It was in 1792 that Edgeworth left Ireland, and he and his family
spent nearly two years at Clifton for the health of one of his sons.
Maria writes: 'This was the first time I had ever been with him in
what is called the world; where he was not only a useful, but a most
entertaining guide and companion. His observations upon characters,
as they revealed themselves by slight circumstances, were amusing
and just. He was a good judge of manners, and of all that related to
appearance, both in men and women. Believing, as he did, that young
people, from sympathy, imitate or catch involuntarily the habits and
tone of the company they keep, he thought it of essential
consequence that on their entrance into the world they should see
the best models. "No company or good company," was his maxim. By
good he did not mean fine. Airs and conceit he despised, as much as
he disliked vulgarity. Affectation was under awe before him from an
instinctive perception of his powers of ridicule. He could not
endure, in favour of any pretensions of birth, fortune, or fashion,
the stupidity of a formal circle, or the inanity of commonplace
conversation. . .. Sometimes, perhaps, he went too far, and at this
period of his life was too fastidious in his choice of society; or
when he did go into mixed company, if he happened to be suddenly
struck with any extravagance or meanness of fashion, he would
inveigh against these with such vehemence as gave a false idea of
his disposition. His auditors . . . were provoked to find that one,
who could please in any company, should disdain theirs; and that he,
who seemed made for society, should prefer living shut up with his
own friends and family. An inconvenience arose from this, which is
of more consequence than the mere loss of popularity, that he was
not always known or understood by those who were really worthy of
his acquaintance and regard.' His daughter says later: 'The whole
style and tone of society (in Ireland) are altered.--The fashion has
passed away of those desperately long, formal dinners, which were
given two or three times a year by each family in the country to
their neighbours, where the company had more than they could eat,
and twenty times more than they should drink; where the gentlemen
could talk only of claret, horses, or dogs; and the ladies, only of
dress or scandal; so that in the long hours, when they were left to
their own discretion, after having examined and appraised each
other's finery, many an absent neighbour's character was torn to
pieces, merely for want of something to say or to do in the stupid
circle. But now the dreadful circle is no more; the chairs, which
formerly could only take that form, at which the firmest nerves must
ever tremble, are allowed to stand, or turn in any way which may
suit the convenience and pleasure of conversation. The gentlemen and
ladies are not separated from the time dinner ends till the midnight
hour, when the carriages come to the door to carry off the bodies
of the dead (drunk).
'A taste for reading and literary conversation has been universally
acquired and diffused. Literature has become, as my father long ago
prophesied that it would become, fashionable; so that it is really
necessary to all, who would appear to advantage, even in the
society of their country neighbours.'
Referring to her father's conversational powers, Maria adds: 'His
style in speaking and writing were as different as it is possible to
conceive. In writing, cool and careful, as if on his guard against
his natural liveliness of imagination; he was so cautious to avoid
exaggeration, that he sometimes repressed enthusiasm. The character
of his writings, if I mistake not, is good sense; the characteristic
of his conversation was genius and vivacity--one moment playing on
the surface, the next diving to the bottom of the subject. When
anything touched his feelings, exciting either admiration or
indignation, he poured forth enthusiastic eloquence, and then
changed quickly to reasoning or wit. His transitions from one
thought and feeling, or from one subject and tone to another, were
so frequent and rapid, as to surprise, and sometimes to bewilder
persons of slow intellect; but always to entertain and delight those
of quick capacity. . . .
'His openness in conversation went too far, almost to imprudence,
exposing him not only to be misrepresented, but to be misunderstood.
. . . Whenever he perceived in any of his friends, or in one of his
children, an error of mind, or fault of character, dangerous to
their happiness; or when he saw good opportunity of doing them
service, by apposite and strong remark or eloquent appeal in
conversation, he pursued his object with all the boldness of truth,
and with all the warmth of affection. . . .
