Richard Lovell Edgeworth
A SELECTION FROM HIS MEMOIRS

EDITED BY
BEATRIX L. TOLLEMACHE
(HON. MRS. LIONEL TOLLEMACHE)

RIVINGTON, PERCIVAL & CO.
KING STREET, COVENT GARDEN

LONDON

1896

By THE SAME AUTHOR

Engelberg, and Other Verses. With Frontispiece. Crown 8vo. 6s.

Jonquille, or, The Swiss Smuggler. Translated from the French of
MADAME COMBE. Crown 8vo. 6s.

Grisons Incidents in Olden Times. Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d.

LONDON RIVINGTON, PERCIVAL & CO.

LIFE IS AN INN

THERE is an inn where many a guest
May enter, tarry, take his rest.
When he departs there's nought to pay,
Only he carries nought away.

'Not so,' I cried, 'for raiment fine,
Sweet thoughts, heart-joys, and hopes that shine,
May clothe anew his flitting form,
As wings that change the creeping worm.

His toil-worn garb he casts aside,
And journeys onward glorified.'

B. L. T.



RICHARD LOVELL EDGEWORTH

CHAPTER 1

Some years ago, I came across the Memoirs of Richard Lovell
Edgeworth in a second-hand bookshop, and found it so full of
interest and amusement, that I am tempted to draw the attention of
other readers to it. As the volumes are out of print, I have not
hesitated to make long extracts from them. The first volume is
autobiographical, and the narrative is continued in the second
volume by Edgeworth's daughter Maria, who was her father's constant
companion, and was well fitted to carry out his wish that she should
complete the Memoirs.

Richard Lovell Edgeworth was born at Bath in
1744. He was a shining example of what a good landlord can do for
his tenants, and how an active mind will always find objects of
interest without constantly requiring what are called amusements;
for the leisure class should be like Sundays in a week, and as the
ideal Sunday should be a day when we can store up good and beautiful
thoughts to refresh us during the week, a day when there is no
hurry, no urgent business to trouble us, a day when we have time to
rise above the sordid details of life and enjoy its beauties; so it
seems to me that those who are not obliged to work for their living
should do their part in the world by adding to its store of good and
wise thoughts, by cultivating the arts and raising the standard of
excellence in them, and by bringing to light truths which had been
forgotten, or which had been hidden from our forefathers.

Richard Edgeworth was eminently a practical man, impulsive, as we
learn from his imprudent marriage at nineteen, but with a strong
sense of duty. His mother, who was Welsh, brought him up in habits
of thrift and industry very unlike those of his ancestors, which he
records in the early pages of his Memoirs. His great-grandmother
seems to have been a woman of strong character and courage in spite
of her belief in fairies and her dread of them, for he writes that
'while she was living at Liscard, she was, on some sudden alarm,
obliged to go at night to a garret at the top of the house for some
gunpowder, which was kept there in a barrel. She was followed
upstairs by an ignorant servant girl, who carried a bit of candle
without a candlestick between her fingers. When Lady Edgeworth had
taken what gunpowder she wanted, had locked the door, and was
halfway downstairs again, she observed that the girl had not her
candle, and asked what she had done with it; the girl recollected,
and answered that she had left it "stuck in the barrel of black
salt." Lady Edgeworth bid her stand still, and instantly returned by
herself to the room where the gunpowder was, found the candle as the
girl had described, put her hand carefully underneath it, carried it
safely out, and when she got to the bottom of the stairs dropped on
her knees, and thanked God for their deliverance'

When we remember that it was Richard Edgeworth, the father of Maria,
who trained and encouraged her first efforts in literature, we feel
that we owe him a debt of gratitude; but our interest is increased
when we read his Memoirs, for we then find ourselves brought into
close contact with a very intelligent and vigorous mind, keen to
take part in the scientific experiments of the day, while his
upright moral character and earnest and well-directed efforts to
improve his Irish property win our admiration; and when we remember
that he married in succession four wives, and preserved harmony
among the numerous members of his household, our admiration becomes
wonder, and we would fain learn the secret of his success. One
element in his success doubtless was that he kept every one around
him usefully employed, and in the manner most suited to each. He
knew how to develop innate talent, and did not crush or overpower
those around him. He owed much to the early training of a sensible
mother, and he gives an anecdote of his early childhood, which I
will quote:--

'My mother was not blind to my faults. She saw the danger of my
passionate temper. It was a difficult task to correct it; though
perfectly submissive to her, I was with others rebellious and
outrageous in my anger. My mother heard continual complaints of me;
yet she wisely forbore to lecture or punish me for every trifling
misdemeanour; she seized proper occasions to make a strong
impression upon my mind.

