Lady Morgan’s Memoirs
Sydney Owenson to Robert Owenson, [1799?]
St. Andrew’s Street, 18—
Dearest Sir,
It breaks my heart to annoy you; but what can I do
without your advice? I wrote to odious Mrs. Anderson to
say, that though we knew she would not open school till after next week, yet
you would be obliged by her receiving us a few days earlier than the time
appointed, as your return to town is uncertain. I will not afflict you by
enclosing her insolent answer; besides, it is not my frank-day; but the sum of
her impertinence is, that she will not receive us at all until our last
half-year’s bill is paid up; and that she will not have Molly on any terms! Now, dear papa, with
respect to the items of her shameful account; in the first place, half-a-guinea
a lesson to Dr. Pellegrini! when he
distinctly said to her, before me, “These two little girls are not
school pupils, for I don’t give lessons in schools, but as the
friends and playfellows of my little Alphonsina. I
told their good father I would read a little Italian with them whenever I
came to give Alphonsina her lesson.” Now, as
to a guinea a month to darling old Fontaine, as he was your mâitre
de ballet at the theatre, he would not hear of payment,
or, at least, he would settle with ![]()
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you himself. Well, dear
sir, while we were all agitated and annoyed by this letter, up comes
Mrs. Shea, to say we could not have the apartments
after next week, because Councillor Costello, who has them
by the year, is coming to town on business, and will want them!
Molly says this is all a pretence, as councillors
don’t come to town at this season of the year; and, would you believe it?
when Mr. Lee sent his men from College Green for the
piano, as I told him to do, the month of hire being up, Mrs.
Shea would not let it go, but bid them come back for it the week
after next; and then she and Molly had a row, which really
frightened poor Olivia and myself, for
we thought they would have come to cuffs. Well, when all was quiet, we all sat
down and had a good cry, and in the midst of all this, Monsieur
Fontaine drove up in his new carriage, going to the Castle,
where he has been appointed Master of the Ceremonies; well, poor darling old
gentleman, I thought he was going to cry with us (for we told him everything),
instead of which, however, he threw up the window and cried out,
“Montez done, Martin mon fils, avec votre petit
violin;” and up comes Martin,
more ugly and absurd than ever, with his little “kit,” and what
does dear old Fontaine do, but put us in a circle that we
might dance a chasser à la
ronde, saying, “Egayez vous mes enfans il
n’y a que ça de bon;” and only think,
there we were; the next moment we were all of
us—Molly, Martin, and
Monsieur included—dancing away to the tune, “What a beau your granny is,” (the only one that ![]()
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Martin can play), and we were all laughing ready to die
until Livy gave Molly, who was in the
way, a kick behind; she fell upon Martin, who fell upon
his father, who fell upon me—and there we were, all sprawling like a pack
of cards, and laughing; and then, dear papa, Fontaine sent
off Martin in the carriage to the confectioner’s, in
Grafton Street, for some ices and biscuits, so that we had quite a feast, and
no time to think or be sorrowful. Well, pour
comble, M. Fontaine, before he went
away, showed us a card of invitation from the Countess
O’Haggerty for that evening, “pour M. Fontaine et ses
amis” music and recitation by M.
Tessier; and he had really come to say he would take
Bessie and ourselves there, but that our crying had
put it out of his head, and that they would come for us at eight o’clock,
and that we must put on our best toilette. So Molly shook
out our school dancing dresses, which, as you know we did not take them with us
to Kilkenny, looked quite fresh when they were ironed, and then, dear papa,
away we went at eight o’clock, sure enough, to Stephen’s Green. And
whose house do you think the O’Haggerty’s are
lodged in? Why in your old cousin’s, Mrs.
