in constant remembrance, in constant intercourse with home, and it was usually Miss Edgeworth's ready pen that kept the link well knit. Hence the large number of her family letters extant, many of which have no separate interest for the world, bnt which, taken as a whole, reflect both her own unselfish personality, and the busy life of young and old around her. In her letters she never dwells on troubles; they overflow with spirits, life, and hope. As they are apt to be long and diffuse, it is not easy to quote from them; but every one presents a nature that beat in unison with all that is noble and good. She was alive to everything around her, full of generous sympathies, enthusiastic in her admiration of all that had been achieved by others. Her praises came fresh and warm from a warm and eloquent Irish heart. That these utterances are toned down and tamed in her books, is yet another proof how the need to illustrate her father's ulterior aims cramped her in the expression of her feelings. His mind, though she knew it not, was inferior to hers, and though it was in some respects like her own, it yet hung heavy on the wings of her fancy. In later life she wrote more letters to acquaintances than at this time. In these years she says to a friend who upbraided her for not writing oftener:—
I do not carry on what is called a regular correspondence with anybody except with one or two of my very nearest relations. And it is best to tell you the plain truth, that my father particularly dislikes to see me writing letters : therefore I write as few as I possibly can.
Of herself she speaks least of all, of her writings seldom, and when she does, but incidentally. Without certainly intending it, she painted herself when she writes of Mrs. Emma Granby ("the modern Griselda"):—
All her thoughts were intent upon making her friends happy. She
