen Mademoiselle Duchenois to
perfection before.
MRS. MARCET _to_ MARIA EDGEWORTH.
MALAGNY, _Nov. 15, 1820_.
I cannot make up my mind, my dear friend, to take my departure
[Footnote: Mrs. Marcet was just setting out for Italy.] for a still more
distant country without again bidding you adieu. I have hesitated for
some time past, "Shall I or shall I not write to Miss Edgeworth?" for I
felt that I could not write without touching on an article in the
_Quarterly_--a subject which makes my blood boil with indignation, and
which rouses every feeling of contempt and abhorrence. I might indeed
refrain from the expression of these sentiments, but how could I
restrain all those feelings of the warmest interest, the tenderest
sympathy, and the softest pity for your wounded feelings? I well
remember the wish you one day so piously expressed to me that your
father could look down from heaven and see the purity and zeal of your
intentions in writing his _Memoirs_; I am sure your HEAVENLY FATHER does
see them. And I feel that this unjust, unchristian, inquisitorial attack
will not only develop fresh sentiments of the tenderest nature in your
friends, but also rally every human being of sound sense around you.
MARIA EDGEWORTH _to_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.
PARIS, _Nov. 15, 1820_.
You would scarcely believe, my dear friends, the calm of mind and the
sort of satisfied resignation I feel as to my father's _Life_. I suppose
the two years of doubt and extreme anxiety that I felt, exhausted all my
power of doubting. I know that I have done my very best, I know that I
have done my duty, and I firmly believe that if my dear father could see
the whole he would be satisfied with what I have done.
We have seen Mademoiselle Mars twice, or thrice rather, in the _Mariage
de Figaro_ and in the little pieces of _Le Jaloux sans amour_, and _La
jeunesse de Henri Cinq_, and admire her exceedingly. _En petit comité_
the other night at the Duchesse d'Escars, a discussion took place
between the Duchesse de la Force, Marmont, and Pozzo di Borgo, on the
_bon et mauvais ton_ of different expressions--_bonne société_ is an
_expression bourgeoise_--you may say _bonne compagnie_ or _la haute
société_. "Voilà des nuances," as Madame d'Escars said. Such a wonderful
jabbering as these grandees made about these small matters. It put me in
mind of a conversation in the _World_ on good company which we all used
to admire.
We have seen a great deal of our dear Delesserts, and of Madame de
Rumford, [Footnote: First married to Lavoisier, the celebrated chemist,
then to Count Rumford, the scientist, from whom she was separated for
many years. She was now again a widow.] who gave us a splendid and most
agreeable dinner. And one evening with the Princess Potemkin, who
is--take notice--only a Princess by courtesy, as she has married a
Potemkin, who is not a Prince, and though she was born Princess
Galitzin, she loses her rank by marrying an inferior, according to
Russian and French custom, and they are, with reason, surprised at our
superior gallantry, once a lady always a lady. But whether Princess or
not Princess, our Madame Potemkin is most charming, and you may bless
your stars that you are not obliged to read a page of panegyric upon
her. She was as much delighted to see us again, as we were to see her;
she was alone with Madame de Noisville, that happy mixture of my Aunt
Fox [Footnote: Mary, wife of Francis Fox, elder sister of Mr. Edgeworth
and Mrs. Ruxton.] and Mrs. Lataffiere. We went from Madame Potemkin to
Madame d'Haussonville's, with her we found Madame de Bouillé playing at
billiards, just in the attitude in which we had left her three months
ago. Saturday I had a bad headache, but recovered in the evening; and
Monday we dined at Madame Potemkin's, where we met her aunt, a Princess
Galitzin, a thin, tall, odd, very clever woman, daughter to that Prince
Shuvaloff, to whom Voltaire wrote eternally, and she is _imbued_ with
anecdotes of that period, very well bred, and quick in conversation. She
is always afraid of catching cold, and always wears a velvet cap, and is
always wrapped up in shawls and pelisses in going from house to
house--_à cela près_, a reasonable woman.
After leaving Madame Potemkin's we went to see--whom do you think? Guess
all round the breakfast-table before you turn over the leaf; if anybody
guesses right, I guess it will be Aunt Mary.
Madame de la Rochejacquelin [Footnote: Widow of the Vendean hero.]--She
had just arrived from the country, and we found ourselves in a large
hotel, in which all the winds of heaven were blowing, and in which, as
we went upstairs and crossed the ante-chambers, all was darkness, except
one candle which the servant carried before us. In a small bedroom, well
furnished, with a fire just lighted, we found Madame de la
Rochejacquelin lying on a sofa--her two daughters at work--one spinning
with a distaff, and the other embroidering muslin. Madame is a large fat
woman, with a broad round fair face, with a most open benevolent
expression, as benevolent as Molly Bristow's or as Mrs. Brinkley's. Her
hair cut short, and perfectly gray, as seen under her cap; the rest of
her face much too young for such gray locks, not at all the hard
weatherbeaten look that had been described to us; and though her face
and bundled form and dress, all _squashed_ on a sofa, did not at first
promise much of gentility, you could not hear her speak or see her for
three minutes without perceiving that she was well-born and well-bred.
She had hurt her leg, which was the cause of her lying on the sofa. It
seemed a grievous penance, as she is of as active a temper as ever. She
says her health is perfect, but a nervous disease in her eyes has nearly
deprived her of sight--she could hardly see my face, though I sat as
close as I could go to the sofa.
"I am always sorry," said she, "when any stranger sees me, parceque je
sais que je détruis toute illusion. Je sais que je devrais avoir l'air
d'une héroine, et surtout que je devrais avoir l'air malheureuse ou
épuisé an moins--rien de tout cela, hélas!"
She is much better than a heroine--she is benevolence and truth itself.
She begged her daughters to take us into the _salon_ to show us what she
thought would interest us. She apologised for the cold of these
rooms--and well she might; when the double doors were opened I really
thought Eolus himself was puffing in our faces; we shawled ourselves
well before we ventured in. At one end of the _salon_ is a picture of M.
de Lescure, and at the other, of Henri de la Rochejacquelin, by Gérard
and Girardet, presents from the King. Fine military figures. In the
boudoir is one of M. de la Rochejacquelin, much the finest of all--she
has never yet looked at this picture. Far from being disappointed, I was
much gratified by this visit.
_To_ MISS LUCY EDGEWORTH.
CALAIS, _Dec. 5, 1820_.
It is a great satisfaction to me, my dear Lucy, to feel that we are now
so much nearer to you, and that before I finish this little note we
shall be still nearer to you in the same United Kingdom, so that in
eight days we can have an answer to questions about you; what a
difference from the three long weeks we used to wait at Geneva.
