The mere name of Lady Morgan is not one that can or will be readily forgotten. She was a brilliant woman of the world—she travelled and saw much—she wrote upwards of seventy volumes—she was original, witty, and fearless—she had vehement and cruel enemies and ardent friends—she braved sarcasm and slander, and kept good her stand against a host. Her very faults—and they were open—extended her celebrity. She talked admirably, and both talked and wrote a good deal about herself. Few of the women who have written have done more than Lady Morgan, by the very bent of her nature, to be remembered long. Her celebrity is two-fold; like that of Madame de Staël, it is personal and literary. Her genius is not of that commanding order over which Time has no power; but even when her books are forgotten, or no longer read, her name will hold no contemptible position in the political and literary history of her times.

The grave has scarcely closed on Lady Morgan, and it is very early yet to write about her, but she belongs to a dead generation, and though she survived it—though some of the contests in which she was mingled have not lost their bitterness—it is possible to be dispassionate, and especially to judge calmly and impartially that portion of her writings which concerns these pages.