'I will not deny, what I have heard from some whose truth and sense
I cannot question, that his manner, somewhat unusual, of drawing
people out, however kindly intended, often abashed the timid, and
alarmed the cautious; but, in the judgments to be formed of the
understandings of all with whom he conversed, he was uncommonly
indulgent. He allowed for the prejudices or for the deficiencies of
education; and he foresaw, with the prophetic eye of benevolence,
what the understanding or character might become if certain
improvements were effected. In discerning genius or abilities of any
kind, his penetration was so quick and just that it seemed as if he
possessed some mental divining rod revealing to him hidden veins of
talent, and giving him the power of discovering mines of
intellectual wealth, which lay unsuspected even by the possessor.
'To young persons his manner was most kind and encouraging. I have
been gratified by the assurance that many have owed to the
instruction and encouragement received from him in casual
conversation their first hopes of themselves, their resolution to
improve, and a happy change in the colour and fortune of their
future lives. . . . Time mellowed but did not impair his vivacity;
so that seeming less connected with high animal spirits, it acquired
more the character of intellectual energy. Still in age, as in
youth, he never needed the stimulus of convivial company, or of new
auditors; his spirits and conversation were always more delightful
in his own family and in everyday life than in company, even the
most literary or distinguished.'
The relations between Edgeworth and his daughter Maria were
peculiarly close, and she gratefully acknowledges how much she owed
to his suggestions and criticisms. He did not share his friend Mr.
Day's objections to literary ladies, and was a great admirer of Mrs.
Barbauld's writings:
'Ever the true friend and champion of female literature, and zealous
for the honour of the female sex, he rejoiced with all the
enthusiasm of a warm heart when he found, as he now did, female
genius guided by feminine discretion. He exulted in every instance
of literary celebrity, supported by the amiable and respectable
virtues of private life; proving by example that the cultivation of
female talents does not unfit women for their domestic duties and
situation in society.'
When Maria began to write she always told her father her rough plan,
and he, 'with the instinct of a good critic, used to fix immediately
upon that which would best answer the purpose.--"Sketch that and
show it to me!"--These words' (she adds), 'from the experience of
his sagacity, never failed to inspire me with hopes of success. It
was then sketched. Sometimes, when I was fond of a particular part,
I use to dilate on it in the sketch; but to this he always objected
--"I don't want any of your painting--none of your drapery!--I can
imagine all that--let me see the bare skeleton." . . .
'After a sketch had his approbation, he would not see the filling it
up till it had been worked upon for a week or a fortnight, or till
the first thirty or forty pages were written; then they were read to
him; and if he thought them going on tolerably well, the pleasure in
his eyes, the approving sound of his voice, even without the praise
he so warmly bestowed, were sufficient and delightful excitements to
"go on and finish." When he thought that there was spirit in what
was written, but that it required, as it often did, great
correction, he would say, "Leave that to me; it is my business to
cut and correct--yours to write on." His skill in cutting, his
decision in criticism, was peculiarly useful to me. His ready
invention and infinite resource, when I had run myself into
difficulties or absurdities, never failed to extricate me at my
utmost need. . . .
'Independently of all the advantages, which I as an individual
received from my father's constant course of literary instruction,
this was of considerable utility in another and less selfish point
of view. My father called upon all the family to hear and judge of
all we were writing. The taste for literature, and for judging of
literary composition, was by this means formed and exercised in a
large family, including a succession of nine or ten children, who
grew up during the course of these twenty-five years. Stories of
children exercised the judgment of children, and so on in proportion
to their respective ages, all giving their opinions, and trying
their powers of criticism fearlessly and freely. . . .
'He would sometimes advise me to lay by what was done for several
months, and turn my mind to something else, that we might look back
at it afterwards with fresh eyes. . . .
