" appeared honest, hearty, single-minded Frank "Volis! cet humide gazon Crossley, a squire who made himself the Va souiller ma tunique! slave of his mistress, copied her illegible Besides, it is manifest that the homage of manuscripts for the press, sat at her feet for intellectual men alone was acceptable to her. a smile, was happy when he received it, and Capricious enough this spoiled child of her was as embarrassed as he was happy. Syd- day may have been, now Wisdom wooing her ney played with Frank as Titania may have to the saint, and anon, Sense winning her to done with the Weaver, and passed on fancy the shrine; but the handsomest fool had no free to encounter the homage of John Wil- chance with her, and one of the most charmson Croker, the most bitter enemy she ever ing and the prettiest told of her flirtations, possessed in after-life. But Croker was one was that which she dexterously maintained who could ticket his imaginary causes of of- with Sir Charles Ormsby, a man much older fence, and lay them by till they were wanted: than the lady, and "the ugliest fellow and the best illustration of which savage whim the most accomplished man in Dublin." was the production of a boyish letter from There is stuff for a sparkling comedy in these Moore, which he had carefully retained for love-passages, which, after all, ended in nothabove half a century, and which he published ing, except saving a man from being hanged. after the poet was in his grave, in order to The culprit in peril was a clerk named Fitzconvict the friend of his youth of having vio- patrick, condemned for stealing a bank-note lated the truth. That Croker should have out of a letter. There were circumstances admired Sydney Owenson was, perhaps, as which made Sydney Owenson resolved to natural as that he should afterwards be the save at least his life. Among other persons, savage reviewer of her works, written in sup- she addressed Sir Charles, long after the flirport of popular liberty and emancipation of tation was over, and in her most characterRoman Catholics. The fact is, she was irre-istic way: "Seriously, and without sentisistible; and when Mr. Everard, in 1806, called upon her to induce her not to listen to the addresses of his son, who was an idle young fellow, he was so charmed with her pleasant ways and sound judgment that he made her an offer himself! ment, my dear friend, rally your deceased feelings in my favor. I depend on you for ONCE-forget yourself and remember me." The impertinence is charming; and it helped to save the man which was all she cared for. But Sydney's "army of martyrs" was ever being recruited; their name was legion, and the list is worthily closed, before the triumphant swain appeared, in the person of Archdeacon King, rector of Mourne Abbey, who, however, sued in vain to be permitted to "contribute to her felicity, and to complete his happiness." When the bewildered dignitary knew the worst, he still connected his name and fame with hers. "The unfor She loved such homage, and, in the springtime of her beauty and her genius, it was lavished upon her with a profuseness which was not beyond her appetite or enjoyment. "At times," we are told, “she may have listened to the charmer more than wise in a young girl—at least, her elders thought and said so. Not that she went wrong, even by implication or in appearance; she had too much sense for that; but she found herself in a circle where every woman paid her com-tunate rector of Mourne Abbey," he writes, pliments, and where every man, as the mode" cherishes the hope that if he cannot be in Ireland was, made love to her. She un- blest with the hand, he will be immortalized doubtedly played with the fire; but she was by the pen of the elegant and interesting too busy with her literary projects to do more Glorvina." The archdeacon passed on, and than play a weaker woman might have been though occasionally we come on a sly unconsumed." Such fate was not likely to be dertone of love-making," there was nothing Sydney Owenson's; she was quite as wide more of serious importance in this pleasant awake as Chénier's Nais, whose veil, when episode of life, till Mr. Charles Morgan came dropped, Daphnis dared not crumple, and to reside with the Abercorns as their family who, when wooed to recline at noontide on physician. Then for her had come a shady bank, remarked, as less consider-hour and the man.” ate nymphs of Arcadia would not have done "the It was an auspicious hour, for it brought an honest and accomplished man. 66 Dr. Morgan," wrote Lady Abercorn to Miss wrapper, when Lady Abercorn opened the Owenson, "is very clever in more ways than door and said: 'Glorvina, come up-stairs one, as he understands simony and all Mrs. Malaprop's accomplishments. I