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Lady Morgan’s Memoirs
Elizabeth Patterson Bonaparte to Lady Morgan, 23 May 1818
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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May 23, 1818.
My dear Lady Morgan,

I have not received a line from you since my arrival in America, which I regret more than I can express to you. I wrote you a very long letter describing the effect your work on France produced on its transatlantic readers. The demand was so great, that it went through three editions with us. I assure you that your reputation here is as familiar and as great as in Europe, where you are so justly admired. I wish
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I could see and listen to you once more; but this, like all my desires, must be disappointed, and I am condemned to vegetate for ever in a country where I am not happy. My son is very intelligent, and very good, and very handsome—all these advantages add to the regret I experience at the destiny which compels me to lose life in this region of ennui. You have a great deal of imagination, but it can give you no idea of the mode of existence inflicted on us. The men are all merchants; and commerce, although it may fill the purse, clogs the brain; beyond their counting houses they possess not a single idea—they never visit except when they wish to marry. The women are all occupied in les détails du ménage, and nursing children—these are useful occupations, but do not render people agreeable to their neighbours. I am condemned to solitude, which I find less insupportable than the dull réunions which I might sometimes frequent in this city. The men being all bent on marriage do not attend to me because they fancy I am not inclined to change the evils of my condition for those they could find me in another. Sometimes, indeed, I have been thought so ennuyée as to be induced to accept very respectable offers; but I prefer remaining as I am to the horror of marrying a person I am indifferent to. You are very happy, in every respect, too much so, to conceive what I suffer here.

I have letters from Paris which say De Caze, the Minister of Police, is created a peer, and is to marry one of the Princesses de Beauveau, whom you know.

Qu’en pensez-vous? It appears very strange to my
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recollections of the state of political feeling of the parties, but nothing is too surprising to believe of politicians. He is very handsome, at least, which is not a bad thing in a husband; they say, too, that he has talents, and great sensibility—of the last two I cannot judge, as I saw him only en passant.

Paris offers too many agréments, too many agreeable recollections—among the latter you are my greatest—and I think with pain that I shall perhaps never see you again.

Mais cela n’empêche pas que je vous prie de lui dire—that I recollect him with pleasure and regret, and that I beg to be remembered to him. I suppose you will return to Paris, where I hope you will be happy and pleased; it is very easy to be pleased and happy in your situation, because every one is pleased with you, and you are loved whenever you choose to be so. The French admire you so much, that you ought to live with them. Suppose you were to come to this country; it is becoming the fashion to travel here and to know something of us, and I assure you that if you would spend some time here you might find materials for an interesting work—de toutes les manières, you would make any country interesting that you wrote about. I wish I could return to Europe; but it is impossible—a single woman is exposed to so many disagreeable comments in a foreign country; her life, too, is so solitary except when in public, which is not half the day, that it is more prudent for me to remain here; besides, I have at present only eleven hundred pounds a-year to spend, which you know make only twenty-
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five thousand francs—not enough to support me out of my own family, where I have nothing to spend in eating, or in carriages, rent, &c. I wish I could send my son to Europe for his education; I should prefer Edinburgh, but I know no one there to whom I could entrust him. I should write you more frequently were there any incidents in this dull place which might interest you, or any anecdotes that could amuse—there are, alas, none. I embroider and read, pour me débarrasser de mon temps—they are the only distractions left me. Do you remember the description Madame de Stael gives of the mode of life Corinna found in a country town in England, and the subjects of conversation at Lady Edgermon’s table, which were limited to births, marriages, and deaths? I am so tired of hearing these three important events discussed, and my opinion of them has been so long decided, that it is a misery to be born and to be married, I have painfully experienced, without lessening my dread of death—so you may imagine how little relish I have for the conversation on these tristes topics, and how gladly I seek refuge from listening to it by retiring to my own apartment.

Adieu, my dear Lady Morgan—il ne faut pas que je vous vous ennuye davantage. Make my best love acceptable to Sir Charles, and ask him to think sometimes of me. Write to me, I entreat you. J’ai plus que jamais besoin de vos lettres pour me consoler de tout ce que j’ai perdu en vous quittant pour revenir dans mon triste pays. Have you a good college in Dublin? I might send my son there in two years, perhaps, as I cannot
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send him to France, and do not wish him educated in England, where his name would not recommend him to much favour.

I remain, most affectionately yours,
Eliza Patterson.