'I may mention, because it leads to a general principle of
criticism, that, in many cases, the attempt to join truth and
fiction did not succeed: for instance, Mr. Day's educating Sabrina
for his wife suggested the story of Virginia and Clarence Hervey in
"Belinda." But to avoid representing the real character of Mr. Day,
which I did not think it right to draw, I used the incident with
fictitious characters, which I made as unlike the real persons as I
possibly could. My father observed to me afterwards that, in this
and other instances, the very circumstances that were taken from
real life are those that have been objected to as improbable or
impossible; for this, as he showed me, there are good and sufficient
reasons. In the first place, anxiety to avoid drawing the characters
that were to be blameable or ridiculous from any individuals in real
life, led me to apply whatever circumstances were taken from reality
to characters quite different from those to whom the facts had
occurred; and consequently, when so applied, they were unsuitable
and improbable: besides, as my father remarked the circumstances
which in real life fix the attention, because they are out of the
common course of events, are for this very reason unfit for the
moral purposes, as well as for the dramatic effect of fiction. The
interest we take in hearing an uncommon fact often depends on our
belief in its truth. Introduce it into fiction, and this interest
ceases, the reader stops to question the truth or probability of the
narrative, the illusion and the dramatic effect are destroyed; and
as to the moral, no safe conclusion for conduct can be drawn from
any circumstances which have not frequently happened, and which are
not likely often to recur. In proportion as events are
extraordinary, they are useless or unsafe as foundations for
prudential reasoning.
'Besides all this, there are usually some small concurrent
circumstances connected with extraordinary facts, which we like and
admit as evidences of the truth, but which the rules of composition
and taste forbid the introducing into fiction; so that the writer is
reduced to the difficulty either of omitting the evidence on which
the belief of reality rests, or of introducing what may be contrary
to good taste, incongruous, out of proportion to the rest of the
story, delaying its progress or destructive of its unity. In short,
it is dangerous to put a patch of truth into a fiction, for the
truth is too strong for the fiction, and on all sides pulls it
asunder.'
To live with Edgeworth must have been to enjoy a constant mental
stimulus; he could not bear his companions to use words without
attaching ideas to them; he did not want talk to consist of a fluent
utterance of second-hand thoughts, but always encouraged the
expression of genuine opinion.
To show how willing Edgeworth was to help a child in understanding a
word which was new to it, I will quote from one of his letters to
Maria:
'Give my love to little F, and tell her that I had not time to
explain a section to her. I therefore beg that, with as little
explanation as possible, you will bisect a lemon before her, and
point out the appearance of the rind, of the cavities, and seeds;
and afterwards, at your leisure, get a small cylinder of wood turned
for her, and cut it into a transverse section and into a
longitudinal section.'
It is curious to note the difference in tone which there is between
the children's books written by him and Maria and those of the
second half of the nineteenth century. Our duty to our neighbour is
the Edgeworth watchword, while our duty to God is the watchword of
Miss Yonge and her school of writers. The swing of the pendulum is
constantly passing from morality to religion and back again, because
both are required for the perfect life.
Among the experiments which Edgeworth made in the management of his
children was that: 'Formerly' (Maria writes) 'from having observed
how apt children are to dispute and quarrel when they are left much
together, and from fear of the strong becoming tyrants, and the weak
slaves, it had been thought prudent to separate them a good deal. It
was believed that they would consequently grow fonder of each
other's company, and that they would enjoy it more as they grew more
reasonable, from not having the recollection of anything
disagreeable in each other's tempers. But my father became
thoroughly convinced that the separation of children in a family may
lead to evils greater than any partial good that can result from it.
The attempt may induce artifice and disobedience on the part of the
children; the separation can scarcely be effected; and, if it were
effected, would tend to make the children miserable. He saw that
their little quarrels, and the crossings of their tempers and
fancies, are nothing in comparison with the inestimable blessings of
that fondness, that family affection which grows up among children,
who have with each other an early and constant community of
pleasures and pains. Separation as a punishment, as a just
consequence of children's quarrelling, and as the best means of
preventing their disputes, he always found useful. But, except in
extreme cases, he had rarely recourse to it, and such seldom
occurred. . . . The greatest change, which twenty years further
experience made in his practice and opinions in education, was to
lessen rather than to increase regulations and restrictions. He saw
that, where there is liberty of action, one thing balances another;
that nice calculations lead to false results in practice, because we
cannot command all the necesssary circumstances of the data. . . .
