Lady Morgan assures His Excellency that Mr. Bate will feel himself overpaid by an acceptance of his sketch of the Pearl, and by an approbation so flattering; to offer any other remuneration would wound rather than gratify the feelings of the venerable artist. Mr. Bate is an eminent enameller, and should His Excellency ever desire to bequeath to posterity one of the “thousand and one” beauties of his own private collection, after the manner of Charles II., or Louis XIV., some little order to eternize eyes that once conquered the conqueror, will faire les délices of one of the best artists in his line, that England has produced. With respect to the couleur de rose passage, in Lord Anglesey’s note! Should it really be the intention of His Excellency to honour the thatched roof of an Irish cabin with his presence, the mistress is ready to receive him with that hearty

Cead mille falthae,

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which he so well deserves from every Irish heart. It is, however, for him to command the evening. His Excellency’s secretary mentioned last night, that every night in the ensuing week was taken, except that of Monday next, the 11th. On that or any other evening, Lady Morgan is sure to be “at home” to so illustrious a guest.

June 24.—To-day had a visit from Madame Pasta, more naïve than ever; she told us she was near getting into prison at Naples, for singing out of Tancredi, Cara Patria; and she said orders were given to omit the word “liberta” in all her songs. Her happy temperament shows itself most in her tender affection for her mother and her daughter; she says that nothing, neither fame nor money, consoles her for their absence.

Bellini came in, and Pasta, Bellini, and José went through one act of his Norma. Bellini was charmed with José’s voice.

I had a curious scene yesterday: Bentley and Rees

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(of the long firm, Longman & Co.), at the same time, one in the back, the other in the front drawing-room. Each came to negotiate about my next book; Bentley is to have it.

Pasta and I were disputing to-day about reputations, I spoke of her Gloire, she said, “Gloire passagère, it is here to-day and gone to-morrow, your’s endures.” I said, “Je voudrais bien troquer mes chances avec la posterité, pour la certitude de vêtre influence avec les contemporains.”

June 28.—To-day, took my girls to Lord Grosvenor’s gallery. At night we went to a literary party at Lady Charleville’s. Campbell, the poet, said to me, “I am copying out my Life of Mrs. Siddons, for which I am to get a price, which, if any bookseller had offered me a few years back, I would have flung in his face, and the MS. into the fire.”

The party at Lady Cork’s had some curious contrasts. There was Lady Charleville herself, the centre of a circle in her great chair. Lady Dacre, author of—everything; plays, poems, novels, &c., &c. Lady Charlotte Campbell, author of Conduct is Fate. Miss Jane Porter (Thaddeus of Warsaw), cold as ever, though the muse of tragedy in appearance. Mrs. Bulwer Lytton, the muse of comedy. Lady Stepney, author of the New Road to Ruin; lots of lay men and women, a crowd of saints and sinners. The men were still more odd. Sir Charles Wetherell, Prince Cimitelli, D’Israeli, who ran off as I skipped in, some other remarkables, and one young man, Lord Oxmantown, an impersonation of a “Committee of the House.”

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July 1.—Pasta and Bellini jumped out of a hackney-coach at our door to-day, with a roll of music in their hands,—it was the score of the Norma, they came, Pasta said, from the second rehearsal. Bellini scolded his great pupil like a petite pensionnaire.

July 6.—Days later. Till this morning I have not had a moment to spare to fill up my journal. What a loss! Pleasure, business, folly, literature, fashion! Pasta often calls on us; this is her own account of herself. “I was a petite demoiselle, playing and singing in the amateur theatre at Milan. Pasta and I played the Prince and Princess di Jovati, fell in love, and married. Paer, who heard us, or one of us, wrote to us to come to Paris, and play in the theatre of Madame Caladoni. I so wished to travel,* que faurais allé même à l’Enfer! mes parens étaient desolés! I went on the stage, and was engaged for London; came out in Télémaque. I was so ashamed at showing my legs! Instead of minding my singing, I was always trying to hide my legs. I failed!”

July 14.—I had a peep at club life,—the Travellers. It is the perfection of domestic life! Every comfort at once suggested and supplied; good reasons for not marrying! Women must get up to this point, or they

* Mr. Sterling, of the Times, told me, that when Pasta was playing Cherubino. fifteen years ago, in London, she could not procure an order for a friend to the pit!

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will only be considered as burthens. Some of the young husbands of the handsomest wives live at their clubs.