believe he is of your religious persuasion, and seems to think Moses mistaken in his calculations." There is no story in the romance of love more amusing than this one of the reality, the scene of which lay among the Abercorn family. The physician, all able man as he was, daring in his profession and audacious in his philosophy, was afraid of the "lioness "of her day, and fairly jumped out of window into a garden when he first heard her dreaded name announced. But the royal proverb-maker has said that humility goes before honor: and after a series of gay yet graceful minuet steps and swimmings, and pretty stiff-neckedness, and shrinkings and haughty shakings of the head, reproofs on the lip but smiles in the eye, as with the lady who bothered Mr. Roderick O'More, the two joined hands and were engaged. "It is truly a matter worthy of wonder," wrote Lady Stanley, in the autumn of 1811, "and particularly to me who have hitherto adhered pertinaciously to a persuasion that kindred spirits were subjected to the same laws as parallel lines, and never could meet on this ungracious planet." directly, and be married; there must be no more trifling!'" The ceremony was performed in the marchioness's dressing-room, where the family chaplain and Sir Charles Morgan were waiting, "and the Wild Irish Girl was married, past redemption." With this incident really terminated the romance of Sydney Owenson's life. Hitherto we have been accompanying her through paths and scenes and courses full of striking details and startling or pleasant incidents, every one of which wears a novel aspect. Henceforward we go hand in hand with Lady Morgan, through more familiar scenes; and though we do not become less interested in her, our interest is often doubly excited by those whom she introduces to us. It is from this point that her real life as an author commences, dating from which she wrote the best of her romances, penned the experiences of her travel, and made her reputation lasting as well as brilliant. The married couple exchanged their semi-indolence under the roof of the Marquis of Abercorn for busy life in Dublin, each in their respective professions. On one point the late guest was of as good blood as her host, although perhaps she knew it not; for, if she was the daughter of an actor, the mother of the first marquis was daughter of "Santlow, famed for dance." But now, it was the lady who was, or who affected to be, timid. She was as wilful as any other pretty spoiled child of fortune. She would and she would not, and she The second volume, then, is as the busiwould if she could; dallied, promised, played ness of life succeeding to the romance,—the with, and perplexed one of the most straight-waywardness, playfulness, and trials and forward and honest of lovers, and at length temptations crowding in the sparkling pages suddenly ran away to Dublin, to help to of the first. The two together will undoubtnurse a sick father. The lovers tilted at edly insure an increase of esteem for the each other in letters, or wooed, provoked, character, abilities, industry, and energy of and were reconciled through the post, which this remarkable woman. Of Sir Charles the was hard put to it by a correspondence, in public will, for the first time, learn much which the gentleman will have the greater that is interesting, and more that is amusadmiration on the part of an interested pub-ing. There is just enough, and no excess, lic. Finally, the coquette was lured back to of this clever man. When the two were the Abercorns, then residing at Strabane, lionizing in the salons of Paris and châteaux in the North of Ireland. A few more trifle-of France, the wits there thought, or afings with fate and a worthy man ensued, till fected to think, that the lady gave them too Lady Abercorn, who had got her friend the little of herself and overmuch of the medi lord lieutenant to inflict knighthood on the cal knight, and they circulated a little epidoctor, by way of adding dignity to the lover, gram on the subject, which, we believe, has resolutely interfered. "On a cold morning never been printed,' and at which probably in January, 1812, Miss Owenson was sitting no one laughed more hilariously than my in the library by the fire, in her morning lady herself. It was to this effect: "Tout le monde se réjouit De voir Le Médecin malgré lui.' Of romance, in the second volume of these "Memoirs," there is no lack; but it refers rather to the friends of the autobiographer than to the writer herself, and that truth is even more romantic than fiction is once more excellently illustrated in the chapters referring to Byron and Lady Caroline Lamb, in which we meet with passages in the lives of that impulsive and irregularly principled pair, with