respectable actor, a favourite in the society of Dublin, and author of some popular Irish songs. His daughter inherited his predilection for national music and song. Very early in life she published a small volume of poetical effusions, and afterwards The Lay of the Irish Harp, and a selection of twelve Irish melodies, with music. One of these is the popular song of Kate Kearney, and we question whether this lyric will not outlive all Lady Morgan's other lucubrations. While still in her teens, Miss Owenson became a novelist. She published successively St Clair, The Novice of St Dominick, and The Wild Irish Girl. These works evinced a fervid imagination, though little acquaintance with either art or nature. The Wild Irish Girl' was exceedingly popular, and went through seven editions in two years.

niscences); Woman and her Master (a philosophical history of woman down to the fall of the Roman empire); and various other shorter publications. In 1841 Lady Morgan published, in conjunction with her husband, Sir T. C. Morgan, M.D. (author of Sketches of the Philosophy of Life and Morals, &c.), two volumes, collected from the portfolios of the writers, and stray sketches which had previously appeared in periodicals, entitling the collection The Book Without a Name. In reviewing the literary progress of Lady Morgan, one of her friendly admirers (Mr Henry F. Chorley) has the following observations:

"The strong national enthusiasm of childhood, at once somewhat indiscriminate in its warmth and limited in its scope, will be seen to have ended in fearless and decided political partisanship, in the espousing of ultra-liberal doctrines, abroad as well as at home. But let us quote Lady Morgan's own words from the preface to the last edition of O'Donnel. "After all, however," says she, "if I became that reviled but now very fashionable personage, a female politician, it was much in the same way as the Bourgeois Gentilhomme spoke prose without knowing it, a circumstance perhaps not uncommon with Irish writers. * * For myself at least, born and dwelling in Ireland amidst my countrymen and their sufferings, I saw and I described, I felt and I pleaded: and if a political bias was ultimately taken, it originated in the natural condition of things, and not in malice aforethought' of the writer." In each successive novel, too, the characters will be found more and more boldly contrasted, the scenes prepared and arranged with finer artifice. If we cannot but note the strong family likeness which exists between all their plots, through every one of which a brilliant and devoted woman flits in masquerade, now to win a lover, now to save a friend, now to make a proselyte, we must also insist upon the living nature of many of their dramatis persona, especially the broadly comic ones, instancing the Crawleys ("Florence Macarthy"), and Lieutenant O'Mealy ("The O'Briens"), and Lawrence Fegan and Sir Ignatius Dogherty (" The Princess"), and upon the thousand indications scattered here and there with apparent artlessness, but real design, which prove that though their writer loves to float upon the surface of life and society, she can at will dive into their depths, and bring up truths new and valuable.'

Miss Owenson continued her labours as a novelist. Patriotic Sketches, Ida, and The Missionary, were her next works. O'Donnel soon followed, and was succeeded by Florence Macarthy, an Irish Tale (1818), and The O'Briens and the O'Flahertys (1827). In these works our authoress departed from the beaten track of sentimental novels, and ventured, like Miss Edgeworth, to portray national manners. We have the high authority of Sir Walter Scott for the opinion, that 'O'Donnel,' though deficient as a story, has some striking and beautiful passages of situation and description, and in the comic part is very rich and entertaining.' Lady Morgan's sketches of Irish manners are not always pleasing. Her high-toned society is disfigured with grossness and profligacy, and her subordinate characters are often caricatured. The vivacity and variety of these delineations constitute one of their attractions: if not always true, they are lively; for it was justly said, that whether it is a review of volunteers in the Phoenix Park, or a party at the Castle, or a masquerade, a meeting of United Irishmen, a riot in Dublin, or a jug-day at Bog-Moy-in every change of scene and situation our authoress wields the pen of a ready writer.' One complaint against these Irish sketches was their personality, the authoress indicating that some of her portraits at the vice-regal court, and those moving in the best society of Dublin, were intended for well-known characters. Their conversation is often a sad jargon of prurient allusion, comments on dress, and quotations in French and Italian, with which almost every page is patched and disfigured. The unfashionable characters and descriptions-even the rapparees, and the lowest of the old Irish natives, are infinitely more entertaining than these offshoots of the aristocracy, as painted by Lady Morgan. In the summer of 1816, Lord Byron and Mr and Her strength evidently lies in describing the broad Mrs Shelley were residing on the banks of the Lake characteristics of her nation, their boundless mirth, of Geneva. They were in habits of daily intercourse, their old customs, their love of frolic, and their wild and when the weather did not allow of their boating grief at scenes of death and calamity. The other excursions on the lake, the Shelleys often passed works of our authoress are France and Italy, con- their evenings with Byron at his house at Diodati. taining dissertations on the state of society, man- 'During a week of rain at this time,' says Mr Moore, ners, literature, government, &c. of those nations:having amused themselves with reading German these are written in a bold sketchy style, and with many gross faults, they are spirited, acute, and entertaining. Lord Byron has borne testimony to the fidelity and excellence of Italy; and if the authoress had been less ambitious of being always fine and striking,' and less solicitous to display her reading and high company, she might have been one of the most agreeable of tourists and observers. Besides these works, Lady Morgan has given to the world The Princess (a tale founded on the revolution in Belgium); Dramatic Scenes from Real Life (very poor in matter, and affected in style); The Life and Times of Salvator Rosa, two volumes; The Book of the Boudoir (autobiographical sketches and remi

