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Lady Morgan’s Memoirs
Thomas Wallace to Sydeny Owenson, [January 1810?]
INTRODUCTION & INDEXES
DOCUMENT INFORMATION
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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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I write to you with reluctance, in which my heart has no share; its natural impulses are always true to pity and affection; to solace the afflicted is in me no virtue, it is at once my nature and my habit, and if in prosperity and joy my feelings vary their direction
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and ebb and flow to the influence of peculiar circumstances, in sorrow and in sadness they become fixed and invariable, for, “laugh with those who rejoice,” is less natural to me than to “weep with those who weep;” yet respecting your grief (and the grief of a man is to me always awful), not knowing in what mood of mind my letter might find you, I waited till it could be naturally supposed the first strong impressions of scenes of suffering and of melancholy might be softened if not effaced, until nothing but a tender sadness not ungracious to the feelings remained. I know not how to use the common-place language of condolence; death has broken a tie which sometimes galled you; but it has also taken from you a friend, a sincere, an affectionate and faithful friend; for myself, young as I am, I have tried long enough to know and to feel the inconsequence of life. To act right according to those moral principles which nature has interwoven with our very constitution, and from which all the moral institutions of man are derived, is, I most sincerely and solemnly believe, the sole good, imperishable and lasting as long as we shall ourselves last, whether here or hereafter; that all the rest is subordinate and frail, I can assert upon my own experience. To-day, glancing my eyes over the Novice of St. Dominic, I was struck by the ardour, the enthusiasm, the fertility of invention, in short by all the brilliant illusions of untried youth, which gleamed in every line. I opposed them by the cold, tame nature of my present feelings;—my disappointed heart, my exhausted imagination, and I had the weakness to
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drop tears on the page as I read; but I dried them soon, and I could not help thinking, that while the pleasures of the senses and the fancy of youth and the world, left behind them but idle and transient regrets, the consciousness of having always acted right alone remained to comfort and support, to cheer and solace; it is a triumph purchased, indeed, by many temporary sacrifices; and many an imperious wish, and many a fond desire is trampled on to obtain it. This is a very triste style for me, you will say, but it is my prevailing tone at this moment, and, indeed, in spite of those states of vivacity to which I am subject, my susceptible spirits reflect back the trouble of gay and brilliant objects. My natural character is that of one who thinks deeply, and who naturally loves to repose in the tranquillity of meditation, who “sets loose to life,” and who is almost wearied out by the harrassing vicissitudes which “flesh is heir to.” This you will not believe; for it is among the things I have most to lament, that you have not had tact to come at the real character of your friend, nor the confidence to believe her own assertions on the subject; you would be surprised to see me here, stealing away from the dazzling multitude, and passing whole days in my own room, reading some grave philosophical work; thinking deeply—and feeling acutely—going to the source of some obscure subject—or giving myself up to tender and pensive memories, which have for their object those that are most dear and most distant. Yet this I do constantly . . . and yet I return to society—not its most undistinguished or least brilliant member.

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If I could be of the least use to you, I should not hesitate to fly to you in your afflictions; believe me, when I solemnly assert, that nothing on this earth should prevent me, neither the pleasures of the world or its opinions; but you are surrounded by friends, and I think you have that confidence in my friendship, that you would call on me if you wanted me. My return to Ireland is uncertain. I am pretty weary of the sameness of things here, where there is nothing in the least to interest the heart,—they are all extremely anxious I should stay till March, as they then mean to have private theatricals; but I would fly to the end of the world from a species of amusement to me, of all others, the most faded and egotistical; it is, therefore, most probable, I shall abide by my original intention and leave this early in February.

I hear of nothing but politics, and the manner in which things are considered, give me a most thorough contempt for the “rulers of the earth;” I am certain that the country, its welfare or prosperity, never, for a moment, make a part in their speculation; it is all a little miserable system of self-interests, paltry distinctions, of private pique, and personal ambition. I sometimes with difficulty keep in my indignation when I hear them talk of such a person and his eight men, and such an one and his five, and so on, for there is not one of the noted demagogues you read of, who do not carry with them a certain number of followers, who vote à tort et à travers, as their leader bids them; it is thus we are represented—the order of the day is
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as follows, Lord Grey, Premier, with the common consent of the nation, (except the particular party going out) Lord Erskine, Chancellor; Lord Moira, Commander of the Forces; Lord Lansdown, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland; Lord Manners resigns—they murmur something of Plunket succeeding him; Lord Holland nothing; notwithstanding what the papers say, nothing has been laid out for Ponsonby, he is looked on as the captain or ringleader of the House of Commons. Sheridan is held in contempt on all sides; but the Prince, who is cold to him, will make him, they say, Paymaster to the Navy. Such are the appointments the Prince has made out; but Lord Abercorn thinks they will not take place, as the King is mending fast. The anxiety and solicitude in all whom I see here, and who are interested for the issue of the business, have disgusted me for ever with those falsely called the great. Lord Abercorn, who always votes himself a King’s man, preserves an armed neutrality, and though, according to my principles and feelings, he is decidedly wrong, yet it is impossible not to respect his independence. All wonder at Erskine’s elevation, as he is deemed literally mad. Your future viceroy proposed, some time ago, for my sweet new friend, whom I believe I have mentioned to you—Lady Hamilton (don’t mention this to any one); but was refused by Papa. She has become a great tie to me now, and her obvious affection for me is my greatest pride. She is a most superior and charming woman, though cold in her general manner and rigid in her principles. She is, in her person, like Lord Abercorn more than any of his
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children; but her character is composed of firmer stuff. I hope, one day or other, to present her to you. She met lately, by chance, at Brighton, with the Grattans, and is an enthusiast in admiration of them, as they must be of her. She says she envies that middle rank of life, and would give up her own situation willingly for theirs.

Farewell; this is a dull epistle, but I am as little in the mood to write gay letters as you are probably to read them. I hope Clarke has made you the offer of his house till your own is made comfortable for your residence. How and where is your dear boy? How is Mr. Hande—and where? It was in a letter from Old Atkinson that I first heard of your loss. I was shocked and surprised, for I all along thought that, though perfect recovery was impossible, yet that years of life might be still enjoyed, or rather endured. To me death has little terrors. I always look to it as to a wished-for, and necessary repose; they alone know to estimate life who, like me, have known its great extremes, and, let me add, they alone can despise it.

Once more farewell.

PS. Let me entreat that you will take particular care of my letters. Did you receive one from me dated the 12th. I have written five letters to the Clarkes since Twelfth-night, and they deny getting a single letter.

Nothing, perhaps, under your present feelings, would so much distrait your mind as an interview with some being who would think and feel with you,
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for sorrow can know no solace. With the sympathy of intellect and sensibility blended in one, but next to that, you will find most relief from a particular style of reading which awakens, without fatiguing, the mind. Let me, therefore, recommend to you a work in which this moment I am deeply engaged, and which is beside me. It might be called “L’Esprit de la Raison,” for never was so much delicate wit, such exquisite irony, and such incomparable humour, applied to the development of the most profound subjects that Philosophy ever called to the tribunal of human reason. I mean Voltaire’s Essai sur les mœurs et l’esprit des nations et sur les principaux faits de l’histoire depuis Charlemagne jusqu’à Louis XIII. Read it, if you have not already read it, or if you have!—

Ah! what a woman’s postscript!!!