“Lady Caroline Lamb sent for me. Her story: Her mother had a paralytic stroke: went to Italy: she remained there till nine years old, brought up by a maid called Fanny. She was then taken to Devon-

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shire House, and brought up with her cousins. She gave curious anecdotes of high life,—children neglected by their mothers—children served on silver in the morning, carrying down their plate to the kitchen—no one to attend to them—servants all at variance—ignorance of children on all subjects—thought all people were dukes or beggars—or had never to part with their money—did not know bread, or butter, was made—wondered if horses fed on beef—so neglected in her education, she could not write at ten years old. Lady Georgiana Cavendish took her away, and she was sent to live with her godmother, Spencer, where the housekeeper, in hoop and ruffles, had the rule over seventy servants, and always attended her ladies in the drawing-room. Lady Georgiana’s marriage was one de convenance. Her delight was hunting butterflies. The housekeeper breaking a lath over her head reconciled her to the match [to become Duchess of Devonshire]. She was ignorant of everything. Lady Spencer had Dr. Warren to examine Lady Caroline. He said she had no tendency to madness,—severity of her governess and indulgence of her parents. Her passion for William Lamb—would not marry him—knew herself to be a fury—wanted to follow him as a clerk, &c. Ill tempers on both sides broke out together after marriage—both loved, hated, quarrelled, and made up. ‘He cared nothing for my morals,’ she said. ‘I might flirt and go about with what men I pleased. He was privy to my affair with Lord Byron, and laughed at it. His indolence rendered him insensible to every-

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thing. When I ride, play, and amuse him, he loves me. In sickness and suffering, he deserts me. His violence is as bad as my own.’”

Her account of Lord Byron:—

“Lady Westmoreland knew him in Italy. She took on her to present him. The women suffocated him. I heard nothing of him, till one day Rogers (for he, Moore, and Spencer, were all my lovers, and wrote me up to the skies—I was in the clouds)—Rogers said, ‘you should know the new poet,’ and he offered me the MS. of Childe Harold to read. I read it, and that was enough. Rogers said, ‘he has a club-foot, and bites his nails.’ I said, ‘If he was ugly as Aesop I must know him.’ I was one night at Lady Westmoreland’s; the women were all throwing their heads at him. Lady Westmoreland led me up to him. I looked earnestly at him, and turned on my heel. My opinion, in my journal was, ‘mad—bad—and dangerous to know.’ A day or two passed; I was sitting with Lord and Lady Holland, when he was announced. Lady Holland said, ‘I must present Lord Byron to you.’ Lord Byron said, ‘That offer was made to you before; may I ask why you rejected it?’ He begged permission to come and see me. He did so the next day. Rogers and Moore were standing by me: I was on the sofa. I had just come in from riding. I was filthy and heated. When Lord Byron was announced, I flew out of the room to wash myself. When I returned, Rogers said, ‘Lord Byron, you are

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a happy man. Lady Caroline has been sitting here in all her dirt with us, but when you were announced, she flew to beautify herself.’ Lord Byron wished to come and see me at eight o’clock, when I was alone; that was my dinner-hour. I said he might. From that moment, for more than nine months, he almost lived at Melbourne House. It was then the centre of all gaiety, at least, in appearance. My cousin Hartington wanted to have waltzes and quadrilles; and, at Devonshire House, it would not be allowed, so we had them in the great drawing-room of Melbourne House. All the bon ton of London assembled here every day. There was nothing so fashionable. Byron contrived to sweep them all away. My mother grew miserable, and did everything in her power to break off the connexion. She at last brought me to consent to go to Ireland with her and papa. Byron wrote me that letter which I have shown you. While in Ireland, I received letters constantly,—the most tender and the most amusing. We had got to Dublin, on our way home, where my mother brought me a letter. There was a coronet on the seal. The initials under the coronet were Lady Oxford’s. It was that cruel letter I have published in Glenarvon: it destroyed me: I lost my brain. I was bled, leeched; kept for a week in the filthy Dolphin Inn, at Rock. On my return, I was in great prostration of mind and spirit. Then came my fracas with the page, which made such noise. He was a little espiègle, and would throw detonating balls into the fire. Lord Melbourne always scolded me for this; and I, the boy. One day

