Industry was Miss Owenson’s great characteristic She had no sooner finished and published the Novice than she once more set to work—this time it was upon a work by which her reputation was to be made as a novelist.
The Wild Irish Girl, or, as it was at first intended to be called, the Princess of Innismore, was, in some measure based on a curious circumstance in Miss Owenson’s own life.
A young man, Richard Everard,
had fallen violently in love with Miss Owenson; his
father discovered it and was displeased. This son had no money, no profession, and was a
very idle young man. Miss Owenson had no money either, and it looked a
very undesirable match. Mr. Everard, the father,
called upon Miss Owenson, stated his objections, and begged her to use
her influence to make his son Richard take to some employment, and
tried to obtain her promise not to marry him. Miss Owenson had not the
least inclina-
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The history of this curious friendship is detailed in the story of the Wild Irish Girl, where her father figures as the prince of Innismore, Mr. Everard and his son as Lord M——, and Mortimer; though the beautiful atmosphere of romance which clothes the story in the novel was entirely absent in the matter of fact.
The character of the Princess of Innismore was afterwards identified with Lady Morgan, and until her marriage she was always known in society by the sobriquet of Glorvina.
The great secret of the success of the Wild Irish Girl was, that it
conveyed in a vivid and romantic story, curious information about the social condition, the
manners, customs, literature, and antiquities of Ireland. There was in it a passionate
pleading against
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I have read a letter from Richard,—poor fellow! After dissipating much of his own time, and a great deal of my money, he has been obliged to enter into a special pleader’s office (for which I was forced to pay one hundred guineas as his admission fee), in order to become what is called a black-letter man—a mechanical lawyer. This is no great proof of abilities!
I must very shortly leave this for
Dublin, perhaps for England, if my health permits. I would like to see you
before I went. I would gladly spend an hour with you some morning, if I could
do it without annoying your family; but, doubtful of my reception, I am
somewhat afraid of adventuring. Tell me, if I can go, will I see you without inconvenience? Tell me more, in confidence. Can I be anything to you? for my hand, my
heart, and my purse are freely at your com-
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I beg to know where your father is. What is he doing, or what prospects does he entertain? Is there any prospect that his decline of life will be rescued from that miserable state! How, or where is your sister? I am interested for everything that concerns you. Unjustly were you dissatisfied at her writing to me; ’tis she who ought to be displeased, not you.
Do you spend the winter at Longford? When do you go to Dublin? I am anxious to see you, and loiter away a little time with you; but, alas! neither you nor I can afford to be idlers, at least indulgence is not for me; but I am trifling, adieu,
In July, 1806, Miss Owenson quitted
Dublin, apparently on a whim of the moment, and went to visit her mother’s relatives
in Shrewsbury; who, if surprised, were also highly delighted to see her. She had the
faculty of making a holiday wherever she went. Her personal favour kept pace with her
public popularity;
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How delightful it is, my dearest darling pet, to address you once more at home, and to know you are comforting my darling papa for my absence; the more I think of his indulgence to all my whims and eccentricities, the more I feel myself unworthy of such a father, and the further I have travelled from home—the more I have lived among strangers—the dearer he and you are to me. If he can forgive me this wild step, I promise never to have a wish or desire independent of him, and never to leave him again whilst he thinks I am worthy of remaining with him.
Every indulgence, every tenderness, even respect that is possible for a human being to receive, is paid to me here. I am carried about as a show, worshipped as a little idol, and my poor aunt says she cannot help crying for joy, when she thinks she has such a niece! Although we have some most respectable folks frequently with us, the chair on her right hand is always kept for me, no matter whether her visitors are married or not.