'One day my elder brother tom, who, as I have said, was almost a man
when I was a little child, came into the nursery where I was
playing, and where the maids were ironing. Upon some slight
provocation or contradiction from him, I flew into a violent
passion; and, snatching up one of the boxirons which the maid had
just laid down, I flung it across the table at my brother. He
stooped instantly; and, thank God! it missed him. There was a redhot
heater in it, of which I knew nothing until I saw it thrown out, and
until I heard the scream from the maids. They seized me, and dragged
me downstairs to my mother. Knowing that she was extremely fond of
my brother, and that she was of a warm indignant temper, they
expected that signal vengeance would burst upon me. They all spoke
at once. When my mother heard what I had done, I saw she was struck
with horror, but she said not one word in anger to me. She ordered
everybody out of the room except myself, and then drawing me near
her, she spoke to me in a mild voice, but in a most serious manner.
First, she explained to me the nature of the crime which I had run
the hazard of committing; she told me she was sure that I had no
intention seriously to hurt my brother, and did not know that if the
iron had hit my brother, it must have killed him. While I felt this
first shock, and whilst the horror of murder was upon me, my mother
seized the moment to conjure me to try in future to command my
passions. I remember her telling me that I had an uncle by the
mother's side who had such a violent temper, that in a fit of
passion one of his eyes actually started out of its socket. "You,"
said my mother to me, "have naturally a violent temper; if you grow
up to be a man without learning to govern it, it will be impossible
for you then to command yourself; and there is no knowing what crime
you may in a fit of passion commit, and how miserable you may, in
consequence of it, become. You are but a very young child, yet I
think you can understand me. Instead of speaking to you as I do at
this moment, I might punish you severely; but I think it better to
treat you like a reasonable creature. My wish is to teach you to
command your temper--nobody can do that for you so well as you can
do it for yourself."

'As nearly as I can recollect, these were my mother's words; I am
certain this was the sense of what she then said to me. The
impression made by the earnest solemnity with which she spoke never,
during the whole course of my life, was effaced from my mind. From
that moment I determined to govern my temper.'

Acting upon the old adage that example is better than precept, his
mother taught him at an early age to observe the good and bad
qualities of the persons he met. The study of character she justly
felt to be most important, and yet it is not one of the subjects
taught in schools except by personal collision with other boys, and
incidentally in reading history. When sent to school at Warwick, he
learned not only the first rudiments of grammar, but 'also the
rudiments of that knowledge which leads us to observe the difference
of tempers and characters in our fellow-creatures. The marking how
widely they differ, and by what minute varieties they are
distinguished, continues, to the end of life, an inexhaustible
subject of discrimination.'

May not Maria have gained much valuable training in the art of
novel-writing from a father who was so impressed with the value of
the study of character?

The Gospel precept which we read as 'Judge not,' should surely be
translated 'Condemn not,' and does not forbid a mental exercise
which is necessary in our intercourse with others.

Among the circumstances which had considerable influence on his
character, he mentions: 'My mother was reading to me some passages
from Shakespeare's plays, marking the characters of Coriolanus and
of Julius Caesar, which she admired. The contempt which Coriolanus
expresses for the opinion and applause of the vulgar, for "the
voices of the greasyheaded multitude," suited well with that disdain
for low company with which I had been first inspired by the fable of
the Lion and the Cub.* It is probable that I understood the speeches
of Coriolanus but imperfectly; yet I know that I sympathised with my
mother's admiration, my young spirit was touched by his noble
character, by his generosity, and, above all, by his filial piety
and his gratitude to his mother.' He mentions also that 'some traits
in the history of Cyrus, which was read to me, seized my
imagination, and, next to Joseph in the Old Testament, Cyrus became
the favourite of my childhood. My sister and I used to amuse
ourselves with playing Cyrus at the court of his grandfather
Astyages. At the great Persian feasts, I was, like young Cyrus, to
set an example of temperance, to eat nothing but watercresses, to
drink nothing but water, and to reprove the cupbearer for making the
king, my grandfather, drunk. To this day I remember the taste of
those water-cresses; and for those who love to trace the characters
of men in the sports of children, I may mention that my character
for sobriety, if not for water-drinking, has continued through
life.'

