PASSAGES

FROM

MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

BY SYDNEY, LADY MORGAN.

"LEST AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT."
Old Scotch Song.

NEW YORK:
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
346 & 348 BROADWAY.
M.DCCC.LIX.

Preface
August, 1818 - Dublin
August, 1818 - London
August - September, 1818 - Paris
September, 1818 - La Grange
October, 1818 - Paris
November, 1818 - Paris
December, 1818 - Paris
January, 1819 - Paris
February, 1819 - Paris
March, 1819 - Paris
April, 1819 - Geneva
May, 1819 - Geneva

PREFACE.

THE following pages are the simple records of a trasition existence, socially enjoyed, and pleasantly and profitably occupied, during a journey of a few months from Ireland to Italy.

They were not written for the special purpose of any work, but were mere transcripts of circumstances incidental to that journey, which was delayed in its progress by all that could interest the feelings or gratify the mind. I lingered in this "path of dalliance," this "delicate plain of ease" (as dear old Bunyan calls it), with the same careless enjoyment as "Little Red Riding Hood" must have had on her way to her granddame's hut, pausing only to pick a flower here or a pebble there, insensible to the proximity of the grim wolf who was waiting to devour her. I, like Little Red Riding Hood, loitered to pick up a flower or secure a pebble that lay in my way, whilst the proximity of that grim wolf, TIME, which sooner or later devours all things, was unheeded. But the flower gathered still retains its fragrance for me, and the pebble, like the scarabæus found among the antique rubbish of Egyptian tombs, bears the divine impress of genius.

During what was then deemed a perilous journey to Italy, I followed up my old habit of occasional diary; and one still older and dearer, a constant correspondence with my dear and only sister. These homestead letters - these rapidly-scrawled diaries, written "à saute et à gambade," form, I beleive, the material portion of this volume. The more spirituel and interesting part will be found in the letters of some of the most eminent men and women of the times they illustrated by their genius, their worth, their cultivation of letters, and their love of liberty.

Egotism is the sin of my autobiography, and vanity naturally takes the pen to trace its dictation. The vanity, or, to give its better name, the pride with which I give these letters to the public, with the permission of, alas! the few survivors, and the concurrence of those most interested in their posthumous reputation, is attributable to the enduring friendship and support with which the writers honoured me, foremost among whom I place General La Fayette, Baron Dénon, and Catherine, Countess of Charleville.

The genuineness of the little work lies in this irrefragable testimony of the autograph letters, from which uncopied they have been printed; amongst the rest of my letters to my sister, which, frivolous and domestic as women's confidential letters generally are, convey some idea of the habits, times, and manners when they were composed. There they are! records of the passage of more years than I am willing to reveal, with their old horrible postmarks of two-and-sixpence and two-and-tenpence (which now would be a penny a head), or the franks

"By many a statesman, many a hero scrawl'd;"

and it is only due to the patience of the printers and their devils to acknowledge the difficulties they have had to overcome.

"Little to the landsmen know
What we poor seamen undergo!"

My original intention was to publish an autobiography from my starting-point on a certain Christmas Day - an anniversary I this day celebrate: but failing health and failing sight have delayed the undertaking; to assist in which, however, my late dear brother-in-law, Sir Arthur Clarke, made me the following proposition. The letter bears such an impress of genuine good-will and ambitious affection, that I may be excused for giving it here in all its original integrity, knowing myself how warmly he championed me on to the task.

Dublin, 1854.

"MY DEAR SYDNEY,

"I HAVE made up my mind to seek for my retiring pension, and devote myself to your service. I am up to my eyes now, though they are not quite well in 'Moore's Memoires,' in which I take great interest; but every page I read makes me wish that our own Wild Irish Girl would sit down and dictate her own memoirs, (if she cannot write them,) which nobody living but herself can do. I now offer myself for her amanuensis, when my retiring pension will enable me to withdraw from professional business. Why should you not reap the benefit of the most amusing work you ever published, and what might bring large profits, not only without working the brain for new inventions, but merely stating the old facts? Your European correspondece with many of the most celebrated characters of the age for literature and rank must be all arranged. I have no talent for writing, but I think I have an organ for condensing and arrangement. You will laugh at me, perhaps, for my vanity in thinking I could be of any use in such an undertaking; but industry and perseverance, which it is thought distinguish my habits, may assist and be useful to one of a higher order. Now I do hope, dear, to live to see your life and memoirs published by yourself and for yourself.

"Ever yours, my dearest Sydney,

"ARTHUR CLARKE."

Alas! this hope was never realised; had it been I should have considered it as one of the greatest advantages of my literary life.* The death of this dear old friend, the increasing infirmities of my sight, and, finally, an illness all but fatal, interfered with my hope of producing a work, into the execution of which "the flattering world had talked me," as Lady Townley says of her beauty. I found for the present to that dear public, which has ever been my best friend, a promissory note, in the form of an odd volume, which at some future day may drop into a more important series, where I may yet be able to wind up the confessions of "my life and errors," as the old Puritans phrased it, and obtain absolution without going into the confessional.

[*From a Dublin Paper.

SIR ARTHUR CLARKE, M. D. - Ireland has to lament the loss of this eminent physician and philanthropist, who died on the 10th inst., in his eighty-fourth year. He was respected and popular with all classes of all persuasions in Ireland, and had filled responsible professional positions under successive governments with deserved credit and authority. Among his good works, we may mention the foundation of a Fever Hospital, of an Establishment of Baths for Sick and Wounded Seamen, and of an Hospital for Decayed Gentility, after the plan of the French Maisons de Santé. Sir Arthur Clarke was married to Sydney Lady Morgan's only sister, whom he survived. It was, we believe, Lady Morgan who, in 1816, brought from Paris the plan of the Maison de Santé which was established in Dublin by Sir Arthur Clarke, under the highest patronage. One of the most useful and popular of Sir Arthur's medical works is his Essay "On the Exhibition of Iodine in Tubercular Consumption" - a treatise which reached ten editions. We may add that Sir Arthur Clarke had been for fifty years a respected magistrate in his native country.]

I cannot conclude this little appeal to the indulgence of my dear public without acknowledging the services I have derived from the younger energies and clairvoyance of Miss Geraldine Jewsbury, already known to the public by her own charming works.

Christmas Day, 1858.
11 William Street, Albert Gate, Belgravia.

NOTE. - I hope I may not be accused of disrespect to my readers by the careless simplicity of a style which the Prince of Ligné calls the style parlé; it is the same in which I have already thrown together the pages of the "Book of the Boudoir," and the "Book without a Name," - books of whose passing success I had no reason to complain.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

DIARY

LADY MORGAN.

JOURNAL

Kildare Street, Dublin,
August, 1818.

WELL! until this blessed day we have remained uncertain and uncomfortable about our wished-for journey to Italy.

The indecision arises from feeling, prudence, and precaution. I do not like to leave my dear sister in her present delicate situation. The expense will be enormous, and the pecuniary return is uncertain, till at least we hear from Colburn, to whom we have notified our intention.

The decree against my works by the French Government still hangs in terrorem over me; and the attacks of Tory detractors in England - at the head of whom stands the "Quarterly" - are not encouraging. They all turn moi, pauvre chétive, into political capital in the fund of Illiberals. However, we are both inclined (our husband and ourself) to proceed on our mission of doing good by telling truth according to our impressions. I, in my little way, and my dear husband in his more competent and useful views - in the interests of humanity, or, at least, what we deem to be such.

We are deep in the lore and literature of old Italy; but we have seen no books upon it in its present state. Eustace's elegant and classical work is still the book of a churchman and a Catholic partisan. We want to get at living Italy as she now is, after the passage of so many recent and important events. Still we are somewhat nervous on the subject of such a journey and such an enterprise. We want something to give us an impulse and set us free from the comforts and family intercourse of our own Irish home. It would seem as though I had the knack of writing what is called travels, for Colburn has brought out the third edition of "France" within the twelve months, and has accepted an Irish novel of extravaganza, which shows me that I stand well "in the market."

This day's post brings us a charming letter from General La Fayette, to cheer us on, and to assure us that if any political annoyance awaited us in Paris, he would be the last to tempt us over, as he has done by his invitation to his Château de la Grange. He says that Lord and Lady Holland are to come to him in the course of the autumn; and they lie under the same interdiction as ourselves, which, au reste, he seems to consider merely a form held out to please the Ultras, who may say to me, as the man says to the intrusive old woman in the play, "Au plaisir de ne vous revoir jamais!" - also a brilliant little note from Dénon, beginning, "Venez donc chère drôle de corps, tout le monde vous attend avec impatience, et moi avec enthousiasme comme tout mon cercle." Here is the general's letter: I pin it in, for I consider it the first page of my compte rendu.

I am giving my last touch to "Florence Macarthy," which I shall leave in Colburn's hands. I really think it is good fun, particularly the sketch of the "Castle Hacks;" for last night, as Morgan was strumming over his eternal Handel, and had got as far as "Angels ever bright and fair," and I was writing in a scene of my Attorney Crawley - my favourite of the whole batch of Irish originals _ I laughed so heartily, that Morgan start up exclaiming, "Good heaven, Sydney! what is the matter?"

"Well," I said, "Old Crawley is so droll, that I cannot help laughing." If one could only insure equal hilarity in one's readers!

And now for packing up and packing off.

From General La Fayette to Sir Charles Morgan.

La Grange, 12th August, 1818.

THE last letter I received from you, my dear Sir Charles, informed me that five weeks after the middle of July you would be near your departure for the Continent. This good news has caused a lively satisfaction in the colony of La Grange, which you will fine increased by a new little boy presented to us by my daughter-in-law, and who completes the dozen of my grandchildren. I hope that the expression, "for a short time" - the only one in your correspondence of which we can complain - will not be realized, and that you will give us a long time, which will always appear too short. You have enough to spare before you are compelled to continue your intended route to Italy. If I knew exactly the date of your arrival in Paris, I would contrive to meet you at the first moment. Write to me as soon as you are there, and let me know your travelling arrangements, reserving, we all beg of you, the longest possible period for La Grange.

It affords me much satisfaction, before your departure, to dissipate your fears respecting disturbances in France, of which the political articles in your journals have given you the idea. The papers in the interest of the two parties, Ministerial and Ultra, which dispute power with us, have excited more attention to the conspiracy in London than it has produced in Paris. It seems quite true that the Ultras have addressed themselves this year, as in the years preceding, to foreign powers, calling for their armed intervention in favour of the prejudices and interests of an incorrigible minority. Very reprehensible conduct, no doubt, and against which the patriots have a right to throw the first stone. It appears, also, that with the same party, and in a more important proportion, I belive, than the small number to which it was ostensibly confined, there has been a question of active intrigues, and even of violent measures, to obtain a change of ministry; while the ministry, on their part, have not been sorry to discover in these hostile, and more or less real projects, a means of gaining some favour in the opinion of the patriotic section. But you will be surprised, on arriving here, at the tranquillity with which the French public, in turn, regard, what your newspapers have predicted to you as the harbingers of trouble and confusion. No pretext will be found therein for prolonging the stay of the foreign armies. Perhaps, ministerial influence at the elections may not be much augmented by these causes. At all events, this conspiracy, and all the others that have been spoken of, ought to have no weight whatever in your travelling plans, or in your anxiety for Lady Morgan.

I see with pleasure that you are well satisfied with your elections. Ours will soon come on, at least for the division of the Chamber of Deputies. The actual state of our exceptional laws relative to the press, of our jurisprudence with regard to personal liberty, and of our administrative system under the relations of ministerial influence, give the government so much advantage, that it is difficult to foresee what will be the isolated chances of the independent opposition. Those of the Ultras are extremely weak. I cannot look on the European elections - on those of France, sometimes confined to two classes, and sometimes to the ratepayers of three hundred frances; on your, divided between corrupt pollings and tumultuous assemblages, to the exclusion of many principal towns - without admiring the progress of American civilisation. In fact, throughout the United States, the right of universal suffrage to all who pay the smallest tax, so appalling for your most ardent patriots, is exercised on all occasions by thinly-scattered populations, as well as in the crowded capitals, without leading to the slightest commotion or embarrassment.