July 16.—Amongst the notabilities who have sought us out, are Gabussi and Vaccai, the composers, and Taglioni, la dèesse de la danse, she was brought to us by her husband, who is the son of a peer of France, and ex-page to Bonaparte. She was quiet, lady-like, and simple, her dress elegant, but simple. She told me her father was maître de ballet, and had early instructed her; but she had so little vocation, that when she came to Paris, she had no hope of success. Of her habits of life, she said, she lived temperately, dining on plain roasts, at three o’clock, never sleeping after dinner, nor taking anything till after her exertions at the theatre were over, then, she supped on tea. She practices two or three hours a-day. She said that the moment force was introduced in dancing, grace vanished; her

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rule was never to make an effort, but to give herself up to nature, and the great delight she had in dancing. She said she never was so happy as when dancing. The moment she comes off the stage her ancles are wrapped in woollen socks, and when she goes home her feet are bathed in arrow-root water.

After the gallery, we went to a select soirée at Lady Cork’s. All dukes, duchesses, lords, ladies, and bores; the dresses were bad. D’Israeli shuffled along with his ivory cane, like the ghost in Hamlet, and the only amusing thing was a little boy from Ireland, who attacked us all at the door.

July 29.—Yesterday we went to the House of Lords to hear the last debate on the Church Temporalities Bill. We sat in the Peeress’s box. The first thing that struck me, was the theatrical set out of the place. The stage below, the gallery above, the dropping in of the actors. To the right from the gallery, in the centre of the lower bench, sat the Dukes of Wellington, Cumberland, Newcastle, and Lord Winchelsea; behind them, Lord Ellenborough, Lord Wicklow, Lord Aberdeen; opposite were Lord Grey, the Duke of Rutland; opposite to us, on the woolsack, sat Lord Brougham, bound up like an Egyptian mummy, his countenance as impassible as Talleyrand’s. When a note was presented to him he drew his hands out of his sleeves, in which they were folded, and used glasses. The debate opened with the Duke of Newcastle, who

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stuttered, stammered, and looked frightened. Lord Winchester followed, who roared and bellowed; he addressed the Bishop of London, whose manner, in reply, was cold, collected, but quite as mad; no eloquence, wit, energy, or originality. Lord Eldon, an old state-property actor, with a conventional manner; his speech was gag—all referred to himself; he was of the people once—he was still of the people, though now he was a peer of the realm! He had filled the woolsack for twenty years; he respected and admired the Duke, but he was angry with him for emancipating the Catholics; he would soon appear before the throne of Heaven (and he took out his blue pocket-handkerchief and wept through the rest of his speech); he must soon die; but dying, he foresaw the fall of that glorious assembly; if the bill passed, it must be swept away, it could not last, except on the stability of compacts (for compacts are made for man, not man for compacts) &c. &c. The whole speech, that of an old rogue, but a very good actor. “Pity the sorrows of a poor old man.”

In the box with us was the Duchess of Richmond, who never misses a debate. She had been here since five o’clock, and desired her daughter to keep her place when she went home for an hour to meet the Duke of Gloucester; the box holds twenty-five.

The Duke of Wellington’s manner and matter were equally bad. He spoke so low and indistinct, I scarcely heard him. The effect produced by these scenes was, the error of erecting a barrier against progress by giving sanction to an assembly, composed principally of

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old and infirm men. The number of young men is so small as to make every man under fifty conspicuous. Nearly all, as I looked down, seemed bald; many were infirm, and walked with an arm—Lord Holland was wheeled in; they were all men without fathers—consequently, of a certain age. Lord Ellenborough, and two or three others of his standing, represented the middle-aged.

Monday.—Last night, at Mr. Perry’s, son of the editor of the Morning Chronicle. House after Louis XIV. style; company, Fonblanque, of the Examiner; Kenny, the dramatist, &c., &c. The manner of all the men cold and languid; reserve, shyness, and morgue make up the character and manners of English society.

Mrs. Bulwer Lytton, handsome, insolent, and unamiable, to judge by her style and manners; she, and all the demi-esprits, looked daggers at me; not one of them have called on me, and in society they get out of my way. How differently I should behave to them if they came to Ireland!

July 31.—Last night an agreeable party at the Countess of Montalembert’s. Renewed my acquaintance with the once famous Lady Clare; Lady Dudley Stuart (Lucien Bonaparte’s daughter), in the most extravagant of dresses; but très aimable. That egregious coxcomb, Disraeli, was there, too—outraging the privilege a young man has of being absurd.