* In Gay's Fables.

When Richard Edgeworth encouraged his daughter Maria's literary
tastes, he was doubtless mindful how much pleasure and support his
own mother had derived from studying the best authors; and when we
read later of the affectionate terms on which Maria stood with her
various stepmothers and their families, we cannot help thinking that
she must have inherited at least one of the beautiful traits in her
grandmother's character which Richard Edgeworth especially dwells
on: 'She had the most generous disposition that I ever met with; not
only that common generosity, which parts with money, or money's
worth, freely, and almost without the right hand knowing what the
left hand doeth; but she had also an entire absence of selfish
consideration. Her own wishes or opinions were never pursued merely
because they were her own; the ease and comfort of everybody about
her were necessary for her well-being. Every distress, as far as her
fortune, or her knowledge, or her wit or eloquence could reach, was
alleviated or removed; and, above all, she could forgive, and
sometimes even forget injuries.'

Richard's taste for science early showed itself, when at seven years
old his curiosity was excited by an electric battery which was
applied to his mother's paralysed side. He says:--

'At this time electricity was but little known in Ireland, and its
fame as a cure for palsy had been considerably magnified. It, as
usual, excited some sensation in the paralytic limbs on the first
trials. One of the experiments on my mother failed of producing a
shock, and Mr. Deane seemed at a loss to account for it. I had
observed that the wire which was used to conduct the electric fluid,
had, as it hung in a curve from the instrument to my mother's arm,
touched the hinge of a table which was in the way, and I had the
courage to mention this circumstance, which was the real cause of
failure.'

It was when he was eight years old, and while travelling with his
father, that his attention was caught by 'a man carrying a machine
five or six feet in diameter, of an oval form, and composed of
slender ribs of steel. I begged my father to inquire what it was. We
were told that it was the skeleton of a lady's hoop. It was
furnished with hinges, which permitted it to fold together in a
small compass, so that more than two persons might sit on one seat
of a coach--a feat not easily performed, when ladies were
encompassed with whalebone hoops of six feet extent. My curiosity
was excited by the first sight of this machine, probably more than
another child's might have been, because previous agreeable
associations had given me some taste for mechanics, which was still
a little further increased by the pleasure I took in examining this
glittering contrivance. Thus even the most trivial incidents in
childhood act reciprocally as cause and effect in forming our
tastes.'

It was in 1754 that Mrs. Edgeworth, continuing much out of health,
resolved to consult a certain Lord Trimblestone, who had been very
successful in curing various complaints. Lord Trimblestone received
Mr. and Mrs. Edgeworth most cordially and hospitably, and though he
could not hope to cure her, recommended some palliatives. He had
more success with another lady whose disorder was purely nervous.
His treatment of her was so original that I must quote it at
length:

'Instead of a grave and forbidding physician, her host, she found,
was a man of most agreeable manners. Lady Trimblestone did
everything in her power to entertain her guest, and for two or three
days the demon of ennui was banished. At length the lady's vapours
returned; everything appeared changed. Melancholy brought on a
return of alarming nervous complaints--convulsions of the limbs
--perversion of the understanding--a horror of society; in short,
all the complaints that are to be met with in an advertisement
enumerating the miseries of a nervous patient. In the midst of one
of her most violent fits, four mutes, dressed in white, entered her
apartment; slowly approaching her, they took her without violence in
their arms, and without giving her time to recollect herself,
conveyed her into a distant chamber hung with black and lighted with
green tapers. From the ceiling, which was of a considerable height,
a swing was suspended, in which she was placed by the mutes, so as
to be seated at some distance from the ground. One of the mutes set
the swing in motion; and as it approached one end of the room, she
was opposed by a grim menacing figure armed with a huge rod of
birch. When she looked behind her, she saw a similar figure at the
other end of the room, armed in the same manner. The terror,
notwithstanding the strange circumstances which surrounded her, was
not of that sort which threatens life; but every instant there was
an immediate hazard of bodily pain. After some time, the mutes
appeared again, with great composure took the lady out of the swing,
and conducted her to her apartment. When she had reposed some time,
a servant came to inform her that tea was ready. Fear of what might
be the consequence of a refusal prevented her from declining to
appear. No notice was taken of what had happened, and the evening
and the next day passed without any attack of her disorder. On the
third day the vapours returned--the mutes reappeared--the menacing
flagellants again affrighted her, and again she enjoyed a remission
of her complaints. By degrees the fits of her disorder became less
frequent, the ministration of her tormentors less necessary, and in
time the habits of hypochondriacism were so often interrupted, and
such a new series of ideas was introduced into her mind, that she
recovered perfect health, and preserved to the end of her life
sincere gratitude for her adventurous physician.'

