Lady Morgan

LADY MORGAN.

IN naming one of her early novels " The Wild Irish Girl," Lady Morgan gave the public an inkling of her own character. The world Wild, however, has acquired opprobrious meanings, none of which apply to her innocent and high-bred vivacity. She was a true specimen of the Irish race, gay, witty, liberal, but ever loyal to friends and duty. No contrast could be greater than her exuberant gayety with the constrained existence and despotic formalism to which we are accustomed; and hence the interest she excites in us. Here is her strange, eventful history, a history possible only to a child of Erin.

On Christmas eve, 1783, a party was gathered in Dublin at the house of a popular Irish actor, by name Robert Owenson. His wife was not present, having excused herself on the plea of indisposition; but the feast progressed merrily, with singing, toasts, and story-telling, and it was already Christmas morning when a breathless messenger appeared on the threshold to inform the host of the arrival of an unexpected Christmas present from his wife. He hastily quitted the room on receiving the announcement, and an hour later returned beaming to his guests (who had not thought of dispersing in the meantime) bringing word that all was going well, and he was the proud father of "a dear little Irish girl," the blessing he had long wished for. This intelligence was greeted with a half-suppressed cheer by the company, who
arranged before they left to meet again a month later and celebrate the christening, one of them, Edward Lysaght, a noted lawyer and wit of that day, agreeing to stand sponsor.
The party then broke up, and made the best haste they could to their several homes, for the night was cold and the snow was falling. Lysaght, who had the farthest to go, trudged steadily onward, his mind yet filled with thoughts of the feast just over and of the little baby who was to be his goddaughter, while the notes of a Christmas carol, sung by a child whose form he could dimly perceive some distance in advance, floated back to his ears and fell in pleasantly with his thoughts. Overtaking the child, he was enabled to catch the last words of her song. They were the well-known refrain :

Christmas comes but once a year,
And when it comes it brings good cheer."

As the song died away the singer sank down suddenly upon the steps of a brilliantly lighted house resounding with music and laughter. He went up to her and found that she was dead, still grasping her ballad in her hand.

This pathetic story of her birthright was almost the first story told to Robert Owenson's little daughter, and a short poem upon the subject by Lysaght was the first thing she ever learned by heart.

Her christening took place according to agreement, a month after her birth, and the occasion was one of rejoicings truly Irish in their character. A branch of shillalah graced the table, and Mr. Owenson, who was a fine musician, sang, first in Irish and then in English, the famous song. of O'Rourke's Noble Feast," the whole company joining enthusiastically in the chorus :

"Oh you are welcome heartily, 
Welcome, gramachree,
Welcome heartily,
Welcome joy!"

Later, the extremely young lady was herself brought in, and her health drunk standing with three times three, and the significant accompanying words, "Foghan Fall," or " wait awhile." It was an appropriate toast, for a ' while not very long raised the little Sydney Owen-son, w;' was thus cordially greeted upon her first appearance in society, to a position where few of her early friends expected to find her.

Robert Owenson was a gifted and hospitable Irishman; the only son of Walter MacOwen or Owenson, a Con-naught farmer, and Sydney Crofton, the orphan grand-daughter of Sir Malby Crofton of Longford House.  His parents had made an indiscreet and 'romantic marriage. They met first at a hurling-match, where Miss Crofton was the Queen of Beauty who awarded the prize, and young Owenson the handsome athlete who won it. A. few weeks after, they ran away together and were married, but the union did not prove a happy one, and the bride, who was a woman of talent, consoled herself as best she could with music and poetry. So well were her efforts appreciated by the neighboring peasants that they nicknamed her Clasagh-na-Valla, or Harp of the Valley.  Her eloquence, however, was of more practical benefit to her son, since a certain Mr. Blake was so impressed by her recital of the wrongs inflicted by one of his ancestors upon a long dead MacOwen, that he carried off young Robert to London with him by way of amends. After a time a love affair with a pretty singer brought the young man into disgrace with his patron, and he took to the stage to support himself. A few years later, following the family custom, he ran away with and married Miss Jane Hill, the sister of a college friend.

