From The Cornhill Magazine.
MISS EDGEWORTH.
EARLY DAYS.

I.

a

erature, for mechanics and scientific discoveries; that he was a gentleman widely connected, hospitably inclined, with large estate and many tenants to overlook, with correspondence and acquaintances all over the world; and, besides all this, with various schemes in his brain, to be eventually realized by others, of which velocipedes, tramways, and telegraphs were but a few of the items.

a family. What these interests were may be gathered from the pages of a very interesting memoir from which the writer of this essay has been allowed to quote. It is a book privately printed and written for the use of her children by the widow of Richard Lovell Edgeworth, and is a record, among other things, of a faithful and most touching friendship between Maria and her father's wife - -"a friendship lasting for over fifty years, and un

FEW authoresses in these days can have enjoyed the ovations and attentions which seem to have been considered the due of distinguished ladies at the end of the last century and the beginning of this one. To read the accounts of the receptions and compliments which fell to their lot One could imagine that under these may well fill later and lesser luminaries circumstances the hurry and excitement with envy. Crowds opened to admit of London life must have sometimes them, banquets spread themselves out seemed tranquillity itself compared with before them, lights were lighted up and the many and absorbing interests of such flowers were scattered at their feet. Dukes, editors, prime ministers, awaited their convenience on their staircases; whole theatres rose up en masse to greet the gifted creators of this and that immortal tragedy. The authoresses themselves, to do them justice, seem to have been very little dazzled by all this excitement. Hannah More contentedly retires with her maiden sisters to the Parnassus on the Mendip Hills, where they sew and chat and make tea and teach the village chil-broken by a single cloud of difference or dren. Dear Joanna Baillie, modest and beloved, lives on to peaceful age in her pretty old house at Hampstead, looking through treetops and sunshine and clouds towards distant London. "Out there, where all the storms are," I heard the children saying yesterday as they watched the overhanging gloom of smoke which veils the city of metropolitan thunders and lightning. Maria Edgeworth's apparitions as a literary lioness in the rush of London and of Paris society were but interludes in her existence, and her real life was one of constant exertion and industry spent far away in an Irish home among her own kindred and occupations and interests. We may realize what these were when we read that Mr. Edgeworth had no less than four wives, who all left children, and that Maria was the eldest daughter of the whole family. Besides this, we must also remember that the father whom she idolized was himself a man of extraordinary powers, brilliant in conversation (so I have been told), full of animation, of interest, of plans for his country, his family, for education and lit

mistrust." Mrs. Edgeworth, who was Miss Beaufort before her marriage, and about the same age as Miss Edgeworth, unconsciously reveals her Own most charming and unselfish nature as she tells her stepdaughter's story.

When the writer looks back upon her own childhood, it seems to her that she lived in company with a delightful host of little playmates, bright, busy, clever children, whose cheerful presence remains more vividly in her mind than that of many of the real little boys and girls who used to appear and disappear disconnectedly as children do in childhood, when friendship and companionship depend almost entirely upon the convenience of grown-up people. Now and again came little cousins or friends to share our games, but day by day, constant and unchanging, ever to be relied upon, smiled our most lovable and friendly companions

simple Susan, lame Jervas, Talbot, the dear Little Merchants, Jem the widow's son with his arms round old Lightfoot's neck, the generous Ben, with his whipcord and his useful proverb of "Waste not,