And now, my dear Lucy, I must employ you to break to my mother an
important secret. Choose a proper time for speaking to her on the
subject, when she is not very busy, when her mind is at ease, that is,
when you are pretty well. My aunts and Honora may be in the room, if you
think proper. Begin by saying that I know both my mother and Lovell are
so kind and have such confidence in me that I am sure they will not
hastily object to the introduction of a new person into the family,
though they may perhaps feel a little surprised at hearing of my having
actually decided upon such a measure without writing first to consult
them. I have actually brought with me from Paris, and intend, unless I
am actually forbidden, to bring with me to Edgeworthstown, a French
washerwoman. I cannot expect that Lovell should build a house for her,
though I know he has long had it in contemplation to build a laundry;
but my little French woman does not require a house, she can live in our
house, if he and my mother, and my aunts please, and I will engage that
she shall give no sort of trouble, and shall cost nothing. She is a
_sourde et muette_, an elderly woman with a very good countenance,
always cheerful, and going on with her own business without minding
other people's. She was recommended to me by Madame François Delessert,
and has lived for some time in their family, much liked by all,
especially by the children, for whom she washed constantly, till one of
her legs was hurt, so that she cannot work now quite as well as
formerly. But still she washed so as to give general satisfaction. Fanny
and Harriet like her washing, and I am sure my aunts will like it and
her very much; and I think she might, till some other place be found for
her, sleep in my mother's dressing-room.
And here, my dear Lucy, I beg you will pause and hear what everybody
says about this washerwoman and this plan.
And after five minutes given to deliberation, go on and say, that if no
better place can be found for my washerwoman, she may stand on my
mother's chimney-piece! [Footnote: A pretty little French toy given by
Madame François Delessert.]
No more nonsense at present.
_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.
CALAIS, DESSIN'S HOTEL, _Dec. 5, 1820_.
Coming back to this place, to the same room where we were seven months
ago, the whole seems to me and to my companions like a delightful dream,
but in waking from Alps, and glaciers, and cascades, and _Mont Blanc_,
and troops of acquaintance in splendid succession and visionary
confusion, in waking from this wonderful dream, the sober certainty of
happiness remains and assures us that all which has passed is not a
dream. All our old friends at Paris are still more our friends than
ever, and many new ones made. Every expectation, every hope that I had
formed for this journey has been more than gratified, far surpassed by
the reality; and we return with thorough satisfaction to our own
country, looking to our dear home for permanent happiness, without a
wish unsatisfied or a regret for anything we have left behind, except
our friends.
_To_ MISS RUXTON.
MALI, CLIFTON, _Dec. 17, 1820_.
We have spent a week here with Emmeline, [Footnote: The eldest of Miss
Edgeworth's own sisters, wife of John King, Esq., of Clifton.] and very
happy I am that we were able to give her this pleasure. Zoe and Emmeline
are very nice-looking girls, pleasing in their manners and affectionate
in their dispositions.
We are not, tell my aunt, likely to be drawn in to talk or take any part
about the Queen, as we know nothing of her trial. She sent notice to
Lady Elizabeth Whitbread that she would dine with her if she knew the
hour. Lady Elizabeth answered that her hour varied from five to nine, as
it suited her son's convenience. The Queen took it as it was meant, as a
refusal.
_To_ MISS HONORA EDGEWORTH.
BOWOOD, _Dec. 20, 1820_.
I write to you sitting in the bow (or beau, or bay) window of the room
with yellow furniture with black stars, into which we were shown by Lady
Lansdowne. Oh, my dear Honora, how everything here reminds me of you!
Lady Lansdowne's reception of us was most cordial. She had been out
walking, and came to us only half dressed, with a shawl thrown over her.
Lord Lansdowne is at Bath, at an agricultural meeting. Mr. and Mrs. Ord
and their son, an Eton youth, are here; Lady Elizabeth and Captain
Fielding--he is very gentlemanlike and agreeable; Mr. Hallam; the two
Mr. Smiths, whom you remember, and Mr. Fazakerley--very clever; and best
of all, Miss Vernon and Miss Fox: she introduced to Fanny and Harriet
her niece, Miss Fox, very handsome and agreeable--not come out.
EASTON GREY, _Dec. 26_.
I intended this frank for my mother, but Mr. Ricardo turned it into Miss
instead of Mrs.; and why I asked for a frank at all I cannot tell,
except for the honour and glory of having one from David Ricardo. He has
been here one whole day, and is exceedingly agreeable. This house is
delightful, in a beautiful situation, fine trees, fine valleys, and soft
verdure, even at this season: the library-drawing-room with low sofas,
plenty of movable tables, open bookcases, and all that speaks the habits
and affords the means of agreeable occupation. Easton Grey might be a
happy model of what an English country gentleman's house should be; and
Mrs. Smith's kind, well-bred manners, and Mr. Smith's literary and
sensible conversation, make this house one of the most agreeable I ever
saw.
At Bowood there was a happy mixture of sense and nonsense. Lord
Lansdowne was talking to me on the nice little sofa by the fire very
seriously of Windham's life and death, and of a journal which he wrote
to cure himself of indecision of character. Enter suddenly, with a great
burst of noise from the breakfast-room, a tribe of gentlemen neighing
like horses. You never saw a man look more surprised than Lord
Lansdowne.
Re-enter the same performers on all-fours, grunting like pigs.
Then a company of ladies and gentlemen in dumb-show, doing a country
visit, ending with asking for a frank, curtseying, bowing, and
exit.--"_Neighbour_."
Then enter all the gentlemen, some with their fingers on their eyes,
some delighted with themselves.--"_I_."
Then re-enter Lord Lansdowne, the two Mr. Smiths, Mr. Hallam, and Mr.
Fazakerley, each with little dolls made of their pocket handkerchiefs,
nursing and playing with them.--"_Doll_."
Exit, and re-enter, carrying, and surrounding, and worshipping Mrs. Ord
in an arm-chair.--"_Idol_."
This does not do for sober reading, but it produced much laughter.
_27th_
We have been at Badminton: magnificent: library delightful. Here, as at
Trentham, a gallery opens into the chapel, also the village church, and
here is a great curiosity--Raphael's first chalk sketch of the
Transfiguration; that is, of all the figures in the lower part:
wonderfully fine, the woman kneeling, and the boy possessed, and the man
holding him--admirable. Some fine pictures, too, though not a professed
collection. Saw in the park a fine herd of red deer, the finest, it is
said, in England. How shall I find room to tell you of the Roman
pavements and Roman town found near this place, much better worth than
all I have been penning! For nonsense I always have time and space.
_To_ MRS. RUXTON.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _March 21_.
The Archbishop of Tuam breakfasted here this morning and sat with Lucy
in her room: he said he thought he should be the better all his life for
having seen such an example of patience and resignation in so young a
person. He says he was amused during the Queen's trial by the sight of
the processions in honour of Her Majesty: the glass manufacturers with
their brilliant wares, ladies in landaus with feathers, the most
extraordinary figures; and the Queen complains that her garden has been
destroyed and all her furniture broken by her polite visitors.
_March 29_.
