gaily aside, and said, "You see how it
is: Dean Swift said he had written his books in order that people should
learn to treat him like a great lord; Sir Walter writes his in order
that he might be able to treat his people as a great lord ought to do."'

Years and years afterwards Edward Fitzgerald stayed at Edgeworthstown,
and he also carries us there in one of his letters. He had been at
college with Mr. Frank Edgeworth, who had succeeded to the estate, and
had now in 1828 come to stay with him. The host had been called away,
but the guest describes his many hostesses: 'Edgeworth's mother, aged
seventy-four; his sister, the great Maria, aged seventy-two; and another
cousin or something. All these people were pleasant and kind, the house
pleasant, the grounds ditto, a good library, so here I am quite at home,
but surely must go to England soon.' One can imagine Fitzgerald sitting
in the library with his back to the window and writing his letters
and reading his thirty-two sets of novels, while the rain is steadily
pouring outside, and the Great Authoress (so he writes her down) as busy
as a bee sitting by chattering and making a catalogue of her books. 'We
talk about Walter Scott, whom she adores, and are merry all day long,'
he says. 'When I began this letter I thought I had something to say, but
I believe the truth was I had nothing to do.'

Two years later Mr. Fitzgerald is again there and writing to Frederick
Tennyson: 'I set sail from Dublin to-morrow night, bearing the heartfelt
regrets of all the people of Ireland with me.' Then comes a flash of his
kind searching lantern: 'I had a pleasant week with Edgeworth. He farms
and is a justice, and goes to sleep on the sofa of evenings. At odd
moments he looks into Spinoza and Petrarch. People respect him very much
in these parts.' Edward Fitzgerald seems to have had a great regard for
his host; the more he knows him the more he cares for him; he describes
him 'firing away about the odes of Pindar.' They fired noble broadsides
those men of the early Victorian times, and when we listen we still seem
to hear their echoes rolling into the far distance. Mr. Fitzgerald
ends his letter with a foreboding too soon to be realised: 'Old Miss
Edgeworth is wearing away. She has a capital bright soul, which even now
shines quite youthfully through her faded carcase.' It was in May 1849
that Maria Edgeworth went to her rest. She died almost suddenly, with no
long suffering, in the a