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Lady Morgan’s Memoirs
Sir Thomas Charles Morgan to Lady Morgan, 29 May 1826
INTRODUCTION & INDEXES
DOCUMENT INFORMATION
GO TO PAGE NUMBER:
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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Fladong’s Hotel, London,
May 29, 1826.
Dearest Syd.,

I have this moment received your two letters and enclosures. The latter I will get set up in type, and correct before I leave town. I think it good and amusing; but I fancy Colburn will be frightened to death at its boldness.

I have written to Count Porro. Ugo Foscolo is in quod, cut by his friends and countrymen, after diddling Lord John Russell out of a thousand pounds. I dined yesterday with Harry Storks; he was talking of some reprobate Roman Catholic who would eat a horse on Ash-Wednesday, upon which, says I, “not unless it was a fast horse!” “Ah, ah, ah.” (This is for Livy’s tender ear) there never was Clarke’s equal on the floor of creation; it is a great misfortune he has never turned his mind to the philosopher’s stone, I am sure his perseverance would discover whether such a thing is catalogued on the book of nature or no. The children shall have new silver nothings of some sort.

Oh this London! thus London!! here have I been on my legs all day, like a penny-postman. I went to Lydia White’s last night, who was lying on the same
228 LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR.  
sofa, in the same drawing-room, with the same blue furniture and blue hangings as usual—she was precisely what you know her. I only spoke to her and Moore, and went away in half-an-hour, in the blue devils. Moore is rapidly undergoing that transformation which will qualify him for a place in Hallam’s book. He is not going to Ireland. On Saturday, I dined at home, and went to the Opera. I have just opened a new mine for magazine writing; but this is a secret. Colburn wants me to write a political novel—for God’s sake make me out a canevas, and I shall try my hand at it. I have just got a kind note from Madame Patt., wanting me to fix a day for dining with her; but I do not think I shall have one to spare. I did not tell you how Pasta charmed me in the Borneo the other night. She sang “Ombra adorata” divinely. They played, also, an act of Teobaldo ed Isolina, in which Velluti sang “Notte tremenda,” in a style of which had no idea, still, however, he does not please me. The ballet, La Naissance de Venus, was better, and I believe now I have done with operas. You must not mind that lying old witch Madame de Genlis’ attack on you in her book. I thought she would not let you off easily; you were not only a better, and younger (and I may say prettier) author than herself, but a more popular one.

I have seen the Charlemonts, the Charlevilles, and the old lady of Burlington Street, and most of your friends, and am charged all over with kindness to you, and regrets that you are not with me. Parliament will be up in a few days, and then all will be off. Here goes my tenth day, and that is half-way through
THE YEAR 1826.229
this tiresome job. I think you may begin to feed the calf, as I shall be off the moment my business is settled. Oh this cursed wilderness of a town; you may guess how bad it is when a man sits down to write to his wife, à l’heure qu’il est, Regent Street like a carnival. Now I’ll trouble you to guess what I am going to tell you; but I’ll be d——d if you do, so to save you the trouble of making a judy of yourself, I may as well tell you at once that Capel is going into Parliament to teach the Premier his “reading made easy” and set the finance at rest. He is to represent Queensborough with its mayor and freemen. These old boys beat us hollow. Think of his encountering the heat and fatigue of late House of Commons work? By-the-bye, I met at breakfast, in the coffee-room, this morning, our old Italian friend, Dr. Clarke. He is a good specimen of our good Italians. He told me news of many of our old friends at Rome and Naples, which I shall keep for you till we meet. Fashions!! heavens if I have not forgotten to tell you, from that queen of fashion, Mrs. M’Neil! bonnets the size of my umbrella; your gigot sleeves as full as you can make them. I am reading Vivian Grey, at night, and in bed in the morning. Colburn gets twelve hundred pounds per annum for the Sunday Times, eighteen hundred pounds on the New Monthly, and shared eleven hundred pounds this year on the Literary Gazette.

Ever yours, whether you believe it or not,
C. M.

PS.—If ever I am caught in this region of smoke again “all alone, proudie,” I’ll be ——!