_So_ you like to hear of all our little doings, _so_ I will tell you
that, about eight o'clock, Fanny being by that time up and dressed, and
at her little table, Harriet comes and reads to me Madame de Sevigné's
letters, of which I never tire; and I almost envy Fanny and Harriet the
pleasure of reading them for the first time. After breakfast I take my
little table into Lucy's room, and write there for an hour; she likes to
have me in her room, though she only hears the scribble, scribble: she
is generally reading at that hour, or doing Margaret's delight--algebra.
I am doing the _Sequel to Frank_. Walking, reading, and talking fill the
rest of the day. I do not read much, it tires my eyes, and I have not
yet finished the _Life of Wesley_: I think it a most curious,
entertaining, and instructive book. A _Life of Pitt_ by the Bishop of
Winchester is coming out: he wrote to Murray about it, who asked his
friends, "Who is George Winton, who writes to me about publishing Pitt's
_Life_?"
_April 21._
Enclosed is a letter from our friend the American Jewess, [Footnote:
Miss Mordecai of Richmond, on Maria's _Life_ of her father.] written in
a spirit of Christian charity and kindness which it were to be wished
that all Christians possessed. It has given me exquisite pleasure; and
you know I never feel great pleasure without instantly wishing that you
should share it. Lovell has asked this good Jewess and her _futur_ to
come here, if she should visit Europe. He is at home now, and kind as
ever to every creature within reach of his benevolence.
We have been reading Fleury's _Memoirs of Napoleon_. Get it in French:
it is very interesting, or we never could have got through it in the
wretched translation to which we were doomed.
Tell Sophy that Peggy Tuite, who turned into Peggy Mulheeran, has had a
dead child. When my mother said to her brother, "Do not let people crowd
in and heat her room," "Oh, ma'am, sure I am standing at the door since
three in the morning, sentinel, to keep them out," the tears dropping
from his eyes fast on the ground as he spoke. And all the time the old
_ould_ mother Tuite (who doats on Mrs. Ruxton-dear) was sitting rocking
herself to and fro, and "crying under the big laurel, that Peggy might
not hear her."
You may all praise erysipelas as much as you please, but I never desire
to see or feel it again. Our boy, Mick Duffy, has been ill with it these
ten days. Honora said to his father, Brian, "How can you be so fond of
Michael; now that he lives with us, you hardly ever see him!" "Oh, how
could I but be fond of him, the crater that sends me every guinea he
gets!"
_July 8_.
So Buonaparte is dead! and no change will be made in any country by the
death of a man who once made such a figure in the world! He who
commanded empires and sovereigns, a prisoner in an obscure island,
disputing for a bottle of wine, subject to the petty tyranny of Sir
Hudson Lowe! I regret that England permitted that trampling upon the
fallen. What an excellent dialogue of the dead might be written between
Buonaparte and Themistocles!
Ages ago I sent _Bracebridge Hall_ to Merrion Street for you: have you
got it? Next week another book will be there for you--an American novel
Mrs. Griffith sent to me, _The Spy_; quite new scenes and characters,
humour and pathos, a picture of America in Washington's time; a surgeon
worthy of Smollett or Moore, and quite different from any of their
various surgeons; and an Irishwoman, Betty Flanagan, incomparable.
_August 3._
What do you think is my employment out of doors, and what it has been
this week past? My garden? no such elegant thing; but making a gutter! a
sewer and a pathway in the street of Edgeworthstown; and I do declare I
am as much interested about it as I ever was in writing anything in my
life. We have never here yet found it necessary to have recourse to
public contribution for the poor, but it is necessary to give some
assistance to the labouring class; and I find that making the said
gutter and pathway will employ twenty men for three weeks.
Did you ever hear these two excellent _Tory_ lines made by a celebrated
_Whig?_
As bees alighting upon flowerets cease to hum,
So, settling upon places, Whigs grow dumb.
_August 8._
We are all in the joy of Francis' [Footnote: From Charterhouse; eldest
son of the fourth Mrs. Edgeworth.] arrival: Pakenham at the tea-table
has been standing beside him feeding him with red currants well sugared,
and between every currant he told us, as well as he could, the history
of his journey. "Talbot," Lord Talbot's son, who is his schoolfellow at
the Charterhouse, was so kind as to go outside, that Francis might have
an inside place at night. He met with so much good-nature from first to
last in his journey, he wonders how people can be so good-natured.
* * * * *
Many of Maria Edgeworth's friends in England having invited her to visit
them, she determined to spend the winter there, and set out in October
with her former travelling companions, Fanny and Harriet, the two eldest
daughters of the fourth Mrs. Edgeworth.
* * * * *
MARIA _to_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.
KENIOGE, _Oct. 23, 1821_.
We have had a most delightful day, after sleeping well at Gwindu: we
were in the carriage and off before the clock had finished striking six.
In an interval of showers in a bright gleam of sunshine we passed Bangor
Ferry: breakfasted nobly. Mr. Jackson, the old, old man, who some years
ago was all pear-shaped stomach, and stupid, has wonderfully shrunk and
revived, and is walking, alert and civil; and his fishy eyes brightened
with pleasure on hearing of his friend, Mr. Lovell. Fine old waiter, a
match in age and civility for the master; and a fine old dog, Twig, a
match for both, and as saucy as Foster; for Mrs. Twig would not eat
toast, unless buttered, forsooth!
Then on to Mrs. Worthington: excellent, motherly woman, the Mrs.
Brinkley of the slate quarries. Her first question about you and William
won my heart: she seemed so to have seen into you with that penetration
of the heart, which is full as quick as that of the head, if there be
any difference. She furnished us each with a pair of Devonshire clogs,
that fitted each as if made for us; and as young Mr. Worthington was
disappointed by a sore throat of the pleasure of accompanying us, he
gave us a note to Mr. Williams at the Quarries; and good, dear Mrs.
Williams, in her white gown and worked borders, trampoozed with us
through the splish splash to all the yards, and with her master of the
works showed us the saw-mills, and the mill for grinding flint, and for
the china works.
Waiving the description of all this, I will not tell you of the quarries
and the glaciers of slates, because I wish Harriet to write her own
fresh account of her first impressions. I feel that she was even more
pleased than I expected; and I rejoice that this first sight, which I
had promised myself the pleasure of showing her, is secure.
This day's drive through Wales has been charming: a few showers, but
always at the best time for us. I have at different times of my life
seen Wales at all seasons of the year, and after all I prefer the autumn
view of it. The withering red brown fern is a great addition of beauty
on the white and gray rocks, and often so resembles the tint of autumn
on beech trees, that you cannot at a distance tell ferns on the
mountains from young plantations, touched by autumn colour.
We have just dined at this delightful inn, where you and Fanny slept in
1818, kept as I am sure you remember by two sisters with sweet,
good-humoured countenances: most active, obliging people. I think the
most discontented of travellers--old growling Smollett himself, if he
could come from the grave in a fit of the gout--could not be
discontented at this inn. Fanny, Harriet, and I have just determined
that, if ever we are reduced to earn our bread, we will keep an inn like
this.
