This note from Lady Morgan to Moore, at the period when there was an Irish Coercion Bill in prospect, gives a picture of a state of things which we hope is never likely to return.
I am tempted to put your good
nature at rest, with respect to the refusal of the editorship. Your friend
Crampton (whom I met at dinner
yesterday) has offered to forward a note to you by his packet. So I am tempted
to write. My opinion is, that it would be for the
advantage of literature if periodical publications were
put down for ever. Mr. Crampton and I agreed last night
that we should be inclined to “put on the list of
friends those whom you say have
LAST YEARS IN DUBLIN—1831. | 319 |
January 26th.—I made a very
agreeable sort of
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The proverb—“Poverty comes in at the door, love flies out at the window.”
What shouts of laughter and fun!—our audience—Lord Douro, Lord Headford, Sir Guy and Lady Campbell, Sir E. and Lady Blakeney, Augustus Liddle, Colonel Bowater, Lord F. Paulet, Mrs. Caulfield, Miss Armitt, and Miss Crampton.
Had a letter to-day from David, the sculptor, sending me my own bust in marble, and that of Lafayette!
February 15th.—Sitting all alone to-day; just before dinner enter T. Moore! pardi! I could not believe my eyes. “Why, what on earth brings you here? is it to dine with me to-day?” “No, I’ll dine with you to-morrow.” “My mother was dying, I was sent for, she has seen me, and has revived.” Morgan came in. Moore sat all the time; I never before saw him sit for ten minutes together; he was cordial, and pleasant, and confidential. He told us many strange things. Poor fellow, he has never been able to get out of debt. He told us Rogers had expended three thousand pounds on the publication of his dandy book. Oh, these amateur authors who write for fashion, while we write for fame or famine! Moore says he thinks Murray would like to publish for me.
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February 17th.—I had a little dinner got up in a hurry for Moore, yesterday; it was got up thus. I threw up my windows, and asked the inmates of the cabs and carriages of my friends as they passed the windows, and sent out some penny porters, and lighted up my rooms. Moore was absolutely astounded when he saw my party! He sang some of his most beautiful songs in his most delightful manner, without stopping; some of them twice over, and all of them as if every word was applicable to the people around him. Many of his old friends were around him; I said, “if you stay a day or two longer, I’ll do better than this.” “No, no,” he said, “never again can such a thing be done. This is one of the few happy accidents which occur rarely; besides, I don’t want to efface the impression even by something better.’
I never saw him more natural or agreeable. He praised Murray to the skies, and said he was princely in his conduct to authors. Moore disliked me in my youth; he told me at Florence that he thought Byron did not wish to know me, and did wish to know Morgan.
April 1st.—Poor Molly! I went to see her, and the whole was too
much for me—my dear Morgan just
returned from her—we are with her every day! What a scene! her whole
anxiety is about her funeral, her coffin, &c. I have promised her to do
all, and now she is at peace, although her drunken sister (who is looking
forward to a glorious wake) has brought her priest, who told her she could not
be saved. My
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Morgan and I have just had a battle royal! The subject was, as usual, one of my improvements in the house. All, however, of my improvements have been made at long intervals; the last I was five years working at. The present point at issue is, I want a little greenhouse to put my plants in on the open space at the back of the stairs; I want this done, and have offered to pay for it. Morgan vows I never shall have it, and is gone out in a passion; but I don’t despair. Upon this occasion I am a bore, and he is—a bear.
Mrs. Hemans had at this period settled in Dublin. Friendly acquaintance and interchange of well disposed civilities went on between herself and Lady Morgan, in spite of the differences of their habits, for Mrs. Hemans was then an invalid, and inclined to withdraw from general society, in which Lady Morgan found her element. These distinguished women regarded each other with high consideration.
Mrs. Hemans presents her compliments to
Lady Morgan, and returns the
“Metropolitan,” with many thanks for all the pleasure
it has afforded her. She trusts that her little messengers may be able to bring
her an improved account of Lady Morgan’s health,
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This Macaw was the pet of Lady Cork and Orrery, and Lady Morgan was writing a jeu d’esprit, called Memoir of a Macaw of a Lady of Quality.