I know not whether you received, in time for your third edition, some observations which Dr. Montégre undertook to submit to you. He is not appreciated in this country. Allow me to repeat to you how much I feel touched and flattered by the additional note you have had the kindness to send me. You ask for information respecting a work which merrited your interest. Alas! the amiable authoress, Lady Morgan's correspondent, has been taken from her friends; and amongst the many regrets of which she is the deserving object, none have been more acutely felt than mine. Her unfortunate husband has gone to the distant provinces. Her intimate friend remains in Paris. I believe that both will be there when you arrive. I shall hasten to introduce them to you. They will be able, much better than I, to answer a question which, during the last melancholy days, it was impossible to put them.

All my family desire me to convey to Lady Morgan and yourself the sentiments of gratitude, attachment, and impatience to see you again, with which they are impressed. We had flattered ourselves with a long visit; allow us to still retain the expectation. We hope that "Florence Macarthy," the "Sketches," and the Third Edition will accompany you. Accept both, with your usual goodness, the expression of tender and grateful friendship which my heart has devoted to you.

LA FAYETTE.

August. - This morning, as I was on my knees, all dust and dowdyism, comes the English post - old Colburn - no! not old at all, but young enthusiastic Colburn, in love with "Florence Macarthy," and a little épris with the author! "Italy, by Lady Morgan!" he is "not touched but rapt," and makes a dashing offer of two thousand pounds - to be printed in quarto like "France" - but we are to start off immediately, and I have "immedaitely" aswered him in the words of Sileno in "Midas" -

"Done! strike hands -
I take your offer,
Further on I may fare worse."

Morgan, of course, consenting; he is, in fact, charmed. How he will come out with his Dante and Tasso! above all, with his favourite Macchiavelli, of whom he has been longing to give a new reading, the very reverse of generally-received opinions. For me, I must rub up my Goldoni, and flirt and flutter with Pastor Fido and Metastasio.

Alas! that money should have so much influence over our noble intentions! Knowledge power? not a bit of it! Money is power; it subsidises all powers, and

--"rules the court, the camp, the church;"

that is our improved reading on the twaddle "grove." Oh, but intellect? Philanthropy? C'est égal.

And so we start on our expensive pilgrimage, not dropping a bead, nor muttering a prayer, nor fixing "a scallop on our hat before" after the manner of pilgrims, but looking out for a comfortable travelling carriage; for I hear that travelling in Italy is beyond everything desolate and unaccommodated - worse even that a journey in Connemara, where people still travel by the stars.

But my poor darlings in Great George Street! how am I ever to leave them? My dearest sister's present situation fills me with doubts and fears, and throws a cloud over the otherwise sunny prospect before us; but if I go on in this way I shall never start. Journalising is a dangerous temptation to the garrulity of women. One reason why they love their doctors and confessors is, that they are allowed to talk to them "à cœur ouvert et à langue déliée" also! - a journal represents both.

[* For thirty years the residence of Sir Arthur and Lady Clarke.]

Diary. - Well, I have taken my last leave of my darlings in Great George Street. I put my brother-in-law in our secret; but my blessed Olivia suspected nothing. She wanted me to go up to the nursery as usual, but I refused on please of fatigue.

"And can I leave my pretty doxies?"

Dear little toddles! I am sure that nepotism is an organic affection in single and childless women; it is a maternal instinct gone astray. In popes and princes it is a frustrated ambition, a substitute for paternity. It is a dangerous tendency. Aunts and uncles never love wisely, but too well; besides it brings with it responsibilities without authority, and imposes duties without giving rights.

And so bye-bye, babies!

From Lady Charleville on receiving an new edition of "France."*

June 30th, 1818.

[* Finding this note, I cannot resist giving it in this place, although it is a little ante-dated, as I well recollect the cheer it gave me, coming as it did at the moment when the reviews were at their blackest and bitterest against me. They were the paid hirelings of party: this is the testimony of a noble and independent mind.]

THERE are not many so pleasant moments in life as those where past and present feelings are renewed with an increase of whatever gave birth to them; and though, perhaps, it may be that this arises in some degree from the self-complacency of having not originally judged wrong, yet, for the sake of the warmer and kindlier natures, I will aver, in your case, that I am delighted with the great and important progress in literature - in thinking, in style, in grace and playfulness (where they might embellish a desultory subject), for your own sake and for my country's.

I have just received your note, and I have long finished the work.

I do not pretend to deserve any one of the materials for criticism you ascribe to me; but eight years' residence in France with a large portion of literary people perhaps entitles me to the sort of tact I may possess to judge of French people and French ways; and the unceasing interest I have felt from first to last in the great events affecting them the last thirty years since I quitted the country, has prevented my deciding in the superficial manner I often hear done concerning them.

To conclude: your work charms me; it breathes a fair spirit of philathropic inquiry and observation of facts and effects, most interesting to every friend of humanity. The style is so clear and nervous, and at the same time playful, and suited in its tone to the lighter matter, though the graver observations are given en philosophe. I think the writing as excellent as the materials are interesting and well digested. I would not intrude all this on you, but that you tell me you have not heard from home, and therefore to know the impression it must make and has made is satisfactory.

Yet of course it will not be let to glide down the stream without opposition; but that is no matter: the river broken by rocks and shallows is more beautiful than the torpid, smooth, glassy lake, all points of which are equally uninteresting. I honour the manly instructive writing, and the knowledge communicated in the Appendix. I already observed what is there said on torture, and I supposed it is more critically exact than I was; as, living at the time in the old Duke of Nivernois' house, with his daughter, the Duchess of Cossé, I heard only the praises bestowed on the fact of his (Louis XVI.) having abolished the question ordinaire and extraordinaire, &c.

I believe as to the nursing, that, in the provinces (where I was almost entirely), suckling was as universal as it is now in England; but I doubt not the fact of Paris fine ladies having adopted it but partially. I am sure Jean Jacques thought right on this subject, at least; but I am not equally certain that many a poor infant has not suffered by the exchange from robust peasants' milk to fine ladies'.

What a dreaful thing it is if your book be cut and garbled by those vile inspectors of a trammelled press, for I really hoped some solid good might arise therefrom, seeing how liberally and how justly an Englishwoman could appreciate the their good qualities and account for their errors. It seems to me, on the whole, that you are the only foreigner who has entered into the spirit of the people. Better, tenfold, than any Scott, Williams, or, in short, any of those writers who have fallen in my way.

As I live here so much, I should rejoice in your doing so; but to give up a place under government, and probably established practice in Dublin, seems adventurous. That you should be on the spot at the time when your books are printing is true and obvious. As to society, there you will gain much, but for that very reason you will write less.

The pours and the contres are before you. May the path you choose lead you to honourable distinction and fortune! and that you may enjoy both in health and the happiness of domestic, confiding attachment, is the sincere wish of your very faithful servant,

C. M. CHARLEVILLE.

P.S. - Mr. Lewis is abroad. His sisters* have published disgraceful nonesense, because it is stupid. Sir William Gell I did not see often before his departure; he has got ridiculed about royalty, and Lord C. didn't like him. Lady Cork says she will have Talma to-morrow night (who is in London on a visit), and is growing old in active dissipation, and too completely occupied by the number and names of the haut ton invitations for me. I like, if I was able for it, the coup d'œil well enough; but the deep and eternal plans and counterplans for the repetition of a scene so seldom productive of a real hour's amusement, tire me to death. My children are at your feet, and I hope will all know you well and enjoy your approbation. -
C. M. C.

[* These conscientious ladies, frightened at the heterodoxy of their brother's works, wrote a pamphlet to assure the public they did not participate in his opinions. Like Sir T. Robinson, who, when called on to deny being the author of "Junius," began his exculpation - "This is to scratify," &c.]

To Lady Clarke (my sister) at Great George Street, Rutland Square, Dublin.

Holyhead.

MY DEARS ALL -

AND, above all, my darling Olivia - be of good cheer, though we have had a bad passage. Did not get into Holyhead till near midnight, and had not the benefit of excellent Captain Skinner's convoy. He met us, however, as we got out of the packet, and wanted us to go home and sup with him, which of course we didn't, but were made very comfortable at our dear old inn.

I am so upset by sickness that Morgan is determined we shall not proceed on our long journey to-morrow; but my greatest anxiety, dearest Olivia, is for you. I shall expect a letter at Colburn's on my arrival in London, so do not fail. This evening was so beautiful after the stormy night that we walked to dear Penrôs;* it was really a pilgrimage to the shrine of a pilgrim saint. This is the first time I arrived at Holyhead without the hope of seeing my dear Lady Stanley standing at her own gate, with Sir John on one side and Susanne on the other, with her lady's shawl and dog. The gates were now closed, and all looked gloomy and desolate. The family are, however, expected, and much as I admire the present Lady Stanley, no one can ever replace my dear old friend.

[* Lady Stanley of Penrôs, mother of the late, and grandmother of the present Lord Stanley, of Alderley, one of my earliest and truest friends.]

We start at daybreak to-morrow for Shrewsbury, but Morgan will not let me stop and hour to see my uncle, we are so pressed for time. En avant is now our motto; so, God bless you all, my dear darlings, for my heart is very full. Morgan kisses you and the babies tenderly, and begs you will let him know soon whether he is an uncle or an aunt.

S. M.

Diary. - London, August, 1818. - We left Dublin in more than usually low spirits on such occasions; my poor sister still painfully and patiently expecting her mauvais quart d'heure. What a penalty and what a distinction that the most important incident in the great scheme of the creation should have fallen to the lot of the feeblest and finest organisation!

I dined with them, but concealed the fact that we were to sail that evening; and so I spared the painful formalities of parting for an indefinite time.

A very bad voyage to Holyhead: a tedious land journey, and we arrived in London - drove to lodgings in Conduit Street taken for us by Colburn to be near him, as I have still some of "Florence Macarthy" to write, and proofs to correct.

Immediately after our arrival, we despatched the kind Duke of Leinster's letter to his brother-in-law, Lord Kinnaird, who was to give us letters for Italy, where he resides with his family.

Italy! Est-il possible that I am going to Italy?

Lord Kinnaird answered the letter in person this morning. Oh, what a charming man! After all there is nothing so charming as an Englishman when he is charming ("cosa rara"); he is the real thing, and no mistake. However, when I return from Italy, "I will," as Sir Benjamin Backbite says, "tell you more another time."

Lord Kinnaird said, in answer to some of our rather apprehensive suggestions, "Leinster desires me to give you letters for Italy, but it is quite unnecessary; you are better known there through your work on France, which, entre nous, just now suits their book, than you are at home. Do you speak Italian?" "Oh yes," said Morgan; "the Italian of Tasso and Metastasio." "That will do to begin with," said he, laughing; "but your Italian valet de place will get you up a language more to your purpose." We said we did not think of starting from France for a month, where we had so many friends, notwithstanding our proscription by Louis des Huîtres. "Come," he said, "you ought not to complain at beig put on the same list with Lord Holland. My brother Douglas is going to see Byron, and I return immediately to Milan, where I have left Lady Olivia and my family;" and so with his pleasant sans adieu and au revoir at Milan he took his leave. I asked Morgan why he did not request letters to Byron. "I don't want to know him." "What! the writer you adore beyond all others, and whose books you read every night like your Breviary?" "Yes, but I don't want to know him personally." I knew the bout de fil and said nothing, but laughed in my sleeve - God forgive me!

My note and card to Melbourne House was answered by a note and basket of fruit from Lady Caroline, who is at Brockett. What a true heart and what a fanciful head! She is to be in town immediately.