Lest you should think that all the little sense I had is gone to
nonsense, I must tell you that, during part of this day, we have been
very wise. When there came ugly bits of the road, Harriet read out
Humboldt's fifth volume; and I was charmed with it, and enjoyed it the
more from the reflection that Lucy can share this pleasure with us. She
has Humboldt, I hope; if not, pray get it for her. The account of the
venomous flies which _mount guard_ at different hours of the day is most
curious. Humboldt is the Shakespear of travellers; as much superior to
other travellers as Shakespear is to other poets. He seems to have at
once a _vue d'oiseau_ of one half of the world, and a perfect
recollection of the other half, so as to bring together from all parts
of the earth, and from all times, observations on the largest scale,
from which he draws the most ingenious and the most useful conclusions.
I will write to Madame Gautier to beg Humboldt to send to me portraits
of the insects which appear on the Orinoco at different hours of the day
and night, by which the natives mark the hours: it will make a fine
contrast to the Watch of Flora.
_To_ MISS HONORA EDGEWORTH.
SMETHWICK GROVE, _Oct. 25, 1821_.
Here we are, my dear Honora, once more at the dear, hospitable
Moilliets'; Emily making tea at the same well-furnished board, with her
near-sighted, beautiful eyes picking her way among the cups.
We missed, by not arriving last night, a Frenchman who has been
seventeen years learning to play on the flute, and cannot play, and who
has been ten years learning to speak English, and yet told Mrs. Moilliet
that he had a letter to Lord Porcelain, to whom his mother is related,
meaning the Duke of Portland. He left this, determined to see the
residence of "Lord Malbrouke." Mrs. Moilliet endeavoured to put him
right, and to put the song, "Va-t-en Malbrouke" out of his head; but he
quoted it with the authority of an old legend. "Blenheim," Mr. Moilliet
told him, was the name of the Duke of Marlborough's place. "Ah, _oui_,
yes; Blenheim, I know that is the inn." He would have "Malbrouke" as the
name of the place.
_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.
WYCOMBE ABBEY, _Oct. 30, 1821_.
We spent two days instead of one at Smethwick. Nothing could be kinder
than the Moilliets were to us; nevertheless, as dearest friends must
part, we parted from them, and had a delightful drive to Woodstock.
Fanny and Harriet will tell you of Blenheim; they were pleased, and you
may be sure I was happy. At Oxford by twelve: found letter from Lord
Carrington--most punctual of men--appointing the 29th. But no letter
from Mr. Russell: sent the porter with note to him: "Mr. Russell gone to
see his brother at the Charter-house." Porter trudged again with two
notes, one to Tom Beddoes [Footnote: Her nephew]--"not come up this
term:" another note to Mr. Biddulph--most civil and best of College
cicerones--arrived almost as soon as the porter returned with his "very
happy;" and he walked us about to all those halls and gardens which we
had not seen before. Balliol and University gardens beautiful: at Corpus
Christi beautiful altar-piece. Rested at Mr. Biddulph's most comfortable
rooms at Maudlin: we went to Evening Service in the chapel: going in
from daylight, chapel lighted with many candles: dim light through brown
saints in the windows: chanting good, anthem very fine: two of the
finest voices I ever heard, one of a young boy. Good tea at Tetsworth:
amused ourselves next morning reading like ladies, and watching from our
gazabo window the arrival and departure of twelve stage-coaches, any one
of which would have been a study for Wilkie, besides the rubbing down of
a horse with a besom: at first we thought the horse would have been
affronted--no, quite agreeable. The dried flakes of yellow mud, first
besomed and then brushed, raised such a dust, that in the dust, man and
horse were lost.
Arrived here just at dressing-time. Lord Carrington had asked the
Lushingtons and Dr. Holland--can't come. Count and Countess Ludolf
expected to-morrow: he is ambassador from Sicily. Fanny says you and she
met them at Lady Davy's.
_To_ MRS. RUXTON.
WYCOMBE ABBEY, _Nov. 2, 1821_.
It is impossible to be kinder than Lord Carrington is to us: he wrote to
invite everybody that he thought we should like to meet. We have had Mr.
Wilberforce for several days, and I cannot tell you how glad I am to
have seen him again, and to have had an opportunity of hearing his
delightful conversation, and of seeing the extent and variety of his
abilities. He is not at all anxious to show himself off; he converses,
he does not merely talk. His thoughts flow in such abundance, and from
so many sources, that they often cross one another; and sometimes a
reporter would be quite at a loss. As he literally seems to speak all
his thoughts as they occur, he produces what strikes him on both sides
of any question. This often puzzles his hearers, but to me it is a proof
of candour and sincerity; and it is both amusing and instructive to see
him thus balancing accounts aloud. He is very lively, and full of odd
contortions: no matter. His indulgent, benevolent temper strikes me
particularly: he makes no pretension to superior sanctity or strictness.
He spoke with much respect and tenderness for my feelings, of my father,
and of the Life.
We have had, besides, Mr. Manning and his son, very unaffected and
agreeable; and Mr. Abel Smith, a nephew of Lord Carrington's; and Mr.
Hales, an old bachelor diplomatist, who told me the name which the Abbé
de Pradt gave to Buonaparte--Jupiter-Scapin. Does not this name contain
a volume?
_To_ MISS LUCY EDGEWORTH.
WYCOMBE ABBEY, _Nov. 4, 1821_.
God bless Mr. King! My dear Lucy, we have the best hopes now that your
admirable patience and fortitude will be rewarded, and soon. We
regretted the three-quarters of an hour Mr. King might have spent with
you which were wasted at the coach office, but these are among the
_minnikin_ miseries of human life. You must often wonder how people in
health, and out of pain, and with the use of their limbs and all their
locomotive faculties, can complain of anything. But man is a grumbling
animal, not woman.
We are reading Madame de Staël's _Dix Années d'Exil_ with delight.
Though there may be too much egotism, yet it is extremely interesting;
and though she repeats too often, and uses too many words, yet there are
so many brilliant passages, and things which no one but herself could
have thought or said, that it will last as long as the memory of
Buonaparte lasts on earth. Pray get it and read it; not the plays or
poetry which make up the last volume--why will _friends_ publish all the
trash they can scrape together of celebrated people?
Mr. Hales, my dry diplomatist, tells me that Madame de Staël, he was
assured by the Swedish minister, provoked Buonaparte, by intriguing to
set Bernadotte on the throne of France, and that letters of hers on this
subject were intercepted. You will not care much about this, but you may
tell it to some of your visitants, who will be in due time as full of
Madame de Staël's _Dix Années d'Exil_ as I am at this moment.
