January 2.—Kildare Street. We had a cordial household, hospitable time at Malahide—all old friends—the Talbots—the Evans of Portran, my old lover and friend, Edward Moore. The fine old Castle is always my delight. I finished my article on it, for the Metropolitan, in the old library, with a Grant of Edward IV. lying beside me, bearing his own signature. Drove to Howth Castle—more antiquities—promised Lady Howth we would dine and stay there next Thursday, then to General Cockburn’s for the rest of the holidays.
So enchanted to get back to our snuggery in Kildare Street, with all its warmth, comfort, and enjoyment. Those great castles are so cold and dreary, one has so many miles to walk between drawing and dressing-room that the contrast to my little china closet is very great, and then my agreeable droppers in, from three to five.
January 4.—A pleasant levee to-day, clever Mrs.
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January 5.—Working hard at old chronicles for my intended new novel, Grace O’ Mally.
January 16.—Went to see the lions and boa constrictor figuring away at the theatre, most wonderful! Martin played with the lion, or rather, the lion with him like a great Newfoundland dog romping with a child. Martin has been predestined by his temperament to tame savage beasts, and to be eaten by them some fine day.
January 24.—All going on cheerily, good company and good spirits, when arrived the last number of the Quarterly. The acrimonious spirit of old Gifford still survives, and all the bitterness and weakness it exhibited against me twenty years back, more violent than ever. Prince Pucklau Muskau’s vile book furnishes forth this new attack on me; the worst thing they can find to say against me is that my father was an actor, the miserable creatures!
January 27.—By-the-bye, this has been a merry week—a gay ball at Lady Kingsmill’s; yet a more brilliant assembly at the Marquis of Headford’s. I flirted with Sir Harcourt Lees, and Lambert of Beaupark, the high priests of Orangeism. One of them told me that the cicerone of the cathedral of Cashel, showing it to him the other day, said, “And here, sir, is the ould part, built by the pagans, and these statues were the pa-gods!”
Our new Archbishop
Whateley has astonished, outraged, maddened the clergy by
advising in his last
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January 28.—Last night, sitting with the Earl of Rosse, he told me many strange stories, picked up when he was a child from his father, who lived to be a hundred. He described a ball at the great O’Moore’s, whore the company, exceeding the number of beds, the ladies lay down round the capacious hearth, their feet pointing towards the fire. An old woman came in with an immense quantity of woollen cloth, which she flung over them, and so they slept!
The “madder,” so often mentioned in Irish song, was a wooden tankard, made square; there were then no tools for turning. Wooden noggins and wooden dishes were universal; they are still much used in country parts.
When Lord Rosse was Sir Lawrence Parsons, he wrote some learned works on Irish antiquities; his son, Lord H. Oxmantown, is a great mechanician, he is now occupied on a telescope of great power.
February 1.—I began another new work to-day on The Ignorance of Women,—shall I ever finish any? I doubt it, the motive no longer exists, and perhaps, too, the working material is worn out—this frittering away of mind is very like it.
February 20.—The Whigs and the ministry going the way of all flesh; these mongrel Liberals will never do,—never did do.
Lord Grey’s speech on the enforcement
of the tithe
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Lord Plunkett is an acute, eloquent, and clear-sighted man, to the extent of his views; but they are not extensive. His politics are simply, rigorously British, not European.
Lord Grey is the screw loose.
February 27.—Parties and balls galore this last week—no need to specify.
March 23.—Ever since my last entry, “with darkness compassed,” shut up, a dark room, a horrid state, a tax upon those whose charity leads them to come to me. The kind Talbots carry me off to Malahide on Saturday.
April 8.—The other day I took a party to see Malahide Castle. As Lady Chapman’s carriage had been broken at a soirée the night before, I drove her in my phaeton. Compare this with my début in Dominic Street, when I went to be hired as a governess! I did the honours of the castle in my old quality of Custoda.
We had an excellent luncheon, and we came home loaded
with flowers and vegetables, à
l’ordinaire. In short, nobody can grow old more
agreeably than I do; I sit with the picture of the immortal Ninon de L’En-
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I am getting on with the learned opening of my new book on Woman.
April 19.—The cholera is making fearful strides among the filthy dens of the wretched lower orders! many of the higher are panic-stricken.
May 17.—Tory ministry out! just as Lord Anglesey was packing off.
What emotions this event has raised in my mind! and what an interval! Yesterday—Europe—mankind seemed thrown back on the horrors of past and dark ages; and now they are not only restored, but advanced by centuries. I could not resist writing to Lord Anglesey. Here is a rough draft of my letter.
In moments of great commotion and great
emotion, all forms of etiquette must yield to the expressions of
strong feeling which acknowledge no masters of ceremonies. My
husband and I were at the Park a day or two back, to pay you our
deep regret at your leaving. To-day, under a far different
excitement, I venture to obtrude the expression of our
congratulations on the greatest triumphs that freedom and knowledge
ever obtained over despotism and bigotry. England is saved, and
great and good men again take
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I have just had a letter from Moore, proving that it is equally true of one who becomes rich, as of a poet, that he must be nasciter non fit.
At the time I received your letter, I was
not very well able to answer it, and, indeed, till within these two
days, have felt by no means well, or like myself. I am, however,
now much better. I have been in correspondence, during part of the
time, with your friend of the Metropolitan, Captain Marryatt, and if the most
cautious and flattering liberality, on his part, added to your kind
persuasions, could have made a contributor or editor of me, I
should have been one at this moment. But I hate to be tied; it is this, far more than what you
call my aristocratic (God help me) prejudices, which makes me
reject so often the golden
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Give my best regards to Morgan,
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May 27.—A bright summer morning. Morgan took up his guitar at breakfast, and began to frédoner La Biondina, in Gondoletta, and an hour afterwards, under the combined influence of sunshine and green tea, Morgan, who is in as high health and spirits as I am out of both, ran up to my dressing-room, where I was prosing over my Women of the Church, with a handful of MS. music “See what I have composed,” said he, and laying it down on my tiresome writing-desk, he played and sang a pretty cavatina.