MRS SHELLEY.

ghost-stories, they agreed at last to write something in imitation of them. "You and I," said Lord Byron to Mrs Shelley, "will publish ours together." He then began his tale of the Vampire; and having the whole arranged in his head, repeated to them a sketch of the story one evening, but from the narrative being in prose, made but little progress in filling up his outline. The most memorable result, indeed, of their story-telling compact, was Mrs Shelley's wild and powerful romance of Frankenstein-one of those original conceptions that take hold of the public mind at once and for ever.' 'Frankenstein' was published in 1917, and was instantly recognised as worthy of Godwin's daughter and Shelley's wife, and as, in fact,

recollection. I grasped his hand, and in a moment
forgot my horror and misfortune; I felt suddenly,
and for the first time during many months, calm and
serene joy. I welcomed my friend, therefore, in the
most cordial manner, and we walked towards my
college. Clerval continued talking for some time
about our mutual friends, and his own good fortune
in being permitted to come to Ingolstadt. "You may
easily believe," said he, "how great was the difficulty
to persuade my father that it was not absolutely ne-
cessary for a merchant not to understand anything
except book-keeping; and, indeed, I believe I left
him incredulous to the last, for his constant answer
to my unwearied intreaties was the same as that of
the Dutch schoolmaster in the Vicar of Wakefield
'I have ten thousand florins a-year without Greek; I
eat heartily without Greek.' But his affection for me
at length overcame his dislike of learning, and he has
permitted me to undertake a voyage of discovery to
the land of knowledge."

66

It gives me the greatest delight to see you; but tell me how you left my father, brothers, and Elizabeth."

"Very well, and very happy, only a little uneasy that they hear from you so seldom. By the by, I mean to lecture you a little upon their account myself. But, my dear Frankenstein," continued he, stopping short, and gazing full in my face, "I did not before remark how very ill you appear; so thin and pale; you look as if you had been watching for several nights."

"You have guessed right; I have lately been so deeply engaged in one occupation, that I have not allowed myself sufficient rest, as you see; but I hope, I sincerely hope, that all these employments are now at an end, and that I am at length free."

I imagined that the monster seized me; I struggled furiously, and fell down in a fit.

Poor Clerval! what must have been his feelings? A meeting which he anticipated with such joy so strangely turned to bitterness. But I was not the witness of his grief; for I was lifeless, and did not recover my senses for a long, long time.'

The monster ultimately becomes a terror to his

creator, and haunts him like a spell. For two years he disappears, but at the end of that time he is presented as the murderer of Frankenstein's infant brother, and as waging war with all mankind, in consequence of the disgust and violence with which his appearance is regarded. The demon meets and confronts his maker, demanding that he should create him a helpmate, as a solace in his forced expatriation from society. Frankenstein retires and begins the hideous task, and while engaged in it during the secrecy of midnight, in one of the lonely islands of the Orcades, the monster appears before

him.

'A ghastly grin wrinkled his lips as he gazed on me, where I sat fulfilling the task which he allotted to me. Yes, he had followed in my travels; he had loitered in forests, hid himself in caves, or taken refuge in wide and desert heaths; and he now came to mark my progress, and claim the fulfilment of my promise. As I looked on him, his countenance expressed the utmost extent of malice and treachery. I thought with a sensation of madness on my promise of creating another like to him, and, trembling with passion, tore to pieces the thing on which I was engaged. The wretch saw me destroy the creature on whose future existence he depended for happiness, and with a howl of devilish despair and revenge, withdrew.'

