I thought the enclosed note came very à propos after my agreeable visit to you yesterday. I hope the contents will be acceptable to you, as I am sure they are creditable to Lord Melbourne for offering to your merits, literary and patriotic, the highest scale of acknowledgement which our material times permit. I ought to state that Lord Mulgrave has been a joint solicitor to Lord Melbourne, with myself.

I have settled that Lady Morgan shall have a pension of three hundred, as you wished.

I have derived great satisfaction from your letters; I am very glad to find that what has been done is agreeable to your feelings, and I can assure you that I have had much pleasure in doing that which may in some degree alleviate the pressure of the infirmity under which, I very deeply lament to hear that you are suffering. It is also a gratifying reflection that no doubt can exist but that your talents and exertions afford ample grounds for the advice which I have humbly given to His Majesty upon the present occasion.

“I must tell you I am perfectly enamoured of my present residence, and am determined on writing a

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Pimlico; it ought to be a most interesting bit of topography, and I am urged to it by Mr. Lemon, my landlord, who is first clerk in the Rolls Office—a most intelligent and learned man. We are within reach of every one we wish most to see of interest. We had a long and cordial visit from Lord Adolphus Fitzclarence, who has invited us to dine with him, at St. James’s Palace; he is very like his royal father, with all the naïveté of his mother in her dramatic characters. Lady Aldborough wanted to take Morgan to see a famous mesmerist—a magnetic seance which set him into a rage, as humbug always does. Lady Arthur Lennox was here, also, to recommend me a bit of a house which she thinks will suit me; but the flower of all flowers in my garland of friendship, is Mrs. Dawson Damer. You know she is the adopted child of the Prince and Mrs. Fitzherbert, whose property she has inherited, and such property! I spent two hours with her, yesterday, in her house in Tilney Street, tête-à-tête—the house, observe, of Mrs. Fitzherbert! What a causerie! No one now talks like her; and she is so handsome, so elegant, and genial. She told me that she was at the Duchess of Gloucester’s, the other night—a child’s ball. The young Queen was there, looking quite a child herself. When her uncle, the Duke of Sussex, was leaving the room, she ran after him and said, ‘Won’t you give me a kiss before you go?’ and then whispered in his ear, ‘you have forgotten to wish mamma good night.’ What a charming trait; it is a pity to make a queen of this creature, with these warm affections!

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Tilney House is full of reminiscences of its celebrated but, I suspect, unhappy late mistress—the true, legal wife of that type of heartless roués, George IV. Mrs. Dawson Damer said she had got up a table expressly for me—it was covered with beautiful relics. In a coffer filled with pledges of love and gallantry from the Prince in the hey-day of his passion—a Pandora’s box without Hope at the bottom! The most precious were a number of their own portraits, set in all sorts of sizes and costumes, and oh what costumes! Toupées, chinons, flottans, tippy-bobby hats, balloon handkerchiefs, and relics of all the atrocious bad taste of succeeding years, from the days of Florizel and Perditta, to the ‘fat, fair and fifty’ of the neglected favourite, a series of disfigurements rendering their personal beauty absurd. The Prince’s face was insignificant, through all his ages and disguises, a fair, fat, flashy young gentleman, his mother’s snubby features spoiling his pleasant smile; in short, he was the old queen bleached white! By-the-bye, the last time I saw him was in a doorway at Lady Cork’s which he filled, to the utter annoyance of Lady Cork, who was obliged to open another doorway, contrary to her arrangements. The pictures of the Prince and Mrs. Fitzgerald were all splendidly set in brilliants, with hearts and ciphers, crowned with royal coronets and true lovers’ knots, The initials G. P. were never omitted.

There were two lockets of very curious description, minutely small portraits of the Prince and the lady; they were each covered with a crystal, and this crystal was a diamond cut in two! They were less than the

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size of a halfpenny, set in small brilliants. Each wore the portrait of the other next their heart—at the depth of their love.

On the death of George IV., Mrs. Fitzherbert sent to William IV., to request back some of her pictures, gems, and letters, left in the late King’s hands.