A letter marked private has always an attraction; the present note from Sheil is about public affairs, and though time has deprived them of all the uncertainty that gave them their emphasis, at the moment it is interesting to see events as they pass in incidents day by day. Lady Morgan was always deeply in earnest about politics. Parties were running fearfully high upon the Reform Bill.
Your letter to me is most gratifying; it is another and a greener leaf in my parliamentary chapter, a thousand thanks to your good heart. Believe me you mistake me much if you try me by my observance of the rules of etiquette; I know how to value your faculties and your character. There is no one whose friendship and praise I prize more than yours and Sir Charles’s. I have received a series of kindnesses from both, which I cannot readily forget.
There is no news here in the political circles to which
I can give implicit confidence. It is said that
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Lady Cork was last night making special inquiries about you; she asked me whether it was true that you were writing the adventures and observations of her Macaw. It lately bit off the toe of a countess, but on the calf of a minister it could make no impression.
I met Jeffery and Macaulay here at dinner; Jeffery has the most astounding volubility I ever witnessed; he will not do in the house, I fear. I witnessed at Sir J. Mackintosh’s his introduction to Wordsworth, for the first time. The latter grinned horribly, a ghastly smile.
Remember me to Sir Charles, and believe me,
August 13th.—We are invited
to the regatta; but we shall go to Lucan instead [Lucan was a watering place
near Dublin, fashionable, and much frequented at that time] to repose from
country house dissipations, and then I shall set to work at my Irish histories.
My dirty house is to be given up to workmen, and I
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The review mentioned by Lord Anglesea in the ensuing letter was an Irish one, written to serve some question of the moment; the times, both in England and Ireland, were threatening, and every small contribution of common sense was thankfully received by those who had the guidance of public affairs.
I ought to have thanked you sooner for the Review you sent me, and for calling my attention to the well-written article in it by Sir Charles Morgan. I had already seen extracts from it, with which, to be honest, I was better pleased than with the whole, for it happens that I go the full length with him in what I had before met with, whereas, in part of that which was new to me, I differ. I am sorry—you, probably, glad—that I have not time to explain myself.
Lady Anglesea showed me your note
regarding an Italian opera, in Dublin, during October and November. If the
thing is likely to take, I shall be delighted to promote it, and all my family
will join. I think every encouragement should be given to those who
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October 1st.—I thought the child’s ball, at the Stanley’s, a triste affair, or the contrast with Lady Emily’s child’s ball made it appear more so.
They were very civil; and Mr. Stanley seemed as if he wished to be as unlike a minister of state at a child’s ball as possible; he ran about and was even frisky, and at the ponderous supper (where there was a smoking sirloin of beef at the head, and a cold round at the foot, two turkeys and ducks at the side); he kept crying, “Why don’t you eat; pray eat,” as if he was feeding the poor Irish at a soup kitchen.
October 16th.—On my return
from Lucan, I find mon bon ami the
black volume, my journal white or blue, and unwritten still, on the writing
desk in my dressing-room; there it has lain for a month, and it actually
requires an effort of will to open and scribble in it. My life at Lucan was an
odd one, I was placed in a set I never was in before, such a place is the
mutual rendezvous of quizzeries of all sorts, and I should have died of it, but
for my Dominican monk, Father
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LAST YEARS IN DUBLIN—1831. | 329 |
Here is a letter from the Countess of Cork and Orrery, still harping on her macaw.
It is actually nine months since I received a letter
from dear Lady Morgan. I immediately
conceived a
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The bantling with bright thoughts is quite decayed, and I remain your stupid old eighty-six, without a second idea.
