article which her Ladyship says she has received in
exchange for her _impartiality!_--"proscription abroad,"--we feel pretty
confident that it exists no where but in her own imagination. There it
has, doubtless, been engendered by the malice of some ultra in disguise,
who has made her Ladyship believe, that the Emperor of Austria, the
Grand Signior, the King of Owyhee, and the other despots of the earth,
have forbidden, on pain of racking, roasting, and every kind of torture,
the importation of her books into their dominions, lest these should be
revolutionized by them forthwith. Heaven defend us! we are very much
afraid that Lady Morgan will set this world of ours on fire, somewhere
about the time when it comes in contact with the comet. It is not mere
supposition on our part that her Ladyship deems herself an object of
dread to the Austrian government at least;--read what she says apropos
of the entree of its ambassador into a ball-room where she was making
all the lamps and candles hide their diminished heads. "When his
Austrian excellence was announced, how I started, with all the weight of
Aulic proscription on my head! The representative of the long-armed
monarch of Hapsburg so near me,--of him, who, could he only once get his
fidgetty fingers on my _little_ neck, would give it a twist, that would
save his custom-house officers all future trouble of breaking carriages
and harassing travellers, in search of the pestilent writings of 'Ladi
Morgan.' I did not breathe freely, till his excellency had passed on
with his glittering train, into the illumined conservatory, and was lost
in a wilderness of flowering shrubs and orange trees." Ought not this
ambassador to be recalled for his negligence, his want of loyalty, in
not attempting to get his fingers about Miladi's 'little neck,' in order
to restore his Imperial master to peace and tranquillity of mind? Poor
Francis! still are you doomed to be _fidgetty_ on your throne. We think
we see you receiving intelligence of the appearance of this last
emanation from Ladi Morgan's untiring pen--a mortal paleness overspreads
your face, as Metternich rushes into your presence with terror depicted
in his countenance, articulating only "Ladi Morgan, Ladi Morgan," having
just obtained himself a knowledge of the dreadful fact from an almost
breathless courier--in an agony of suspense you gaze wildly at your
faithful counsellor, until he has recovered composure sufficient to
unfold to