Canning’s death makes less
sensation than might have been expected; he had no hold on the convictions of
society. His one absorbing idea was to be the political Atlas of England, to
raise her on his shoulders. His vituperative eloquence, his wit, his
àplomb, his humour were
exquisite. When I wrote my first France, and attacked the Bourbons in my tiny
way, Canning was at the feet of the restored
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Lady Cork once took me to visit him, but he was out.
Dublin again.—We have busied ourselves very much upon the occasion of Talbot’s election, and wrote all sorts of squibs, some of which were sung in the street the next day.
October 19.—We dined at our new Secretary’s to-day (W. Lamb). We had Curran and Grattan, names new to the salons of our Irish Secretary.
I was telling Henry Grattan and Mrs. Blachford that I had introduced their father in my O’Briens and O’Flaherties at the head of his volunteer corps in the park. Mrs. Blachford said that her father one day marched his company into the middle of the sea. On another occasion he was reviewing them with his glass to his eye, and Mrs. Blachford was near him; he asked her, “Mary Ann, are their backs or their fronts towards me?” He was very blind and very absent, and his mind full of anything but military evolutions.
Crampton told me that a man repeating to
him an observation of a clever person who had said “such a one’s
mind is still in full force, but he must die, his physique is quite worn
out,” he said “Dr. B—— says, ‘Mr.
—— must die for his physic is out!” * * * The
Hon. George Keppel, aid-de-camp to
Lord Wellesley, became an habitué of our house in Kildare
Street. Il rien bougait plus—at
last it came out that he had a manuscript by him of his journey through Persia—in a word, he
wished me to blanchir son linge sale,
or rather to
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November 12, Sunday.—At my once-a-fortnight’s Sunday dinners yesterday, I had a strange olla podrida sort of gathering. Bunn, the lessee of the theatre; Calcraft, the manager; Sir Charles Malcolm, just appointed to his first place at Bombay; Mr. Cuthbert, and one or two others. In the evening, Sheil, Curran, Crampton (Surgeon-General), Mrs. Corregan, the prima donna (who sang charmingly); some of the old Court, an American Corinne, Miss Edgeworth, and the Lakes of Killarney.
Bunn’s anecdotes were some of them very amusing. Talking of Theodore Hook, Bunn said (though Bunn is by way of being his friend and disciple) “No friendship can bind him, he will show up a friend in his writings all the same as his foe. He is said to make three thousand a-year by the John Bull and his other writings. He lies on a sofa and drinks claret all day, and has a face like a grenadier’s cap. He was the confidential friend of Lord Bathurst.”
Here he was interrupted by the frank indignation of
Sir Charles
Malcolm.—“He is one of the greatest rogues that
lives unhanged! When Lord Bathurst
engaged him to write the account of Bonaparte’s detention at St. Helena, there were among
many gross
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The John Bull, The Age, The Beacon, The Satirist, and such works may be called into life, and men may endorse their opinions. They may have partisans, readers, and patrons. Despotism in politics, corruption in morals, calumny in conversation, degeneracy in taste, bigotry in religion was “the badge of all their tribe.”
[Note, 1847.—In looking over this book I find all my opinions justified by time. Where now are the John Bull, The Age, The Satirist? The Quarterly is so reformed, its name alone remains unchanged.]
The O’Briens
and the O’Flaherties. In the dialogue and tone of
manners given to my fair oligarchs in the second and third volumes, I was
dreadfully afraid there was de quoi choquer les
Prudes, and I suppressed many droll things that had been
related to me. I was murmuring my fears to Lady
Cloncurry—severe upon mœurs and a model of propriety. Lady
Cloncurry set my mind at rest by answering me that I had kept
clear of extremes and dwelt more in the decencies than was at all
characteristic of the time I described. Her mother, the beautiful Mrs. Douglas, had lived in the thick of the
world in the times I had mentioned; she
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Morgan has just been in to show me this letter from O’Connell.
The Freeman is a slave, that is plain; he is a mean and paltry dog, also—but that is of course.
I have got your manuscript, but do not leave
it because I hope you will allow me to transfer it to com-
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Poor Lady Caroline is worse; here is a note just come.
I am much grieved that I cannot give you a better account of dear Lady Caroline’s health. Since the operation, her symptoms have assumed such varied appearances that at this moment we have no confidence of an ultimate recovery; the natural strength of her constitution is very great, and we have all ardent hopes much good may result from that favourable circumstance. The situation is most distressing to the many kind friends that are interested for her recovery, and we must derive consolation from witnessing her perfect calm resignation. Lady Caroline expressed much pleasure at receiving a very feeling letter from you this morning. Mr. Lamb is cruelly situated to be separated so far at this moment. Trusting I have given you a correct account of my kind friend, though a very unhappy one,
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November 23.—Yesterday I went to see Lord and Lady
Howth. Howth Castle stands as it did in the time of General Wade, and seems a mansion of Queen Elizabeth’s day—not, I
should think, older, except one high square tower, within an enclosure—a
method common in old Irish castles. This tower appears of great antiquity. The
general mansion is a long, low building of many gables, ascended by broad,
sheltered, stone steps; the offices spacious, low-roofed—they stand on
the ground-floor. The huge metal bells that have stood there from time
immemorial, till the date of their being placed there, has escaped all memory.
At either extremity of the hall are a few black oak and balustraded
stairs—that to the right leads to the state bedroom, a curious and
charming old apartment, breaking out into little turret-closets and recesses
that are now alcoves and dressing-rooms for the lords and ladies of the day;
that to the left is called the haunted chamber, a formal room said once to have
been King William’s bed-chamber.
Opposite the door of entrance in the hall is a little ante-room leading to the
grand stairs and to the drawing-room, a long, low-roofed, narrow room, with a
fine, carved ceiling, carefully white-washed, a superb mantel-piece of grey
marble, rising in a succession of stories to the roof, each storey set off by a
profusion of old china. Then there are coffers, cabinets, japan-screens, and
other old relics of old houses and old families that one is ready to fall down
and worship. Above are corridors, with dear old bedrooms, odd nooks, and niches
for nothing at all; then narrow and winding passages and stairs,
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In Howth Castle, as elsewhere in secluded places,
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November 27.—Yesterday, we had a dinner-party, the Honourable William Lamb, Lord Cloncurry, Mr. Blake, Chief Remembrancer Curran, Mr. Evans, of Portran, &c., &c. Mr. Lamb was in the lowest spirits from the bad accounts that had come of poor Lady Caroline.