I should not venture to intrude upon you to-day; but that I really am anxious to be regaled with one of your pretty greetings. Tommy Moore told me my macaw had spoke both witty and clever. Bulwer, &c., &c., said the same, and that they would send it to me. I have never seen it. When can I hear of it—answer this, and tell me, when you come to England. I don’t wish it till April, when I promise you constant, pleasant reunions. I am more chez moi, and go out less than ever. I collect pleasant people, and like this last act of the play as well as any part of my life. I am in good health, and have many kind friends, among whom I trust you’ll allow me to set you down in the first class.
This macaw, which has been several times alluded to, who spoke both
witty and clever, was a bird of wisdom belonging to Lady
Cork, and Lady Morgan wrote a charming
paper entitled Memoirs of a
Macaw
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October 30.—In that coarse, dashing, but not altogether ill-written novel the Staff Officer, there is a picture from the life of my dear old friend Joe Atkinson. The author wrote me a fine letter under the signature Oliver Moore, presenting me his book and saying lots of civil things.
This moment the news came in that our excellent friend, Wallace, is returned at last for Drogheda. I worked hard at this, and wrote to all whom I thought could or could not, assist him. Poor Wallace is very ill, and got his fever at his odious election.
November 2.—My poor dear old friend, Hamilton Rowan, is fast going; Morgan saw him the day before yesterday, lying in his chaise-lounge, feeble, but still full of spirit and interest in the passing events.
November 7.—The cholera is approaching. I proposed
to Morgan that we should retire from
Dublin; he stopped me short by saying, that where there was most danger that
was his post. His view of the case changed my whole feeling on the subject; he
must stay, and, therefore, I will stay, so last night we
set about thinking what was wisest and best to be done
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A letter from one of the horse-riders of the Royal Arena, to beg I will command his benefit and give him my name; of course I refused. How people mistake my energy for influence!
November 14.—Yesterday was a day of offerings.
Robertson presented me with a good miniature of
myself. It is a nice picture; but much thinner, graver, and more sharp and
collet monté than I ever
was, or ever shall be secula
seculorum. Offering the second—A fine bronze medal of
Walter Scott, brought me from Edinburgh.
Third—a brace of superb pheasants from Capt.
Jekyll, of the Grenadier Guards. Lady Elizabeth Clements and Mrs.
Caulfield have just walked in with a present of twelve yards of
white satin, embroidered in flowers by the late Countess of Charlemont for a court-dress. They made me swear
that I would act a proverbe for them
in it some evening. This is the fun of the thing—the philosophy of it is
the embroidery; it must have taken a life to do, and is a fine illustration of
the life to which ladies of quality were put to formerly to get rid of their
time. I have been thinking to what use I can put it—as curtains for the
boudoir it would have no effect, except that of soiled, flowered linen.
Draperies of white satin, embroidered in flowers, sounds “sweetly”
in a novel; but for effect, masses both in colour and material, an adaptation
of light and shades are the things; thus, some fifty yards
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November 27.—All the early part of the day house-keeping, looking over table-cloths, cutting out dusters, and what not of the huckaback order.
Prince Pucklau Muskau’sbook just come! I am properly trotted out in it. It is too horrible to think there is no doing good without paying the penalty. The prince’s book, the Prince of Darkness, I should say, if it did not bear the name and impress of the Prince Pucklau Muskau. At the very time we were showing him hospitality, he was concocting this book, in which I was to be misrepresented and belied. The conversations he describes, was utterly false. I never again ought to receive a foreigner into my house; this is the fourth time I have been the subject of attacks written by such guests. It is rather curious that at this particular moment another foreigner should be presented to me, Count Charles O’Haggerty, écuyer to the duchess of Angoulême, at Holyrood; but I am sick and weary of it all.
December 20.—I cannot endure the sight of this
book (my diary), I have nothing but botherations to enter. But what a glorious
triumph! The Reform
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December 25.—Christmas-day, my birthday. Hélas!!
December 26.—Yesterday I dined with my own dear family; what a cluster of clever, handsome and beloved heads!
To-day, off to Malahide Castle, where we spend our Christmas.
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