The autobiography, it will be remembered, closes abruptly with Miss Owenson’s adventures in search of a publisher. On her return to Dublin, with the Featherstone family, she one day accompanied Mrs. Featherstone to visit a friend, who was an invalid. Whilst Mrs. Featherstone went upstairs to the sick room, Miss Owenson was left to amuse herself in the parlour. Seeing a book lying in the window-seat, she took it up and found it to be her own St. Clair!
The publisher excused himself for not having communicated with her, by reminding her that she had left him no address. He presented her with four copies, which, for that time, was all the remuneration she received. Afterwards she re-wrote the work, and it was published, improved and enlarged, in England.
Her father, at this period, 1801, was for some time stationary at
Coleraine, and he wished to have both his daughters with him—he had been a long time
separated from Sydney. He had never cordially liked the
idea
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In the latter end of April or the beginning of May, 1801, Sydney Owenson left the Featherstones, who, through life, continued her constant admirers and attached friends.
The following letter, addressed to Mrs. Featherstone, tells its own story:
Here I am, dearest Madam, safely and happily arrived on
the shores of the vast Atlantic, after a journey, tedious indeed, but amusing
from its novelty, and comparatively delightful from the unexpected circumstance
which attended it, namely, my father and Olivia meeting me sixty miles from Dublin. Just as I had given
Colonel Lindsey (who was extremely pleasant and
attentive,) warning not to be frightened at the sight of a withered duenna, he
saw me leap into the arms of a man six feet high and armed at all points for
conquest (for my father never travels without the apparatus of the toilet); he
looked as if he thought this the most extraordinary
duenna that ever waited to give a young lady convoy. I found these dear beings perfectly well, never looking
better, and my father at least ten years younger than when I parted with him.
After a survey of the beauties and
| PERIOD OF 1801. | 207 |
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PS.—I must say a word to you, my dear little girls, though but to tell you I dream of you every night; that I long to hear from you, that I request you will coax mamma to write to me, and remember me most affectionately to the boys. Olivia thanks mamma a thousand times for her present, of which she has just made a handsome cap. I am in hopes of getting a piano from Londonderry, which will save me great expense in the carriage. You will have the goodness to mention this, that I may not prevent him selling his.
Although Mr. Owenson was a true
Irishman in the art of getting into difficulties, he was a careful parent in all that
concerned his daughters. He had made great efforts to give them both the education of
gentlewomen. He had kept them carefully from all contact with whatever was undesirable in
his
| PERIOD OF 1801. | 209 |
There never was the most passing thought of allowing either of his daughters to go upon the stage. So far as Sydney was concerned, with all her cleverness, she was incapacitated by the total want of what is called “study;” she could invent, she could improvise, she could play all manner of droll pantomime of her own invention, but she could not commit to memory anything out of a book beyond an epigrammatic quotation.
St. Clair had some
success. It was translated into German with a biographical notice prefixed; a remarkable
production, which asserted that the authoress
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| PERIOD OF 1801. | 211 |
It is easy to laugh at all this; but it were devoutly to be wished that the young authors of the present day would read a little before they begin to write so much.
Sydney Owenson’s reading was truly miscellaneous—pursued under every circumstance of difficulty and disadvantage. She never had any one to guide or direct her—in all things, intellectual as well as practical, she was left entirely to herself.
A home picture when she returned for a short time to her father and sister after leaving Bracklin, may be extracted from a scrap-book in which she made her multifarious extracts from the works she read, wrote out the rough draughts of poems, and entered (very sparingly) her own thoughts and impressions:—
“September 12th.—Indisposition confines Olivia to
her room; it is, thank God, but slight, yet sufficient to awake my anxiety and
tenderness. We are seated at our little work-table, beside a cheerful turf fire, and a
pair of lights; Livy is amusing herself at work, and I have been
reading out a work of Schiller’s to her,
whilst Molly is washing up the tea-things in the
background, and Peter is laying the cloth for his master’s
supper—that dear master!—in a few minutes we shall hear his rap at the door
and his whistle under the window, and then we shall circle round the fire and chat and
laugh over the circumstances of the day. These are the scenes in which my heart ex-
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The following commentary on that universal text—Love—is curious as coming from a girl. It comes from the same scrap-book, and bears her initials after it:—
“Burns says, ‘If anything on earth deserves the name of rapture or transport, it is the feelings of green eighteen in the company of the mistress of his heart, when she repays him with an equal return of affection.’
