Incidents in our little family were hurried on by circumstances of domestic importance.
My father let off part of the unlucky Music Hall, and the whole of our much-loved house at Drumcondra.
My sister and myself, by his goodness, forethought, and self-privation, were placed, in accordance with what had been my mother’s earnest desire, at the best school in Ireland. I may add in the whole United Kingdom.
Madame Terson had long ago promised my mother that she would receive me when I should have reached my ninth year; my dear little sister was received along with me at my father’s earnest request. At length, then, were we admitted within the portico of education, and for the next three years we had the benefit of the best instruction that the best masters could bestow, and we were subjected to a discipline which I firmly believe was the very best ever introduced into a female seminary in any country.
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Portarlington had become a little foreign university, founded by some of the learned refugees who had been victims of the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes.
The Bonnivaux established an academy for youths and boys, and along with Calvinistic doctrines introduced a spirit of military discipline in their classes, which made it resemble the Ecole Polytechnique of modern times, more than the Sorbonne or Port Royal. At this school, many of the young Irish nobility received the rudiments of an education that was sometimes finished in the field with singular éclat:—among these were sons of the Earl of Mornington, then resident in Dublin, and young Bailey, who died Marquis of Anglesea.
At the period we entered her school, Madame Terson had been induced to remove to Clontarf House, near Dublin; her health required sea air, and this fine mansion, standing as it did on the brink of the bay, had many advantages, both for her pupils and herself, superior to what the crowded village of Portarlington afforded. The situation was as magnificent as it was historical, for the avenue leading to her house was terminated by the Castle of Clontarf, then, and I believe still, the residence of the Vernons, one of the most ancient Anglo-Norman families in Ireland.
The castle, which at that time was still in good condition, had been
the residence of King John during his short sojourn in
Ireland; and Brian Borrinhe, the last supreme King of
Ireland, fought near its site the famous battle of Clontarf, which for ever deprived
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This our first step forwards in life, which broke all former associations, and separated us from the companions and habits of our secluded and singular social existence, was an epoch of great emotion and of new impressions. When my father led us into the reception room at Clontarf House, holding one of us in either hand, in deep mourning, with tearful eyes and sad looks, followed by Molly, who took no pains to disguise her turbulent feelings,—Madame Terson, who met us at the door, was struck with the little picture of family despondency.
Madame Terson was tall, dark, and more conciliatory in her speech than in her looks.
She withdrew our hands from my father’s and said, “Come, I must take you to two little girls who have not long since arrived, whilst papa gets his lunch.”
My father wept and could not speak.
Madame Terson led us into a spacious room of very scholastic appearance, with desks, and books, and benches, backboards and stocks. The windows of the further end looked on the sea. There was no one in the room except two little girls,* apparently about
* These interesting little girls were the daughters of the illustrious Grattan; they had been left under the care of Madame Terson whilst their parents sought the baths of Germany for Mr. Grattan’s health. The elder one, who was afterwards Countess of Carnworth, died some years since. |
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Madame Terson put our hands into theirs and told us she would order some fruit and bon-bons; she said the young ladies who were now out walking, would soon be back and cheer us up. She then went away. The two little girls looked at us sulkily and shyly; the eldest haughtily.
We said nothing because we had nothing to say.
The eldest, at length, broke silence with the simple question, “What is your name?”
I answered, “Sydney Owenson.”
“My name,” continued my interrogator, “is Grattan—Mary Ann Grattan—and,” looking very grand, my papa is the greatest man in Ireland. What is your papa?”
The question puzzled me, and I did not reply. On her reiteration of the inquiry, I replied, “My papa is free of the six and ten per cents.”
The answer stunned her, for she understood it no more than I did myself, but probably thought it an order of unknown magnificence. We remained silent, after this, for some time, and then, having nothing else to do, began to cry! The entrance of a crowd of young ladies, active and noisy from their sea-shore rambles, by their numbers and mirth distracted our grief; there could not have been less than thirty or forty.
Meantime, Madame Terson had wisely
sent our father away with Molly, and although we
sobbed under
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It was a holiday, for it was the 14th of July—the commemoration of the Battle of the Boyne. The ballad of this battle I had learned, for it was the Chevy Chase of Ireland; I had learned to sing it with great spirit from our servant James, and I communicated this fact to a Miss Susan Haslam, one of the impromptu friends I had just made, for the joy-bells, which were loudly ringing, had inspired me. I was called on by acclamation to sing it directly. I complied, and my dear little sister Olivia joined me, as a matter of course. As all my audience had been brought up with a wholesome fear of “Popery and wooden shoes,” our song had a great success, and was encored.
