1822.] Contemporary Authors , JS 
in many or most articles, such as spirits, 
&c., and, indeed, all sort of corn, the 
most necessary article of our existence, 
is altogether valued by very small sam¬ 
ples of every cargo. 
Upon the whole, Sir, it seems in¬ 
comprehensible why this act should 
not be strictly enforced, unless it may 
he imputed to the interference of spe¬ 
culators, jobbers, &c. &c., since the re¬ 
gular consumer would repay himself 
amply, as they always do, upon the 
advanced cost of any article of their 
manufacture. H. 
For the Monthly Magazine. 
CONTEMPORARY AUTHORS. 
No. XI. 
MISS EDGEWORTH. 
Tip HERE are some names in the re- 
JL public of letters, as in the world 
of politics, which, from a variety of as¬ 
sociations in the mind, seem to have a 
prescriptive title to public respect, even 
when all the members have not the for¬ 
tune to be distinguished by particular 
pre-eminence over their contempora¬ 
ries. Among this envied list is that 
of Edgeworth. And, their own specific 
merits out of the question, it would al¬ 
most be a reflection on our taste were 
it not so, with the chosen friends and 
associates of Watt, Wedgwood, Darwin, 
Day, Beddoes, and so many other emi¬ 
nent names in science and literature. 
To the father of this lady they rendered 
the regard due to solid and useful ac¬ 
quirements. To herself something 
more. Her friends have been, not 
merely warm, but enthusiastic in 
her praise ; and the public in general, 
sufficiently partial. Even those bull¬ 
dogs of literature, the reviewers, who 
guard all the avenues to the temple of 
Fame with a vigilance that looks as if 
they 1 *-nought none but themselves had 
any right to enter there, have opened 
their wide and noisy throats to join in 
the cry of applause. The coarse* 
mouthed journal of Edinburgh, grown 
hoarse in abuse, has deigned to take her 
under its especial protection, and now 
flourishes the dulcet notes of eulogy 
over her volumes ; the fact covers a 
multitude of its sins. Nor has the 
Quarterly ventured strongly to dis¬ 
praise, though, like the opposite prin¬ 
ciples of electricity, these two always 
draw different ways. The British 
pursues its drowsy way with character¬ 
istic indifference. While all the 
monthly tribe—the mere dog-fish of 
o. XI—Miss Edgeworth. 499 
criticism, with the form and appetites 
of the shark, without the same powers 
of doing mischief—let pass with impu¬ 
nity what their more voracious elder 
brethren are compelled to spare. 
The truth is, she is above them all. 
She has had in an eminent degree, pub¬ 
lic opinion in her favour. And this, if 
it does not elevate an author out of the 
reach of unjust or petulant criticism, at 
least destroys much of its point, and 
all its malice. Something is likewise 
due to coming out into the world under 
the wing of a father favourably distin¬ 
guished in the walks of science and in¬ 
genuity; something to her wise ex¬ 
clusion of politics and political opinions 
from all herworks;—something to their 
uniform aim—utility: most of all, to 
her undoubted talents as a theoretical 
teacher of education, as a general no¬ 
velist, and as a faithful delineator of 
national manners. 
The genius of Miss Edgeworth is pe¬ 
culiar. If good sense can be said to be 
embodied in anyone novel-writer’s pen 
of the day, it is in her’s. It is never on 
stilts—never runs away with her; but 
by a species of habitual caution, seems 
pinned down to the steady, the sober, 
and the practical. She never attempts 
to astonish or surprise us in the con¬ 
duct of her stories, to excite the mind 
by extraordinary or violent means, in 
order to interest it to a painful degree, 
but seeks to win the attention by legi¬ 
timate and more ordinary incidents; 
and these experience has proved both 
to require more power in the writer, 
and to possess more permanent effects 
on the mind of the reader. Following 
up this design, we find in her volumes 
so much of nature and general life, 
combined with that rational tone of 
feeling peculiarly her own, that we 
are often tempted to think her tales of 
fiction, actual truths. This very ad¬ 
herence to nature, may induce some to 
think her too tame; they want to see 
her give the reins to her imagination ; 
to revel in the wild regions of impro¬ 
bability, without any check from rea¬ 
son or reality. We doubt much whe¬ 
ther she has any taste for this. We 
doubt more whether she could accom¬ 
plish it successfully even if so inclined. 
For tightly curbed as her genius evi¬ 
dently has been by paternal criticism 
and admonition, it might now require 
some whipping and spurring to plunge 
headlong into the abyss of romance. 
With writers of this kind indeed she 
claims no kindred. All the stories of 
the 
