You see how soon I begin to fulfil your commands, for you are not many hours gone. But you bid me not let a day pass before I began a journal and telling you all that happens to your two poor loving little

* The year is probably 1796.—Ed.

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girls, who never were so unhappy in all their lives as when they saw the yellow chaise wheels turn down the corner of Trinity Street, and lost sight of you. There we remained with our necks stretched out of the window, and Molly crying over us, “Musha, Musha!” when, looking up, she suddenly cried out, “See what God has sent to comfort ye!” and it was indeed remarkable that at that very moment the heavy clouds that rested over the dome of the round church just opposite, broke away, and, in a burst of sunshine, down came flying a beautiful gold-coloured bird, very much resembling that beautiful picture in the picture-gallery in Kilkenny Castle which we so lately saw. Well, Sir, it came fluttering down to the very sill of the window, Molly thinking, I believe, it was a miracle sent to comfort us, when, lo and behold, dear papa, what should it turn out to be but Mrs. Stree’s old Tom pigeon, who roosts every night on the top of St. Andrew’s, and whom her mischievous son had painted yellow!

Olivia made great game of Saint Molly and her miracle, and made such a funny sketch of her as made me die laughing, and that cheered us both up. After breakfast, Molly dressed us “neat as hands and pins could make us,” she said, and we went to church; but just as we were stepping out of the hall door, who should come plump against us but James Carter, and he looked so well and handsome in his new college robe and square cap (the first time he had ever put them on), and a beautiful prayer-book in his hand, that we really did not know him. He said he had forgotten to leave a message for us on his way to the college chapel, from

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his grandma, to beg that we would come in next door and dine with her, as we must be very lonely after our father’s departure, which offer, of course, we accepted; and he said with his droll air, “If you will allow me the honour, I will come in and escort you at four o’clock.” “No, sir,” said Molly, who hates him, and who said he only wanted to come in and have a romp with Miss Livy, “there is no need, as your grandmamma lives only next door;” and so we went to church and Molly went to Mass; and all this diverted our grief though it did not vanquish it. Well, we had such a nice dinner! It is impossible to tell you how droll James Carter was, and how angry he made the dear old lady, who put him down constantly, with, “You forget, sir, that you are now a member of the most learned university in the world, and no longer a scrubby school-boy.” Well, the cloth was scarcely removed and grace said by James (by-the-bye with such a long face), when he started up and said, “Come, girls, let us have a stroll in the College Park whilst granny takes her nap.” Oh, if you could only see granny’s face. “No, sir,” said she, “the girls, as you are pleased to call the young ladies your cousins, shall not go and stroll with you among a pack of young collegians and audacious nursery-maids. Now that you are a member of the most learned university in the world, you might stay quiet at home on the Lord’s day, and read a sermon for your young friends, or at least recommend them some good book to read ‘whilst granny takes her nap.’” All this time Jem looked the image of Mawworm in the play, and then taking two books off the window-

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seats, he gave one to each of us, and said, “Mark, learn, and inwardly digest till I return.” The next moment he was flying by the window and kissing hands, and so granny and the old black cat purring together, fell fast asleep, and we took up our books and seated ourselves in each of the parlour-windows. Now, what do you think, papa, these books were? Olivia’s was Sheridan’s Dictionary, and mine was an Essay on the Human Understanding, by Mr. Locke, gent. I was going to throw mine down, but struck by some anecdotes about children, which brought me back to my dear old days at Drumcondra, I began at the beginning and read on for a full hour and a half. How it set me thinking from the moment when I had not a thought or an idea, which was the case in my infancy, for it is clear that we have no innate ideas when we are born, which certainly never struck me before; and this set me thinking upon what I could longest remember, and I think it was the smell of mignonette, for I can remember when I first smelled it, and the pleasure it gave me, and above all, your singing “Drimindu,” the Black Cow, which always made me cry. But when we meet, please God, we will talk over all this; meantime I shall make extracts, as you know I always do of what I read; for James has lent me the book, though it was his school prize, and very handsome, saying, rather pertly, “Why, you little fool, you won’t understand a word of it.” But I convinced him to the contrary at tea, to granny’s amazement, who said, “You might have found a better book to put into her hands on the Sabbath day.”

