s from the recollection of the
arguments he used, and from her father's replies, that five years
afterwards Miss Edgeworth wrote her _Letters to Literary Ladies_, though
they were not published till after the death of Mr. Day. Indeed, it is
possible that had he lived Maria Edgeworth would have remained unknown
to fame, so great was her father's deference to his judgment, though
sensible that there was much prejudice mixed with his reasons. "Yet,"
adds Miss Edgeworth, "though publication was out of our thoughts, as
subjects occurred, many essays and tales were written for private
amusement."

The first stories she wrote were some of those now in the _Parent's
Assistant_ and _Early Lessons_. She wrote them on a slate, read them
out to her sisters and brothers, and, if they approved, copied them.
Thus they were at once put to the test of childish criticism; and it is
this, and living all her life among children, that has made Miss
Edgeworth's children's stories so inimitable. She understood children,
knew them, sympathized with them. Her father's large and ever-increasing
family, in which there were children of all ages, gave her a wide and
varied audience of youthful critics, among the severest in the world.
Many of her longer tales and novels were also written or planned during
these years. Her father had, however, imbued her with the Horatian
maxim, _novumque prematur in annum_, so that many things lay by for
years to be considered by her and her father, recorrected, revised, with
the result that nothing was ever given to the world but the best she
could produce.

Thus, contented, busy, useful, the even course of her girlhood flowed on
and merged into early womanhood, with no more exciting breaks than the
arrival of a box of new books from London, an occasional visit to her
neighbors, or, best of all, to Black Castle, a few hours' drive from
Edgeworthstown, where lived her father's favorite sister, Mrs. Ruxton,
her aunt and life-long friend. For forty-two years aunt and niece
carried on an uninterrupted correspondence, while their meetings were
sources of never-failing delight.

In 1789 the sudden death of Mr. Day deprived Mr. Edgeworth of a valued
friend. This man, who, for a person not actually insane, was certainly
one of the oddest that ever walked this earth, with his mixture of
_mauvaise honte_ and savage pride, misanthropy and philanthropy, had
exercised a great influence on both their lives. They felt his los