Three years were spent by Richard at Corpus Christi College, Oxford,
while his vacations were often passed at Bath by the wish of his
father, who was anxious that his son should be introduced to good
society at an early age. It was there that Richard saw Beau Nash,'
the popular monarch of Bath,' and also 'the remains of the
celebrated Lord Chesterfield. I looked in vain for that fire, which
we expect to see in the eye of a man of wit and genius. He was
obviously unhappy, and a melancholy spectacle.' Of the young ladies
he says: 'I soon perceived that those who made the best figure in
the ballroom were not always qualified to please in conversation; I
saw that beauty and grace were sometimes accompanied by a frivolous
character, by disgusting envy, or despicable vanity. All this I had
read of in poetry and prose, but there is a wide difference,
especially among young people, between what is read and related, and
what is actually seen. Books and advice make much more impression in
proportion as we grow older. We find by degrees that those who lived
before us have recorded as the result of their experience the very
things that we observe to be true.'

It was while still at college that he married Miss Elers without
waiting for his father's consent; he soon found that his young wife
did not sympathise with his pursuits; but he adds, 'Though I
heartily repented my folly, I determined to bear with firmness and
temper the evil, which I had brought upon myself. Perhaps pride had
some share in my resolution.'

He had a son before he was twenty, and soon afterwards took his wife
to Edgeworth Town to introduce her to his parents; but a few days
after his arrival his mother, who had long been an invalid, felt
that her end was approaching, and calling him to her bedside, told
him, with a sort of pleasure, that she felt she should die before
night. She added: 'If there is a state of just retribution in
another world, I must be happy, for I have suffered during the
greatest part of my life, and I know that I did not deserve it by my
thoughts or actions.'

Her dying advice to him was,'"My son, learn how to say No." She
warned me further of an error into which, from the vivacity of my
temper, I was most likely to fall. "Your inventive faculty," said
she, "will lead you eagerly into new plans; and you may be dazzled
by some new scheme before you have finished, or fairly tried what
you had begun. Resolve to finish; never procrastinate."'



CHAPTER 2

It was in 1765, while stopping at Chester and examining a mechanical
exhibition there, that Edgeworth first heard of Dr. Darwin, who had
lately invented a carriage which could turn in a small compass
without danger of upsetting. Richard on hearing this determined to
try his hand on coach building, and had a handsome phaeton
constructed upon the same principle; this he showed in London to the
Society for the Encouragement of Arts, and mentioned that he owed
the original idea to Dr. Darwin. He then wrote to the latter
describing the reception of his invention, and was invited to his
house. The doctor was out when he arrived at Lichfield, but Mrs.
Darwin received him, and after some conversation on books and prints
asked him to drink tea. He discovered later that Dr. Darwin had
imagined him to be a coachmaker, but that Mrs. Darwin had found out
the mistake. 'When supper was nearly finished, a loud rapping at the
door announced the doctor. There was a bustle in the hall, which
made Mrs. Darwin get up and go to the door. Upon her exclaiming that
they were bringing in a dead man, I went to the hall: I saw some
persons, directed by one whom I guessed to be Dr. Darwin, carrying a
man, who appeared motionless. "He is not dead," said Dr. Darwin. "He
is only dead drunk. I found him," continued the doctor, "nearly
suffocated in a ditch; I had him lifted into my carriage, and
brought hither, that we might take care of him to-night." Candles
came, and what was the surprise of the doctor and of Mrs. Darwin to
find that the person whom he had saved was Mrs. Darwin's brother!
who, for the first time in his life, as I was assured, had been
intoxicated in this manner, and who would undoubtedly have perished
had it not been for Dr. Darwin's humanity.

