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Mon ami le chèvre commencez par le commencement.
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“I was born under fortunate auspices;
the sun was in the sign of the Virgin, at the utmost degree of elevation; the aspects of
Jupiter and Venus were favourable to the day, Mercury testified no signs of hostility,
Saturn and Mars were neutral. The moon, however, then near her full, was an important
obstacle. She retarded my entrance into the world until the moment had elapsed.” Thus
writes Goëthe! Such is the opening of the
autobiography of one of the most celebrated European writers of the eighteenth century, and
yet it sounds very like a page out of the biography of Catherine de Medicis, dictated by the director of her religion of magic,
and the reference to Venus and Mercury might favour the supposition. It is, how-
| 6 | LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR. |
This dependence on astrology opens a very nice volume of mysticism for the more spirituelle of the sexes, and pleads in favour of that miscalled “the weakest.”
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“That when weak women go astray,
Their stars are more in fault than they.”
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For myself, I reject the doctrine altogether, and stand on my own responsibility.
However, these astrological reveries are pleasant things to lie by upon,
like the purchased intercession of “licensed” advocates with the higher powers;
to attribute the actions of life to the revolutions and movements “of stars in their
courses,” spares an immensity of trouble and anxiety, and to have one’s
position determined by the signs of the zodiac is a comfortable look out. Had my little
horoscope been cast at the moment of my birth it would have found its subject
“mantling into life” under the influence of the “Star of the West,”
that charming, sentimental Hesperus, who is described as leading on the “silent
hours,” which are not the worst in the twenty-four, and who seems to hang over the
Emerald Isle, with a brighter effulgence than elsewhere. In freeing myself from all
dependence on the planets, I take the opportunity to enter my protest against Dates. What has a woman to do with dates? Cold, false,
erroneous, chronological dates—new style, old style,—preces-
| A BIRTHDAY. | 7 |
In the hour when I first drew breath, and felt life’s first inaugural sensation—pain, the world took part in the hour and the day. It was the festival of humanity, of peace and good will to man, of love and liberty and high distinction to woman, of glory to the motherhood of nations—the accomplishment of the first desire of her, who was created, not born; the desire “to be as gods, knowing good from evil”—the head and front of human science. I was born on Christmas Day; in that land where all holy days are religiously celebrated, as testimonials to faith, and are excuses for festivity—in “Ancient ould Dublin.”
Bells tolled, carols were intoned, the streets resounded with joyous
sounds, chimneys smoked, and friends were preparing to feast the fasters of the previous
week, in that most Catholic of countries. Holly and ivy draped every wall, and many happy
| 8 | LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR. |
There was, however, on that joyous night, one round table distinguished above most others, by the wit and humour of the convives. The master of the feast was as fine a type of the Irish gentleman as Ireland ever sent forth. His name was Robert Owenson. Beside him sat one whose name in Ireland was long celebrated and is not yet forgotten, as belonging to one of the greatest wits of his country and time, Edward Lysaght, long the captain of the university boys, that formidable body of learned and privileged insubordinates, and who had lately been admitted to the Irish bar. Others there were also, though then unknown to fame, except for their social endowments.
The lady who had the best right to preside on the occasion of this most
Christian festival, as she was herself truly the sincerest of Christians and best of women,
had retired early in the evening to her chamber, on the plea of
“indisposition;” but still not deeming it indicative of any immediate
catastrophe. But before the great clock of St. Patrick had chimed out the second hour of
the new born anniversary, another birth had taken place, and was announced
| A BIRTHDAY. | 9 |
The news was “a reason fair to fill their glass again,” the father with difficulty dispersed the jolly crew by accepting Lysaght’s proposal that they should all meet that day month at the christening of the little heathen, and that he, Ned Lysaght, should be the sponsor, “and vow three things in her name,” which he had never been able to observe in his own.
A faint and childish voice caught the ear of Counsellor Lysaght as he was trudging home to his remote lodgings. It preceded him for many paces, and he could just detect that the air, so plaintive and broken, was a Christmas carol. The snow was falling and the night was cold; he overtook the little singer, a female child, just as her song was expiring in the following words:—
“Christmas comes but once a year, And when it comes it brings good cheer—” |
* It was Shelburne House, now an hotel. |
| 10 | LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR. |
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“An orphan who not long before,
Had lost her parents, fond and tender,
Dropped near a lord and lady’s door,
Who had no child, and lived in splendour;
She breathed a strain of genuine woe.
Hoping to catch the ear of pity,
She simply sung this simple ditty,—
Oh, happy Christians, great and good,
Afford a helpless infant food,
For Christmas comes but once a year,
And when it comes, it brings good cheer.”
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The first effort of memory exhibited by the baby who was rocking in the cradle when it was recited, was called forth by being taught by rote the above stanzas—it was long before she got it by heart—but her “pity gave ere charity begun,” for she wept at the tale long before she understood its tragedy.
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