A great, great, great, long time ago, as the story-tellers say, when novels were few and far between, and an Irish novel was a thing almost unheard of, a smart, self-educated Irish girl, of, we believe, rather humble origin, discovered that she had a knack at writing, and, having published a cleverish novel, called "The Wild Irish Girl," was taken up by great people, exploited, made the fashion, and had Sir Charles Morgan, a physician of some standing, given her for a husband. She continued to write. Her work on France made some noise, on account of its having been prohibited by the French government; and her subsequent book on Italy, if not profound, was at least sprightly. Her Irish novels were, however, her best productions. There is considerable observation, and some feeling, displayed in them. Her knowledge of Irish society is very exact, and her pictures of it very slightly exaggerated. "The O'Briens and O'Flahertys" and "Florence MacCarthy" are, perhaps, the best of her works of fiction. At this period, Lady Morgan possessed a rather interesting appearance, great audacity, and a certain reckless style of conversation, which was found to be piquant by the jaded gossips of the metropolis. She was taken up by London society,--which must always be taking up something, whether it be a chimney-sweep that composes music, or an elephant that dances the _valse à deux temps_; and she fluttered from party to party, a sort of Tom Moore in petticoats,--with this difference, that Moore left his meek little wife at home, while Lady Morgan trotted her husband out after her on all occasions. It is amusing to observe what pains the poor woman takes to persuade us that Sir Charles is a monstrous clever man. Betsy Trotwood never labored harder to convince the world of the merits of Mr. Dick, than Lady Morgan does to obtain a place for her husband as a learned philosopher who was in advance of his age, or, as she prettily expresses it in French; (she likes to parade her French, this excellent wife,) "_il devançait son siècle_." This mania for inlaying her writing with French scraps rises with her Ladyship to a species of insanity. "_Est il possible_ that I am going to Italy?" she exclaims. How much more forcible is this than the vulgar "Is it possible?" When the Duke of Sussex comes into a party, he does not excite anything so common-place as a great sensation; no,--it is a "_grand mouvement_!" Praise bestowed on her is an "_éloge_." She would not condescend to speak of such things as folding-doors,--they are better as "_grands battants_." A change of scene is a "_changement de décoration_." Mrs. Opie, whom she sees at a party, is not in full dress, but "_en grand costume_." The three Messrs. Lygon look very "_hautain_." And while driving with Lady Charleville, instead of having a charming conversation on the road, her Ladyship has it "_chemin faisant_." _Allons_, mi lady! you prefer that style of writing.