May 28.—I am suffering beyond all conception from want of air and exercise. My house is small and confined; there is no thorough air, and I am never allowed to open a window to obtain it. When summer comes, Dublin is a dreary desert inhabited only by loathsome beggars, and I feel suffocated; I complain, and think and say, “this is a hard fate.” My complaints are met with ridicule and vehement argument—sometimes with harshness; they are not borne with, because their cause is not felt, and all that makes my misery makes the happiness of one who, by law and custom, is the master of my actions, while books and easy chairs make up his whole wise scheme of happiness! All he says may be true, and I may be wrong; it may be weakness, caprice, an appetite for excitement; but still it is misery, and there is no reasoning with sensation. Men feel this, and plead it for the indulgence of their own whims—poor woman is commanded to suffer, and be silent, if she is so weak or wicked as to have no control over her sensations. This has been and will be my little personal narrative in secula secularam.
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[There is the following note at the bottom of this page of the diary, which is an amusing commentary on the above. October 29, 1832.—Looking back on this page, I can scarcely believe I am the person who wrote it; for now I am in high health and spirits, and in great vigour of body and mind. My trip to England, and air and exercise, have restored the balance of affection between us!]
London, July 1.—I thought I was past all enjoyment; but well may I enjoy so cordial and gracious a reception from all my old and new London friends. These pleasant and fresh apartments in St. James’ Place, close to the parks, and within reach of everything that is best, is very enlivening. My visitors begun at ten o’clock this morning—authors, publishers, booksellers, and artists; afterwards, some new and old cronies—Campbell, Captain Marryat, Bulwer, Dilke, and Wentworth Dilke; Lardner, Miss Sheridan, Sir M. Shee, Valpy, and Bentley; then in the afternoon, Ladies Charleville and Charlemont, Lady Stepney and others. This is pretty well for one day. Perhaps what is most delightful of all, is to find the old friends I had early made in my youth still at their post. Lord Nugent was one of my visitors, and more agreeable than ever.
I was carried off to the parks and zoological gardens, by Mrs. Webster, and have now a late eight o’clock dinner to dress for. In short, this is a second spring, an after crop!
July 2.—Yesterday, a charming dinner made for me
at Mr. Dilke’s. Amongst many
celebrities, Hood (of the Comic
Annual) a very grave person, looking
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Lady Cork still in town, still well disposed, but is so bent on getting up a dinner, that all her lingering forces are summed up in that.
Mrs. Charles Gore, the authoress of the thousand and one fashionable novels (her last, Pin Money), and a very successful writer; is herself, a pleasant little rondelette of a woman. I found her something of my own style. When I went to pay her a visit, I found her preparing for a dinner party in a pretty little bit of a boudoir house; we talked and laughed together as good-humoured women always do, and agreed upon many points. She made some clever hits. Trelawney, D’Orsay, and some other brilliant villains were to have been presented to me to-day, but I was out when they called.
I have little time to write my journal, and so merely jot down people and things as a reminder. As thus: Lady Aldborough has just been—wonderful still—her own hair, graceful figure, and such a toilet!! her wit (un peu trop fort) most racy, she might almost be my mother!!
The following note from Countess Guiccioli is very interesting in its broken English; she had not yet become a great lady at the French court, nor taken up the dropped stitches of her “respectability.”
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The Countess Guiccioli presents her compliments to Lady Morgan, and sends to her some lines of Lord Byron’s hand-writing, together with some hairs of him. She adds to that a ringlet of her own hair, only because Lady Morgan asked it. But she cannot do that, without a sort of remords, as it was a profanation to put together in the same shrine so holy relics with so trifling a thing as it is; for the rest, the few lines of Lord Byron’s writing hand are directed to the Count Gamba, Countess Guiccioli’s father, and are written in a playful style, as he did frequently, and always when he talked about the laziness and not extraordinary cleverness of his minister, Mr. Sega.
The Countess Guiccioli wishes and hopes that a better opportunity will be presented to her, in order to show how high is her esteem and admiration for the illustrious and amiable Lady Morgan.
August 16.—At last arrived at the original part of our pilgrimage, Leamington! found it a twaddle—people taking physic to slow music, and returning to quick; but oh, for Warwick Castle! and Guy’s Cliff! enchanting! My old flirt in my priory days, “the lord of the castle,” was not at home; the Bertie Percys were, and they were all kindness and hospitality.
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August 30.—We are now back to dull, dusty Dublin; we have been to pay our respects to the vice-royalties, and saw Lord Anglesey and Lady Mary Paget, and had a long and pleasant confab. Lord Anglesey said, “will you dine with me to-day, to-morrow, or Monday.” We said, “Monday, if it suits your Excellency.” Lord Anglesey.—“Who will you have to meet you?” I was going to say, “Pat Costello and Dan O’Connell;” but thought that would be too agreeable, so, said, “your Excellency’s family.” Lord Anglesey.—“Oh, poh, you must have somebody!” At this moment, in came Mr. Secretary Stanley. Lord Anglesey said, “You shall have him.” Stanley bowed and smiled, and so it is settled we dine at the Phœnix on Monday.
Tuesday.—Our dinner was rather triste, dull, and fine. Lord Anglesey not in spirits, one of his bad days.