Here is an old distich which my dry diplomatist came out with yesterday
at dinner, on the ancestor of Hampden. The remains of the Hampden estate
are in this neighbourhood, and as we were speaking of our wish to see
the place in which the patriot lived, Mr. Hales observed that it is
curious how the spirit of dislike to kings had run in the blood of the
Hampdens some centuries before Charles' time: they lost three manors in
this county, forfeit for a Hampden having struck the Black Prince.
Tring, Wing, and Ivanhoe,
Old Hampden did forego,
For striking the Black Prince a blow.
When this is read you will say he deserved to lose three manors for
striking such a Prince.
Besides two spacious bed-chambers and a dressing-room, munificent Lord
Carrington would insist upon our having a sitting-room to ourselves, and
we have one that is delightful: windows down to the ground, and
prospect--dark woods and river, so pretty that I can scarcely mind what
I am saying to you.
Yesterday arrived a Mr. Hay, very well informed about mummies and Egypt,
talks well, and as if he lived with all the learned and all the
fashionable in London: his account of the unrolling of a mummy which he
lately saw in London was most entertaining. All the folds of the
thinnest linen which were unwound were laid more smoothly and
dextrously, as the best London surgeons declared, than they can now
apply bandages: they stood in amazement. The skin was quite tough, the
flesh perfect: the face quite preserved, except the bridge of the nose,
which had fallen in. Count Ludolf, who has been a fine painter in his
day, says he has used mummy pitch, or whatever it is in which mummies
are preserved, as a fine brown paint, like bistre, "only bitter to the
taste when one sucks one's brush."
Mr. Hay, I find, is private secretary to Lord Melville. It is too much
to have a Mr. _Hales_ and a Mr. _Hay_.
_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.
GATCOMBE PARK, _Nov. 9, 1821_.
We arrived here on Wednesday evening to tea--beautiful moonlight night.
At the gate, the first operation was to lock the wheel, and we went
down, down a hill not knowing where it would end or when the house would
appear; that it was a beautiful place was clear even by moonlight. Hall
with lights very cheerful--servants on the steps. Mr. Ricardo very glad
to see us. Mrs. Ricardo brilliant eyes and such cordial open-hearted
benevolence of manner, no affectation, no thought about herself.
[Footnote: David Ricardo (1772-1823), long M.P. for Portarlington, a
great speaker and writer on Political Economy. He married Catherine,
daughter of W.T. St. Quentin of Seampston Hall, York.] "My
daughter-in-law, Mrs. Osman Ricardo," a beautiful tall figure, and fine
face, fair, and a profusion of light hair. Mr. Ricardo, jun., and two
young daughters, Mary, about fifteen, handsome, and a child of ten,
Bertha, beautiful.
I was frightened about Fanny, tired and giddy after the journey;
however, her first answer in the morning, "much better," set my heart at
ease. A very fine day, all cheerful, a delightfully pleasant house, with
uphill and downhill wooded views from every window. Rides and drives
proposed. I asked to see a cloth manufactory in the neighbourhood. Mrs.
Osman Ricardo offered her horse to Fanny, and Mr. Osman rode with her.
Mr. Ricardo drove me in his nice safe and comfortable phaeton; Harriet
and Mrs. Osman in the seat behind. The horses pretty and strong, and,
moreover, quiet, so that though we drove up and down hills almost
perpendicular, and along a sort of _Rodborough Siemplon_, I was not in
the least alarmed. Mr. Ricardo is laughed at, as they tell me, for his
driving, but I prefer it to more dashing driving. Sidney Smith, who was
here lately, said, that "a new surgeon had set up in Minchin Hampton
since Mr. Ricardo has taken to driving."
We had delightful conversation, both on deep and shallow subjects. Mr.
Ricardo, with a very composed manner, has a continual life of mind, and
starts perpetually new game in conversation. I never argued or discussed
a question with any person who argues more fairly or less for victory
and more for truth. He gives full weight to every argument brought
against him, and seems not to be on any side of the question for one
instant longer than the conviction of his mind on that side. It seems
quite indifferent to him whether you find the truth, or whether he finds
it, provided it be found. One gets at something by conversing with him;
one learns either that one is wrong or that one is right, and the
understanding is improved without the temper being ever tried in the
discussion; but I must come to an end of this letter. Harriet has
written to Pakenham an account of the cloth manufactory which Mr.
Stephens explained admirably, and we are going out to see Mrs. Ricardo's
school; she has 130 children there, and takes as much pains as Lovell.
_Nov. 10_.
Yesterday evening a Mr. and Miss Strachey dined here: he pleasing, and
she with a nice pretty-shaped small head like Honora's, very agreeable
voice. Mr. and Mrs. Smith of Easton Grey had come, and there was a great
deal of agreeable conversation. An English bull was mentioned: Lord
Camden put the following advertisement in the papers:--"Owing to the
distress of the times Lord Camden will not shoot himself or any of his
tenants before the 4th of October next."
Much conversation about cases of conscience, whether Scott was right to
deny his novels? Then the Effie Deans question, and much about
smugglers. Lord Carrington says all ladies are born smugglers. Lady
Carrington once staying on the coast of Devonshire wrote to Lord
Carrington that his butler had got from a wreck a pipe of wine for £36,
and that it was in her cellar. "Now," said Lord Carrington to himself,
"here am I in the king's service; can I permit such a thing? No." He
wrote to the proper excise officers and gave them notice, and by the
same post to Lady Carrington, but he did not know that taking goods from
a wreck was a felony. As pale as death the butler came to Lady
Carrington. "I must fly for it, my lady, to America." They were thrown
into consternation; at last they staved the wine, so that when the
excise officers came nothing was to be found. Lord Carrington of course
lost his £36 and saved his honour. Mr. Ricardo said he might have done
better by writing to apprise the owners of the vessel that he was ready
to pay a fair price for it, and the duties.
_To_ MISS LUCY EDGEWORTH.
GATCOMBE PARK, _Nov. 12_.
We are perfectly happy here; delightful house and place for walking,
riding, driving. Fanny has a horse always at her command. I a phaeton
and Mr. Ricardo to converse with. He is altogether one of the most
agreeable persons, as well as the best informed and most clever, that I
ever knew. My own pleasure is infinitely increased by seeing that Fanny
and Harriet are so much liked and so very happy here.
In the evenings, in the intervals of good conversation, we have all
sorts of merry plays. Why, when and where: our words were--_Jack, Bar,
Belle, Caste, Plum_, the best.
We acted charades last night. _Pillion_ excellent. Maria, Fanny, and
Harriet, little dear, pretty Bertha, and Mr. Smith, the best hand and
head at these diversions imaginable. First we entered swallowing pills
with great choking: _pill_. Next on all-fours, roaring _lions_; Fanny
and Harriet's roaring devouring lions much clapped. Next Bertha riding
on Mr. Smith's back. _Pillion_.
_Coxcomb_.--Mr. Smith, Mr. Ricardo, Fanny, Harriet, and Maria _crowing_.
