works of an Edgeworth, a Hemans, a Mitford, a
Sedgwick, or of any others of that fair and brilliant assemblage, who
reflect so great a lustre upon the literature of this age, we should use
language as eulogistic as their warmest admirers could desire. But we
have to do now with a person of a very different description from those
bright ornaments of their sex--with one in whose mind, whatever flowers
Nature may originally have planted, have been almost completely choked
by the rank weeds of ignorance, presumption, frivolity, and vanity
beyond measurement--who, in a list of works as long, to use one of her
own delicate illustrations, as "Leporello's catalogue of Don Juan's
mistresses," has given little or no aid to the cause of virtue
generally, or evinced the slightest anxiety to improve and benefit her
sex, but has devoted all her faculties to the erection of an altar on
which she might worship herself, and only herself--who has even afforded
cause, by the frequently extreme levity of her expressions, for the
charge of lending countenance to licentiousness and impiety--whose
writings, in fine, are calculated to inflict serious injury upon the
tastes, the understandings, and the hearts of her youthful female
readers, by accustoming them to a vicious and ridiculous style, by
filling their minds with false and perverted sentiments and wrong
impressions upon some of the most important matters, and by setting
before them the example of a woman who boasts of being a member of no
undistinguished circle of society, and yet constantly violates those
laws of delicacy and refinement, the full observance of which is
indispensable for every female who aspires to the name and character of
a lady.

Pale Aurora began now to appear, "_Tiphoni croceum linquens cubile_," in
vulgar parlance, day began to break. Behold our couple setting forth on
their Parisian expedition. Some months afterwards, the "_maison
bijou_," in Kildare street, again was illumined by the presence of our
fair traveller, whose pen was soon mended, dipped in ink, and busily
employed. In due time its labours were brought to a termination, and two
goodly volumes were ushered into the light of day, purporting to contain
an account of "France in 1829-30." These are the identical volumes which
it is our design in this article to notice.

"_Facit indignatio versus_," exclaimed the old Roman satirist, and
"indignation makes us write," would we exclaim, in assigning our mot