The first entry in her diaries for 1859 relates to the Odd Volume, which she had prepared for the press with all the enthusiasm of a young author. Her spirits and energy, her power of doing hard work, was undiminished from what it had been in girlhood. After working all the morning, from the moment she awoke to two in the afternoon—her dinner hour—and sending the friend who worked with her, home, completely tired out, Lady Morgan dressed for the day, and seated herself on her small green sofa in the drawing-room, as fresh as a lark, ready to receive visitors, to tell and to hear the newest gossip of the day, and she frequently had a large party in the evening, till she retired at last, declaring “she was dead.”
January 1.—This day my Odd Volume, probably
my last, made its appearance in the world, l’enfant de ma vieillesse. I lingered over the
idea of writing a preface. Starting up one morning, I called to my maid to give
| THE END. | 545 |
A letter to Lady Combermere shows no signs of failing health or strength.
Be all that constitutes a merry Christmas and happy new year laid at your feet for your gracious acceptance, if you please to accept such “tag rag, and bob tail,” the rubbish of times old and monastic. I only wish I could lay myself on a sofa beside you. That charming commérage which only you know how to sustain! I will not dwell on the recent melancholy events of this season of sorrow, carried on in the midst of storms and fogs, of mists and misery, with death waylaying the young and beautiful, the loving and loved, the happy and prosperous; but it is wonderful in calamity! Of the many distinguished men who gathered round my supposed death-bed last year, three have already gone before me! I am getting so blind I must stop.
Well; my life-wearing task is done—my book, I
believe, ready for publication; but why not published I know not, its title is
impertinently changed by Bentley.
Miss Jewsbury gone to the bosom of her
family! chemin faisant, to the
glories of Combermere Abbey, Mrs. Jones
off to hers, and I am (or have been)
| 546 | LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR. |
“Silent, oh Moina, is the roar of thy waters,” |
On the 17th of March, St. Patrick’s Day, Lady Morgan had a musical morning party,—all that was best and brightest at that time in London were gathered under her roof. Lady Morgan looked as likely for life as she had done any time for the last six years, and no one anticipated that the breaking-up was so near. One week after this gay celebration of her patron saint’s fête, Lady Morgan caught cold. At first, it did not seem serious.
This letter, dictated by her, and addressed to Lady Combermere, was the last she wrote:—
Your letters are always to me fresher than flowers,
without their fading so soon. I am still confined to
| THE END. | 547 |
Although she was now very ill, neither Dr.
Ferguson, who had attended her in all her illnesses, nor Mr.
Hunter, her ordinary medical attendant, feared a fatal termination: they had
seen her recover from more dangerous attacks. But the scene was drawing to a close. On the
morning of the 16th of April she seemed rather better; she called for her desk and papers,
and began to write a letter on business; but although her mind was lucid and vigorous, her
bodily powers were fading away; and on the entrance of her
| 548 | LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR. |
She met her end patiently and with perfect simplicity. She died on the evening of the 16th of April, 1859.
She was interred in the Brompton cemetery, where a tomb, executed by Mr. Sherrard Westmacott, has been erected to her memory, by her niece.
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