September 17th.—Moore brought a delightful man to us yesterday, the fashionable wit, Luttrell, of the Lady Cork and Charleville set, and author of the Advice to Julia. The moment Moore got in, he tried, as usual, to get out. Morgan said, “I beg pardon for the proposition, but do sit down if you can.” “Oh, you have found him out” said Luttrell; “I have rarely seen him stay so long anywhere.” He got upon the public journals: Luttrell said the Court Journal was the standard of bad taste, and cited its calling Lady Londonderry “our own Emily.” Talking of Hazlitt, my old critic, and of his special dirtiness, Moore told the anecdote of Charles Lamb, saying to him when they were playing cards nearly as dirty as his hands, “Hazlitt, if dirt were trumps, what a fine hand you would have!” Our wits belong to the last century.
My husband wished to get up a dinner for Moore, at his club, here is his answer:—
| 312 | LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR. |
I need not say to you how much I feel both the honour and kindness of the invitation which you propose to me, but the fact is, my mind is now wholly set upon getting away as soon and as safely as these equinoctial breezes will let me. Having the nervous task of transporting women and children, at this time of the year, either by Bristol or Liverpool, I am preparing to take advantage of the very first appearance of more settled weather, and, therefore, could not form any engagement that would be likely to interfere with this purpose, nor, indeed, enjoy it at all as I ought, if I did form it. It is my intention, however, to be here again before the end of next spring, and then (if my kind friends of the Dawson Street Club continue still in the same disposition towards me) it will give me the most sincere pleasure to accept their invitation. I write in a hurry, but you will, I know, have the kindness to convey all this to them in a way that will best do justice to my feelings, and believe me,
Moore mentions this dinner in his diary,
and says, “It is the third dinner that
has been in contempla-
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October 29th.—O’Gorman Mahon is not a charlatan, but a mountebank—a mountebank on wire. When asked to dine at the chief secretary’s, the other day, he arrived when dinner was nearly over, in a chaise and four horses, two postilions, &c., &c., and entering the room, where he was an utter stranger, exclaimed, on seeing Sheil at the further end of the dinner table, “Ah! ah! my little friend, so you are here!” my blood ran cold, thinking what would come next. I blush for my countrymen.
November 23rd.—A delightful letter and pretty present of tablets from dear Lady Emily Hardinge.—A letter from the editor of the Athenæum, offering me liberal terms—altogether a pleasant post.
This is Lord
Anglesey’s day of entry! What an apotheosis! O’Connell has organised all that is
false, bad, and ungrateful in the country against him. All through the town are
placards ordering “All who love Ireland to stay at home.”
Some of O’Connell’s “two thousand
gentlemen” took their stations in different places, and endeavoured to
harangue the people against this once idol of the nation; but in spite of this,
Lord Anglesey had with him all the intelligence,
wealth, rank, and respectability of the country. The cries of
“O’Connell for ever!” “Down
with dirty Dogherty!” were
abundant. Morgan got out of a sick bed
to go
| 314 | LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR. |