This little talent, thus early put in practice, ensured
* I preserve a few lines of this once-popular ballad, one of the many composed for the same occasion:—
It is to be observed, that King James, although a Catholic, and of Irish descent, into the bargain, was very unpopular even with the most faithful of his followers, who fought for their faith far more than for the faithless Stuart. They gave him a sobriquet which stuck to him, for to this day he is remembered among the lower classes by the |
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The solemn prayers read in French by Madame Terson, with a very nasal accent; the solemn curtsey she made as we retired to our dormitories; the strange face of the French femme de chambre (the successor of our own poor Molly), who put us to bed in little cribs, on flock mattrasses; and the solemn injunction of “Silence, Mesdemoiselles!” by which we were expected to go to sleep by commandment, for after that not a whisper was allowed, broke our hearts, and we wept ourselves to sleep.
Madame Terson piqued herself upon her school being founded on the discipline of St. Cyr, so far as a Huguenot establishment could be compared to one founded by “that fatal she,” whose influence let loose the Dragonades on the professors of her own early faith, and deprived France of the best and noblest of her subjects. Madame Terson’s school was divided into four classes; each sat round a large table with a governess at either end. In these classes were taught foreign languages, grammar, geography, writing, arithmetic and drawing. The hours were regularly marked
style and title of “Shamus a hanghna,” or dirty James. His flight from the Battle of the Boyne to Dublin, and thence to Lismore Castle, the seat of the present Duke of Devonshire, covered him with infamy in the eyes of the Irish, and well merited the witty and spirited reply of the Duchess of Tyrconnel, who, when he said, “Madame your Irish subjects have lost the battle,” replied, “Sire, you are the first who come to tell us!” |
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Madame Terson sat apart, walking occasionally up and down the room, taking cognizance of everything. The hours of rising were six in summer and seven in winter. When the weather and the tide served, the pupils issued through the garden door to the seashore, where bathing-machines were waiting for them. On one of these occasions the fragment of an adventure befel me. Having got the start of my companions in the race for a bathing-machine, I rushed into one, and found it occupied by a man dressed like a gentleman, who was asleep on the floor!
Awakened, even by my light footstep, he started up with a look of terror, sprang into a little boat which was undulating up and down in the water, seized an oar, and was out of sight in an instant among the winding of the sheds.
The next day the Hue and Cry announced the escape of the celebrated highwayman, Barrington, who had been traced as far as the sheds of Clontarf.
He was captured a few days afterwards.
On our return from bathing, prayers were read; then the English lessons of the day, grammar and geography, were got through before breakfast, with clear heads and empty stomachs!
Breakfast was then served—bread and milk—after which the
whole flock were turned into the gardens and shrubberies belonging to the house for
recreation and exercise. A simple toilette followed, and before twelve o’clock the
pupils had taken their places for the
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The diet, though plain, was wholesome and good, and particular care was taken to teach us l’etiquette de la table. All conversation was carried on in French.
After dinner, we were let loose upon the sea-shore or the shrubberies, under the surveillance of governesses, or we were allowed to walk in the grounds of Clontarf Castle, whose owner’s beautiful little daughters were among our fellow pupils.
Our tea, or milk supper, for we had our choice, followed at seven, after which we prepared our lessons for the following morning. At nine o’clock, prayers, and to bed.
A life more healthful or more fully occupied, could not well be imagined for female youth between twelve and fifteen—the latest age at which Madame Terson would retain.
Among the pupils were many girls of rank and some of distinguished talent; one, I well remember, was Miss Marly, the niece of Dean Marly, afterwards Bishop of Clonfurt, immortalised by Goldsmith in Retaliation, and one of the immortal Club over which Johnson presided.
Among the governesses, one also left her impression on my memory. She
was an old maid; a sister of the then celebrated General
O’Hara. She had known Goldsmith
intimately; adored his works, which
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So much for our governesses, and lessons, and the programme of our life, varied by our “balls” once a month—to which, however, no one was asked but ourselves—when we put on our best dresses and went through all the formalities of a regular “drum.”
It may here be observed, that the dispersion of the French Huguenots who, for reasons very assignable, settled in great numbers in Ireland, was one of the greatest boons conferred by the misgovernment of other countries on our own. Eminent preachers, eminent lawyers, and clever statesmen, whose names, not unknown to the literature and science of France, occupied high places in their professions in Dublin; of these I may mention, as personal acquaintances, the Saurins, the Lefanus, Espinasses, Faviers, Corneilles, Le Bas, and many others, whose families still remain in the Irish metropolis.
It may be, that this draining of the life blood of all that was best
and worthiest of France (for men must have stamina of character who suffer for their
convictions of truth) left the moral calibre of the men brought to the surface in the first
French Revolution, so much below the grave religious character of the men of our own
Revolution. The execution of Louis the Sixteenth is a
stain on French annals in the estimation of the world; whilst the judicial trial and
exe-
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The pure air, well-regulated habits, and frugal but wholesome diet, must have had a beneficial influence, in after life, on the mental and physical constitution of those who were subject to it, and which no home education could have given.
