Produced by Marjorie Fulton
Richard Lovell Edgeworth
A SELECTION FROM HIS MEMOIRS
EDITED BY
BEATRIX L. TOLLEMACHE
(HON. MRS. LIONEL TOLLEMACHE)
RIVINGTON, PERCIVAL & CO.
KING STREET, COVENT GARDEN
LONDON
1896
By THE SAME AUTHOR
Engelberg, and Other Verses. With Frontispiece. Crown 8vo. 6s.
Jonquille, or, The Swiss Smuggler. Translated from the French of
MADAME COMBE. Crown 8vo. 6s.
Grisons Incidents in Olden Times. Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d.
LONDON RIVINGTON, PERCIVAL & CO.
LIFE IS AN INN
THERE is an inn where many a guest
May enter, tarry, take his rest.
When he departs there's nought to pay,
Only he carries nought away.
'Not so,' I cried, 'for raiment fine,
Sweet thoughts, heart-joys, and hopes that shine,
May clothe anew his flitting form,
As wings that change the creeping worm.
His toil-worn garb he casts aside,
And journeys onward glorified.'
B. L. T.
RICHARD LOVELL EDGEWORTH
CHAPTER 1
Some years ago, I came across the Memoirs of Richard Lovell
Edgeworth in a second-hand bookshop, and found it so full of
interest and amusement, that I am tempted to draw the attention of
other readers to it. As the volumes are out of print, I have not
hesitated to make long extracts from them. The first volume is
autobiographical, and the narrative is continued in the second
volume by Edgeworth's daughter Maria, who was her father's constant
companion, and was well fitted to carry out his wish that she should
complete the Memoirs.
Richard Lovell Edgeworth was born at Bath in
1744. He was a shining example of what a good landlord can do for
his tenants, and how an active mind will always find objects of
interest without constantly requiring what are called amusements;
for the leisure class should be like Sundays in a week, and as the
ideal Sunday should be a day when we can store up good and beautiful
thoughts to refresh us during the week, a day when there is no
hurry, no urgent business to trouble us, a day when we have time to
rise above the sordid details of life and enjoy its beauties; so it
seems to me that those who are not obliged to work for their living
should do their part in the world by adding to its store of good and
wise thoughts, by cultivating the arts and raising the standard of
excellence in them, and by bringing to light truths which had been
forgotten, or which had been hidden from our forefathers.
Richard Edgeworth was eminently a practical man, impulsive, as we
learn from his imprudent marriage at nineteen, but with a strong
sense of duty. His mother, who was Welsh, brought him up in habits
of thrift and industry very unlike those of his ancestors, which he
records in the early pages of his Memoirs. His great-grandmother
seems to have been a woman of strong character and courage in spite
of her belief in fairies and her dread of them, for he writes that
'while she was living at Liscard, she was, on some sudden alarm,
obliged to go at night to a garret at the top of the house for some
gunpowder, which was kept there in a barrel. She was followed
upstairs by an ignorant servant girl, who carried a bit of candle
without a candlestick between her fingers. When Lady Edgeworth had
taken what gunpowder she wanted, had locked the door, and was
halfway downstairs again, she observed that the girl had not her
candle, and asked what she had done with it; the girl recollected,
and answered that she had left it "stuck in the barrel of black
salt." Lady Edgeworth bid her stand still, and instantly returned by
herself to the room where the gunpowder was, found the candle as the
girl had described, put her hand carefully underneath it, carried it
safely out, and when she got to the bottom of the stairs dropped on
her knees, and thanked God for their deliverance'
When we remember that it was Richard Edgeworth, the father of Maria,
who trained and encouraged her first efforts in literature, we feel
that we owe him a debt of gratitude; but our interest is increased
when we read his Memoirs, for we then find ourselves brought into
close contact with a very intelligent and vigorous mind, keen to
take part in the scientific experiments of the day, while his
upright moral character and earnest and well-directed efforts to
improve his Irish property win our admiration; and when we remember
that he married in succession four wives, and preserved harmony
among the numerous members of his household, our admiration becomes
wonder, and we would fain learn the secret of his success. One
element in his success doubtless was that he kept every one around
him usefully employed, and in the manner most suited to each. He
knew how to develop innate talent, and did not crush or overpower
those around him. He owed much to the early training of a sensible
mother, and he gives an anecdote of his early childhood, which I
will quote:--
'My mother was not blind to my faults. She saw the danger of my
passionate temper. It was a difficult task to correct it; though
perfectly submissive to her, I was with others rebellious and
outrageous in my anger. My mother heard continual complaints of me;
yet she wisely forbore to lecture or punish me for every trifling
misdemeanour; she seized proper occasions to make a strong
impression upon my mind.