It was from her father that Sydney Owenson, the name-sake of poor Clasagh-na-Valla, derived those brilliant and winning qualities that made her famous; but it was her English mother from whom she inherited her practical sense and business capacity, and perhaps also what she herself describes as her " sacred horror of debt."

During her early years the family fortunes were extremely unsettled, her father striving vainly to earn a respectable income by the combined pursuits of wine merchant and manager of a theatre. She and her younger sister Olivia received an irregular education, partly from their mother, partly at school. But they did not progress satisfactorily, and Sydney in particular was the despair of her mother, who had set her heart upon having her eldest daughter equal the achievements of a precocious little child of Rowland Hill's, who had read the Bible through twice before she was five, and knitted all the stockings worn by the coachman. Happily for the public good Mrs. Owenson's ambition was disappointed; her elfish little girl found it quite impossible to master the genealogy of the patriarchs, and could not be made to sit still and sew, but nothing that. was going on about her escaped her inquisitive, bright eyes. She was deeply interested in all the trades carried on in the neighborhood, and did her best to become acquainted with their mysteries.

She even went so far as to set up a shop with her father's theatrical wigs, choosing for the purpose the only window fronting upon the street, and inscribing upon it, in her best and biggest hand-writing, SYDNEY OWENSON, SYSTEM, TETE AND PERUKE MAKER----which was the proper form of advertising at that period. What is more, she could have carried on the trade had she been permitted, having acquired the art through observing her father's hair-dresser.

It was at about this time that she made her first literary venture. She was the happy owner of a large number of pets, chiefly among which was a great yellow cat, named Ginger. Ginger and Mrs. Owenson were not on the best of terms, and the discerning annual was glad to keep herself out of that lady's way, in a snug nook arranged for her underneath the sideboard by her little mistress. One evening, as Sydney was kneeling at her mother's knee, concluding her nightly prayer, with a blessing invoked upon her various friends, a soft purr was heard issuing from this retreat. Moved by so touching an appeal, she added to her usual petition the words, " God bless Ginger the cat ! " Mrs. Owenson, much shocked, caught her by the shoulder and shook her, saying :

" What do you mean by that, you stupid child ?"
"May I not say, ' bless Ginger ?' " asked Sydney.
"Certainly not," replied Mrs. Owenson.
"Why mama ? "
"Because Ginger is not a Christian ! "
"Why is not Ginger a Christian ?
"Why ? Because Ginger is only an animal."
"Am I a Christian, mania, or an animal ?"

At this point Molly, the devoted household servant, was abruptly requested to take those troublesome children to bed, and teach them not to ask foolish questions. But even bed did not end the matter. Sydney's warmest feelings were aroused in sympathy with her poor un-Christian favorite, and while lying awake she composed a poem in its honor, which was next morning recited in
the kitchen amid great applause. James the butler took it down from the lips of the young poet ; Molly corrected the proof; and at breakfast it was read to the family, winning praise from Mr. Owenson, and, which was more important, a pardon for both Sydney and Ginger. Here it is :
"My dear pussy cat,
Were I a mouse or rat
Sure I never would run off from you; You're so funny and gay
With your tail when you play,
And no song is so sweet as your mew.
"But pray keep in your press,
And don't make a mess
When you share with your kittens our posset; For mama can't abide you,
And I cannot hide you,
Except you keep close in your closet."

In spite of Mrs. Owenson's antipathy to Ginger, and to most other things which her daughter particularly liked, Sydney was very fond of her mother, and her death a few years later was a terrible blow to her. It was thought best for the children to be out of the way for a few days after the event, and they were sent to stay with a friend who lived some miles distant. Sydney was not content to be separated from her father in his time of trouble. Twice she was captured and detained when about to return ; but the third time she succeeded in squeezing herself through a hole cut in the barn-door for the dog, and ran the whole way home, never pausing till she found her father and threw herself into his arms.

