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Lady Morgan’s Memoirs
Chapter XXVII
INTRODUCTION & INDEXES
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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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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
FIRST TASTE OF CRITICISM.345
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.,
M. Stanley.

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-
FIRST TASTE OF CRITICISM.347
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
FIRST TASTE OF CRITICISM.349
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.

Sydney Owenson.

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
350 LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR.  
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-
FIRST TASTE OF CRITICISM.351
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.

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