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Lady Morgan’s Memoirs
Sydney Owenson to Thomas Charles Morgan, 11 December 1811
INTRODUCTION & INDEXES
DOCUMENT INFORMATION
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Preface
Vol. I Contents.
Prefatory Address
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Vol. I Index
Vol. II Contents
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter IV
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX
Chapter XL
Vol. II Index
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Saturday, 10 clock, December 11, 1811.

If you are not, you ought to be, very indignant at my last chapter upon long stories, for I certainly treated the subject rather pertly; but you know my way of preferring any one of the deadly sins, to the respectable dulness of worthy bores; and if there is any one thing on earth more insupportably provoking than another, it is to see a man like yourself full of that stuff which people call “natural talent” cultivated by a superior education, enlightened by science, and refined by philosophy, concealing his native treasures, and borne away by the bad ton of a bad style of society, substituting, in their stead, the “leather and prunella” of false taste. It is thus the Irish peasant plants potatoes on the surface of those mountains whose bosoms teem with gold! I have seen the best and the worst of English society; I have dined at the table of a city trader, taken tea with the family of a London merchant, and supped at Devonshire House, all in one day, and I must say, that if there is a people upon earth that understand the science of conversation less than another, it is the English. The quickness, the variety, the rapidity of perception and impression, which is indispensable to render conversation delightful, is constitutionally denied to them; like all people of slowly operating mental faculties, and of business pursuits, they depend upon memory more than upon spontaneous thought. When the power of, and time for, cultivating
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that retentive faculty is denied, they are then hébête and tiresome, and when it is granted (as among the higher circles) the omnipotence of ton is so great that every one fears to risk himself. In Ireland it is quite different; our physique, which renders us ardent, restless, and fond of change, bids defiance to the cultivation of memory; and, therefore, though we produce men of genius, we never have boasted of any man of learning—and so we excel in conversation, because, of necessity we are obliged to do the honours of the amour-propre of others; we are obliged to give and take, for thrown upon excitement, we only respond in proportion to the quantity of stimulus received. In England, conversation is a game of chess—the result of judgment, memory, and deliberation; with us, it is a game of battledore, and our ideas, like our shuttlecocks, are thrown lightly one to the other, bounding and rebounding, played more for amusement than conquest, and leaving the players equally animated by the game, and careless of its results.

There is a term in England applied to persons popular in society, which illustrates what I have said; it is “he (or she) is very amusing,” that is, they tell stories of a ghost, or an actor. They recite verses, or they play tricks, all of which must exclude conversation, and it is, in my opinion, the very bane of good society. An Englishman will declaim, or he will narrate, or he will be silent; but it is very difficult to get him to converse, especially if he is suprême bon ton, or labours under the reputation of being a rising man; but even all this, dull as it is, is better than a man
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who, struck by some fatal analogy in what he is saying, immediately chimes in with the eternal “that puts me in mind,” and then gives you, not an anecdote, bat an absolute history of something his uncle did, or his grandfather said, and then, by some lucky association, goes on with stories which have his own obscure friends for his heroes and heroines, but have neither point, bût, humour, nor even moral (usually tagged to the end of old ballads). Oh, save me from this, good heaven, and I will sustain all else beside!

Dad’s bedroom, 10 o’clock, letter arrived.

Ah, dearest love, what a querulous letter. While I, waiting impatiently for the post, was scribble, scribble, scribble, and would have gone on till night in the same idle way, had not your letter cut me short;—dearest, suspicious Morgan, you wrong me, indeed, you do, if you think me capable of evasion or deceit. When I left you, I had no plan, no object in view, but to gratify imperious feelings which still tyrannise and lead me on from day to day. It is not I who entreat permission to prolong my residence here, it is a father whom I shall never see again—it is a sister, whom I may never see again. It is friends I love, and who love me, who solicit you to leave me yet a little longer among them—you who are about to possess me for ever! My best friend, if after all I should be miserable, would you not blame yourself for having put a force upon my inclinations? If I come voluntarily and self-devoted to you, then the penalty
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lies upon my own head, and I must abide the issue. I will tell you honestly, and I have often told you so, you call it caprice or weakness if you will; but I shudder at the place! You will understand me, I know the susceptibility of my spirits, and I know the train of gloomy impressions which await them. I am sure of you! I am only delaying a good which may be mine whenever I please, and avoiding evils which are certain, and which once there, I cannot escape. Still, however, I am not the unworthy wretch you think. I am always more to be pitied than blamed.

God bless you dearest, ever.

S. O.