CHAPTER XIV._Maria Edgeworth

LAST YEARS.

More and more Miss Edgeworth's life revolved round home and friends. "In

this world, in which I have lived nearly three-quarters of a century, I

have found nothing one-quarter so well worth living for as old friends,"

she said. In her person old age was seen in its most attractive form.

Her lively interests remained undimmed. At seventy she even set herself

to learn a new language, Spanish, while her impulsiveness never became

extinct, though she playfully hoped that, provided she lived so long,

she might perhaps at eighty arrive at years of discretion. It was in

1835 that Mr. Ticknor, the American historian of Spanish literature,

visited Edgeworthstown. He has recorded in his journal a pleasing and

vivid picture of his visit. He describes Miss Edgeworth as small, short

and spare, with frank and kind manners, always looking straight into the

face of those she spoke to with a pair of mild, deep gray eyes. Her

kindness and vivacity instantly put her visitors at ease. Mr. Ticknor

was also impressed with the harmony that existed in a family composed of

the most heterogeneous relationships. What struck him about Miss

Edgeworth herself was her uncommon quickness of perception, her

fertility of allusion, and the great resources of fact which a

remarkable memory supplied to her. He likens her conversation to that of

her own Lady Davenant. Mr. Ticknor observed that though she would talk

freely about herself and her works, she never introduced the subject,

and never seemed glad to continue it. Indeed, though he watched

carefully for it, he could not detect either any of the mystification or

the vanity of authorship. He was struck with her good nature and desire

to defend everybody, even Lady Morgan, as far as she could, though never

so far as to be unreasonable.

"In her intercourse with her family she was quite delightful, referring

constantly to Mrs. Edgeworth, who seems to be the authority in all

matters of fact, and most kindly repeating jokes to her infirm aunt,

Mrs. Sneyd, who cannot hear them, and who seems to have for her the most

unbounded affection and admiration."

The dispersion of so many members of her family imposed much

letter-writing on Miss Edgeworth, for all turned to her graphic pen for

news of the dear old home. And, as before when she was away, those she

left behind had to share in her pleasures, or they would be but sorry

pleasures to her. Death, as well as marriages, had thinned the family

ranks. Tenacious and warm in her affections as she was, Miss Edgeworth

never took a morbid view concerning those who were gone. Everything

morbid was foreign to her nature.

There is something mournful, yet pleasingly painful, in the sense

of the ideal presence of the long-loved dead. Those images people

and fill the mind with unselfish thoughts, and with the salutary

feeling of responsibility and constant desire to be and to act in

this world as the superior friend would have wished and approved.

And there were so many still left to love, young and old. "Who would not

like to live to be old if they could be so happy in friends as I am?"

The enthusiastic affection in her peculiar family relations, which she

kept unimpaired, cannot be better shown than by quoting one of the

countless letters she wrote concerning those dear to her:--

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, NOV. 1, 1838.

MY DEAR MR. AND MRS. TICKNOR:

I know so well your kind feelings towards all this family, that I

am sure you will be pleased with the intelligence which I am going

to communicate to you.

My sister Honora is going to be happily married to a person every

way suited to her (and that is saying a great deal), as you who

most kindly and justly appreciated her will readily join with me in

thinking. The gentleman's name, Captain Beaufort, R. N., perhaps

you may be acquainted with, as he is in a public situation, and not

unknown to literary and scientific fame. He is a naval officer. (I

hope you like this officer's name?) He made some years ago a survey

of the coast of Caramania, and wrote a small volume on that survey,

which has obtained for him a good reputation. He has been for some

years Hydrographer Royal.... In one word, he is a person publicly

esteemed; and privately he is beloved and esteemed by all who know

him best. He is and has been well known to us ever since the

present Mrs. Edgeworth's marriage with my father. Captain Beaufort

is Mrs. Edgeworth's youngest brother. As Mrs. E. is Honora's

_step_mother, you see that he is no relation whatever to Honora.

But the nearness of the connection has given us all the best means

of knowing him thoroughly. He was my dear father's most beloved

pupil and friend; by pupil I only mean that his being so much

younger made him look up to my father with reverence, and learn

from him in science and literature with delight. Thus has he been

long connected with all I love. He has been a widower two years. He

has three sons and four daughters.... The youngest daughter, Emily,

is a delightful child. Captain Beaufort lives in London, 11

Gloucester place; has a very comfortable house, and sufficient

fortune for all their moderate wishes. Honora's fortune, which is

ample, will give them affluence.

My dear Mrs. Ticknor, I know you particularly liked Honora, and

that you will be interested in hearing all these particulars,

though it seems impertinent to detail them across the Atlantic to

one who will, I fear, never see any one of the persons I have

mentioned. Yet affections such as yours keep warm very long and at

a great distance.

I feel that I have got into a snug little corner in both your

hearts, and that you will excuse a great deal from me; therefore I

go on without scruple drawing upon your sympathy, and you will not

protest my draft.

You saw how devoted Honora was to her aunt, Mrs. Mary Sneyd, whom

you liked so much; and you will easily imagine what a struggle

there has been in Honora's mind before she could consent to a

marriage with even such a man as Captain Beaufort, when it must

separate her from her aunt. Captain Beaufort himself felt this so

much that he never would have pressed it. He once thought that she

might be prevailed upon to accompany them to London and to live

with them. But Mrs. Mary Sneyd could not bear to leave Mrs.

Edgeworth, and this place which she has made her heart's home. She

decided Captain Beaufort and her niece to make her happy by

completing their union, and letting her feel that she did not

prevent the felicity of the two persons she loves best now in the

world. She remains with us.

The marriage is to take place next Tuesday or Thursday, and my Aunt

Mary will go to the church with her niece and give her away. I must

tell you a little characteristic trait of this aunt, the least

selfish of all human beings. She has been practicing getting up

early in the morning, which she has not done for two years--has

never got up for breakfast. But she has trained herself to rising

at the hour at which she must rise on the wedding-day, and has

walked up and down her own room the distance she must walk up and

down the aisle of the church, to insure her being accustomed to

the exertion and able to accomplish it easily. This she did for a

long time without our knowing it, till Honora found it out. Mrs.

Mary Sneyd is quite well and in excellent spirits.

A younger sister of mine, Lucy, of whom you have heard us speak as

an invalid, who was at Clifton with that dear Sophy whom we have

lost, is now recovered, and has returned home to take Honora's

place with her Aunt Mary; and Aunt Mary likes to have her, and Lucy

feels this a great motive to her to overcome a number of nervous

feelings, which formed part of her illness. A regular course of

occupations and duties, and feeling herself essential to the

happiness and the holding together of a family she so loves, will

be the best strengthening medicine for her. She arrived at home

last night. My sister Fanny and her husband, Lestock Wilson, are

with us. My sister has much improved in health; she is now able to

walk without pain, and bore her long journey and voyage here

wonderfully. I have always regretted, and always shall regret, that

this sister Fanny of mine had not the pleasure of becoming

acquainted with you. You really must revisit England. My sister

Harriet Butler, and Mr. Butler, and the three little dear Foxes,

are all around me at this instant. Barry Fox, their father, will be

with us in a few days, and Captain Beaufort returns from London on

Monday. You see what a large and happy family we are!!!

Do I not give you some proof, my dear Mr. and Mrs. Ticknor, of my

affection in writing to you at this moment? and if I write without

much sense or connection you will not be surprised.

My head is really upside down, and my feelings so divided between

joy and sorrow--joy for Honora's happiness, but sorrow for the

parting that must be!