We dined yesterday at Col. Roderic M'Neil's, the Laird of Barra. He came in from some review as Colonel of the Guards in full costume, and looked splendid. His brother-in-law, the divine Charles Brownlow, was of the party. He is worthy of a conversion to liberalism, and I intend to try my hand on him when I return. He will be won by pathos and sentiment, but never through reason. Pretty Jane M'Neil, and Lord and Lady Darnley, the aunt and uncle of the party, were there. Fine types of the Whig aristocracy of England; for they came into Ireland with Cromwell, where they obtained immense property, but have returned to England with all the old prepossessions with which they had started two hundred years before! Race and temperament go for so much in influencing opinion! It has struck me here that the Tory ladies are more Celtic, and have more poetry about them: they are frisky and confident in their present political supremacy. I had a clinical study of them at Stanmore Priory.*

[* The seat of the Marquis of Abercorn.]

We have delayed our departure from necessity; we wait for our passport for Miss Florence M'Carthy; and Morgan declares his "Philosophy of Life" cannot stand against the tedium of delay.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

To Lady Clarke

8, Conduit Street, Hanover Square,
August, 1818.

MY DEARS ALL,

I DESPATCHED you my despatch to inform you of our safe arrival two or three days back, which I trust you got safely. We found a packet of pleasant letters waiting for us at Colburn's - your most cheerful and cheering one the most welcome of all. The announcement of our arrival in London (a puff, I am sure, by Colburn) has brought down upon us a flock of friends, great and small; and London is not, as I expected, burned out! First amongst the first was that truly dear and constant friend, Lady Arran: handsome Flora M'Leod came with her ladyship. She brought me a very kind message from her daughter, Lady Cecilia, and her husband, Sir George, to request we would join a family party at tea in the evening. We were delighted to do so. I longed to hear something of the Priory family, and a more detailed account of the illness and death of poor Lord Abercorn than Bowen sent us in his short letter; so we went to Cumberland Place early. We found Lady Cecilia and Sir George, Lady Arran and Lady Isabella, and Mr. Douglas - Lady Arran looking as pretty as her daughters, though Lady Cecilia is improved beyond everything you can imagine, and Lady Isabella all bloom and good looks. It is curious that we had none of us met since we were married. We only wanted the Hon. Mrs. Browne, who was married about the same time, when, lo! she entered with her mother, the beautiful Lady Elizabeth Monck, another of the charming clan of Arran, who for grace and beauty, when they were in their prime, could not have been matched in Europe. Lord Arran ought to have had some prize for the specimens of physical perfection he gave to the world in his daughters.

Sir George is good-humoured and courteous, though a petit diable boiteux in person. It was a marriage de convenance on the part of Lady Cecilia, to please her family (for he is old enough to be her father); but she looked as happy as if it had been made to please herself. Sir George is enormously rich, and she has as fine diamonds as any duchess in the land, par compensation. Oh, those diamonds! We were in the midst of some Dublin cancan when the door opened, and His Royal Highness the Duke of Sussex was announced. Grand mouvement! We all rose up, and then all sat down. Morgan and myself were presented to him: the rest were old acquaintances. The duke kept up a pleasant bantering conversation with me on the subject of my work on France, not agreeing with me in many of my opinions, occasionally appealing to Morgan, and saying many civil things on his part of the work, which pleased me more than any éloge he could have given on mine. "But, sir," interrupted Lady Cecilia, "do tell us something about the royal wedding now;" and Lady Arran pressing him close, and wanting to learn details, he said, "Why, ma'am, you did not expect me to have stayed for the wine-posset and the throwing of the slipper?" At which we all threw down our eyes, and affected prudery. His royal highness, I thought, looked grave, and said, after a pause, "A wedding is no joke, and least of all a royal one." He probably thought of his own marriage, recently broken, and the similar position of his brother, still, perhaps, devoted to the mother of his beautiful children. "How did the duke look, sir?" said Lady Arran. "Humph," said he, "not very brilliant." "And the Duchess of Clarence, sir," said Lady Cecilia; "is she as plain as is reported?" "Quite," said the Duke of Sussex, emphatically; "but so amiable and gentle: her goodness is unmistakeable." He then, I thought, rather hastily threw off the subject, and talked to Morgan on French politics. We were all chatting entre loup et chat, and more people had dropped in, when the grand battants of the back drawing-room were thrown opn, and exhibited an interior brilliantly lighted, with a card-table on one side, and a buffet with refreshments of all sorts on the other. The Duke, Sir George and Lady Cecilia, and Lady Arran sar down to cards. The Douglases and ourselves attacked the buffet, and chatted of our Priory days; and so we parted, they for Argyll House, to inquire for his sister, Lady Aberdeen, who is not well, and we for home, and a pull at the proofs of "Florence M'Carthy." But I must not toss off my royal duke without giving you my impressions of him. In person, sensual; like his brothers, full and florid, his voice altering continually from a soprano to a deep barytone. He seems eminently intellectual, unaffected, and kind; he is also a thorough-bred gentleman, which is not what can be said of all princes.

I sent this in a frank of Mr. Countnay's, who walked to see us the other day with his dear little boy.

And so, dears, good-bye.

S. M.

Lady Cork has found us out. I send you a note of hers, which reminds one of "Arlequin ambassadeur," - "Sire, voilà mes dépêches, et voilà mes contres-dépêches."

A VERY, very agreeable man dines with me on Sunday, the 4th. Will you and your spouse honour my poor board that day? But do not mention your coming, for I profess never to see company upon the Sabbath. We shall be only a snug party: Margan, two; Carlisle, one; self, one; friends, three.

Fool that I am! I forgot I was engaged on the 4th. It must be Saturday, the 3rd, that you must dine here. Say Yes.

Yours,

MARY CORK AND ORRERY.

From the Baron Dénon to Lady Morgan.

Paris, 1818.

DEAR GOOD CHILD,

MR. DALTON has handed to me your letter. From the pleasure I have felt in reading it, I judge how ill-considered it is to remain so long without writing to those we love; but this is really your own fault. It is you who have created my cabinet à la mode, which occupies my entire morning; the evening I give up to parties, and all this without any advantage. You were contented there, because you had a friendship for me, and we chatted together so delightfully, that we always parted with mutual satisfaction. But we do not chat with everybody, which makes people say, "Is this all we are asked for? It is a silly, thoughtless woman who has deceived us." But, after all, dear friend, we are not the less worthy, nor shall we be the less charmed to see you again. I never doubted the attraction of your last work; you have a wonderful faculty of drawing from nature, and all your pictures are perfect; but I am delighted that you have sold them well. The money derived from our works is our most exclusive property, and that which we value the highest. Remember that you owe me a comedy. This is the road to the highest celebrity, particularly in your country; where the ground is scarcely cleared. We will debate this subject on the days when we are inclined to talk rationally. You will find all here your friends. You will only have to allow others to come, and the number will increase, for all will seek you. The great secret is - not to appear anxious for celebrity, and to possess real merit. It is true this is not practised by all the world. People are beginning to forgive your work here, and to render it justice. You are abused, but purchased, in English. You see, therefore, that your affairs are not going badly.

I took a liking to M. Dalton at first, from all that he said to me. You will find everything here as you left it, and we shall now begin to talk of expecting you. The amiable idler, who loves you sincerely, is always determining to write when I do; but I fear I shall betray her this time.

I hope the serious labour of the work on which Sir Charles is engaged has not made him lose any of his delightful cheerfulness, and that we have many pleasant evenings in store, and shall invent some good charades.

Adieu, dear friend. That my letter may reach you, it is necessary I should finish, and send it to the post.

I still hope to receive a letter from you before your departure from Dublin. I love you with all my heart.

DENON.

Diary, August. - If there is anything more delightful than another to witness, it is the spontaneous outbreak of a good and kind heart, which, in serving and giving pleasure to others, obeys the instinctive impulse of a sanguine and genial disposition - waiting for no rule or maxim - not opening an account for value expected - doing unto others what you wish them to do unto you. This, in one word, is Lady Caroline Lamb; for if she does not always act wisely for herself, she generally acts only too well towards others. On hearing of our arrival in town, her first self-indulgence was to send us a basket of fruit and flowers; the next was to invite us to Brockett Hall; and finding we could not go, she overlooked all inconvenience of her London house at this season - carpets up and curtains down - she had her couchette put up in one of the sitting-rooms at Melbourne House, and there she is stopping whilst we remain, with no other motive than to be of use to us. Since I first made her acquaintance, before my marriage, this has been invariably her conduct towards me. Here is her first note: -

Sunday, Brockett Hall.

MY DEAR LADY MORGAN,

NAME any day you like this week, and I will drive up and see you; but if it is as hot as to-day I think I should like to set out at six, to be with you at nine in the evening. I have no house or bed, and shall either come back here or go to an hotel. Pray bless Miss Spence's eyes with your presence while you are in town, as she has raved about your coming. Oh! that I could prevail upon you to come here for one day - it is a paradise, and full of flowers and fruits: - it only wants inhabitants.

Yours most sincerely,

CAROLINE LAMB.

We expressed a wish to see "Faust" - the great attraction just now. We might have had a fairy godmother, for this note came directly after she left.

MIND the opera. Come early I beg you, for they say "Faust" is beautiful. I will leave word at the door - it is the private door near the king's box. Ask for the king's box, and they will show you the door; then as for me in the Duke of Devonshire's box. I am certain you will find no difficulty. Will your very interesting-looking friend come? She is like Miss O'Neill - I like her countenance much - and tell Sir Charles I am enchanted with his aunt. I had a great mind to ask her blessing - "Bless me, even me, also," when she was about it. Had I been like her, I should have looked on beauty as a hussy.

Ever yours,

CAROLINE LAMB.

You must all come and sup with me to-night, to show Sir Charles my room.

Whilst with us in the morning, she had met my husband's aunt - a very fine old lady, and with quite as much character as herself. Lady Caroline had been much struck with her. It amused me to see them side by side - the lady of supreme London ton, and the wealthy old lady de province, who has more than once turned the scale of an election, and who boasts of her illustrious race and being descended from Morgan the buccaneer and "sister to the brave General Morgan in India." She told Lady Caroline she had never married because she would not give any man a legal right over her; nor would she have any but women in her house (boarding her men-servants at the hotel). A gang of housebreakers having broken into her house at Grantham in the middle of the night, she went alone to discover what was the matter, and found a man getting in at the window. She caught him by the leg, and held him long enough to make herself sure of recognizing him. He was taken, tried, and hanged at the county town on her evidence. The gentlemen of the town had advised her, as a matter of prudence, to refuse to prosecute, as she was a lone maiden lady, and would be a mark for the revenge of the rest of the gang. "Be it so," said she; "but justice is justice, and the villain shall be hanged!" Nobody ever molested her afterwards. The contrast between the lisping, soft voice of Lady Caroline, and the prim, distinct tones of the old lady was curious and amusing.

To Lady Clarke.

Conduit Street, August, 1818.

MY OWN DEAR OLIVIA,

HERE I am seated in vey nice apartments, cheek by jowl with Morgan, who is writing to Clarke on subjects political and medical, having despatched our despatches to Colburn for the day I hope, being twenty pages of proofs. But here is a changement de décoration! We are not to start for France for a fortnight; that is, untill I leave the whole of my MS. of "Florence Macarthy" in Colburn's hands. Part of it is not yet written. His reader is charmed with it, and he himself is in extasy with his third edition of "France." Meantime, having signed and sealed the future "Italy," he will not let me allude to it now, or take up my mind with any subject but my Irish heroine. Colburn, as usual, has indulged his puffing vocation by sending our arrival to the "papers," as if anybody cared about it. This has brought down a shower of visiting-cards and notes to me.

"I once more take the road, the hour of attack approaches,
Hark! I hear the sound of coaches!"

