The following passage is a frank confession of principle and practice from a young, much admired, and unmarried woman. It is from a diary of the year 1811. In Lady Morgan’s own writing it is endorsed
Inconsiderate and indiscreet, never saved by prudence, but often rescued by pride; often on the very verge of error, but never passing the line. Committing myself in every way—except in my own esteem,—without any command over my feelings, my words, or writings,—yet full of self-possession as to action and conduct,—once reaching the boundary of right even with my feet on the threshold of wrong; capable, like a menage horse, of stopping short, coolly considering the risk I encounter, and turning sharply back for the post from whence I started, feeling myself quite side, and, in a word—quitte pour la peur.
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Early imbued with the high sentiments belonging to good
birth, and with the fine feelings which accompany good education. My father was
a player and a gentleman. I learned early to feel acutely my situation; my
nature was supremely above my circumstances and situation, the first principle
or passion that rooted in my breast, was a species of proud indignation, which
accompanies me to that premature death, of which it is finally the cause. My
first point of society was to behold the conflict between two unequal
minds—the one (my mother) strong and rigid—the other weak and
yielding; the one strong to arrest dispute—the other accelerating its
approach. The details which made up the mass were—seeing a father
frequently torn to prison—a mother on the point of beggary with her
children, and all those shocks of suffering which human nature can disdain, and
which can only occur in a certain sphere of life and a certain state of
society. Man, who has his appetites to gratify, which Nature supplies in his
social or artificial character, has thousands of wants which suffering poverty
may deny; and even their gratification is not always attended with effects
proportionate to their cause. So delicately and fatally organised, that objects
impalpable to others, were by me accurately perceived, felt and combined; that
the faint ray which neither warmed nor brightened, often gave a glow and a
lustre to my spirits; that the faintest vapour through its evanescent passage
through the atmosphere, threw no shadow on the most reflecting object, darkened
my prospects, and gloomed my
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It may be supposed that life hastens to its close when its views are thus tinged with hues so dark and so terrific? But the hand which now writes this has lost nothing of the contour of health or the symmetry of youth. I am in possession of all the fame I ever hoped or ambitioned. I wear not the appearance of twenty years; I am now, as I generally am, sad and miserable.
This tendency to depression of spirits—which, the reader should remember, was exhibited before the whole world had learned from Byron to turn down its shirt collar, and express the elegant despair of Childe Harold,—induced her to put away sorrow as an evil thing; her cheerfulness was a reality—a habit of mind which she carefully and systematically cultivated.
Another entry in the next page is of the same tone.
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“It is a melancholy conviction that all my starts of happiness are but illusions; that I feel I do but dream even while I am dreaming,—and that in the midst of the inebriety I court, I am haunted by the expectation of being awakened to that state of hopeless melancholy which alone is real—and felt and known to be so. It is in vain that my fancy steeps me in forgetfulness. The happy wreath which the finger of peace wreathed round my head, suddenly drops off, and the soft vapours that encircled it, scathe and dissipate;—all in truth and fact, sad, dreary and miserable—
“‘I may submit to occasions, but I cannot stoop to persons.’
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“I may not say with Proverbs—‘Wisdom dwelleth with Prudence.’”
The position of this young woman of genius in the household of a great
family, if brilliant in outward show, was accompanied by a thousand vexations. The
elopement of Marchioness Cecil with Lieutenant Copley had not increased Lord Abercorn’s native respect for female virtue. The
third wife and her husband lived on terms of excessive politeness with each other; and poor
Miss Owenson was expected to bear their tempers and
attentions; to sit in the cross-fire of their humours, and to find good spirits and
sprightly conversation when they were dull. Add to this, that heavy pressure of anxiety
about family matters which was laid upon her before her nerves and sinews were braced to
meet it, and before she had any worldly knowledge,
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Her own ambition had never allowed her to rest; she had been
wonderfully successful; but, at Baron’s Court and Stanmore Priory, all she had
obtained looked dwarfed and small when measured by the hereditary power and consequence of
the family in which she was for the time an inmate. She did not become discontented; but
she was disenchanted (for the time) with all that belonged to herself, and saw her own
position on its true comparative scale. Sydney Owenson,
from earliest childhood had depended on herself alone for counsel and support. There is no
sign that she ever felt those moments of religious aspiration, when a human being, sensible
of its own weakness and ignorance, cries for help to Him who made us; there are no
ejaculations of prayer, or of thanksgiving; she proudly took up her own burden and bore it
as well as she could; finding her own way and shaping her life according to her own idea of
what ought to form her being’s end and aim. She was a courageous, indomitable spirit,
but the constant dependence on herself, the steady concentration of purpose with which she
followed out her own career, without letting herself be turned aside, gave a hardness to
her nature, which, though it did not destroy her kindness and honesty of heart, petrified
the tender grace which makes the charm of goodness. No one can judge Sydney
Owenson, because no one can know all the struggles, difficulties,
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The portrait of Miss Owenson was at length finished by Sir Thomas Lawrence, and the romance of The Missionary printed by Stockdale. The portrait was to be prefixed; but Lawrence, for the reasons given, requested that his name might not appear.