Ditto, ditto, _combing_ hair. Mr. Ricardo, solus strutting, a _coxcomb_,
very droll.
_Sinecure_.--Not a good one.
_Monkey_.--Very good. Mr. Ricardo and Mr. Smith as monks, with coloured
silk handkerchiefs, as cowls, a laughable solemn procession. Re-enter
with _keys_. Mr. Ricardo as _monkey_.
_Fortune-tellers_.--The best: Fanny as Fortune; unluckily we forgot to
blind her, and she had only my leather bag for her purse, but
nevertheless, she made a beautiful graceful _Fortune_, and scattered her
riches with an air that charmed the world. 2nd scene: Mr. Smith and
Harriet _tellers_ of the house--"the ayes have it." Fanny, Maria, and
Harriet, _fortune-tellers_; much approved.
_Love-sick_.--Bertha, with a bow made by Mr. Smith in an instant, with a
switch and red tape and a long feathered pen. Bertha was properly blind
and made an irresistible Cupid; she entered and shot, and all the
company fell: _Love_. 2nd: Harriet, Mr. Smith, and Maria, all very
_sick_. 3rd: Fanny, a _love-sick_ young lady. Maria, her duenna,
scolding, and pitying, and nursing her with a smelling bottle.
_Fire-eater_.--1st: Harriet and I acted alarm of _fire_, and alarmed Mr.
Ricardo so well--he was going to call for assistance, 2nd: I was an
epicure, and _eating_ always succeeds on the stage. 3rd: Harriet
devoured lighted spills to admiration, and only burnt her lip a little.
In "conundrum," Mrs. Osman was a beautiful nun; she is a charming
creature, most winning countenance and manner, very desirous to improve
herself, and with an understanding the extent and excellence of which I
did not at first estimate.
_To_ MRS. RUXTON.
EASTON GREY, _Nov. 22, 1821_.
Lady Catherine Bisset came with her two little nieces to call upon us,
and Fanny won little Lady Mary-Rose's heart, partly by means of some
Madeira and Portuguese figures from the chimney-piece, which she ranged
on the table for her amusement, and partly by a whiz-gig, which Fanny
plays to admiration.
And what is a whiz-gig? If you do not know, you must wait till I send
you one.
Lady Catherine, when no one was seeing or looking, laid her hand on my
arm most affectionately, and looking up in my face, said, "Do you know I
have been half my life trying to be your good French governess. I love
her."
We went to see her at her cottage, near her brother, Lord Suffolk's, and
saw many curiosities from Ceylon, made entertaining to us by the
comments and anecdotes of Captain Fenwick, who had been years at Ceylon.
On our return we stopped to see Malmesbury Abbey--beautifully placed;
the height of the arch sublime.
BOWOOD, _Nov. 26_.
We were fortunate enough to find Lord and Lady Lansdowne just returned
from their tour. They looked at the Pyrenees, but they could not go into
Spain, for the yellow fever rages there. A cordon of troops prevent any
travellers who might be disposed to brave the danger of the fever, and
fire if any attempt is made to pass. Lady Lansdowne would quite satisfy
you by her love of the Italian women. Here are Miss Vernon, and Miss
Fox, Lord Holland's sister, and Miss Fox, Lord Holland's daughter, and
Mr. Ogden, the widower of that beautiful and extraordinary lady whom we
met here three years ago. He has a great deal of cool, grave,
gentlemanly humour, and has been amusing us with an account of his visit
to Bowles, the poet, yesterday, and his musical sheep-bells and his
susceptibility to criticism and his credulity. He wrote with all the
simplicity of egotism to Murray to desire him, whenever any one who came
into his shop was seen to look into the review of his controversy with
Lord Byron on Pope, to pop into his hand his pamphlet by way of
antidote.
Miss Vernon and Miss Fox are both very agreeable, and Miss Fox,
[Footnote: Mary Elizabeth, who married, 1830, the third Lord Lilford.]
the young lady, beautiful, timid, and charming.
_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.
MALL, CLIFTON, _Dec. 3, 1821_.
Our visit here and its object have been happily accomplished, my dear
mother, for my sister and Mr. King seem quite pleased and gratified.
Emmeline looks and is in much better health than when I was here before.
I must go to breakfast now as the carriage is to be at the door to carry
us to see Mr. Miles's pictures.
CIRENCESTER, _Dec. 5_.
Our picture day at Leigh Court surpassed our expectations. Poussin's
famous "Land Storm;" "St. John," by Domenichino, the most striking, with
a divine head of our SAVIOUR, by Leonardo da Vinci, and many others too
tantalising to mention. Mr. King, Emmeline, Mr. Elton, and ourselves,
filled the coach. Mr. King in high spirits, talked all the way there and
back, and was exceedingly entertaining and instructive. He has great
variety of tastes and acquirements, and we were delighted to hear him.
There was a large party the last night at Clifton, and I heard one new
thing, a great deal to hear at one party. This new thing I shall keep
for Pakenham; I wakened this morning with an intention of getting up
remarkably early to write it for him, and I got up thinking myself a
miracle of virtue and peep-o'-day woman; but lo! and behold, it was just
nine o'clock. Good-bye to Pakenham and the Deadman's head, of which my
own was full two seconds before; all that could be done was to scuffle
about the room and rummage the imperials for gowns, frills, shoes, and
gloves; all happily found, and on the right owners, and looking
charmingly, ma'am, by breakfast time. Fanny and Harriet in their lilac
and maroon tabinets. I am now writing in a delightful armchair,
high-backed antiquity, and modern cushions. Company at dinner
yesterday--Lord and Lady Bathurst, Lord Apsley, Mr. William Bathurst,
Lady Georgiana, Lady Emily, Lady Georgiana Lennox, Major Colebrook, and
Mr. Fortescue, whom we met at Paris, very agreeable, "melancholy and
gentlemanlike." The conversation goes on here remarkably well: Lady
Bathurst is perfectly well-bred and easy; Lord Apsley and Lady Georgiana
very agreeable.
The Duchess of Beaufort's French governess published in 1817 a story
called _Valoe_, which threw all high-bred London into confusion.
Everybody, who is anybody in it, under feigned names, the picture of all
the persons, manners, and character of all the young ladies who are
supposed to file off before the Duke of Devonshire. No wit, but
tittle-tattle truths. You can't buy the book if you were to give your
eyes for it: all bought up by the Duchess of Beaufort. [Footnote: It was
written by a governess whom she had dismissed.] Lord Apsley, who has a
copy with all the names in it, lent it to me. Fanny had a pleasant ride
this morning with Lord Bathurst, Mr. Fortescue, Major Colebrook, and Mr.
Bathurst, who all returned charmed with her manner of riding, and she
with her ride. Harriet and I had driven out with Lady Bathurst and Lady
Georgiana--a delightful drive through this magnificent park. The meeting
of the pine avenues in a star--superb. "Who plants like Bathurst?" etc.
