MEMORANDA CRITICA.
Remarks on Lady Morgan’s novel of “The Wild Irish Girl,” &c.—Prince O’Sullivan at Killarney—Miss Edgeworth’s “Castle Rackrent”—Memoir of Jonathan Clerk—“Florence Macarthy”—Comparison between Lady Morgan and Thomas Moore as writers—The author’s knowledge of both—“Captain Rock” condemned—The “Irish Melodies” by Moore—The harmonising of them by Sir John Stevenson injurious to the national music—Anecdote of Mr. Thomas Moore and Mrs. K * * * y.
It is remarkable that the various gradations of habit and society in Ireland have been best illustrated by two female authors,—the one of more imaginative, the other of purer narrative powers; but each, in her respective line, possessing very considerable merit.
Though a fiction not free from some inaccuracies, much inappropriate dialogue, and forced incident, it is impossible to peruse “The Wild Irish Girl” of Lady Morgan without deep interest, or to dispute its claims as a production of true national feeling as well as literary talent.
That tale was the first and is perhaps the bestof all her novel writings. Compared with others, it strikingly exhibits the author’sfalling offfrom the simple touches of unsophisticated nature to thelessrefined conceptions of what she herself styles “fashionable society.”
To persons unacquainted with Ireland, “The Wild Irish Girl” may appear an ordinary tale of romance and fancy; but to such as understand the ancient history of that people, it may be considered as alegend. The authoress might perhaps have had somewhat in view the last descendant of the Irish princes, who did not altogether forget the station of his forefathers.
O’Sullivan, lineally descended from the King of the Lakes, not many years since vegetated on a retired spot of his hereditary dominions at Killarney; and, though overwhelmed by poverty and deprivation, kept up in his mind a visionary dignity. Surveying from his wretched cottage that enchanting territory over which his ancestors had reigned for centuries, I have been told he never ceased to recollect his royal descent. He was a man of gigantic stature and strength; of uncouth, yet authoritative mien—not shaming his pretensions by his presence. He was frequently visited by those who went to view the celebrated lakes, and I have conversed with many who have seen him: but at a period when familiar intercourse has been introduced between actual princes and their subjects, tending undoubtedly to diminish inthe latter the sense of individual respect and distance, so wholesome to royalty, the poor descendant of the renowned O’Sullivan had no reason to expect much commiseration from modern sensibility.
The frequent and strange revolutions of the world within the last forty years, the radical alterations in all the material habits of society,—announced the commencement of a new era: and the ascendancy of commerce over rank, and of avarice over every thing, completed theregeneration. But, above all, the loosening of those ties which bound kindred and families, in one common interest, to uphold their race and name;—the extinction of that spirit of chivalry which sustained those ties;—and the common prostitution of the heraldic honours of antiquity;—have steeled the human mind against the lofty and noble pretensions of birth and rank; and while we superficially decry the principles ofequality, we are travelling toward them, by the shortest and most dangerous road degeneracy and meanness can point out.
I confess myself to be a determined enemy to the Utopian vision of political and social equality: in the exercise of justice alone should the principle of equality be paramount; in any other sense, it never did, and never can, for any length of time, exist in Europe.
Miss Edgeworth’s “Castle Rackrent” and“Fashionable Tales” are incomparable in truly depicting several traits of the rather modern Irish character: they are perhaps on one point a little overcharged; but, in some parts, may be said to exceed the generality of Lady Morgan’s Irish novels. Fiction is less perceptible in them: they have a greater air of reality—of what I have myself often and often observed and noted in full progress and actual execution throughout my native country. Nothing is exaggerated: the stories and names are coined, but the characters and incidents are “fromlife.” The landlord, the agent, and the attorney of “Castle Rackrent” (in fact every person it describes) were neither fictitious nor even uncommon characters: and the changes of landed property in the county where I was born (where perhaps they have prevailed to the full as widely as in any other of the united empire) owed, in nine cases out of ten, their origin, progress, and catastrophe to circumstances in no wise differing from those so accurately painted in Miss Edgeworth’s narrative.