My father’s visits were as frequent as the circumstances of his
life would allow, and though all the masters were very expensive, he subjected himself to
personal privations, that we might have the advantage of the tuition of the first masters
of the day. I remember once, our music mistress, Miss Buck, complained
to my father of our idleness, as he sat beside us at the piano, whilst we stumbled through
a duet from the overture to Artaxerxes.
His answer to her complaint was simple and graphic,—for drawing up the sleeve of a
handsome surtout great coat which he wore, he showed the shabby threadbare sleeve of the
black coat beneath, and said, touching the whitened seams, “I should not be driven
to the subterfuge of wearing a great coat this hot weather to conceal the poverty of my
dress beneath,—if it were not that I wish to give you the advantage of such
instruction as you are now neglecting.” This went home; and Miss
Buck had nothing to complain of during the remainder of our tuition.
Religion was “taught us,” as the phrase goes, in all the purity of the Reformed
Church of Geneva, and with, perhaps, fewer of the external forms
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Children are affected by what they read according to their temperament and physiological tendencies, to which that vain-glorious faculty called Reason must submit.
The mischievous girl who had been found like the rude boy in The Universal Spelling-Book—stealing apples, and who had been severely punished in consequence, shuddered before the history of the “Tree of Knowledge,” and I selected the history of poor Hagar and her desolate boy (of whose relationship to the Father of the Faithful I was ignorant) for the subject of a tale, which painted my horror of such injustice.
Madame Terson heard my paraphrase but did not approve of
it, and threw the MS. in the fire, the usual proceeding on such occasions of orthodox
authority; she warned me mildly at the same time, not to meddle with such sacred subjects
till I was better able to understand them. Her admonition, and the sine die, to
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This, my first attempt at a bit of authorship at school, was followed by others of a more local and personal tendency. I imitated Goldsmith’s Retaliation, converting the illustrious names into those of my schoolfellows; it was tame and servile as an imitation could be, but it won me great popularity in the school, and brought me an immense clientèle in the way of letter writing, for girls who could not get over the asses’ bridge of “My dear Father and Mother—In compliance with your commands I sit down to fulfil your request!”
The third year of our residence at Clontarf House was in progress, and among the best things we had acquired there, was a respect for punctuality and the fear of doing wrong, the disgrace of which was substituted for punishment. There is a sort of public opinion established in schools which domestic education can never give,—and a public spirit which domestic circumstances rarely call out.
I had now entered my teens, and my father was in anxious doubt what to
do with two motherless girls
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She was not easily pleased—neither was my father; but at last she placed us in the fashionable “finishing school,” as it was then called, of Mrs. Anderson. The lady at the head of this establishment had been governess for many years in the family of the Marquis of Drogheda, whose accomplished daughters, the Ladies Moore, were her best recommendation. Her school was within a few doors of Drogheda House, one of the many palaces now turned into public offices. The transition from the sea-shore of Clontarf to the most fashionable and fussy part of Dublin, was not pleasant to us. The change was a shock—even though we were soothed by our self-conceit, that whispered we were superior to those around us!
We at once perceived that there was not the selectness in the school that there had been in the one we had left. The French was school French, and the English by no means classical.
The pupils were the daughters of wealthy mediocri-
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We were, indeed, very dear to him, for our toilette was proportionably expensive as our school; and the beauty of my sister contributed not a little to this audible admiration, and I had a certain little jaunty air of my own, peculiarly Irish, which my old acquaintance, Leigh Hunt, celebrated in his charming poem some forty years later:—
|
“And dear Lady Morgan, see, see when she
comes,
With her pulses all beating for freedom like drums,
So Irish; so modish, so mixtish, so wild;
So committing herself as she talks—like a child,
So trim, yet so easy—polite, yet high-hearted,
That Truth and she, try all she can, won’t be parted;
She’ll put on your fashions, your latest new air,
And then talk so frankly, she’ll make you all stare.”
|
Whether this is a portrait or a caricature I am not the one to decide; but there is a national idiosyncracy about it which I cannot deny—and which perhaps places it between both.
My father took us occasionally to the theatre, where we saw for the
first and last time Mrs. Siddons. I
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“Oh, that is all very well, my dear Owenson,” she said, “but observe, I am just making my exit in time, as the dangerous age of indiscretion is approaching!”
My father said, he thought she was then forty.
Notwithstanding my father’s denunciation against music as part of our education, we had the distinction of becoming the pupils of Giordani, who was still teaching in Dublin, but who refused any payment for our tuition, and took an almost paternal interest in our progress.
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