It will all settle down under the hand of strong necessity and of

lenient time. My sisters Fanny and Harriet will stay with us some

weeks after the marriage; this will be a great comfort.

Mr. Butler will perform the happy, awful ceremony. How people who

do not love can ever dare to marry, to approach the altar to

pronounce that solemn vow, I cannot conceive.

My thoughts are so engrossed by this subject that I absolutely

cannot tell you of anything else. You must tell me of everything

that interests you, else I shall not forgive myself for my egotism.

I am most sincerely and affectionately, my dear Mrs. Ticknor, with

affectionate remembrances to your engaging daughter, not forgetting

your little darling,

Yours most sincerely,

MARIA EDGEWORTH.

Mention Lockhart's _Memoirs of Scott_, of which my head and heart

were full before this present all-engrossing subject overcame me.

I shall be quite rational again, I am sure, by the time your answer

reaches me, so pray do not treat me as quite a hopeless person to

write rationally to.

Mrs. Edgeworth desires me to send you her very affectionate

remembrances.

I believe, I am almost sure, that I wrote to you, my dear Mr.

Ticknor, some months ago while you were on the Continent, to thank

you for the present you sent me, through Mr. Norton's means, of an

American edition of my works. I thought it beautifully printed and

bound, and the engravings excellent, particularly that for _Helen_,

and the vignette for _Helen_, which we have not in the English

edition. I have another American copy of this edition, and I have

left yours for life with my brother Francis and my Spanish sister

Rosa, who live in a little cottage near Windsor, and have not

money to indulge themselves in the luxury of books. I hope you will

not be angry with me for so doing; no, I think you will be glad

that I made your present give me the greatest possible sum of

pleasure. Take into account the pride I felt in saying, _Mr.

Ticknor sent me these books_.

I am ashamed to see that I have come so far in a second sheet, and

in spite of all the wonderings at what can Maria _be about_?

_Sense in my next._

In answer to a letter from Mr. Ticknor, describing to her his library,

in which the only picture was one of Sir Walter Scott, Miss Edgeworth

wrote a reply, of which a portion has been published, but which contains

besides an able parallel, or rather contrast, between Washington and

Napoleon, worthy of preservation for its own sake, and as a testimony to

her unimpaired powers:--

TRIM, NOV. 19TH, 1840.

"Who talks of '_Boston_' in a voice so sweet?" Who wishes to see me

there? and to show me their home, their family, their country? I

have been there--at Boston! "Yes, and in Mr. and Mrs. Ticknor's

happy, beautiful home." I have been up "the slope of the Boston

hillside," have seen "the fifty acres of public park" in all its

verdure, with "its rich and venerable trees," its graveled

promenade surrounding it, with those noble rows of venerable elms

on either side. I have gone up the hillside and the steps profusely

decked with luxuriant creepers; I have walked into Mr. and Mrs.

Ticknor's house, as I was desired--have seen the three rooms

opening into one another, have sat in the library, too, and

thought--and thought it all charming. Looking into the country, as

you know the windows all do, I saw down through "the vista of

trees" to the quiet bay and the "beautiful" hills beyond, and I

"watched the glories of the setting sun" lighting up country and

town, "trees, turf and water!"--an Italian sun not more gorgeously

attended than this "New England luminary" setting or rising. I met

Sir Walter Scott in Mr. Ticknor's library with all his benign, calm

expression of countenance, his eye of genius and his mouth of

humor--such as he was before the life of life was gone, such as

genius loved to see him, such as American genius has _given_ him to

American friendship, immortalized in person as in mind. His very

self I see feeling, thinking and about to speak--and to a friend to

whom he loved to speak; and well placed and to his liking he seems

in this congenial library, presiding and sympathizing. But my dear

madam, ten thousand books, "about ten thousand books," do you say

this library contains? My dear Mrs. Ticknor! Then I am afraid you

must have double rows--and that is a plague. But you may ask why do

I conceive you have double rows? Because I cannot conceive how else

the book-cases could hold the ten thousand. Your library is 34 by

22, you say. But to be sure you have not given me the height, and

that height may make out room enough. Pray have it measured for me,

that I may drive this odious notion of _double rows_ out of my

head--"and what a head," you may say, "that must be that could

calculate in such a place and at such a time!" It was not my poor

head, I assure you, my dear Mrs. Ticknor, but Captain Beaufort's

ultra-accurate head. I gave him through Honora the description of

your library, and he (jealous, I am clear, for the magnitude and

number of his own library and volumes) set to work at 22 by

34--and there I leave him--till I have _the height_ to confound him

completely. You see, my dear friends, that you need not again ask

me _to go_ to see you--for I have seen and I know everything about

your home; full as well I know Boston and your home as you know

ours at Edgeworthstown. It is your turn now to come and see us

again. But I am afraid to invite you, lest you should be

disenchanted, and we should lose the delightful gratification we

enjoy in your glamor of friendship. Aunt Mary, however, is really

all you think and saw her, and in her ninety-first year still a

proof as you describe her--and a remarkable proof--of the power of

mind over time, suffering and infirmities; and an example of

Christian virtues making old age lovely and interesting.

Your prayer, that she might have health and strength to enjoy the

gathering of friends round her, has been granted. Honora and her

husband, and Fanny and her husband, have all been with us this

summer for months; and we have enjoyed ourselves as much as your

kind heart could wish. Especially "_that beautiful specimen of a

highly-cultivated gentlewoman_" as you so well called Mrs. E., has

been blest with the sight of all her children round her, all her

living daughters and their husbands, and her grandchildren. Francis

will settle at home and be a good country gentleman and his own

agent--to Mrs. E.'s and all our inexpressible comfort and support,

also for the good of the country, as a resident landlord and

magistrate _much_ needed. As _he_ is at home I can be spared from

the rent-receiving business, etc., and leaving him with his mother,

Aunt Mary and Lucy, I can indulge myself by accepting an

often-urged invitation from my two sisters Fanny and Honora, to

spend some months with them in London. I have chosen to go at this

quiet time of year, as I particularly wish not to encounter the

bustle and dissipation and lionizing of London. For tho' I am such

a minnikin lion now, and so old, literally without teeth or claws,

still there be, that might rattle at the grate to make me get up

and come out and stand up to play tricks for them--and this I am

not able or inclined to do. I am afraid I should growl--I never

could be as good-humored as Sir Walter Scott used to be, when

rattled for and made to "come out and stand on his hind legs," as

he used to describe it, and then go quietly to sleep again.

I shall use my privilege of seventy-two--rising seventy-three--and

shall keep in my comfortable den: I will not go out. "Nobody asked

you, ma'am," to play Lion, may perhaps be said or sung to me, and I

shall not be sorry nor mortified by not being asked to exhibit, but

heartily happy to be with my sisters and their family and family

friends--_all_ for which I go. Knowing my own mind very well, I

speak the mere plain truth. I shall return home to Edgeworthstown

before the London _season_, as it is called, commences, _i.e._, by

the end of March or at the very beginning of April.

This is all I have for the present to tell you of my dear self, or

of our family doings or plannings. You see I depend _enough_ on the

sincerity of your curiosity and sympathy, and I thank you in kind

for all you have been so affectionately good to tell me of

yourselves.