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Now, dear Sir, good night; Molly is so teazing with her yawning, and saying, “After being up at six o’clock, one may, I suppose, go to bed before midnight.” I forgot to tell you that good Mr. O’Flaherty has been here, and told Molly that he was very glad you were gone off and out of the way of the Philistines, and that he would bring us Castle franks twice a week from his friend Mr. Irk, who was in the Treasury, that would hold a house! so I shall have no conscience in writing to you on the score of postage. You are to direct your letters under cover to Mr. O’Flaherty to G. Irk, Esq., Castle, Dublin.

Molly told us last night when we were going to bed, that she had something to relate to us which would surprise us, and so, indeed, it has, here it is:—Whilst we were dining next door, Molly, as usual, looking out of the windows, a young gentleman passed and repassed under the walls of St. Andrew’s Church, whom she at first took for one of the Irish Brigade officers whom we knew at Kilkenny last year, for he was dressed in uniform, blue and crimson; but at last he

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stepped across the way and took off his hat to her. You will never guess who it was—What do you think of Tom Dermody?

Molly ran down stairs. You know how fond she always was of him, and asked him into the drawing-room. She hopes you will not be angry. He told her all his adventures “since you threw him off,” those were his words; “you his best and only true friend,” and he had never heard or seen anything of us since he went to school, until he saw a little book of poems by a young lady between twelve and fourteen, with my name to them; he then went to the printer’s, and found out where we live only the night before, and he begged so hard to see us before he left Ireland,—for he is going off to Cork to join his regiment on Tuesday,—that he persuaded Molly to let him come today. He said he thought he could clear up a great deal of what you had been made to consider to his disadvantage.

Well, dear papa, Dermody has been! He came according to Molly’s permission this morning. He was quite surprised at the change that had taken place in us and was most gallant about it. He has, I think, been most hardly used.

You know how ill Dr. and Mrs. Austen behaved, on the plea of old Aichbone, when he lodged in Grafton Street, showing a little bit of fun he wrote about Mrs. Austen; and how Dr. Austen returned all his subscriptions, and how he was obliged to write for

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his bread in the magazine Anthologia. Mr. Berwick, Lady Moira’s chaplain, was so delighted with his poem that he brought it to Lady Moira, who immediately sent him to Dr. Boyd, the translator of Dante, to pursue his studies till something could be done for him. His years he said were lost in this way, and he thought Dr. Boyd wanted to retain him for the purpose of working at the translation and copying it for him; so he wrote to Lady Moira to request she would extend her patronage when he could earn an independent livelihood; so after some time Dr. Berwick wrote to him, that Lady Moira had an opportunity of placing him with Mr. Miller, a great bookseller in London as an apprentice—but just think! with his usual impetuosity he wrote to decline the offer, and expressed his mortification at such a position being allotted to him. Lady Moira desired Mr. Berwick to send him twenty pounds, with an order never to let her see or hear of him again. So he returned to Dublin and commenced writing again for the Anthologia, but could not make bread to support him, and in a fit of despair he one night enlisted, and was draughted off for his regiment in England a few days afterwards, where he served a year as a common soldier. Being one day on parade, the colonel of the regiment, who was walking up and down in front of the men, was joined by a very noble-looking gentleman, who every time that he passed fixed his eye on Dermody, who at last recognised him to be the Earl of Moira. You may suppose Lord Moira was a little

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shocked and surprised, as Dermody had frequently dined with him at Moira House.

The next day his sergeant came to him and said Lord Moira wished to see him. He went to his hotel and was received rather coldly, but without further reproof Lord Moira said, he did not wish to see one who had sat at his mother’s table in the lowly condition to which his follies had reduced him; and, therefore he had used his influence to get him an ensigncy in the commissariat; that he would have his release on the following day and have an appropriate uniform for his new condition, when he must go immediately to join his corps in Dublin on its way to Cork, whence they were to sail for Flanders. He was, poor fellow, to sail on the following night.

Well, papa, never was anything so altered! He is a very handsome young man, and has lost all his shyness. He said he had been looking us out every where, ever since he arrived, and had been at the Theatre Royal for you, but could get no information. Seeing a little book by a young lady “between twelve and fourteen,” at a little shop in Werburgh Street, inscribed with my name, he entered and got our address, and here he was that very evening! His gallantry was beyond anything in talking of the improvement we had made since we were at Madame Terson’s school, and above all, his astonishment at my poetical productions.