During the next few years the condition of Mr. Owen-son's business became worse and worse, till it at last resulted in bankruptcy, and he went away to Limerick to await a final meeting of his creditors. It was the girls' vacation at the time, and they were left at home under the guardianship of the faithful Molly until their school should reopen, the true cause of their father's journey being unknown to them. But Sydney was not easily kept in the dark, and it was not long before her father received a letter from her, containing a strange mingling of fore-sight and simplicity.

Mr. O'F______ has been here," she wrote. "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."

An important statement in italics, follows: " Now, dear papa, 1 have two novels nearly finished!"

Her plan was to go out as a governess while she finished these works, and she had already beard of two situations, either of which she thought she could fill. A. short postscript to the letter shows that her talent for being agreeable had already begun to be recognized.

"P. S. Captain Earle and Captain White Benson, who you may remember at. Kilkenny were always running after us, called yesterday; but Molly would not let them in, which I thought was rather impertinent of her. However, as things are at present, I believe it was all for the best."

Her next letter shows the manner in which she faced the embarrassments of her position. She begins by complaining of a certain " odious Mrs. Anderson," who wanted her bill paid, and was "insolent" about it, and also of the landlady, who not only detained their piano, a hired one, when they wished to return it to the owners, but gave them warning to leave next week. Molly the dauntless defended the rights of her young charges, and the contest of words threatened at one tune, greatly to their terror, to become a passage of arms. When this excitement was over the three sat down and indulged in a hearty cry, in the midst of which arrived M. Fontaine, Mr. Owenson's old ballet-master, and a devoted friend. He was in a carriage on his way to Dublin Castle, where he had recently been appointed Master of Ceremonies.

"Poor darling old gentleman," wrote Sydney to her "dearest Dad," " 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, 'Come up then, Martin my son, with your little 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 chassez-d-la-ronde, saving, 'enliven yourselves, my children, that is the only thing ; and only think, there we were ; the next minute we were all of us—Molly, Martin, and Monsieur included—dancing away to the tune ' What a Beau your Cranny is' (the only one that Martin can play), and we were all laughing ready to die until Livy gave Molly, who was iii 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."

Better even than this, the merry and wise old French-man carried the girls off with him to the Castle, where they spent a triumphant evening, listening to songs and readings, observing the noted people present, and finally (owing to a judicious word from M. Fontaine to their hostess, Countess O'Haggerty) themselves singing a duet which took the company by storm.

Twice disappointed in her hope of obtaining a situation—both the places mentioned in her letter to her father being denied her on account of her youth—Sydney Owenson was at last engaged as governess and companion. for the daughters of Mr. Featherstone, two pleas-ant girls of about her own age. The arrangement was made by their mother, while visiting in Dublin, and it was settled that Miss Owenson should join the family a few days later at their country seat, Bracklin Castle.

She was to leave Dublin by the night coach, and M. Fontaine, ever gay and ever friendly, gave a farewell party in her honor on the very evening of her departure. There was no danger of her missing the coach, he assured her, since it passed close by at the head of the street, and the driver had promised to blow his horn. She could bring her traveling dress with her in her bag, and change her costume before starting.

The party took place, and was highly successful. Indeed, so great was the general hilarity that the passage of time was forgotten, and in the midst of the dance, just as Miss Owenson was flying merrily through " Money in Both Pockets," with her favorite partner, the horn sounded its warning blast from the corner. There was not a moment to lose ; a change of dress was not to be thought of. With her own bonnet hastily clapped on her head, and Molly's long cloak thrown over her shoulders, she dashed out of the door, accompanied by her partner bearing her valise. and escorted on her way by the whole excited company in a body. She made the best speed she could, her pink silk shoes glancing over the icy pavement, and her muslin ball dress fluttering in the wandered reached the stage just as the grumbling driver was preparing to go on without her.

