In the year 1825, Lady Morgan, for the first time, began to keep a diary, and from this date the account of her life will be chiefly drawn from the entries in her diaries. For a year or more, these entries are somewhat barren of incident; they are occupied with mere reflections, and with the rough draft of an autobiography afterwards more fully developed, and given in the first volume. A brief extract from the diaries 1825, 1826, will suffice for the general reader—the paragraphs, like so many others of Lady Morgan’s papers, have no date. The first would appear to have been written in April, or early in May, of the year 1825.
Letters from Italy state that the tribunals of Austria
have just condemned to death Count
Confalonieri, the Marquis Pallavicini,
M. Castiglioni, Colonel Moretti,
and three young students. The crimes imputed to these individuals, who are held
in the highest esti-
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May 4.—Received the affecting news of Dénon’s death, he was only ill fifteen hours. He was nearly eighty.
Lord Archibald Hamilton is dead. I first met him chez the Duchess of Sussex, 1811. He was then rather a ci-devant, but an epitome of rank and fashion. He was much in love with the sister of the Duchess of Sussex. His mind was enlightened, his spirit independent, and he was full of integrity. He was a man of kindly temperament, and he will be much missed, especially in Scotland.
Journey to London.—Struck by the changed physiognomies of the population—more intelligent-looking and less well fed. Blessings of science and all-pervading illumination staring one in the face at every mile through the Welsh mountains—their romanticism disappearing—their civilization increasing.
St. Albans and its delicious abbey!
London.—Curious visitors—General Pepe, the Neapolitan chief, and all the
young revolutionary leaders of Piedmont and Lombardy,—the eldest but
twenty-
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Went to St. James’s Palace to see Mrs. Boscawen, the Queen’s
maid-of-honour. [The Mrs. Boscawen referred to was
Anne, daughter of General the Honourable George Boscawen, and grand-daughter
of Hugh, first Viscount Falmouth. She was
born in 1744, and died in 1831.] Found her niched in the old court garret with
a most fantastical little balcony, and terrace full of plants, flowers, and
foreign birds. She was de-
| THE YEAR 1825. | 217 |
At Miss White’s dinner;—Porson (not the author of the Parody) and Milman were there;—W. Spencer reminded me he knew me at Lisburne;—Mrs. Somerville, a celebrated mathematician, young and prettyish;—Mrs. Marcett, the political economist, getting hold of W. Spencer and preaching Christianity to him, wishing him to go to church at Geneva, that he might be converted through the pretty women;—General Church there, it is well I had not Pepe with me!
Ugo Foscolo dined with us at
Mrs. Brown’s;—full of
paradoxes,—hated Italian music,—cried over my Irish song;—his
account of his novel Jacopo Ortis, all time;—was six times
more in love than he described;—defended England’s conduct to
Italy;—cried down the Whigs for originating the present system. He
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Went with Lady Caroline to Miss White’s.
London, Bury Street, St James.—June 15.—Yesterday’s campaign we had thousands of Italians who came to pay their devoirs, amongst others, Castiglione, as handsome as ever;—the Marquis de Prie, a very elegant young man. At seven o’clock we set off to our dinner-party at the Macneil’s. The company were, the Hon. Charles Brownlow, M.P., who made the famous Protestant speech a little while ago; Mr. and Mrs. Horace Twiss, the nephew to John Kemble; Mr. Douglas Kinnaird, brother to Lord Dunsaney; Mr. Edwards, son of Lord Kensington, and Miss Alexander, daughter of the Bishop of Meath. A few people came in the evening; we left at past eleven o’clock, and set off for Lord Listowel’s Kensington Gore, which we did not reach till near twelve. Their company had left, and they were all dressed themselves to go to a ball; we staid a little time, and then went on to Lydia White’s, and although it was long past twelve, we found the invalid lying on her couch in the midst of her party; Sidney Smith, of the Edinburgh, and the wit, par excellence. What a difference in the political thermometer? our dinner red-hot orange, and our soirée of the coolest green, where it was not blue!
June 17.—To-day, dinner at Lady Cork’s; there never was anything to equal the splendour of her entertainments and her rooms. In the evening we went on to Lydia White’s, thence to Mrs. Burton’s.
| THE YEAR 1825. | 219 |
Carlton House was on fire the other night; there was one roomed burned, but they succeeded in extinguishing it before it did any more mischief.
The King was in the house at the time, and he held a levee the next morning.
I saw a warming pan at Strawberry Hill, the other day, which had belonged to Charles II.; there is on it the following motto, “Sarve God and live for ever;”—the date 1660—the period when his love for Barbara Palmer, afterwards Duchess of Cleveland, was in its first bloom.