Though moderate fortunes have frequently and fairly been realised by agents, yet, to be on the sure side of comfort and security, a country gentleman who wishes to send down his estate in tolerably good order to his family should always behis own receiver, and compromise any claim rather than employ an attorney to arrange it.
I recollect to have seen in Queen’s County aMr. Clerk, who had been a working carpenter, and when making a bench for the session justices at the court-house, was laughed at for taking peculiar pains in planing and smoothing the seat of it. He smilingly observed, that he did so to make iteasy for himself, as he was resolved he would never die till he had a right to sit thereupon: and he kept his word:—he was an industrious man, and became an agent; honest, respectable, and kind-hearted, he succeeded in all his efforts to accumulate an independence: he did accumulate it, and uprightly: his character kept pace with the increase of his property, and he lived to sit as a magistrate on that very bench that he sawed and planed.
I will not quit the subject without saying a word about another of Lady Morgan’s works—“Florence Macarthy,” which, “errors excepted,” possesses an immensity of talent in the delineation of the genuine Irish character. The judges, though no one can mistake them, are totally caricatured; but the Crawleys aresuperlative, and suffice to bring before my vision, in their full colouring, and almost without a variation, persons and incidents whom and which I have many a time encountered. Nothing isexaggeratedas tothem; and Crawley himself is the perfect and plain model of the combined agent, attorney, and magistrate—a sort of mongrel functionary whose existence I have repeatedly reprobated, and whomI pronounce to be at this moment the greatest nuisance and mischief experienced by my unfortunate country, and only to be abated by the residence of the great landlords on their estates. No people under heaven could be so easily tranquillised and governed as the Irish: but that desirable end is alone attainable by the personal endeavours of a liberal, humane, and resident aristocracy.
A third writer on Ireland I allude to with more pride on some points, and with less pleasure on others; because, though dubbed “The bard of Ireland,” I have not yet seen many literary productions of his on national subjects that have afforded me unalloyed gratification.
He must not be displeased with the observations of perhaps a truer friend than those who have led him to forget himself. His “Captain Rock” (though, I doubt not, well intended), coming at the time it did and under the sanction of his name, is the most exceptionable publication, in all its bearings as to Ireland, that I have yet seen. Doctor Beattie says, in hisApology for Religion, “if it does no good, it can do no harm:” but, on the contrary, if “Captain Rock” does no harm, it could certainly do no good.
Had it been addressed to, or calculated for, the better orders, the book would have been less noxious: but it isnotcalculated to instruct those whose influence, example, or residence couldeither amend or reform the abuses which the author certainly exaggerates. It isnotcalculated to remedy the great and true cause of Irish ruin—the absenteeism of the great landed proprietors: so much the reverse, it is directly adapted to increase and confirm the real grievance, by scaring every landlord who retains a sense of personal danger, and I know none of them who are exempt fromabundanceof it, from returning to a country where “Captain Rock” isproclaimedby the “Bard of Ireland” to be anImmortal Sovereign. The work is, in fact,dangerous: it is an effusion ofparty, not a remonstrance ofpatriotism. It is a work better fitted for vulgaréclatthan for rational approbation. Its effects were not calculated on; and it appears to me, in itself, to offer one of the strongest arguments against bestowing on the lower orders in Ireland the power of reading. Could readingCaptain Rockbe of service to the peasantry?
Perhaps I write warmly myself.[27]I write not however for distracted cottagers, but for proprietors and legislators; and I have endeavoured honestly to express my unalterable conviction that it is by encouraging, conciliating, reattaching, and recalling the higher, and not by confusing and inflaming the lower orders of society, that Ireland can be eventually tranquillised.
27.In my Memoirs of Ireland.
27.In my Memoirs of Ireland.
Most undoubtedly Mr. Thomas Moore and Lady Morgan are among the most distinguished modern writers of our country: indeed, I know of none (except Miss Edgeworth) who has at present a right to be named with either.
But I can never repeat too often that I amnota literarycritic, although I choose to speak my mind strongly and freely. I hope neither my friend Moore nor her ladyship will be displeased at my stating thus candidly my opinion of theirpublicmerits: they would perhaps scout me as an adulator were I to tell them what I thought of theirprivateones. I dare say some of the periodical writers will announce, that my telling the world I am a very inefficient critic is mere work ofsupererogation: at any rate, it must be owned that making the confession in advance is to the full as creditable as leaving the thing to be stated for me.
