LORD  BYRON  and  his  TIMES
Byron
Documents Biography Criticism
Lady Morgan’s Memoirs
Lady Morgan to Lady Olivia Clarke, 12 July 1824
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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Licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License.
Produced by CATH
 
London,
12th July, 1824.

Imprimis,—We have three and ninepence to pay for the last packet, charged overweight; but as I suspect it was the “chillies bulletins” that kicked the balance, I am quite satisfied to pay any sum for the productions of the most original writers of the age,
192 LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR.  
only I beg to put my dear little bevy of correspondents on their guard in future. I see you are sick of my routs and riots, and, in truth, so am I. The heat is more oppressive than I ever found it in Italy. I have passed such a curious morning that I must describe it to you whilst I remember it. I sat to three artists from ten to one o’clock; then came a delightful person, Mr. Blencoe, by appointment, with a collection of original letters by Algernon Sydney (in his own precious handwriting to his father, Lord Leicester), models of style and full of curious facts that throw new glory on his character, and new light upon the times of Cromwell and Charles II. Mr. Blencoe found also at Penshurst, a journal kept by Lord Leicester which, with Sydney’s letters, he is going to publish. He was scarcely gone, when Lord Byron’s letters to his mother and others were confided to me. I shall only say, en bref, that though Cicero was to rise to plead for him to public opinion, he could say nothing in his behalf so powerfully favorable to his character as these natural, charming, and interesting letters: warm affections and high morality in every line. Poor fellow! He says, on the death of his mother, “Now she is gone, I have not one friend on earth, and this at twenty-three! What could I have more to say at seventy!” Just as I had devoured them (as I did in a great hurry), came in a packet of Mrs. Piozzi’s MSS. letters; but after Byron’s, they were sad namby pamby stuff. She says, crying down the French Revolution in 1797, “What do
CONNEXION WITH THE NEW MONTHLY193
you think, the women have absolutely left off hair-powder! I see nothing but ruin for this unfortunate country!”

We have just got notice that Lord Byron’s funeral takes place on Monday. Morgan is to go. His name is on the list; so are all the Whig lords. We could not bring ourselves to go and see him laid in state.

Our dinner at Dick’s (Quintin) was sumptuous. We had the house of Mulgrave, Lady Cork, Lord and Lady Dillon, Sir Watkin, and others,—Lord Mulgrave’s daughter,’ Lady Murray, is a charming person. They are particularly civil to us, and we dine there next Friday; and, on Wednesday, we are to meet the Duke of Wellington and Lord Hertford at Lady Cork’s.

Campbell came to breakfast with Morgan, and they went together to the funeral of poor Lord Byron. The public wish was that he should be buried in the abbey, but his sister would have him buried in the family vault, and insisted on his funeral being a peer’s funeral, from which the vulgar public, the nation, was to be excluded. There would not have been a single literary person there, but Rogers and Moore (his personal friends), had not Morgan and Campbell, at the last moment, suggested others. All was mean and pompous, yet confusion: hundreds of persons on foot, in deep mourning, who came to pay this respect to one of the greatest geniuses of the age. Thomas Moore takes tea with us this evening, before we go to Lady Cork’s Whig party. Did I tell you of the gentillesse of some of the managers of the theatres? They have sent me keys of private boxes?

194 LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR.  

I can no more. God bless you all, good people; and love me as I love you. S. Morgan.