William IV., always the kind and constant friend of Mrs. Fitzherbert, sent her everything that he could find in the cabinet of his brother, and a beautiful picture in oil of Mrs. Fitzherbert; but the diamond-enshrined miniature was not forthcoming. After some time, however, she received a letter from the Duke of Wellington, who wrote to say, having heard that such a locket had been enquired for, he would be happy to place it in her hands, as it was in his possession. He added, that in his quality of the King’s executor, he had gone into his room immediately after his decease, and perceiving a red cord round his neck, under his shirt, discovered the locket containing the miniature.

The correspondence of the Prince and Mrs. Fitzherbert, most voluminous, and doubtless full of interesting political and social incidents, which have escaped history, were burned by Mrs. Fitzherbert’s trustees—one of these was Sir C. Seymour, Mrs. Dawson Damer’s brother; the other was Colonel Gurwood, who was one of her best and most intimate friends. I think she added that the Duke of Wellington and Lord Albemarle were present, and that the room where this auto-da-fé took place, smelled of burnt sealing-wax for weeks afterwards! Mrs. Fitzherbert had labelled all the letters she wished to be destroyed—a few, how-

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ever, escaped—a few in Mrs. Dawson Damer’s casket, Mrs. Fitzherbert had ordered to be preserved.

Mrs. Fitzherbert was never in love with the Prince, and much of her virtuous resistance may be ascribed to her indifference. The Dowager Lady Jersey was the true object of his passion, or if not the object, at least the disport of his weak mind, and certainly the cause of his infidelity to his mistress and his cruelty to his wife. When that most fashionable of French novels, Les Liaisons Dangereux, came out, it became the subject of much fashionable criticism, and one evening, in the circle at Devonshire House, it was disputed whether the character of Madame la Presidente was not an outrage upon probability and female humanity. The late Duke of Devonshire observed, that he thought he knew one such woman; but refused to name her. The next moment every one present confessed they had known one such woman, also; but refused to denounce their fair friend. Curiosity became vehement, and Lord John Townsend proposed that each person present should write their secret on a slip of paper, and throw the slips into a veiled vase, and he would draw them out slip by slip, and read them for the benefit of the society present, under the solemn seal of silence,—when, to the surprise and amusement of the distinguished society, every little rouleau, as its contents were announced, bore the inscription of ‘the Countess of Jersey!’ When the anecdote was told to the author, he exclaimed, ‘Heureux pays! où l’on ne peut trouver qu’une seule Presidente!’ I saw the lust picture of poor Mrs.

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Fitzherbert ever taken; it was done on the day of her death, and yet was lovely, though she died in her eightieth year. It was curious (but not an unusual thing) that her face had fallen into its original form; its fine osteology was perfect; the few furrows that time had traced upon its round muscles had disappeared—it presented a fine and firm oval face—the beautiful mouth—a high and rather Roman nose. The simple dress of death (not the most unbecoming she ever wore) added to the solemn beauty of her appearance.

Mrs. Fitzherbert died in the beginning of 1837, and Mrs. Dawson Damer’s expressive countenance changed often as she spoke, and tears fell from her eyes as she deposited the relics of her adopted mother in the casket whence she had drawn them. She was still in mourning for her.

We had a very amusing, and to me, very interesting dinner at Lord Adolphus Fitzclarence’s, in the old St. James’s Palace, comprising the Marquis of Belfast, Sir George and Lady Wombwell, the handsome Mr. Stanley (alias Cupid), Josephine, and ourselves,—a round table dinner. Lord Adolphus took me into his boudoir in the evening; we were alone, and he showed me a miniature set in brilliants. ‘The king!’ I said. ‘Yes, my father,’ said he, taking another picture out of the casket, ‘and,’ added he, with emotion, ‘this was—my mother.’ After a pause, I said, ‘It is a great likeness, as I last saw her.’ ‘Where was that?’ ‘In Dublin.’ ‘On the stage?’ ‘Yes, in the Country Girl, the most wondrous representation of life and nature I ever beheld! I saw her, also,

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when she was on a visit at Sir Jonah Barrington’s. She sent to my father to go and visit her, he did so; she called him the most amiable of all her managers.’ After a pause, he said, “Sir Charles and you will accompany me to Chantrey’s to-morrow, to see her beautiful monument, which they have refused to admit into St. Paul’s, though Mrs. Woffington’s monument is still expected there!’ I said I could not express how much I honoured his sincere feelings to the most attentive of mothers, whose fault was, that she loved not wisely, but too well.

