The Weekly Comet

FEMALE WRITERS -- Blackwood for October, contains a caustic article on Modern Light literature, intended specially for the eyes of elderly matrons, who forsake their household, to go into the book making business: and sentimental Demoiselles who write odes to the rainbow, and languish over the last love story in the last Lady's Companion. Talking of the mania to do the lives of the Queens, before, as well as after the conquest -- giving a word of advice to Miss Strickland, who has unsettled the standing of Mr. Shakespeare for veracity about the Middle age, Kings as well as Queens: the writer says:

One thing we cannot help expressing our unfeigned gratitude for -- the Queens at last are exhausted. Nobody can write any more lives of our female sovereigns; and though there are a formidable number of princesses remaining, we trust our fair writers (begging humble pardon of Dr. Doran, who is not fair -- but if it is his will to place himself in the Amazonian cohort, it is no fault of ours) will be merciful, and not overwhelm us with a new series. Saying this, however, we would give all commendation to Mrs. Everett Green's learned and painstaking efforts.

Human nature is about the same in one place, that it is in another, and it is pleasing to see that English and Scotch Reviewers are fast coming to this conclusion: the writer continues:

One would suppose to read these histories, that there was no school like a court for inculcating the domestic virtues: and that so far from being hindered or burdened by the cares of state, the royal matron was almost invariably the flower and perfection of matronhood; not only a good queen, but a mild wife and mother, an example to her humbler and less encumbered subjects. This, we humbly opine, was scarcely a thing to be expected. One business is about as much as one person can manage in common circumstances; and we have always had a strong conviction that Elizabeth was in the right, and that a sovereign prince who has the misfortune to be born a woman, should give herself to her profession, and let common life and its responsibilities alone -- always excepting, as in duty bound our own most gracious liege Lady, who is not called upon to be a ruler and governor, like Elizabeth. Yes, the poor needlewoman who rocks her baby's cradle as she works, has no better claim upon our forbearance and sympathy than the poor queen who is not permitted to rock the cradle, but has the care of it notwithstanding, and a more onerous business besides than the needle-woman's -- and whose little tempers should require quite as much allowance made for them. But we are amazed when we come to find how unnecessary our forbearance is, and wonder in silence at the unruffled amiability of the illustrious heroines of Miss Strickland. Everything here -- or almost everything, for our authoress has her averments -- is couleur de rose; and Miss Strickland is quite willing to take the word of the court poet for her lady's beauty, and to give the same lady every credit for the highest womanly qualities, whether possible or not, in her circumstances.