I hasten to acknowledge the receipt of your letter, not
because it is friendly, nor yet because it is flattering, but simply because it
was yours. Fate, alas! my grand climacteric is in view—my years are
beginning to outnumber my enjoyments, and abominable fifty tells
| 368 | LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR. |
When your note arrived I was merged in politics—my circulation was moving historically slow—the head was in full operation—the heart a-slumbering—of course my state was drooping, and the theory of patriotism was sinking under the pressure of application. You changed the scene. Refreshing ideas crowded on my fancy, and gave birth to some of the best sentences I ever wrote in my life.
What an advantage you writers of fiction have. If Homer and Virgil had been confined to feet they would have been wretched poets. Milton triumphs over Hume because he treats of impossibilities; and Ovid eclipses Sir Richard Musgrave because he is somewhat more incredible. Fiction is liberty—feet, incarceration. Our correspondence is unequal—you write to a slave, I to a free woman; and I plainly see I must either curb my volatility or give up my reputation. In truth, I hate bagatelle—I wish it was high-treason. It has been my bane all my life, and you see I am trying to get rid of it. Be assured that in these days a good steady impostor, who cuts out his risible muscles, and ties his tongue fast to his eye-teeth, is the only person sure of succeeding, or, indeed, countenanced in rational circles; and as I have undergone neither of these operations I intend to die in obscurity.
But come, I had better stop this sort of farago in
| FRIENDS AND COUNTRYMEN. | 369 |
“When gods meet gods and jostle in the dark,” |
Of all your characters I love Glorvina most. I hate to doubt of her existence—like a
she Prometheus (as you are), I believe you
stole a spark from Heaven to give animation to your idol. I say all this
because I think the society in which one writes has a great influence over
their characters. You wrote the Novice in retirement—you wrote Glorvina
in your closet—but you wrote Ida in Dublin; and depend upon it, if you are
writing now, you will have your scenes and character in high life—Lady
B—— to the Duke of Q——, and
Lady Betty F—— to the Countess
of Z——. I really think luxury is an enemy to the
refinement of ideas. I cannot conceive why the brain should not get fat and
unwieldy as well as any other part of the human frame. Some of our best poets
have written in paroxysms of hunger. I really believe even Addison would have had more point if he had
less victuals. I dined a few days ago with the Secretary, and never could write
a word since, save as before mentioned: and in the midst of magnificence and
splendour, where you now are, if you do not restrict yourself to a
sheep’s trotter and spruce beer you will lose your simplicity, and your
pen will betray your luxury. I hope in a
| 370 | LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR. |
Upon reading over this letter it is easy to perceive my head is not perfectly settled. Have you any recipe to cure a wandering fancy? If you have, do let me have it, and you will, if possible, increase the esteem with which I am.