'During this scene I had time to survey my new friend, Dr. Darwin.
He was a large man, fat, and rather clumsy; but intelligence and
benevolence were painted in his countenance. He had a considerable
impediment in his speech, a defect which is in general painful to
others; but the doctor repaid his auditors so well for making them
wait for his wit or his knowledge, that he seldom found them
impatient.'

At Lichfield he met Mr. Bolton of Snow Hill, Birmingham, who asked
him to his house, and showed him over the principal manufactories of
Birmingham, where he further improved his knowledge of practical
mechanics. His time was now principally devoted to inventions; he
received a silver medal in 1768 from the Society of Arts for a
perambulator, as he calls it, an instrument for measuring land. This
is a curious instance of the changed use of a word, as we now
associate perambulators with babies. In 1769 he received the
Society's gold medal for various machines, and about this time
produced what might have been the forerunner of the bicycle, 'a huge
hollow wheel made very light, withinside of which, in a barrel of
six feet diameter, a man should walk. Whilst he stepped thirty
inches, the circumference of the large wheel, or rather wheels,
would revolve five feet on the ground; and as the machine was to
roll on planks, and on a plane somewhat inclined, when once the vis
inertia of the machine should be overcome, it would carry on the man
within it as fast as he could possibly walk. ... It was not
finished; I had not yet furnished it with the means of stopping or
moderating its motion. A young lad got into it, his companions
launched it on a path which led gently down hill towards a very
steep chalk-pit. This pit was at such a distance as to be out of
their thoughts when they set the wheel in motion. On it ran. The lad
withinside plied his legs with all his might. The spectators who at
first stood still to behold the operation were soon alarmed by the
shouts of their companion, who perceived his danger. The vehicle
became quite ungovernable; the velocity increased as it ran down
hill. Fortunately, the boy contrived to jump from his rolling prison
before it reached the chalk-pit; but the wheel went on with such
velocity as to outstrip its pursuers, and, rolling over the edge of
the precipice, it was dashed to pieces.

'The next day, when I came to look for my machine, intending to try
it upon some planks, which had been laid for it, I found, to my no
small disappointment, that the object of all my labours and my hopes
was lying at the bottom of a chalk-pit, broken into a thousand
pieces. I could not at that time afford to construct another wheel
of that sort, and I cannot therefore determine what might have been
the success of my scheme.'

He goes on to say: 'I shall mention a sailing carriage that I tried
on this common. The carriage was light, steady, and ran with amazing
velocity One day, when I was preparing for a sail in it with my
friend and schoolfellow, Mr. William Foster, my wheel-boat escaped
from its moorings just as we were going to step on board. With the
utmost difficulty we overtook it; and as I saw three or four
stage-coaches on the road, and feared that this sailing chariot
might frighten their horses, I, at the hazard of my life, got into
my carriage while it was under full sail, and then, at a favourable
part of the road, I used the means I had of guiding it easily out of
the way. But the sense of the mischief which must have ensued if I
had not succeeded in getting into the machine at the proper place,
and stopping it at the right moment, was so strong, as to deter me
from trying any more experiments on this carriage in such a
dangerous place.'

I have already given the changed use of the word perambulator. As an
example of the different use of a word in the last century, I may
mention telegraph, by which he means signalling either by moving
wooden arms or by showing lights. This mode of conveying a message
he first applied in order to win a wager: 'A famous match was at
that time pending at Newmarket between two horses that were in every
respect as nearly equal as possible. Lord March, one evening at
Ranelagh, expressed his regret to Sir Francis Delaval that he was
not able to attend Newmarket at the next meeting. "I am obliged,"
said he, "to stay in London; I shall, however, be at the Turf
Coffee-house; I shall station fleet horses on the road to bring me
the earliest intelligence of the event of the race, and I shall
manage my bets accordingly."