'One day my elder brother Tom, who, as I have said, was almost a man
when I was a little child, came into the nursery where I was
playing, and where the maids were ironing. Upon some slight
provocation or contradiction from him, I flew into a violent
passion; and, snatching up one of the boxirons which the maid had
just laid down, I flung it across the table at my brother. He
stooped instantly; and, thank God! it missed him. There was a redhot
heater in it, of which I knew nothing until I saw it thrown out, and
until I heard the scream from the maids. They seized me, and dragged
me downstairs to my mother. Knowing that she was extremely fond of
my brother, and that she was of a warm indignant temper, they
expected that signal vengeance would burst upon me. They all spoke
at once. When my mother heard what I had done, I saw she was struck
with horror, but she said not one word in anger to me. She ordered
everybody out of the room except myself, and then drawing me near
her, she spoke to me in a mild voice, but in a most serious manner.
First, she explained to me the nature of the crime which I had run
the hazard of committing; she told me she was sure that I had no
intention seriously to hurt my brother, and did not know that if the
iron had hit my brother, it must have killed him. While I felt this
first shock, and whilst the horror of murder was upon me, my mother
seized the moment to conjure me to try in future to command my
passions. I remember her telling me that I had an uncle by the
mother's side who had such a violent temper, that in a fit of
passion one of his eyes actually started out of its socket. "You,"
said my mother to me, "have naturally a violent temper; if you grow
up to be a man without learning to govern it, it will be impossible
for you then to command yourself; and there is no knowing what crime
you may in a fit of passion commit, and how miserable you may, in
consequence of it, become. You are but a very young child, yet I
think you can understand me. Instead of speaking to you as I do at
this moment, I might punish you severely; but I think it better to
treat you like a reasonable creature. My wish is to teach you to
command your temper--nobody can do that for you so well as you can
do it for yourself."
'As nearly as I can recollect, these were my mother's words; I am
certain this was the sense of what she then said to me. The
impression made by the earnest solemnity with which she spoke never,
during the whole course of my life, was effaced from my mind. From
that moment I determined to govern my temper.'
Acting upon the old adage that example is better than precept, his
mother taught him at an early age to observe the good and bad
qualities of the persons he met. The study of character she justly
felt to be most important, and yet it is not one of the subjects
taught in schools except by personal collision with other boys, and
incidentally in reading history. When sent to school at Warwick, he
learned not only the first rudiments of grammar, but 'also the
rudiments of that knowledge which leads us to observe the difference
of tempers and characters in our fellow-creatures. The marking how
widely they differ, and by what minute varieties they are
distinguished, continues, to the end of life, an inexhaustible
subject of discrimination.'
May not Maria have gained much valuable training in the art of
novel-writing from a father who was so impressed with the value of
the study of character?
The Gospel precept which we read as 'Judge not,' should surely be
translated 'Condemn not,' and does not forbid a mental exercise
which is necessary in our intercourse with others.
