We have been here about an hour, and next to the pleasure of washing
face and hands, which were all covered with red Woburn sand and
Dunstable chalk, and London dust, comes the pleasure of writing to you,
my dear good Aunt Mary. How glad I should be to give you any proof of
gratitude for the many large and little kindnesses you have shown to me.
There is no one in the world who can deserve to be thought of more at
all times, and in all situations, than you; for there is no one thinks
so much of others. As long as there is any one worth your loving upon
earth, you cannot be unhappy. I think you would have been very apt to
make the speech attributed to St. Theresa: "Le pauvre Diable! comme je
le plains! Il ne peut rien aimer. Ah! qu'il doit être malheureux!"
But whilst I am talking sentiment you may be impatient for news. The
first and best news is, that my father is extremely well. Travelling, he
says, has done him a vast deal of good, and whoever looks at him
believes him. It would be well for all faces if they had that effect on
the spectators, or rather perhaps it would be ill for the credulous
spectators. Isabella of Aragon, _or_ Lord Chesterfield, or both, call a
good countenance the best letter of recommendation. Whenever Nature
gives false letters of recommendation, she swindles in the most
abominable manner. Where she refuses them where they are best deserved,
she only gives additional motive for exertion (_vide_ Socrates or his
bust).[Footnote: An alabaster bust of Socrates, which stood on the
chimney-piece in the drawing-room at Black Castle.] And after all,
Nature is forced out of her letters of recommendation sooner or later.
You know that it is said by Lavater, that the _muscles_ of Socrates'
countenance are beautiful, and these became so by the play given to them
by the good passions, etc. etc. etc.
Charlotte tells me she carried you in her last as far as Loughborough
and Castle Donnington, will you be so good to go on to Leicester with
me? But before we set out for Leicester, I should like to take you to
Castle Donnington, "the magnificent seat of the Earl of Moira." But then
how can I do that, when I did not go there myself? Oh! I can describe
after a description as well as my betters have done before me in prose
and verse, and a description of my father's is better than the reality
seen with my own eyes. The first approach to Donnington disappointed
him; he looked round and saw neither castle, nor park, nor anything to
admire till he came to the top of a hill, when in the valley below
suddenly appeared the turrets of a castle, surpassing all he had
conceived of light and magnificent in architecture: a real castle! not a
modern, bungling imitation. The inside was suitable in grandeur to the
outside; hall, staircase, antechambers; the library fitted up entirely
with books in plain handsome mahogany bookcases, not a frippery
ornament, everything grand, but not gaudy; marble tables, books upon the
tables; nothing littered, but sufficient signs of living and occupied
beings. At the upper end of the room sat two ladies copying music: a
gentleman walking about with a book in his hand: neither Lord Moira nor
Lady Charlotte Rawdon in the room. The gentleman, Mr. Sedley, not having
an instinct like Mademoiselle Panache for a gentleman, did not, till
Lord Moira entered the room and received my father with open arms, feel
sure that he was worthy of more than monosyllable civility. Lord Moira
took the utmost pains to show my father that he was pleased with his
visit, said he must have the pleasure of showing him over the house
himself, and finished by giving him a letter to the Princess Joseph de
Monaco, who is now at Paris. She was Mrs. Doyle. He also sent to Mrs.
Edgeworth the very finest grapes I ever beheld. I wished the moment I
saw them, my dear aunt, that you had a bunch of them.
We proceeded to Leicester. Handsome town, good shops: walked whilst
dinner was getting ready to a circulating library. My father asked for
_Belinda, Bulls_, etc., found they were in good repute--_Castle
Rackrent_ in better--the others often borrowed, but _Castle Rackrent_
often bought. The bookseller, an open-hearted man, begged us to look at
a book of poems just published by a Leicester lady, a Miss Watts. I
recollected to have seen some years ago a specimen of this lady's
proposed translation of Tasso, which my father had highly admired. He
told the bookseller that we would pay our respects to Miss Watts, if it
would be agreeable to her. When we had dined, we set out with our
enthusiastic bookseller. We were shown by the light of a lanthorn along
a very narrow passage between high walls, to the door of a
decent-looking house: a maid-servant, candle in hand, received us. "Be
pleased, ladies, to walk upstairs." A neatish room, nothing
extraordinary in it except the inhabitants. Mrs. Watts, a tall,
black-eyed, prim, dragon-looking woman in the background. Miss Watts, a
tall young lady in white, fresh colour, fair thin oval face, rather
pretty. The moment Mrs. Edgeworth entered, Miss Watts, mistaking her for
the authoress, darted forward with arms, long thin arms, outstretched to
their utmost swing, "OH, WHAT AN HONOUR THIS IS!!" each word and
syllable rising in tone till the last reached a scream. Instead of
embracing my mother, as her first action threatened, she started back to
the farthest end of the room, which was not light enough to show her
attitude distinctly, but it seemed to be intended to express the
receding of awestruck admiration--stopped by the wall. Charlotte and I
passed by unnoticed, and seated ourselves by the old lady's desire: she
after many twistings of her wrists, elbows, and neck, all of which
appeared to be dislocated, fixed herself in her armchair, resting her
hands on the black mahogany _splayed_ elbows. Her person was no sooner
at rest than her eyes and all her features began to move in all
directions. She looked like a nervous and suspicious person electrified.
She seemed to be the acting partner in this house to watch over her
treasure of a daughter, to supply her with worldly wisdom, to look upon
her as a phoenix, and--scold her. Miss Watts was all ecstasy and lifting
up of hands and eyes, speaking always in that loud, shrill, theatrical
tone with which a puppet-master supplies his puppets. I all the time sat
like a mouse. My father asked, "Which of those ladies, madam, do you
think is your sister authoress?"--"I am no physiognomist"--in a
screech--"but I do imagine that to be the lady," bowing as she sat
almost to the ground, and pointing to Mrs. Edgeworth. "No, guess
again."--"Then that must be _she_" bowing to Charlotte. "No."--"Then
this lady," looking forward to see what sort of an animal I was, for she
had never seen me till this instant. To make me some amends, she now
drew her chair close to me, and began to pour forth praises: "Lady
Delacour, O! Letters for Literary Ladies, O!"
Now for the pathetic part. This poor girl sold a novel in four volumes
for ten guineas to Lane. My father is afraid, though she has
considerable talents, to recommend her to Johnson, lest she should not
_answer._ Poor girl, what a pity she had no friend to direct her
talents; how much she made me feel the value of mine!
_To_ MISS SOPHY RUXTON.