Lady Morgan’s Memoirs
Chapter XXVII
CHAPTER XXVII.
FIRST TASTE OF CRITICISM.
Miss Owenson, in spite of
episcopal gaieties and dissipation, had finished her novel, Ida of Athens; but Sir Richard Phillips, her “prince of
publishers,” was showing himself tenacious of his “right divine to govern
wrong.” The exact cause of their quarrel is not recorded, beyond Miss
Owenson’s declaration, “that he had used her
barbarously.” She possibly asked too much money for her work,—or
Sir Richard had not the same faith in its value, seeing the haste
and distractions under which it had been written; he threw up the work after the first
volume had gone to press, and Miss Owenson had to look elsewhere for a
publisher. The novel was accepted by Messrs.
Longmans. There was a good deal of “perilous stuff” in the work,
and the letter to her publishers, shows her to be quite conscious of it, and yet capable of
taking her own part. Previous in date, however, comes a fragment of a land letter from
Lady Stanley, with a motherly present of a piece
of velvet for a dress. Her
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knot of true friends kept her from much of
the evil incident in her present position in the world; they preserved her from the
intoxication of over praise and the ardent sunshine of worldly success; they also deadened
the influence of the envy, malice and uncharitableness which followed her as dark shadows
upon bright lights; she often used to say that no one but herself knew what she owed to her
friends.
Lady Stanley to Miss
Owenson.
Penrhos,
January 21st, 1809.
Yes, my dear Sydney, I
would we were placed vis-à-vis in some chimney
corner; that I should understand you well, I have no doubt, nor should I laugh,
or rally at your romance, as you call it; for I have not forgotten the
aspirations of a youthful heart, and I have some sense
of the fastidiousness of a refined spirit; and I do think, that somehow, I
might be able to insinuate some little drop of cordial towards the serenity of
your’s. May we some day meet and discourse in peace! but, alack! here am
I now in all the agitation of an impending journey, methinks, a sort of dreary
and perilous pilgrimage, and my thoughts are all distracted; I dispatch to you,
therefore, but these few hurried lines, just to say I love you well, and to bid
you cheer your spirit; believe me, its droop is but a passing cloud. Often
shall I think of you, and wish for you, when in that tumultuous yet vague city
of
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London; think you of me sometimes, and as a being who
can feel, yes, and fellow feel; and when you have leisure, and are not in tune
for the pleasures of the world, write to me; and farewell, my precious
Glorvina.
Ever truly yours, &c., &c.,
I am tempted to send you a bit of black velvet for a
warm winter garment; ’tis only English velvet, as you will see, but
it looks nearly as well as the best by candlelight, and is much wore, and
will, I think, be a convenient gown for many occasions, especially at this
freezing season.
It has been said that there was perilous stuff in Ida. The Messrs. Longman remonstrated against some parts of it; and put
Miss Owenson on her defence.
Letter to Longman on his
disapprobation of some parts of Ida, which he published in 1809:—
Miss Owenson to Messrs.
Longman, Hurst, &c.,
&c..
Great George Street,
December 10th, 1809.
Sir,
I am honoured by the attention with which you have
perused my work, and obliged for the hints you have suggested for its
improvement. I am at all times open to conviction, but particularly so, when I
observe great nicety of judgment united to great kind-
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ness
of intention, as in the present instance; as far as is consonant with my
feelings, my principles, and the
true and
lasting interest of the little work in question, I
shall gratefully submit, sir, to your criticisms and alterations. While I
regret that my approbation of your judgment in a general sense is not
accompanied by a perfect coincidence in our opinions in a partial one.
Your apprehension that some of my readers will suspect
the work of being tainted with the philosophy of the new school of French
moralists, and of promulgating Deistical principles, give me leave to say, I
think unfounded. I solemnly assure you I am wholly unacquainted with the works
of the persons alluded to (except a very partial perusal of Helvetius and the travels of M. Volney come under that head); the habits of
my life and situation have all thrown me dependent on my own mind, and have
been as favourable to the study of Nature in her moral operations and an
admiration of her works in their spirit and their forms, as they have been
inimical to that description of information and system which books are
calculated to bestow.