I have been lately reading Thibeaudeau's ten volumes of the History

of Napoleon--_Le Consulat et l'Empire_--immediately after having

read the life of Washington by Sparks, a book which I think I

mentioned to you had been sent to me by an American Jewess of

Philadelphia, Miss Gratz. A most valuable present--a most

interesting work it is. The comparison between the characters,

power, deeds, fortune and fate of Washington and Napoleon

continually pressed on my mind as I read their lives; and

continually I wished that some modern Plutarch with more of

religious, if not more of moral and political knowledge and

philosophy than the ancient times afforded, would draw a

parallel--no, not a _parallel_, for that could not be--but a

comparison between Napoleon and Washington. It would give in the

result a comparison between moral and intellectual power on the

highest scale, and with the fullest display in which they have ever

been seen in two national heroes. The superior, the universal

abilities of Bonaparte, his power of perseverance, of transition of

resource, of comprehensiveness, of adaptation of means to ends, and

all tending to his own aggrandizement, and his appetite for

dominion growing with what it fed upon, have altogether been most

astonishingly displayed in the Frenchman's history of Napoleon. The

integrity, disinterestedness, discretion, persevering adherence to

one great purpose, marking the character and the career of

Washington, are all faithfully portrayed by his American

biographer, and confirmed by state papers and by the testimony of

an independent world. The comparison between what Napoleon and

Washington did living, and left dying, of the fruits and

consequences of their deeds, would surely be a most striking and

useful moral and political lesson on true and false glory, and

further, would afford the strongest illustrations of the difference

in human affairs of what is called the power of fortune and the

influence of _prestige_, and the power of moral character and

virtue. See Napoleon deserted at his utmost need by those his

_prosperous_ bounty gorged. See Napoleon forced to abdicate his

twice-snatched imperial sceptre!--and compare this with your

Washington laying down his dictatorship, his absolute dominion,

_voluntarily_, the moment he had accomplished his great purpose of

making his beloved country, the New World, free and independent.

Then the deep, silent attachment shown to him when he retired from

the army, parted from military power, took leave of public life, is

most touching--quite sublime in its truth and simplicity, in as

strong contrast as possible with all the French acclamations,

inconstancy, frivolity, desertion, treachery, insult, toward their

prostrate idol of an Emperor. I felt while I read, and I feel while

I reflect, how much of the difference between Napoleon and

Washington must be ascribed to the different times, nations,

circumstances in which they were placed. But independent of all

these, the comparison ably and clearly drawn would lie between the

individual characters--between moral and religious power and

influence, and intellectual powers even supported by military glory

and political despotism. The comparison would ultimately lie

between success and merit, and between their transient and durable

effects--their worldly and never-dying consequences.

Forgive me, my dear Mrs. Ticknor, for my having been actually run

away with thus, and forgetting what I was going to say when I

began. I was going to say that I wish Mr. Ticknor would draw the

comparison between these two heroes of false and true

glory--between real patriotism, true and great to the last, and

ambition using patriotism as a mask, and having it struck from his

hand powerless at the last. There is no one more able, better

fitted to draw this than your husband. Channing has said well of

the character of Napoleon as far as he went. But Mr. Ticknor, I

conceive, has wider views, more means of information, and a less

rhetorical style than Channing: and Sparks, having been the

biographer of Washington, might be considered as a party too much

concerned to be quite impartial. I am ashamed to have written so

much that must seem common-place to him. But I will not tear the

pages, as I am tempted to do, because there is a possibility that

when you read them to him it might turn his mind to the

subject--and no matter for the rest.

* * * * *

I do not know whether I was most interested, dear Mrs. Ticknor, in

your picture of your domestic life and happy house and home, or by

the view you gave me of your public festivity and celebration of

your American day of days--your national festival in honor of your

Declaration of Independence.

It was never, I suppose, more joyously, innocently and

advantageously held than on the day you describe so delightfully

with the accuracy of an eye-witness. I think I too have seen all

this, and thank you for showing it to me. It is a picture that will

never leave the memory of my heart. I only wish that we could ever

hope to have in Ireland any occasion or possibility of such happy

and peaceable meetings, with united sympathy and for the keeping

alive a feeling of national patriotism. No such point of union

_can_ be found, alas! in Ireland--no subject upon which sects and

parties could coalesce for one hour, or join in rejoicing or

feeling for their country. Father Mathew, one might have hoped,

considering the good he has effected for all Ireland, and

considering his own unimpeachable character and his real

liberality, admitting all sects and all parties to take his pledge

and share his benevolent efforts, _might_ have formed a central

point round which all might gather. But no such hope! for as I am

_just now assured_, his very Christian charity and liberality are

complained of by his Catholic brethren, priests and laity, who now

begin to abuse him for giving the pledge to PROTESTANTS and say,

"What good our fastings, our temperance, our being of the true

faith, if Father Mathew treats _heretics all as one_, as Catholics

themselves! and would have 'em saved in this world and the next

too?" Then I would not doubt but at the last he'd _turn tail!_ aye,

turn Protestant himself ENTIRELY. I have written so much to Mr.

Ticknor about Father Mathew that I must here stop, or take care

lest I run on with him again. Once set a-running, you see how I go

on. You having encouraged me, and I from having conversed with you

even for a few days, we have so much knowledge of each other's

minds that it is as easy and pleasant to me to write as to speak to

you. I will send you some Irish tales newly published by Mrs. Hall,

which I think you will like, both from their being well-written and

interesting portraitures of Irish life and manners, and from the

conciliating, amiable and truly _feminine_ (not meaning _feeble_)

tone in which they are written.

* * * * *

I have not yet thanked you enough, I feel, for _Rollo_. Our

children all, and we ourselves, delight in him at play and at work,

and every way, and we wish to see more of him. If there be any more

of him, pray pack him up bag and baggage and send him off by first

steamer, steam-haste. By the by, are you or your children

acquainted with the elephant who in his haste forgot to pack up his

trunk?

If you are not acquainted with him, I shall have the pleasure of

introducing him to you and yours.

Meantime, if you wish to be amused, and with what is new and what

is true, read Mrs. Wilmot's _Memoirs of the Princess Dashkoff_, and

her own residence in Russia. We know enough of the author to

warrant the whole to be true. I do not say that she tells the whole

truth, but that all she does tell is true, and what she does not

tell she was bound in honor and friendship, and by the tacit,

inviolable compact between confidence shown and accepted, never to

reveal, much less to publish. Both in the Princess Dashkoff's own

memoirs (very able and curious) and in Mrs. Wilmot's continuation

(very amusing and new) there are from time to time great gaps, on

coming to which the reader cries _Ha! Ha!_ and feels that he must

skip over. These gaps are never covered over; and when we come even

to dangerous ground we see that we must not turn that way, or hope

to get on in utter darkness and our guide deserting--or, if not

_deserting_, standing stock still, obstinately dumb. These memoirs

are not a book on which history could absolutely be founded, but a

book to which the judicious historian might safely _refer

illustrations_, and even for materials, all which it affords being

sound and solid. Much more, in short, may these memoirs be depended

upon than any or many of the French varnished and vamped-up

_Memoires pour servir a l'Histoire_.

After reading the book I wrote to Mrs. Wilmot, and after homage due

to her talents and her truth, I ventured to express, what I am sure

you will feel if you read the volume, some horror, towards the

close, at the Princess Dashkoff's accepting for herself or her

sister, or for whoever it was, a ball from Orloff, the

murderer--that Orloff who with his own hand strangled his Emperor.