At Kinigad, where she arrived late at night very tired and sleepy, she retired at once to her room in the inn, too confused to remember her baggage, and sure that she would have plenty of time to change her dress in the morning, before the carriage from Bracklin came to her. But what was her dismay when she rose and asked for her bag, to find that it had gone on with the stage ! She could but resign herself to the inevitable, and towards noon, after a long drive, she presented herself in the drawing-room of the Castle, " pinched, cold, confused, and miserable," to claim her new position. The whole family was assembled, and a general titter greeted her appearance, Mr. Featherstone alone regarding her fantastic attire with severe disapproval. For a moment she was daunted, but her native courage soon revived, and she told her story with such vividness and spirit, that her audience were completely overcome with mingled mirth and compassion for her sad plight, and as soon as she had concluded she was born off in a gale of laughter by the two girls, who ransacked their wardrobes to (lad her something to wear.

Nor was this all. At dinner, Mrs. Featherstone introduced her to two tutors, the parish priest, and the Protestant curate of the neighboring village, and she kept the table in a roar during the whole meal, while the servants who waited nearly choked themselves by stuffing napkins in their mouths, in a vain attempt to refrain from laughing. So pleased were her companions, that at dessert the priest, Father Murphy, arose with a glass of port wine in his hand to drink her health. After a polite bow and a " By your leave, Madame," to the hostess, he turned to the new governess, exclaiming :

"This is a hearty welcome to ye to Westmeath, Miss Owenson ; and this is to your health, mind, and body "

Music followed, and she delighted her hearers with " Barbara Allen," and her favorite Irish song, "Ned of the Hills." The applause with which these selections were received was interrupted by the entrance of the butler, who announced that a piper had come from Castle-town, "to play in Miss Owenson." At once the young ladies proposed a dance in the hall ; partners were chosen; the music struck up ; the servants crowded about the open doors to look on ; and Sydney Owenson, always one of the lightest and most graceful of dancers, concluded her first day as a governess with an exultant Irish jig.

Imagine such a debut as this in a staid English or American family !

In spite, however, of her startling entrance upon the scene, she fulfilled the duties of her position conscientiously and successfully, and devoted most of her leisure time to the completion of one of the two half-finished novels. The work was finally concluded in Dublin, where the Featherstones spent a portion of each year, and she determined to see it safely in the hands of the printer before returning to Bracklin Castle. The novel had been accomplished alone and unaided, and she resolved to keep her secret to the last, though she did not even know the difference between a publisher and a bookseller.

She rose early one morning, glided quietly down the stairs, appropriated to her own use the cloak and market bonnet of the cook, which she found hanging in the hall, and slipped out of the house unperceived, carrying her manuscript neatly tied with a rose-colored ribbon under her arm. She had not the least idea where to go, and wandered about the business streets of the city, frightened and uncertain, until her eye fell upon a sign bearing the words : "T. Smith, Printer and Bookseller."  As she entered the doorway, the impish shop-boy, who was sweeping out the place, sent a cloud of dust into her face, then dropping his broom leaned his elbows on the counter and inquired :

"What do you plaize to want, Miss ?"

"The gentleman of the house," she managed to reply.

"Which of them, young or ould ?" asked the boy ; but before she could answer an inner door opened, and a young soldier in full uniform, his musket over his shoulder, entered whistling "'.The Irish Volunteers," and stopped short, surprised at the unexpected apparition of an exceedingly pretty girl in an exceedingly ugly bonnet.

To add to the discomfort of the situation, the shop-boy, with a wink, put in his word : " Here's a young Miss wants to see yer, Master James ; " whereupon Master James, much flattered by the announcement, advanced smilingly and chucked Miss Owenson under the chin. Before she could find words to resent this familiarity, an elderly gentleman in a great passion burst into the room, half-shaved, and still holding his razor and shaving cloth in his hand, and ordered the young soldier to be off " like a sky-rocket " to join his company, which was about to march. He then turned to pool' Miss Owenson, and addressing her as " Honey," bade her sit down and he would be back in a jiffy. He vanished, but soon returned in a more presentable condition, and inquired what he could do for her. She was too confused to reply immediately, but after he had repeated the question she answered faintly, beginning to untie the rose-colored ribbon :

" I want to sell a book, please."

