When we remember that it was Richard Edgeworth, the father of Maria, who trained and encouraged her first efforts in literature, we feel that we owe him a debt of gratitude; but our interest is increased when we read his Memoirs, for we then find ourselves brought into close contact with a very intelligent and vigorous mind, keen to take part in the scientific experiments of the day, while his upright moral character and earnest and well-directed efforts to improve his Irish property win our admiration; and when we remember that he married in succession four wives, and preserved harmony among the numerous members of his household, our admiration becomes wonder, and we would fain learn the secret of his success.  One element in his success doubtless was that he kept every one around him usefully employed, and in the manner most suited to each.  He knew how to develop innate talent, and did not crush or overpower those around him.  He owed much to the early training of a sensible mother, and he gives an anecdote of his early childhood, which I will quote:—­

’My mother was not blind to my faults.  She saw the danger of my passionate temper.  It was a difficult task to correct it; though perfectly submissive to her, I was with others rebellious and outrageous in my anger.  My mother heard continual complaints of me; yet she wisely forbore to lecture or punish me for every trifling misdemeanour; she seized proper occasions to make a strong impression upon my mind.

’One day my elder brother tom, who, as I have said, was almost a man when I was a little child, came into the nursery where I was playing, and where the maids were ironing.  Upon some slight provocation or contradiction from him, I flew into a violent passion; and, snatching up one of the boxirons which the maid had just laid down, I flung it across the table at my brother.  He stooped instantly; and, thank God! it missed him.  There was a redhot heater in it, of which I knew nothing until I saw it thrown out, and until I heard the scream from the maids.  They seized me, and dragged me downstairs to my mother.  Knowing that she was extremely fond of my brother, and that she was of a warm indignant temper, they expected that signal vengeance would burst upon me.  They all spoke at once.  When my mother heard what I had done, I saw she was struck with horror, but she said not one word in anger to me.  She ordered everybody out of the room except myself, and then drawing me near her, she spoke to me in a mild voice, but in a most serious manner.  First, she explained to me the nature of the crime which I had run the hazard of committing; she told me she was sure that I had no intention seriously to hurt my brother, and did not know that if the iron had hit my brother, it must have killed him.  While I felt this first shock, and whilst the horror of murder was upon me, my mother seized the moment to conjure me to try in future to command my passions.  I remember her telling me that I had an uncle by the