Portran, January 5th.—Here we are with our friend the honourable, uncompromising M.P. for Dublin, George Evans, the butt and victim of all O’Connell’s hatred, malice, and calumny, because he will not crawl after him, and resists his repeal. Mrs. Evans is the sister of Sir Henry Parnell, and daughter to the late Irish Chancellor of the Exchequer; she is a first-rate woman, but, perhaps, too ambitious about her husband’s parliamentary career. They are both excellent, and I always enjoy my sea-girt dwelling; in spite of the wind howling without, all within is peace, comfort, and good cheer; by-the-bye, à propos to the latter, they possess the first cook in Europe.
Kildare Street, January 9th.—Came into town to dine at Lord Wellesley’s. Had some chat with the
Viceroy, the Vice Queen; the Duke of Leinster, and the Littletons were of the party. I was congratu-
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After this came other dinners and parties, too numerous to specify.
February 14th.—I had a little musical soirée last night. The last time my three girls may, perhaps, ever sing together, for Sydney is to be married next week, and then off to England. Vaccai sang with them; he is a charming composer.
February 17th.—I am so busy with other people’s affairs, Miss O’Keefe, Madame Belzoni, Vaccai,—writing my new book, and Sydney’s marriage, and letters and felicitations, that I have not a moment to give to journalising. Lord Cloncurry has lent Sydney Lawrence his villa of Maritimo till they go to England.
February 21st.—I am like Lady Teazle, “drawing patterns for ruffles; I shall never have materials to make up,” for here are two fine receipts just as I have given up giving dinners! The reason I am up to my eyes in fuss, is that I am so occupied with Sydney’s marriage, and my new work on Belgium, of which I can make nothing; the fault is in me, and not in my subject, which is fine. I am living without servants; oh, would that I could live for ever without those impersonations of whiskey, the Irish servants; ce chapitre là would take a volume, the whole history of the country is concerned in it,—priests and bad government!
Poor Miss O’Keefe! her
fathers book has just come in; what feebleness, but what amiable feeling! She
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I have had to begin my Belgium all over again on a new plan. I have now made up my mind to make a Belgian novel of my materials, instead of a history; my heroine shall be a Béguine.
The feebleness of present men and present times is fully illustrated by the fuss and agitation in which Lords and Commons are thrown by discovering men to be rogues whom nobody ever suspected of being honest.
February 28.—Just had a visit from old, queer, Weld Hartstronge—a flirtation of near twenty years’ standing; ma foi, Time has left him as quizzical as Nature intended him to be! His uncle, Sir Harry Hartstronge, was the Protestant gentleman who knocked the Catholic petition over the bar of the House of Commons some forty years back. This little Parliamentary anecdote would be a floorer to Mr. O’Connell’s raving for the repeal—such was the Irish House of Commons! Would any one dare to do this in the Imperial Parliament? My friend, Weld Hartstronge, is author of a large portion of those books “that ne’er were read;” but he is a worthy man, a great antiquary, and my walking Encyclopædia.
May 24.—Half an hour back, writing hard at my Béguine, the bright sunshine drew me with my watering-pot to the balcony; a thundering knock at the door drove me in—somebody had entered the study. I went down. It was Cuthbert of Altadore.
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“I am come,” said he, “to tell you—that the news has arrived of—in short—Lafayette is dead!!”
Alas! our last, best tie to France is broken; only aged 76; he would have had some bright years yet before him but for that one false step—the restoration of the Bourbons; his death-blow came from that.
May 25.—My dear Francis Crossley arrived from India, via China; the same friend he ever was—kind, gentle, and devoted. He dines with us to-morrow, and all my own dear family.
June 20.—Malahide Castle; busy all day writing my Béguine. Delicious air breathing on me, and beautiful scenery. Just finished a scene—the basse Ville de Bruxelles, the atélier of a poor young female artiste. I took the idea from my visit to Fannie Corr, the young Belgian artist. Rogier, the Minister of the Interior, carried me off one morning to see an old delabrée house—pretty much as I have described it—and as we waited for the young struggling artiste in her studio, I was struck by its dreariness and picturesque desolation.
My dearest Morgan works with me at this arduous novel—copies and corrects whilst I throw off the proof impressions; but I would rather he walked on the seashore, which now gleams so brightly before me; but he won’t. Alas! inertness is his malady.
I have received a letter about the copyright of my ballad of Kate Kearney. Somebody wants to publish it afresh. She certainly would be an old woman by this time, if women and heroines had not an escape from old age in immortality.
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The Duke of Wellington has been made Chancellor of Oxford. Our Archbishop of Dublin demanded an audience of Lord Wellesley. “I come to demand a troop of horse, my Lord.” “For whom?” “For myself.” “Oh, I see!”
