LORD  BYRON  and  his  TIMES
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Lady Morgan’s Memoirs
Lady Morgan to Lady Olivia Clarke, 28 October 1819
INTRODUCTION & INDEXES
DOCUMENT INFORMATION
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Preface
Vol. I Contents.
Prefatory Address
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Vol. I Index
Vol. II Contents
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter IV
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX
Chapter XL
Vol. II Index
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Florence, Palazzo Corsini,
October 28th, 1819.

We left you setting off for Florence. At the opera the Counts Confalonieri and Visconti told us we were mistaken, and that we were going with them the next morning to Genoa! Without more ceremony they ran off with our passport to the police and got it changed, and finalemente, as we say in Italy, we set off next day for Genoa. Our journey lay partly over the Apennines; we began to ascend them a little before the purple sunset of Italian skies, and pursued our route by moonlight, and never did any light shine upon scenes more romantically lovely. Nothing was wanting. In the cleft of a mountain we heard a funeral chaunt, and the next moment appeared a procession of monks, their faces covered, and only their eyes seen,—horrible, but strange and new to me. We slept that night on the top of the mountain, and the next day, having walked more than we drove, we beheld “Genoa the superb” at the foot of the Apennines, and the Mediterranean spreading far and wide. Our hotel lay on its banks, and we had scarcely dined,
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when we were invited to go on board a British ship of war that lay in the bay (the Glasgow, Captain Maitland). Accompanied by our Italian friends, off we sailed. There never was anything to equal the empressement of the officers and their kindness to me. I left them my fan, and they gave me one. They had tea for us, and I was so delighted with this most magnificent spectacle, that I went down between decks and saw three hundred sailors at supper, notwithstanding the heat was at one hundred degrees. The result was that the next day I was seized with rheumatism, &c., and never knew one hour’s health during the fortnight I remained there; still, I struggled against it, as I had so much to see, to learn, and to hear,—went about to visit all the palaces,—oh, such ancient splendour! Churches, hospitals, and institutions!—All the learned professors, head physicians, &c., waited on Morgan. The Commander-in-Chief himself, who came to us the moment we arrived, with his aides de camp, accompanied him to the different hospitals, and he was solicited to give his opinion of the disorder of a young heir to a great family, which he did with success. This family, and that of the Marchese Pallaviccini, are the first in the town; they were among the first also to come forward. They asked us to a splendid ball and dinner, and we took so well that they insisted on our considering their table as ours, and dining with them every day. We did so as long as my health and the fatigue of going to their villa would admit of the thing. But oh, that you could see us going! You must know that the old republican streets of Genoa are so narrow,
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one excepted, that carriages cannot ply, as the town is built up against the Apennines, and the villa Pallaviccini is perched on the steepest; there is no going there, but being carried in sedan chairs, and this is the way Morgan and I went every day; for nothing but a goat and a Genoese chairman could scale those precipices. The night of the ball, all the officers of the Glasgow went in this manner. A propos, one of the officers came on shore to see us, and sent up his name, Mr. Marcus Brownrigg. It was no other than “I am your man, and I’ll carry your can,” thrown into a very charming and gentlemanly young man. I never saw so kind a creature. He said he had orders to bring the Captain’s boat and ten men for me as often as I pleased. He came with this set-out twice, and was in despair that I could not go. He wrote me an elegant note to tell me so, but alas! after near a fortnight’s struggle, and going out every day sick and weary, I was knocked down fairly, or rather foully, with a bilious complaint that threatened fever. There was no getting a breath of air,—I suffocated; however, Morgan was nurse, doctor, all, and himself far from well. In fact, in despair of my recovering in this scorching climate, he wrapped me up one fine morning and threw me from my bed to the carriage, and set off with me for Bologna. The moment we began to descend the mountains and get into the fresh, delicious plains of Lombardy, I recovered, and we both got well by the time we reached Parma, where the late empress of Europe reigns over a dreary, desolate, and gloomy country town. Her only amusement is the opera,
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and such an opera! a narrow lozenge box, lighted with five tallow candles. We staid to see the chm-ches and Correggio’s paintings, and would have staid longer, but we were entirely hunted out by the bugs. Modena, though a royal residence, is a sad set out, and the whole of this earthly paradise broken up into little states, neglected, poor, melancholy, presents but one great ruin. We gladly escaped from these little capitals to the lovely magnificent country. The vines festooned from tree to tree, present their luxurious fruit to any hand that will pluck them. It was the vintage, and I never saw such contrasts as the comfortless aspect and misery of the people, and the enchantment and plenty of the scenery.

Arrived at Bologna, we sent out our letters, and the next day were visited by all that was delightful and distinguished in the town. The Countess Semperiva, a young, pretty, clever widow, took us at once under her wing; her carriage was at our door every morning to take us to see the galleries, palaces, &c. She made a delightful dinner party for us, so did our banker, at his villa; a Madame Martinelli, the Beauty and Wit of Bologna, was equally kind, and made two very elegant evening parties for us; at the last we found Crescentini, singing some of his own delightful compositions at the piano, and Sir Humphrey and Lady Davy; nothing could be more cordial than he was, though he is completely turned into a fine man upon town. All the cleverest professors called on Morgan, and when he went to the hospitals he was complimented on his work (Outlines of the Physiology
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of Life), which, by-the-bye, has taken wonderfully in Italy, and procured him infinite fame; a second edition of the French translation has appeared. When we arrived at Bologna, they recommended us our apartments by telling us they were well aired, as Lord Byron only left them the day before. You may suppose he came to Bologna to visit the learned body of that ancient university, or consult its famous library. Not a bit of it. He came to carry off a young lady.

