Now for Rome, and our mode of existence. Immediately after breakfast we start on our tours to ruins, churches, galleries, collections, &c., &c., and return late; dine, on an average, three times a week at English dinner parties; we are scarcely at home in the evenings, and never in the mornings. The Duchess of Devonshire is unceasing in her attentions to me; not only is her house open to us, but she calls and takes

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me out to show me what is best to be seen. As Cardinal Gonsalvi does not receive ladies, she arranged that I was to be introduced to him in the Pope’s chapel; as he was coming out in the procession of cardinals, he stepped aside, and we were presented. He insisted upon calling on me, and took our address. Cardinal Fesche (Bonaparte’s uncle) is quite my beau; he called on us the other day, and wanted me to drive out with him, but Morgan looked at his scarlet hat and stockings, and would not let me go. We have been to his palace, and he has shown us his fine collection (one of the finest in Rome). Lord William Russell, Mr. Adair, the Charlemonts, &c., are coming to us this evening. Madame Mère (Napoleon’s mother) sent to say she would be glad to see me; we were received quite in an imperial style. I never saw so fine an old lady,—still quite handsome. She was dressed in a rich crimson velvet, trimmed with sable, with a point lace ruff and head-dress. The pictures of her sons hung round the room, all in royal robes, and her daughter and grandchildren, and at the head of them all, old Mr. Bonaparte! Every time she mentioned Napoleon, the tears came in her eyes. She took me into her bedroom to show me the miniatures of her three children. She is full of sense, feeling, and spirit, and not the least what I expected—vulgar. We dined at the Princess Borghese’s,—Louis Bonaparte, the ex-king of Holland’s son, dined there,—a fine boy. Lord William Russell, and some Roman ladies in the evening. She invited us all to see her jewels; we passed through eight rooms en suite to get

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to her bedroom. The bed was white and gold, the quilt point lace, and the sheets French cambric, embroidered. The jewels were magnificent.

Nothing can be kinder than the Charlemont family. We were at three soirées all in one night. With great difficulty I at last got at Miss Curran, for she leads the life of a hermit. She is full of talent and intellect, pleasant, interesting, and original; and she paints like an artist.

A long and severe attack of my spasmodic affection, dearest Lady Morgan, must excuse and account for my silence. I am now as well nearly as before it happened; and I delay not to thank you for your very kind letter from Florence, which I received here in January. Let me assure you of the unwearied solicitude I feel that your progress through Italy, nay, let me say conclusively, through life, may be as successful and as well spent as its commencement. You know me too well to take pleasure in fulsome compli-

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ment, if I knew how to address it you; but I shall not doubt that you know I value the feelings that fill your heart—its tenderness—its fulfilment of close domestic duties—and also its deep sense of all Ireland has had to suffer, though we may differ in the causes; in short, that I admire the natural patriotism and love of liberty which inspires your lively imagination and throbs at your heart, and without which your writings had never attained their just celebrity. I understand and like you the better even when the scale and compass may not strictly bear you out; and in full sincerity I will always speak when I think they do not, because however ungifted I am, yet I am true and unprejudiced, which is the best light to common minds. I suppose you at Rome are steeped in classic lore; and I fain would know whether the remains of the glorious dead do not fill you with something more than contempt for our moderns? This and other absurd questions I would ask you, but that I am sure you would rather hear what we are about here. Well, we are going on dully enough, our Regent in love like a boy of sixteen, and the marchesa, after eight years’ attempts on his person, I believe in full enjoyment of her base ambition. We dined twice, by royal command, and were several evenings in a party of about twenty, where she was awkwardly enough situated, and certainly without tact or talent to get out of the dilemma. His royal highness had very cleverly left the pavilion unfit to enter, and therefore stuffed into a common lodging-house in Marlborough Row, with his one sitting-room about twenty-four by