'For many years of his life he had, I think, been under one
important mistake, in his expectations relative to the conduct of
his fellow-creatures, and of the effects of cultivating the human
understanding. He had believed that, if rational creatures could be
made clearly to see and understand that virtue will render them
happy, and vice will render them miserable, either in this world or
in the next, they would afterwards, in consequence of this
conviction, follow virtue, and avoid vice. . . .
'Hence, both as to national and domestic education, he formerly
dwelt principally upon the cultivation of the understanding, meaning
chiefly the reasoning faculty as applied to the conduct. But to see
the best, and to follow it, are not, alas! necessary consequences of
each other. Resolution is often wanting where conviction is perfect.
--Resolution is most necessary to all our active, and habit most
essential to all our passive virtues. Probably nine times out of ten
the instances of imprudent or vicious conduct arise, not from want
of knowledge of good and evil, or from want of conviction that the
one leads to happiness, and the other to misery; but from actual
deficiency in the strength of resolution, deficiency arising from
want of early training in the habit of self control.'
Maria adds: 'The silence which has been observed in Practical
Education on the subject of religion has been misunderstood by some,
and misrepresented by others. ... To those who, with upright and
benevolent intentions, from a sense of public duty, and in a spirit
of Christian charity, made remonstrances on this subject, he thought
it due to give all the explanation in his power;' and he writes:
'The authors continue to preserve the silence upon this subject,
which they before thought prudent; but they disavow, in explicit
terms, the design of laying down a system of education founded upon
morality, exclusive of religion. . . . We most earnestly deprecate
the imputation of disregarding religion in Education. . . . We are
convinced that religious obligation is indispensably necessary in
the education of all descriptions of people in every part of the
world.
'We dread fanaticism and intolerance, whilst we wish to hold
religion in a higher point of view than as a subject of seclusive
possession, or of outward exhibition. To introduce the awful ideas
of God's superintendence upon puerile occasions, we decline. ... I
hope I shall obtain the justice due to me on the subject, and that
it will appear that I consider religion, in the large sense of the
word, to be the only certain bond of society.
'You have turned back our thoughts to this most important subject
(education), upon which, next to a universal reverence for religion,
we believe the happiness of mankind to depend.' Maria adds: 'I have
often been witness of the care with which he explained the nature
and enforced the observance of that great bond of civil society,
which rests upon religion. The solemnity of the manner in which he
administered an oath can never leave my memory; and I have seen the
salutary effect this produced on the minds of those of the lower
Irish, who are supposed to be the least susceptible of such
impressions. But it was not on the terrors of religion he chiefly
dwelt. No man could be more sensible than he was of the consolatory,
fortifying influence of the Christian religion in sustaining the
mind in adversity, poverty, and age. No man knew better its power to
carry hope and peace in the hour of death to the penitent criminal.
When from party bigotry it has happened that a priest has been
denied admittance to the condemned criminal, my father has gone to
the county gaol to soothe the sufferer's mind, and to receive that
confession on which, to the poor Catholic's belief, his salvation
depended. . . . Nor did he ever weaken in any heart in which it ever
existed that which he considered as the greatest blessing that a
human creature can enjoy--firm religious faith and hope.'
The following extract from a letter written to the Roman Catholics
of the County of Longford will show that Edgeworth was no bigoted
Protestant, but was in advance of his time in the broad views he
took of religious liberty: 'Ever since I have taken any part in the
politics of Ireland, I have uniformly thought that there should be
no civil distinctions between its inhabitants upon account of their
religious opinions. I concurred with a great character at the
national convention, in endeavouring to persuade our Roman Catholic
brethren to take a decided part in favour of parliamentary reform.
They declined it; and it then became absurd and dangerous for
individuals to demand rights in the name of a class of citizens who
would not avow their claim to them. . . . I wish ... to declare
myself in favour of a full participation of rights amongst every
denomination of men in Ireland; and if I can, by my personal
interference at any public meeting of our county, serve your cause,
I shall think it my duty to attend.'