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Lady Morgan’s Memoirs
Thomas Charles Morgan to Sydney Owen, 14 November 1811
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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Baron’s Court,
Wednesday, 2 o’clock, Nov. 14th.
Dearest and Best,

Me voici de retour, and I have just read your dear letter. Great God! how little able am I to bear any crosses in which you are concerned. I cannot free my mind from the idea of your having been seriously ill. You say you are better, and I must believe you. But once for all I implore and beseech you, in no instance conceal from me the full extent of any sickness or calamity that may reach you or yours. It is only the entire confidence that communications are made, and that nothing would be hid that might happen ill, by which absence is rendered supportable. An anxious, fretful and Rousseauish disposition (like mine) will let the imagination so much get the start of reason, that,
474 LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR.  
when once deceived, I should never feel happy by any communication however pleasant its nature. I should fancy ten millions of accidents, kept from me for my good. I hope and trust you have acted sincerely by me in this instance, and are as well in health and about one-eighth part as happy as if you really were “on my knee” What an image! how lovely! My bosom swelled in reading it, and the obtrusive drops, for once harbingers of pleasure, danced trembling on my eyelids; bless you, bless you, dearest love! I do kiss you with my whole heart, and pat your dear caen dhu [black head]; and I, too, in my turn, ask your pardon for worrying you in my last but one, and for the two short hasty scrawls of Sunday and yesterday. In each case, however, I really was compelled to be so brief; I should not have written, but, judging by myself, I thought a short letter infinitely preferable to no letter at all; I have just received your parcel, but have had no time to examine anything. You have forgotten my lavender water, of which I am in great want—mais n’importe. The ring does famously. I kiss it every instant (now) and now and now-w-w-w. Pray take care of the mourning ring you took as a pattern, as I value it much. Lady Abercorn played me an arch trick about it. By mistake, she opened the muslin and found the ring; she and Miss Butler abstracted it. I missed the expected delight, and flew (à la moi) all over scarlet, up to her to inquire if it was amongst her parcels, and very soon discovered by her joking how the land lay. Oh! I am a great fool, and it’s all along of you,
BETWEEN CUP AND LIP.475
you thing you! God bless dear you, though, for all that. Lady Abercorn will be obliged by the Irish extract from Ossian; her countenance quite brightened when I mentioned it. At this moment my imagination is wandering in delight. I kiss and press you in idea, and I am all fire, and passion and tenderness; the sensations are rather too nervous and will leave a horrible depression; but for one such “five minutes”—perish an eternity! This morning, in bed, at Sir John’s, I read part of The Way to Keep Him, and I see now you take the widow for your model; but it won’t do, for though I love you in every mood, it is only when you are true to nature, passionate and tender, that I adore you. You never are less interesting to me than when you brillez in a large party: “C’est dans un tête-à-tête, dans la Chambre de Basin que vous êtes vraiment déesse, mais déesse-femme.” A propos de la déesse, your Paphian orders are not from Paphos, they are from the coldest chambers of your ice-house imagination. Venus disdains them, and Cupid trembles and averts his arrows, fearful of blunting their points: “Je n’ai qu’une seule occupation pour tous les jours, et presque pour toutes les nuits, et c’est de penser à Glorvina.” I can neither read nor work, and the weather is horribly bad; how the time passes I can’t say, for except writing to you, curse me if I can tell you any one thing I do from morning to night.

The whiskers thrive, and so, too, does the hair, but you really!

I cannot write another letter, and yet I cannot bear to part for two days in anger. Imagine all that is
476 LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR.  
harsh and suspicious in this letter unsaid—I know you love me, however paradoxical your conduct, and I will try to be content; I cannot bear to give you pain; God bless my dearest love.