fore her marriage, and about the same age as Miss
Edgeworth, unconsciously reveals her own most charming and unselfish
nature as she tells her stepdaughter's story.

When the writer looks back upon her own childhood, it seems to her that
she lived in company with a delightful host of little playmates, bright,
busy, clever children, whose cheerful presence remains more vividly in
her mind than that of many of the real little boys and girls who used to
appear and disappear disconnectedly as children do in childhood, when
friendship and companionship depend almost entirely upon the convenience
of grown-up people. Now and again came little cousins or friends to
share our games, but day by day, constant and unchanging, ever to be
relied upon, smiled our most lovable and friendly companions--simple
Susan, lame Jervas, Talbot, the dear Little Merchants, Jem the widow's
son with his arms round old Lightfoot's neck, the generous Ben, with his
whipcord and his useful proverb of 'waste not, want not'--all of these
were there in the window corner waiting our pleasure. After Parents'
Assistant, to which familiar words we attached no meaning whatever, came
Popular Tales in big brown volumes off a shelf in the lumber-room of an
apartment in an old house in Paris, and as we opened the books, lo!
creation widened to our view. England, Ireland, America, Turkey,
the mines of Golconda, the streets of Bagdad, thieves, travellers,
governesses, natural philosophy, and fashionable life, were all laid
under contribution, and brought interest and adventure to our humdrum
nursery corner. All Mr. Edgeworth's varied teaching and experience, all
his daughter's genius of observation, came to interest and delight our
play-time, and that of a thousand other little children in different
parts of the world. People justly praise Miss Edgeworth's admirable
stories and novels, but from prejudice and early association these
beloved childish histories seem unequalled still, and it is chiefly as
a writer for children that we venture to consider her here. Some of the
stories are indeed little idylls in their way. Walter Scott, who best
knew how to write for the young so as to charm grandfathers as well as
Hugh Littlejohn, Esq., and all the grandchildren, is said to have wiped
his kind eyes as he put down 'Simple Susan.' A child's book, says a
reviewer of those days defining in the 'Quarterly Review,' should be
'not merely less dry, less difficult, than a book fo