and, indeed, _Castle Rackrent_ received such a tribute as no other novel
ever had paid to it. Many people have heard how when _Waverley_ came to
the Edgeworth household, Mr. Edgeworth, after his custom, read it aloud
almost, as it would appear, at one sitting. When the end came for that
fascinated circle, amid the chorus of exclamations, Mr. Edgeworth said:
"What is this? _Postscript which ought to have been a preface_." Then
there was a chorus of protests that he should not break the spell with
prose. "Anyhow," he said, "let us hear what the man has to say," and so
read on to the passage where Scott explained that he desired to do for
Scotland what had been done for Ireland: "to emulate the admirable
fidelity of Miss Edgeworth's portraits." What Maria Edgeworth felt we
know from the letter she posted off "to the Author of 'Waverley,' _Aut
Scotus aut Diabolus_."

It would be unkind to compare Scott with his model. For the poetry and
the tragic power of his novels one would never think of looking in Miss
Edgeworth. Her work is compact of observation; yet the gifts she has are
not to be under-valued. She is mistress of a kindly yet searching
satire, real wit, a fine vein of comedy; and she can rise to such true
pathos as dignifies the fantastic figure of King Corny in _Ormond_,
perhaps the best thing she ever did. But she had in her father a
literary adviser, not of the negative but of the positive order, and
there never was a more fully developed prig than Richard Edgeworth. His
view of literature was purely utilitarian; to convey practical lessons
was the business of all superior persons, more particularly of an
Edgeworth. In _Castle Rackrent_ his suggestions and comments are happily
relegated to the position of notes; in the other books they form part
and parcel of the novel. _The Absentee_, for instance, contains
admirable dialogue and many life-like figures; but the scheme of the
story conveys a sense of unreality. Every fault or vice has its
counterbalancing virtue represented. Lady Clonbroney, vulgarly ashamed
of her country, is set off by the patriotic Lady Oranmore; the virtuous
Mr. Burke forms too obvious a pendant to the rascally agents old Nick
and St. Dennis. It is needless to say that the exclusively virtuous
people are deadly dull. It is the novel with a purpose written by a
novelist whose strength lies in the delineation of character. Miss
Edgeworth can never carry you away with her story, as Charles Reade