DURING my blindness I was hospitably housed in Eaten Place byMr. Whitbread, the head of the renowned firm. After myrecovery I had the good fortune to meet there Lady Morgan,the once famous authoress of the 'Wild Irish Girl.' Shestill bore traces of her former comeliness, and had probablylost little of her sparkling vivacity. She was known to likethe company of young people, as she said they made her feelyoung; so, being the youngest of the party, I had the honourof sitting next her at dinner. When I recall herconversation and her pleasing manners, I can well understandthe homage paid both abroad and at home to the bright geniusof 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 asGlenarvon's letters to the heroine. Lady Morgan had been theconfidante of Lady Caroline, had seen many of Byron'sletters, and possessed many of her friend's - full of detailsof the extraordinary intercourse which had existed betweenthe two.

　　Lady Morgan evidently did not believe (in spite of LadyCaroline's mad passion for the poet) that the liaison everreached the ultimate stage contemplated by her lover. Thisopinion was strengthened by Lady Caroline's undoubtedattachment to her husband - William Lamb, afterwards LordMelbourne - who seems to have submitted to his wife'svagaries with his habitual stoicism and good humour.

　　Both Byron and Lady Caroline had violent tempers, and werealways 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 firstsuccess as the youthful author of 'Vivian Grey.' He wasnaturally made much of, but rather in the Bohemian world thanby such queens of society as Lady Holland or Lady Jersey.

　　'And faith!' she added, with the piquante accent whichexcitement evoked, 'he took the full shine out of his janius.

　　And how do ye think he was dressed? In a black velvet jacketand suit to match, with a red sash round his waist, in whichwas stuck a dagger with a richly jew'lled sheath and handle.'

　　The only analogous instance of self-confidence that I cancall to mind was Garibaldi's costume at a huge reception atStafford House. The ELITE of society was there, in diamonds,ribbons, and stars, to meet him. Garibaldi's uppermost andoutermost garment was a red flannel shirt, nothing more norless.

　　The crowd jostled and swayed around him. To get out of theway of it, I retreated to the deserted picture gallery. Theonly person there was one who interested me more than thescarlet patriot, Bulwer-Lytton the First. He was saunteringto and fro with his hands behind his back, looking dingy inhis black satin scarf, and dejected. Was he envying theItalian hero the obsequious reverence paid to his miner'sshirt? (Nine tenths of the men, and still more of the womenthere, knew nothing of the wearer, or his cause, beyondthat.) Was he thinking of similar honours which had beenlavished upon himself when HIS star was in the zenith? Washe muttering to himself the usual consolation of the 'have-beens' - VANITAS VANITATUM? Or what new fiction, what oldlove, was flitting through that versatile and fantasticbrain? Poor Bulwer! He had written the best novel, the bestplay, and had made the most eloquent parliamentary oration ofany man of his day. But, like another celebrated statesmanwho has lately passed away, he strutted his hour and willsoon be forgotten - 'Quand on broute sa gloire en herbe deson vivant, on ne la recolte pas en epis apres sa mort.' The'Masses,' so courted by the one, however blatant, are not thearbiters of immortal fame.

　　To go back a few years before I met Lady Morgan: when mymother was living at 18 Arlington Street, Sydney Smith usedto be a constant visitor there. One day he called just as wewere going to lunch. He had been very ill, and would not eatanything. My mother suggested the wing of a chicken.

　　'My dear lady,' said he, 'it was only yesterday that mydoctor positively refused my request for the wing of abutterfly.'

　　Another time when he was making a call I came to the doorbefore 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 thatfairly took Jeames' breath away.

　　As Sydney's face was perfectly impassive, I never felt quitesure whether this was for the benefit of myself or of theastounded footman; or whether it was the genuine expressionof an absent mind. He was a great friend of my mother's, andof Mr. Ellice's, but his fits of abstraction were notorious.

　　He himself records the fact. 'I knocked at a door in London,asked, "Is Mrs. B- at home?" "Yes, sir; pray what name shallI say?" I looked at the man's face astonished. What name?

　　what name? aye, that is the question. What is my name? Ihad no more idea who I was than if I had never existed. Idid not know wheth............