LORD  BYRON  and  his  TIMES
Byron
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Lady Morgan’s Memoirs
Sydney Owenson to Robert Owenson, [1801?]
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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St. Andrew’s Street, Dublin.
Monday Morning, 9 o’clock.
Dearest Papa,

Molly told us last night when we were going to bed, that she had something to relate to us which would surprise us, and so, indeed, it has, here it is:—Whilst we were dining next door, Molly, as usual, looking out of the windows, a young gentleman passed and repassed under the walls of St. Andrew’s Church, whom she at first took for one of the Irish Brigade officers whom we knew at Kilkenny last year, for he was dressed in uniform, blue and crimson; but at last he
128 LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR.  
stepped across the way and took off his hat to her. You will never guess who it was—What do you think of
Tom Dermody?

Molly ran down stairs. You know how fond she always was of him, and asked him into the drawing-room. She hopes you will not be angry. He told her all his adventures “since you threw him off,” those were his words; “you his best and only true friend,” and he had never heard or seen anything of us since he went to school, until he saw a little book of poems by a young lady between twelve and fourteen, with my name to them; he then went to the printer’s, and found out where we live only the night before, and he begged so hard to see us before he left Ireland,—for he is going off to Cork to join his regiment on Tuesday,—that he persuaded Molly to let him come today. He said he thought he could clear up a great deal of what you had been made to consider to his disadvantage.

Monday Evening.

Well, dear papa, Dermody has been! He came according to Molly’s permission this morning. He was quite surprised at the change that had taken place in us and was most gallant about it. He has, I think, been most hardly used.

You know how ill Dr. and Mrs. Austen behaved, on the plea of old Aichbone, when he lodged in Grafton Street, showing a little bit of fun he wrote about Mrs. Austen; and how Dr. Austen returned all his subscriptions, and how he was obliged to write for
EARLY GIRLHOOD.129
his bread in the magazine
Anthologia. Mr. Berwick, Lady Moira’s chaplain, was so delighted with his poem that he brought it to Lady Moira, who immediately sent him to Dr. Boyd, the translator of Dante, to pursue his studies till something could be done for him. His years he said were lost in this way, and he thought Dr. Boyd wanted to retain him for the purpose of working at the translation and copying it for him; so he wrote to Lady Moira to request she would extend her patronage when he could earn an independent livelihood; so after some time Dr. Berwick wrote to him, that Lady Moira had an opportunity of placing him with Mr. Miller, a great bookseller in London as an apprentice—but just think! with his usual impetuosity he wrote to decline the offer, and expressed his mortification at such a position being allotted to him. Lady Moira desired Mr. Berwick to send him twenty pounds, with an order never to let her see or hear of him again. So he returned to Dublin and commenced writing again for the Anthologia, but could not make bread to support him, and in a fit of despair he one night enlisted, and was draughted off for his regiment in England a few days afterwards, where he served a year as a common soldier. Being one day on parade, the colonel of the regiment, who was walking up and down in front of the men, was joined by a very noble-looking gentleman, who every time that he passed fixed his eye on Dermody, who at last recognised him to be the Earl of Moira. You may suppose Lord Moira was a little
130 LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR.  
shocked and surprised, as Dermody had frequently dined with him at Moira House.

The next day his sergeant came to him and said Lord Moira wished to see him. He went to his hotel and was received rather coldly, but without further reproof Lord Moira said, he did not wish to see one who had sat at his mother’s table in the lowly condition to which his follies had reduced him; and, therefore he had used his influence to get him an ensigncy in the commissariat; that he would have his release on the following day and have an appropriate uniform for his new condition, when he must go immediately to join his corps in Dublin on its way to Cork, whence they were to sail for Flanders. He was, poor fellow, to sail on the following night.

Well, papa, never was anything so altered! He is a very handsome young man, and has lost all his shyness. He said he had been looking us out every where, ever since he arrived, and had been at the Theatre Royal for you, but could get no information. Seeing a little book by a young lady “between twelve and fourteen,” at a little shop in Werburgh Street, inscribed with my name, he entered and got our address, and here he was that very evening! His gallantry was beyond anything in talking of the improvement we had made since we were at Madame Terson’s school, and above all, his astonishment at my poetical productions.

The next morning I received a note by the penny post, with a poem which I should be ashamed to show you, dear papa, it is so very flattering, if it were not to prove that he has lost nothing of his art of poetry.
EARLY GIRLHOOD.131
He will write to you from Cork, and begs mercy at your hands, who, he says, with dear mamma, were the only true friends he ever had; and so, dearest papa, good-bye and God bless you; my fingers are quite cramped with writing.

Sydney Owenson.