but I have my doubts as to that fellow's honesty. Eolus wanted a harp, I know, and I am very much afraid the rascal was persuaded by him to part with some of the golden strings confided to his care.

Blue and Green were more moderate than either Yellow or myself. Blue dared not approach her, but as Eve raised her eyes to Heaven, the blue light streaming thence fixed itself in them, and Green, poor fellow-how humble he was— -he dared not come near her face, but in his great respect and adoration, he spread himself through the grass, at her feet, making it pleasant for her eyes to gaze on.

So we remained for some time, beautifying every thing for this noble pair; and in our gaiety of heart never suspecting that any thing was amiss -no, not even one day, when we saw the Serpent himself glide through our Paradise. We mocked him and laughed at him, and as we traced his winding course in and out through the openings in the brushwood, we threw our glancing colours across his back, as the sun shone on him. We might have observed, if we had been less giddy, that he wore the colour of our enemy, Black.

Things began to look sad now in Eden, and we knew some great evil had been done; for not long after, we saw Adam and Eve slowly and mournfully wend their way out, and oh! how reluctant was their tread. I was so frightened, that I recalled my crimson from her lips and cheeks, and gold refused to dwell any longer in her hair. Blue was more faithful: she would not leave the eyes, that had so often gazed on her with delight, as she frolicked in every direction.

Green grew dim on the forest leaves, and every thing mourned the departure from Eden. Our peaceful sylvan days were now over; we were obliged to mingle in scenes of sorrow, of suffering, and even of crime.

When Cain shed his brother Abel's blood, I was there. It was the first murder I ever witnessed, and with trembling hands I snatched the red from the lips and cheeks of the passers by, to supply the sudden and great demand there.

As to Cain, our above-mentioned dark enemy took possession of him; and as age after age has passed away, we have seen the rapid increase of his dingy descendants, with the brand of moral slavery marked on their brow.

At the time of the deluge, we gave ourselves up for lost, for how could we hope to escape, we little sprites, in the general destruction. It grieved our hearts sadly, to see the flowers beaten down and the trees, even the stoutest, giving away be. fore the fury of the storm. So with one accord, we all dived down under the water, far, far down to the very depths of the ocean, and whilst all above us perished, we, the merry little band, remained unhurt. Blue would sit and sing, and string long rows of sapphires together.

Yellow scraped together heaps of gold, and searched the sand for any thing he could find,

and sent the gold-fish up above every day or two, to see what was going on, and to bring him word of it.

Green became very intimate with the mermaids. Indeed, I know he was their barber, and used to dye their hair for them every morning, and ornament it with emeralds. He very nearly got into a fight with a fiery young merman once, on this account, and high words passed between them, and they would certainly have come to blows, if the merman had not declared himself willing to let him off on consideration of his being young and very green.

One day, the gold-fishes coming down, brought joyful tidings, that the flood had subsided; so after one more merry game at hide and seek, with the little scaly fishes, we clasped each other's hands, and were wafted slowly upwards, higher and higher, higher and higher, till at last we reached our own Earth; but much as we loved her, we did not stop here, no! higher and higher, higher and higher we sailed, till we reached the heavens, and then our hands, still clasped, we assumed the form of a glorious arch, reaching across the whole Earth. Ye saw it, mortals, ye have often seen it; for many a time, when a storm in faint similitude of our first great Deluge, pours sorrow and dread into all hearts, do we, clasping our hands, again rising to Heaven, higher and higher, higher and higher, assume the form of the glorious Rainbow, and repeat to you God's never to be forgotten promise.

Our lives from that time became very different. As centuries passed away, we heard of strange events, and stranger pursuits. The quiet forests where we dwelt, were burnt and destroyed, and cities built in their places. I, myself, have seen strange sights; sights, that in Eden I never dreamed of, and we must confess, that like mortals, we have been put to baser uses than we were born for.