“I do not agree with Burns; at eighteen the passion is but a simple sensation of nature, unmingled, unenriched by those superadded ideas which constitute its purer and more elevated charms. Other sentiments mingle with love, as other metals amalgamate with gold—the sympathy of congenial tastes—the blandishments of the imagination—the graces of intellectual perfection—the exaggeration of fancy, glowing with poetic images, and the refinement of taste to apply them to the object beloved—all these heighten and sublimate the passion which has its origin in Nature.
The indomitable energy and indefatigable industry which characterized
her both as Sydney Owenson and Lady
Morgan, are even more remarkable than her genius, and gave her the coherence
and persistence
| PERIOD OF 1801. | 213 |
In spite of her romantic love for her father, and her sincere attachment to her sister, the beautiful illusion of living a domestic life with them soon wore off.
Accustomed as she had so long been to the plentiful comfort and regularity of the Featherstones’ well-ordered household, she felt the difference between that and the scrambling poverty and discomfort of life in an Irish lodging. Her father’s financial difficulties increased rather than diminished. Sydney’s virtues were not of a patient, home-staying, household kind; she could go out into the world—she loved the adventure of it. Whatever she saw, or did, or said, was always to her like a scene in a novel, the denouement of which could not be foreseen. She was capable of working hard in her own way, and she worked from the honest stimulus of wishing to earn money to help her father out of his difficulties; but she could not endure dulness or discomfort.
In the course of a very few months after her return
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——“After all, I can meet with nothing to recompense me for the loss of your’s and papa’s society, nor would I hesitate a moment to return to you were I to consult happiness only. You do me great injustice in supposing I was not happy when last with you. It is true, my spirits sank beneath the least appearance of discord, and I have hitherto glided on through life so much at peace with all the world, that it would give me pain to excite ill-temper or ill-humour in the most indifferent person in existence; and though I was not so fortunate as to please every member of my own dear family, you best know with what heartbreaking regret I left it.
“Here I am, almost an object of idolatry among the servants, and am caressed by all ranks of people. You know one of my maxims is, never to let anything in the world ruffle my temper, and by this means I continue to keep others in good humour with me.
“Accept my compliments of congratulation on your cloak. I
have a correspondent in Dublin (Miss Harrold), who wrote me a long
letter to-day, full of the fashions. I wrote to her for a cloak, for I have still some
of the money left that papa sent me. The cloak
| PERIOD OF 1801. | 215 |
“I wish you would read history. My little folks are going on charmingly; they are the dearest children in the world, and dote on me as I do on them. They would amaze you at geography, and history, and music Write soon. S. O.
“We are expecting the handsome, fat Count d’Alton here, every day.”
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I have just come to town, and sent your father the answer to his commands. Your letter was highly interesting, and your lines to the Quaker, “Ah! why do I sigh?” extremely beautiful. You are, indeed, my Anthenæ, and let the following verses convince you. My poems are printing at Bristol in a most elegant style—this makes one of them.
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“There lurks within thy lyre a dangerous spell,
That lures my soul from Wisdom’s dauntless aim;
Yet if I know thy generous bosom well,
Thou would’st not dash me from the steeps of
Fame.
Trust me, thy melting, plaint, melodious flow,
Could animate to love the icy grave;
And yet, if thy pure feelings well I know,
Thou would’st not sink me to an amorous slave!
Graced with no vantage, nor of birth nor wealth,
That to Ambition’s happier sons belong;
E’en at the price of my sole treasure—health,
I own that I would be renown’d for song!