"To sell a book, dear ? An ould one ? for I sell new ones myself. And what is the name of it, and what is it about ? "

The title, she told him, was St. Clair, and it was a novel

of sentiment, after the manner of Werter. But, unfortunately, Mr. Smith had never heard of " Werter," and, moreover, he was not a publisher at all. He told her so very good-naturedly, and the young authoress, " hot, hungry, flurried, and mortified," as she says in describing the incident, began to tie up her manuscript with unsteady fingers. She tried to meet the blow bravely, but tears came into her eyes in spite of herself, and kind-hearted Mr. Smith melted at once.

Don't cry, dear—don't cry," he said consolingly. " There's money bid for you yet ! But you're very young to turn author, and what's your name, dear?

Owenson, sir," she replied.

The name acted like an charm. Mr. Smith, who was an old friend of her father, asked her into the parlor and wrote a letter recommending her to Mr. Brown, a noted publisher of novels. So, courtesying, blushing, and wiping her eyes, she took her leave and set forth in search of Mr. Brown.

She found him without much trouble—a little old man in a bob-wig, looking over papers at a counter-and presented her letter, which he seemed by no means pleased to receive. He was still frowning at it when his wife entered from an inner room where breakfast was prepared, exclaiming :

"Mr. Brown, your tea is as cold as ice !"

Then, taking possession of the note, she asked what that was.

"A young lady who wants me to publish her novel, which I can't do," was the discouraging reply; " my hands are full already."

Poor Miss Owenson raised her handkerchief to her eyes ; but Mrs. Brown, pitying her distress, told her to leave the book and she would see that it was carefully ' read. St. Clair, pink ribbons and all, remained on Mr. Brown's counter, and a little later its venturous young author entered her house unnoticed, returned her borrowed garments to their place, and joined the Feather-stones at breakfast. Next day she went with the family to Bracklin, having forgotten to leave her address with the publisher.

She heard no more of St. Clair, until, during her next visit to Dublin, she accompanied Mrs. Featherstone to call on an invalid friend, and found a printed copy of her novel lying upon the window seat. She promptly communicated with Mr. Brown, who presented her with four copies—and nothing more. The book had some success, and was even translated into German with a remarkable preface, stating that the writer had strangled herself with a handkerchief for love. She afterwards rewrote it, and the new version was published in England.

She left the Featherstones in 1801, and in 1805 published her second novel, " The Novice of St. Dominic."  Her handwriting was extremely illegible, and the work (it was in six volumes) was copied out for her as fast as she wrote it by Francis Crossley, a youth of eighteen, one of the most devoted of her many admirers. The book was issued in London, and she was promptly paid for it. Of the sum she received—her first literary earnings—the greater part was sent to her father ; the rest she spent in purchasing a winter cloak and an Irish harp.

Her next effort, " The Wild Irish Girl," was in a new vein. It treated of the Irish scenes with which she was familiar, and described them with the humor, the fervor, and the patriotic feeling that marked her own truly Irish character. The plot was based upon an incident in her own life, and the fact that public opinion identified her with her heroine, is shown by the letters she received from her friends, in which she is quite as often addressed by the name of Glorvina, as by that of Sydney. Some of her notes from Lord Abercorn begin simply "Dear Little Glo." The book had an immediate and triumphant success, and from that time until her death she was one of the most conspicuous figures in the literature and society of her day.