Among the circumstances which had considerable influence on his
character, he mentions: 'My mother was reading to me some passages
from Shakespeare's plays, marking the characters of Coriolanus and
of Julius Caesar, which she admired. The contempt which Coriolanus
expresses for the opinion and applause of the vulgar, for "the
voices of the greasyheaded multitude," suited well with that disdain
for low company with which I had been first inspired by the fable of
the Lion and the Cub.* It is probable that I understood the speeches
of Coriolanus but imperfectly; yet I know that I sympathised with my
mother's admiration, my young spirit was touched by his noble
character, by his generosity, and, above all, by his filial piety
and his gratitude to his mother.' He mentions also that 'some traits
in the history of Cyrus, which was read to me, seized my
imagination, and, next to Joseph in the Old Testament, Cyrus became
the favourite of my childhood. My sister and I used to amuse
ourselves with playing Cyrus at the court of his grandfather
Astyages. At the great Persian feasts, I was, like young Cyrus, to
set an example of temperance, to eat nothing but watercresses, to
drink nothing but water, and to reprove the cupbearer for making the
king, my grandfather, drunk. To this day I remember the taste of
those water-cresses; and for those who love to trace the characters
of men in the sports of children, I may mention that my character
for sobriety, if not for water-drinking, has continued through
life.'
* In Gay's Fables.
When Richard Edgeworth encouraged his daughter Maria's literary
tastes, he was doubtless mindful how much pleasure and support his
own mother had derived from studying the best authors; and when we
read later of the affectionate terms on which Maria stood with her
various stepmothers and their families, we cannot help thinking that
she must have inherited at least one of the beautiful traits in her
grandmother's character which Richard Edgeworth especially dwells
on: 'She had the most generous disposition that I ever met with; not
only that common generosity, which parts with money, or money's
worth, freely, and almost without the right hand knowing what the
left hand doeth; but she had also an entire absence of selfish
consideration. Her own wishes or opinions were never pursued merely
because they were her own; the ease and comfort of everybody about
her were necessary for her well-being. Every distress, as far as her
fortune, or her knowledge, or her wit or eloquence could reach, was
alleviated or removed; and, above all, she could forgive, and
sometimes even forget injuries.'
Richard's taste for science early showed itself, when at seven years
old his curiosity was excited by an electric battery which was
applied to his mother's paralysed side. He says:--
'At this time electricity was but little known in Ireland, and its
fame as a cure for palsy had been considerably magnified. It, as
usual, excited some sensation in the paralytic limbs on the first
trials. One of the experiments on my mother failed of producing a
shock, and Mr. Deane seemed at a loss to account for it. I had
observed that the wire which was used to conduct the electric fluid,
had, as it hung in a curve from the instrument to my mother's arm,
touched the hinge of a table which was in the way, and I had the
courage to mention this circumstance, which was the real cause of
failure.'
It was when he was eight years old, and while travelling with his
father, that his attention was caught by 'a man carrying a machine
five or six feet in diameter, of an oval form, and composed of
slender ribs of steel. I begged my father to inquire what it was. We
were told that it was the skeleton of a lady's hoop. It was
furnished with hinges, which permitted it to fold together in a
small compass, so that more than two persons might sit on one seat
of a coach--a feat not easily performed, when ladies were
encompassed with whalebone hoops of six feet extent. My curiosity
was excited by the first sight of this machine, probably more than
another child's might have been, because previous agreeable
associations had given me some taste for mechanics, which was still
a little further increased by the pleasure I took in examining this
glittering contrivance. Thus even the most trivial incidents in
childhood act reciprocally as cause and effect in forming our
tastes.'
It was in 1754 that Mrs. Edgeworth, continuing much out of health,
resolved to consult a certain Lord Trimblestone, who had been very
successful in curing various complaints. Lord Trimblestone received
Mr. and Mrs. Edgeworth most cordially and hospitably, and though he
could not hope to cure her, recommended some palliatives. He had
more success with another lady whose disorder was purely nervous.