In my rambling estimate of the merits of these two justly celebrated authors, let me bear in mind that they are of different sexes, and recollect the peculiar attributes of either.
Both of them are alike unsparing in their use of the bold language of liberty: but Lady Morgan has improved her ideas of freedom bycontrastson the European continent; while Thomas Moore hasnotimproved his by theexemplificationof freedom in America. Lady Morgan has succeeded in adulterating her refinement; Thomas Moore hasunsuccessfully endeavoured to refine his grossness: she has abundanttalent; he has abundantgenius; and whatsoever distinction those terms admit of, indicates, in my mind, theirrelativemerit. 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 reason equally to esteem them now: it is on their own account that I wish some portion of their compositions had never appeared; and I really believe, upon due consideration, they will themselves be of my way of thinking. But let it be remembered, that my esteem and friendship were never yet increased or diminished by the success or non-success of any body. Besides, while a man is necessitated to read muchlaw, he cannot read much literature; and hence I scarcely saw the writings of either until the general buzz called my attention to them.
I recollect Moore being one night at my house in Merrion Square, during the spring of his celebrity, touching the piano-forte, in his own unique way, to “Rosa,” his favourite amatory sonnet: his head leant back;—now throwing up his ecstaticeyes to heaven, as if to invoke refinement—then casting them softly sideways, and breathing out his chromatics to elevate, as the ladies said, their souls above the world, but at the same moment convincing them that they were completelymortal.
A Mrs. K * * * y, a lady thend’âge mûr, but moving in the best society of Ireland, sat on a chair behind Moore: I watched her profile: her lips quavered in unison with the piano; a sort of amiable convulsion, now and then raising the upper from the under lip, composed a smile less pleasing than expressive; her eye softened, glazed,—and half melting she whispered to herself the following words, which I, standing at the back of her chair, could not avoid hearing: “Dear, dear!” lisped Mrs. K * * * y, “Moore, this is notfor the good of my soul!”
Almost involuntarily, I ejaculated in the same low tone, “Whatis not, Mrs. K * * * y?”
“You know well enough!” she replied (but without blushing, as people used to do formerly); “how can you ask so silly a question?” and she turned into the crowd, but never came near the piano again that night.
I greatly admire the national, indeed patriotic idea, of collecting and publishing the Irish Melodies, so admirably acted on by Mr. T. Moore; and it were to be wished that some of them hadthe appearance of having been written moreenthusiastically.[28]
Sir John Stevenson, that celebrated warbler, has melodised a good many of these; but he certainly has forgotten poor Carolan, and has alsomelo-dramatiseda considerable portion. I think our rants and planxties would have answered just as well without either symphonies or chromatics, and that the plaintive national music of Ireland does not reach the heart a moment the sooner for passing through a crowd of scientific variations. Tawdry and modern upholstery would not be very appropriate to the ancient tower of an Irish chieftain; and some of Sir John’s proceedings in melodising simplicity, remind me of the Rev. Doctor Hare, who whitewashed the great rock of Cashell to give it agenteelappearance against the visitation.
As I do not attempt (I ought to saypresume) to be a literary, so am I still less amusicalcritic: but I know what pleases myself, and inthatspecies of criticism I cannot be expected to yield to any body.
As to my own authorship, I had business more important than writing books in my early life: but now, in my old days, it is my greatest amusement,and nothing would give me more satisfaction than hearing the free and fair remarks of the critics on myproductions.
28.I allude to the public trial as to copyright, by Mr. Power, when it was stated that Mr. Moore wrote the Melodies forso much a year. They are certainly very unequal.
28.I allude to the public trial as to copyright, by Mr. Power, when it was stated that Mr. Moore wrote the Melodies forso much a year. They are certainly very unequal.
I cannot omit one word more, in conclusion, as to Lady Morgan. It is to me delightful to see a woman, solely by the force of her own natural talent, succeed triumphantly in the line of letters she has adopted, and in despite of the most virulent, illiberal, and unjust attacks ever yet made on any author by mercenary reviewers.