Lady Charleville's the first - her two tall footmen actually looking in at our drawing-room windows from behind the carriage. I ran down to her, and she insisted on my going with her to Grosvenor House, to meet Sir Thomas Lawrence in the Picture-gallery. I was delighted with the opportunity, never having seen him since I was at the Priory: so I sent up for my hat and scarf, and off we went. We had a charming conversation chemin faisant. The Charlevilles have exchanged their maisonette in Berkeley Square for Queensbury House, Piccadilly, and, with their usual kindness, have invited us to two dinners and one rout whilst we remain. She is not only the truest and best of friends, but, to my mind, one of the first of women. She is, however, a Tory, or at least an aristocrat, whilst I, God save the mark, am -

Your poor, affectionate sister,

S. M.

P. S. - Among the calls here to-day are cards from Lady Besborough, Lady C. Lamb, Lady De Ameland (Duchess of Sussex), and lots of men - the Hammonds all out of town, and the Sollys off for Paris, as are the M'Neils, &c.

To Lady Clarke

August 26th, 1818, Coduit Street.

MY DEAREST LIVY,

I THOUGHT it best not to write to you for some days past, that I might have something to tell worth reading; but events have so crowded on me en attendant, that I scarce know where to begin. We live in a sort of tornado between business and pleasure, and my head literally turns round. Our reception here is, beyond all expectation, delightful, and my poor much-abused "France" (in reviews and newspapers), so far from operating against us, has made us more noticed than ever. All my old great friends are still in town, and have come forward to make London delightful, and I have been presented to lots of new ones. The Duchess of Leinster was one of the first who called on me. Unfortunately I was out, but I saw her and spoke to her a moment at the Opera: she is grown thin, but still pretty. The Dowager Lady Cork almost lives with us, or rather we with her. Her most curious and beautiful house is in the next street, and every morning I am sure to have a note from "Mary Cork and Orrery,"* brought by an elfin page. She takes us about everywhere, and makes parties for us of all sorts of colours - pink, blue, gray, and a colour I have supplied her with (not from the rainbow), dun-ducketty mud colour - I must explain. She said to me one day, "My dear, I have pink for the exclusives, blues for the literary, gray for the religious - at which Kitty Birmingham, the Irish saint, presides - for I have them all in their turns; then I have one party of all sorts, and I have no colour for it." "Oh," said I, "call it 'dun-ducketty mud colour.'" She laughed, and adopted it. I must send you some of her notes, for they are impayable. With all her oddity, she is good-nature itself. A wealthy and bachelor friends of Morgan's, his godfather, by-the-by, Mr. Const, has a box at the opera, which he has lent me while I remain in town. We went last Tuesday, and took Lady Susan Douglas, and sweet Lucy Drew, he daughter, whom I think you saw at Lord Cloncurry's. Lady Susan is sister to Lady De Ameland.

[* Her mode of signature led to a funny quid pro quo the other day. She wrote to an upholsterer in the city, to send her some expensive meuble that had caught here eye en passant in his shop. His answer was - "D.B. not having any dealings with M. Cork and Orrery, begs to have a more explicit order, finding that the house is not known in the trade."]

As the Duke and Duchess of Clarence were there, the house was full and brilliant, but the women were nothing to compare in beauty with Dublin. The opera was very bad, but the sole lustre with which it was lighted with gas (I believe for the first time) was beyond all description, and well worth going any distance to see. In spite of its beauty and brilliancy, the women are outrageous about it, as they declare it makes them all look frights. The Duchess of Clarence, in this respect, leaves all competitorship behind. We stood near her in the cloaking-room for five minutes, so that even Morgan could see her, who sees nothing. Her skin is yellow, her hair lemon-colour, her eyes pink, and her features sharp. She looked timid, poor thing, but curtseyed very gracefully when "God save the King" was played à son intention, and applied to her honour by the audience. His handsome royal highness honoured me with a salute of recognition, in memory, I suppose, of our conversation at Harrington House, years ago. The duchess, an Albino in appearance, is an angel in character, although "angels were not painted fair to look like her."

The next night was one of Lady Charleville's conversaziones. There was the Rev. Mr. Milman there, author of "Fazio," the play à la mode, - which he might be himself, if he chose to take the trouble; but he was retiring, and kept in the background, where, however, many sought him. My old crony, Mrs. Opie, was there en grand costume as usual, and lots of grandees, ambassadors, and ambassadresses, &c. My hero of the night, however, was Jekyll, the wit par excellence, but always so much pleasanter than wits generally are, particularly as he made my "France" the subject of his conversation. He told me he was at Lord Sheffield's when the book came out, the circle chiefly consisting of the Ministerial people; and the sensation it made among them was very curious: and even old George Rose said he could not let it out of his hands till he had read it through; "and," added Jekyll, "what was comical, he said, with a dry air, 'and I believe in my heart every word of it is true.'" But what pleased me most was, that he said Morgan's Appendix had opened the eyes of many, for people had known so little of the interior of France till lately; and what he, Morgan, had said, were considered as things of authority by all parties, as they were evidently written with great temperance and simplicity. "As for the 'Quarterly Review.'" said Jekyll, "that, instead of exciting, has damped party prejudice against you, and by none was it more cried down than by some of the Ministerials themselves; in fact, they are ashamed of it."

This was all curious, coming from the personal friend of the Regent, which Jekyll is. He is certainly the most delightful creature I ever met, partly, perhaps, because he flatters me up to my bent, and partly because he is delightful. He was very inquisitive about the Irish bar, and so, being in high fun, I thought I would amuse him a little by parading the whole Irish system of things before him, and particularly the attempted degradation of the Irish bar by the Government: and I make him laugh not a little at the expense of the Counsellors O'Shaughnessy, &c., &c.; but the anecdote of the dialogue between the Chief Baron O'Grady and his brother Darby, the Secretary, muttered before the whole court, nearly killed him! You remember it, "Be aisy, you omadaun!"* but though I had many auditors, I had none who seemed to relish my Irish nonesense so much as a tidy little old gentleman, whow as afterwards presented to me as the Vice-Chancellor! (the "Lady Leech" of the "Morning Chronicle"). Jekyll's rival wit, Luttrell, was not there, although one of Lady Charleville's especial clique. He made a mot the other night to Lady Cork, which was certainly one of the very wittiest things ever said, but too broad to repeat. In the days of Swift, however, it would have been thought good fun at Lady Betty Germain's.

[* An anecdote, forgotten now, but only one of the many which occurred every day in the Irish courts. The Chief Baron O'Grady had for his secretary his brother Darby, who, sitting under him, occasionally threw back his head to communicate some fact or incident of the moment. One day, seeing a very handsome girl brought into court as a witness, he looked up at his brother, and muttered, loud enough to be heard, "Chief! there's a colleen for ye!" (Irish for a handsome girl.) The chief justice, assuming a solemn look, stooped down his head as though communicating an important fact to his secretary, and retorted, "Be aisy, ye omadaun!"

Darby O'Grady - a very humorous and agreeable member of Dublin society, and the hero of many mots not unworthy of record - smuggled himself one day to the top of the dinner-table, next to the Right Honourable Robert Peel, who was dining with Darby's brother, the chief baron, and had just arrived in Dublin to take office. Mr. Peel dropped into a conversation with his unknown neighbour on the subject of O'Connell's legal abilities. "Why then, sir," said Darby, "in regard of the law he is no great things, no more than the mare that ran for the whiskey." "But he had great power over a jury," said Mr. Peel: "how would you explain that?" "Why, Mr. Peel, d'ye see - first he butthers them up, and then he slithers them down, and then the divil himself is not equal to him." If Mr. Peel was not satisfied with this explanation, he must at least have been amused; and Darby's classical brogue added great piquancy to his conversation.]

The next day the dear kind Lady De Ameland came to take me to drive out wherever I liked. We drve first to Melbourne House. The groom of the chambers told us Lady Caroline received in her bedroom, which turned out to be the beautiful saloon which looks into St. James's Park. The immortal chair in which Byron sat for his picture to Sanderson* is fastened to the ground in the bow window. She was lying on a couch rather than a bed, wrapped in fine muslins, full of grace and cordiality, but more odd and amusing than ever. She embraced me with all the cordiality of authorical sisterhood, and insisted on my meeting her, with my husband, this evening at Almack's, for which she gave me tickets, desiring me to send a note to Lady Besborough, Cavendish Square, who would come to take me with her. When I hesitated, the duchess advised me not to think of refusing. She said half the fine ladies in London could not get such a ticket à poids d'or. She mentioned Lady Saltoun, and a great Irish lady, a friend of ours, who is not sure whether she will acknowledge me here or not; perhaps she will to-night - if she gets in!

[* This valuable picture was bequeathed to me by Lady C. Lamb and is now in my possession.]

All this was said apart, whilst Lady Caroline was examining a page, sent her by Lady Cork, of whom more hereafter, c'est à mourir de rire.* I despatched my note to Lady Besborough, according to orders, and then Lady Cork called on us at seven, and took us to dine at Sir George Cockerell's, the richest nabob in London. Such a palace! on Picadilly Terrace. We dined in an apartment that opened on gardens in Hyde Park. All was luxury and pleandour. The dessert was literally an Eastern apologue - elephants, pagodas, rajahs, forests, and flowers: it looked fabulous. I sat next a yellow Indian judge, just arrived en passant par St. Helena, and who offered me a written account of his interview and conversation of two hours with Napoleon. There was an assembly in the evening, for which, of course, we did not wait; but, by-the-by, I saw three handsome brothers all in a row, looking very hautain - their name is Lygon. Lady Besborough called to pick us up, with her usual kindness and courtesy: Lady Caroline met us at the entrance with a beautifully-embroirdered sac upon her arm. "What have you there?" said Lady Besborough. "Well, dear mamma, it is a pice of very curious rhubarb, quite like a bon-bon; I brought it to recommend it to Hartington (the Duke of Devonshire). It will do him all the good in the world, mamma: he is looking so ill." But the duke had not yet come, so on we went. The great Irish lady now sailed in and looked at me
"With eyes malign askance,"

and was passing on, when, perceiving that I was leaning on Lady Besborough's arm, she approached to speak to me, and I had not the heart to refuse her my patronage! as so I bowed just as she would have done to me at a ball a the Rotunda, when she was of "the Lady Lieutenant's" party.

[* Lady Cork's fading sight induced her to borrow eyes from everybody who dropped in, in the course of the morning: I was frequently on service. One morning she said in her peculiar way, when I asked her how she was, "Well, child, of course I am well, but I want you to write me two notes. I am going to get rid of my page." - "What! get rid of your pet?" "Don't talk, child, but do as I ask you." So I took up my pen, and wrote under her dictation, "To the Duchess of Leeds. My dear Duchess, this will be presented to you by my little page, whom you admired so the other night. He is about to leave me; only fancy, he finds my house not religious enough for him! and that he can't get to church twice on Sundays. I certainlyam not so good a Christian as your Grace, but as to the Sundays it is not true. But I think you situation would just suit him, if you are inclined to take him. Ever yours, M. Cork and O." "Now," said she, "fold that up, and put on the address, for fear of mistakes. Now, my dear, begin another to your friend Lady Caroline Lamb, who, 'tis said, broke her page's head with a teapot the other day." - "A Tory calumny," said I; "Lady Caroline was a Brockett the very day the adventure was said to have happened at Whitehall." "I don't care whether it's true or not," said Lady Cork; "all pages are the better for having their heads sometimes broken; now write, please: 'Dear Lady Caroline, will you come to me to-morrow evening, to my Blue party? I send this by that pretty little page whom you admired so, but who, though full of talent and grace, is a little imp, whom, perhaps, you may reform, but I cannot.' (Par parenthèse, the page just described as a little saint was the "little imp" I was now desired to prôner.) 'He is very like that boy you used to take into your opera box with you, and was so famous for dressing salad. I would not advise you to take him, if I did not think he would suit you. Ask any one you like to my Blue soirée, particularly Mr. Moore. Yours, in all affection, M. C. and O.' Now, my dear, put that up, and good morning to you." This scene was only one of many of the same sort at which I assisted Mary Cork and Orrery's Bureau des affaires étrangères.

