returning to her "_maison bijou_" in Dublin, she put forth a quarto!
with the magnificent title of "France." There are phenomena in the
physical world, in the moral world, in the intellectual world, but this
book was a phenomenon that beat them all. It was absolutely wonderful
how so much ignorance, nonsense, vanity, and folly, could be compressed
within the compass even of a quarto. All the sense that could be
discerned in it, was contained in four or five essays, upon Love, Law
and Physic, and Politics, contributed by Sir the husband. Being anxious
that "France" should have a companion, she subsequently made an
expedition to the land of the Dilettanti, in company with the dear man
who had made her, "she _trusts_, a respectable, and she is _sure_, a
happy mistress of a family," and forthwith "Italy" appeared to sustain
her well-earned reputation for qualities, which she has the singular
felicity of possessing without exciting envy. But her "never ending,
still beginning" pen, was not satisfied with two volumes as the fruits
of her Italian campaigning, especially as there happened to be a goodly
quantity of memoranda in the "diary" which had not yet been turned to
any use. Some subject, therefore, was to be hit upon for another
publication, in which they could be inserted, when beat out into a
sizeable shape; and what could be better adapted for that purpose than
the biography of a great Italian artist? The life of poor Salvator Rosa
was, in consequence, attempted. Just think of making one of the
greatest geniuses that ever lived, a peg to hang notes upon! The next
offspring of her Ladyship's brain, was, we believe, another novel, which
was as like its predecessors as possible. In the period that elapsed
between this birth, and the moment in which we have had the honour of
introducing her to our readers, her literary family was increased by
another child, with the delightful name of "The Book of the Boudoir."

We hope we have not been understood as meaning to insinuate, that
because her Ladyship is the mother of a couple of dozen of volumes, she
is on that account a _precieuse ridicule_. This was far, very far from
our intention. None can take more pleasure than ourselves in rendering
all homage to genuine female talent, employed for useful and honourable
purposes, or be more willing to acknowledge the peculiar excellence by
which its productions are frequently marked. Were it our pleasant duty
at present to notice the