I have received a copy of the Wild Irish Girl, of which the value is increased by a line which tells me that the author has been kind enough to think of me. I shall always value the book for its own sake, and for the sake of the giver.

November 4.—I am thankful to say that all my roamings are over for this year, and that I am safe at home in dear William Street, in sight of all that is best. I got so ill at Worthing I was obliged to leave the Duchess and her family party which, by-the-bye, like most family parties (except it is one’s own), was dull. There was one member of this party with whom I got on well, and who talks soundly upon all high class subjects, but he talks like a ghost, only when spoken to; and as no one ventured to draw him out but myself, I had him all to myself. He appears cold and self-reliant, stands apart from all contact with his species. Apparently he was never in love, and his family (who know him best) say never will marry. When I left this ducal ménage and its aristocratic morgue, I started off for my dearest Sydney’s pretty little parsonage at Gelderton, in Suffolk, rather a different scene to be sure; but its sunny and cheerful atmosphere made everything bright and happy, and it was not till my return to town with a severe attack of rheumatism, that I found out their cottage was damp and low, and I suspect disagrees with them, but they will not allow it. I was obliged to send to my good friend Dr. Latham, and have his advice and prescriptions, which set me up again, and enabled me to go to Serge Hill, Herts, to my dear old Solley’s, where I was shown off to divers Hertfordshire magnates, and made to trot out and show my paces in the old style.

RETIRED FROM WORK.

493

Spring flowers, With spring showers, Like Love’s promise, Pass, fleet away.

While winter weaves His ivy leaves, For deathless wreaths For friendship’s day.

August.—Death of the O’Connor Don. Another

494

LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR.

gone! my esteemed and tried friend, one of the honestest and best men Ireland ever had to boast of. It is but the other day since he was at one of my soirées, talking of old times. He was the lineal descendant of the supreme kings of Ireland. I saw the old crown of Irish gold at a jeweller’s, in Dublin, when I was a little girl.

I am very very sorry to be deprived so long of any enjoyment from your society, which I always cared for and valued when there seemed to be more of the same stamp current than in our latter days! Is it that as age advances we think complacently on those scenes we passed under the blaze of a meridian day with capabilities now blunted, and which neither can impart or receive pleasure with the same gusto as heretofore? Be that as it may, my dear Lady Morgan, I shall always rejoice in seeing you again, and be most anxious for the recovered health of Mr. and Mrs. Jones.

April 15.—I look into my old journals and find that my first lesson in salad making was given me by Lord Chancellor Manners—about the time my novel O’Donnel appeared. The day after getting my book, when he discovered its emancipating tendency, he ordered it to be burnt in the servants’ hall, and then said to Lady Manners, (who told it to my sister) “Jenny, I wish I had not given her the secret of my salad.” Ever after, he only bowed to me when we met at court, never spoke to me. Jenny was my old crony, friend and confidant up to that moment; but O’Donnel lost me my charming friend. She had been educated in a Catholic convent, was the child of Catholic parents, her mother born in low life, and she only became a Protestant on becoming a peeress. Her brother, Lord Glengall, was converted before.

Let me jump over all propriety—it is the only thing I can now jump over, but early practice and long, has kept me vigorous in that particular—let me jump over it, the tiresome obstacle, and address you at once as dear Lady Morgan.

What can I offer in excuse, what say for myself that

496

LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR.

I accept your promise of a visit by letter, instead of paying my homage in person? Rudeness I am guilty of “Mais avec des circonstances extenuantes.” I am seventy-two—that is no defence; but I am also like the prince in the Arabian tale of the coloured fishes, half flesh half marble, and I can scarcely move across a room; to get in and out of a carriage is almost as bad for me as it was for the genie to get in and out of the vessel sealed by Solomon, not that Solomon ever put his seal on me. I am, however, wise enough to be delighted at the prospect of seeing Lady Morgan, and if she will allow me to say Thursday, as soon after two o’clock as she likes, luncheon will be ready, and an humble admirer at her commands, meanwhile he remains, Her devoted admirer,

December 12.—What a villegiatura I have made for the last three months—a honeymoon spent with Lady Laura and Mr. Grattan, at their pretty villa at Hampton Court, then for a fortnight at Lady Webster’s, Roehampton, and, en passant, I paid a visit at the Grove, and found all the family at home except its illustrious chief. Then to Dover with my poor Jones for his health; but the place disagreed with me after a fortnight, and so I left them and went to the Deepdene, Mr. Hope’s—all en grand seigneur, and most of all the master. It is much to say that the wealthiest man in England is also the highest bred, the fine gentlemanism of good society when it was best, with great natural kindness. The party gay and charming.

RETIRED FROM WORK.

497

Then from Deepdene I went to Llanover Court, Monmouthshire (Sir Benjamin Hall’s, now Lord Llanover’s); staid there a week, and departed from it with my dear Mrs. Murray, for a visit to her mother’s, Baroness Braye, at Malvern, and so on to the Duchess of Cleveland’s, Yorkshire; a fine party, who moved and breathed by the Lodge Peerage, and then back to town, where my dear niece and her husband was waiting to receive me, the first time for years that I was welcomed with cordial affection in my own lonely dwelling.

December 22.—I am actually off for Brighton! on a visit to my kind old friend Lady Webster, I little thought I could visit this sad place again. All my old friends have come about me. The dear, warm-hearted and clever Horace Smith; the Duke of Devonshire reproached me for not having called on him on my first arrival, and sent me an invitation to dine, immediately he heard I was here. Alas, we first met, a few days before he came of age, at the Priory, Stanmore.

January 12, 1848.—Went to Elliot Warburton’s marriage with my friend Miss Groves—a marriage made, I do believe, on my little balcony. All the muses assisted at this literary nuptials—Monckton Milnes, Hayward, Eothen Kinglake,—I was the only she muse there. I offered two unfinished MSS. to any lady who might adopt them for the nonce, to qualify them for being present.

Dined yesterday with Milner Gibson; amongst the agreeables were Lord Dudley Stuart, that amiable

498

LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR.

roué, Sir Henry Mildmay, and the most illustrious Mr. Punch; yes, really and literally, Punch; Douglas Jerrold—a very remarkable-looking man—diminutive, plain, and evidently a valetudinarian; his manners simple, mild and gentleman-like. We chatted across the table, and agreed about the national defences and the national timidity having brought on the coming invasion. He said he would lower the prices of house-rent at Brighton, if I would return there! I said I would; and lo! there is an admirable and humorous paper on “Brighton panic,” in the Punch of this day.

February 12.—I have been very ill indeed for a month, and my poor Sydney has been in much sorrow; and I have been more miserable than I ever thought I should be again. After my three great calamities I did not suppose time could have another in store for me; but I have been threatened with the loss of all I have left me.

November 25.—The death of Lord Melbourne is one of the triste incidents of this triste month. How many passages of my own life are recalled by his death! How long I knew him, how much I owed him, what joyous days and nights I have passed in his charming society, from my girlhood to this moment! I called to inquire for him before I left town in October; he sent his valet down to request I would come up. He was sitting in his back drawing-room, amidst books and papers, en robe de chambre; he was quite himself, pleasant and chatty, and asked me what was the little packet I had in my hands. I said, invites for a little

RETIRED FROM WORK.

499

soirée the next evening, and I had not the courage to ask him. “Why not?” said he, passing his hand over his head in his old way; “I should like it much.” “You don’t mean that, Lord Melbourne,” said I. “Yes I do, and if I feel up to it when the time comes, you will see me;” but when it came, he did not come, and sent me a verbal message. He was looking ill, and I did not think of asking him. Alas! I never saw him again!