To me Lady Cork was always amusing and instructive, as "the Little Dunce" of Dr. Johnson, and "the honourable and charming Miss Monckton" of Miss Burney's Memoirs. She was a great tradition, and a most amusing one. I have the honour of being the historian of her macaw, under the title of "History of a Macaw of a Lady of Quality." See "Book without a Name."]

I found after a little I knew many people. Mrs. Wellesley Pole was particularly civil, and asked for you. Mr. Cornwall, the aide-de-camp, was there. There was some pretty quadrille-dancing; all the girls in gauze frocks, with ropes of satin, and tulle flounces, and abundance of scarlet flowers on the bottom of the petticoats in bunches. The heads worn in every way, but all flat, and the hair chiefly divided down the centre to show the skull (like your own way), and then jutting in curls behind the ears. The Duchess of Argyll - who, with the exception of Mrs. Fitzherbert, was the handsomest woman in the room - had a beautiful black crop with no ornament: the Duchess of Richmond, with the "ancient old" castle diamonds; and the Duchess of Rutland, beautiful as ever; the girls and young women frightful; more beauty in a little Dublin party than in all London. We left it soon, though Lady Besborough begged of us to stay to hear a little Russian girl recite verses. However, as we had seen her dance with a Russian boy in full Russian costume, and were not particularly amused, we went off. This Russian girl is an object of sentimental fashion. She was found among heaps of slain near Moscow. She has the face of an old Calmuc Tartar, and was dressed in a blue and silver tunic, with a turban and feathers. The ladies were crying "Charming!" but I never saw such a fright. Friday (yesterday), we dined at Lady Cork's, with Jekyll, Lord Carhampton, and some other famous wits and men of pleasure about town - a most delicious day. Lord Carhampton made Lady Cork give this dinner that he might meet me, for he raves about "France;" and you may be sure I was not sorry to meet the once famous Colonel Luttrell, the opponent of Wilkes, and the victim of Junius. He is odd, but clever and pleasant, and the conversation was delightful. We retired after dinner to a room, opening into a curious garden, with parrots and macaws flying about, music heard among the trees, and rose-water spouting out of fountains, and essences and perfumes carried in red-hot ladies by servants, till we were enveloped in clouds of incense. At eleven o'clock we all set off for Lady Charleville's concert, which was deemed one of the finest things given this year. Morgan entered the room with Mrs. Opie on one arm and me on another. Conceive the formidable sight. The music (professional) was very fine; Sir George Smart presided at the piano; Crivelli (an heroic singer in the grand sérieux) was divine; and Ambrogetti sang all Leporello's songs from Don Juan with exquisite humour. A young lady of fashion played the harp with one hand, and with the other the piano. The ladies of fashion were all ready de pâlmer d'aise, and Sir G. Smart and ourselves exchanged looks of disgust. It was exerable playing. I played a little, and sang "Kate Kearney." While I was talking to Lady Lonsdale and Lady William Bentinck, the Duchess of Richmond came most graciously forward to salute me. I have met her every night since I came to London, and she has always looked kindly on me; though, observe, she never took the least notice of me in Ireland - indeed, I never was introduced to her. I was presented last night to the Duchess of San Carlos, the Spanish ambassadress, and ambassadors of all sorts. The person that interested me most was Lady Sarah Bunbury, the king's first passion, and once the most beautiful woman in England: imagine a dignified though infirm old lady, stone blind, led in! Mrs. Fitzherbert sat next me; I never saw such lovely blue eyes. She appeared to me what I thought her when I was a little child and saw her picture - fat, fair, and forty. We have refused two invites for to-day.

Diary - London, 1818. - Dined at Lady Cork's; and most agreeable company: the Duchess of Sussex (or Lady De Ameland,* comme il vous plait), the first by all right, divine and human, the second by an Act of Parliament and the Prerogative Court. Oh, these men and their laws! so lightly made, so lightly broken! as passion or expediency suggest; from Henry VIII. and his pope, before and after. Mr. Milnes, as celebrated for his maider oration as "Single-speeech Hamilton"** was for his; his beautiful wife (Miss Monckton, daughter of Lord Galway), carrying on the hereditary connexion of Moncktons and Milnes; General Monckton and a young Monckton, a family party congregated under the roof of Johnson's "little dunce" - pretty Maria Monckton; with the addition of the amusing Sir A. Carlisle, who entertained us with an account more amusing than proper, of a fairy child who had been made a show of in London, and which, after its death, he had preserved in spirits. This caught Lady Cork's attention, and the following little dialogue ensued: -

[* The Duke of Sussex in 1793 married Lady Augusta Murray, and in London again the same year, also at Hanover. This marriage, in spite of the threefold ceremonies of the church, being considered a violation of the Royal Marriage Act, was dissolved in 1794; "but without the slightest reflection on the honour of His Royal Highness." In 1806 the ex-duchess assumed, by sign manual, the title of Countess De Ameland to mark her descent from the ancient family of that name.]

[** 1858. - This speech was made on the proposal of peace with France in 1808. He was offered the Chancellorship of the Exchequer, when only twenty-three, by Mr. Perceval. George IV. offered him a seat in the House of Peers, which Lord Palmerston repeated; but he refused this and all other public honours. He was made of the true metal of the old English great country gentlemen. See Miss Burney's "Memoirs," for an account of Lady Cork when Miss Monckton.]

Lady Cork. - My dear Sir Anthony! will you let me have that little curiosity to-morrow night? It will be very curious.

Sir A. - Well, madam, I don't think she can come on so short an invitation. She is like other lions, with the exception of the "learned pig," who never required pressing.

Lady Cork, peevishly. - Well, but I have had the pig, and it is a humbug. To-morrow is my "Blue" night, and your little anatomy - what do you call her? - would just answer the "Blues," they are so fond of science and that sort of thing; and then, Sir Anthony, you will give us a little discourse, as you did at the College of Surgeons. You will meet two reviewers and the editor of the "Court Journal." It may be of service to you; indeed, it may, they cut up folks so! What do you think, Sir Charles Morgan? you are a physician.

Sir C. M. - Well, Lady Cork, Sir Anthony is so distinguished for his own skill in "cutting up" that I would not trust your "reviewers" near him, for fear the effects of a jalousie du métier.

Lady Cork. - Well, you are both very tiresome: clever men are so sometimes - there's Horace Smith whom I invited for this evening particularly, and he had the pertness to write me word he was engaged to the elephant.

"What has your ladyship done with your Irish saint, Kitty Birmingham?" asked I.

"Oh, she is coming to-morrow, my 'Gray' evening."

A general titte followed, which was cut short by Lady Cork sayin, "Duchess, shall we go?"*

[* See "Book of the Boudoir," for my first part at Lady Cork's.]

In the drawing-room, while we were taking coffee, the duchess drew me over to her sofa, with all her former kindness and cordiality, and invited us to dinner. What a noble creature she is, and looks! She always reminds me of that beautiful description of "La belle Hamilton" in Grammont, "grande et gracieuse dans ses moindres mouvements." No doubt she is the of type her cousin once removed, Mary Queen of Scots. She is, I believe, lineally descended from the Regent Murray, and, the Scotch will have it, nearer to the English throne than the progeny of the Electress Sophia.

Although it was Lady Cork's "Pink night," the rendezvous of the fashionable exclusives, we got away as soon as Sir Charles came up, being voués to dear Lady Charleville's. There we found an agreeable party already assembled. Lady Charleville, wheeled in her great chair from one drawing-room to another by her handsome son, Lord Tullamore, his rich bloom and her pale thoughtful countenance making a fine contrast. The "two great marchionesses," Hertford and Salisbury, were there, the latter still giving her "Sunday evenings," to which all the saints, as well as all the sinners, were anxious to gain admission. I met several old Priory* acquaintances, amongst others Berkeley Craven, Mr. Mercer, who played like an angel - of fashion - at the piano, the Rev. Mr. Milman, one of the superfine Vernons, the Misses Fanshaw, the eldest of whom had been gouvernante to the Princess Charlotte of Wales, Tom Moore, who wouldn't sing till a larger audience of pretty women were collected, we being all in the dowager line. William Spencer** was there, but I suspect he was waiting for Captain Morris, whom I was longing to meet and to hear; but he is so engaged at Oatlands that Mercer told me he was sure he would not get away from his duchess of York: "Besides," said he, "he is getting lazy; and since his romantic passion for Mrs. Sheridan was disappointed, he is much changed. His poetical love of wine has been reduced to too severe a practice; he finds in everything

"'A reason fair to fill his glass again.'"

[* Stanmore Priory, the seat of John James, Marquis of Abercorn, where my happy residence gave me the advantage of knowing so many distinguished persons, whose friendship has come down as an inheritance to the third generation. - (1858.)]

[** "William Spencer may be regarded as much the representative of a class as John Clare or Robert Burns. The style of her verse, eminently airy, polished, and graceful, as well as his personal qualities, combined to render him the idol of that society, which, by common consent, we are content to call the best. His varied accomplishments enlivened a country house, his brilliant wit formed the delight of a dinner-table; while his singular charm of manner, and, perhaps, of character, gave a permanency to his social success by converting the admirers of an evening into friends for life. The grandson of two dukes, and coming into fashion when wit and fancy, and the higher graces of person, were most cordially welcomed by the higher circles. Among his contemporaries were Sheridan, Moore, and Byron." - Recollections of a Literary Life, by Mary Russell Mitford.]

"I suppose," said Morgan,

"'He takes to drinking ratafie,
And thinks upon Miss Bailey?'"

Lady Hertford's nieces, the fair Misses Meynell, came in, escorted by their brother, the navy officer.

But I missed many dear old faces; Mrs. Abington, the last fine lady of the dramatic court, not excepting Lady Derby (Miss Farren); above all, poor Monk Lewis, who died the victim of his own benevolence. He visited his estates in the West Indies for the express purpose of liberating, or at least ameliorating, the condition of his slaves. He failed, and his health broke down under the disquietude and opposition which he experienced there. He died on deck, in his passage back. His last act was to write on the crown of his servant's hat a request to his heirs that they would add three holidays yearly to those already enjoyed by his slaves. As he could not give them their rights, he tried to multiply their enjoyments.

He was the founder of the dramatic school of novel writing - the novel of action since developed and followed up by Walter Scott. Lewis is in many respects comparable to Gil Blas; but his novel the "Monk" feel justly under the ban of lèse moralités. His "Castle Spectre" and "Tales of Wonder" are full of dramatic power, and broke in on the monotony of the rhyming sentiments which preceded the brighter grander outburst of Byron. I asked Spencer for a copy of his verses to Lady Anne Hamilton. He said he would give them to me in Paris - a charming rendezvous!*

[* To the Lady Anne Hamilton, by William Robert Spencer.

Too late I stayed, forgive the crime,
Unheeded flew the hours;
How noiseless falls the foot of Time
That only treads on flowers!

What eye with clear account remarks
The ebbing of his glass,
When all its sands are diamond sparks
That dazzle as they pass?

Ah! who to sober measurement
Time's happy swiftness brings,
When birds of paradise have lent
Their plumage for his wings?

These verses are so elegant, and perhaps now so forgotten, that I cannot resist reviving them here.]

I was still lingering in the hope of hearing Captain Morris, but Morgan, in the most husband-like and arbitrary manner, said, "Come, come, we must go home!" so I sulked all the way, singing to vex him -

"Then who'd be grave,
When wine can save
The heaviest heart from sinking,
And magic grapes
Give angel shapes
To every girl we're drinking."

Morgan and I always have a little tiff going home - I always wanting to stop longer, and he wanting to come home sooner.

Everybody seems bound for Italy: the papers annouce the Duke of Devonshire's departure to-day: Duchess Elizabeth is already off: Sir Thomas Lawrence going to Rome to paint the Pope's picture. Everybody, it seems, is to muster at Paris, and I wish you were of the party! And so God bless you, dear, and good night.

