eneath 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 for
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:

"Here comes one
As sincere and 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."
Then smiling, he said a most singular thing--
He thanked her for making him "saving of string!"
But for fear she should fancy he did not approve her in
Matters more weighty, praised her _Manoeuvring_.
A book which, if aught could pierce craniums so dense,
Might supply cunning folks with a little good sense.
"And her Irish" (he added), "poor souls! so impressed him,
He knew not if most they amused or distressed him."

And now finally we are confronted with the question, will Miss
Edgeworth's works live, or will they be left to grow dusty upon the
library-shelves, in company with many names much respected in their
day? Who shall say? The novel is, of its very essence, the most
ephemeral style of literature, since it deals with the ever-shifting
pictures of its time. Nor is this unjust. The novelist of worth
receives, as a rule, his meed of recognition in his life-time, which is
not the lot of writers in all branches of literature. On the other hand,
to the student of manners, novels have a value no historian can outvie,
and on this account alone Miss Edgeworth's should not be left unread.
But not only on this account, for it is perhaps