For this I wander from the world aside,
Muttering wild descants to the boiling deep,
’Mid the lone forest’s leafy refuge hide,
And slight the blessings of inactive sleep.”
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Now, considering that this comes neither from a “very old” nor “very ugly fellow,” you might excuse some warmth of colouring. To use another quotation of my own—
|
“Why, though thy tender vow recal another.
May not my rapt imagination rove,
Beyond the solemn softness of a brother,
And live upon thy radiant looks of love?”
|
| PERIOD OF 1801. | 217 |
In reply to your desire of knowing why I thought Moore intended you, I can only repeat that it was mere supposition, founded on the idea that he could not be in your company without poetic emotion. But on my soul, I think you are be-rhymed enough for one lady!
Thomas Dermody appears to have been something more than a poetical lover. He loved Sydney Owenson, as well as so wayward and egotistical a fellow could love anything except himself.
In the midst of his reckless life he retained for her sentiments of respect and attachment; and he cherished the memory of Mrs. Owenson as his best and tenderest friend.
To Miss Owenson, when at Fort William, he again wrote:—
My volume is already in the press, and I hope will soon be published,
for I abhor correcting proofs. Let me inform you how far you are connected with
it. The sonnet to you is to be published with a note, and another long, and
perhaps not despicable poem, called “An Epistle to a Young Lady after many years
Absence.” I did not think it might be agreeable or prudent to
affix your name. I will also confess that in writing the verses to Anthenæ
(a Greek name of my own, signifying flowery, and in a figurative sense
amiable,) you were not entirely absent from my imagination. Between friends,
this is my chef-d’œuvre,
and I have no small hopes of its future success, with a little patience. I feel
a sensible and refined delight in
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| PERIOD OF 1801. | 219 |
Conceive how I idolise your remembrance. Were you Venus I should forget you; but you are a Laura, a Leonora, an Eloisa, all in one delightful assemblage! My idea of your literary merit is very exalted indeed; this in a woman, a beautiful woman, whom I must ever esteem, what magic can be so irresistible in this world!
Pray did you not mistake my meaning in some passage where you say I seem to boast of an affected libertinism? certainly, my fair monitress, you did.
I have been a libertine but never a hypocrite, for which
reason my failings have been more noted than my few deserts. I detest and
despise the false taste and false wit of modern infidelity. I have written
| 220 | LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR. |
When the publication of this volume is complete, I am determined to have one month’s happiness in Ireland; but it must be when you are at home. What a meeting it will be, if I do not deceive myself! Then I may share (another quotation of mine from the epistle to you by name):—
“the exalted power Of social converse o’er the social hour.” |
How I long for you to read my next volume; you make so sweet a part of it yourself. It is my pride to be publicly allied to you in fame as I am privately in the fondest friendship. Adieu.
This roving, clever, inconsequential and rather silly young gentleman
died of consumption in July of the following year. Sydney
Owenson felt a good deal for him—not in the way of love, but of old
fellowship and pity. She thought highly of his talents; too highly, no doubt; but the
weakness was in her very natural and commendable. She was as warm a friend to him when he
was gone as she had always been to him
| PERIOD OF 1801. | 221 |
It must be borne in mind, that Thomas Dermody and Sydney Owenson wrote their poetry before Lord Byron had introduced a more direct and rigorous style. Women were then “nymphs,” who were “coy,” “cruel,” “unkind,” “disdainful;” and men in poetry made believe to be “shepherds,” “swains,” adoring the charms of their mistresses with a freedom of expression which would be deemed highly indecorous, but which the nymphs in question took as a matter of course. Dermody got very little mercy from the reviewers; but, in strict truth, he was no more a poet than Sydney Owenson was a poetess.
