The Life and Letters of Maria Edgeworth Volume II Part 12

In the little drawing-room at Black Castle, where we have been so often happy together; in the little drawing-room to which you have so often brought me to see my dear aunt, I now write to you, my dear friend, to tell you how much I miss you. I feel a perpetual want of that part of my happiness in this dear place which I owed to its neighbourhood to another dear place to which I cannot now bear to go. Once, and but once, in the two months I have been here have I been there; when the indispensable civility of returning a formal visit required it, and then I felt it to be as much, if not more, than I was able to do, with the composure I felt to be proper. The sitting in that red drawing-room and missing everything I had so loved--the saloon, the lawn--I really could not speak, and heartily glad I was when I got away.

My plans of going to England this summer have been all broken up: you know how, as you have heard of the death of my dear sister Anna, [Footnote: Anna Edgeworth, Maria's whole sister, had married Dr. Beddoes in 1794.] at Florence; the account of her loss reached me just when I was joyfully expecting an answer to a letter full of projects which she never lived to read. G.o.d'S will be done. We expect my nieces, Anna and Mary, at Edgeworthstown as soon as they return from Italy.

_To_ MISS HONORA EDGEWORTH.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _July 17, 1824_.

I hope this will find you at Cheltenham with Barry and Sophy, and f.a.n.n.y; my mother and Margaret set off this fine morning for Black Castle, and Lucy is now in the dining-room, her bed aslant across the open middle window, the gra.s.s plot new-mown, and a sweet smell of fresh hay. They are drawing home the hay, and men are driving past the windows on empty cars, or leading loaded ones. The roses are still in full blow on the trellis. Aunt Bess sitting by Lucy talking of the beautiful thorns in the Phoenix Park, and I am sitting on the other side of Lucy's bed by the pillar.

Margaret Ruxton when here was eager to pay her compliments to Peggy Tuite; her husband has written for her to go to him, and she is now "torn almost in two between the wish to go to her husband and her lothness to leave her old mother." She gave Margaret and me the history of her losing and finding her wedding ring. "Sure I knew my luck would change when I found my wedding ring that I lost four years ago--down in the quarry. I went across the fields to feed the pig, and looked and looked till I was tired, and then concluded I had given it to the pig mixed up and that he had swallowed it for ever--it was a real gold ring.

But the men that was clearing out the _rubbage_ in the quarry found it and adjourned to the public house to share the luck of it. My brother got scent of it and went directly to inform the man that found it whose the ring was, and demanded it; he wouldn't hear of giving it back, and sold it to a pensioner there above; my brother set off with himself to the priest and told all, and the priest summoned the man and the pensioner, and my brother, and in the presence of an honest man, Mr.

Sweeny, warned the pensioner to restore the wedding ring, since my brother could tell the tokens on it. 'It's the woman's wedding ring to remind her of her conjugal duties, and it's sacrilege to take it.' But the man that sold it was hardened, and the pensioner said he had paid for it, and so says the priest to Keegan, that's the master of the quarry men, 'Turn this man out of the work, he is a bad man and he will corrupt the rest. And, Peggy Tuite, I advise you and your brother to go straight to Major Bond and summon these men.'" Then she described the trial, when Tuite "swore to the tokens where it had been crushed by a stone, and the goldsmith's mark, and the Major held it between him and the light and plainly noticed the crush and the battered marks, and handing me the ring said, 'Peggy Tuite, this is your ring sure enough.'"

_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _August 16, 1824_.

We have heard from Sophy Fox, who tells us that they have been delighted with their journey to Aberystwith, especially the devil's bridge. Can you tell me why the devil has so many bridges, sublime and beautiful, in every country of the habitable world? Ingenieur des Ponts et Chaussees to his Satanic majesty would be a place of great business, profit and glory, and would require a man of first-rate abilities. Lucy has painted a beautiful portrait of her bullfinch, picking at a bunch of white currants--the currants would, I am sure, be picked by any live bird.

Tell me how you like _Haji Baba_.

_To_ MISS HONORA EDGEWORTH.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _August 28, 1824_.

I am impatient to set my dear Aunt Mary's [Footnote: After the death of her sister Charlotte in 1822, Mrs. Mary Sneyd resided occasionally with her brother in England till 1828, when she returned finally to Edgeworthstown, where she remained for the rest of her life, deeply attached to all the family, but regarding her niece Honora as peculiarly her own child.] mind free from the anxiety I am sure she feels about her decision to stay in England this winter; whatever disappointment and regret I felt was mitigated by her beautifully kind and tender note.