His treatment of her was so original that I must quote it at
length:
'Instead of a grave and forbidding physician, her host, she found,
was a man of most agreeable manners. Lady Trimblestone did
everything in her power to entertain her guest, and for two or three
days the demon of ennui was banished. At length the lady's vapours
returned; everything appeared changed. Melancholy brought on a
return of alarming nervous complaints--convulsions of the limbs
--perversion of the understanding--a horror of society; in short,
all the complaints that are to be met with in an advertisement
enumerating the miseries of a nervous patient. In the midst of one
of her most violent fits, four mutes, dressed in white, entered her
apartment; slowly approaching her, they took her without violence in
their arms, and without giving her time to recollect herself,
conveyed her into a distant chamber hung with black and lighted with
green tapers. From the ceiling, which was of a considerable height,
a swing was suspended, in which she was placed by the mutes, so as
to be seated at some distance from the ground. One of the mutes set
the swing in motion; and as it approached one end of the room, she
was opposed by a grim menacing figure armed with a huge rod of
birch. When she looked behind her, she saw a similar figure at the
other end of the room, armed in the same manner. The terror,
notwithstanding the strange circumstances which surrounded her, was
not of that sort which threatens life; but every instant there was
an immediate hazard of bodily pain. After some time, the mutes
appeared again, with great composure took the lady out of the swing,
and conducted her to her apartment. When she had reposed some time,
a servant came to inform her that tea was ready. Fear of what might
be the consequence of a refusal prevented her from declining to
appear. No notice was taken of what had happened, and the evening
and the next day passed without any attack of her disorder. On the
third day the vapours returned--the mutes reappeared--the menacing
flagellants again affrighted her, and again she enjoyed a remission
of her complaints. By degrees the fits of her disorder became less
frequent, the ministration of her tormentors less necessary, and in
time the habits of hypochondriacism were so often interrupted, and
such a new series of ideas was introduced into her mind, that she
recovered perfect health, and preserved to the end of her life
sincere gratitude for her adventurous physician.'
Three years were spent by Richard at Corpus Christi College, Oxford,
while his vacations were often passed at Bath by the wish of his
father, who was anxious that his son should be introduced to good
society at an early age. It was there that Richard saw Beau Nash,'
the popular monarch of Bath,' and also 'the remains of the
celebrated Lord Chesterfield. I looked in vain for that fire, which
we expect to see in the eye of a man of wit and genius. He was
obviously unhappy, and a melancholy spectacle.' Of the young ladies
he says: 'I soon perceived that those who made the best figure in
the ballroom were not always qualified to please in conversation; I
saw that beauty and grace were sometimes accompanied by a frivolous
character, by disgusting envy, or despicable vanity. All this I had
read of in poetry and prose, but there is a wide difference,
especially among young people, between what is read and related, and
what is actually seen. Books and advice make much more impression in
proportion as we grow older. We find by degrees that those who lived
before us have recorded as the result of their experience the very
things that we observe to be true.'
It was while still at college that he married Miss Elers without
waiting for his father's consent; he soon found that his young wife
did not sympathise with his pursuits; but he adds, 'Though I
heartily repented my folly, I determined to bear with firmness and
temper the evil, which I had brought upon myself. Perhaps pride had
some share in my resolution.'
He had a son before he was twenty, and soon afterwards took his wife
to Edgeworth Town to introduce her to his parents; but a few days
after his arrival his mother, who had long been an invalid, felt
that her end was approaching, and calling him to her bedside, told
him, with a sort of pleasure, that she felt she should die before
night. She added: 'If there is a state of just retribution in
another world, I must be happy, for I have suffered during the
greatest part of my life, and I know that I did not deserve it by my
thoughts or actions.'
Her dying advice to him was,'"My son, learn how to say No." She
warned me further of an error into which, from the vivacity of my
temper, I was most likely to fall. "Your inventive faculty," said
she, "will lead you eagerly into new plans; and you may be dazzled
by some new scheme before you have finished, or fairly tried what
you had begun. Resolve to finish; never procrastinate."'