_June 10_.
We have accomplished, much to our satisfaction, our long-intended
journey to Portsmouth. On Tuesday, at nine o'clock in the morning, we
found ourselves according to appointment, in our own dear carriage, at
your brother's door, and he and Francis seated themselves on the
barouche seat. The weather was bronzing and melting hot, but your
brother would insist on being bronzed and melted there during the heat
of the day, in a stoical style disdaining a parasol, though why it
should be more unmanly to use a parasol than a parapluie I cannot, for
the sense of me, understand.
Lady Grey, wife of the commissioner--he is away--ordered all the works
and dockyard to be open to us, and the Government boat to attend upon
us; saw the _Nelson_--just finished; and went over the _Phaeton_, and
your brother showed us his midshipman's berth and his lieutenant's
cabin. And now for the Block machinery, you will say, but it is
impossible to describe this in a letter of moderate or immoderate size.
I will only say that the ingenuity and successful performance far
surpassed my expectations. Machinery so perfect appears to act with the
happy certainty of instinct and the foresight of reason combined.
We took a barge to the Isle of Wight--charming day. You take a sociable,
and the _Felicity-hunter_ goes in it as far as the horses can take him.
It was the most gratifying thing to me to see "Uncle Francis" and all of
them so happy. We slept at Steephill; and in the morning went to see
Carisbrook Castle. Dined at Portsmouth with Sir James and Lady Lyon.
But oh, my dear mother, at the little pretty flowery-lawned inn where we
dined on our way to Slough, as your brother was reading the newspaper,
he came to the death of our dear Mr. Smith, of Easton Grey. At Sir
Benjamin Hobhouse's, a few months ago, he was the gayest of the gay, and
she the fondest and happiest of wives.
At Slough we saw the great telescope--never used now. Drove to
Windsor--building and terrace equal to my expectations. At night the
clouds were so good as to disperse, and we saw a double star.
* * * * *
Miss Edgeworth's wonderful conversational powers, combined with her
homely aspect, and perfectly unassuming manners, made a great impression
upon many of those who met her in London. Ticknor says of Maria
Edgeworth: "There was a life and spirit about her conversation, she
threw herself into it with such _abandon_, she retorted with such
brilliant repartee, and, in short, she talked with such extraordinary
flow of natural talent, that I don't know whether anything of the kind
could be finer."
On 27th June Miss Edgeworth returned with her half-sisters to
Edgeworthstown, taking up the thread of her domestic affairs as if there
had been no interruption, and she immediately set to work on the sequel
to _Harry and Lucy_.
* * * * *
MARIA _to_ MRS. RUXTON.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _July 23, 1822_.
Honora is staying at Lough Glyn with Mr. and Mrs. Strickland; they are
making judicious and incessant exertions for the relief of the poor and
the improvement of the people in their neighbourhood. It is very
extraordinary that, in the part of the County of Monaghan to which Mr.
Strickland went last week for flax seed for the poor tenants in his
neighbourhood, he found that there is plenty of everything--no distress
felt. The famine seems to have been as capricious as the malaria in
passing over some places and settling upon others. Here we go on in our
parish without having recourse to public subscription.
_August 7_.
We have just returned, all of us, from walking two miles on the
Mullingar road, in hopes of meeting Francis, who was expected in a
chaise from Mullingar, as the coach _sleeps_ there. Just as we had
reached the hall door by moonlight, in despair, we heard a doubtful
noise, which none but a maternal ear--a very nice ear on some
occasions--could judge whether of cart or chaise: it was a chaise, with
Francis in it; and here he is, one of the most agreeable and happy boys
I ever saw.
I have written to Walter Scott, claiming his promise of coming here; but
I doubt his being in Ireland: I agree with you that his play is very
stupid. Joanna Baillie [Footnote: Halidon Hill] suggested the subject,
and he wrote it as a contribution to a miscellany formed of
_voluntaries_ from all the poets and wits of the day, to make a fund for
some widowed friend of hers in great distress. He wrote it with good
intentions; but, as Madame de Staël says, "Les bons intentions ne sont
pour rien dans les ouvrages d'esprit."