Mrs. Wilmot made me but a lame apology for her dear princess, I

think, and an odd answer for herself. In the first place, she said,

it was so long ago. As if such a murder could be a by-gone tale! or

as if thirty or forty or any number of years could purify or

cleanse a murderer in the eyes and sense of humanity or justice! In

the next place she pleaded that she was so much pleased by Orloff's

angel daughter who stood beside him, and then with his parental

delight in her beauty, simplicity and elegance in the dance.

Mrs. Wilmot was sure I should have felt as she did, and have

forgotten the murderer in the father. But, on the contrary, I am

afraid I should have forgotten the father in the murderer; I fear I

should have seen only "_the vile spot_" which would never _out_ of

that hand! And oh! that horrible knee--I see it pressing on the

body of the breathless Peter; and, through all the music of the

ball-room band, methinks I hear "shrieks of an agonizing king."

Possibly in Russia "murder is lawful made by the excess," and may

be palliated by the impartial historian's observing, "_It was then

necessary that the Emperor should_ CEASE TO BE"--soft synonym for

assassination.

I ought not to leave Mrs. Wilmot and the Princess Dashkoff, however

this may be, with a tragical and unmerited impression on your mind.

I am quite convinced the princess had nothing to do with this

horrid affair, or that our countrywoman never would have gone or

never would have staid with her.

I can also assure you that when you read these memoirs you will be

convinced, as I am, that the Princess Dashkoff was quite pure from

all the Empress Catherine's libertine intrigues (I can use no

softer phrase). This is proved by facts, not words, for no word

does she say on the subject. But the fact is that during Orloff,

the favorite Orloff's reign and his numerous successors, the

Princess Dashkoff was never at court, banished herself on her

travels or at her far-distant _territories_; she over-rated,

idolized Catharine, but was her real friend, not flatterer.

It is scarcely worth telling you, but I will for your diversion

mention that I asked Mrs. Wilmot whether the Princess Dashkoff

evermore went about in the costume, which she described, of a man's

great-coat, with stars and strings over it, at _the ball_, and with

the sentimental old souvenir silk handkerchief about her throat.

Yes. But Mrs. Wilmot would not let me laugh at her friend, and I

liked her all the better. She defended the oddity by the kindness

of the motive. It was not affectation of singularity, but

privilege of originality, that should be allowed to a being so

feeling and so educated by circumstances and so isolated--so let

the ragged handkerchief and the old gloves museumized pass, and

even the old overall of the man's coat on a woman and a

princess--so be it.

But from the time of Cardinal Chigi and his one stump of a

twenty-years-old pen on which he piqued himself, I quite agree with

Cardinal Mazarin[11] that these petty singularities are proofs of a

little mind, instead of an originality of genius.

And now, my dear Mrs. Ticknor, "Bisogna levar l'incommodita"--to

use the parting phrase of a vulgar Italian who feels that she has

made an unconscionable visit: or, as the cockney would say as she

got up to depart from a morning _visitation_, "Time for me to be

going, I think." And if you do not think so, or have not thought so

ten pages ago, you are more indulgent and fonder of me than I had

any right or reason to expect, even after all I have heard _from_

and seen _of_ you.

I promise you that you shall not be so tried again for a

twelvemonth to come, at the least. Give my kind remembrances to

your eldest daughter, who so kindly remembers me, and give a kiss

for me to your youngest, that dear little plaything who cannot

remember me, but whom I shall never forget; nor her father's fond

look at her, when the tear was forgotten as soon as shed.

Ever affectionately, dear Mrs. Ticknor,

Your obliged friend,

MARIA EDGEWORTH.

Turn over, and as the children's fairy-boards say, "you shall see

what you shall see."

N. B.--Among the various scratchifications and scarifications in

this volume, you may remark that there have been reiterated

scratches at Mrs. and Miss Wilmot, and attempts alternately to turn

the lady into _Mrs._ and Miss.

Be it now declared and understood that the lady is not either Mrs.

or Miss Wilmot, but Mrs. Bradford--born _Wilmot_, daughter of a Mr.

and Mrs. Wilmot of Cork--went over to Russia to _better herself_ at

the invitation of the Princess Dashkoff, who had, in a visit to

Ireland, become acquainted with some of her family. What motives

induced her to go to Russia, except the general notion of bettering

her fortune, I cannot tell. But she did better her fortune, for the

princess gave her pearls in strings, and diamonds in necklaces and

rings, and five thousand solid pounds in her pocket, for all which

she had like to have been poisoned before she could clear away with

them out of Russia.

When she came back she married, or was married to, Mr. Bradford, a

clergyman, and now lives in Sussex, England.

Now, in consideration of my having further bored you with all this,

be pleased whenever you see _Mrs._ or _Miss Wilmot_ in the

foregoing pages to read _Mrs. Bradford_, and you will save me

thereby the trouble and danger of scratching Mrs. or Miss Wilmot

into ten or eleven holes.

The visit to London referred to was paid. Part of the time was spent

agreeably visiting friends, seeing sights and reading new books, among

them Darwin's _Voyage in the Beagle_, which delighted Miss Edgeworth.

But the larger portion of her stay was occupied in nursing her sister

Fanny through a weary illness, with the added mental anxiety of knowing

that Mrs. Edgeworth was ill at home. Both invalids, however, happily

recovered, yet Miss Edgeworth was to find an empty chair on her return;

her aunt, Mary Sneyd, had been taken away at the advanced age of ninety.

As often before, she felt the sorrow keenly, but rallied bravely from

its effects for the sake of those who were left and who depended on her

yet more.

During the summer of 1842 Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall visited Ireland. They

spent some days at Edgeworthstown, with the avowed purpose of writing of

its occupants, and we have from their pen also a pleasant picture of the

family home-life:--

"The library at Edgeworthstown" (say the writers) "is by no means the

reserved and solitary room that libraries are in general. It is large

and spacious and lofty; well stored with books, and embellished with

those most valuable of all classes of prints--the suggestive; it is also

picturesque, having been added to so as to increase its breadth; the

addition is supported by square pillars, and the beautiful lawn seen

through the windows, embellished and varied by clumps of trees

judiciously planted, imparts much cheerfulness to the exterior. An

oblong table in the centre is a sort of rallying-point for the family,

who group around it, reading, writing or working; while Miss Edgeworth,

only anxious upon one point--that all in the house should do exactly as

they like, without reference to her--sits quietly and abstractedly in

her own peculiar corner on the sofa, her desk--upon which lies Sir

Walter Scott's pen, given to her by him when in Ireland--placed before

her upon a little quaint table, as unassuming as possible. Miss

Edgeworth's abstractedness would puzzle the philosophers: in that same

corner, and upon that table, she has written nearly all that has

enlightened and delighted the world. There she writes as eloquently as

ever, wrapt up to all appearance in her subject, yet knowing, by a sort

of instinct, when she is really wanted in dialogue; and, without laying

down her pen, hardly looking up from her page, she will, by a judicious

sentence wisely and kindly spoken, explain and elucidate in a few words,

so as to clear up any difficulty; or turn the conversation into a new

and more pleasing current. She has the most harmonious way of throwing

in explanations--informing without embarrassing. A very large family

party assemble daily in this charming room, young and old bound alike to

the spot by the strong cords of memory and love. Mr. Francis Edgeworth,

the youngest son of the present Mrs. Edgeworth, and of course Miss

Edgeworth's youngest brother, has a family of little ones who seem to

enjoy the freedom of the library as much as their elders. To set these

little people right if they are wrong; to rise from her table to fetch

them a toy, or even to save a servant a journey; to mount the steps and

find a volume that escapes all eyes but her own, and, having done so, to

find exactly the passage wanted--are hourly employments of this most

unspoiled and admirable woman. She will then resume her pen, and, what

is more extraordinary, hardly seem to have even frayed the thread of her

ideas; her mind is so rightly balanced, everything is so honestly

weighed, that she suffers no inconvenience from what would disturb and

distract an ordinary writer."