Whatever, therefore, are my errors, they are exclusively
my own; are, consequently, free from the criticisms of common-place imitation,
and in an age when human intellect has nearly readied its god of attainment,
the writer who has (in the least degree) the power to be original, inevitably possesses the spell to be attractive. Were I writing for certain sects,
or for a certain class in society only, some part of
your appre-
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hensions, sir, might be justified; but I trust I
am writing for society at large. I do not assert it in the egotism of
authorship or the vanity of youth, but in the confidence of a mind whose
principles are drawn from Nature; and who,
feeling
what it believes to be the truth, has no hesitation to declare it; but, though
sir, your private opinions may harmonize with mine, you will observe that the
interest of the persons who publish the work is also to be considered, and in
this I perfectly agree with you; but it would argue great want of knowledge of
human nature in general, and of literary experience in particular, to suppose
that a work original in its sentiments, or remotely inimical to an established
system of opinion, will, by the boldness of such an effort, be injured in its
circulation. On the contrary, the fermentations in public opinion, which it
gives rise to, awakens a public interest, and rouses a species of fanaticism in
its readers (whether for or against the leading tenets of the work,) which
eventually promotes its sale and circulation, and, consequently, the interests
of its
publisher. God forbid, however, that I should
attempt to procure emolument to them, or a transient fame for myself, by any
other means than by the honest exertion of my little talent, contributing its
mite to the well being and happiness of society; and so
invariably true have I ever found myself to its moral and religious
interests, that though I knew it was almost impossible to limit the inference
of prejudice and bigotry, yet I did not suppose the utmost stretch of sectarian
zeal could have tortured out an unmoral or irreligious sentiment from anything
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I have ever written, until your letter, sir, suggested
the possibility. If, therefore, any correction is made in the conversations
between the
Diako and his pupils (which I submit to
with the very greatest reluctance) I request it may be
with very great delicacy; as there is not a word in them which (in a moral
point of view) I should wish to erase even on my death bed, or which I think
would be received with
the shadow of disapprobation by
an enlightened, a tolerant, or philanthropic reader.
If I have, in the hurry of composition, asserted that the
union of social and selfish love constitute the perfection of human Nature, I
have written nonsense, for the union might exist upon very unequal terms, and
the selfish preponderate very much over the social.
I meant to assert that the subjection of the selfish passions to the social or
general good of mankind constituted the perfection of human Virtue; but of human virtue, I do not believe that any peculiar mode of
faith is to be considered, as it must be admitted that a Brahmin or Mussulman,
a Catholic or Protestant, may all be perfectly virtuous men, though they differ
in points of faith, and that a man who promotes the happiness of his fellow
creature is a virtuous man, even though he is a Jew, which is but his
misfortune, and it might have been yours sir, or mine, had we been born of
parents of that persuasion; for, after all, we must confess, that our religion
is more frequently our inheritance than our conviction;
though it may be both—and certainly, when Mr.
Pope asserted, that “his faith can’t be wrong
whose life is in the
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right,” he broached a
much more heretical tenet than I ever wrote, or, indeed, thought, either true
or justifiable. I believe, therefore, if you substitute
virtue for
nature, I believe you will find
the passage perfectly innocent. As to the allusion to
Mr. Addison, you may do with it as you please;
I always thought highly of him as a writer for the age he lived in, and weakly
of him as a man for any age. His ostentatious speech was false in its tendency,
both as to experience of human nature and to the humility of religion.
Multitudes of infidels, or even of criminals, have died with equal fortitude
and calmness.
This letter to Lady Stanley
shows the natural reaction, after the life of over-work and social dissipation she had been
leading for so many months. She was always subject to fits of depressed spirits, though she
carefully kept them to herself. In the present case, her relations towards Sir Charles Ormsby had, no doubt, a good deal of influence
in producing this discouragement; they had assumed a very uncomfortable aspect.
Miss Owenson to Lady
Stanley.
[No date.]
I have not answered your letter immediately, dear lady,
first, because you advise me not to be in too great a hurry, and next, because
I did not find myself worthy to answer it; but, nevertheless, it has been a
precious letter to me, it is full of the heart that I love
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and the spirit I
admire; it raises me in my own estimation, and I turn to it as my resource
against that
internal oppression which at intervals
preys on me so heavily; it is but too true, dearest friend, I feel that, young
as I am, I have lived long enough; my existence (made up of epochs) has given a
high and false tone to my feelings, which calls for that
excitation no longer to be obtained. I live in a state of
torpor—nothing touches me—and I resemble some unfortunate animal
whom experimental philosophy has placed in an
exhauster,
with this difference, that it is still susceptible of vital powers, but that I
am beyond the possibility of renovation. This will all seem romance to you, and
you will laugh; but were I sitting with you over the fire, I could make you
understand me, though I know it would not be easy to make you
feel with me; you, who bear about you the animation of the greenest
youth! My general apathy enters into my feeling for
Ida. I know she is
published,
et voilà tout! I
dined yesterday at my
Lord Arran’s,
Mrs. Mason was of the party, and I was delighted to be
with persons who had seen and know something of you. Just as I had received
your last letter,
Lady Charlemont came to
sit with me, and brought her little boy,
Viscount
Caulfield with her; it was in vain I sought for your letter, and
it was many days before I found it, as my sister’s maid had carried it
away with some papers. I, however, repeated verbatim to her Ladyship, the
flattering things you said of her; so deserved by her, and so happily expressed
by you. Dublin is
atrabilaire, and
though I am asked to what-
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ever is going on, I scarcely
appear anywhere, except at
les petites
soirées of the dear
Psyche.