'I asked at what time in the evening he expected to know who was
winner. He said about nine in the evening. I asserted that I should
be able to name the winning horse at four o'clock in the afternoon.
Lord March heard my assertion with so much incredulity, as to urge
me to defend myself; and at length I offered to lay five hundred
pounds that I would in London name the winning horse at Newmarket at
five o'clock in the evening of the day when the great match in
question was to be run.'

The wager was however given up when Edgeworth told Lord March that
he did not depend upon the fleetness or strength of horses to carry
the desired intelligence.

His friend, Sir Francis Delaval, immediately put up under his
directions an apparatus between his house and part of Piccadilly. He
adds: 'I also set up a night telegraph between a house which Sir
Francis Delaval occupied at Hampstead, and one to which I had access
in Great Russell Street, Bloomsbury. This nocturnal telegraph
answered well, but was too expensive for common use.' Later on he
writes to Dr. Darwin:

'I have been employed for two months in experiments upon a telegraph
of my own invention. By day, at eighteen or twenty miles distance, I
show, by four pointers, isosceles triangles, twenty feet high, on
four imaginary circles, eight imaginary points, which correspond
with the figures 0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, so that seven thousand
different combinations are formed, of four figures each, which refer
to a dictionary of words. By night, white lights are used.'

Dr. Darwin in reply says: 'The telegraph you described, I dare say,
would answer the purpose. It would be like a giant wielding his long
arms and talking with his fingers: and those long arms might be
covered with lamps in the night.'

It is curious now to read Mr. Edgeworth's words: 'I will venture to
predict that it will at some future period be generally practised,
not only in these islands, but that it will in time become a means
of communication between the most distant parts of the world,
wherever arts and sciences have civilised mankind.'

It was some years later, in 1794, when Ireland was in a disturbed
state, and threatened by a French invasion, that Edgeworth laid his
scheme for telegraphs before the Government, and offered to keep
open communication between Dublin and Cork if the Government would
pay the expense. He made a trial between two hills fifteen miles
apart, and a message was sent and an answer received in five
minutes. The Government paid little attention to his offer, and
finally refused it. Two months later the French were on the Irish
coasts, and great confusion and distress was occasioned by the want
of accurate news. 'The troops were harassed with contradictory
orders and forced marches for want of intelligence, and from that
indecision, which must always be the consequence of insufficient
information. Many days were spent in terror, and in fruitless wishes
for an English fleet. ... At last Ireland was providentially saved
by the change of the wind, which prevented the enemy from effecting
a landing on her coast.'

Another of Edgeworth's inventions was a one-wheeled carriage adapted
to go over narrow roads; it was made fast by shafts to the horse's
sides, and was furnished with two weights or counterpoises that hung
below the shafts. In this carriage he travelled to Birmingham and
astonished the country folk on the way.

I must now give a sketch of Edgeworth's matrimonial adventures. They
began after a strange fashion, when, at fifteen, he and some young
companions had a merry-making at his sister's marriage, and one of
the party putting on a white cloak as a surplice, proposed to marry
Richard to a young lady who was his favourite partner. With the door
key as a ring the mock parson gabbled over a few words of the
marriage service. When Richard's father heard of this mock marriage
he was so alarmed that he treated it seriously, and sued and got a
divorce for his son in the ecclesiastical court.

It was while visiting Dr. Darwin at Lichfield that Edgeworth made
some friendships which influenced his whole life. At the Bishop's
Palace, where Canon Seward lived, he first met Miss Honora Sneyd,
who was brought up as a daughter by Mrs. Seward. He was much struck
by her beauty and by her mental gifts, and says: 'Now for the first
time in my life, I saw a woman that equalled the picture of
perfection which existed in my imagination. I had long suffered much
from the want of that cheerfulness in a wife, without which marriage
could not be agreeable to a man with such a temper as mine. I had
borne this evil, I believe, with patience; but my not being happy at
home exposed me to the danger of being too happy elsewhere.' He
describes in another place his first wife as 'prudent, domestic, and
affectionate; but she was not of a cheerful temper. She lamented
about trifles; and the lamenting of a female with whom we live does
not render home delightful.'