I must be indebted to your kindness (and I fear it must put you to the trouble of writing) for preventing the insertion of my name in Mr. Stockdale’s advertisement.
I have an anxious desire that the readers of The Missionary may be gratified with as accurate a resemblance of its author, as can in that size be given, but from the drawing being so much reduced, the engraving must be comparatively defective; and besides this, I have no wish to be seen to interfere with the province of other artists who are professionally employed in making portraits for books.
There are many of them whose talents I very highly
respect, and might reasonably be jealous of, did they
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I will take the greatest care that the drawing be as well copied as possible; the engraver has just left me.
Let me beg the favour of you in your communication to Mr. Stockdale, to give it simply as your demand (as a condition of the drawing being lent by you for the purpose,) without stating the reason I have advanced, which might by that gentleman be made matter of offence to others.
Believe me, with the truest respect,
On the publication of the book, Miss Owenson came from the Priory to London, to her old friends, the Pattersons. From York Place she wrote to Lady Stanley.
By this you have received my little packet; it is near a
fortnight since I sent it to be franked, and I have been rather anxious as to
its fate, but perhaps at this very moment you are seated at your fireside, Poll
at your feet, and Pug beside you, and The Missionary
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This “East India nabob and his family,” were Captain and Mrs. Patterson; they
admired the young authoress, and were glad to have her in their house, and they placed it
and their carriage at her disposal. Some-
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She persuaded Mrs. Patterson to depart early, in the hope of escaping detection; but Lord George Granville, who was very much her admirer, perceived her exit, and insisted upon “seeing her to her carriage!”
Lady Morgan used to declare, that her agony of false shame was dreadful; but sooner than confess, she allowed the servants “to call her coach, and let her coach be called”; but of course it did not come. She then insisted upon “walking on to find it,” and entreated Lord George to leave them to the servant, whom they had brought with them; but he was too gallant, and still insisted on keeping them company “till they should find their carriage.”
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The hackney coachman, who had been ordered to wait, espied them, and followed to explain that he was there and waiting. Mrs. Patterson took no notice; Miss Owenson took no notice; the footman, who guessed their troubles, took no notice either. The hackney-coachman continued to follow them.
“What does that man mean by following us?” asked Lord George.
“I really cannot imagine,” said the elder lady.
“I wish he would go away,” said the younger one.
“What do you want, fellow?” asked Lord George.
“I want these ladies either to get into my coach or to pay me my fare.”
“What does he mean—is he drunk?”
“No,” said Miss Owenson, at last, laughing at the dilemma; “but the fact is, that we were so ashamed of coming in a hackney-coach, that we wanted nobody to know it.”
Mrs. Patterson proceeded to explain all about how it had happened that they were deprived of the use of their own carriage; but her representations were drowned in the peals of laughter with which Miss Owenson and Lord George recognised the absurdity of the situation.
“So you came in a hackney-coach, and would rather have walked home in the mud than have had it known. How very Irish!” was his lordship’s comment. He put them into their despised coach, and saw them drive away.
The comparative failure of The Missionary, together with the troubles she had
met with from her publishers,
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I read your letter to the person you desired, dear, and if I did not write “by return” (O you Irish expression, why cannot I write the proper brogue for such a broguey expression?) you must still impute it to the penny postman’s life I am living, for when you ask me a question worth an answer, I will never delay it.
What your genius for melodrama, or any drama may be, I have no other reason for guessing than my suspicion that you have genius enough for anything that you will give proper attention to. I should, however, be sorry that the drama, in any shape, should supersede the intentions of the romance or novel production that you last professed.
Hand-in-hand with it I have no objection; and as you give
me my choice of two heroes, I will so far decide that he shall not be Henry
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The qualities, virtues, and vices of Francis the First were of a more kingly kind; and though he was hardly a hero, he was a good deal more like one; his time, too, was more chivalric, and the events of it, as well as his own words and actions, having been less hackneyed, may be worked up far more entertainingly and interestingly.
So much for my wisdom with which I shall begin and end.
So bye-bye, sweet Glo.
Lord Abercorn’s objection to Henri Quatre as a hero, in spite of all feminine preferences to the contrary, were probaby personal Henri’s “infamous conduct” towards Condé perhaps reminded him of Lieutenant Copley’s “infamous conduct” to the Marquis of Abercorn.
During this visit to London, Miss
Owenson made the acquaintance, and won the enduring friendship of that woman
of unhappy genius, Lady Caroline Lamb. Born in the
highest rank, gifted with the rarest powers, at once an artist, a poetess, a writer of
romance, a
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Lady Caroline may now appear on the stage.
If it had not been near making me cry, what I am going to
tell you might make you laugh; but I believe you are too good-natured not to
sympathize
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See me before you leave town, and send me your number and street, I beg of you; the impression you have made is, I assure you, a little stronger, but I never can recollect one direction—do you think the new man could teach me?