want not

- all of these were there in the It would be difficult to imagine anything window corner waiting our pleasure. better suited to the mind of a very young After "Parents' Assistant," to which fa-person than these pleasant stories, so miliar words we attached no meaning complete in themselves, so interesting, so whatever, came "Popular Tales" in big varied. The description of Jervas's esbrown volumes off a shelf in the lumber-cape from the mine where the miners had room of an apartment in an old house in plotted his destruction, almost rises to Paris, and as we opened the boards, lo! poetry in its simple diction. Lame Jervas creation widened to our view. England, has warned his master of the miners' plot, Ireland, America, Turkey, the mines of and shown him the vein of ore which they Golconda, the streets of Bagdad, thieves, have concealed. The miners have sworn travellers, governesses, natural philos- vengeance against him, and his life is in ophy, and fashionable life, were all laid un- danger. His master helps him to get der contribution, and brought interest and away, and comes into the room before adventure to our humdrum nursery corner. daybreak, bidding him rise and put on the All Mr. Edgeworth's varied teaching and clothes which he has brought. "I folexperience, all his daughter's genius of lowed him out of the house before anyobservation, came to interest and delight body else was awake, and he took me our play-time, and that of a thousand across the fields towards the high road. other little children in different parts of At this place we waited till we heard the the world. People justly praise Miss tinkling of the bells of a team of horses. Edgeworth's admirable stories and nov-'Here comes the wagon,' said he, 'in els, but from prejudice and early associa- which we are to go. So fare you well, tion these beloved childish histories seem Jervas. I shall hear how you go on; and unequalled still, and it is chiefly as a I only hope you will serve your next maswriter for children that we venture to ter, whoever he may be, as faithfully as consider her here. Some of the stories you have served me.' 'I shall never find are indeed little idylls in their way. Wal- so good a master,' was all I could say for ter Scott, who best knew how to write for the soul of me; I was quite overcome by the young so as to charm grandfathers as his goodness and sorrow at parting with well as Hugh Littlejohn, Esq., and all the him, as I then thought, forever." The grandchildren, is said to have wiped his description of the journey is very pretty. kind eyes as he put down "Simple Susan." "The morning clouds began to clear A child's book, says a reviewer of those away; I could see my master at some day's defining in the Quarterly Review, distance, and I kept looking after him as should be "not merely less dry, less diffi- the wagon went on slowly, and he walked cult, than a book for grown-up people; fast away over the fields." Then the sun but more rich in interest, more true to begins to rise. The wagoner goes on nature, more exquisite in art, more abun- whistling, but lame Jervas, to whom the dant in every quality that replies to child-rising sun was a spectacle wholly surprishood's keener and fresher perception." ing, starts up, exclaiming in wonder and Children like facts, they like short, vivid admiration. The wagoner bursts into a sentences that tell the story: as they loud laugh. "Lud a marcy," says he, "to listen intently, so they read; every word hear un' and look at un' a body would has its value for them. It has been a real think the oaf had never seen the sun rise surprise to the writer to find, on re-read- afore;” upon which Jervas remembers ing some of these descriptions of scenery that he is still in Cornwall, and must not and adventure which she had not looked betray himself, and prudently hides be at since her childhood, that the details hind some parcels, only just in time, for which she had imagined spread over they meet a party of miners, and he hears much space, are contained in a few sen- his enemies' voice hailing the wagoner. tences at the beginning of a page. These All the rest of the day he sits within, and sentences, however, show the true art of amuses himself by listening to the bells the writer. of the team, which jingle continually.

and tends her mother to the distant tune of Philip's pipe coming across the fields. As we read the story again it seems as if we could almost hear the music sounding above the children's voices, and the bleating of the lamb, and scent the fragrance of the primroses and the double violets, so simply and delightfully is the whole story constructed. Among all Miss Edgeworth's characters few are more familiar to the world than that of Susan's pretty pet lamb.

II.

"On our second day's journey, however,
I ventured out of my hiding-place. I
walked with the wagoner up and down the
hills, enjoying the fresh air, the singing
of the birds, and the delightful smell of
the honeysuckles and the dog-roses in the
hedges. All the wild flowers and even
the weeds on the banks by the wayside
were to me matters of wonder and admira-
tion. At almost every step I paused to
observe something that was new to me,
and I could not help feeling surprised at
the insensibility of my fellow-traveller,
who plodded along, and seldom inter-
rupted his whistling except to cry, 'Gee No sketch of Maria Edgeworth's life,
Blackbird, aw woa,' or 'How now, however slight, would be complete with-
Smiler."" Then Jervas is lost in admira-
tion before a plant "whose stem was
about two feet high, and which had a
round, shining, purple, beautiful flower,"
and the wagoner, with a look of scorn
exclaims,." Help thee, lad, dost not thou
know 'tis a common thistle?" After this
he looks upon Jervas as very nearly an
idiot. In truth I believe I was a droll
figure, for my hat was stuck full of weeds
and of all sorts of wild flowers, and both
my coat and waistcoat pockets were
stuffed out with pebbles and funguses."
Then comes Plymouth Harbor: Jervas
ventures to ask some questions about the
vessels, to which the wagoner answers,
"They be nothing in life but the boats
and ships, man;" so he turned away and
went on chewing a straw, and seemed not
a whit more moved to admiration than he
had been at the sight of the thistle. "I
conceived a high admiration of a man
who had seen so much that he could ad-
mire nothing," says Jervas, with a touch
of real humor.

66

out a few words about certain persons coming a generation before her (and belonging still to the age of periwigs), who were her father's associates and her own earliest friends. Notwithstanding all that has been said of Mr. Edgeworth's bewildering versatility of nature, he seems to have been singularly faithful in his friendships. He might take up new ties, but he clung pertinaciously to those which had once existed. His daughter inherited that same steadiness of affection. The wisest man of our own day writing of these very people has said, "There is, perhaps, no safer test of a man's real character than that of his long-continued friendship with good and able men. Now Mr. Edgeworth, the father of Maria Edgeworth the authoress, asserts, after mentioning the names of Keir, Day, Small, Boulton, Watt, Wedgewood, and Darwin, that their mutual intimacy has never been broken except by death. To these names those of Edgeworth himself and of the Galtons may be added. The correspondence in my possession shows the truth of the above assertion."