I have been made to expend my choicest crimson on a tyrant's robe, and for this, the hungry orphans who worked on it, grew pale. Proud court beauties have sought my artificial aid to restore the bloom their own folly had driven away, and which I would so gladly have brought back by natural means, if they would have let me.

I have dyed the conqueror's sword, the heathen's idol, the guillotine. I have been where men have died for their religion. I have been where, in the silent night, the murdered man has given up his soul to God, where there was none to hear his cry, and none to save him, and no vestige remained, save the dark red spot on the grass, where I would cling!

But think not, mortals, when I speak of bloodshed, and horror, think not these are my only or my favourite avocations: no! roses bloom as fair as ever; and I have all my gay insect world that come to me daily for their hues, and the same blood I have so often seen oozing out, and taking with it life, the same blood warms many and

many a young heart, capable of high and lofty resolves. The evening sun-light is as beautiful as when I saw it in Eden, and as unsullied, though it has lighted the way to many evil deeds. Maidens blush now just as Eve did, and infants' parted lips smile in slumber just as did those of Cain and Abel, in their infancy, ere sin had come upon one, or fear upon the other.

But I am talking so much about myself, that I am forgetting to speak of my brothers and my sister. They have fallen into strange ways too. Poor Yellow, he has never been happy since the day he began to scrape gold together, with such eagerness, down in the ocean bed. Somehow or other, after that, he got into the service of certain treasure seekers, and was always going under ground, whenever he could get a spare moment. I am always glad when the autumn comes to keep him busy with the corn-fields and the apples, and later still with the leaves.

As to Blue, she got herself into a sad scrape, one day not very long ago, by chancing to alight

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upon a lady's stocking. Poor little thing! she meant no harm; but the confused din of women's voices, consequent thereupon, frightened her so much, that she has never held up her head well since.

Green still goes on his straightforward course, busying himself with the trees and grass, and his green insects, of whom he is very fond; he is reserved and silent, and every now and then pays a visit to the ocean. I say nothing; but as an elder brother, I certainly have a right to an opinion, and I cannot help thinking, that young mermaid has a great deal to do with it.

So we go on, following our various paths, which occasionally cross but never blend; looking forward to forming, one day, an eternal rainbow in the heavens.

But I must run, for they are calling me in im. patient tones to lay down my butterfly-featherpen, and come and join them in looking at themselves, reflected in a diamond, on the throat of Beauty.

Ir must be forty years, or thereabouts, since Lady Morgan's first work, "The Wild Irish Girl," appeared. This second edition of the American print, which we have before us, was issued in 1805. The author, then Miss Owenson, was a young lady, not more than eighteen, and her advantages of education or position had not been such as would have warranted any hope of success. Yet the book had a prodigious sale. Within the first two years seven editions were published in Great Britain, besides two or three in America. It gained for Miss Owenson a celebrity which very few writers, of either sex, have won by their first work. It gained her the love and blessings of the Irish people, of course; and a far more difficult achievement, it won her a high reputation in England. Some of the best and brightest characters among the proud nobility became her friends and patrons. The simple Irish maiden was taken from the bogs of the county of Tirerah, in the wilds of Connaught, and dropped at once into the very "sanctum of English ton;" and her first winter in London was a continued scene of triumphs gained by genius over the prejudices of birth, rank and fashion.

What were the peculiar merits of the work which won this popularity? As a novel it certainly cannot be rated very high. The plot shows little inventive talent, and was, moreover, liable to some objection on the score of moral tendency. We allude to the plan of making the Earl of Mand his son both in love with the same lady. The denouement is very awkwardly managed, and we think most readers must have been disgusted, if not shocked by the scene where the unconscious rivals, father and son, meet in the old chapel. There is very little development of character attempted, each person introduced being expressly designed, as is at once seen, to act a particular part, which is set down in the play.