Molloy’s, where we used to walk every Sunday. I knew it
the minute I got into the hall by the bust of Cicero, with his broken nose! It was scarcely daylight, and
when we entered the large front drawing-room there was only one candle
lighted—and such a scene! I am sure I shall never forget. On the old red
damask sofa, at the bottom of the room, stood up an elegant young man in his
robe de chambre, fixing wax
candles ![]()
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in the old girandoles, which he took from a pretty
young woman who stood below with a basket of wax candles, handing them up; but
I observed they were all partly burned, and supposed they were “Castle
Butts.” At the end of the sofa, in an arm-chair, sat a nun! the very
moral of the nuns of Ranelagh Convent, but far handsomer than any nun I ever saw, and quite elegant. At a little distance was
such a charming little rondelette lady, tuning a harp, but exclaiming,
addressing a little espiègle
looking boy, “Qu’as tu done fait de la clef de ma harpe,
Hyacinthe?” “Je ne sais
où je l’ai posé” Now, dear papa, I never heard that word
“posé”
before; at school, we should have said, “où je l’ai
laissé.” I shall not forget it, I can tell you. Well,
then came in one of the finest looking gentlemen I ever saw, and so like
Count Eugène Macarthey that I almost thought it
was he; but you know you used to say, that all the Irish brigade were stamped
from the one type—and he had a violoncello in his hand. This was
General Count O’Haggerty!
Monsieur Fontaine presented us to them
all as his little protégées, and élèves, and they were all so delighted to see
dear old Fontaine; but as for me, I had no eyes for any
thing but the beautiful nun, who, seeing my attention rivetted on her, beckoned
me towards her, and made me sit down beside her, and while the rest went to
draw off their robes de chambre, and
Fontaine made little Hyacinth go
through his five positions, not to lose time, and then do his battemens while
Bessie played the piano, I had this little ![]()
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conversation with the nun, which I will give you, first in
her pretty broken English, which, however, she spoke with the true Munster
brogue, though she never was in Ireland before, and then in French, which she
said I spoke “Merveilleusement bien.”
Nun. I suppose you never saw a live nun before?
Me. Oh, yes, ma’am, often; but never one so
charming.
Nun. Ah! you have rubbed your tongue against the
blarney stone! You see I know something of Ireland.
Me. Are you Irish, ma’am?
Nun. Yes, and from Cork, too; where I am going to
resume my convent life.
Me. I beg pardon, ma’am; but may I ask you why
you left France?
Nun. Because I should have been killed had I
remained there. Our convent was destroyed, and only for my cousins, the dear
O’Haggerty’s, who carried me back to my
own country, I should have been destroyed too.
Me. But who was the Countess
O’Haggerty? Irish too?
Nun. That is the Countess
O’Haggerty there. That pretty little dodu lady at the
harp. She was the finest harpiste in France, after the Countess de Genlis, a great friend of
her’s.
Me. Oh, I know, I have read her Veillées du
Chateau.
Nun. That tall gentleman is the Count, and those two
young persons who were putting up the candles are the Vicomte and Vicomtesse,
all great personages ![]()
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in France. The General was Master of
the Horse to the Comte d’Artois; the
two ladies had places at court, and the Vicomte was Colonel in the Garde de Corps. They escaped from France
with life and honour—nothing more; and they are now earning their bread
and supporting their families by the exertion of those beautiful talents which
were once the delight of the court and the best circles in Paris; and as their
noble spirit of independence is compensated by high respect and wonderful
success, I really believe they are as happy as they ever were. But they are a
fine lesson for young people of your age. Self-support is a gift from God and
alone to be depended on, and wear this upon your heart, “Aide toi et Dieu t’aidera.”
In spite of myself the tears would come into my eyes,
and I shall never forget that maxim, “Aide toi
et Dieu t’aidera.”
She asked me if I were a Catholic, and many other
questions, and seemed quite to take an engouement for me. We talked on till the company came
in, when she instantly darted off into the back room and appeared no more.