Another most charming little idyll is that of "Simple Susan," who was a reai maiden living in the neighborhood of Mr. Edgeworth first came to Lichfield Edgeworthstown. The story seems to to make Mr. Darwin's acquaintance. His have been mislaid for a time in the stir-second visit was to his friend Mr. Day, ring events of the first Irish rebellion, and overlooked, like some little daisy by a battle-field. Few among us will not have shared Mr. Edgeworth's partiality for the charming little tale. The children fling their garlands and gather their scented violets. Susan bakes her cottage loaves and gathers marigolds for broth,

the author of "Sandford and Merton," who had taken a house in the valley of Stow, and who invited him one Christmas on a visit. "About the year 1765," says Miss Seward, "came to Lichfield, from the neighborhood of Reading, the young and gay philosopher, Mr. Edgeworth; a man of fortune, and recently married to a

Edgeworth, who talks so agreeably. I can imagine little Sabrina, the adopted foundling, of whom so many stories have been told, following shyly at her guardian's side in her simple dress and childish beauty, and Andre's young, handsome face turned towards Miss Sneyd. So they pass on happy and contented in each other's company, Honora in the midst, beautiful, stately, reserved: she too was not destined to be old.

Miss Elers, of Oxfordshire. The fame of | down his back. In contrast to him comes Mr. Darwin's varied talents allured Mr. E. his brilliant and dressy companion, Mr. to the city they graced." And the lady goes on to describe Mr. Edgeworth himself: "Scarcely two-and-twenty, with an exterior yet more juvenile, having mathematic science, mechanic ingenuity, and a competent portion of classical learning, with the possession of modern languages. He danced, he fenced, he winged his arrows with more than philosophic skill," continues the lady, herself a person of no little celebrity in her time and place. Mr. Edgeworth, in his memoirs, pays a re- Miss Seward seems to have loved this spectful tribute to Miss Seward's charms, friend with a very sincere and admiring to her agreeable conversation, her beauty, affection, and to have bitterly mourned her thick tresses, her sprightliness and her early death. Her letters abound in address. Such moderate expressions fail, apostrophes to the lost Honora. But perhowever, to do justice to this lady's pow-haps the poor muse expected too much ers, to her enthusiasm, her poetry, her partisanship. The portrait prefixed to her letters is that of a dignified person with an oval face and dark eyes, the thick, brown tresses are twined with pearls, her graceful figure is robed in the softest furs and draperies of the period. In her very first letter she thus poetically describes her surroundings: "The autumnal glory of this day puts to shame the summer's sullenness. I sit writing upon this dear green terrace, feeding at intervals my little golden-breasted songsters. The embosomed vale of Stow glows sunny through the Claude-Lorraine tint which is spread over the scene like the blue mist over a plum."

In this Claude-Lorraine-plum-tinted valley stood the house which Mr. Day had taken, and where Mr. Edgeworth had come on an eventful visit. Miss Seward herself lived with her parents in the bishop's palace at Lichfield. There was also a younger sister, "Miss Sally," who died as a girl, and another very beautiful young lady their friend, by name Honora Sneyd, placed under Mrs. Seward's care. She was the heroine of Major André's unhappy romance. He too lived at Lichfield with his mother, and his hopeless love gives a tragic reality to this by-gone holiday of youth and merry-making. As one reads the old letters and memoirs the echoes of its laughter reach us. One can almost see the young folks all coming together out of the Cathedral Close, where so much of it was passed; the beautiful Honora, surrounded by friends and adorers, chaperoned by the graceful muse her senior, also much admired, and much made of. Thomas Day is striding after them in silence with keen, critical glances; his long, black locks flow unpowdered

from friendship, too much from life. She expected, as we all do at times, that her friends should be not themselves but her, that they should lead not their lives but her own. So much at least one may gather from the various phases of her style and correspondence, and her complaints of Honora's estrangement and subsequent coldness. Perhaps, also, Miss Seward's many vagaries and sentiments may have frozen Honora's sympathies. Miss Seward was all asterisks and notes of exclamation. Honora seems to have forced feeling down to its most scrupulous expression. She never lived to be softened by experience: with great love she also inspired awe and a sort of surprise. One can imagine her pointing the moral of the purple jar, as it was told long afterwards by her stepdaughter, then a little girl playing at her own mother's knee in her nursery by the river.

People in the days of shilling postage were better correspondents than they are now when we have to be content with pennyworths. Their descriptions and many details bring all the chief charac ters vividly before us, and carry us into the hearts and pocketbooks of the little society at Lichfield as it then was. The town must have been an agreeable sojourn in those days for people of some pretension and small performance; a pleasant, lively company living round about the old cathedral towers, meeting in the Close or the adjacent gardens or the hospitable palace itself. Here the company would sip tea, talk mild literature, quoting Dr. Johnson to one another with the familiarity of townsfolk. From Erasmus Darwin, too, they must have gained something of vigor and originality. The inhabitants of Lichfield seem actually to have read