which the world has been hitherto in ignorance. Here is a wild snatch of autobiography, - that of Lady Caroline, which in a few lines tells of a sad life: 66 was beautiful, and far the cleverest person then about, and the most daring in his opinions, in his love of liberty and independence, He thought of me but as a child, yet he liked me much; afterwards he offered to marry me, and I refused him because of my asked twice, and was not refused the second temper, which was too violent; he, however, time, and the reason was that I adored him, I had three children; two died; my only child is afflicted; it is the will of God. I have wandered from right, and been punished. I have suffered what you can hardly believe; I have lost my mother, whose gentleness and good sense guided me. I have received more kindness than I can ever repay. I have suffered, also, but I deserved it. My power of mind and of body are gone; I am like the shade of what I was; to write was once my resource and pleasure; but since the only eyes that ever admired my closed, wherefore should I indulge the promost poor and humble productions are heart. You are one like me, who, perhaps, pensity? God bless you; I write from my have not taken the right road. I am on my mond, I die now by a brickbat; but redeath-bed; say I might have died by a diawith is William Lamb; he is to me what member, the only noble fellow I ever met Shore was to Jane Shore. I saw it once; I am as grateful, but as unhappy. Pray excuse the sorrows this sad, strange letter will cause you; could be in time I would be glad to see you to you alone would I give up Byron's letters-much else, but all like the note you have. Pray excuse this being not written as clearly as you can write. I speak, as I hope you do, from the heart.-C. L." you My history, if you ever care and like to read it, is this: My mother, having boys, wished ardently for a girl; and I, who evidently ought to have been a soldier, was found a naughty girl-forward, talking like Richard the Third. I was a trouble, not a pleasure, all my childhood, for which reason, after my return from Italy, where I was from the age of four until nine, I was ordered by the late Dr. Warre neither to learn anything nor see any one, for fear the violent passions and strange whims they found in me should lead to madness; of which, however, he assured every one there were no symptoms. I differ, but the end was, that until fifteen I learned nothing. My instinct for we all have instinctss-was for music-in it I delighted; I cried when it was pathetic, and did all that Dryden's ode made Alexander do-of course I was not allowed to follow it up. My angel mother's ill-health prevented my living at home; my kind Aunt Devonshire took me; the present duke loved me better than himself, and every one paid me those compliments shown to children who are precious to their parents, or delicate and my affair with Lord Byron, and laughed at likely to die. I wrote not, spelt not; but I it. His indolence rendered him insensible made verses, which they all thought beauti- to everything. When I ride, play, and ful-for myself, I preferred washing a dog, amuse him, he loves me. or polishing a piece of Derbyshire spar, or suffering he deserts me. breaking in a horse, to any accomplishment bad as my own." Then follows this double in the world. Drawing-room-shall I say sketch of Byron and herself:withdrawing-room, as they now say?—looking-glasses, finery, or dress-company forever were my abhorrence. I was, I am, religious; I was loving (?), but I was and am unkind. I fell in love when only twelve years old, with a friend of Charles Fox-a friend of liberty, whose poems I had read, whose self I had never seen, and when I did see him, at thirteen, could I change ? No, I was more attached than ever. William Lamb THIRD SERIES. LIVING AGE. 971. In another page this most unhappy lady says of her husband: "He cared nothing for my morals. I might flirt and go about with what men I pleased. He was privy to In sickness and His violence is as "Lady Westmoreland knew him in Italy. She took on her to present him. The women suffocated him. I heard nothing of him, till one day Rogers (for he, Moore, and Spencer were all my lovers, and wrote me up to the skies-I was in the clouds)-Rogers said, You should know the new poet,' and he of fered me the MS. of Childe Harold' to read. I read it, and that was enough. Rogers would not believe that this schoolboy could write such a thing. He came to me again in a few days, and he found me in my own clothes. I told him William Ormond, the young author, was dead. When the work was printed, I sent it to William Lamb. He was delighted with it; and we became united, just as the world thought we were parted forever. The