We saw Pope's seat, and "Cotswold's wild and Saperton's fair dale"--a
most beautiful dale it is.
News from the best authority; probably it will be in the newspapers
before you see this: Lord Wellesley is to be lord-lieutenant, and Mr.
Goulburn, secretary.
_To MISS_ HONORA EDGEWORTH.
WINCHESTER, _Dec. 12, 1821_.
Lest you should be staying in Dublin, I write this epitome to tell you
what we have done. We spent two days at Cirencester, very entertaining.
Delightful woods.
Friday to Dr. Fowler's, Salisbury, and stayed till today after
breakfast; our four days deliciously spent. We have seen Salisbury
Cathedral, and Wilton, pictures, and statues, and Lady Pembroke and her
children, worth them all.
We were at Longford Castle yesterday; the strangest castle in the world.
Finest private collection of pictures I have seen, or at least that in
which there are the fewest indifferent ones.
We have seen Stonehenge! and spend to-morrow with Mrs. Moutray at Mr.
Coxe's, Twyford.
THE DEEPDENE, _Dec. 19_.
We arrived here on Saturday. The first day there were Lady Mary Bennet,
Miss Burrowes, and Prince Cariati, a banished Neapolitan, in very
long-skirted coat, which he holds up by tucking one hand inside behind;
good-humoured, and plays all sorts of _petits jeux_. Mrs. Hope has
recovered her beauty, and she and Mr. Hope are as kind as ever, and
asked affectionately after you, and so did Henry.
Mrs. Hogan, excellent Mrs. Hogan, has grown much older, but in all other
respects the same, and next to our own dear Mrs. Billamore the most
active and attached person in her station I ever saw. But why waste my
time on housekeepers, when I should tell you of Lord Burford and his
sisters, Lady Maria and Lady Caroline Beauclerc, who arrived on Monday,
and Lady Westmeath and Mr. Smith (_Rejected Addresses_), and Mr. Lock,
son of Norbury Park Lock: all _come_ to _go_ to a ball at Dorking, of
which Mr. Hope is one of the stewards.
The Lady Beauclercs are beautiful, in the Vandyke style, and Lord
Burford very handsome, and so is Mr. Lock, with a curly head.
Fanny danced a great deal, and Harriet two quadrilles and Sir Roger de
Coverley, which ended at six in the morning. We met at this ball Mr.
Greenough, and Mr. Angerstein, Sneyd's friend, very agreeable, and Mrs.
Hibbert, of the beautiful cottage, and Lady Rothes. Mr. Smith
excessively entertaining; he sings humorous songs of his own composition
inimitably. Alas! he went away yesterday.
The evening after the ball they played at "the ring," a ring held on a
string in a circle, and the fool in the middle seeks and challenges any
suspected hand. This morning, the moment breakfast was over, they went
into the _hall of the marble table,_ and there played at _petits
pacquets_ (not time to describe), a great deal of running and laughing
among pretty men and pretty maids.
As I stood at the window with Mr. Hope looking at a ring of company
playing French blindman's-buff, we agreed we had never seen more beauty,
male and female, collected in a circle of fourteen persons.
Mrs. Hogan has just announced the arrival of "Prince Cimitelli, and
another name, ma'am, which I am ashamed to say I can never _twist out_
rightly, is to come here to-day."
Mr. Smith told Fanny that he had intended to put me into the _Rejected
Addresses_, and had written a part in the character of an Irish
labourer, but it was so flat he threw it aside.
_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.
FROGNEL, HAMPSTEAD, _Dec. 29, 1821_.
We read--I mean we have heard read by Mr. Carr, who reads admirably,
half the first volume of the _Pirate_, stopped at the chapter ending
with the description of Norma of the Fitful Head. We were much pleased
and interested, especially with the beautiful description of Mordaunt's
education and employments: the sea-monsters, etc., most poetical, in
Scott's master style: the manner in which, by scarcely perceptible
touches, he wakens the reader's interest for his hero, admirable,
unequalled by all but Shakespear. Wonderful genius; who can raise an
interest even on the barren rocks of Zetland. Aladdin could only raise
palaces at will, but the mighty master Scott can transport us to the
most remote desert corner of the earth, ay, and keep us there, and make
us wish to stay among beings of his own creation. I send a sketch of the
room, and how we all sat last night as happy as possible listening to
Mr. Carr reading; show this ground-plan to Honora, who knows the room,
and she will _insense_ you.
_To_ MRS. RUXTON.
FROGNEL, HAMPSTEAD, _Jan. 2, 1822_.
We have been enjoying in this family every delight which affection and
cultivated tastes, and cheerful tempers can bestow. Upon nearer
acquaintance I find Dr. Lushington worthy of the prize he has obtained
in a wife, [Footnote: Miss Edgeworth's old friend, Miss Sarah Carr.] and
I have heard from friends, who differ from him in political opinions,
such honourable testimony to his integrity and strength of mind that my
heart is quite at ease about her happiness.
_To_ MISS RUXTON.
FROGNEL, _Jan. 3, 1822_.
I believe I left off where I had mentioned the _Pirate_, which I hope
you are reading to my aunt. The characters of the two sisters are
beautiful. The idea of Brenda not believing in supernatural agency, and
yet being afraid, and Minna not being afraid though she believes in
Norma's power, is new and natural and ingenious. This was Joanna
Baillie's idea. The picture of the sisters sleeping and the lacing scene
is excellent, and there are not only passages of beautiful picturesque
description, but many more deep philosophical reflections upon the human
mind, and the causes of human happiness, than in any of his other works.
The satire upon agriculturists imported from one country to another, who
set to work to improve the land and the habits of the people without
being acquainted with the circumstances of either, is excellent. I am
sure my uncle will like and laugh with Magnus Troil. It is wonderful how
genius can make even barren Zetland fertile in novelty. Both Morton and
Tom Carr are very amiable and both handsome. Tom dark, like an Italian
portrait; Morton fair, with light hair and quick-colouring with every
emotion: a high sense of honour, chivalrous sentiments, and delicacy of
taste.
New Year's Day was Mr. and Mrs. Carr's wedding day, and it was kept as
it always is, with family rejoicings; Dr. Holland, as he has done for
many years, and Joanna Baillie and Miss Mulso, an intimate friend, a
niece of Mrs. Chapone's, dined here, which, with the whole family and
ourselves, made a party of twenty. Mr. Carr gave many toasts; some so
affectionate they made the tears roll down the cheeks of his children.
