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 f.a.n.n.y 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 f.a.n.n.y 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. "n.o.body 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 appet.i.te 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 ill.u.s.trations 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-s.n.a.t.c.hed 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, circ.u.mstances 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 a.s.sured_, 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 ill.u.s.trations_, 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 a.s.sa.s.sination.

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 a.s.sure 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 circ.u.mstances and so isolated--so let the ragged handkerchief and the old gloves museumized pa.s.s, 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 c.o.c.kney 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 Suss.e.x, 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 f.a.n.n.y 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 s.p.a.cious and lofty; well stored with books, and embellished with those most valuable of all cla.s.ses 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 una.s.suming 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 embarra.s.sing. A very large family party a.s.semble 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 pa.s.sage 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 pa.s.s 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 t.i.tle 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 amba.s.sador, 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.