Born in Dublin, Ireland, about 1780; was the daughter of an actor, who anglicized his name from McOwen, and was said to possess some literary ability. She published in 1797, a volume of poems, and afterward wrote two novels, which met with little success. In 1806 her novel, “The Wild Irish Girl, a National Tale,” gained her a sudden popularity. This work introduced her into aristocratic English circles, and in 1812 she married Sir Thomas Charles Morgan, a distinguished physician. She continued for many years to write novels, songs, comic operas, biographies and works of travel. Among her more popular novels were “Florence Macarthy” (1812); “The O’Briens and the O’Flahertys” (1827); and “The Princess” (1835). In other departments her most celebrated works were probably the “Life and Times of Salvator Rosa” (1823), and “Woman and Her Master” (1840). Lady Morgan was long a leader in London literary society, where she gained warm friends and had no lack of bitter enemies. In the last year of her life she published “Passages from my Autobiography” (1858). Died in London, Apr. 13, 1859. An edition of her works was edited by herself 1855–56. She is said to have gained £25,000 by her writings, in addition to a pension of £300 conferred upon her by the ministry of Lord Grey.

Personal

  She vows vengeance against you as the supposed author of the article in the Quarterly, in which her atheism, profanity, indecency, and ignorance have been exposed. You are to be the hero of some novel of which she is about to be delivered.

  Thank you for your information about Lady Morgan. She, it seems, is resolved to make me read one of her novels. I hope I shall feel interested enough to be able to learn the language. I wrote the main part of the article in the Quarterly, but, as you know, was called away to Ireland when it was in the press; and I am sorry to say that some blunders crept in accidentally, and one or two were premeditatedly added, which, however, I do not think Lady Morgan knows enough either of English, French, or Italian to find out. If she goes on we shall have sport.

  Lady Morgan did not displease me till I reflected on her conversation. She seems good-natured as well as lively. She talked like one conscious of her importance and superiority.

  She has no idea of mauvaise honte or embarrassment, her manners are not the most refined, and affect the aisance and levity of the fashionable world, which, however, do not sit calmly or naturally upon her. She has the English weakness, that of talking incessantly of fashionable acquaintances, and trying to pass for very recherchée to a degree quite unworthy of a woman of such distinguished talents. She is not at all aware how she thus underrates herself. She is not difficult to know, for with more vivacity than good taste she instantly professes perfect openness…. In her writings she is far more guarded and dignified than in her conversation. The satire of the latter is, however, not less biting and dexterous than that of her pen, and just as little remarkable for conscientious regard to truth.

  The sum of my long experience in society leaves in its total a large balance in favour of what is good. I have no reason to complain of memory; I find in my efforts to track its records, guided by the fond feelings of my life, and warmed by the fancifulness of my Celtic temperament, bright hues come forward like the colours of the tesselated pavement of antiquity when the renovating water is flung upon them…. I have other links connecting me with the past; of the many kind and illustrious friends whom I have made through life, I have never lost one except by death; and I am now enjoying in the second and third generation of those who are gone, the distinction conferred upon me by the personal kindness of their grandsires. One of the chief temptations to present the principal facts of my life to the public, has been to prove the readiness with which society is willing to help those who are honestly and fervently ready to help themselves.

  “Facts” were anything but “stubborn things” for Lady Morgan. She had that disregard of truth which foolish people often attribute to “exuberance of imagination.” As painted by the autobiography there never was a more brilliant and fascinating siren. Let us discount largely, and we may still believe that she was very attractive. It is so easy for an Irish woman to be charming! And this young Irishwoman was good-looking, quick, impulsive, not without a streak of genius, desirous of pleasing and of being pleased, singing Irish songs, playing the harp, telling droll stories, amusing society by her vivacity and vanity, and overshadowing no one by any eminent superiority: she alarmed no one by her learning or profundity; distressed no one by her cleverness. Her talents were essentially social; and were appreciable by the smallest intellects. The gay little Irish heart was warmly affectionate and sympathetic. Nor had she the failings in conduct which often accompany the Irish heart; underneath all the extravagance of an excitable temperament, there was the solid good sense and integrity of her English mother. She was thoroughly prudent in conduct, whatever she may have been in speech. She flirted freely, but kept out of scrapes.

  She had about her all the natural kindness of her country people. She once by great personal exertion saved the life of a criminal. If it was a work of mercy or charity I never knew any one who went about it with more good will, or more perseveringly.

  One of the most peculiar and original literary characters whom I have ever known, was Sydney Lady Morgan, a composition of natural genius, acquired accomplishments, audacity that flew at the highest game, shrewd thought, and research at once intelligent and superficial; personal coquetries and affectations, balanced by sincere and strenuous family affections; extreme liberality of opinions, religious and political; extremely narrow literary sympathies, united with a delight in all the most tinsel pleasures and indulgences of the most inane aristocratic society; a genial love for Art, limited by the most inconceivable prejudices of ignorance; in brief, a compound of the most startling contradictions, impossible to be overlooked or forgotten, though possible to be described in two ways—both true, yet the one diametrically opposite to the other.