We found Chantrey, as frank, simple, and cordial, as when some seventeen years back, we trotted en groupe with Moore, Playfair, and Lord John Russell through the streets of Florence, and paused to worship the memory of Jean de Bologne, the key note of our conversation whenever we met. Well, the Gordon monument is a beautiful work of art, I had almost said of nature; but no time to write more. I have to dress the carriage, and Morgan roaring like a bull.”

“Oh Ireland, to you I have long bid a last and a painful adieu.”

You have always slighted, and often persecuted me, yet I worked in your cause, humbly, but earnestly. Catholic Emancipation is carried! It was an indispensable act—of what results, you fickle Irish will prove in the end. To predicate would be presumptuous, even in those who know you best. Creatures of temper and temperament, true Celts, as Cæsar found your race in Gaul, and as I leave you, after a lapse of two thousand years.

We bid our last adieu to Ireland, October 20, 1837, accompanied by my niece Josephine; we proceeded to Leamington, where Mr. and Mrs. Laurence joined us; they left us on the 25th, and José with them; we were very sad after the departure of our young people.

October 28.—Received the intelligence of poor Mr. Laurence’s sudden death! My poor Sydney! We left instantly to go to her.

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December 23.—Lord Morpeth sent us, with one of his kind notes, two tickets of admission to the body of the House of Lords to see the Queen open Parliament and return thanks to her faithful Commons, &c. I went with Lady Georgina Wortley and my dear Mrs. Dawson Damer. We were placed close to the bar of the House of Commons, being rather late. It is a gorgeous, imposing, but rather theatrical spectacle. The young Queen’s aplomb was truly wonderful; her voice clear and sonorous—whoever “taught the young girl to read,” did every justice to the development of her vocal organ, and her small person seemed to dilate under the pressure of her conscious greatness; for the Queen of England is, at this moment, certainly the greatest sovereign in the world, because she is the chief of a free people—what charmed me most, however, was her inexpressibly girlish laugh. When the House of Commons rushed in with all their rude, rough, schoolboy boisterousness, Philip Courtnay, and some of my Irish members, were so close to me, that I could not help turning to them and muttering, “My faithful Commons, why are you so vulgar?” When the royal cortège had moved off, and we paused at the head of the stairs whilst my husband was looking for our carriages, dear Lord Melbourne came up and shook me heartily by the hand, and said he was glad to see me there; Lord Brougham also joined us, and two or three other agreeable men.

Our lodging in Pimlico, 6a, Stafford Row, is opposite a wing of Buckingham Palace, and commands a view of its gardens. What an historical, what a charming

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site. I shall make myself mistress of it before I have done with it.

I have finally given up all hopes of getting ***** ***** pretty house at Buckingham Gate; after a most capricious negotiation on his part, redeemed, however, by many charming notes and letters from a charming man, which are always worth something. I think I have found the clue of his

“Letting I dare not wait upon—I would,”

“like the poor cat in the adage.” It happened thus:—I have been in the habit of popping, at all hours, into the house, which I considered all but my own, and the other day I found a fine embroidered pocket-handkerchief on the table and a tiny pair of gloves. I saw at once that the gloves had earned it, and that the handkerchief would never be flung at my feet, and that there was a tenant who was resolved not to quit, and whose lease, perchance, would not be renewable for ever; and so we have given up, and are again on the search for a house.

December 25, 1837.—My birthday. London, 6, Stafford Row, opposite the King of Buckingham’s house. I open this new journal at the close of the year 1837, a year to me full of events of good and ill together, to commemorate most gratefully my partial restoration to sight, so far as to enable me to write an hour a day without pain or annoyance, and I trust to recommence a work undertaken in the sincere spirit of philanthropy and the inextinguishable desire to do good—Woman and her Master. I have this day put aside the long green sheets of paper on which I have

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been scrawling Woman and her Master, which that dear thoughtful Morgan got for me in Dublin.

Lady Normandy has most kindly offered to present me at the Queen’s first drawing-room.