I trembled excessively; I could not endure to think of, and far less to allude to, the occurrences of the preA series of horrid and malignant events now mark ceding night. I walked with a quick pace, and we soon arrived at my college. I then reflected, and the the career of the demon. He murders the friend of thought made me shiver, that the creature whom I Frankenstein, strangles his bride on her weddinghad left in my apartment might still be there, alive, night, and causes the death of his father from grief. He eludes detection, but Frankenstein, in agony and and walking about. I dreaded to behold this monster; but I feared still more that Henry should see despair, resolves to seek him out, and sacrifice him him. Intreating him, therefore, to remain a few mi- to his justice and revenge. The pursuit is pronutes at the bottom of the stairs, I darted up towards tracted for a considerable time, and in various counmy own room. My hand was already on the lock of tries, and at length conducts us to the ice-bound the door before I recollected myself. I then paused, shores and islands of the northern ocean. Frankenand a cold shivering came over me. I threw the door stein recognises the demon, but ere he can reach forcibly open, as children are accustomed to do when him, the ice gives way, and he is afterwards with they expect a spectre to stand in waiting for them on difficulty rescued from the floating wreck by the the other side; but nothing appeared. I stepped crew of a vessel that had been embayed in that polar fearfully in; the apartment was empty, and my bed-region. Thus saved from perishing, Frankenstein room was also freed from its hideous guest. I could hardly believe that so great a good fortune could have befallen me; but when I became assured that my enemy had indeed fled, I clapped my hands for joy,

and ran down to Clerval.

We ascended into my room, and the servant presently brought breakfast; but I was unable to contain myself. It was not joy only that possessed me : I felt my flesh tingle with excess of sensitiveness, and my pulse beat rapidly. I was unable to remain for a single instant in the same place; I jumped over the chairs, clapped my hands, and laughed aloud. Clerval at first attributed my unusual spirits to joy on his arrival; but when he observed me more attentively, he saw a wildness in my eyes for which he could not account; and my loud unrestrained heartless laughter frightened and astonished him.

66

My dear Victor," cried he, "what, for God's sake, is the matter? Do not laugh in that manner. How ill you are! What is the cause of all this?"

"Do not ask me," cried I, putting my hands before my eyes, for I thought I saw the dreaded spectre glide into the room; "he can tell. Oh, save me! save me!"

relates to the captain of the ship his 'wild and wondrous tale,' but the suffering and exhaustion had proved too much for his frame, and he expires before the vessel had sailed for Britain. The monster visits the ship, and after mourning over the dead body of his victim, quits the vessel, resolved to seek the most northern extremity of the globe, and there to put a period to his wretched and unhallowed existence. The power of genius in clothing incidents the most improbable with strong interest and human sympathies is evinced in this remarkable story. The creation of the demon is admirably told. The successive steps by which the solitary student arrives at his great secret, after two years of labour, and the first glimpse which he obtains of the hideous monster, form a narrative that cannot be perused without sensations of awe and terror. While the demon is thus partially known and revealed, or seen only in the distance, gliding among cliffs and glaciers, appearing by moonlight to demand justice from his maker, or seated in his car among the tremendous solitudes of the northern ocean, the effect is striking and magnificent. The interest

ceases when we are told of the self-education of the monster, which is disgustingly minute in detail, and absurd in conception; and when we consider the improbability of his being able to commit so many crimes in different countries, conspicuous as he is in form, with impunity, and without detection. His malignity of disposition, and particularly his resentment towards Frankenstein, do not appear unnatural when we recollect how he has been repelled from society, and refused a companion by him who could alone create such another. In his wildest outbursts we partly sympathise with him, and his situation seems to justify his crimes. In depicting the internal workings of the mind and the various phases of the passions, Mrs Shelley evinces skill and acuteness. Like her father, she excels in mental analysis and in conceptions of the grand and the powerful, but fails in the management of her fable where probable incidents and familiar life are required or attempted.

In 1823 Mrs Shelley published another work of fiction, Valperga; or the Life and Adventures of Castruccio, Prince of Lucca, three volumes. The time of the story is that of the struggle between the Guelphs and the Ghibbelines. She is also the author of a novel upon the story of Perkin Warbeck.

[Love.]

It is said that in love we idolize the object, and placing him apart, and selecting him from his fellows, look on him as superior in nature to all others. We do so; but even as we idolize the object of our affections, do we idolize ourselves: if we separate him from his fellow mortals, so do we separate ourselves, and glorying in belonging to him alone, feel lifted above all other sensations, all other joys and griefs, to one hallowed circle from which all but his idea is banished: we walk as if a mist, or some more potent charm, divided us from all but him; a sanctified victim, which none but the priest set apart for that office could touch and not pollute, enshrined in a cloud of glory, made glorious through beauties not our

own.