Miss Edgeworth wrote of this notice:--

Mrs. Hall has sent to me her last number, in which she gives

Edgeworthstown. All the world here are pleased with it, and so am

I. I like the way in which she has mentioned my father

particularly. There is an evident kindness of heart and care to

avoid everything that could hurt any of our feelings, and at the

same time a warmth of affectionate feeling, unaffectedly expressed,

that we all like in spite of our dislike to that sort of thing.

Early in 1843 Miss Edgeworth was taken seriously ill with bilious fever,

from the effects of which she recovered but slowly. In late autumn she

once more went to London to pass the winter with her sister. It was to

be her last visit. She enjoyed it with all the freshness of youth,

sight-seeing and visiting without fatigue, even attending an opening of

Parliament, which she protested had not tired her more than if she had

been eighteen. Her prayer and hope was, as it had been her father's,

that her body might not survive her mind, and that she might leave a

tender and not unpleasing recollection of herself in the hearts of her

friends. Her letters certainly showed no falling-off in power, as is

amply proved by one written during this visit to her Boston friends:--

LONDON, 1 North Audley street,}

Grosvenor square, January 1, 1844.}

MY DEAR FRIENDS MR. AND MRS. TICKNOR:

I cannot begin this new year better, or more to my own heartfelt

satisfaction, than by greeting you with my best wishes for many,

many happy years to you of your domestic felicity and public

estimation--_estimation_ superior to celebrity, you know, Mr.

Ticknor, disdaining _notoriety_, which all low minds run after and

all high minds despise. How I see this every day in this London

world, and _hear_ it from all other worlds--loudly from your New

World across the great Atlantic, where those who make their boast

of independence and equality are struggling and quarreling for

petty preeminence and "vile trash."

I have been here with my sister, Mrs. Wilson, in a peaceful, happy

home these six weeks, and the rattle of Grosvenor square, at the

corner of which her house is, never disturbs the quiet of her

little library, which is at the back of the house, and looks out

upon gardens and trees (such as they are!)....

Among the pleasantest days I have enjoyed in London society, among

friends of old standing and acquaintance of distinguished talents,

I spent two days at my very good old friend Dr. Holland's, where I

heard your name and your letter to your countrymen on Sydney

Smith's memorial spoken of in the highest terms of just estimation!

You know that Dr. Holland is married to Sydney Smith's daughter. I

hope you know Dr. Holland's book, _Medical Notes_, which, though

the title might seem exclusively professional, is full of such

general and profound views of the human mind as well as body, that

it could not but be interesting to you, and would prove to you for

my present purpose that he is a person whose estimation and whose

praise is worthy of you....

I do not know whether you made acquaintance, when you were in

London, with Sydney Smith's brother, Mr. Robert S., or, as he is

strangely cognomened (or nicknamed) Bobus Smith. He is well known

as one of the celebrities of Holland House, where he has been

figuring this half-century. But he no longer figures as a

diner-out, and indeed, I believe from that notoriety he always

seceded. He is now old and blind, but nevertheless has a most

intelligent, energetic countenance, and I should almost say

penetrating eye. When he turns and seems to look at me, I feel as

if he looked into my face, and am glad so to feel, as he encourages

me to open my mind to him by opening his own at once to me. I saw

him for the first time a few evenings ago at Dr. Holland's, and sat

between him and your American ambassador, Mr. Everett. I was much

pleased by their manner towards each other, and by all they said

of the letter of which I spoke. Mr. R. Smith has, in the opinion of

all who know him and his brother, the strongest and highest and

deepest powers of the two; not so much wit, but a more sound,

logical understanding--superior might in the reasoning faculty. If

the two brothers' hands grasped and grappled for mastery, with

elbows set down upon the table, in the fashion in which schoolboys

and others try strength, Robert Smith's hand would be uppermost,

and Sydney must give way, _laughing_ perhaps, and pretending that

he only gave way to fight another day. But independently of victory

or trials of strength, the earnestness for truth of the blind

brother would decide my interest and sympathy in his favor.

Mr. Everett and Mr. R. Smith seemed to me properly to esteem each

other, and to speak with perfect courtesy and discretion upon the

most delicate national questions, on which, in truth, they

liberally agreed more than could have been or was expected by the

bystanders of different parties. Oh, Party Spirit! Party Spirit!

how many follies, how many outrages are committed in thy name, even

in common conversation!

Mr. Everett did me the honor to come to visit us a few mornings

after I had first met him at Dr. Holland's, and sat a good hour

conversing as if we had been long known to each other. It is to me

the most gratifying proof of esteem to be thus let at once into the

real mind, the _sanctum sanctorum_, instead of being kept with

ceremonials and compliments on the steps, in the ante-chamber, or

even in the _salle de reception_, doing _Kotoo_ Chinese or any

other fashion.

We went over vast fields of thought in our short hour, from America

to France, and to England and to Ireland, Washington, Lafayette,

Bonaparte, O'Connell. You may guess it could only be a _vue

d'oiseau_, flying too, but still a pounce down upon a true point

now and then, and agreeing in our general unchangeable view that

moral excellence is essential to make the man really great; that

the highest intellectual superiority that can be given by

Omnipotence to mortal ought not and does not, even in human

opinion, entitle him without moral worth to the character of great.

Mr. Everett tells me that Washington Irving is going to publish

another life of Washington. I fear his workmanship will be too fine

and delicate for the main matter. Boldness, boldness, boldness--and

brevity. Oh, the strength of brevity! Brevity keeps fast hold of

the memory, and more fast hold of the judgment; the whole process,

_en petit compris_, goes in a few words with the verdict to "_long

posterity_," while elegance only charms the taste, accords with the

present fashion of literature, and passes away, gliding gracefully

into "mere oblivion."

Lecture upon brevity well exemplified by present correspondent.

A severe attack of erysipelas laid her low this summer; but if it

weakened her body it did not depress her mental faculties. She writes to

her cousin with all the buoyancy of youth:--

I am right glad to look forward to the hope of seeing you again,

and talking all manner of nonsense and sense, and laughing myself

and making you laugh, as I used to do, though I am six years beyond

the allotted age and have had so many attacks of illness within the

last two years; but I am, as Bess Fitzherbert and poor dear Sophy

used to say, like one of those pith puppets that you knock down in

vain; they always start up the same as ever.... Sir Henry Marsh

managed me with skill, and let me recover slowly, as nature

requires at advanced age. I am obliged to repeat myself, "advanced

age," because really and truly neither my spirits nor my powers of

locomotion and facility of running up and down stairs would put me

in mind of it. I do not find either my love for my friends or my

love of literature in the least failing. I enjoyed, even when

flattest in my bed, hearing Harriet Butler reading to me till

eleven o'clock at night.

Her interest in the current literature was sustained; and though she had

little sympathy with the romantic school of poetry and fiction that had

arisen, her criticisms were both fair and acute. Of the modern French

writers she said:--

All the fashionable French novelists will soon be reduced to

advertising for a _new vice_, instead of, like the Roman Emperor,

simply for a new pleasure. It seems to me with the Parisian

novelists a first principle now that there is no pleasure without

vice, and no vice without pleasure, but that the Old World vices

having been exhausted, they must strain their genius to invent new;

and so they do, in the most wonderful and approved bad manner, if I

may judge from the few specimens I have looked at.