S. M.

P. S. - Dear old Bowen, the Abercorn chaplain, came to see us to-day, kind and good as ever. Lady Abercorn is very ill; when able she will go to Italy with her sister, Lady Julia. Toques like yours are very much worn. Send me word all about the babies and yourself. Morgan's kisses and loves to you all. He loves you much better than anything but me, and I see no such husband anywhere: the women all think him handsome, and the men very clever, and I am very proud.

S. M.

I never looked half so well, and am grown quite fat, fair, and - a beauty!!!

August, London.

MY DEAR LOVE,

NOTWITHSTANDING the voluminousness of my last epistle, I have not got half through all I had to say, and at ten o'clock this morning the printer's devils were at my elbow: they are getting on so rapidly with "Florence Macarthy," that I tremble for my own strength to write the original matter with which I am obliged to fill out the third volume, in which, by-the-by, I have changed the closing scenes, I think advantageously. Now add to all this, that, intending to rig myself out in Paris, I have had to set myself up with an evening dress; and though materials are extraordinarily cheap here, work is wonderfully dear, so dear, that I cannot get a plain dress made up under a guinea and a half. I am now sorry that I did not bring sulky Annette with me; however, I have made myself a very pretty dress with my own two hands - white satin, with deep lace flounce. With the skirt I got on beautifully, but as to the corsage, fortunately there is scarcely any, what there is being covered with falls, frills, and lace, so it does not signify how the body is made. Over the flounce is a rouleau of satin, which you make with a quarter pound of lamb's wool, which you pull out to the thickness you please. Dear Morgan has brought me a beautiful lace scarf, the most beautiful I ever saw, or rather ever possessed! Only think of Colburn's liberality! On reading over the proofs of the Second volume of "Florence Macarthy" (he cannot read manuscript, you know), he sent me a handsome letter and a red leather case containing a beautiful parure of amethysts! necklace, cross, and brooch! Did Sir Richard Phillips ever do as much for the "Wild Irish Girl" (poor dab!) in the height of his passion for her? Dear Nanny* is not yet come to town: she is still with dear grandpapa at Champneys, where they are angry we do not go to them; but we cannot leave town for a minute, so she is to be lent me for a day or two before we start for France.

[* Sir C. Morgan's daughter by his first marriage.]

I have been all over London for a fawn-coloured shawl for you, but can find no such thing; nothing but red and white, three guineas and a half, as handsome as mine; but one for five guineas much handsomer, a deep border all around. Shall I send you a bit of lace? it is so cheap. I shall send with them two dressed dolls for the two babies, as modes. Would you venture to send this hasty letter to Mrs. J. Bushe or Lady Charlemont? they will like to know how I am getting on. Nanny just arrived - such a handsome little creature! but so awkward. Her father would be so delighted to take her with us to France; but when I alluded to it grandpapa exclaimed, "What, madam! to make an atheist of her, or a papist at a French school? No, indeed!"

Colburn is delighted with Morgan's work, and thinks it will have a great run: he is to send him some articles for his "New Monthly," so we shall pay our way; but our expenses are enormous.

As to France, don't be alarmed at all you hear about it; it is "fudge" got up by the "Courier," and the "conspiracy" talked about was some intrigue of the French princes against the king, at which the French people are highly amused. But when I tell you it is said that De Cazes, the premier and king's favourite, is to be married to the pretty daughter of the Prince de Beauveau, with whom we lived so much at Paris, and have corresponded with since, I think you may believe we shall not be in much danger. However, to secure all, we have written to our French friends, to know how the land lies, and we shall be determined by their answers. You may depend on it we won't stir if there is the least symptom of danger, but return quietly to Dublin.

We went to the Coburg Theatre on Saturday. The Duke of Sussex was there, with Lady Arran, Lady Cecilia and Sir George, Colonel Gore, and the whole family of Gore: they were all, as usual, kind and courteous to us.

S. M.

From Lady Cork to Lady Morgan.

I THOUGHT to have borrowed Lady -----'s carriage, but she has given up her horses; she would be proud to have a job, believe me. Lady A. Lindsay, and some right honourables of my acquaintance, go in hacks, and I shall be happy to accompany you in one, rather than broil in my chair. Lady Cockerell would be glad to send one of her three carriages, but 'tis not worth while troubling her; she shall send us home. Here is an English milliner with French fripperies; pray see her, she is cheap. We shall meet you at dinner to-morrow.

Yours affectionately,

M. CORK.

From Lady Caroline Lamb to Lady Morgan.

Melbourne House.

So you will not vouchsafe one word to me, - what, not one? - are you afraid? Call upon me; name your hour, for I am going abroad as soon as I recover my strength a little. My brother, William Ponsonby,* wishes me to speak to you very much, but I must tell you I can only see you before four, or after eleven at night, as I am out in the cool of the evening.

Yours, most truly

CAROLINE.

[* The late lamented Lord de Morley.]

From Baron Dénon to Lady Morgan.

12th August, 1818.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

THINGS are going on better and better. The papers tear you to pieces. This strengthens your party; you are read. Your translation is found much fault with it; the English version is eagerly asked for, and everybody seizes on the few copies that are here. Your anonymous detractors are looked upon as hired. They copy from each other, or merely indulge in paraphrases. The pamphlet I send you with this letter is by the pretended author of "Fifteen Days in London," who has adopted an entirely new style to write against you. I add to it a justificatory note, of which you will make what use you think proper. If you print a second edition, you can, without changing your opinions, show that you have just reason to be offended with those who have such weak positions. Would not this be highly profitable to your publisher?

Mr. Moore is extremely amiable. You are requested to say that we shall see him again with much pleasure, that we often speak of him, and that I am commissioned to tell him so. Adieu, dear friend. I fear that Mr. Fletcher will leave this to-morrow, and not find my despatches ready. I embrace you both with all my heart.

Here is a letter from the mother* of the amiable family. I shall send you a portrait of the whole circle in the course of the present month, and in the meanwhile receive this sample.

[* The family of the Prince de Beauveau. The sketch, now in my possession, was done by Dénon himself.]

Dear friend, the breeze subsides. I send you the "Mercury" I have just received, in which there is a freely-written article, as just as can be expected. To obtain a little good, we must submit to the accompanying evil. I shall write again by Mr. Fletcher.

DENON.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Paris, August. 1818.

Diary. - Never employ your bookseller or publisher to take lodgings for you. Dufar, who stands in both those honourable positions (having published the translations of "The Novice of St. Dominick," "The Wild Irish Girl," and "France"), has settled down at the Hôtel d'Espagne, Faubourg St. Germain. Oh, such a darling dusty old fabrique! just as it was in the time of Louis XIV., or even of the Roi Dagobert; qui sait? As we drove up to Dufar's house, Quai Voltaire, he was actually waiting for us at the door, all bows and scrapes; and then putting on his casquet, ran beside the carriage like a running footman. Only think of the Johnsons, or Millers, or Murrays doing this! Dear friendly Mr. Warden sent his bonne to inquire if we were arrived; and while I was writing him a note, I saw her eyes fixed on my little Irish harp case, with divers exclamations of "Mon Dieu, est-il possible! comment donc!" I looked up at her, and she answered my inquiry with "C'est un petit mort, n'est-ce pas, Madame?" She explained that she thought it was my dead child that I was travelling with for the honour of entombment to Père-la-Chaise! It was now my turn to exclaim, "Mon Dieu et comment donc!" and her answer was "Mais, Madame, vous autres dames Anglaises, vous êtes si drôles!" The drollery of travelling with a dead child!

Dear old Warden*, looking more cowardly and frightened than ever - looking like "the thief that fears an officer in every bush," - for he has never recovered from the Reign of Terror, - took us with him to dine at Vérey's, aux jardines des Tuileries, and after our demi-tasse, we jumped into a fiacre, and away to the Vaudeville: quel délices! was I tired! And so ends my rentrée into charming Paris, under the scourge of proscription. By-the-by, Warden told us many pleasant anecdotes at dinner. He said the Comte D'Artois was the most ridiculous personage in the drama of the Restoration; that on the rentrée of the royal family, he kept bowing and scraping, and showing his immense tusks, answering the paid vivas of the populace with one of his jolis mots, "Mes amis, il n'y a qu'un Français de plus!" The next day the shops were full of a caricature of the giraffe (whom he resembled, and who had made his entrée into Paris the day before, on his way to the Jardin des Plantes), with a label in his mouth addressed to the gazing multitudes, "Mes amis, il n'y a qu'un bête de plus!"

[* Minister from the United States, and author of a very clever work on America. - See "France, 1818."]

He observed, that the French had a prompt but an unenduring sensibility. On the execution of Louis XVI. there appeared in the English journals the day after, this annonce, "Aux émigrés Français, on est prévenu qu'on donne pas des fêtes aujourd'hui." Two days afterwards, the brilliant Count de Vandreuil gave a réunion, where the proverbe played was "Il n'y a point d'éternels douleurs," a parody on the song, Il n'y a point d'éternels amours.

Paris.

Diary. - A delightful recontre at the Opera last night with a charming man, Berkeley Craven, the man in the world I wanted most to meet, as he and Sir William Gell are living in Italy (Naples), and, I believe, both with his mother, the Margravine of Anspach, whose books were the first books (not school books*) that chance threw my way; and as to Sir William Gell, does he not fill a large space in my autobiography, which is to come out some day or other? It was he who inspired me with a desire to write in favour of Greek liberty; and I have still the plan of Athens which he and I drew out at a side table one night at a party at the Dowager Lady Donegal's. "Ida of Athens" appeared three months after, for which Messrs. Longman gave me 700l. tale quale. Well, Mr. Craven said he and my old beau, Gell, would take care of us when we got to Naples, where his mother reigned supreme, with the prime ministry of good dinners and private theatricals. We settled everything, though Mademoiselle Mars was on the stage, giving Elvire in "Le Tartuffe," with all the grace and quite force which belong to her genius and her knowledge of what constitutes a fine lady in real life. He is off to-morrow for Italy, and so we parted with à revederla in the land of the Syrens.

[* "Travel of Lady Craven."]

August. - This morning, a long and admirable letter from Lady Charleville, who also talks of going to Italy. What a woman! and how proud I feel of her early distinction of me when I was a poor girl, if not an obscure one. Her friendship, demonstrated by every circumstance that could be advantageous to my youth, and protective of my respectability, has never flagged.*

[* 1858. - Since I penned the above lines (now forty years ago), I have lost this inestimable friend, and London has lost one of the most distinguished members of its aristocratic and literary society. The following tribute to her memory, by one who knew her well, and enjoyed the advantage of her intimacy, appeared in one of the public prints. I cannot deny myself the pleasure of quoting it.

"The late Dowager Countess of Charleville.

"The late Dowager Countess of Charleville, who died on Monday last, at the advanced age of ninety, was one of the most estimable and remarkable women of any age or epoch. Had she been born a Frenchwoman and lived in France, whe would have been assigned a place in social history with the Sevignés and the Du Deffands, for she possessed in an eminent degree the qualities to which they owe their fame, without a particle of their frivolity or their heartlessness. Her maiden name was Dawson, and she was a member of the family which was ennobled in the person of the first Lord Cremorne. She received the principal part of her education at a French convent, and her memory was stored with curious traits of French manners prior to the first revolution. But Dublin, in its most brilliant days, was her favourite theme. She had mixed familiarity with all that was most distinguished for talent, eloquence, wit, or patriotism, during the concluding quarter of the eighteenth century, in the Irish capital. Lord Clare and Grattan, notwithstanding their marked opposition of character and party, were equally her friends. She was with Grattan in his last illness, during the memorable interview with the late Lord Castlereagh, when that noble lord announced to him that he was to be buried in Westminster Abbey. She was the person to whom Lord Clare communicated the remarkable fact (left unnotices by Moore), that when Lady Edward Fitzgerald entreated Lord Clare (then chancellor) to give her an order to see her husband in prison, Lord Clare replied - 'I have no power to give you an order, but I can take any one I like with me to visit any prisoner, and my carriage is at the door.'