The next morning I received a note by the penny post, with a poem which I should be ashamed to show you, dear papa, it is so very flattering, if it were not to prove that he has lost nothing of his art of poetry.

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He will write to you from Cork, and begs mercy at your hands, who, he says, with dear mamma, were the only true friends he ever had; and so, dearest papa, good-bye and God bless you; my fingers are quite cramped with writing.

Olivia and I are rather uneasy at your silence, and hope you have not run the risk of breaking your other leg in a frolic, as you did the other one in Cork,—I don’t mean a cork leg,—but the city of Cork. You need not pity us at all, as we really are very comfortable. I have opened a new mine of study which will last me for life. We go every evening as usual to tea at Dr. Douglas’s, where there is at present a very celebrated gentleman, a Dr. Higgins,* a great chemist; and Dr. Douglas has built a beautiful laboratory in his garden, where Dr. Higgins does the most beautiful experiments that ever were performed; assisted by young Mr. Cadenus Boyd,† Mrs. Douglas’s nephew, who is a pupil of the Doctor’s. Now, dear papa, observe, I never heard the word “chemistry” at

* This is the Dr. Higgins who, in one of his lectures observed, that Roger Boyle was the father of chemistry and son to the Earl of Cork. Moore has perpetuated the joke in his play of The Blue Stocking. † Cad or Cadenus, was a name frequently given to children in Ireland, in memory of Dean Swift, and after “his Cadenus and Vanessa.”

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school, nor did I know what it meant, till Dr. Higgins took the trouble of informing me; for you must know that we walk home every evening by moonlight, accompanied by the whole party, and I always fall to the Doctor’s share, who says my questions are very suggestive; a word, by-the-bye, I never heard before, and that one day he would not wonder if I was another Pauline Lavoisier. Now, I dare say, you never heard anything about her. Well, Lavoisier was the greatest chemist in France, and the greatest philosopher, and his beautiful wife Pauline cultivated chemistry with the greatest zeal and talent; and I would rather be the wife of such a man as Lavoisier, than any queen I ever read of.*

Dr. Higgins has lent me the Memoirs of Lavoisier, and I sat up reading them till one o’clock in the morning, Molly scolding or snoring all the time. And now, dear papa, I have a terrible thing to tell you, and hope you won’t be angry, as it was only meant in fun. Well, one of Cadenus Boyd’s experiments was, writing

* Lavoisier, the most illustrious chemical philosopher of France, and the most original expositor of the scientific philosophy of his age. His discoveries obliged a new chemical nomenclature which became a stumbling-block to older chemists, and was much complained of by our own celebrated philosopher Kirwan. His admirable financial work, Let Richesses Territorielles de France, had the distinction of being published by order of the National Assembly in 1791, and in 1794 this honour to his country and to humanity was dragged to the guillotine. His beautiful and gifted wife shared her husband’s studies and pursuits; she not only cultivated chemistry with zeal and success, but engraved with her own hand the copper-plates for his last great work. She married the celebrated Count Rumford, and was living in Paris in 1847, when I had the gratification of seeing her.

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words with phosphorus on a dark wall; he gave us a bit of this in a bottle of water, so, after we were all in bed and Molly fast asleep in her adjoining closet, we got up and made a noise to awaken her, so she came out and what should she see, but, written on the wall in flame, “Molly, beware!” She screamed out, “Lord Jasus, preserve us!” and we laughed so that I let fall the phosphorus, which burned through the table, and even the floor, and my left hand too, which brought up Mrs. Shea in her night-shift; you never saw such a figure, and she and Molly instantly set into a row as usual. As soon as it was daylight, I was in such pain I was obliged to go to Dr. Douglas’s with my arm, and Mrs. Shea said, she wouldn’t let young ladies stay in her house, who risked setting it on fire with their tricks. However, we are both full of repentance for indulging in such childish pranks, and will endeavour to remember what you so often remind us of, “that we are no longer children,” and which is above all applicable to Miss in her Teens—myself; so from this time forth I promise to be more considerate and serious, but I never can be more in all duty and respect to you, dearest papa, whose most affectionate child I am, Livia included,

You see I have let two days pass since I wrote last; but Olivia sent you, I know, a very funny letter, with

