d he sends (with his usual perspicuity)
affectionate messages to the Doctor's 'good amiable lady and _his giant
brood_.' But this long friendly correspondence was coming to an end. The
Doctor's letters, so quietly humorous and to the point, Mr. Edgeworth's
answers with all their characteristic and lively variety, were nearly at
an end.

It was in 1800 that Maria had achieved her great success, and published
'Castle Rackrent,' a book--not for children this time--which made
everybody talk who read, and those read who had only talked before. This
work was published anonymously, and so great was its reputation that
some one was at the pains to copy out the whole of the story with
erasures and different signs of authenticity, and assume the authorship.

One very distinctive mark of Maria Edgeworth's mind is the honest
candour and genuine critical faculty which is hers. Her appreciation of
her own work and that of others is unaffected and really discriminating,
whether it is 'Corinne' or a simple story which she is reading, or
Scott's new novel the 'Pirate,' or one of her own manuscripts which she
estimates justly and reasonably. 'I have read "Corinne" with my father,
and I like it better than he does. In one word, I am dazzled by the
genius, provoked by the absurdities, and in admiration of the taste and
critical judgment of Italian literature displayed throughout the whole
work: but I will not dilate upon it in a letter. I could talk for three
hours to you and my aunt.'

Elsewhere she speaks with the warmest admiration of a 'Simple Story.'
Jane Austen's books were not yet published; but another writer, for whom
Mr. Edgeworth and his daughter had a very great regard and admiration,
was Mrs. Barbauld, who in all the heavy trials and sorrows of her later
life found no little help and comfort in the friendship and constancy of
Maria Edgeworth. Mr. and Mrs. Barbauld, upon Mr. Edgeworth's invitation,
paid him a visit at Clifton, where he was again staying in 1799, and
where the last Mrs. Edgeworth's eldest child was born. There is a little
anecdote of domestic life at this time in the Memoirs which gives
one a glimpse, not of an authoress, but of a very sympathising and
impressionable person. 'Maria took her little sister to bring down to
her father, but when she had descended a few steps a panic seized her,
and she was afraid to go either backwards or forwards. She sat down on
the stairs afraid she should drop the child, afrai