scene at Brocket Hall (in the novel of Glenarvon) was true. Lord Byron's death-the ghost appearing to her-her distraction at his death. Medwin's talk completed her distress." Baid, 'He has a club-foot, and bites his nails.' killed me!' Out of my senses, I flew into I said, 'If he was ugly as Esop I must the hall, and screamed, 'O God, I have murknow him.' I was one night at Lady West- dered the page!' The servants and people moreland's; the women were all throwing in the streets caught the sound, and it was their heads at him. Lady Westmoreland soon spread about. William Lamb would led me up to him. I looked earnestly at live with me no longer. All his family him, and turned on my heel. My opinion united in insisting on our separation in my journal was, ' mad-bad-and danger- Whilst this was going on, and instruments ous to know.' A day or two passed; I was drawing out-that is, one month-I wrote sitting with Lord and Lady Holland, when and sent Glenarvon to the press. I wrote it, he was announced. Lady Holland said, 'I unknown to all,-s -save a governess, Miss must present Lord Byron to you.' Lord Welsh,—in the middle of the night. It was Byron said, 'That offer was made to you necessary to have it copied out. I had heard before; may I ask why you rejected it?' of a famous copier, an old Mr. Woodhead. He begged permission to come and see me. I sent to beg he would come to see Lady He did so the next day. Rogers and Moore Caroline Lamb, at Melbourne House. I were standing by me; I was on the sofa. placed Miss Welsh, elegantly dressed, at my I had just come in from riding. I was harp, and myself at a writing-table, dressed filthy and heated. When Lord Byron was in the page's clothes, looking a boy of fourannounced, I flew out of the room to wash teen. He addressed Miss Welsh as Lady myself. When I returned, Rogers said, Caroline. She showed him the author. He Lord Byron, you are a happy man. Lady Caroline has been sitting here in all her dirt with us, but when you were announced, she flew to beautify herself.' Lord Byron wished to come and see me at eight o'clock, when I was alone; that was my dinner hour. I said he might. From that moment, for more than nine months, he almost lived at Melbourne House. It was then the centre of all gayety, at least in appearance. My Cousin Hartington wanted to have waltzes and quadrilles; and at Devonshire House it would not be allowed, so we had them in the great drawing-room of Melbourne House. All the bon ton of London assembled here every day. There was nothing so fashionable. Byron contrived to sweep them all away. My mother grew miserable, and did everything in her power to break off the connection. She at last brought me to consent to go to Ireland with her and papa. Byron wrote me that letter which I have shown you. While in Ireland, I received letters constantly,-the most tender and the most amusing. We had got to Dublin, on "MY DEAREST CAROLINE,-If tears which our way home, where my mother brought me you saw and know I am not apt to shed,a letter. There was a coronet on the seal. if the agitation in which I parted from you, The initials under the coronet were Lady agitation which you must have perceived Oxford's. It was that cruel letter I have through the whole of this most nervous afpublished in Glenarvon: it destroyed me; I fair, did not commence until the moment of lost my brain. I was bled, leeched; kept leaving you approached,-if all I have said for a week in the filthy Dolphin Inn at Rock. and done, and am still but too ready to say On my return, I was in great prostration of and do have not sufficiently proved what my mind and spirit. Then came my fracas with real feelings are, and must ever be, towards the page, which made such noise. He was you, my love, I have no other proof to offer. a little espiègle, and would throw detonating God knows, I wish you happy, and when I balls into the fire. Lord Melbourne always quit you, or rather you, from a sense of duty scolded me for this; and I, the boy. One to your husband and mother, quit me, you day I was playing ball with him. IIe threw shall acknowledge the truth of what I again a squib into the fire, and I threw the ball at promise and vow, that no other in word or his head. It hit him on the temple, and he deed shall ever hold the place in my affecbled. He cried out. O my lady, you have tions, which is, and shall be, most sacred to The cruel-kind letter, warm, as it were, with the bad Byron blood, full of devilish insinuation, yet so transparently absurd that it could have deceived, or cheered, or maddened, none but a woman whose feelings were uncontrolled and uncontrollable by her judgment, will be read “with universal interest: " -- "I hope he and William will find better friends; as