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a caricature of Molly answering to her call—“’Tis I, my lord, the early village cock”! I have nothing so amusing, dear papa; but I have made up my mind on a subject which I trust you will not oppose; for there is no use in opposing it. I have made up my mind, once and for all, and I am so convinced I am in the right, that though it would break my heart to disobey you, should you differ from me, still, I will at least try the experiment of what I have hit on, for, I hope, all our benefit. Mr. O’F—— has been here; he has told me all; and I have seen your name on the list of Statutes of Bankruptcy. He said it was the best and honestest, indeed, the only thing that could be done, and that you will come out of this terrible dilemma as well considered and respected as you have hitherto lived; but that time, and great economy, and your resuming your theatrical position with Mr. Daly, at the Theatre Royal, were indispensable. Now, for all this, dear Sir, we must relieve you from the terrible expense you have been at for our education. Of this, I am resolved to relieve you, and to earn money for you, instead of spending the little you will have for some time to come. I will not go to any school—where they can teach me nothing I did not know before! I was at the head of my classes at Madame Terson’s, and as for Mrs. Anderson—the vulgar creature!—she is not worth mentioning. Now, dear papa, I have two novels nearly finished! The first, is St. Clair; I think I wrote it in imitation of Werter, which I read in school-holidays, last Christmas. The second is a French novel, suggested by my reading

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The Memoirs of the Duc de Sully, and falling very much in love with Henri IV. Now, if I had time and quiet to finish them, I am sure I could sell them; and observe, Sir, Miss Burney got three thousand pounds for Camilla, and brought out Evelina unknown to her father; but all this will take time. Meanwhile, I want an asylum both for myself and Olivia. Her education is certainly not finished, and she has none of my pursuits; droll, and witty, and musical as she is. Now, Madame Dacier, who was head governess at Mrs. Anderson’s, left that school in disgust, and has set up in a school for herself, in a beautiful place, at Richmond, near Ballybaugh Bridge, where she means to take twelve pupils to educate with her own family. Now, she is most desirous to have Olivia; and her terms for everything are only twenty-five pounds a-year; she is particularly protected by our dear friends and masters, Signor Pellegrini and Monsieur Fontaine, and she will take Molly as children’s maid to the school. Now, dear Sir, you see there is so much of the family disposed of—now for me. I, yesterday morning, opened my heart to Dr. and Madame Pellegrini, who approved of everything I said, though they earnestly asked me to come to them and stay for six months, having neither chick nor child but dear little Alphonsina; and the Doctor, on his return from the grand tour, with a rich young Mr. Dick, has been appointed Professor of Italian and Spanish at Trinity College, Dublin, with a very handsome income, and is very well off in a charming house near Merrion Square, where I

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drank tea, last evening, with the Vice-Provost’s family (the Fitzgerald’s), and a most astonishing creature, Miss Emily Curran, the daughter of the celebrated Mr. Curran, Olivia having gone to the play with the Douglasses. Well, Dr. Pellegrini approves of my intention, which is, simply for the present, to go as instructress or companion to young ladies. My books, against which he says there is nothing but my youth—but that will soon cure itself—won’t be reedy for a year to come. He says, he really thinks at this moment he knows of two families, pupils of his own, who would be delighted to have me; the one, Mr. Sheridan’s, the Secretary of War; the other, Dr. Dickson’s, the Bishop of Limerick. Should the latter answer, I should prefer, as it would take me out of Dublin and all former acquaintance, not that I am ashamed of what I am about to do, but then I think you will be, with your Irish pride; and as for Olivia and Molly, I am afraid to break it to them. But I am Resolved. I know I shall go through my appointed task right well, and, as Shakespeare says, “All my corporal faculties are bound up to the purpose.” I will not say more, dear papa, at present; but I hope to have everything settled by the end of next week, when we must give up these expensive apartments, happen what may.

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. 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.”

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 letter and the enclosure were most welcome and most gratefully received. To show you how much I am up to business, I accompanied Molly to Sir William Newcomen’s Bank in Castle Street, and presented my twenty-pound cheque with the air of one who knew what she was about, though I never was so confused in

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all my life. Oh, dear papa, if you were never in a bank you have no idea what it is. Just paint to yourself, sir, if you please, a great hall, with a counter running from one end to the other, with about a hundred young men behind it, all fluttering and flying about with papers, like kites, in their hands. We were directed to the “paying desk,” but, as Molly observed, “nobody asked us to sit down,” so I delivered my cheque for £20, Irish, and wrote my name in a book, and may be, when we got home, I did not walk into Mrs. Shee’s dirty back parlour, and throw down seven golden guineas, Molly crying out, “We will trouble you for a receipt to that, if you please!”