His friend, Mr. Day,* was also intimate at the Palace, but did not
admire Honora at that time (1770) as much as Edgeworth did. Mr. Day
thought 'she danced too well; she had too much an air of fashion in
her dress and manners; and her arms were not sufficiently round and
white to please him.'

* The author of Sandford and Merton.

He was at this time much preoccupied with an orphan, Sabrina Sydney,
whom he had taken from the Foundling Hospital, and whom he was
educating with the idea of marrying her ultimately. Honora, on the
other hand, had received the addresses of Mr. Andre, afterwards
Major Andre, who was shot as a spy during the American War. But want
of fortune caused the parents on both sides to discourage this
attachment, and it was broken off.

It was in 1771 that Mr. Day, having placed Sabrina at a
boarding-school, became conscious of Honora's attractions, and began
to think of marrying her. 'He wrote me one of the most eloquent
letters I ever read,' says Edgeworth, 'to point out to me the folly
and meanness of indulging a hopeless passion for any woman, let her
merit be what it might; declaring at the same time that he "never
would marry so as to divide himself from his chosen friend. Tell
me," said he, "have you sufficient strength of mind totally to
subdue love that cannot be indulged with peace, or honour, or
virtue?"

'I answered that nothing but trial could make me acquainted with the
influence which reason might have over my feelings; that I would go
with my family to Lichfield, where I could be in the company of the
dangerous object; and that I would faithfully acquaint him with all
my thoughts and feelings. We went to Lichfield, and stayed there for
some time with Mr. Day. I saw him continually in company with Honora
Sneyd. I saw that he was received with approbation, and that he
looked forward to marrying her at no very distant period. When I saw
this, I can affirm with truth that I felt pleasure, and even
exultation. I looked to the happiness of two people for whom I had
the most perfect esteem, without the intervention of a single
sentiment or feeling that could make me suspect I should ever repent
having been instrumental to their union.'

Later on Mr. Day wrote a long letter to Honora, describing his
scheme of life (which was very peculiar), and his admiration for
her, and asking whether she could return his affections and be
willing to lead the secluded life which was his ideal. This letter
he gave to Edgeworth to deliver. 'I took the packet; my friend
requested that I would go to the Palace and deliver it myself. I
went, and I delivered it with real satisfaction to Honora. She
desired me to come next morning for an answer. ... I gave the answer
to Mr. Day, and left him to peruse it by himself. When I returned, I
found him actually in a fever. The letter contained an excellent
answer to his arguments in favour of the rights of men, and a clear,
dispassionate view of the rights of women.

'Miss Honora Sneyd would not admit the unqualified control of a
husband over all her actions. She did not feel that seclusion from
society was indispensably necessary to preserve female virtue, or to
secure domestic happiness. Upon terms of reasonable equality she
supposed that mutual confidence might best subsist. She said that,
as Mr. Day had decidedly declared his determination to live in
perfect seclusion from what is usually called the world, it was fit
she should decidedly declare that she would not change her present
mode of life, with which she had no reason to be dissatisfied, for
any dark and untried system that could be proposed to her. . . . One
restraint, which had acted long and steadily upon my feelings, was
now removed; my friend was no longer attached to Miss Honora Sneyd.
My former admiration of her returned with unabated ardour. . . .
This admiration was unknown to everybody but Mr. Day; ... he
represented to me the danger, the criminality of such an attachment;
I knew that there is but one certain method of escaping such dangers
--flight. I resolved to go abroad.'