Whatever I happen to say I like is prepared for
breakfast, dinner or supper; and all her fear is that I
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Last night I had a famous logical and literary combat
with a young pedantic Cantab, just fresh from Cambridge, in which I was
victorious, and the poor old gentleman was so pleased that he sat up till one o’clock, though he usually retires at ten. But
kind and good as my uncle and aunt are, they are nothing to my dear little
affectionate cousins; the two boys are charming fellows, spirited, clever and
polite. Robert, the eldest, is so like me, that people in
the street take us for brother and sister. He scarcely lives a moment from
me—we draw together and read French—he drives me about in a nice
curricle. My uncle’s curricle is reckoned the handsomest in Salop, and he
keeps four horses. We had the daughters of a Welsh vicar on a visit, beautiful
as angels and to the full as insipid. Aunt and uncle are always torturing
Robert to pay them attention, but in vain, his reply
is always, “I must father give them up or my
charming little Irish cousin—I have made my election.”
Mary (my likeness) is my friend, and
Bess, who is going to be
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Yesterday we all went to Condover, one of the finest
seats in England. The paintings, statuary, study, &c., passed all
conception. The Welsh misses walked, and Robert drove
“his beautiful cousin” as he calls me! Do
you know I have had a most extraordinary packet from old Everard; six pages!
mostly about Dick. He seems afraid his son is going over
to marry me; but says he throws himself on my generosity,—and he begs of
me to save him from himself, for that without an independence and without
industry, a connection of that kind would weigh him down for life. He then
recommends him to my care, and begs me to be his preceptress and guardian, that
I will guide his actions and direct his study, and to sum up all, he encloses
me an order on his banker for twenty guineas for pocket
money! You know my spirit—the order I returned—and gave
him a true and circumstantial account of my acquaintance with his son from
beginning to end; assuring him that the expected arrival of his son hurried my
departure from London; as my obligations to the
father precluded every idea of continuing any intercourse with the son,
unsanctioned by his approbation. I wrote very proudly and very much to the
purpose. He told me you looked well and hand-
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Sydney Owenson had so early begun to exercise her own judgment that she was impatient of interference and control. In forming an estimate of her character, it must be borne in mind how peculiarly she had been always circumstanced.
Endowed with faculties for social success—she sang well and
played well, both on the piano and the harp—she danced like a fairy (an Irish fairy
be it understood), she was very graceful, and if the testimony of the many men who fell in
love with her may be believed, she was beautiful. She could tell stories, especially Irish
stories, with a spirit and drollery that was irresistible; her gift of narrative was very
great; she possessed that rare quality in a woman—humour—and she was as witty
as though l’esprit de tous les Mortemart
had inspired her. From her most tender years she had been produced in society and
encouraged to produce herself; she had the power to amuse everybody; of all personal
faculties this gift is perhaps the most seducing and intoxicating to the possessor. Full of
Irish fun and Irish spirits she was entirely bewitching. She enjoyed her own gifts, and her
own evident delight in her powers was one great secret of her power of pleasing others.
From the very nature of her position she was, to a certain degree, an adventuress, for she
had nothing, and no one to depend upon, but herself. Her own talents
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Sydney Owenson was vain—display was natural to her. She had no mystery, and she never felt the need of either privacy or repose. Her activity both of mind and body was indefatigable. Flattered, followed, admired, she never lost her head, or mistook shadow for substance. She loved flattery—it was a necessary of life to her gay and elastic nature—but she had a wonderfully shrewd appreciation of its actual value. She was conscious of her higher powers and she had higher aspirations than mere social success. Her aspiration was to make her native country better known, and to dissipate the political and religious prejudices that hindered its prosperity. She never used her genius as a vehicle for mere amusement; in her works there was always some principle to be advocated or elucidated. Her social success was the mere overflowing of her life. Neither lovers, friends, nor flatterers, ever turned her attention from the steady, settled aim of her life—and that was to advocate the interest of her country in her writings; and in her own life to set her father free from his embarrassments, and to procure him a provision for his old age.
For this she worked hard. These ideas shaped the purpose of her life, and were to her like a talisman, which she held fast, and they carried her, almost unconsciously to herself, through the changes and difficulties which thickly beset her path.