In 1810, after much hesitation, she once more resigned her liberty to accept the pressing invitation of Lord and Lady Abercorn to become a member of their household. This decision affected the course of her whole life, since it was at their house that she met her future husband, Sir Charles, then plain Doctor Morgan. Lady Abercorn, a benevolent but not very adroit woman, equally attached to her sprightly companion and her handsome young physician, soon determined to arrange a match between them. It was some time before they met ; but she made such good use of her opportunities to praise each to the other, that Miss Owenson (at her request) had already written a humorous mock " Diploma of the University of Saint Glorvina" for the doctor, before ever seeing him ; while that gentleman on his part conceived so deep a prejudice against a woman whom he pictured as an uncomfortable paragon, that he determined to avoid her at all hazards. But fate decreed otherwise. One day, as he was quietly seated talking with Lady Abercorn, the door opened and a servant announced " Miss Owenson." He started to his feet at once, intent upon flight ; there was but one door ; and, as Miss Owenson entered it, she caught a glimpse of the dismayed Doctor just escaping by the window.

This was a little too much to be borne. Her vanity was touched, and when they were at last brought together she exerted herself to the utmost to please him, with such alarming success that he fell desperately in love with her; and, Lord and Lady Abercorn helping him to urge his suit, he was engaged to her at the end of a month. But the Wild Irish Girl had been taken by surprise, not fairly won, and no sooner had she given him her promise than she took fright at the terrible suddenness of the event. She begged leave of absence to visit her father, who was ill, promising to come back in a fortnight, although she had inwardly resolved to remain away several months at least, if ever she returned at all. Indeed, in after life she used frankly to say that for her perversity at this period she had deserved to miss marrying the best husband that ever woman had.

One excuse followed another, and still she did not come, while the poor Doctor grew every day more angry and miserable. His letters to her are filled with mingled reproach, jealousy, tenderness, and despair, with an occasional standing on his dignity ; hers to him are all evasion, contradiction, persuasion, affection, and petulance. The secret of the situation is summoned up iii a single one of her sentences:

"There was so much of force in the commencement of this business, that my heart was frightened back from the course it would naturally have taken."

She returned at last, but even then she would set no day for the wedding, and finally Lady Abercorn took the matter into her own hands. One bitter January morning she entered the library where her intractable protege was seated before the fire in her morning wrapper, and said, taking her by the arm:

Glorvina, come up stairs directly and be married; there must be no more trifling."

Poor Glorvina, too astonished to protest, submitted meekly to be led into another room, where Sir Charles (he had been knighted at Lord Abercorn's request) stood awaiting her, in company with a chaplain attired in full canonicals. She was married there and then, and not even the guests in the house knew anything about it until several days later, when Lord Abercorn, after dinner, filled his glass and invited them to chink to the health of " Sir Charles and Lady Morgan!"

Lady Morgan's married life was unusually happy. Her husband was devoted to her, and, far from being jealous of her fast increasing fame, was extremely proud of it, and rendered her valuable assistance in her literary labors.

She in her turn always noted with peculiar pleasure any complimentary reference to his medical works, for he, too, was an excellent writer in his own province, and rejoiced in the attentions paid him.

They soon became familiar figures ini society, where Lady Morgan's agreeable talents had always made her popular, and when they visited the continent they were received at once into the most brilliant circles of Paris, Florence, Rome, and Brussels. In her "France" and Italy," Lady Morgan describes in her usual vivid manner many of the interesting people whom they met. In France she associated on terms of intimacy with the Marquise de Villette (the Belle et Bonne of Voltaire), who obtained her admission to the order of Free Masons. She was much with Talma, who gave his most famous recitations in her salon ; with Humboldt, of whom she always speaks with reverent affection; and with that most un-American of Americans, Madame Patterson-Bonaparte. To us, perhaps, the most interesting of all her friends is Lafayette. She gives us a delightful reminiscence of the Lafayette family at La Grange, where she was for some time a favored guest.

"We arrived at sunset last evening," she writes, " and the old tower covered with the ivy planted by Charles Fox shone out in strong relief from the dark woods behind; but the brightest of all sunshine was the dear Lafayette's own noble comitenance, beaming with smiles and cordiality as he stood at the castle gate to receive us, surrounded by his children and grandchildren and other members of his family."