_Henrietta Temple_ she condemns as "trash," "morally proving that who

does wrong should be rewarded with love and fortune." Indeed, so eager

was she over books, so ardently did she still enter into all adventures

and details, that when she was ill her doctor found it needful to

prescribe that her reading must be confined to some old, well-known

work, or else something that should entertain and interest her without

over-exciting her or straining her attention.

During the whole of 1846 the long illness and death of her brother

Francis absorbed all Miss Edgeworth's interest. Next year came the

terrible potato famine. She strained every nerve to help the sufferers;

her time, her thoughts, her purse, her whole strength, were devoted to

the poor. She could hardly feel or think on any other theme; plans to

relieve the distress, petitions for aid, filled her letters. She even

turned her attention once more to writing, in order to get more money

for her starving countrymen. The result was _Orlandino_, a tale for

children, relating the fortunes and reformation of a graceless truant.

It was the last work she published--her literary career thus ending, as

it began, with a tale to give gladness to childhood. She had her reward

in a great pleasure that came to her from America. The children of

Boston, hearing what pains their kind friend in Ireland was taking for

her unhappy compatriots, as a recognition of their love for her and her

writings, organized a subscription. At the end of a few weeks they were

able to send her one hundred and fifty barrels of flour and rice. They

came with the simple address, worth more to her than many phrases: "To

Miss Edgeworth, for her poor."

She was deeply touched and grateful. It touched her also that the

porters, who carried the grain down to the shore, refused to be paid;

and with her own hands she knitted a woolen comforter for each man and

sent them to a friend for distribution. Before they reached their

destination the hands that had worked them were cold, and the beating of

that warm, kind heart stilled forever.

For scarcely was the famine over, and before Miss Edgeworth's over-taxed

strength had time to recoup, another and yet heavier blow was to befall

her. Indeed, many deaths and sorrows as she had known, in some respects

this was the severest that had for some years come upon her. It was

natural to see the old go before her, but not so the young, and when in

1848 her favorite sister Fanny died rather suddenly, Miss Edgeworth felt

that the dearest living object of her love had gone.

The shock did not apparently tell on her health, as she continued to

employ herself with her usual interest and sympathy in all the weal and

woe of her family and many friends, but the life-spring had snapped,

unknown perhaps even to her, certainly unknown to those around her. For

she bore up bravely, cheerfully, and was to all appearances as bright as

ever. Next to doing good, reading was still her greatest pleasure:--

Our pleasures in literature do not, I think, decline with age. Last

1st of January was my eighty-second birthday, and I think that I

had as much enjoyment from books as ever I had in my life.

History gave her particular delight:--

I am surprised to find how much more history interests me now than

when I was young, and how much more I am now interested in the same

events recorded, and their causes and consequences shown, in this

history of the French Revolution, and in all the history of Europe

during the last quarter of a century, than I was when the news came

fresh and fresh in the newspapers. I do not think I had sense

enough to take in the relations and proportions of the events. It

was like moving a magnifying glass over the parts of a beetle, and

not taking in the whole.

Macaulay's history charmed her, and in all her first enthusiasm she

wrote a long letter about it to her old friend, Sir Henry Holland. He

showed it to Macaulay, who was so struck with its discrimination and

ability that he begged to be allowed to keep it. Among all the incidents

connected with the publication of his book, nothing, it is said,

pleased Macaulay more than the gratification he had contrived to give

Miss Edgeworth as a small return for the enjoyment which, during more

than forty years, he had derived from her writings:--

TRIM, April 2nd, 1849.

MY DEAR DR. HOLLAND:

I have just finished Macaulay's two volumes of the _History of

England_ with the same feeling that you expressed--regret at coming

to the end, and longing for another volume--the most uncommon

feeling, I suppose, that readers of two thick octavo volumes of the

history of England and of times so well known, or whose story has

been so often written, ever experienced. In truth, in the whole

course of reading or hearing it read I was sorry to stop and glad

to go on. It bears peculiarly well that severe test of being read

aloud; it never wearies the ear by the long resounding line, but

keeps the attention alive by the energy shown. It is the perfection

of style so varied, and yet the same in fitness, in propriety, in

perspicuity, in grace, in dignity and eloquence, and, whenever

naturally called forth, in that just indignation which makes the

historian as well as the poet. If Voltaire says true that "the

style is the man," what a man must Macaulay be! But the man is in

fact as much more than the style, as the matter is more than the

manner. It is astonishing with what ease Macaulay wields, manages,

arranges his vast materials collected far and near, and knows their

value and proportions so as to give the utmost strength and force

and light and life to the whole, and sustains the whole. Such new

lights are thrown upon historic facts and historic characters that

the old appear new, and that which had been dull becomes bright

and entertaining and interesting. Exceedingly interesting he has

made history by the happy use and aid of biography and anecdote. A

word brings the individual before us, and shows not only his

character, but the character of the times, and at once illustrates

or condemns to everlasting fame. Macaulay has proved by example how

false Madame de Stael's principle was that biography and

biographical anecdotes were altogether inadmissible in

history--below the dignity or breaking the proportion or unity, I

suppose she thought. But whatever might be her reasons, she gave

this opinion to Dumont, who told it to me. Much good it did her!

How much more interesting historical _precis_ in painting or in

writing, which is painting in word, are made by the introduction of

portraits of celebrated individuals! Either as actors or even as

spectators, the bold figures live, and merely by their life further

the action and impress the sense of truth and reality. I have

pleasure, my dear Dr. Holland, in pointing out to you, warm as it

first comes, the admiration which this work has raised to this

height in my mind. I know this will give you sympathetic pleasure.

And now, my good friend, in return I require from you prompt and

entire belief in an assertion which I am about to make, which may

appear to you at first incredible. But try-try; at all events the

effort will give you occasion to determine a question which

perhaps, excellent metaphysician as you have shown yourself, you

never settled whether you can or cannot believe at will.

That which I require you to believe [the figure of a hand pointing

right appears here] is that all the admiration I have expressed of

Macaulay's work is quite uninfluenced by the self-satisfaction,

vanity, pride, surprise, delight, I had in finding my own name in a

note!!!!!

Be assured, believe it or not as you may or can, that neither my

vanity nor my gratitude weighed with my judgment in the slightest

degree in the opinion I formed, or in that warmth with which it was

poured out. In fact, I had formed my opinion, and expressed it with

no less warmth to my friends round me, reading the book to me,

before I came to that note; moreover, there was a mixture of shame

and twinge of pain with the pleasure, the pride I felt in having a

line in his immortal history given to _me_, when the historian

makes no mention of Sir Walter Scott throughout the work, even in

places where it seems impossible that genius could resist paying

the becoming tribute which genius owes and loves to pay to genius.

I cannot conceive how this could be. I cannot bring myself to

imagine that the words Tory or Whig, or Dissenter or Churchman, or

feeling of party or natural spirit, could bias such a man as

Macaulay. Perhaps he reserves himself for the forty-five, and I

hope in heaven it is so, and that you will tell me I am very

impetuous and prematurely impertinent. Meanwhile, be so good to

make my grateful and deeply-felt thanks to the great author for the

honor which he has done me. When I was in London some years ago,

and when I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Macaulay, I took the

liberty of expressing a wish that he would visit Ireland, and that

if he did we might have the honor of seeing him at our house. I am

very glad to find that the Battle of the Boyne will bring him here.