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eighteen, his suite next door; and no party of the Lord Chamberlain Hertford, or Cholmondley, &c; thus he escaped at once from the societies of eighty and their sposas to those of his own age, and twenty years difference, se compte pour quelque chose. So there we were singing, and he as gay and as happy singing second, à gorge déployée to the musical misses, and making love, tout son saoul, when his brother’s death struck him to the heart;—for a heart he has depend upon it, and a generous one too. The Duke of Kent had behaved to him basely, yet he wrote tenderly to him, and forgave him. It is strange to say how much he felt the death of his father, always unkind to him; and a fact it is that he was thrown into fever by these events, and a cold brought on inflammation of the chest. Tierney saved his life by courage. One hundred and thirty-six ounces of blood were taken from him at four bleedings, and he is safe and well now. As soon as he was out of danger, he sent for the Duke of Sussex, and said, “My father and brother dead, warns his family to unite and live as they should do. I can forget everything!” The duke wept much, and the world is pleased with the king, and does him justice. Again, the late king’s Will is unsigned, and consequently all his money-wealth goes by law to the Crown. When the Chancellor told him so, his reply was, “No, my lord, I am here to fulfil my father’s wishes, not to take advantage of such a circumstance; therefore the Will will be executed as if it had been signed.” Of another amiable trait you will think as I do. Walker, apothecary and surgeon, who has attended him since his

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childhood, failed to open the vein; and as Sir Matthew Tierney had been a surgeon, and the danger of an hour’s delay was great, he took the lancet, and failed also; upon which His Majesty said, “Demm it, I’m glad you fail, for it would have vexed Walker,” and turning to whom, he said, “Come man, tie up the other arm.”

Observe, if you please, the excellent feeling which, with his life dependant on the operation, animated him to forget himself for the old man who had often sat up in his nursery, and you will allow it was very fine. The report of all travellers who have had any knowledge of the Princess of Wales, renders it imperative that such a woman should not preside in Great Britain over its honest and virtuous daughters, and something is to be done to prevent it. The king’s wish is, that she should be handsomely provided for; and he fain would divorce her, but the Chancellor and others wish only to save England from the disgrace of such a queen, and themselves the unpleasant work of unsaying their rash acquittal. There are only foreigners to witness her dreadful life on the continent; and John Bull thinks a foreigner would lie for sixpence, so a middle line will be pursued, I imagine, on the opening of the new parliament in May.

The Duc de Berri’s murder; I have had such an account of it from the Col. de Case himself to his nephew. All parties, of course, abhor the act; but it is feared by all wise people it will be made use of as a plea to deprive the people of the benefit

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of some law resembling our Habeas Corpus! All this you will hear of better than my defective information can apprise you. In the way of literature, we have been all busied with Mr. Hope’s Anastatius; or, Memoirs of a Greek, which certainly has a great deal of excellent matter in it; but, upon the whole, it is a heavy book, and one which bespeaks a most unhappy feeling in its author. Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe, with his Jewess Rebecca is worth a world of Christian damsels. He has got nine thousand pounds for that, and his novel not published. Mr. Chamboulan’s book is read and admired, and Murray has given him one thousand two hundred pounds for it. He has nobly fulfilled his duty to Napoleon. Napoleon’s own work is only worth much as a military notice upon the battle of Waterloo. The writing I doubt being his own, because the extreme vanity of epithet is entirely unworthy of so great a man. Yet there is something fine in the avoidance of complaint against the party who betrayed him in that senate which owed its existence to him, &c., &c. Farewell; I hope Sir Charles Morgan is quite well; and tell him from me not to expose himself to visit the catacombs, where malaria prevails at all seasons.

Mr. Becher has married Miss O’Neil, and she has nobly provided for her whole family out of thirty thousand pounds she had accumulated.

