arying activity free from restlessness,
distinguished most of its members, and especially the father and eldest
daughter. Nor was there anything prim or starched in the home
atmosphere; though ethically severe and maintained at a high level of
thought, gaiety, laughter and all the lighter domestic graces prevailed.
Miss Edgeworth's letters reflect a cheerful, united home of the kind she
loves to paint. Like many united families, the Edgeworths were strong in
a belief in their own relations; they had the clan feeling well
developed. Not a member went forth from the paternal nest but was held
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, but 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