Nor is the merit of the work in its style, which is both high-flown and puerile. The exaggerated sentiment, so often poured out by the fervid, but uncultivated writer, appears more nonsensical from the pompous phraseology in which it is so often expressed. We wonder how such great words could have been brought together to express such small meanings. This is particularly the case with the descriptive portions of the work. In short, the author, possessing naturally the wildest and warmest phase of Irish temperament, had had her head filled and nearly turned by what she calls "the witching sorcery" of Rousseau;

ter."

The "Wild Irish Girl" and "Woman and her Mas

and as her taste had been very little cultivated by judicious reading, or her judgment improved by observation, it is not strange that she mistook hyperbole for elegance, and fancied that soft, mellifluous words would convey ideas of super-human beauty. The following description of her heroine, Glorvina, is a fair specimen of this tawdry style. Her form was so almost impalpably delicate, that as it floated on the gaze, it seemed like the incarnation of some pure etherial spirit, which a sigh too roughly breathed, might dissolve into its kindred air; yet to this sylphide elegance of spheral beauty was united all that symmetrical contour which constitutes the luxury of human loveliness. This scarcely mortal mix. ture of earth's mould,' was vested in a robe of vestal white, which was enfolded beneath the bosom with a narrow girdle embossed with precious stones." Query, how did the lady look? Can the reader form any clear notion?

Such is the prevailing style of the book, though occasionally, when giving utterance to some strong deep feeling, which usually finds its appropriate language, the author is truly eloquent. How could a novel so written, gain such popu larity? Because it had a high aim, a holy purpose. It owed its success entirely to the simple earnestness with which Miss Owenson defended her country. It is all Irish. She seemed to have no thought of self, nothing but patriotism was in her soul, and this feeling redeemed the faults of inflated style, French sentimentalisms, false reasoning, and all the extravagances of her youthful fancy. Ireland was her inspiration and her theme. Its history, language, antiquities and traditions, these she had studied as a zealot does his creed, and with a fervour only inferior in sacredness to that of religion, she poured her whole heart and mind forth in the cause of her own native land.

This sentiment of patriotism was so pure and soul-inspiring, that even the English reader, feeble as were his sympathies with her subject, could not at first refuse her his tribute of admiration and applause. Nor did the credulity, which this love of country induced, appear then as a blemish in her mind. Her enthusiastic praises of Ossian, and her firm belief in the antiquity of Macpherson's poem, seem very natural when we find that she claims Fingal and all the heroes of whom Ossian sung, as her own countrymen. Yes, Miss Owenson firmly believed then, and probably Lady Morgan now holds the same faith, maugre the arguments and ridicule of Samuel Johnson, and all other anti-Ossianites, that the "King of Morven" was a true-born Irishman;

and she makes Glorvina prove this to the entire satisfaction of her English lover. And herein we see displayed one of the peculiarities of this popu lar author, which, we think, is much more strongly marked in her than in female writers generally. We allude to the partisan tendency of her mind. She does not try to persuade but to conquer. She seizes on a theory which pleases her fancy, and then seeks for reasons to sustain it, not, as it seems to us, in the impartial spirit of truth, but to establish her own opinion. In her last work, as we shall by and by show, this onesided view of her subject has led her into serious errors.

After such a successful debut, it was a matter of course, that the favoured author would continue to write. This she has ever since done, and a long list of works* attest her indefatigable industry, and do honour to the name of "Lady Morgan." The title she enjoys in consequence of knighthood being bestowed on her husband, an English physician of talents and repute, by George the Fourth. We do not intend to enter on any formal notice of Lady Morgan's many books, nor is it necessary; our readers are probably familiar with most of them, as they have been republished in America. We will only remark in passing, that of the novels, "The O'Briens and O'Flaherty's," is considered the best, and as regards style, is greatly superior to her "Wild Irish Girl." Still, there is too much ornament, too many French phrases, and what is much more deeply to be regretted, an under current (which runs more or less through all her novels) of the philosophy prevalent in the French school of sentimental free-thinkers. Still, over all this verbiage and persiflage, there breathes a redeeming, purifying, exalting spirit--the love of country. "I have written, from my youth up, under the influence of one great and all-pervading cause, Ireland and its wrongs," says Lady Morgan, in her "Book of the Boudoir"--and we believe her.