This is all of the diary 1825, which the general reader will perhaps care to have. The following letters from Colonel Webster, son of Lady Holland, and aid-de-camp to Lord Wellesley, the other from the ever attractive Madame Jerome Bonaparte, continue the amusing gossip of the day.
The chief event in her affairs of this year was, that in August 22, 1825, Salvator Rosa came to a second edition; but Lady Morgan and Colburn had many squabbles together—she complaining of his shabbiness, and he complaining that she was “very hard upon him;” but neither of them wished to separate in their business transactions. He was looking anxiously forwards to a new Irish novel from her, and she was meditating how to make him pay the interest on her increased popularity. She and Sir Charles were, at this period, regular contributors to the New Monthly and the Metropolitan.
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It is an age since I have heard of you, and I really was in hopes when you arrived safe and sound on the other side of the water, that you would have sent me some news of you and yours.
Colonel and Mrs. Dawson are on their way to Buxton to visit Mrs. Fitzherbert, who would not be present at the marriage, but sent her a thousand guineas; the morning after the event, Miss Seymour received a packet from the King, enclosing a charming letter, begging her to be kind to her best friend, Mrs. Fitzherbert, and enclosing a draft for two thousand pounds; after Buxton they go to the Continent. I fear that Uxbridge and his wife will be separated—his temper is too violent, and she does too little to please him; they say that Uxbridge intends to keep the pretty little children, of which he will be heartily tired in six weeks.
I shall hope to hear of you, if you send your letter to Castle it will be forwarded to me; let me know what is going on among you all. I hope you are in your own house again, and that it is done to your satisfaction.
Adieu, pray make my remembrances acceptable to Sir Charles, and believe me
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Mrs. Evans has given me your welcome letter; I cannot express to you how much I was delighted at hearing that you had not forgotten me. I passed only a few months in Italy, where I saw the most beautiful woman in the world, who since died in her husband’s palace at Florence, surrounded by friends, and conjugally regretted by Prince Borghese! He buried her in the handsomest chapel in Europe. She left a legacy to my son of twenty thousand francs. Voila en peu de mots ci que j’ai a dire de la Princesse Pauline. I have been pour mes péchés, a great deal in Geneva—that centre of prudery, heartlessness, and illiberal feelings. I left it with pleasure, and hope that I never shall return to it. I have paid a short visit to America. “Aux cœurs bien nés la patrie est chère” which does not mean that one should not prefer the séjour of Paris to that of the dullest place on earth. Lafayette was caressed, adored, and substantially rewarded. I saw him in Baltimore, and talked to him of you, whom he loves and admires, malgré le temps et l’absence; Miss Wright was with him, or near him, all the time he was in America. She intends writing something of which he is to be the hero. Why did Moore destroy Lord Byron’s memoirs? It was a breach of confidence—they were intended for publication.
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You are very kind in inquiring after my father and my son. The former is living, the latter has grown up handsome—a classical profile, and un esprit juste. He is in America. My health is, as usual, neither good nor bad—nerves very tormenting, mind, as formerly, discontented, although I flatter myself that I am growing more patient of injustice and egotism. What do you say of De Genlis? Her memoirs are said to be peu véridiques. People seem to be disappointed that she does not relate her gallantries; but of course she thinks, que cela va sans dire. One of her truisms is, that Madame de Villette was convinced of the truth of the Christian religion—a conviction that our poor dear friend certainly imparted to none of those who lived with her. Genlis has pleased no one by the publication of this work of imagination—the drippings and last squeezings of her brain. She lives at Mantes, with Casimir, the boy whom elle avait ramassé en Allemagne. He is infected with her devotion, or her hypocrisy, or both.
Poor Dénon
is dead; Madame D’Houchin is, I hear, dreadfully
grieved at her deplorable veuvage du
cœur. Nothing can, I think, console for the loss of a
person whom one has loved and been loved by. Madame
Capodoce is here, regretting poor M. de
Brito, who died some time since; she looks dreadfully
ill—her husband now lives with her after an absence of thirty years.
“Un mari suffit rarement pour remplir le
cœur” was said to you by Madame Suard—this agreeable person is still living, and
folle comme autrefois. Do you
know a dull writer called Julien, who publishes
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PS.—Warden is as usual; he never leaves the Faubourg St. Germain. I have no doubt that he has un sentiment—nothing else could keep any one there. What do you think of Miss Harriet Wilson’s life, written by herself? Every one reads it. She is living in Paris, which seems to be the favourite residence of all naughty English women. Miss Harriet is married to a very handsome man, who was willing to make an honest woman of her. I have fifty scandalous things to tell you; but I write in haste that I may send my letter to England by a friend. I have been in Paris only a few days; I have seen no one. All the people whom I knew are dead or absent.
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