The hotels at Florence are handsome, comfortable, and expensive. We set up at the Nova-Yorka, kept by an Englishwoman. Our arrival being known, some of the principal persons came to visit us instanter; the Prince Corsini (minister of the interior), Prince Borghese (Bonaparte’s brother-in-law), the Countess D’Albany, widow of the last Pretender, and the fair friend of Alfieri. Several of the learned came to see Morgan,—Lord Burghersh, the Ambassador, and Lady Burghersh, Lady Florence Lindsay, and her charming daughters, and lots of my Paris Wednesday evening acquaintances of all nations. The Countess D’Albany, who never goes out, asked us immediately; she is “at home” every evening, and holds quite a royal circle. All her fine gold plate, the finest I ever saw, was displayed. The circle is most formal, and you will scarce believe, and I am ashamed to say, she kept the seat of honour vacant for me, next herself. It was in vain, last night (for we go to her constantly), that when ambassadresses and princesses were announced, I begged to be allowed to retreat, she would not hear of it. You have no idea the sensation this makes among the folks
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here, as she is reckoned amazingly high and cold. She has remains of the beauty so praised by Alfieri. But the kindest of all persons is the minister, Corsini. He made a splendid dinner for us at his most magnificent palace, to which he invited all the noted literary characters in Tuscany; a réunion, they say, almost unknown here. We were invited to dine at the English Ambassador’s, where we had a large party. Last night we went to Madame D’Albany’s full of your letter, delighted with its dear, welcome contents, but quite tristes about Moore. I had scarcely taken my seat by the legitimate Queen of England, when Lord Burghersh brought up a dashing beau, who was no other than “brave Colonel Camac,” who told me that he had been all day roving about looking for us, for a friend who had just arrived;—it was no other than Anacreon Moore! Accordingly, while we were at breakfast next morning, enter brave Colonel Camac and Moore! By the advice of all friends he has taken a trip to Italy, till something can be done to better his affairs; he travelled with Lord John Russell, but parted company with his lordship to visit his friend Byron, at Venice. Moore said we were expected at Venice, and that he had heard of us everywhere. Lord Byron bid Moore tell Morgan he would be happy to make his acquaintance, but not a word of encouragement to his “lady intellectual.” I never saw Moore gayer, better, or pleasanter. We have begged of him to come and breakfast with us every day, and he goes with me the day after to-morrow, to the Comic Opera, where I have Capponi’s box. He then runs off to Rome, Naples, and
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returns to Holyrood House, Edinburgh, where he settles down to write and arrange his affairs. What elasticity and everlasting youth! Pray call on his excellent mother and tell her all this; she will be delighted to hear of him. He feels about Italy much as we do. He told us Morgan’s work, though attacked, has been treated with the greatest respect as an extraordinary though a dangerous book.

You will now like to know how the deuce we have got into a palace, into a suite of elegant and spacious apartments, filled with flowers such as are only found in Italy. (Moore says “how are we ever to leave it all.”) The fact is we are here in the thraldom of a fairy. Everything has been prepared for us; we want for nothing. A few days after our arrival, when we were sick of the expenses of our inn, comes a gentleman to say he is the Marquis de Capponi’s homme d’affaire that he has an apartment ready for us, an opera box, &c., &c., and here we are in a palace once belonging to the Prince Corsini. The palace Capponi is the finest I have seen, except the great Orsini, and a much more extensive building than Carlton House. There are apartments for every season: those of summer open into an orangery. The actions of its historical lords are painted on the walls of the great saloon. They have eight villas round Florence, at one of which we breakfasted the other day: one immense room laid out with curiosities and antiquities. Should the handsome Marchese Capponi call on you, (for he is now on his way to Ireland), tell him how gratefully I express myself. All the English
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say, we are the only strangers for whom the Italians make dinners. We were the other night at a party at Mrs. Mostyn’s, (daughter of Mrs. Piozzi), where we met Lord and Lady George Thynne. Mrs. Piozzi is in high health and spirits at eighty. Meantime, in spite of all my friends can say, I am growing old, and now look forward only to living in your children, to whom I trust I shall be restored early in the spring, for the moment the Alps are open we set off, please God. I think half the Irish reform is owing to Florence Macarthy. I expect a statue from that enlightened and grateful people. The first thing I saw here in all the booksellers’ windows was my picture stuck up with a good translation of Florence Macarthy. It is well done, and the picture pretty, but not like. Bartolini, the famous sculptor, has shown us great civility. He has dedicated to me one of his best statues, a boy pressing grapes; the original is bought by Lord Beauchamp, and a cast done by himself is to be packed up and sent to Ireland for me. I shall be like the Vicar of Wakefield and his picture. I would willingly have made a visit to Italy blindfolded to have seen only the Gallery at Florence;—we go there every day. I read to Moore Lady Belvidere, and it made us all die laughing. We leave this for Rome on the 2nd of November.

S. M.