Since her marriage, she has resided much abroad, and her "France" shows her powers of observation, and "Salvator Rosa" bears evidence of her research and taste for the fine arts. The latter work was highly praised by Denon, and also in the Foreign Journals generally. Her literary reputation is, indeed, much higher on the continent than in her own country; for, chiefly in consequence of her political opinions, her British critics have been exceedingly severe. The most virulent personal abuse and ridicule of Lady Morgan, as well as the utter condemnation of her writings, was, for a long time, the fashion of the English press. The lightest doubt in her lightest novel, insinuated in the gentlest manner,

"St Clair" "Novice of St. Dominick"-" O'Donnell""The O'Briens and O'Flaherty's"-"Ida of Athens"-"The Princess"-"France"-"Salvator Rosa" -"Book of the Boudoir"-"Florence Macarthy"-and others, the titles of which wo do not now recollect.

respecting the wisdom and advantages of the Union, as it regarded Ireland, or the justice and mercy of the Catholic restrictions, was denounced in the most ferocious manner, and "Jacobin!" "Atheist!" "odious woman" were names often lavished by the elegant Quarterly, and other kindred journals, on Lady Morgan, joined with a critical anathema maranatha of all her works.

What changes have come over public opinion in England during the last five years! The Catholic disabilities are not only removed, but almost universally condemned as having always been impolitic. And now, when O'Connell is shouting "Repeal!" and the thunder-tone of the millions of Ireland, whom his voice has aroused, echo Repeal!" till the whole fabric of English power trembles like a reed shaken by the wind, what is the language of the press which was so savage towards a feeble woman, who only questioned the policy of the Union?

Why it very gently rebukes the “Great Agitator," deprecates the haste with which he urges on reform; but admits that there are evils which will be redressed in good time, if he will only be quiet! Truth, and Justice, and Liberty do make progress.

But though we give Lady Morgan full credit for her patriotism, and willingly allow that she has done her country some service by her writings, yet as her object was chiefly political reform, whenever that is attained, her works must lose most of their interest. She has laboured rather to expose wrongs than to suggest improvements. This rooting up weeds, may be quite as useful in cultivation as planting flowers, but the latter is most pleasant, and as we think, best suited to the hand of a lady. Hannah More and Miss Edgeworth, planted flowers; their works will be read so long as moral and intellectual improvement continue to be valued.

Some allowance must, however, be made for inherent tendencies and original temperament. Lady Morgan is, by nature, of chivalric spirit, kind and generous, but restless as St. George himself, and as ready to wield her lance (le plume) against every dragon. Now that her beloved Ireland requires her services no longer, she has arisen, as a champion, to redress the manifold oppressions of her own sex!

In 1840, appeared Lady Morgan's last work, bearing a title- Woman and her Master"which at once proclaims its character. This work is, as yet, but half completed; the partial loss of her eye-sight obliging her to delay the publication of the last two volumes. But as these are soon expected, we think it but justice to the author to postpone our intended notice; yet as some expression of our opinion on her plan, as developed already, may be expected by our readers, we will improve the opportunity which the appear. ance of the book, and its title, affords us, to say a few words on a question, that has been of late, a good deal agitated in our country.

Is the position which woman-or to speak less in the abstract-which women occupy in society, such as is justly due to them; and if not, in what way can they best assert and secure their rightful station? This is a point which has been raised and discussed with so much earnestness, and ingenuity, and vigour, that one is really surprised at the little general interest excited; and we might almost consider this fact alone as a practical and sufficient decision of the question. But as it is a kind of decision not likely to satisfy many reait may be worth while to go over a few of the arguments which have induced us strongly to doubt whether some of the views lately put forth with great confidence, as well as others which have been held for a long time as established truths, no more to be doubted than axioms, may not after all be founded on misapprehension.

soners,

And first, it is customary with those who hold that the female sex is degraded by the institutions of society, below its proper rank, to rest their conclusions on the ground, that among savage communities, women are notoriously in a state of servitude, and that we are not yet sufficiently removed from the condition of our ancestors to have shaken off every relic of barbarism--more particularly in this instance, where the party aggrieved, being the weaker in physical force, and denied a share in legislation, is not in a position to insist upon its rights.