S. O.
Ida of Athens
encountered more criticism than any of its predecessors. It had been written under
distractions, of which it bears the traces. It possesses, however, the merit of being very
interesting, and extremely romantic. The descriptions both of the personal charms of the
heroine, and the declarations of love to which they give rise, are ardent and eloquent, and
of an intrepidity which, in these days, would be highly astonishing. Ida is not only a heroine—a houri and a woman of
genius—but she is also “a woman of the strictest principle,” and never
goes even “a kennin wrang;” indeed, we never recollect to have heard or read
such logical arguments as Ida sets forth on behalf of
female rectitude, nor to have seen such a signal instance of female virtue and feminine
imprudence. Her maxims are her guardian angels, and, strange to say, they are strong enough
to save her in situations of peril. Although she is pleased to dress in “a tissue of
woven air” for a best gown, it is as effectual a protection as the tenfold shield of
heavy petticoats in which Knickerbocker’s
Dutch heroines attired themselves. Ida discourses like
a very Corinna about Greek art, literature, morals, and
politics, in a manner eloquent, pedantic, enthusiastic, and absurd. The real interest of
the book lies in the unexpressed but ever-present parallel between the condition of the
Greeks, their aspirations after liberty, their recollec-
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tion of old
glories, and the condition of Ireland at that time. This gives a touch of earnestness and
real feeling to what would be otherwise high-flown nonsense. The story is hampered and
overlaid with the classical and topographical illustrations, which Miss Owenson had got up with so much diligence.
This novel procured for her the thorny honour of a review in the Quarterly—a foretaste of what was to be her lot
hereafter! The bitter ill-nature of the article is more remarkable than its brilliancy or
its justice; and the ill-nature defeated its object. It would be difficult to find a novel
offering fairer mark for ridicule than Ida, and the Quarterly, in its heavy cannonade, entirely missed it. Lady
Morgan was always rather ashamed of Ida, and spoke of it as “a bad book;” but she wrote out in
it many thoughts and feelings which were fermenting in her own mind, and the novel carried
them safely off.
Joseph Addison (1672-1719)
English politician and man of letters, with his friend Richard Steele he edited
The Spectator (1711-12). He was the author of the tragedy
Cato (1713).
Thomas Hurst (1770 c.-1842)
Originally a bookseller in Leeds, he began working in London late in the eighteenth
century; in 1804 he partnered with the firm of T. N. Longman. He died in the
Charterhouse.
Thomas Norton Longman (1771-1842)
A leading London publisher whose authors included Southey, Wordsworth, Scott, and
Moore.
Sir Richard Phillips (1767-1840)
London bookseller, vegetarian, and political reformer; he published
The
Monthly Magazine, originally edited by John Aikin (1747-1822). John Wolcot was a
friend and neighbor.
Alexander Pope (1688-1744)
English poet and satirist; author of
The Rape of the Lock (1714)
and
The Dunciad (1728).
Margaret Stanley [née Owen] (d. 1816)
The daughter of John Owen of Penrhos; in 1763 she married John Thomas Stanley, baronet.
She was a friend and correspondent of Lady Morgan.
Mary Tighe [née Blachford] (1772-1810)
Irish poet, the daughter of William Blachford; in 1793 she married Henry Tighe
(1768-1836); following her death from consumption her poem
Psyche
obtained great renown.
Constantin François, comte de Volney (1757-1820)
Oriental traveler, historian and member of the Académie française. He wrote
Les Ruines, ou méditations sur les révolutions des empires
(1791).
The Quarterly Review. (1809-1967). Published by John Murray, the
Quarterly was instigated by Walter
Scott as a Tory rival to the
Edinburgh Review. It was edited by
William Gifford to 1824, and by John Gibson Lockhart from 1826 to 1853.