Never read _The Lollards_ if it falls in your way, unless you like to
see John Huss burned over again. What pleasure have people in such
horrid subjects?
You ask me what I am doing besides _Early Lessons_, and if I have made
any progress in "Travellers." [Footnote: A tale she had thought of
writing, but she never even made a sketch of it.] Do you think, my
dearest aunt, that I can write _Early Lessons_ with my left hand and
"Travellers" with my right? You have too good an opinion of my
dexterity. I assure you it is all I can do to satisfy myself tolerably
as I go on with this sequel to _Harry and Lucy_, which engages all my
attention. I am particularly anxious to finish that _well_, as it was
my dear father's own and _first_ book. As it must be more scientific
than the other _Early Lessons_, it is more difficult to me, who have so
little knowledge on those subjects, and am obliged to go so warily, lest
I should teach error, or pretend to teach what I do not know. I have
written about fifty pages. I fear you will not like it as well as you
were so kind as to like _Frank_. I could never be easy writing anything
else for my own amusement till I have done this, which I know my father
wished to have finished. You will see in Dr. Holland's letter some
admirable hints for "Travellers," and I expect many more, from you, dear
aunt: we will talk it over in the days of October. How many things we
have talked over together! _Rackrent_ especially, which you first
suggested to me, and encouraged me to go on with.
_August 10_.
My dear aunt, I know how you must have been shocked when you heard of
the manner of Lord Londonderry's death. As Dr. Holland says, "If we were
to have looked from one end of the British Empire to the other, we could
not have pitched on an individual that seemed less likely to commit
suicide."
Whitbread, Sir Samuel Romilly, Lord Londonderry--all to perish in the
same manner!
_Sept. 10_.
In this frank you will receive a copy of a very interesting letter from
Fanny Stewart. The post and steam vessels bring the most distant parts
of the world now so much within our reach that friends cannot be much
more separated by being at "Nova Zembla, or the LORD knows where," than
by being in different counties of the same kingdom. There is Fanny
Stewart dining with Sneyd's friends, the Bishop of Quebec's family; and
young Mountain was in Switzerland when we were at Interlachen with Sneyd
and Henrica, and the year before at Ardbraccan and Edgeworthstown.
Things are odd till they pair off, and so become even. Sneyd and
Henrica, who were at Geneva, have been invited to the Baron Polier's,
near Lausanne, the brother of Madame de Montolieu, whom I told you of.
Madame Polier was the intimate friend of an intimate friend of
Henrica's, Miss French, of Derby, who has married a Cambridge friend of
Sneyd's, Mr. Smedley, and they are now on a visit at the said Madame
Polier's--a Derbyshire party in the heart of Switzerland, and by various
connections _felted_ together!
When Honora is on the sofa beside you, make her give you an account of
Francis's play, _Catiline_, which he and Fanny, and Harriet and Sophy,
and James Moilliet and Pakenham _got up_ without our being in the
secret, and acted the night before last, as it were impromptu, to our
inexpressible surprise and pleasure. Francis, during his holidays with
us in London, used to be often scribbling something; but I never
inquired or guessed what it was. Fanny and Harriet, in the midst of the
hurry of London dissipation, and of writing all manner of notes, etc.,
for me, and letters home innumerable, contrived to copy out fair for him
all his scraps; and when put together they made a goodly tragedy in two
acts, wonderfully well written for his age--some parts, for any age,
excellent.
After tea the library became empty suddenly of all the young people. My
aunt Mary, my brother Lovell, and I remaining with Quin, who had dined
here, talking on, never missed them; and the surprise was as great as
heart could wish when my mother put into our hands the play-bills, and
invited us to follow her to her dressing-room.