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I was playing ball with him. He threw a squib into the fire, and I threw the ball at his head. It hit him on the temple, and he bled. He cried out, ‘Oh, my lady, you have killed me!’ Out of my senses, I flew into the hall, and screamed, ‘Oh God, I have murdered the page!’ The servants and people in the streets caught the sound, and it was soon spread about. William Lamb would live with me no longer. All his family united in insisting on our separation. Whilst this was going on, and instruments drawing out—that is, in one month—I wrote and sent Glenarvon to the press. I wrote it, unknown to all (save a governess, Miss Welsh), in the middle of the night. It was necessary to have it copied out. I had heard of a famous copier, an old Mr. Woodhead. I sent to beg he would come to see Lady Caroline Lamb at Melbourne House. I placed Miss Welsh, elegantly dressed, at my harp, and myself at a writing-table, dressed in the page’s clothes, looking a boy of fourteen. He addressed Miss Welsh as Lady Caroline. She showed him the author. He would not believe that this schoolboy could write such a thing. He came to me again in a few days, and he found me in my own clothes. I told him William Ormond, the young author, was dead. When the work was printed, I sent it to William Lamb. He was delighted with it; and we became united, just as the world thought we were parted for ever. The scene at Brocket Hall (in the novel of Glenarvon) was true. Lord Byron’s death—the ghost appearing to her—her distraction at his death. Medwin’s talk completed her distress.”

I have sent for, and I know not if I shall receive, the portrait you wished to see. I am afraid you have seen me under great irritation, and under circumstances that might try any one. I am too miserable. You have not yet advised me what to do—I know not, care not. Oh, God, it is a punishment severe enough; I never can recover it; it is fair by William Lamb to mention, that since I saw you he has written a kinder letter; but if I am sent to live by myself, let them dread the violence of my despair—better far go away. Every tree, every flower, will awaken bitter reflection. Pity me, for I am too unhappy; I cannot bear it. I would give all I possessed on earth to be again what I once was, and I would now be obedient and gentle; but I shall die of grief.

Think about Ireland—if only for a few months—yet what shall I do at Bessborough alone? God bless you; thanks for your portrait; hearing this, is a sad ending to a too frivolous and far too happy a life. Farewell; if you receive the portrait, return it, and send the letter; it is his parting one when I went to Ireland with mamma (I mean Lord Byron’s). She was near dying because she thought I was going to leave her. William, at that time, loved me so much

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that he forgave me all, and only implored me to remain. My life has not been the best possible. The slave of impulse, I have rushed forward to my own destruction. If you like the drawing of me, which Pickett did before he died, I will try and have it copied. I trust faithfully to your returning my letter and both pictures.

If tears which you saw and know I am not apt to shed,—if the agitation in which I parted from you,—agitation which you must have perceived through the whole of this most nervous affair, did not commence until the moment of leaving you approached,—if all I have said and done, and am still but too ready to say and do have not sufficiently proved what my real feelings are, and must ever be towards you, my love, I have no other proof to offer. God knows, I wish you happy, and when I quit you, or rather you from a sense of duty to your husband and mother, quit me, you shall acknowledge the truth of what I again promise and vow, that no other in word or deed shall ever hold the place in my affections, which is, and shall be, most sacred to you, till I am nothing. I

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never knew till that moment the madness of my dearest and most beloved friend; I cannot express myself; this is no time for words, but I shall have a pride, a melancholy pleasure, in suffering what you yourself can scarcely conceive, for you do not know me. I am about to go out with a heavy heart, because my appearing this evening will stop any absurd story which the spite of the day might give rise to. Do you think now I am cold, and stern, and wilful? will ever others think so? will your mother ever—that mother to whom we must indeed sacrifice much more, much more on my part than she shall ever know or can imagine? “Promise not to love you,” ah, Caroline, it is past promising. But I shall attribute all concessions to the proper motive, and never cease to feel all that you have already witnessed, and more than can ever be known but to my own heart,—perhaps to yours.

