Miss Edgeworth, or rather her father, appeared to have no comprehension of the fact that misfortunes of birth most frequently act on the children as a deterrent; so that they make, as it were, hereditary expiation. But here appears the want of tenderness in Miss Edgeworth's work, a quality she owned as a woman, and lacked as an author. The two were certainly curiously different at times. But though not tender, she is always amiable and kindly, even though she does not look far beneath the surface, and never deals with the soul. Unknown to her were its silent tragedies, its conflicts, hopes and fears. Those feelings that did not manifest themselves in life or action were beyond her range of comprehension. She had a genius for observing such things as can be observed; the lower depths are never stirred by herself or her characters. But it was her genius for observation, her power of reproducing what she had seen, that made her greatness, a greatness limited in its extent, but none the less greatness of its kind. Her works fully merit the admiration they have so long enjoyed.
An amusing summing-up of Miss Edgeworth's novels is given by Leigh Hunt in his poem, "Blue Stocking Revels," Apollo gives a ball to all the eminent contemporary authoresses, and criticises his guests as they enter.
At the sight of Miss Edgeworth, he says:—
As sincere and as kind as lives under the sun ;
Not poetical, eh ? nor much given to insist
On utilities not in utility's list.
(Things nevertheless without which the large heart
Of my world would but play a poor husk of a part.)
But most truly, within her own sphere sympathetic,
And that's no mean help towards the practic-poetic."
