I received your letter this moment, and waive all other business to accelerate the answer. I shall not take up your time with professions of gratitude, which you know I owe you ever, and will therefore excuse. I have been very fortunate since I had the pleasure of Miss Owenson’s last letter, which I intended to answer when I could, with most news and propriety. A certain great man of literary celebrity coming accidentally acquainted with some things of mine, has nearly freed my fortune. One poem of mine has been applauded as the finest in this age, in which are the venerable names of Cumberland and Arthur Murphy. This poem, with others, will be published in the most splendid style, by subscription, which is expected to be very large. His Majesty, the Duke, and Princess Amelia, are among the first. In this volume will be a poetical epistle to my sister competitor, Sydney, which proves I need no other incentive, even at this distant period, but my own sensibility of your goodness, to render our friendship immortal. The lines are very beautiful, but it is impossible to give you any adequate extract. I have had some lines from Sydney which are eminently charming, but how she has arrived at such excellence I cannot well imagine.
204 | LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR. |
I have not yet seen her poems here, but will inquire among the booksellers for them. Are you certain they have been sent here? When I can find a copy I will be their reviewer myself in three monthly publications—viz., the London Review, Monthly Review, and Monthly Magazine. Though unconnected with newspaper editors, I will likewise observe what you mentioned with regard to them. The Monthly Mirror is what I publish most poetry in (which is very little, for some reasons), and I therefore shall send some verses, on the appearance of these poems, to it. Pray let me manage the affair in my own way. Two satirical poems of mine, under the signature of “Mauritius Moonshine,” have made a great noise here; but I shall pursue that path no further. You may be dreaded and admired, but never loved for such productions. Who is the Mr. Moore Sydney mentions? He is nobody here, I assure you, of eminence. Let me have no strictures on some little vanity I have been forced to indulge in, describing my literary prospects; pardon likewise this illegible, unauthor-like scribble, and ever believe me,
I had like to have forgot your remembering me to my dear Olivia, and all old acquaintances.