No, no, not that portrait out of my hands—I cannot bear. I will have it copied for you. I must take it with me to Paris. Thank you, dear Lady Morgan, for your advice, but you do not understand me, and I do not wonder you cannot know me. I had purposed a very pretty Little supper for you. I have permission to see all my friends here; it is not William’s house; beside, he said he wished me to see every one, and Lady —— called and asked me who I wished to see. I shall, therefore, shake hands with the whole Court Guide before I go. The only question I want you to solve is, shall I go abroad? Shall I throw myself upon those who no longer want me, or shall I live

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a good sort of a half kind of life in some cheap street a little way off, viz., the City Road, Shoreditch, Camberwell, or upon the top of a shop,—or shall I give lectures to little children, and keep a seminary, and thus earn my bread? or shall I write a kind of quiet every day sort of novel, full of wholesome truths, or shall I attempt to be poetical, and failing, beg my friends for a guinea a-piece, and their name, to sell my work, upon the best foolscap paper; or shall I fret, fret, fret, and die; or shall I be dignified and fancy myself, as Richard the Second did when he picked the nettle up—upon a thorn?

Sir Charles Morgan was most agreeable and good-natured. Faustus is good in its way, but has not all its sublimity; it is like a rainy shore. I admire it because I conceive what I had heard translated elsewhere, but the end particularly is in very contemptible taste. The overture tacked to it is magnificent, the scenery beautiful, parts affecting, and not unlike Lord Byron, that dear, that angel, that mis-guided and mis-guiding Byron, whom I adore, although he left that dreadful legacy on me—my memory. Remember thee—and well.

I hope he and William will find better friends; as to myself, I never can love anything better than what I thus tell you:—William Lamb, first; my mother, second; Byron, third; my boy, fourth; my brother William, fifth; my father and godmother, sixth; my uncle and aunt, my cousin Devonshire, my brother Fred., (myself), my cousins next, and last, my petit friend, young Russell, because he is my aunt’s godson;

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because when he was but three I nursed him; because he has a hard-to-win, free, and kind heart; but chiefly because he stood by me when no one else did.

You know not what misery and illness I have suffered since last I wrote to you. My brother William—my kind guardian-angel—informed me to-day that you were in town, and as I am too ill to go out, and wish to consult you about publishing my journal, and many other things, would you do me the favour to call here to-morrow evening, or any time you please, between eight and eleven! Unless you meet my brother you will find no one, and, as I have four horses, I can send for you, and send you back when you like.

I have a great deal to say to you, and to explain to you, and I will write soon; but I have not been well. Lady Cowper called soon after you left me at Thomas’s Hotel, and promised to call on you and say that I could not. I have seen her since, and found she did not; but she wished to do so much, and I now send you her card; pray see William and my son, and write and tell me all you think about them, and Ireland, and when you next will be out. I write this solely to fulfil my engagement—saying, I leave you when I die Lord Byron’s picture, now under the care of Goddard—the original by Saunders. Pray excuse one more word until I hear from you, and believe me

It would be charitable in you to write me a letter, and it would be most kind if you would immediately send me Lord Byron’s portrait, as far more than the six weeks have expired, and I am again in England.