to myself, I never can love anything better than what I thus tell you: William Lamb, first; my mother, second; Byron, third; my boy, fourth; my brother William, fifth; my father and godmother, sixth; my uncle and aunt, my cousin Devonshire, my brother Fred. (myself,) my cousins next, and last my petit friend, young Russell, because he is my aunt's godson; because when he was but three I nursed him; because he has a hard-to-win, free, and kind heart; but chiefly because he stood by me when no one else did." you, till I am nothing. I never knew till | that moment the madness of my dearest and most beloved friend; I cannot express myself; this is no time for words, but I shall have a pride, a melancholy pleasure, in suffering what you yourself can scarcely conceive, for you do not know me. I am about to go out with a heavy heart, because my appearing this evening will stop any absurd story which the spite of the day might give rise to. Do you think now I am cold and stern and wilful? will ever others think so? will your mother ever that mother to whom we must indeed sacrifice much more, much more on my part than she shall ever Of romance of a less sad quality, Lady know or can imagine? Promise not to love you,' ah, Caroline, it is past promising. Morgan narrates some details which illusBut I shall attribute all concessions to the trate some and correct other passages in the proper motive, and never cease to feel all life of Mrs. Fitzherbert. There is a gallery that you have already witnessed, and more of heroines in these volumes, and to Mrs. than can ever be known but to my own Fitzherbert appropriately succeeds the unheart, perhaps to yours. May God pro-wived wife of a more worthless prince than tect, forgive, and bless you ever and ever, he whom the former lady had for husband, more than ever. - "Your most attached BYRON. "P.S.-These taunts which have driven you to this, my dearest Caroline, were it not for your mother and the kindness of your connections, is there anything in earth or heaven that would have made me so happy as to have made you mine long ago? and not less now than then, but more than ever at this time. You know I would with pleasure give up all here and beyond the grave for you, and in refraining from this, must my motive be misunderstood? I care not who knows this, what use is made of it,-it is to you and to you only that they are, yourself. I was and am yours freely and entirely to obey, to honor, love and fly with you when, where, and how yourself might and may determine.” When the heart and brain of the poor impulsive woman was crushed, her husband estranged, their home broken up and their hearth made desolate, Byron coolly wrote of his victim in reference to her husband and himself, as "Thou false to him, thou fiend to me." Lady Caroline, on the other hand, speaks of her tempter and betrayer, in a letter to Lady Morgan, as "Lord Byron, that dear, that angel, that misguided and misguiding Byron, whom I adore, although he left that dreadful legacy on me,-my memory." There is something of the distraught Ophelia in the way poor, mad Lady Caroline regulates the scale of her adoration, in which she assigns the first place to the husband, from whom she had separated, and the third to "Faustus:" for a time. Mrs. Patterson Buonaparte, whom the Romish Church still recognizes as the legitimate wife of Jerome, and in not knowing whom Napoleon was supremely unlucky, renders many a page of these Memoirs brilliant, by her letters, which are always piquantes and invariably as frank and tender as any sentiment ever uttered or agreed to by dear Mrs. Candour. The American princess thus flatters Lady Morgan, tomahawks her own acquaintances, and scalps a countrywoman : I as "How happy you must be at filling the world with your name as you do! Madame de Staël and Madame de Genlis are forgotten; and if the love of fame be of any was attended with brilliant success. weight with you, your excursion to Paris sure you, and you know I am sincere, that you are more spoken of than any other person of the present day. Mr. Moore seldom sees me, I did not take with him at all. He called to show me the article of your letof Wellington's loves. I am not the Mrs. ter which mentions the report of the Duke the great man gives as a successor to Grassini. You would be surprised if you knew how great a fool she is, at the power she exercises over the duke; but I believe that he has no taste pour les femmes d'esprit; which is, however, no reason for going into extremes, as in this case. He gave her an introduction to the Prince Regent, and to every one of consequence in London and Paris. She had, however, no success in France, where her not speaking the language of the country was a considerable |