This argument seems, at first sight, to have much force. Unquestionably our forefathers, not many generations removed, were barbarians; and no one can deny, that along with much that is founded on the wisdom of experience and common sense, they have bequeathed to us, is their laws and institutions, much of which we would gladly be rid. If our ancestors were savages, and if all savages treat their women as slaves, it is clear as logic can make it that the females of Britain and Germany were once so treated. But we are greatly disposed to doubt the correctness of the latter premise in the syllogism.

The principle which has been so often enunciated, that a judgment may be formed of the state of civilization to which a people has attained, by observing the position accorded by them to the female sex, seems to have been greatly misunderstood. Is it the fact that the condition of the women, in the most barbarous nation, is lower relatively to that of the men, than in the most civilized? Have not travellers been misled by carrying into savage life the ideas and feelings which belong to a state of cultivation?

Let us take the case of an Indian family. Here the woman does a good deal of the work, which with us, is considered as properly belonging to the man; she takes care of the house, both inside and out, cultivates the corn, collects the firewood, and carries the burdens. Now this is what, in a civilized state, would constitute nearly all the labour, and certainly the hardest portion of it. But how is it here? The husband

rises at the break of day, takes his gun or his bow, and sets off on his hunt. This, let it be remarked, is not a mere sportsman's adventure, where, whether successful or not, he is sure of returning, after a few hours' healthful exercise, to a comfortable hearth and a well filled larder. He knows that on his efforts hang the welfare, and perhaps the existence of his family; all day he must follow with untiring foot and restless eye, the track of the flying chase, on which, not only he himself, but those for whom, more than for himself, he labours, depend for subsistence and perhaps for clothing. And when at sunset he reaches home exhausted with his load, in what condition is he for other labour? And in the mean time, in what should the wife have been occupied?

The truth is, we are deceived by drawing our analogies from the state of things which exists among ourselves. Every one knows that on a well-ordered farm, for example, there is nearly as much work to be done within doors as without; and therefore we acquiesce in the natural and proper arrangement that the former, which is the lighter though not the less engrossing labour, should be assigned to the weaker party. A farmer's wife is as constantly employed as an Indian's. Our error lies in supposing that the same division of duties is practicable among savages, at least among nomadic, hunting savages, which it evidently is not. Here all is out-door work, and it so happens that that kind of labour--tillage, house-building, and the like, --which is the heaviest on a Pennsylvania farm, is the lightest about a Chippeway wigwam; while that of which we make an occasional pastime and recreation, is there the real business and toil of life, demanding the strength and endurance of manhood. traveller, with his note book, arrives at the lodge; the master of it remains at home that day to entertain his guest, who rewards him by setting down forthwith, that the Pottawottomie men spend much of their time in idleness, while the women are compelled to do all the labour, a fact which he sagaciously remarks, shows conclusively, the little progress that civilization has yet made among the Pottawottomies.

A

The truth is, if the women in a savage tribe are slaves, so are the men, slaves to their own ignorance and unregulated passions; both are compelled to undergo a great deal of hardship and misery which they would escape by another and better mode of life; but the burden is equally divided between the two. And the best proof of this is that neither party is dissatisfied. All the sympathy which has been awakened in the breasts of philanthropists for the unfortunate females, has been purely spontaneous, and not excited by a single complaint from its objects. Now this is an argument of some considerable weight. Surely if a person, savage or civilized, male or female, may be trusted in testifying to any one point, it would be as to the fact of his or her happiness or contentment. Nor should it be urged, that habit