The two ladies soon met to become friends and associates for ever. No
contrast could be greater than
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“We brought Dr. Morgan,” she writes to Miss Owenson, “a physician, with us, who, I believe, is very clever in more ways than one, as he understands simony and all Mrs. Malaprop’s accomplishments. I believe he is of your religious persuasion, and seems to think Moses mistaken in his calculations (this is entre nous).”
Lady Abercorn, from the beginning, had set her heart on
a match between Dr. Morgan and Miss Owenson, and Miss Owenson entered readily into all the
fun of such a suggestion. When Lady Aberdeen
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We learned Professors of the College,
The Alma Mater of true knowledge,
Whore students learn, in memoria.
The philosophical amatoria,
Where senior fellows hold no power.
And junior sophists rule the hour,
Where every bachelor of arts
Studies no science—but of hearts.
Takes his degree from smiling eyes
And gets his Fellowship—by sighs;
Where scholars learn, by rules quite simple,
To expound the mystics of a dimple;
To run through all their moods and tenses,
The feelings, fancies, and the senses.
Where none (though still to grammar true)
Could e’er decline—a billet
doux.
Though all soon learn to conjugate,
(Eadum nos autoritate)
We—learned Professors of this College,
The Alma Mater of true knowledge,
Do, on the Candidate Morgani,
(Doctissimo in Medicini)
Confer his right well earned degree,
And dub him, henceforth, sage M.D.,
He, having stood examination.
On points might puzzle half the nation,
Shown where with skill he could apply
A sedative, or stimuli,
How to the chorda tympani
He could, by dulcet symphony.
The soul divine itself convey,
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How he (in verses) can impart
A vital motion to a heart,
Through hours which Time had sadly robb’d.
Though dull and morbid it had throbb’d.
Teach sympathetic nerves to thrill,
Pulses to quicken or lie still;
And without pause or hesitation,
Pursue that vagrant thing sensation,
From right to left,—from top to toe,
From head of sage to foot of beau,
While vain it shuns his searching hand,
E’en in its own pineal gland.
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But did we all his feats rehearse,
How he excels in tuneful verse,
How well he writes—how well he sings,
How well he does ten thousand things,
Gave we due meed to this bright homo,
It would—Turgeret hoc Diploma.
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On leaving England Miss Owenson again proceeded to Baron’s Court. She used to relate that Dr. Morgan had heard so much in praise of Miss Owenson’s wit, genius and general fascination, that he took an immense prejudice against her, and being a very shy man, he disliked the idea of meeting her.
He was one morning sitting with the Marchioness, when the groom of the chambers, throwing open the doors,
announced “Miss Owenson!” who had just
arrived. Dr. Morgan sprang from his seat, and there
being no other way of escape, leaped through the open window into the garden below! This
was too fair a challenge for Miss Owenson to refuse; she set to work
to captivate him, and succeeded more effectually than she either desired or designed. The
following letter
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May the event your sweet letter communicated, and every event in your family that succeeds it, be productive of increasing happiness. Too much the creature of circumstances as they influence my manners or my conduct, my heart, ruled in its feelings by the objects of its affections only, knows no change, and the sympathy, the tender interest in all that concerns you, my longest, kindest friend, which chance recently discovered to you, has always existed under an increasing power since the first moment I pressed your cordial hand—I met the kind welcome of your full eyes. If I am too apt to visit abroad, I am sure to come home to you, and the increasing kindness with which you receive and forgive me, hourly quickens my return, and extends my contrition.
Tom and his bride are now as happy as is
possible for human nature to be. I rejoice in their happiness. I pray that it
may long, long continue, and above all, that it may add to the sum of
your’s and Mr. Lefanu’s; for
if ever parents deserved well of their children, you both have. I was received
here with the kindest and most joyous welcome. I find the people and the place
delightful—there never was such a perfect Paradise; the summer makes all
the difference and
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We have got a most desirable acquisition to our circle, in the family physician; he is a person of extraordinary talent and extensive acquirements; a linguist, musician, poet and philosopher, and withal a most amiable and benevolent person; he is in high popularity, and he and I most amazing friends, as you may suppose.
Miss Butler is here, merry and pleasant as ever. She is sitting beside me, and desires her compliments, congratulations and best recollections to your ladyship. Olivia writes of nobody but you. She seems in very low spirits about our father, poor dear soul! and misses me sadly. I need not say a word to you on the subject. I am sure you will see her often, and I know you cannot help being kind to her, and to any one who may stand in need of your kindness.
We expect the Duke of Richmond and suite the week after next. I expect Sir C. and Lady Asgill will also come at that time, so that we shall be a gay party. Olivia has been asked over and over again, but still declines the honour.
You see the king cannot make up his mind to leave us; he is too kind! I believe all things remain on the other side in statu quo. Write to me soon like a love, and tell me all that you think I most desire to know; above all, that you continue to love
Your own Glorvina.
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