August 4.—We have had a cordial visit, from Captain Marryatt—there had been a coldness since we withdrew from the Metropolitan. After dinner, we

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lounged in the Park, and then took a walk, then home to dress for Lady Cork’s, where we met and chatted with all sorts of old acquaintances, Lady Marybrough, Lady Darlington, Lady Augusta Paulet, Rogers the poet, Lady Davy, Lady Caledon, &c.; the Duchess of Cleveland is a very pleasant woman, full of spirit and spirits. It was curious to see that handsome head encircled with diamonds, which first attracted notice under a basket of onions and salad. She was a garden girl, attending the London markets. What a romance was hers!

Rogers said, that Moore’s book The Gentleman in Search of a Religion, was a failure, and that Moore was much disappointed, though he did not expect a very brilliant success.

Yesterday Bellini and Gabussi came, and sang and played like angels. Lucien Bonaparte came in as they were singing—

“O bella Italia che porte tre color, Sei bianca e rosa e Verde com ’un fiore!”

Lucien exhibited a supressed emotion that was very touching. How honest and clever he is! He said, what I have often preached, “nations that deserve to be free, are free!” He blamed Lafayette in the late events of France—elect a Bourbon to the throne—and talk of the voice of the people in this election! The people who forget and who bled, were consulted, but betrayed. We talked of Ireland. I said, “The Irish have no idea of liberty, they want a king of their own. Come and present yourself, and I will promise you a

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crown.” He laughed, but said, “Point de couronne, point de couronne.”

It is well known that he did refuse a crown at the hands of his brother. He and his brother Joseph have only just enough to live upon; Lucien is lodging in a little bit of a house in Devonshire Street (No. 50); Joseph has a toute petite campagne, where he lives with his daughter, whom he insists on calling la Princesse Charlotte.

Lady Cork has just written to beg I will name a day to meet the ex-majesties of Spain at dinner! I have been obliged to refuse, as we are off to Belgium this month. What strange things do come to pass in this tragical fever called life!

I am always studying eminent persons. Women above all—eminent no matter for what, De Stael, or Taglioni, e’est égal. Talking with Pasta the other day, I cross-questioned her about her diet. I said, “I remember, one night, being with you in your dressing-room when you had just come off the stage in your highest wrought scene, (the quartetta ‘Come o Nimé,’) your woman had a bit of cold roast beef ready to put into your mouth, and some porter.”

Saturday.—Yesterday was a curious day. I went

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with dear Lady Charleville and Mrs. Marley to see some original pictures of Nell Gwynne, at the Duke of St. Albans. The Duchess received us in a superb morning room; her dress was ridiculously fine for the morning—rich white silk trimmed with white lace; a quantity of gold chains, bracelets, &c. She had black ringlets, surmounted by a black lace veil, which fell over on one side. She is a coarse, full-blown, dark-complexioned woman, about fifty. The last time I saw her, was as Miss Mellon, in the Honey Moon, when I came over to London to sell my Wild Irish Girl. She was then a model of beauty, symmetry, and grace. As I stared at her now, surrounded by ducal coronets, even on her footstools, the pretty poem of Le Tu, et le Vous, of Voltaire, came into my head. She accompanied us to her dressing-room, where she showed us two pictures of Nell Gwynne, not original; the one, a beautiful woman wearing a jewelled carcanet, by Sir P. Lely, a copy of an original in the possession of Mr. Calcraft, the Duchess believed; the other, was a miserable thing in the dressing-room.

In the Duke’s sitting-room, she pointed out a pic-

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ture of herself as Miss Mellon, in Mrs. Page—“Very beautiful, done,” said she, “for my dear Mr. Coutts, and the Duke will hang it up, you see, as a match for his father, the late Duke, and here is a bust of Mr. Coutts; you will see a statue of him up stairs,” and so we did, at the head of the drawing-room—an awful figure! We were shown by the housekeeper into her Grace’s second dining-room, almost as magnificent as her first. She said her Grace dressed here in the morning and below in the evening, to save her the trouble of going up stairs. I was thinking of the Polly Peachum Duchess of Bolton, and Nell Gwynne, and her descendant marrying another Nell Gwynne. The whole of this day was amusing. I dined at Lord Charleville’s, the company, the old Tory Duchess of Richmond, enjoying the honours founded by Mademoiselle de Querouille (Duchess of Portsmouth), Sir Charles Wetherell, lovely Lady Antrim, young Lord Tullamore and his beautiful wife. After dinner went to a dance with my girls.