Your entertaining account of the archery meeting at Lord Bagot's came yesterday evening. What a magnificent entertainment, and in what good taste! It was a delightful house for a _fete champetre_.

The Roman Catholic Bishop, M'Gaurin, held a confirmation the day before yesterday, and dined here on a G.o.d-send haunch of venison. Same day Mr.

Hunter arrived, and Mr. Butler came with young Mr. Hamilton, an "admirable Crichton" of eighteen; a real prodigy of talents, who Dr.

Brinkley says may be a second Newton--quite gentle and simple. Mr. and Mrs. Napier arrived on Wednesday, and spent two most agreeable days with us; he is an extremely well-informed man, and both are perfectly well-bred. Mr. Butler and Mr. Hamilton suited them delightfully. Mr.

Butler and Mr. Napier found they were both Oxford men, and took to each other directly. Mr. Napier's conversation is quite superior and easy.

Those two days put me in mind of former times. Hunter is very happy here in spite of his c.o.c.kney prejudices; he says _Harry and Lucy_ must be ready by October.

_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

_Jan. 1, 1825_.

A happy new year to you, my dearest aunt,--to you to whom I now look as much as I can to any one now living, for the rays of pleasure that I expect to gild my bright evening of life. As we advance in life we become more curious, more fastidious in gilding and gilders; we find to our cost that all that glitters is not gold, and your everyday bungling carvers and gilders will not do. Our _evening-gilders_ must be more skilful than those who flashed and daubed away in the morning of life, and gilt with any tinsel, the weather-c.o.c.k for the morning sun.

You may perceive, my dear aunt, by my having got so finely to the weather-c.o.c.k, and the rising sun, that I am out of the hands of all my dear apothecaries, and playing away again with a superfluity of life.

(N.B. I am surprisingly prudent.) Honora's cough has almost subsided, and Lucy can sit upright the greater part of the day. "G.o.d bless the mark!" as Molly Bristow would say, if she heard me, "don't be bragging."

_Jan. 6_.

I have to give you the most cheering accounts of Honora and Lucy. Honora is now on the sofa opposite to me, working with her candle beside her on a bracket--my new year's gift to the sofas, a mahogany bracket on each side of the chimney-piece to fold up or down, and large enough to hold a candlestick and a teacup or work-box. Mary Beddoes and I are on the sofa next the door; Honora and Anna on the other, and somebody sitting in the middle talking by turns to each sofa. Who can that be? Not Harriet, for tea is over and she has seceded to Lucy's room--not my mother, nor William, nor Mrs. Beaufort, nor Louisa, for the carriage has carried them away some hours ago, poor souls, and full-dressed bodies, to dine at Ardagh. But who can this Unknown be? A gentleman it must be to const.i.tute the happiness of two sofas of ladies.

My nephew, Henry Beddoes! and the joy of ladies he certainly will be, not merely of aunts and sisters, but of all who can engage or be engaged by prepossessing manners and appearance, and the promise of all that is amiable and intelligent. I am delighted with him, and he would charm you.

Lady Bathurst has done me another good turn for f.a.n.n.y Stewart, that is, for her husband; there was a charming letter from f.a.n.n.y Stewart a few days ago. I send for your amus.e.m.e.nt the famous little _Valoe_ in its elegantissimo binding, and Lady Bathurst's letter about it, elegantissima also. You remember, I hope, the story of its publication, written by a governess of the d.u.c.h.ess of Beaufort's, a.s.sisted by all the conclave of quality young-lady-governesses, with little traits of character of their pupils. The auth.o.r.ess sent it to the d.u.c.h.ess of Beaufort, asking permission to publish and dedicate it to her Grace. The d.u.c.h.ess never read it, and returned it to the Governess with a compliment, and, "publish it by all means, and dedicate it to me." Out came the publication; and though each young lady was flattered, yet all quarrelled with the mode of compliment, and in many there was a little touch of blame, which moved their or their mothers' anger, and with one accord they attacked the d.u.c.h.ess of Beaufort for her permission to publish, and the edition was all bought up in a vast hurry.

In a few days I trust--you know I am a great truster--that you will receive a packet franked by Lord Bathurst, containing only a little pocket-book--_Friendships Offering, for_ 1825, dizened out; I fear you will think it too fine for your taste, but there is in it, as you will find, the old "Mental Thermometer," which was once a favourite of yours.

