And dear Lady Morgan, see, see where she comes, With her pulses all beating for freedom like drums, So Irish, so modish, so mixtish, so wild, So committing herself, as she talks, like a child; So trim, yet so easy, polite, yet high-hearted, That Truth and she, try all she can, won't be parted. She'll put on your fashions, your latest new air, And then talk so frankly, she'll make you all stare. Mrs. Hall may say "Oh!" and Miss Edgeworth say "Fie!" But my lady will know the what and the why. Her books, a like mixture, are so very clever That Jove himself swore he could read them for ever, Plot, character, freakishness, all are so good, And the heroine herself playing tricks in a hood. After a happy year with her patrons Glorvina married and moved to a home of her own in Kildare street, Dublin, whence she writes to Lady Stanley: "With respect to authorship, I fear it is over. I have been making chair-covers instead of periods, hanging curtains instead of raising systems, and cheapening pots and pans instead of selling sentiment and philosophy." But even during this first busy year of housekeeping she was working upon _O'Donnel_, another national tale, for which she was paid five hundred and fifty pounds. It was highly praised by Sir Walter Scott, and sold with rapidity, but her Liberal politics made her unpopular with the leading Tory journalism of England. In point of pitiless invective the criticism of the _Quarterly_ and _Blackwood_ has perhaps never been exceeded. Her books were denounced as pestilent, and the public advised against maintaining her acquaintance. Miss Martineau, an impartial critic, if impartiality consists in punching almost every one she passed, did not fail to give our heroine a black eye, speaking of her as "in that set to which Mrs. Jameson belonged, who make women blush and men grow insolent."