In the evening there was a merry dance, in which Joanna and her sister
joined, and then as agreed upon, at a given signal, we all ran up to our
rooms and dressed in different characters. We did not know what the
others were to be, but Fanny was a nun in a white muslin veil and
drapery over her black gown--dressed in a moment, and I fell to decking
Harriet, a pert travelled young lady just returned from Paris, in the
height of the fashion: feathers of all colours, gold diadem, a profusion
of artificial flowers, a nosegay of vast size, rose-coloured gauze
dress, darkened eyebrows, and ringlets of dark hair which so completely
altered her that no creature guessed who she was till Mrs. Carr at last
knew her by her likeness to her mother; she supported her character with
great spirit. I was an Irish nurse in a red cloak, come all the way from
Killogonsawee, "for my two childer that left me last year for foreign
parts." Little Francis was Triptolemus, in the _Pirate_, an excellent
figure, and Mrs. Carr his sister Baby. Isabella, an old lady in an
old-fashioned dress, and Laura as her daughter in a court dress and
powder; Anna, a French troubadour singing beautifully and speaking
French perfectly; William, the youngest son, a half-pay officer, king of
the coffee house; Tom, a famous London black beggar, Billy Waters, with
a wooden leg; Morton, Meg Merillics; Dr. Lushington, a housemaid; Miss
Mulso, an English ballad singer; Mr. Burrell (I forgot to mention him,
an old family friend at dinner) as a Spanish gentleman, Don Pedro
Velasquez de Tordesillas; very good ruff and feathers, but much wanting
a sword when the wooden-legged black trod on his toes. In the scuffle of
dressing, for which only ten minutes were allowed, no sword could be
found. From the quickness of preparation, and our all being a family
party, this little masquerade went off remarkably well, and was very
diverting to the persons concerned.
I heard yesterday from a friend of Lady Lansdowne's that Miss Kitty
Malone has had the operation performed upon her eye; saw the ring on
Alexander's finger, and exclaimed, "How happy you must be, sir, who can
give sight to the blind!"
_To_ MISS LUCY EDGEWORTH.
MISS BAILLIE'S, HAMPSTEAD, _Jan. 12, 1822_.
I have been four days resolving to get up half an hour earlier that I
might have time to tell you, my dear Lucy, the history of a cat of
Joanna and Agnes Baillie's.
You may, perhaps, have heard the name of a celebrated Mr. Brodie, who
wrote on Poisons, and whose papers on this subject are to be found in
the _Transactions of the Royal Society_, and reviewed in the _Edinburgh
Review_, in 1811. He brought some of the Woorara poison, with which the
natives poison their arrows and destroy their victims. It was his theory
that this poison destroys by affecting the nervous system only, and that
after a certain time its effects on the nerves would cease as the
effects of intoxicating liquors cease, and that the patient might
recover, if the lungs could be kept in play, if respiration were not
suspended during the trance or partial death in which the patient lies.
To prove the truth of this by experiment he fell to work upon a cat; he
pricked the cat with the point of a lancet dipped in Woorara. It was
some minutes before the animal became convulsed, and then it lay, to all
appearance, dead. Mr. Brodie applied a tube to its mouth, and blew air
into it from time to time; after lying some hours apparently lifeless it
recovered, shook itself and went about its own affairs as usual. This
was tried several times, much to the satisfaction of the philosophical
spectators, but not quite to the satisfaction of poor puss, who grew
very thin and looked so wretched that Dr. Baillie's son, then a boy,
took compassion on this poor subject of experiment, and begged Mr.
Brodie would let him carry off the cat. With or without consent, he did
carry her off, and brought her to his aunts, Joanna and Agnes Baillie.
Then puss's prosperous days began. Agnes made a soft bed for her in her
own room, and by night and day she was the happiest of cats; she was
called Woorara, which in time shortened into Woory. I wish I could wind
up Woory's history by assuring you that she was the most attached and
grateful of cats, but truth forbids. A few weeks after her arrival at
Hampstead she marched off and never was heard of more. It is supposed
that she took to evil courses: tasted the blood and bones of her
neighbours' chickens, and fell at last a sacrifice to the vengeance of a
cook-maid.
After this cat's departure Agnes took to heart a kitten, who was very
fond of her. This kitten, the first night she slept in her room, on
wakening in the morning looked up from the hearth at Agnes, who was
lying awake, but with her eyes half-shut, and marked all puss's motions;
after looking some instants, puss jumped up on the bed, crept softly
forward and put her paw, with its glove on, upon one of Miss Baillie's
eyelids and pushed it gently up; Miss Baillie looked at her fixedly, and
puss, as if satisfied that her eyes were _there_ and safe, went back to
her station on the hearth and never troubled herself more about the
matter.
To finish this chapter of cats. I saw yesterday at a lady's house at
Hampstead, a real Persian cat, brought over by a Navy Captain, her
brother. It has long hair like a dog, and a tail like a terrier's, only
with longer hair. It is the most gentle, depressed-looking creature I
ever saw; it seems to have the _mal du pays_, and moreover, had the
cholic the morning I saw it, and Agnes Baillie had a spoonful of castor
oil poured out for it, but it ran away.
Joanna quoted to me the other day an excellent proverb applied to
health: "Let well alone." If the Italian valetudinarian had done this
his epitaph would not have arrived at the _sto qui_.
Captain Beaufort tells me that they have found out that the wool under
the buffalo's long hair is finer than the material of which the Cashmere
shawls are made, and they are going to manufacture shawls of buffalo's
wool, which are to shame and silence the looms of Cashmere. Would my
mother choose to wait for one of these?
_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.
HAMPSTEAD, _Jan. 14, 1822_.
We are come to our last morning at this hospitable house. Most
affectionate hospitality has been shown to us by these two excellent
sisters. I part with Agnes and Joanna Baillie, confirmed in my opinion
that the one is the most amiable literary woman I ever beheld, and the
other one of the best informed and most useful. I wish you had seen
Joanna and Agnes each evening laying Fanny's feet up on the sofa,
spreading their bright _Stuart_ plaid over her, and a silk handkerchief
hooded over her head so comfortable and so pretty, as Joanna said, she
looked like one of Guido's pictures.
An hour after I had read your letter, arrived the gentleman who franks
this letter, [Footnote: Mr. Abercromby--Lord Dunfermline.] one of the
most sensible, well-bred conversers I ever heard. He began by giving us
an account of all Lord Wellesley has been doing in Ireland, and
entertained us for three hours with anecdotes of Fox and Mrs. Fox, and
Lord Grenville, with whom he has been staying at Dropmore. He said that
when he first went there and heard there was no company in the house, he
was frightened out of his wits at the idea of a _tête-à-tête_ with
silent Lord Grenville; but to his astonishment, he found him
_tête-à-tête_ the most communicative and talkative of men; he had only
to ask him what he pleased to set him off delightfully, like the
Primate; those who can venture to talk to him freely, please him, and
conquer his constitutional bashfulness. At breakfast he has three or
four spaniels jumping upon him, he feeding, and protecting from them the
newspaper, which he is reading all the time. He is remarkably fond of
children. Mr. Abercromby saw him with two little boys, sons of a friend,
and all the morning he was diverting them in the library, hunting for
entertaining books and pictures for them. Such a new idea of Lord
Grenville!