REV. C. R. MATURIN.

by natural causes. Circumstance has been styled an unspiritual god,' and he seldom appears to less advantage than in the plots of Mr Maturin. Between 1807 and 1820 our author published a number of works of romantic fiction-The Milesian Chief; The Wild Irish Boy; Women, or Pour et Contre; and Melmoth the Wanderer-all works in three or four volumes each. 'Women' was well received by the public, but none of its predecessors, as the author himself states, ever reached a second edition. In 'Women' he aimed at depicting real life and manners, and we have some pictures of Calvinistic Methodists, an Irish Meg Merrilees, and an Irish hero, De Courcy, whose character is made up of contradictions and improbabilities. Two female characters, Eva Wentworth and Zaira, a brilliant Italian (who afterwards turns out to be the mother of Eva), are drawn with delicacy and fine effect. The former is educated in strict seclusion, and is purity itself. De Courcy is in love with both, and both are blighted by his inconstancy. Eva dies calmly and tranquilly, elevated by religious hope. Zaira meditates suicide, but desists from the attempt, and lives on, as if spell-bound to the death-place of her daughter and lover. De Courcy perishes of remorse. These scenes of deep passion and pathos are coloured with the lights of poetry and genius. Indeed the gradual decay of Eva is the happiest of surpassed. The simple truthfulness of the descrip- ·| all Mr Maturin's delineations, and has rarely been tion may be seen in passages like the following:

The weather was unusually fine, though it was Eva passed them almost entirely in the garden. She September, and the evenings mild and beautiful. had always loved the fading light and delicious tints of an evening sky, and now they were endeared by that which endears even indifferent things-an internal consciousness that we have not long to behold them. Mrs Wentworth remonstrated against this indulgence, and mentioned it to the physician; but

he

"answered neglectingly;" said anything that amused her mind could do her no harm, &c. Then Mrs Wentworth began to feel there was no hope; and Eva was suffered to muse life away unmolested. To the garden every evening she went, and brought her library with her; it consisted of but three books The REV. C. R. MATURIN, the poetical and eccen- -the Bible, Young's Night Thoughts, and Blair's tric curate of St Peter's, Dublin, came forward in Grave. One evening the unusual beauty of the sky 1807 as an imitator of the terrific and gloomy style made her involuntarily drop her book. She gazed of novel writing, of which Monk Lewis was the upward, and felt as if a book was open in heaven, modern master. Its higher mysteries were known where all the lovely and varying phenomena preonly to Mrs Radcliffe. The date of that style, as sented in living characters to her view the name of Maturin afterwards confessed, was out when he was the Divinity. There was a solemn congeniality bea boy, and he had not powers to revive it. His tween her feelings of her own state and the view of youthful production was entitled Fatal Revenge, or the declining day-the parting light and the apthe Family of Montorio. The first part of this title proaching darkness. The glow of the western was the invention of the publisher, and it proved a heaven was still resplendent and glorious; a little good bookselling appellation, for the novel was in above, the blending hues of orange and azure were high favour in the circulating libraries. It is un- softening into a mellow and indefinite light; and in doubtedly a work of genius-full of imagination the upper region of the air, a delicious blue darkness and energetic language, though both are sometimes invited the eye to repose in luxurious dimness: one carried to extravagance or bombast. There was, star alone showed its trembling head-another and however, as has been justly remarked, 'originality another, like infant births of light; and in the dark in the conception, hideous as it was, of the hero east the half-moon, like a bark of pearl, came on employing against the brother who had deceived through the deep still ocean of heaven. Eva gazed him the agency of that brother's own sons, whom on; some tears came to her eyes; they were a luxury. he persuades to parricide, by working on their Suddenly she felt as if she were quite well; a glow visionary fears, and by the doctrines of fatalism; like that of health pervaded her whole frame-one and then, when the deed is done, discovering that of those indescribable sensations that seem to assure the victims whom he had reasoned and persecuted us of safety, while, in fact, they are announcing disinto crime were his own children!' The author solution. She imagined herself suddenly restored to made abundant use of supernatural machinery, or health and to happiness. She saw De Courcy once at least what appears to be such, until the unra- more, as in their early hours of love, when his face velling of the plot discloses that the whole has been was to her as if it had been the face of an angel; effected, like the mysteries of the Castle of Udolpho, thought after thought came back on her heart like