He must have now so many invitations from those who have the

highest inducement to offer, that I hardly dare to repeat my

request. But will you, my dear friends, do whatever you can with

propriety for us, and say how much Mrs. Edgeworth and myself and

our whole family would be gratified by his giving us even a call on

his way to some better place, and even an hour of his conversation.

I am now at Trim with my sister and dear brother. Trim and its

ruins, and the tower, and where kings and generals and poets have

been, would perhaps, he may think, be worth his seeing. Dean Butler

and my sister feel as I do how many claims Mr. Macaulay must have

upon his time in his visit to Ireland; but they desire me to say

that if anything should bring him into this neighborhood, they

should think themselves highly honored by receiving him. I am sure

he would be interested by Mr. Butler's conversation and remarks on

various parts of Macaulay's history, and _I_ should exceedingly

like to hear it commented and discussed. Little _i_ must come in,

you see, at every close. You will observe that, in speaking of

Macaulay's work, I have spoken only of the style, the only point of

which I could presume to think my opinion could be of any value. Of

the great attributes, of the essential qualities of the historian,

accuracy, fidelity, impartiality, I could not, even if I thought

myself qualified to judge, attempt to speak in this letter.

But I am sensible that I have neither the knowledge nor the

strength, much less the coolness of judgment, necessary to make

opinion valuable on such subjects. I could easily give my own

opinion, but--of no use. The less I am inclined to speak when I do

not know, the more I am anxious to hear; and most delightful and

profitable would it be to me to hear the great historian himself

speak on many points which I hear discussed by my learned brother,

Dean Butler, and others (on Clarendon's character, etc., etc.,

etc.) We have not yet seen any of the public reviews of Macaulay's

history. No doubt the stinging, little, ephemeral insects will come

out in swarms to buzz and fly-blow in the sunshine. The warmer, the

brighter, the thicker the swarm will be to prick. I hope you will

read this unconscionable lengthy letter when you are in your

carriage, rolling about from patient to patient, and be patient

yourself then, my dear doctor. You are always so very good and

kind to me that I encroach. I seldom write such long epistles. As

the most impudent beggar-woman in our town says to Mrs. E., "Ma'am,

your ladyship, I never beg from any one so much as your ladyship;

troth, never from any but you." ...

Give my most kind and affectionate remembrances to Mrs. Holland and

your daughters and sons, and

Believe me most garrulously and sincerely yours,

MARIA EDGEWORTH.

This letter, so characteristic in its humility and generous admiration,

shows no sign of old age or impaired faculties, neither is there any

trace of this in one of the last she ever wrote, addressed to her sister

Harriet:--

I am heartily obliged and delighted by your being such a goose and

Richard such a gander, as to be frightened out of your wits at my

going up the ladder to take off the top of the clock! Know, then,

that I am quite worthy of that most unmerited definition of man, "A

creature that looks before and after." Before I _let on_ to anybody

my doubts of my own capability of reaching the nail on which to

hang the top, I called Shaw, and made her stand at the foot of the

ladder while I went up, and found I could no more reach the nail

than I could reach the moon, Exit Shaw!

Prudence of M. E., Act 2: Summoned Cassidy, and informed him that I

was to wind up the clock, and that he was promoted to take off the

top for me; and then up I went and wound the clock, and wound it as

I had done before you was born, as there is nothing easier, only to

see that it is not going to _maintain_ at the very instant, which

is plainly to be noted by the position of the maintaining pin on

the little outer wheel relative to the first deep tooth. You see I

am not quite a nincompoop. I send my lines:--

"Ireland, with all thy faults, thy follies too,

I love thee still: still with a candid eye must view

Thy wit too quick, still blundering into sense;

Thy reckless humor; sad improvidence;

And even what sober judges follies call--

I, looking at the heart, forget them all."

MARIA E., May, 1849.

Miss Edgeworth had been staying with Mr. and Mrs. Butler in the spring.

When taking leave she was unusually agitated and depressed, but said as

she went away: "At Whitsuntide I shall return." On the very day before

she was to redeem this promise, she drove out in apparent good health,

when a sudden feeling of weakness overcame her and made her return to

the house. Severe pains in the region of the heart set in, and after a

few hours' illness Maria Edgeworth died--died as she had fondly wished,

at home, in the arms of her stepmother. Yet another of her wishes was

granted: she had spared her friends the anguish of seeing her suffer

from protracted illness. May 22d, 1849, she rose from the banquet of

life, where, in her own words, she had been a happy guest.

* * * * *

In her latter years Miss Edgeworth had been asked to furnish prefaces

of a biographical character to her novels. She refused, saying she had

nothing personal to tell. "As a woman, my life, wholly domestic, cannot

afford anything interesting to the public; I am like the 'needy

knife-grinder'--I have no story to tell."

Was she right? or is not the story of so loving and lovable a life worth

telling?

MESSRS. ROBERTS BROTHERS' PUBLICATIONS.

Famous Women Series.

GEORGE ELIOT.

BY MATHILDE BLIND.

One vol. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00.

"Messrs. Roberts Brothers begin a series of Biographies of Famous Women

with a life of George Eliot, by Mathilde Blind. The idea of the series

is an excellent one, and the reputation of its publishers is a guarantee

for its adequate execution. This book contains about three hundred pages

in open type, and not only collects and condenses the main facts that

are known in regard to the history of George Eliot, but supplies other

material from personal research. It is agreeably written, and with a

good idea of proportion in a memoir of its size. The critical study of

its subject's works, which is made in the order of their appearance, is

particularly well done. In fact, good taste and good judgment pervade

the memoir throughout."--_Saturday Evening Gazette._

"Miss Blind's little book is written with admirable good taste and

judgment, and with notable self-restraint. It does not weary the reader

with critical discursiveness, nor with attempts to search out high-flown

meanings and recondite oracles in the plain 'yea' and 'nay' of life. It

is a graceful and unpretentious little biography, and tells all that

need be told concerning one of the greatest writers of the time. It is a

deeply interesting if not fascinating woman whom Miss Blind presents,"

says the New York _Tribune_.

"Miss Blind's little biographical study of George Eliot is written with

sympathy and good taste, and is very welcome. It gives us a graphic if

not elaborate sketch of the personality and development of the great

novelist, is particularly full and authentic concerning her earlier

years, tells enough of the leading motives in her work to give the

general reader a lucid idea of the true drift and purpose of her art,

and analyzes carefully her various writings, with no attempt at profound

criticism or fine writing, but with appreciation, insight, and a clear

grasp of those underlying psychological principles which are so closely

interwoven in every production that came from her pen."--_Traveller._

"The lives of few great writers have attracted more curiosity and

speculation than that of George Eliot. Had she only lived earlier in the

century she might easily have become the centre of a mythos. As it is,

many of the anecdotes commonly repeated about her are made up largely of

fable. It is, therefore, well, before it is too late, to reduce the true

story of her career to the lowest terms, and this service has been well

done by the author of the present volume."--_Philadelphia Press._

Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, post-paid, on receipt of price, by

the publishers,

ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.

_Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications._

FAMOUS WOMEN SERIES.

MARY LAMB.

BY ANNE GILCHRIST.

One volume. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00.