Mrs. Shee looked surprised, and asked Molly to tea in the evening. Coming home, through Dame Street, we stopped at Mr. Lee’s music shop, and I asked him for his bill for the hire of the piano, and begged he would send for it immediately. He said very politely that he would send for the piano, but he begged we would accept the hire, as you had been one of his best friends, and had ordered above a hundred pounds worth of music from him for the Theatre Royal, but that everything was changed now, and there was no longer any taste for music. I asked him if he would lend me a copy of the Beggars’ Opera and the Padlock. He sent them to me in the evening, with a pretty note, begging my acceptance of them; and as we had another night out of the piano, may be Olivia and I did not sing them from one end to the other! “The Miser who a Shilling sees,” makes the most beautiful duet in the world. I am sure it is Irish.

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Well, sir, on arriving home what should I find but a note from Dr. Pellegrini relative to my intentions, which, to tell you the truth, I had explained to him, saying that the Rev. Mr. Peter Lefanu, a celebrated preacher, would call on me at one o’clock the next day. He had given him a commission to find a young lady who would act as something between a governess and a dame de compagnie to two young ladies, daughters of the Right Honourable Charles Sheridan, Secretary-at-War for Ireland, and the husband of that beautiful woman who, you may remember, put out the fire of the curtain of her box at the theatre last winter, when the whole house rose up to applaud. Well, the idea of this visit from Mr. Lefanu frightened me beyond everything, I was so utterly unprepared for it; and Olivia positively refused to be in the room. However, I was dressed very nicely, and seated on the sofa all in good time, and I took up Locke, “to call up a look,” as Lady Pentweasle says, when I heard his knock at the door. Molly announced him—“The Rev. Mr. Peter ——,” but could get no further. She was in such a rage. Well, now, dear papa, who do you think he turned out to be? Why, the clergyman who preached the charity sermon at the Lying-in Hospital last Christmas, and that we all cried at hearing, and you said, “That man is a regular pickpocket, for I have given a crown and I did not mean to give half.” Well, he took my hand, and we sat down. He looked very earnestly, and said:

“Are you the young lady of whom Dr. Pellegrini

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was speaking last night as wishing to enter upon a very important situation?”

“Are you Miss Owenson, my dear—daughter of my old friend Mr. Owenson of the Theatre Royal?”

Here I was obliged to cover my face with my handkerchief. I suppose to give me time to recover, he gently drew Locke out of my hand, and appeared to be looking through it.

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“Well,” said he, “you are the most flattering little logician I ever coped with.” He then took a serious tone, and said, “My dear little girl, I respect your intentions; and from what Dr. Pellegrini tells me, your acquirements fit you for the situation you are seeking, but you have at present one great fault. Don’t be frightened” (I suppose I looked so)—“it is one will mend but too soon. The Misses Sheridan are, I should think, much about your own age, and the worst of it is, there are two rascally boys, Charles and Tom, who have the bad habit of running into their sisters’ study when they come home for vacation, and making a terrible row there. However, I shall meet Mr. and Mrs. Sheridan at dinner to-day at my brother’s, Mr. Joe Lefanu’s, who is married to their sister. We will talk over this, and you shall hear from me early tomorrow.”

He now rose, and as he deposited Locke on the table, he took up a dirty little volume of my poems, which lay beside it.

I am so tired I can write no more to-day; but we are

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both well, and both in love with the Rev. Mr. Lefanu, for Olivia had her head through the door of the back drawing-room all the time making faces at me!

Dear Papa—The Sheridan scheme is all ended. The beautiful Mrs. Sheridan would not have me, and I am glad, as on consideration, I see it would not do, but I have got something to console me, I think.