August 15, Monday.—Yesterday was curious and interesting; people coming to take leave of us. We had at the same moment, Moore, Madame Pasta, Bellini, Gabussi. And now for writing letters, apologies, &c., and off to-morrow for the Rhine.

Tuesday morning, 6 o’clock.—Half inclined not to go. London, hot rooms, and late hours have nearly killed

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me, and yet there is but one place in the world, and that is—dear London!

Thursday—Dined yesterday at the Engler’s, a mag-

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nificent dinner, and music in the evening, met and chatted a good deal with the Minister of the Interior, Monsieur Rogier, sensible, modest, and high-minded. He is to come and see us to-morrow.

September 18.—Hardly got into our pretty apartments in the Rue de la Regence (with our books, flowers, piano, drawings, &c., &c), when enter Lady Clare, and Lady Isabella Fitzgibbons, and Sir Robert Adair. What a pleasant chat of times and people, past and present! How they recall the bright days of the Priory to me!

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September 18.—We dined yesterday at the Palace; great simplicity, with just as much splendour as any nobleman of good taste and wealth might indulge in, but nothing more. The Queen—young, fair, simple, and more than courteous—reminds me of our English girls of rank: a little shy and very graceful, but nothing of the morgue of our belles of quality. I looked about me for a ribbon. I spied a gentleman in black, with the broadest blue scarf from shoulder to flank. I thought he represented some ancient order of chivalry, pas du tout. It was an English knight of the Guelphic Order. The Grand Marechal, a very agreeable Count, asked me what Order that was. I could not help saying, L’ordre de tout bête. Strange to say, here was a royal company of forty persons; there was not one Prince amongst them. There was all the intellect and manhood of the present administration. The Belgian Lafayette, Baron De Hoogoorst, the brave, the patriotic commander of the National Guard; there was Charles Rogier, the Minister of the Interior, who, in the most awful moment of political fermentation at the time of the revolution, flung himself into the very gap of anarchy, and established that character of dauntless devotedness to a great cause which may be deemed the chivalry of politics; Monsieur Le Beau, Ministre de Justice, the prose, as Rogier is the poetry of the revolution; Monsieur Northomel, Secretary-General des Affaires Etrangers, with countenance full of intellectual fire, pensante et instruit; not one dandy or dunce amongst them. Could one say as much for a diplomatic table of London? In short, I was better

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pleased with this royal dinner than with anything royal I have ever yet assisted at. “Il faut avoué que votre Roi est le plus grand Roi du monde,” said I to my neighbour; “S’il n’est pas, il le doit être,” said he.

September 20.—What an odd coincidence. We had last night nearly the whole of the last Provisional Government of the Belgian Revolution, with the addition of Colonel Prozinski, Mr. White, author of The King’s Own, the two De Brouckers, Henri et Charles, Quételet, the Royal Astronomer, Jullien, the Orator of the Opposition, Sir Robert Adair, our Ambassador, and the dear, charming, La Tour Maubourgs. The evening was amusing. I had also Van Hallan, the accomplished author of an historical tract of the Trouble Belgique in 1718; he is the type of the character and national feelings of the Belgian youth, and one among the many illustrations of the beneficial change in the character of a people effected by the removal of oppressive and anti-national institutions.

September 26.—A week of carnival festivities. The Concert d’Harmonie a la Place Royal, by six hundred musicians, consisting of the corps of the army, with an audience of nearly ten thousand persons in front of the beautiful Hotel de Ville,—really one of the most imposing sights I have ever seen. In front was inclosed a space for the Ministers, the Deputies, and the Senate. The windows and balconies belonging to the houses and hotels all round filled with elegantly-dressed women. To the right, in a balcony window, sat the King and Queen and officers of state. The royal party were received by the music of the “Mar-

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seillaise,” mingled with the “Brabançon.” There was no loud enthusiasm, for these people now repose upon their past emotions, and their recollection of their past hard-won liberties is now enjoyed by them in sober satisfaction, and the full consciousness of their happiness suffices them. The beautiful music elicited more applause than any other occurrence of the day. Alas! the rain fell in torrents before it was over, and Bruxelles presented a canopy of umbrellas which had the most extraordinary effect.

October.—Just returned to London, and St. James’ Street, after the most delightful tour up the Rhine

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that ever was made. A day or two for seeing friends, and a few visits, and then—off for wretched Dublin!