"Her first husband was a gentleman of family and fortune in the county Louth. He died in 1797, and in the following year she married the late Earl of Charleville. Soon afterwards her firmness and conjugal affection were put to a severe test. During the Irish Rebellion, Lord Charleville was acting as one of the district Generals in King's County, whilst she remained in Dublin. She resolved on joining him, and effected her purpose with no other escort than her maid, but armed with pistols, one of which she had occasion to present at the head of a troublesome innkeeper, who thought proper to usurp the duties of the police. Her name has been popularly associated with literature in a manner which always gave her unmitigated pain. Early in 1798, and prior to the marriage, the late earl (a very clever and accomplished man) printed for private circulation a translation of Voltaire's 'Pucelle.' In one of the notes to a satirical poem from the pen of an Irish barrister (now an English privy councillor of no inconsiderable note in politics and literature), it was insinuated, that 'lawn sleeves and gauze petticoats' had been associated in some manner with his lordship in this work. The 'lawn sleeves' were understood to belong to the late Bishop Marlay, and the 'petticoats' to indicate that Lady Charleville had lent her aid. The work is now exceedingly scarce, and much prized by book-collectors; and, to enhance its value, it is almost invariably advertised as by Lady Charleville. The fact is, she had nothing whatever to do with it. Her distinct disavowal, for which we can vouch, will fully satisfy all her personal acquaintances on this point - for she was the soul of truth and honour. They also - at least those who lived much with her - must know that nothing could be more alien from her tone of mind, taste, and intellectual tendencies, than the translation in question. It is rendered into vernacular English, and abounds in phrases with which no woman in Lady Charleville's rank of life could be familiar. She thoroughly enjoyed wit, but had comparatively small relish for humour, and was instinctively repelled by the smallest approximation to vulgarity. Now, in this translation, the wit of the original is very frequently broadened into humour, and coarsened without warrant from the text. Judging, therefore, solely from internal evidence, we should no more believe that the English version was, wholly or in part, the work of Lady Charleville, than that a woman was the author of 'Tom Jones.'

"The part of her life to which Lady Charleville herself recurred with most pleasure, and in which she took most pride, was that which she passed at Charleville Castle, King's County, in the midst of her late husband's tenantry and dependents. She was bred up in Protestant ascendency principles, and had imbibed strong family prejudices against Roman Catholics. But her mind was far too liberal and too enlightened to miss the true course to be pursued by an Irish proprietor. She established schools open to both creeds alike, and lived on excellent terms with the Roman Catholic clergy in the neighbourhood, who - seeing that proselytizing was the last thing on her thoughts, and that she was simply anxious to elevate the moral as well as to improve the physical condition of the peasantry - cordially co-operated in her views. It was her fixed belief, founded on careful observation and deep reflection, that a State provision for the Roman Catholic clergy of Ireland was indispensable to the lasting tranquilization of the country.

"She lost the use of her lower limbs from rheumatism before she passed middle life, and she was entirely dependent on others for locomotion; yet her spirits were excellent, except under the immediate pressure of affliction, to which she was exposed in no ordinary degree from her warm heart and affectionate disposition. It would be impossible to cite a more memorable example of disproof of the commonplace doctrine - that the heart and the imagination necessarily grow torpid and inactive in old age. Her chief amusement, almost to her last hour, was painting, and the style of art which she cultivated was the very highest. Her generosity was boundless, and whenever any sacrifice, personal or pecuniary, was demanded of her, her only anxiety was to do what was right. The moment she was satisfied in this respect, the struggle was at an end. Her conversation was eminently entertaining, instructive, and improving. But we have said enough to complete our tribute."]

Extracts from Letters to Lady Clarke.

Paris, August, 1818,
Hôtel d'Espagne.

MY DEAREST DEAR,

THIS morning we trotted off to Dénon, calling chemin faisant at our Hôtel d'Orléans. Alas! we found our venerable hostess dead - the fine old man (seated under his vine, as usual) dying, while Pierre and Marie nearly kissed our hands off. Pierre danced about roaring to his master, "Mais, c'est M. Morgan et Madame, levez-vous donc;" he assured us we were well off in the Hôtel d'Espagne, as Josef the frotteur was his "ami intime, un garçon très-aimable, à qui je pouvais me confier." This Josef is ready dressed for a figurant at the Opera, his white shirt fastened with a large ruby, a bouquet in his green jacket, and his hair frisé à ravir.

We found dear Dénon surrounded by English fashionables, from whom he rushed, when we were announced, into our arms alternately. We met at dinner chez Madame d'Houchien, who received us like her children. We found some of the old habitués there; but Dénon and Morgan set me down at our hotel early in the evening, I was so tired, and they proceeded to the Bishop of Blois (Grégoire). The bishop actually embraced him, heretic as he was, before all the company, although there were two Italian bishops present, praised my work on "France," and assured him it had done infinite good. You may, therefore, be perfectly easy about us. We are to dine to-morrow with Dénon. Humboldt asked to meet us.

The Princess de Craon sent us a message through M. Lattin, that notwithstanding our difference of opinion, she would come and see us immediately. Benjamin Constant has written us a beautiful letter expressive of his desire to make our acquaintance. He has married a German lady of high rank, who left her card for me. This is all very flattering. The clever little Inez Esménard tells me that my account of her in my first "France" has brought her into great fashion, and she has already made 2000f. by her pictures since my affiche*. A Doctor Morgan is settled here, and people supposing him to be our relation, have followed him very much. All our friends say that if Morgan would remain here, and resume his profession, he would make a fortune in a short time. So you owe us a fortune, mind! for nothing would bring us back to Ireland but you and your babies - the tiresome family in Great George Street! I have sent you some ribbons for poor Molly, by Miss Nugent. Curran, whom we saw yesterday, brings you another packet of more consequence for yourself. Dress here is much dearer than in London. A little dress of coloured muslin, for which I paid ten shillings in London, I was here asked forty for; but en revanche, I got four pairs of beautiful satin shoes for fifteen shillings. I have promised to sit for two pictures for Dénon - one for engraving (seated by-the-by in one of his magnificent Egyptian chairs, with a curious lion's head on each side), and the other picture for the Exposition du Louvre, 1821. I have already given une séance for the first; but the man was so much more occupied in sketching the lion's head than mine, that, after three hours' sitting, I declared to Dénon I would not poser any more unless he muffled his lions, at which he laughed heartily. The second is to be a very grand affair; it is to my done in the school of David, and by his most eminent disciple and pupil, Berthon; it is to be finished before I start for Italy. Direct to me here before I get to La Grange, La Fayette's. We are every hour expecting a good account from Clarke: our anxiety about you embitters all our pleasure. Describing to Madame d'Houchien your situation, and my anxiety about you, she exclaimed, "Pourquoi, Madame, fait-elle ce vilain métier-là!" French women of condition, she said - "des femmes comme il faut" - never have more than two or three children at most! So you see, my dear Olivia, they manages these things better in France.

[* The story of this little lady will be found in my "France, 1816;" she was the daughter of the ex-minister of police under Napoleon.]

Susan Morgan, our half-sister, is here at a celebrated English school. Here is M. Thierry, my great admirer from Metz. He brought his handsome son with him. He invited us most cordially to pay him a visit at Metz.

P.S. - Your letter just arrived has set our hearts at rest for the present. At the same time I do think you might have found a larger sheet of paper to tell us more about yourself and everybody. Several letters from Colburn; one from Mr. Harris, of Covent Garden. It is most polite, respectful, and kind: he appoints a day to call on me to talk over your play, which he seems inclined to bring out, although two months have elapsed since his letter was written. I have thought it better late than never, so I have written to recommend your play. Let me beseech of you not to bring it out in Dublin under any circumstances: the success of my little opera was not due to its merits, it was a pièce de circonstance, and upheld by a party.

By the same packet I had a letter from Miss Drew - the daughter of Lady Susan Douglas, and niece to the charming Duchess of Sussex - with an account of the death of Lady Cecilia Leeson, daughter of Lady Cloncurry. It has shocked me much - so young, so clever, and so good! In haste, and bless you all!

S. M.

From General La Fayette to Sir Charles Morgan.

La Grange, Monday morning.

MY DEAR SIR CORGAN,

THE letter which announced to me your arrival in Paris, and the approaching pleasure of soon seeing you here, reached me on Wednesday last; too late to reply by the same post. My friend, M. D'Argenson, who left this on Thursday morning, offered to take charge of my answer; by which means I gained a day. This advantage seemed the more important to me, as I understood you would be free from Friday. You have not yet realized our anxious hope, which we readily account for by the many engagements of objects of curiosity that may have detained you. We should regret even more, if in this matter you did not consult your entire convenience; while the impatient desire to see you again is the sole motive we have for preferring one time to another for your welcome, and, as we hope, long visit. Meanwhile a sudden apprehension has seized us that some accident may have happened to my answer. Two young friends of mine leave this morning by the diligence: they have promised me to call on you the moment they arrive, and I take this opportunity of repeating to you that I have no engagement or business to call me from La Grange, or prevent me from enjoying the whole time you may feel inclined to pass there. They say the elections are postponed. These will occupy three of four days in October, at a distance of eight leagues from hence. No other duty can interfere with my liberty, and you see that they are a long while off. Besides, if we were fortunate enough to keep you till that time, I should ask your permission to absent myself for the purpose. I beg Lady Morgan and yourself to accept the expression of our affectionate regards, and of the anxious impatience of the whole family.

LA FAYETTE

From Benjamin Constant to Lady Morgan.

Rue St. Honoré, No. 366,
September the 1st, 1818.

THOUGH M. Benjamin Constant is informed of Lady Morgan's intended visit to La Grange, he would not wait till her ladyship's return to express his regrets at being still confined, and prevented from paying his respects to her. He takes the liberty of reminding Sir Charles that he kindly promised to let him know when he and Lady Morgan will again be in Paris, and hopes then to be able to go out and make amends for what he is not unfortunately deprived of. The high reputation of Lady Morgan, her liberal opinions, and excellent works, must make every person worthy of conversering with her ladyship lament at such a pleasure being uncertain or delayed.

Diary. - We began this day with the "Bibliothèque Historique," which I wanted to consult on the subject of my Italian journey, for I am cramming for Italy all the time I am hustling and bustling about. After which, we drove to several portes-cochères; but the general answer was, "Parti pour les Eaux," or "Pour leur campagne." We got admission, however, to the venerable Bishop of Blois, Grégoire, and found him at home and alone, gracious and kind as ever. He talked with flattering admiration of my work on France, and of the eulogium I had made on him. On our return to our hotel, we found the member for Metz waiting for us, who fancies himself an English country gentleman because he wears top-boots. He talked to Morgan on the British Constitution, and asked me "what I thought of 'Betsy Thatless?'" (Betsy Thoughtless). A letter from General La Fayette, fixing our visit to La Grange for the third of September. He sends us carte de voyage, and the carriage is to meet us at Grande Ville - "a village," he says, "on the confines of civilisation."

To-day we walked to the Barbe bleue, Marché des Innocents, where I bought myself a chapeau de soleil, with corn flowers stuck in the side of it - a regular Leghorn - twenty francs. In London I was asked three pounds for just such another. We then got into a cabriolet, and drove to Eaubonne, to see, or at least to inquire for, poor dear Madame Ginguené.* Alas! she was not there. What desolation! and yet, by what immortal names is not Eaubonne consecerated - Ginguené, Rousseau, St. Lambert, Madame d'Hourdotot, &c., &c. We put up our cabriolet, and dined deliciously as to the menus, though not gaily, for four francs, at a little guinguette, under the heights of Montmorenci, over the door of which was inscribed, "Ici on danse tous les jours." They were clearing out for the ball, and so we cleared ourselves out of Paris. Oh! England, if you would only have guinguettes where "on danse tous les jours," instead of drinking porter and gin, what misery and murder might it not spare! The worst of the English temperament and habits is, that they lead to sullen fanaticism, which restricts innocent amusements, and leaves the field clear for brutal indulgence. The man who has no scruple to get drunk on gin of a Sunday would shrink scandalised from dancing and eau sucrée on that day "appointed by the Church to be kept holy." Porter and piety can go hand in hand; and so the orthodox

"Compound for sins they are inclined to,
By damning those they have no mind to."