"The story of Mary Lamb has long been familiar to the readers of Elia,

but never in its entirety as in the monograph which Mrs. Anne Gilchrist

has just contributed to the Famous Women Series. Darkly hinted at by

Talfourd in his Final Memorials of Charles Lamb, it became better known

as the years went on and that imperfect work was followed by fuller and

franker biographies,--became so well known, in fact, that no one could

recall the memory of Lamb without recalling at the same time the memory

of his sister."--_New York Mail and Express._

"A biography of Mary Lamb must inevitably be also, almost more, a

biography of Charles Lamb, so completely was the life of the sister

encompassed by that of her brother; and it must be allowed that Mrs.

Anne Gilchrist has performed a difficult biographical task with taste

and ability.... The reader is at least likely to lay down the book with

the feeling that if Mary Lamb is not famous she certainly deserves to

be, and that a debt of gratitude is due Mrs. Gilchrist for this

well-considered record of her life."--_Boston Courier._

"Mary Lamb, who was the embodiment of everything that is tenderest in

woman, combined with this a heroism which bore her on for a while

through the terrors of insanity. Think of a highly intellectual woman

struggling year after year with madness, triumphant over it for a

season, and then at last succumbing to it. The saddest lines that ever

were written are those descriptive of this brother and sister just

before Mary, on some return of insanity, was to leave Charles Lamb. 'On

one occasion Mr. Charles Lloyd met them slowly pacing together a little

foot-path in Hoxton Fields, both weeping bitterly, and found, on joining

them, that they were taking their solemn way to the accustomed asylum.'

What pathos is there not here?"--_New York Times._

"This life was worth writing, for all records of weakness conquered, of

pain patiently borne, of success won from difficulty, of cheerfulness in

sorrow and affliction, make the world better. Mrs. Gilchrist's biography

is unaffected and simple. She has told the sweet and melancholy story

with judicious sympathy, showing always the light shining through

darkness."--_Philadelphia Press._

Sold by all Booksellers. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of the price, by

the Publishers,

ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.

_Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications._

FAMOUS WOMEN SERIES.

GEORGE SAND.

BY BERTHA THOMAS.

One volume. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00.

"Miss Thomas has accomplished a difficult task with as much good sense

as good feeling. She presents the main facts of George Sand's life,

extenuating nothing, and setting naught down in malice, but wisely

leaving her readers to form their own conclusions. Everybody knows that

it was not such a life as the women of England and America are

accustomed to live, and as the worst of men are glad to have them

live.... Whatever may be said against it, its result on George Sand was

not what it would have been upon an English or American woman of

genius."--_New York Mail and Express._

"This is a volume of the 'Famous Women Series,' which was begun so well

with George Eliot and Emily Bronte. The book is a review and critical

analysis of George Sand's life and work, by no means a detailed

biography. Amantine Lucile Aurore Dupin, the maiden, or Mme. Dudevant,

the married woman, is forgotten in the renown of the pseudonym George

Sand.

"Altogether, George Sand, with all her excesses and defects, is a

representative woman, one of the names of the nineteenth century. She

was great among the greatest, the friend and compeer of the finest

intellects, and Miss Thomas's essay will be a useful and agreeable

introduction to a more extended study of her life and works."--_Knickerbocker._

"The biography of this famous woman, by Miss Thomas, is the only one in

existence. Those who have awaited it with pleasurable anticipation, but

with some trepidation as to the treatment of the erratic side of her

character, cannot fail to be pleased with the skill by which it is done.

It is the best production on George Sand that has yet been published.

The author modestly refers to it as a sketch, which it undoubtedly is,

but a sketch that gives a just and discriminating analysis of George

Sand's life, tastes, occupations, and of the motives and impulses which

prompted her unconventional actions, that were misunderstood by a narrow

public. The difficulties encountered by the writer in describing this

remarkable character are shown in the first line of the opening chapter,

which says, 'In naming George Sand we name something more exceptional

than even a great genius.' That tells the whole story. Misconstruction,

condemnation, and isolation are the penalties enforced upon the great

leaders in the realm of advanced thought, by the bigoted people of their

time. The thinkers soar beyond the common herd, whose soul-wings are not

strong enough to fly aloft to clearer atmospheres, and consequently they

censure or ridicule what they are powerless to reach. George Sand, even

to a greater extent than her contemporary, George Eliot, was a victim to

ignorant social prejudices, but even the conservative world was forced

to recognize the matchless genius of these two extraordinary women, each

widely different in her character and method of thought and writing....

She has told much that is good which has been untold, and just what will

interest the reader, and no more, in the same easy, entertaining style

that characterizes all of these unpretentious biographies."--_Hartford

Times._

_Sold everywhere. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of price, by the

publishers,_

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston.

_Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications._

FAMOUS WOMEN SERIES.

EMILY BRONTE.

BY A. MARY F. ROBINSON.

One vol. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00.

"Miss Robinson has written a fascinating biography.... Emily Bronte is

interesting, not because she wrote 'Wuthering Heights,' but because of

her brave, baffled, human life, so lonely, so full of pain, but with a

great hope shining beyond all the darkness, and a passionate defiance in

bearing more than the burdens that were laid upon her. The story of the

three sisters is infinitely sad, but it is the ennobling sadness that

belongs to large natures cramped and striving for freedom to heroic,

almost desperate, work, with little or no result. The author of this

intensely interesting, sympathetic, and eloquent biography, is a young

lady and a poet, to whom a place is given in a recent anthology of

living English poets, which is supposed to contain only the best poems

of the best writers."--_Boston Daily Advertiser._

"Miss Robinson had many excellent qualifications for the task she has

performed in this little volume, among which may be named, an

enthusiastic interest in her subject and a real sympathy with Emily

Bronte's sad and heroic life. 'To represent her as she was,' says Miss

Robinson, 'would be her noblest and most fitting monument.' ... Emily

Bronte here becomes well known to us and, in one sense, this should be

praise enough for any biography."--_New York Times._

"The biographer who finds such material before him as the lives and

characters of the Bronte family need have no anxiety as to the interest

of his work. Characters not only strong but so uniquely strong, genius

so supreme, misfortunes so overwhelming, set in its scenery so forlornly

picturesque, could not fail to attract all readers, if told even in the

most prosaic language. When we add to this, that Miss Robinson has told

their story _not_ in prosaic language, but with a literary style

exhibiting all the qualities essential to good biography, our readers

will understand that this life of Emily Bronte is not only as

interesting as a novel, but a great deal more interesting than most

novels. As it presents most vividly a general picture of the family,

there seems hardly a reason for giving it Emily's name alone, except

perhaps for the masterly chapters on 'Wuthering Heights,' which the

reader will find a grateful condensation of the best in that powerful

but somewhat forbidding story. We know of no point in the Bronte

history--their genius, their surroundings, their faults, their

happiness, their misery, their love and friendships, their

peculiarities, their power, their gentleness, their patience, their

pride,--which Miss Robinson has not touched upon with conscientiousness

and sympathy."--_The Critic._

"'Emily Bronte' is the second of the 'Famous Women Series,' which

Roberts Brothers, Boston, propose to publish, and of which 'George

Eliot' was the initial volume. Not the least remarkable of a very

remarkable family, the personage whose life is here written, possesses a

peculiar interest to all who are at all familiar with the sad and

singular history of herself and her sister Charlotte. That the author,

Miss A. Mary F. Robinson, has done her work with minute fidelity to

facts as well as affectionate devotion to the subject of her sketch, is

plainly to be seen all through the book."--_Washington Post._

Sold by all Booksellers, or mailed, post-paid, on receipt of price, by

the Publishers,

ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.

A SELECTION FROM

Messrs. ROBERTS BROTHERS'