You will wonder how it came there--simply thus. Last autumn came by the coach a parcel containing just such a book as this for last year, and a letter from Mr. Lupton Relfe--a foreigner settled in London--and he prayed in most polite bookseller strain that I would look over my portfolio for some trifle for this book for 1825. I might have looked over "my portfolio" till doomsday, as I have not an unpublished sc.r.a.p, except "Take for Granted." [Footnote: "Take for Granted" was an idea which Maria never worked out into a story, though she had made many notes for it.] But I recollected the "Mental Thermometer," and that it had never been _out_, except in the _Irish Farmer's Journal_--not known in England. So I routed in the garret under pyramids of old newspapers, with my mother's prognostics, that I never should find it, and loud prophecies that I should catch my death, which I did not, but dirty and dusty, and cobwebby, I came forth after two hours' grovelling with my object in my hand! Cut it out, added a few lines of new end to it, and packed it off to Lupton Relfe, telling him that it was an old thing written when I was sixteen. Weeks elapsed, and I heard no more, when there came a letter exuberant in grat.i.tude, and sending a parcel containing six copies of the new Memorandum book, and a most beautiful twelfth edition of Scott's _Poetical Works_, bound in the most elegant manner, and with most beautifully engraved frontispieces and vignettes, and a 5 note. I was quite ashamed--but I have done all I could for him by giving the _Friendship's Offerings_ to all the fine people I could think of. The set of Scott's Works made a nice New Year's gift for Harriet; she had seen this edition at Edinburgh and particularly wished for it. The 5 I have sent to Harriet Beaufort to be laid out in books for f.a.n.n.y Stewart. Little did I think the poor old "Thermometer" would give me so much pleasure.

Here comes the carriage rolling round. I feel guilty; what will my mother say to me, so long a letter at this time of night?--Yours affectionately in all the haste of guilt, conscience-stricken: that is, found out.

No--all safe, all innocent--because _not found out.

Finis._

By the author of _Moral Tales_ and _Practical Education_.

Feb. 16_.

I hope my dearest aunt will not disdain the work of my little bungling hands. The vand.y.k.es of this ap.r.o.n are such as Vand.y.k.e would scorn; poor little pitiful things they be! and will be in rags in a fortnight no doubt. But if you knew the pains I have taken with them, and what pleasure I have had in doing them, even all wrong, you would hang them round you with satisfaction. By the time it is completely _roved_ away I shall be with you and _bind_ it over to its good behaviour, so that it shall never rove _again_ me. Love me and laugh at me as you have done many is the year.

The crocuses and snowdrops in my garden are beautiful; my green-board-edged beds and green trellis make it absolutely a wooden paradise.

I forgot to boast that I was up for three mornings at seven _vandyking_.

Henry Beddoes told us that Lord Byron was extremely beloved and highly thought of by all whom he heard speak of him at Missolonghi, both Greeks and his own country-men. He had regained public esteem by his latter conduct. The place in which he died was not the worst inn's worst room, but an absolute hovel, without any bed of any kind; he was lying on a sack.

_March 15_.

You have probably seen in the papers the death of our admirable friend Mrs. Barbauld. I have copied for you her last letter to me and some beautiful lines written in her eightieth year. There is a melancholy elegance and force of thought in both. Elegance and strength--qualities rarely uniting without injury to each other, combine most perfectly in her style, and this rare combination, added to their cla.s.sical purity, form, perhaps, the distinguishing characteristics of her writings.

England has lost a great writer, and we a most sincere friend.

_To_ MISS HONORA EDGEWORTH.

BLACK CASTLE, _May 10, 1825_.

Your list of presentation copies of _Harry and Lucy_, and your reasons for giving each, diverted me very much. Sophy and Margaret and I laughed over it and agreed that every reason was like Mr. Plunket's speech, "unanswerable."

_To_ MRS. RUXTON.

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _July 9, 1825_.

With my whole soul I thank you for your most touching letter [Footnote: On the death of Mr. Ruxton.] to my mother, so full of true resignation to G.o.d'S will, and of those feelings which He has implanted in the human heart for our greatest happiness and our greatest trials. "Fifty-five years!" How much is contained in those words of yours! I loved him dearly, and well I might, most kind he ever was to me, and I felt all his excellent qualities, his manners, his delightful temper. How little did I think when last I saw his kind looks bent upon me that it was for the last time!