The days of Sydney Owenson when she was an instructor of youth did not pass over in sadness nor in looking at the world out of back windows. Her genius and spirit made her a fascinating acquisition in a country house. Few governesses have her social talents, and possibly in a steady-going English family they would scarcely be allowed the scope for displaying them, if they had them. Her experiences are in curious contrast to poor Charlotte Bronté’s; but Sydney Owenson knew how to make herself agreeable. She was always grateful for kindness, and she possessed the rare gift of knowing how to accept kindness gracefully, so as to make it a pleasure to the bestower. She was not prone to take offence—she took benefits as they were intended, and she brightened all that surrounded her with the sunshine that emanated from herself.
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The following letters to Mrs. Featherstone contain all that is known of Miss Owenson in the year 1802. The first letter refers to Dermody’s death:—
It is well if even this original scribble will serve to call to the minds of my dear Bracklin friends, that little body who often thinks on them with many pleasant recollections.
On my return from Enniskillen I wrote you, my dear madam,
a long letter, with a full and true account of my northern expedition, and all the Dublin chit-chat
I could collect. This was two months back, and yet not a line from Westmeath. I
will, however, gladly compound for a little neglect and
unkindness, provided no domestic misfortune has
prevented me hearing from you. If Mr.
Featherstone and the dear little ones are well and happy—I
shall pout a little to be sure—but a line from you will settle all
difference between us. I must, however, say, I think the girls both unkind and ungrateful, but I know
the world too well not to be more hurt than surprised at
it. I believe I often told you it was what I expected, nor was I a false
prophetess. Let me hope, however, that your and Mr.
Featherstone’s friendship is still in my possession, and I
shall be satisfied. I saw Mrs. Praval very often when in
Dublin—as stiff as ever. I met also the
| PERIOD OF 1801. | 223 |
My novel is publishing this month back, in Dublin, and
will be out early next month. You will be surprised to hear the work I composed
at Bracklin I have given to oblivion, and that this one I wrote in the evenings
of last winter, though I went out a great deal. It is inscribed to Lady Clonbrock, and its title, St. Clair, or First
Love. You will probably see it in the papers. I have already
disposed of every copy, except a few books I have kept for my own immediate
friends. My poor friend Dermody, the
poet, died last July, of a rapid decay, at five-and-twenty. We corresponded
constantly for two years previous to his death, which affected me and my father very sensibly. We have got his picture (done a
few hours before his death).
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Many happy Christmases and New Years to all the family of
Bracklin, and very many thanks to my dearest Margo for her
welcome and charmingly written letter, which nearly equals C.’s in style
(who, however, promises to be the Sevigné of the family), and surpasses it in writing. Here
we are, singing, playing, and dancing away as merry as crickets, and ushering
in the seasons with all due merriment. So now for some little account of our
festivals. The other day we had upwards of forty people to dinner; among
others, Lord Dunally, Lord and Lady
Clonbrock, Honourable Miss
Dillon, the Vaughans, of “Golden
Grove,” whom I think I heard mamma mention to a great many other fine
people. We began dancing, without the gentlemen, almost immediately after tea.
I had the felicity of opening our female ball with Miss
| PERIOD OF 1801. | 225 |
| 226 | LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR. |
Nothing can be pleasanter than our life at present; to-morrow we are to have Lord Norbury, and all the world to dinner, and music in the evening. We got a delightful piano and tambourine, and I do nothing but sing and play, and am much improved in voice and singing since you heard me. Do you know our house is not much more than half the size of Bracklin—everything in the simplest style; neither can I say much for Lord Clonbrock’s mode of living—there was a thousand times more show at Bracklin on a gala-day than we had at Latteville. My little girls are the best and most attentive creatures in the world, and if mamma and papa do not flatter, are making a wonderful progress; but you shall see them in spring, for we all go for two or three months to Dublin, from that to Ballyspellin Spa, and then make a tour to Killarney, and so back home; such is the plan laid down for the present; but give me Fort William, and I am content. Why do you force me to tell you my pupil’s names, or why cannot I answer you by writing Rosabella or Angelica? Alas! no, I must stain this sublime epistle by confessing their names are——Miss Bridget and Miss Kate: after that can you ask me to write more than that I am,
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