It is now known that Leach, Vice Chancellor, persuaded the Regent there could be no difficulty

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in the divorce of his wife; but that upon proposing it to Lord Howe, he persisted that two ocular witnesses of English birth would be required by John Bull to divorce an English queen; and that fifty foreigners would not suffice to satisfy the country. The point is, therefore, given up, and a legal separation only resolved on. Her life might be taken for forgery; but I understand she is to be let off cheaply, and her income of fifty thousand pounds given her. Farewell. I wish you a most happy year, and as many as may smile upon you.

Here we are again, safe and sound, as I trust this will find you all. We were much disappointed at not finding a letter here on our return, and now all our hopes are fixed on Venice, for which we should have departed this day but for the impossibility of getting horses; the moment the Holy Week was over, there was a general break up, and this strange, whirligig travelling world, who were all mad to get here, are

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now all mad to get away. Before I place myself at Rome, however, I must take you back with me for a little to Naples. Just as I despatched my letter to you, with the account of my February summer, arrives the month of March with storms of wind, a fall of snow on the mountains, and all this in an immense barrack, called a palace, without chimneys, or doors that shut, or windows that close. In short, as to climate, take it all in all, I am as well satisfied now with my old, wet blanket, Irish climate as any other. I had nothing to complain of, however, at Naples, but the climate—nothing could exceed the kindness and politeness of the Neapolitans to us both. Every Monday we were invited to a festino given by the Neapolitan nobility to the English, and our time passed, in point of society, most delightfully. There is less to be seen than at Rome; but those few sights are more curious and more perfect than anything at Rome except the Coliseum. The buried town at Pompeii, for instance, is unique,—a complete Roman town as it stood two thousand years ago, almost all the furniture in high preservation; but this is beyond the compass of a letter. We left pleasant, brilliant Naples with infinite regret, and our journey here was most curious. Notwithstanding we were five carriages strong, yet at each military post (and they were at every quarter of a mile) two soldiers leaped upon our carriage, one before and another behind, with their arms, and gave us up to the next guard, who gave us two more guards, and thus we performed our perilous journey like prisoners of state. You may

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guess the state of the country by this. At Rome, however, all danger from bandits ends, and when I caught a view of the cupola of St. Peter’s rising amidst the solitudes of the Campagna, I offered up as sincere a thanksgiving as ever was preferred to his sanctity. We arrived in Rome in time for the first of the ceremonies of the Holy Week. All our English friends at Naples arrived at the same time; but after the Holy Week at Rome, never talk of Westminster elections, Irish fairs, or English bear-gardens! I never saw the horrors of a crowd before, nor such a curious melange of the ludicrous and the fearful. We had a ticket sent us for all by Cardinal Fesche, and saw all; but it was at the risk of our limbs and lives. Of all the ceremonies the benediction was the finest, and of all the sights, St. Peter’s illuminated on Easter Sunday night, the most perfectly beautiful. We were from eight o’clock in the morning till two o’clock in the afternoon in the church; all the splendour of the earth is nothing to the procession of the Pope and Cardinals. Morgan was near being crushed to death, only he cried out to Lord Charlemont to give him some money (for he could not get to his pocket), which he threw to a soldier, who rescued him. I saw half the red bench of England tumbling down staircases, and pushed back by the guard. We have Queen Caroline here. At first this made a great fuss whether she was or was not to be visited by her subjects, when lo! she refused to see any of them, and leads the most perfectly retired life! We met her one day driving out in a state truly royal; I never saw her so splendid. Young

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Austen followed in an open carriage; he is an interesting-looking young man. She happened to arrive at an inn near Rome, when Lord and Lady Leitrim were there; she sent for them and invited them to tea. Lady Leitrim told me her manner was perfect, and altogether she was a most improved woman; the Baron attended her at tea, but merely as a chamberlain, and was not introduced. Before you receive this, if accounts be true, Her Majesty will be in England. I think you will not be sorry to hear that if we live and do well, our next letter will be dated from Paris.