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If you will send it for me to Melbourne House, to the care of the porter, I shall be most sincerely obliged to you. My situation in life, now, is new and strange—I seem to be left to my fate most completely, and to take my chance, or rough or smooth, without the smallest interest being expressed for me. It is for good purposes, no doubt; besides I must submit to my fate—it being without remedy. I am now with my maid at the Ship Tavern, Water Lane, having come over from Calais. I have no servants, page, carriage, horse, nor fine rooms—the melancholy of my situation in this little dreary apartment is roused by the very loud, jovial laughter of my neighbours, who are smoking in the next room. Pray send me my invaluable portrait, and pray think kindly of me; every one in France talked much of you, and with great enthusiasm. Farewell; remember me to your husband and family, and believe me

As being a lady whom my adored mother loved, your kindness about Ada Reis I feel the more, as

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everybody wishes to run down and suppress the vital spark of genius I have, and, in truth, it is but small (about what one sees a maid gets by excessive beating on a tinder-box). I am not vain, believe me, nor selfish, nor in love with my authorship; but I am independent, as far as a mite and bit of dust can be. I thank God, being born with all the great names of England around me; I value them alone for what they dare do, and have done, and I fear nobody except the devil, who certainly has all along been very particular in his attentions to me, and has sent me as many baits as he did Job. I, however, am, happily for myself, in as ill a state of health as he was, so I trust in God I shall ever more resist temptation. My history, if you ever care and like to read it, is this—My mother, having boys, wished ardently for a girl; and I, who evidently ought to have been a soldier, was found a naughty girl—forward, talking like Richard the Third.

I was a trouble, not a pleasure, all my childhood, for which reason, after my return from Italy, where I was from the age of four until nine, I was ordered by the late Dr. Warre neither to learn anything nor see any one, for fear the violent passions and strange whims they found in me should lead to madness; of which, however, he assured every one there were no symptoms. I differ, but the end was, that until fifteen I learned nothing. My instinct—for we all have instincts—was for music—in it I delighted; I cried when it was pathetic, and did all that Dryden’s ode made Alexander do—of course I was not

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allowed to follow it up. My angel mother’s ill-health prevented my living at home; my kind aunt Devonshire took me; the present Duke loved me better than himself, and every one paid me those compliments shown to children who are precious to their parents, or delicate and likely to die. I wrote not, spelt not; but I made verses, which they all thought beautiful—for myself, I preferred washing a dog, or polishing a piece of Derbyshire spar, or breaking in a horse, to any accomplishment in the world. Drawing-room (shall I say withdrawing-room, as they now say?) looking-glasses, finery, or dress-company for ever were my abhorrence. I was, I am, religious; I was loving (?) but I was and am unkind. I fell in love when only twelve years old, with a friend of Charles Fox—a friend of liberty whose poems I had read, whose self I had never seen, and when I did see him, at thirteen, could I change? No, I was more attached than ever. William Lamb was beautiful, and far the cleverest person then about, and the most daring in his opinions, in his love of liberty and independence. He thought of me but as a child, yet he liked me much; afterwards he offered to marry me, and I refused him because of my temper, which was too violent; he, however, asked twice, and was not refused the second time, and the reason was that I adored him. I had three children; two died; my only child is afflicted; it is the will of God. I have wandered from right, and been punished. I have suffered what you can hardly believe; I have lost my mother, whose gentleness and good sense guided me. I have received more

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kindness than I can ever repay. I have suffered, also, but I deserved it. My power of mind and of body are gone; I am like the shade of what I was; to write was once my resource and pleasure; but since the only eyes that ever admired my most poor and humble productions are closed, wherefore should I indulge the propensity! God bless you; I write from my heart. You are one like me, who, perhaps, have not taken the right road. I am on my death-bed; say, I might have died by a diamond, I die now by a brickbat; but remember, the only noble fellow I ever met with is William Lamb; he is to me what Shore was to Jane Shore. I saw it once; I am as grateful, but as unhappy. Pray excuse the sorrows this sad, strange letter will cause you; could you be in time I would be glad to see you—to you alone would I give up Byron’s letters—much else, but all like the note you have. Pray excuse this being not written as clearly as you can write. I speak as I hope you do, from the heart.