She was possessed of genius, and there was an indestructible fibre of
honesty and reality in her nature
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In the course of 1806, Miss Owenson
completed her Wild Irish
Girl. It seemed to set the seal on her literary reputation; but it was
only its foundation. She loved praise; but she never wasted a moment in stopping to listen
to the voice of her own celebrations. She was incapable of fatigue, and set to work again
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In the autumn of 1806, she made a journey into the West of Ireland, and there gathered the impressions, scenes, and incidents which she worked up into two volumes entitled, Patriotic Sketches. The language is florid and rhetorical, and the sentiment runs too much “in the Ercles vein”; but there is a truth and nature throughout the work which makes the reader feel that he is in the midst of the scenes described, and that they are drawn from the life.
Miss Owenson had a peculiar faculty for seizing upon the political significance of the events and circumstances which passed before her eyes. In the Patriotic Sketches she deals with the political problems which at that period, and for long afterwards, were thorny subjects of debate and legislation. She deals with those vexed questions with a vigour and clearness of insight which proves her to have been both an earnest and an understanding advocate.
This national sympathy and political sagacity gave to her national novels a weight and interest, at the period they were written, far beyond what they would have obtained as mere works of fiction and amusement; they were read, especially in England, by those who would have shunned graver works,
“A verse may catch him whom a sermon fails.” |
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The topics she discussed in these early works, have long been set at rest. Ireland has had her full meed of justice, and she has now, for a long time, enjoyed both a fair field and plenty of favour. The Ireland of Lady Morgan’s days has given place to an Ireland which is fast becoming all that Heaven made it capable of being; it is realising all the gifts and possibilities with which the island is so richly endowed. Lady Morgan’s labours to advance this object were in the burden and heat of the day; when, to be liberal, just, and moderate in politics (Irish politics especially) was to be exposed to every species of unscrupulous party abuse and virulence—to be branded as an atheist, and, if a woman, to be taunted with profligacy, and to be considered incapable of any morality. In all she wrote, Lady Morgan was ever conscientious and fearless. She respected her own genius, and always used it to illustrate the opinions which she believed to have grown out of great principles; and no personal consideration of profit or popularity ever turned her aside.
It was during this Autumn journey of 1806, that
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It must have been with a curious mixture of pride and amusement that she found herself amid the “old grandeurs” from which Clasagh na Valla had eloped with her peasant lover, and which she had never ceased to regret.
Miss Owenson’s steady old friend, Mr. Atkinson, of the Ordnance Office, kept up a kind and paternal supervision of her interests. This gentleman had been as kind and affectionate when she was almost friendless as he was in the sunshine of her prosperity. The following is one of his many letters. It bears witness to the affectionate interest she inspired and kept up. Lady Morgan never forgot “ancient kindness,” nor neglected old friends for new ones:—
“A rose called by any other name would smell as
sweet.” So, in short Imogen
or Glorvina, you are equally the
same. We called, Saturday, at Sir William
Homan’s, and talked about you. Lady Charlotte said my tributary verses to you ought to be
prefixed to the Wild Irish Girl. Sir William said he was
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I send you a note from Cooper Walker, who is in raptures at your novel. You’ll see by the papers that Moore has very modestly and candidly told the public the nature of the affair between him and Jeffrey, who has made him a satisfactory and handsome amende honorable, and all is peace again. But he deserves to have his fancy chequered like your ladyship’s, which sometimes runs too frisky and floats wildly in the regions of fictitious, indiscreet expression; and, believe me, I am too much the friend of both not to curb your foaming and prancing Pegasus whenever it becomes unruly.
Now, as to your Opera, as I before told you, I like it much; but really it is a pity to smuggle it into an after-piece. I send it, therefore, to you to add to it; you’ll perceive some pencilled remarks of mine. There is great opportunity for spectacle and decoration, and the characters, so far, are very well, and the dialogue and songs very appropriate.
I tell you again, it is better to endeavour at a
representation on the London stage, both for gain and profit, than here; lose
no time, therefore, in adding to it by your fancy and invention. Take care of
the rest for your interest. At any rate, in its present incomplete and
ill-written state, and without a title, it is not fit to be laid before any
manager. You must, therefore, after you have made your alterations, in any way
you
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I don’t know what name you should give your offspring. Tell me of some, and I’ll give you my opinion.