The grandchildren were twelve in number; yet during the whole time she was there, Lady Morgan mentions that she never heard the cry of a child, nor observed any symptoms of a dispute. Besides this large family there were several visitors at the castle. Two American gentle-men were there; and Carbonel, who composed the music for Beranger's songs; and Scheffer, then a rising young artist, who painted Lady Morgan's picture. At dinner, where there were seldom fewer than from twenty to thirty guests, Lafayette was always placed at the center of the table between his two youngest grandchildren. In fine weather they spent much of the clay out of doors, wandering about the beautiful grounds, lying upon the grass, or fishing in the pools.

In the evening, every one gathered about a huge wood fire, roaring upon the cavernous stone hearth, and listened to Lafayette's anecdotes of historic personages, or Lady Morgan's Irish stories, or Carbonel's music. Sometimes, in one of Beranger's spirited songs — La Sainte Alliance was a great favorite — the whole company would join in the chorus, till the roof rang.

Sunday, Lady Morgan tells us, was always a peculiarly joyous day at La Grange.

"On Sunday," she writes to her sister Olivia, "there was a village festival, and we all walked down to the village to join it. It was completely such a scene as one sees at the opera. The villages here are very straggling, and resemble English hamlets rather than towns; but the scene of action was principally in a little square before the gates of a little nunnery, where all the nuns were assembled in their habits, in the midst of the fun. . . . The beaux had their hair powdered as white as snow, with immense queues, and dimity jackets and trousers: the women in such caps as I brought over, with a profusion of lace, gold crosses, white gowns, and scarlet aprons. At four o'clock the ball began on the green. It is astonishing to see with what perfection men, women, and children dance the quadrilles, which are here called country dances, and how serious they all look. We left them hard at it, and retired to dinner at five. They all came up to the General to speak to him. He shook hands with all the old folk, and talked to them of their farms. It was one of the most delightful scenes you can imagine. My English dress excited great amazement, especially a long grey cloak I brought from London. In the evening there was (as there is every Sunday evening) a ball at the castle. After coffee we all went down to the hall, and there children, guests, masters, mistresses, and servants joined together in the dance, as they had clone in the morning at prayers; for there is a chapel belonging to the chateau, where the priest of the parish officiates. The servants danced in the quadrilles—six femines-de-chambre, and all the lacqueys. Oscar and Octavio, the two young ones, three and four years old, danced every quadrille, and never once were out ; in short, these scenes of innocence and gaiety and primitive manners are daily repeated."
Lafayette himself, while the dancing went on, " stood looking on and leaning on his stick, the happiest of the happy."

The books which Lady Morgan published during her married life — including the novels of " O'Donnel" and "Florence McCarthy"—were far more generally read than any of her previous works, with the exception of " The Wild Irish Girl." Her career was one of almost uninterrupted success and happiness, until the death of her husband in 1843. After that, although her wit and mirth remained to her, there was always a certain undertone of sorrow in Lady Morgan's longer letters ; and, as she grew older, it is sad to find her noting the death of one old friend after another, always with a few words of genuine appreciation.

She was fond of society until the end, and on St. Patrick's Day, a week before the beginning of her last illness, she gave a musical morning party, of which she was herself the life and soul.

She was not aware until the last that her illness was serious, and she dictated cheerful notes to her friends relative to her condition. On the very day of her death she called for her desk and tried to write a letter, but was obliged to give up the attempt. Shortly after, her breath began to fail her, and she turned to her favorite niece, who was supporting her, and asked, Sydney, is this death ?"

After that she only spoke a few times to thank her friends and her servants, who were also her friends, for the services they rendered her. She died quietly and painlessly, in the evening of April 16, 1859, aged about seventy-six years.

So lived and so died the Wild Irish Girl. She was the joy of every circle she entered, and her works, some of which are still read with pleasure, form an agreeable part of the record of her time.
  

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