  With her wit and vanity, poor French and fine clothes, good common sense and warm Irish heart, Lady Morgan was a most entertaining and original character—a spirited, versatile, spunky little woman, whose whole life was a grand social success. She was also one of the most popular and voluminous writers of her day; but, with all her sparkle and dash, ambition and industry, destined in a few generations more to be almost unknown, vanishing down that doleful “back entry” where Time sends so many bright men and women…. She was extremely sensitive in regard to her age, and if forced to state it on the witness-stand would doubtless have whispered it to the judge in a bewitching way.

  Ah! she was a most pleasant Irish lady, proud of her country—so far as words went—and retaining a brogue to the last—the brogue that is never entirely lost. Why should it be? Lady Morgan did not seek to hide hers—perhaps because she knew she could not…. Her easy-chair was her throne at Knightsbridge; seated there she exacted homage, and received it—the queen of assembled satellites. Her youth had long passed; but she sought to hide the knowledge even from herself; her exact age was a secret carefully kept: from all letters, account-books, et cætera, dates were scrupulously removed.

  While Miss Austen only received a few hundreds for her inimitable novels, Lady Morgan counted her profits by thousands and thousands. She not only had a “gude conceit” of herself, but she persuaded other people to have the same. By a happy combination of circumstances she heard herself called “Lady,” which tickled her ears and pleased her vanity. In short, the daring, careless, inaccurate, insouciante “Glorvina” had the fairy secret of success, though people of the present day may stare at the verdict that once pronounced her a genius.

  The centre of a certain literary society of which Mrs. Stewart became an intimate was Lady Morgan, a little old woman of such pungent wit, that Mr. Fonblanque, then the editor of the Examiner, used to say of her, “She is just a spark of hell-fire, and is soon going back to her native element.”

General

  I have just read your “Wild Irish Girl,” a title which will attract by its novelty, but which does not well suit the charming character of Glorvina. As a sincere and warm friend to Ireland, I return you my thanks for the just character which you have given to the lower Irish, and for the sound and judicious observations which you have attributed to the priest. The notices of Irish history are ingeniously introduced, and are related in such a manner as to induce belief amongst infidels.

  Though by no means approving of some of the opinions in her later publications, yet I admired the ability shown in “O’Donnel,” the only work of hers that I have ever read through.

  I have amused myself occasionally very pleasantly during the last few days by reading over Lady Morgan’s novel of “O’Donnel,” which has some striking and beautiful passages of situation and description, and in the comic part is very rich and entertaining. I do not remember being so much pleased with it at first. There is a want of story, always fatal to a book the first reading—and it is well if it gets a chance of a second. Alas, poor novel!

  Poor Lady Morgan! her “O’Briens and O’Flaherties” seems to have fallen dead, completely dead, from the press. The book is decidedly dull, but still her name ought to have carried an edition through. Colburn, I hear, swears that Jerdan’s having discovered it was an improper book for ladies to read has cost him five hundred pounds, and really this is not impossible.

  Lady Morgan has succeeded in adulterating her refinement; Thomas Moore unsuccessfully endeavored to refine his grossness. She has abundant talent; he has abundant genius: and whatsoever distinction those terms admit of, indicates, in my mind, their relative merit. This allowance, however, must be made—that the lady has contented herself with invoking only substantial beings and things of this sublunary world, while the gentleman has ransacked both heaven and hell, and “the half-way house,” for figurative assistance.—I knew them both before they had acquired any celebrity, and after they had attained to much. I esteemed them then, and have no reason to disesteem them now: it is on their own account that I wish some of the compositions of both had never appeared; and I really believe, upon due consideration, they will themselves be of my way of thinking.

  In all she writes there is genius and that of very varied kind: there is wit, humour, tenderness, heroism, love of country, and a fine vein of light and agreeable fancy.

  Whatever the novelist may be elsewhere, it is clear that as long as to have propped rising states can give it a claim to the title, she must be a “stateswoman” in Belgium.

  Her style and her writings, as I have observed before, made no pretence to anything profound. They were lively sketches, more especially those touching upon Irish manners; but they had the merit of being faithfully drawn, and not without humour…. A fertile invention, and a lively imagination, with a habit of catching the salient points in what she heard or saw, and of depicting them in a vivacious manner, were the secrets of her success…. Some of her characters, essentially Irish, were sketched with a masterly hand, but in her inexperience she made her characters too imaginative. This, however, was amended by time, and a few female writers of England became more popular in their day.

  The national tales of Ireland really commence with Lady Morgan. It is at her hands that we must seek for that true mirror of native society that enlarges into the reflection of all creeds and classes, as well as that humour and warmth of temperament needed to animate the reflex, and supply to every outline its due colour and reality…. (As in her books on France and Italy), she was no pretender as a novelist, and in two of her tales, at least, asserts her right to take her place in the front rank of national fiction.

  Her writing, though slipshod and often inflated, contained much humorous observation, and when describing what she understood, the lower-class Irish, she was as good as Lever or Banim.

  Its phenomenal success [“Wild Irish Girl”] was due more to the fact that the Irish question was one of supreme interest than to its own intrinsic merits. It has not borne the test of time, and it is almost impossible now to read it without weariness.