DURING my blindness I was hospitably housed in Eaten Place by Mr. Whitbread, the head of the renowned firm. After my recovery I had the good fortune to meet there Lady Morgan, the once famous authoress of the 'Wild Irish Girl.' She still bore traces of her former comeliness, and had probably lost little of her sparkling vivacity. She was known to like the company of young people, as she said they made her feel young; so, being the youngest of the party, I had the honour of sitting next her at dinner. When I recall her conversation and her pleasing manners, I can well understand the homage paid both abroad and at home to the bright genius of the Irish actor's daughter.
We talked a good deal about Byron and Lady Caroline Lamb.
This arose out of my saying I had been reading 'Glenarvon,' in which Lady Caroline gives Byron's letters to herself as Glenarvon's letters to the heroine. Lady Morgan had been the confidante of Lady Caroline, had seen many of Byron's letters, and possessed many of her friend's - full of details of the extraordinary intercourse which had existed between the two.
Lady Morgan evidently did not believe (in spite of Lady Caroline's mad passion for the poet) that the liaison ever reached the ultimate stage contemplated by her lover. This opinion was strengthened by Lady Caroline's undoubted attachment to her husband - William Lamb, afterwards Lord Melbourne - who seems to have submitted to his wife's vagaries with his habitual stoicism and good humour.
Both Byron and Lady Caroline had violent tempers, and were always quarrelling. This led to the final rupture, when, according to my informant, the poet's conduct was outrageous.
He sent her some insulting lines, which Lady Morgan quoted.
The only one I remember is:
Thou false to him, thou fiend to me!
Among other amusing anecdotes she told was one of Disraeli.
She had met him (I forget where), soon after his first success as the youthful author of 'Vivian Grey.' He was naturally made much of, but rather in the Bohemian world than by such queens of society as Lady Holland or Lady Jersey.
'And faith!' she added, with the piquante accent which excitement evoked, 'he took the full shine out of his janius.
And how do ye think he was dressed? In a black velvet jacket and suit to match, with a red sash round his waist, in which was stuck a dagger with a richly jew'lled sheath and handle.'
The only analogous instance of self-confidence that I can call to mind was Garibaldi's costume at a huge reception at Stafford House. The ELITE of society was there, in diamonds, ribbons, and stars, to meet him. Garibaldi's uppermost and outermost garment was a red flannel shirt, nothing more nor less.
The crowd jostled and swayed around him. To get out of the way of it, I retreated to the deserted picture gallery. The only person there was one who interested me more than the scarlet patriot, Bulwer-Lytton the First. He was sauntering to and fro with his hands behind his back, looking dingy in his black satin scarf, and dejected. Was he envying the Italian hero the obsequious reverence paid to his miner's shirt? (Nine tenths of the men, and still more of the women there, knew nothing of the wearer, or his cause, beyond that.) Was he thinking of similar honours which had been lavished upon himself when HIS star was in the zenith? Was he muttering to himself the usual consolation of the 'have-beens' - VANITAS VANITATUM? Or what new fiction, what old love, was flitting through that versatile and fantastic brain? Poor Bulwer! He had written the best novel, the best play, and had made the most eloquent parliamentary oration of any man of his day. But, like another celebrated statesman who has lately passed away, he strutted his hour and will soon be forgotten - 'Quand on broute sa gloire en herbe de son vivant, on ne la recolte pas en epis apres sa mort.' The 'Masses,' so courted by the one, however blatant, are not the arbiters of immortal fame.
To go back a few years before I met Lady Morgan: when my mother was living at 18 Arlington Street, Sydney Smith used to be a constant visitor there. One day he called just as we were going to lunch. He had been very ill, and would not eat anything. My mother suggested the wing of a chicken.
'My dear lady,' said he, 'it was only yesterday that my doctor positively refused my request for the wing of a butterfly.'
Another time when he was making a call I came to the door before it was opened. When the footman answered the bell, 'Is Lady Leicester at home?' he asked.
'No, sir,' was the answer.
'That's a good job,' he exclaimed, but with a heartiness that fairly took Jeames' breath away.
As Sydney's face was perfectly impassive, I never felt quite sure whether this was for the benefit of myself or of the astounded footman; or whether it was the genuine expression of an absent mind. He was a great friend of my mother's, and of Mr. Ellice's, but his fits of abstraction were notorious.