I have at last got your collection of Irish melodies: it is admirably printed, and I think the words excellent; of course the music is familiar to us. Have you got a set? If not, if you order one through me I’ll get it forwarded to you.
Had not Z. X. been put to the verses enclosed I should have sworn them to be yours. Pray keep them safe for me, I beseech you, for I consider them excellent, and breathe your patriotic tuneful spirit.
With best regards, you’ll believe me, my dear Miss Owenson,
PS. Did I send you my verses written at Donnington in 1802, at Lord Moira’s, which have just stole into print?
The following offer from Phillips, for an unseen volume of poems, and the remonstrance coupled with
it are whimsical, and belong to a golden age of successful authorship. Whilst all Lady Morgan’s novels are extant at the present
day—having most of them been reprinted in a popular form within the last few years
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When you compare me to a Jesuit and a Jew, you must be acting under the conviction of the slavery in which I am held by your fascinations! I would resent such treatment if experience in such matters had not taught me that in struggling against female caprice and despotism, the invariable effect is to draw one’s chains the tighter and to make them still more galling and potent.
If I buy the poetry without seeing it, it is obvious that affection gets the better of prudence, and that you and not the poems, are the chief object of my purchase. On such an occasion, I can only lament that my means are not equal to my inclination. Without meaning to play the Jesuit, I declare that you should draw on me for a thousand pounds, if my other engagements and the profits of my business enabled me to honour such a draft. My personal regard would assign no bounds, if I were not restrained by “Jewish” calculations and “Jesuitical” doubts!
In one word, then, I will give one hundred pounds for the
poems, to be drawn for at six and eight months, from the 25th of October; and I
will give other twenty-
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The Wild Irish Girl begins to move as it ought and as I could wish. Another month’s sale equal to this last will occasion me to begin to think of a new edition. Charles Watson read the proofs, and he has great skill in your topics. Send me your corrections directly and I will use them.
The beauties of her younger sisters have brought the Novice into vogue, and for every twenty-four admirers of the former half-a-dozen start in favour of the latter.
But really you are too sanguine, even more so than I am; I, who half ruin myself by the warmth with which I espouse the interests of those with whom I am connected. You are in the high road to fame and reputation if you will not run out of the course.
Mr. Pratt is still at Woodstock; Dr. Wolcot dines with me every Sunday, at Hampstead, with some others of your admirers. I would not for the whole world tell them of our bickerings and of your hard dealings. Most of them, however (and what men have not), have suffered from the cruelty of your sex.
God speed and mend you, and, believe me, always
A letter from the father of Miss Edgeworth has an interest that dates from “dear long ago,” to most readers.
I have just read your Wild Irish Girl, a title which will attract by its novelty, but which does not well suit the charming character of Glorvina.
As a sincere and warm friend to Ireland, I return you my thanks for the just character which you have given to the lower Irish, and for the sound and judicious observations which you have attributed to the priest. The notices of Irish history are ingeniously introduced, and are related in such a manner as to induce belief amongst infidels.
It is with much self-complacency that I recollect our meeting, and my having in a few minutes’ conversation at a literary dinner in London, discovered that I was talking to a young lady of uncommon genius and talents.
I believe that some of the harpers you mention were at
the Harpers’ Prize Ball at Granard, near this place, in 1782 or 1783. One
female harper, of the name of Bridget, obtained the second
prize; Fallon earned off the first. I think I have heard
the double-headed man. My daughter published an essay on the subject of that
prize in an obscure newspaper, of which we have no copy. I shall try at the
printer’s to obtain a
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I think it is a duty, and I am sure it is a pleasure, to contribute as far as it is in my power, to the fame of a writer who has done so much, and so well, for her country.
Maria, who reads (it is said), as well as she writes, has entertained us with several passages from the Wild Irish Girl, which I thought superior to any parts of the book which I had read. Upon looking over her shoulder, I found she had omitted some superfluous epithets. Dare she have done this if you had been by? I think she would have dared; because your good taste and good sense would have been instantly her defenders.
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