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
| 332 | LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR. |
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
| LAST YEARS IN DUBLIN—1831. | 333 |
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
| 334 | LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR. |
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.
