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.
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December 14.—I dare not trust myself to chronicle my feelings as to passing years more! To forget is my philosophy, to hope would be my insanity, to endure (and that I can) is my system; but it is only a system, from which the dreary impulses of my state and condition revolt but too often. Still I am grateful for the good I yet enjoy—to be so is my religion.
Nothing is left me to love; but, also, nothing to fear.
December 25.—I am endeavouring to make head against the sad associations of this month, and to give evidence of my cheerful philosophy if not of my happiness. And so I end this old year quietly, somewhat anxiously, but with increasing social popularity.
January, 1847.—Another year! I cannot say I hailed it with a welcome or with a hope; but I endeavour to cheer it in, and gave a dinner for my most dear husband’s family and friends, a large musical party in the evening—all the neighbours I could collect.
All my servants laid up with influenza.
I sent these rhymes, with a winter bouquet, to a friend:—
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Spring flowers,
With spring showers,
Like Love’s promise,
Pass, fleet away.
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While winter weaves
His ivy leaves,
For deathless wreaths
For friendship’s day.
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August.—Death of the O’Connor Don. Another
| 494 | LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR. |
