f the grocer's son could so
distinguish himself, she could surely relieve her dear father from his
embarrassments; and she began at once to write with this noble object. Her
unselfish and unwavering devotion to her rather worthless father is the
most attractive and touching point in her character. After her mother's
death she was sent to boarding-school, where she studied well, scribbled
verses, accomplished herself in dancing, and furnished bright home-letters
for her less brilliant mates.

She next figures as a governess in the family of a Mrs. Featherstone of
Bracklin Castle. There was a merry dance for adieu the night she was to
leave, but, like Cinderella, she danced too long: the hour sounded, and
Sydney was hurried into the coach in a white muslin dress, pink silk
stockings and slippers of the same hue, while Molly, the faithful old
servant, insisted on wrapping her darling in her own warm cloak and
ungainly headgear. Being ushered in this plight into a handsome
drawing-room, there was a general titter at her grotesque appearance, but
she told her story in her own captivating way until they screamed with
laughter--not at her now, but with her--and she was "carried off to an
exquisite suite of rooms--a study, bedroom and bath-room, with a roaring
turf fire, open piano and lots of books;" and after dinner, where she was
toasted, she sang several songs, which had an immense effect, and the
evening ended with a jig, her hosts regretting that they had no spectators
besides the servants. This, her first jig out of the school-room, she
contrasts with her last one in public, when invited by the duchess of
Northumberland to dance with Lord George Hill. She accepted the challenge
from the two best jig-dancers in the country, Lord George and Sir Philip
Crampton, and had the triumph of flooring them both.

Her first novel, _St. Clair_, was now completed. She had kept the writing
of it a profound secret, and one morning the young author, full of
ambitious dreams, borrowed the cook's market-bonnet and cloak and sallied
out to seek her fortune. Before going far she saw over a shop-door "T.
Smith, Printer and Bookseller," and ventured in. It was some minutes
before T. Smith made his appearance, and when he did so he had a razor in
one hand, a towel in the other, and only one side of his face shaved.
After hearing her errand he told her, good-naturedly, that he did not
publish novels, and sent her to Brown. Brown wanted his break