This morning, at nine o’clock, Mr. Lefanu’s servant was here with a note,—I send it to you:—

“My dear Miss Owenson—The Sheridan scheme won’t answer—something better has just suggested itself. Dr. Dixon, the Bishop of Limerick, who has come to town to be present at a charity sermon this day, to be preached before the Lord-Lieutenant in St. Anne’s Church, sent me a note last night from his lady, desiring that I would find an accomplished young lady to take charge of her daughter, a little girl of ten years old, and that I would let the Bishop see the person before he left town, which he does on Monday morning. I must beg you, therefore, to come to his house in Molesworth Street, at ten o’clock this morning. I will be there to receive and present you. They are charming as well as excellent people.

And so, sir, Molly and I stalled at half-past nine, and hustled our way as we could through the crowds that were parading towards St. Anne’s Church, which you know always fill the streets when the Lord-Lieu-

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tenant goes in state, and soldiers on horseback included. It is but a short distance, but still a disagreeable walk. We soon discovered the Bishop’s house by two tall footmen in purple liveries, and gold-headed canes as tell as themselves, before the door. You know at the top of the street is Leinster House; the gates were all open, and the carriages were parading round and round the beautiful court. An old housekeeper took Molly into a parlour, and when I gave my card to a footman he was conducting me upstairs,—when, dear Mr. Lefanu came forward, and drew my arm through his, and led me into a beautiful front drawing-room where the Bishop was at breakfast, the sun shining full on his face; his pale, conceited-looking chaplain was making tea, a regular maccaroni, who soon got up and went to the window, leaving us to do our business.

Nothing could be more cordial and kind than the Bishop. He slightly alluded to the original objection of youth, and said he could not give any positive answer till he had seen Mrs. Dixon, and that he would not lose a moment in writing to my friend Mr. Lefanu. He said he was sorry he was so hurried for time, but he was obliged to be back on diocesan business the following day; but he should carry away more than one agreeable impression of me;—and only imagine! he then took up a ragged book lying beside him,—my poems again, which that darling Mr. Lefanu had brought him,—and the stanzas to you turned down.

“These are very pretty stanzas,” said he, “as to

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poetry, and charming as to feeling, which I believe is the best ingredient of all poetry.”

After a little more conversation, the beau chaplain drew in his head from the window, and said, “My lord, the Duke of Leinster’s carriage has drawn up, and the ‘bidding bell’ has begun to ring.” The Bishop started up. The chaplain presented him a pair of white gloves fringed with gold, and his square cap. Of course I rose in a flurry. The Bishop wished me a cordial good-bye, and Mr. Lefanu said, “You will hear from me immediately.” So then I was just hurrying down to join Molly in the housekeeper’s room; but Mr. Lefanu, running upstairs to meet me, said, “Stay here, my dear, the Bishop will send back his carriage for you in five minutes, the streets are so crowded;” and then he sprang into the Bishop’s coach and was out of sight in a minute. I was waiting in the parlour for the carriage to return when it rolled up. I ran out to get in—the steps were let down slap dash—the footmen standing on either side, when to my surprise Molly sprang in after me! the footmen grinning from ear to ear. Away we drove! Molly’s head a mile out of the window, bowing to every one she knew and every one she did not know; but, oh, papa! I wish you could have seen the scene at Mrs. Shee’s hall door! The thundering knock brought all the house to answer it, Mrs. Shee at their head; but, oh! when she saw Molly handed out of the Bishop’s carriage, she looked as if she would die of surprise and envy—Olivia, with her head half out of the window, ready to fall out of it with convulsions of laughter;

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and so, dear papa, for the present has ended my episcopal visit; but with or without other result it has been an incident of which I am proud, and I conclude with your own favourite Irish sentiment—

“Foglan foh—Wait awhile.”

I write to tell you what has offered for our darling Olivia.

Madame Dacier paid us a visit yesterday, and said she would be happy to receive Olivia whenever she could come; and, what has pleased me much, she has offered to take Molly as upper children’s maid to the establishment, so she will be returned to the situation which dear mamma took her from when she was at Madame Terson’s and she will not be separated from her darling nursling. Molly is cheered up, for she has been very sulky and cross for some time past, and said, “She supposed she was to be thrown over, and

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that it was no matter what became of old servants,” &c., &c.

I have some good news which I shall reserve for another letter, as I want to save the post; but I just ask you if you ever heard of an old lady of the name of Steele; or a family of the name of Featherstone? they are friends of Dr. Pellegrini and Mr. Fontaine.