rence to her--sits quietly and abstractedly in
her own peculiar corner on the sofa, her desk--upon which lies Sir
Walter Scott's pen, given to her by him when in Ireland--placed before
her upon a little quaint table, as unassuming as possible. Miss
Edgeworth's abstractedness would puzzle the philosophers: in that same
corner, and upon that table, she has written nearly all that has
enlightened and delighted the world. There she writes as eloquently as
ever, wrapt up to all appearance in her subject, yet knowing, by a sort
of instinct, when she is really wanted in dialogue; and, without laying
down her pen, hardly looking up from her page, she will, by a judicious
sentence wisely and kindly spoken, explain and elucidate in a few words,
so as to clear up any difficulty; or turn the conversation into a new
and more pleasing current. She has the most harmonious way of throwing
in explanations--informing without embarrassing. A very large family
party assemble daily in this charming room, young and old bound alike to
the spot by the strong cords of memory and love. Mr. Francis Edgeworth,
the youngest son of the present Mrs. Edgeworth, and of course Miss
Edgeworth's youngest brother, has a family of little ones who seem to
enjoy the freedom of the library as much as their elders. To set these
little people right if they are wrong; to rise from her table to fetch
them a toy, or even to save a servant a journey; to mount the steps and
find a volume that escapes all eyes but her own, and, having done so, to
find exactly the passage wanted--are hourly employments of this most
unspoiled and admirable woman. She will then resume her pen, and, what
is more extraordinary, hardly seem to have even frayed the thread of her
ideas; her mind is so rightly balanced, everything is so honestly
weighed, that she suffers no inconvenience from what would disturb and
distract an ordinary writer."

Miss Edgeworth wrote of this notice:--

Mrs. Hall has sent to me her last number, in which she gives
Edgeworthstown. All the world here are pleased with it, and so am
I. I like the way in which she has mentioned my father
particularly. There is an evident kindness of heart and care to
avoid everything that could hurt any of our feelings, and at the
same time a warmth of affectionate feeling, unaffectedly expressed,
that we all like in spite of our dislike to that sort of thing.

Early in 1843 Miss Edgeworth was take