I really was rejoiced to see your pretty hand-writing once more. The recollections of old friends are to me infinitely more precious than the attentions of new, and

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though the latter days of my life are by far the most prosperous, yet I look back to the first (adverse though they were), and to those connected with them, with pride and affection—you and Mr. Featherstone are two of the oldest friends I have. I thank you for the expression of friendship contained in your kind letter. Our journey to Italy has been most prosperous, as well as the pleasantest we ever made. Nothing could equal our reception everywhere. We were particularly fortunate in such a long journey as we have made throughout Italy, not to have met with an accident, and in a country, too, part of which is infested with banditti; but the fatigue was killing, accommodation wretched, and expense tremendous.

Imagine, on our reaching home, we found the tenant who had taken our house during our two years‘ absence, had gone off with the rent, destroyed and made away with our furniture, and left our house in such a ruinous condition that we have been obliged already to spend three hundred pounds to make it habitable. I have brought many pretty things from Italy, so that we endeavour to console ourselves for our loss by enjoying what is left and what we have added. I am now writing eight hours a day to get ready for publication by December, and endeavour to keep out of the world as well as I can, but invitations pour in. People are curious, I suppose, to hear some news from Rome, and I want to keep it for my book. And now, dear Mrs. Featherstone, believe me,

I wish they would give us your work on Italy to rouse me from the lethargy into which I have fallen. It is only you that have both power and inclination to make me forget the ennui of existence, and only in your society that I am not entirely bête. What shall I do with the long mornings in Geneva? You know you laughed me out of my maître de litterature, which, par parenthese, was very inconsiderate, unless you could have pointed out some more amusing method of killing time. Baron Bonstettin came to see me to-day; you were the subject of our conversation, nothing but admiration and regret when we talk of you.

How is dear Sir Charles? He is the only man on earth who knows my value, which has given me the highest opinion of his taste and judgment.

The Marchioness de Villette wishes me to spend a month with her in Paris. I cannot go, although it would be a great soulagement to converse with a person who loves me, one has always so much sur le cœur, and in this country they are so heartless. I do dé-domager myself a little by uttering all the ridiculous things which come into my brain, either about others

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or myself. A propos, how do you like the Queen’s trial? the newspapers here are worn out in passing from one prude’s hand into another’s; they are so much inquired for that the loueurs des Gazettes have raised their price.

Do not let me forget to tell you that Mr. Sismondi has made my acquaintance—he is married, too; I wonder that people of genius marry; by the way, I recollect that you are an advocate for le mariage. Oh! my dear Lady Morgan, I have been in such a state of melancholy, that I wished myself dead a thousand times—all my philosophy, all my courage, are insufficient sometimes to support the inexpressible ennui of existence, and in those moments of wretchedness I have no human being to whom I can complain. What do you think of a person advising me to turn Methodist the other day, when I expressed just the hundredth part of the misery I felt? I find no one can comprehend my feelings. Have you read Les Méditations Poétiques de Lamartine? There are some pretty things in them, although he is too larmoyant, and of the bad school of politics. Miss Edgworth is here; I visited her; she came to see me with Professor Pictel, and we have never met. She has a great deal of good sense, which is just what I particularly object to, unless accompanied by genius, in my companions. It is only you that combine tous les genres d’esprit, and whose society can compensate me for all the losses and the mistakes of my heart; but I shall never see you again, those whom I love and who love me are always distant; I am dragging out life with the indifferent. They

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are so reasonable and so unmoved in this place, their mornings devoted to the exact sciences, the evenings to whist, that in spite of myself I am obliged to read half the day. There have been some English, but I have seen little of them—they would not like me, I am too natural où naturelle. I believe that women are cold, formal, and affected—just my antipodes, therefore we should not be agreeable to each other, besides, they require a year to become acquainted, and I have too little of life left to waste it in formalities.

Adieu, my dear Lady Morgan, write me frequently; your friendship is among the few comforts left me.