[* "France, 1816."]

On our return, found that Humboldt had called. It is too provoking! He left us a little billet instead of a card:

"LE BARON DE HUMBOLDT est venu s'informer du retour bien tardiff de Sir Charles et Lady Morgan."

Note from Madame la Marquise de Villette, the "Belle et Bonne" of Voltaire.

August 27th, 1818.

MADAME DE VILLETTE presents many compliments to Lady Morgan, whom she proposes to visit at noon this day. For two days she has wished to pass a moment with her, but the bad weather has kept her at home.

She sends her Fables, which she ahs been desirious of lending to Lady Morgan in exchange for St. Clair. Madame de Villette regrets to hear of the approaching departure [for La Fayette's,] which she could have wished to see indefinitely postponed; and all who have the pleasure of Lady Morgan's acquaintance concur in the same feeling.

Letters from Lady C. Lamb, which have made le tour du monde.

Melbourne House,
Saturday, 11 o'clock evening.

I AM returned from riding alone, to find myself in these large rooms alone; but I sent for some street minstrels to sing to me, and whilst they have been thus employed, I have scribbled over a bit of paper without in the least intending it; so, as you profess to like these odd twists of my pen, I shall answer your kind note with this truly edifying frontspiece.* I would you had stayed a few days longer; your head, with far more of genius than mine; and besides, you have a much better temper, and you have gone through more, formed yourself more, seen the necessity of, in some degree, considering the opinions of others, although for the matter of that, you have got yourself exiled, so that you have not sacrificed your principles to your interest. Now my case is this; if I were alone to consider my own interest, it is to bear all very gently, be very friendly, say nothing, think nothing, feel nothing, but, studying the present very unbecoming French fashion, to join my cousin the ambassador, make love to every one in power, look askance at those who are not, and climb up that slippery rock - fashion - from which I chose to throw myself down as in an avalanche or parachute - quite plump; - the only question being into which pond, lake, or chasm I like to rest. But it is not my character, and the torrent will take its course. I go, therefore, off, and you will probably see amongst the dead, in some newspaper - Died, on her voyage to Bonneberga Hague, Lady Caroline Lamb, of the disease called death; her time being come, and she being a predestinarian.

[*Two specimens of Lady C. L.'s artistic facility, both in the grotesque and elegant, accompanied this letter.

The following poem, printed afterwards in "Glenarvon," accompanied the letter and the sketches: -

        "Waters of Elle! thy limpid streams are flowing
            Smooth and untroubled through the flowery vale;
        O'er thy green banks once more the wild rose blowing,
            Greets the young spring and scents the passing gale.

        "Here 'twas at eve, near yonder tree reposing,
            One still too dear first breathed his vows to thee;
        'Wear this,' he cried, his guileful love disclosing,
            'Near to thy heart in memory of me.'

        "Love's cherish'd gift - the rose he gave - is faded;
            Love's blighted flower can never bloom again.
        Weep for thy fault, in heart and mind degraded;
            Weep, if thy tears can wash away the stain.

        "Call back the vows that once to heaven were plighted -
            Vows full of love, of innocence and truth;
        Call back the scenes in which thy soul delighted,
            Call back the dream that bless'd thy early youth.

        "Flow, silver stream! though threatening tempest lower,
            Bright, mild, and clear thy gentle waters flow;
        Round thy green banks the spring's young blossoms flower;
            O'er thy soft waves they balmy zephyrs blow.

        "Yet all in vain, for never Spring arraying
            Nature in charms, to thee can make it fair;
        Ill-fated love clouds all thy path, portraying
            Years of past bliss and future of despair."]

Thank you for "Absenteeism," which I am now going to read. I hope you saw my brother.

How did you like your séjour in London? Will you return? Do you like the "Crusaders?" I will send you a letter of Lord Byron's, to keep; there are some verses to me which I think pretty; they were written in a moment. I shall send these when I hear from you; in the mean time, believe me, with much truth,

Yours,

CAROLINE LAMB.

Brockett Hall.

MY VERY DEAR LADY MORGAN,

BELIEVE me I have, as Ariel did for Prospero, obeyed your commands; but like Ariel, I am tied in a gnarled oak (that is, I am too ill to go about), so I came to live quietly, until after my wedding-day, at Brockett Hall. My brother William is in trouble that you have not received my letter, because it was such a stupid letter. I dare say he would not send it until he had added to it what you wanted. "Ada Reis" I sent to you long ago, with some little pride - that Ireland, for whom you, as well as I feel interest, should uphold it; here, all I have asked of Murray is a dull sale or a still birth. This may seem strange, and I assure you it is contrary to my own feeling of ambition; but what can I do? I am ordered peremptorily by my own family not to write. All you say is true, and so true, that I ask you, my dear Lady Morgan, if one descended in a right line from Spenser, not to speak of the Duke of Marlborough, with all the Cavendish and Ponsonby blood to boot, who you know were always rebellious, should feel a little strongly upon any occasion, and burst forth, and yet be told to hold their tongues and not write, by all their relations united - what is to happen? You cannot do me a greater favour than to recommend and set abroad "Ada Reis." I will send you three copies, and with them the letters I have receieved from Gifford, Lady Dacre, and several others whom you know. In the mean time, I am doing all I can for your future work upon Salvator Rosa,* but until I go to town, I can do but little. I have written to my father, the Duke of Devonshire, Lord Palmerston, Lord Cowper, and I have received from each of them very kind answers, in which they say they will certainly obey your orders. You must wait, but depend on the information. Now, in the mean time, will you do me this favour - will you, in return for three "Ada Reises" which I shall send you, and which I value at sixpence a head - will you read the enclosed list, and serve me, if you can, by trying to secure me a vote in Westminster Hospital, in case of a vacancy for a physician? it may not happen this year, and it may in a month. All I ask you is to write, and to beg for Lady C. Lamb, never mind anything else: but to you I communicate that I am anxious to serve a physician who is with me, whose name is Dr. Roe, who was and is highly recommended; and as we both love Ireland, let me speak it, to the honour of that country, that he sprung from it. He has done everything he could for my dear and only child; I therefore have done and will do everything for him. As you estimate talent so highly, and place mine so high, what must I not say of you? will you at least use your influence discretionally, as there is no vacancy at present, and without naming him, do what you can for me? It is Scotland, Ireland, and England that are opposing each other. You know you are all-powerful with the Opposition, and I hope, for Ireland, you will do your best. I will do all I can for Salvator Rosa. Depend upon me, and you will see how zealous I will be very soon. I received both your letters, but I could not answer you myself; and now, I am obliged to dictate, being far from well. You talk of talent - look at home.

Ever yours, sincerely

CAROLINE LAMB.**

[* Lady C. Lamb having mentioned to me that some of the finest works of Salvator Rosa were in the possession of certain members of her family, I wrote to beg she would procure me a list of them, as I had some idea of collecting materials for the life and times of that poet and painter.]

[** N. B. - These letters followed me to Italy. I give them as I find them.]

Diary. - To-day being our last day in Paris for the present (we go to La Grange to-morrow), we made a tour of public libraries - dined at Vérey's - home - dressed, and went to Baron Dénon's in the evening. The Prince de S---- and his wife were there. General Sebastiani dropped in, and the dear Comte de Ségur, with a green shade over his eyes, and almost blind, still in deep despondency for the loss of his noble son. Humboldt came in, and was unusually pleasant; gave us anecdotes of the emperor and Josephine, and threw new light on the cause of their separation. Dénon spoke of his indulgence to Marie Louise, and his love of children. He saw him twice take the son of Hortense* to council. He said the little King of Rome jouait son rôle de roi to admiration. One day when Dénon came to the emperor upon business, the little Napoleon was playing with some toys on the floor. The emperor called him, and put his little hands into Dénon's, saying "Remerciez donc, M. Dénon, qui a tant travaillé pour nous." - "Je serai charmé, M. Dénon, de travailler quelques fois avec vous," said his tiny majesty. "From that moment," said Dénon, "we were great friends, and I invented some pretty toys for his little palace in the Tuileries gardens." Turning to me he added, "That unfinished drawing of Isabey's, which Inez Esménard gave you, Lady Morgan, would have been perfect had he been allowed to finish it."

[* The death of this promising child much affected the emperor.]

During the "Hundred Days," Isabey, to please the emperor, went to Vienna, where the poor little Napoleon was residing with his grandfather, the Emperor of Austria. He took his unfinished drawing in acquarelle to work out his deisgn, if possible; but when admitted to the little dethroned sovereign, he found his fair locks cut off, his head powdered, pomatumed, and covered with a cocked hat; and himself dressed in the white uniform, turned up with red, of an Austrian general, decorated with the order of Maria Theresa, military boots, and white leather breeches. Isabey never waited on him again: the next day the news came of the battle of Waterloo, and that Napoleon was a captive to England.

A note from the general: here it is: -

From General La Fayette to Sir Charles Morgan.

La Grange, September 3rd, 1818.

MY DEAR SIR CHARLES,

YOUR letter of the 31st only arrived yesterday, too late for the same day's post. This disappointment is repaired by the departure of M. d'Argenson, and you will receive to-day our thanks for your kind intentions in regard to La Grange. The news of your coming has circulated much joy here. All my family are collected here, with the exception of my two sons-in-law. You will also find, in addition, Madame de Tracy, mother of my daughter-in-law; Madame de Maisonneuve, sister to M. de Maubourg;* and a young painter of much distinction, brother of the liberal writer Scheffer. I feel convinced that this addition to our circle will be agreeable to you. The happiness of receiving Lady Morgan and yourself will be participated by our guests. We all agree that the sooner the better. Do not trouble yourself about the elections. They must be preceded by the assembling of the Holy Alliance of Aix-la-Chapelle, although it does not seem very clear what they can have in common with foreign diplomacy. It however appears quite certain that the meeting of electors will not take place before October. I hope it is superfluous to tell you, my dear friends, with what impatience you are expected, and how happy we shall be to renew the expression of our affectionate and grateful sentiments.

LA FAYETTE.

[* Sister of the celebrated Count de Maubourg. She obtained permission to join him at Glatz, and only quitted him when he was transferred to Austria.]

The pleasure of seeing you overcomes the mortification I feel in thinking that La Grange, the object of your kind partiality, will again be presented to you in a deformed state, owing to the want of rain, which will make you blush for your praises. May the inhabitants, towards whom you are so indulgent, not find themselves in the same condition!

Madame la Marquise Villette to Lady Morgan

29th August, 1818.

MADAME DE VILLETTE salutes Lady Morgan, and expresses her regret at not having once more embraced her before her departure. She sends her Epistle of Chénier, which she seemed desirous of having. With respect to the note relative to my brother, the Chevalier de Varicourt, that which has been already drawn up is too voluminous to send to Lady Morgan. It would occupy too much space. For the memory of the Chevalier de Varicourt a short notice will suffice, which will recommend itself sufficiently when it appears in your ladyship's works. On the night of the 6th of October, the Chevalier de Varicourt was on guard over the queen, and perished, the victim of honour and fidelity, while resisting the attacks of the populace long enough to afford the queen sufficient time to save herself in the king's apartments. If he had not been my brother I could add many details which would elevate still more highly his heroci conduct."*

[* The family of Varicourt having been reduced from wealth to pverty, Voltaire adopted the children, and married the eldest daughter to his friend and ward, the wealthy and noble Marquis de Villette, one of the brilliant wits of Paris - when wits abounded.]

We are off to-morrow for La Grange; post-horses to Grandeville, and such a calèche et chaise de poste!

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