From the time the beau monde came
in, all was buzz, and Olivia and I tucked ourselves into a corner by the piano, where
we could hear the music, and could see everybody and nobody see us, while dear
old Fontaine was running about kissing
the hands of all the fine ladies, who all seemed delighted with him—he
told me he had taught all their mothers to dance. The music opened with that
charming quartett of Pleyel’s,
which Livy and I played, as you remember, with Dr. Fisher. ![]()
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We were
enchanted. Then the Countess played a solo on the harp, by
Krompoltz, very difficult; but, oh dear, daddy!
entre nous, the Irish harp is a very poor concern compared to the
French; at the same time, the working of the pedals was very disagreeable,
making a noise like a kitchen-jack. Then M. de Tessier
read a scene from Les Précieuses Ridicules of Moliere. Now observe, we were never allowed to
read Moliere at school. I never laughed so much in my life
nor heard such French reading. Then two young ladies, pupils of
Madame O’H., sang a duet, “Rise, Cynthia, rise,” very badly, I thought; but what do you think, dear papa,
M. Fontaine, in his partiality for us had the cruelty
to tell some of the company we were wonderful little musicians, and, for all we
could do, we were obliged to sing a duet too. So we sung our old duo of
“Nous, nous amions des
l’Enfance,” with Olivia’s
beautiful second, and Madame O’Haggerty’s
arpèggio on the harp. We were encored and applauded
till we were almost ready to cry, and made to sing an English song, which we
did, “In Infancy our Hopes and Fears were to each
other known,” from your own Artaxerxes. Well, we were drawn out, and
introduced and caressed, and I don’t know what; but there was one lady
who interested me more than all the rest. She sat in the centre of the room,
surrounded by beaux, one of whom leaned over her chair
the whole of the night like a vignette in one of Marmontel’s tales. Now, who do you think this was? Do you
give it up? Well, the sister of the great Mr.
Sheridan, the author of your own Sir
Lucius O’Trigger—Mrs.
Lefanu; ![]()
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her other brother is secretary at war here; and
Monsieur Fontaine told us, going home in the carriage,
that her house was the resort of all the literary people, and foreigners in
particular. He is to take us to see her some evening, for she invited us very
cordially, and said she knew you, dear papa, very well. Well, we got home very
late, but too happy, and I never slept the whole night; what wearied me was
that I went through all the scenes to the tune of
Pleyel’s quartett, and the nun always before me,
while Olivia slept like an angel, and
Molly snored like a pig in the next closet; so I rose
at peep of day and wrote all this for your amusement, as this is Mr.
O’Flaherty’s
frank-day: but, to use Job’s
words, “I rose from visions of the night” quite another
creature. Great thoughts have come into my mind, which I will tell you in my
next; but the sentiment uppermost is, “Aide
toi et Dieu t’aidera.” So God bless
you, dearest papa, I am going to try to sleep.
Your own
Molly Cane (d. 1831)
The devoted nurse and housemaid who raised Sydney and Olivia Owenson.
Lady Olivia Clarke [née Owenson] (1785 c.-1845)
The younger sister of Lady Morgan who married Dublin physician Sir Arthur Clarke
(1778-1857) in 1808. She wrote songs and a play, and published in the
Metropolitan Magazine and
Athenaeum.
John Abraham Fisher (1744-1806)
English theatrical composer and leader of the band at Covent Garden Theatre; he spent his
later years teaching music in Ireland.
John Fontaine (1803 fl.)
Dublin dancing master and friend of Robert Owenson; though his name appears in trade
directories as “John,” he may have been French.
Alicia Le Fanu (1753-1817)
Irish novelist and playwright, the eldest daughter of Thomas Sheridan and grandmother of
Sheridan Le Fanu; she published
Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Mrs.
Frances Sheridan (1824).
Jean-François Marmontel (1723-1799)
French dramatist, historian, and encyclopedist, elected to the Académie française in
1763.
Moliere (1622-1673)
French actor and playwright; author of
Tartuffe (1664) and
Le Misanthrope (1666).
Alfonso Pellegrini (d. 1824 c.)
He was professor of Italian and Spanish at Trinity College Dublin (1799-1824).
Charles Francis Sheridan (1750-1806)
The elder brother of Richard Brinsley Sheridan; he was educated at Mr Whyte's school in
Dublin, served in the Irish Parliament, and published political pamphlets.
Richard Brinsley Sheridan (1751-1816)
Anglo-Irish playwright, author of
The School for Scandal (1777),
Whig MP and ally of Charles James Fox (1780-1812).