CHAPTER 3

Mr. Day and Edgeworth went to France, and the latter spent nearly
two years at Lyons, where his wife joined him. Here he found
interest and occupation in some engineering works by which the
course of the Rhone was to be diverted and some land gained to
enlarge the city, which lies hemmed in between the Rhone and the
Saone. When the works were nearly completed, an old boatman warned
Edgeworth 'that a tremendous flood might be expected in ten days
from the mountains of Savoy. I represented this to the company, and
proposed to employ more men, and to engage, by increased wages,
those who were already at work, to continue every day till it was
dark, but I could not persuade them to a sudden increase of their
expenditure. . . . At five or six o'clock one morning, I was
awakened by a prodigious noise on the ramparts under my windows. I
sprang out of bed, and saw numbers of people rushing towards the
Rhone. I foreboded the disaster! dressed myself, and hastened to the
river. . . When I reached the Rhone, I beheld a tremendous sight!
All the work of several weeks, carried on daily by nearly a hundred
men, had been swept away. Piles, timber, barrows, tools, and large
parts of expensive machinery were all carried down the torrent, and
thrown in broken pieces upon the banks. The principal part of the
machinery had been erected upon an island opposite the rampart; here
there still remained some valuable timber and engines, which might,
probably, be saved by immediate exertion. The old boatman, whom I
have mentioned before, was at the water-side; I asked him to row me
over to the island, that I might give orders how to preserve what
remained belonging to the company. My old friend, the boatman,
represented to me, with great kindness, the imminent danger to which
I should expose myself. "Sir," he added, "the best swimmer in Lyons,
unless he were one of the Rhone-men, could not save himself if the
boat overset, and you cannot swim at all."

'"Very true," I replied, "but the boat will not overset; and both my
duty and my honour require that I should run every hazard for those
who have put so much trust in me." My old boatman took me over
safely, and left me on the island; but in returning by himself, the
poor fellow's little boat was caught by a wave, and it skimmed to
the bottom like a slate or an oyster-shell that is thrown obliquely
into the water. A general exclamation was uttered from the shore;
but, in a few minutes, the boatman was seen sitting upon a row of
piles in the middle of the river, wringing his long hair with great
composure.

'I have mentioned this boatman repeatedly as an old man, and such
he was to all appearance; his hair was grey, his face wrinkled, his
back bent, and all his limbs and features had the appearance of
those of a man of sixty, yet his real age was but twenty-seven
years. He told me that he was the oldest boatman on the Rhone; that
his younger brothers had been worn out before they were twenty-five
years old.'

The French society at Lyons included many agreeable people; but
Edgeworth singles out from among them, as his special friend, the
Marquis de la Poype, who understood English, and was well acquainted
with English literature. He pressed Edgeworth to pay him a visit at
his Chateau in Dauphiny, and the latter adds: 'I promised to pass
with him some of the Christmas holidays. An English gentleman went
with me. We arrived in the evening at a very antique building,
surrounded by a moat, and with gardens laid out in the style which
was common in England in the beginning of the last century. These
were enclosed by high walls, intersected by canals, and cut into
parterres by sandy walks. We were ushered into a good drawing-room,
the walls of which were furnished with ancient tapestry. When dinner
was served, we crossed a large and lofty hall, that was hung round
with armour, and with the spoils of the chase; we passed into a
moderate-sized eating-room, in which there was no visible fireplace,
but which was sufficiently heated by invisible stoves. The want of
the cheerful light of a fire cast a gloom over our repast, and the
howling of the wind did not contribute to lessen this dismal effect.
But the dinner was good, and the wine, which was produced from the
vineyard close to the house, was excellent. Madame de la Poype, and
two or three of her friends, who were on a visit at her house,
conversed agreeably, and all feeling of winter and seclusion was
forgotten.

'At night, when I was shown into my chamber, the footman asked if I
chose to have my bed warmed. I inquired whether it was well aired;
he assured me, with a tone of integrity, that I had nothing to fear,
for "that it had not been slept in for half a year." The French are
not afraid of damp beds, but they have a great dread of catching
some infectious disease from sleeping in any bed in which a stranger
may have recently lain.

'My bedchamber at this chateau was hung with tapestry, and as the
footman assured me of the safety of my bed, he drew aside a piece of
the tapestry, which discovered a small recess in the wall that held
a grabat, in which my servant was invited to repose. My servant was
an Englishman, whose indignation nothing but want of words to
express it could have concealed; he deplored my unhappy lot; as for
himself, he declared, with a look of horror, that nothing could
induce him to go into such a pigeon-hole. I went to visit the
accommodations of my companion, Mr. Rosenhagen. I found him in a
spacious apartment hung all round with tapestry, so that there was
no appearance of any windows. I was far from being indifferent to
the comfort of a good dry bed; but poor Mr. Rosenhagen, besides
being delicate, was hypochondriac. With one of the most rueful
countenances I ever beheld, he informed me that he must certainly
die of cold. His teeth chattered whilst he pointed to the tapestry