Chapter 11

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 whether I was a dissenter or a layman. I feltas dull as Sternhold and Hopkins. At last, to my greatrelief, it flashed across me that I was Sydney Smith.'

　　In the summer of the year 1848 Napier and I stayed a coupleof nights with Captain Marryat at Langham, near Blakeney. Heused constantly to come over to Holkham to watch our cricketmatches. His house was a glorified cottage, very comfortableand prettily decorated. The dining and sitting-rooms werehung with the original water-colour drawings - mostly byStanfield, I think - which illustrated his minor works.

　　Trophies from all parts of the world garnished the walls.

　　The only inmates beside us two were his son, a strange, butclever young man with considerable artistic abilities, andhis talented daughter, Miss Florence, since so well known tonovel readers.

　　Often as I had spoken to Marryat, I never could quite makehim out. Now that I was his guest his habitual reservedisappeared, and despite his failing health he was genialityitself. Even this I did not fully understand at first. Atthe dinner-table his amusement seemed, I won't say to make a'butt' of me - his banter was too good-natured for that - buthe treated me as Dr. Primrose treated his son after thebushel-of-green-spectacles bargain. He invented the mostwonderful stories, and told them with imperturbablesedateness. Finding a credulous listener in me, he drew allthe more freely upon his invention. When, however, hegravely asserted that Jonas was not the only man who hadspent three days and three nights in a whale's belly, butthat he himself had caught a whale with a man inside it whohad lived there for more than a year on blubber, which, hedeclared, was better than turtle soup, it was impossible toresist the fooling, and not forget that one was the Moses ofthe extravaganza.

　　In the evening he proposed that his son and daughter and Ishould act a charade. Napier was the audience, and Marryathimself the orchestra - that is, he played on his fiddle suchtunes as a ship's fiddler or piper plays to the heaving ofthe anchor, or for hoisting in cargo. Everyone was inromping spirits, and notwithstanding the cheery Captain'ssigns of fatigue and worn looks, which he evidently strove toconceal, the evening had all the freshness and spirit of animpromptu pleasure.

　　When I left, Marryat gave me his violin, with some sad wordsabout his not being likely to play upon it more. Perhaps heknew better than we how prophetically he was speaking.

　　Barely three weeks afterwards I learnt that the humorouscreator of 'Midshipman Easy' would never make us laugh again.

　　In 1846 Lord John Russell succeeded Sir Robert Peel aspremier. At the General Election, a brother of mine was theLiberal candidate for the seat in East Norfolk. He wasreturned; but was threatened with defeat through anoccurrence in which I was innocently involved.

　　The largest landowner in this division of the county, next tomy brother Leicester, was Lord Hastings - great-grandfatherof the present lord. On the occasion I am referring to, hewas a guest at Holkham, where a large party was thenassembled. Leicester was particularly anxious to be civil tohis powerful neighbour; and desired the members of his familyto show him every attention. The little lord was anexceedingly punctilious man: as scrupulously dapper inmanner as he was in dress. Nothing could be more courteous,more smiling, than his habitual demeanour; but his bite wasworse than his bark, and nobody knew which candidate hisagents had instructions to support in the coming contest. Itwas quite on the cards that the secret order would turn thescales.

　　One evening after dinner, when the ladies had left us, themen were drawn together and settled down to their wine. Itwas before the days of cigarettes, and claret was plentifullyimbibed. I happened to be seated next to Lord Hastings onhis left; on the other side of him was Spencer Lyttelton,uncle of our Colonial Secretary. Spencer Lyttelton was anotable character. He had much of the talents and amiabilityof his distinguished family; but he was eccentric,exceedingly comic, and dangerously addicted to practicaljokes. One of these he now played upon the spruce andvigilant little potentate whom it was our special aim to win.

　　As the decanters circulated from right to left, Spencerfilled himself a bumper, and passed the bottles on. LordHastings followed suit. I, unfortunately, was speaking toLyttelton behind Lord Hastings's back, and as he turned andpushed the wine to me, the incorrigible joker, catching sightof the handkerchief sticking out of my lord's coat-tail,quick as thought drew it open and emptied his full glass intothe gaping pocket. A few minutes later Lord Hastings, whotook snuff, discovered what had happened. He held thedripping cloth up for inspection, and with perfect urbanitydeposited it on his dessert plate.

　　Leicester looked furious, but said nothing till we joined theladies. He first spoke to Hastings, and then to me. Whatpassed between the two I do not know. To me, he said:

　　'Hastings tells me it was you who poured the claret into hispocket. This will lose the election. After to-morrow, Ishall want your room.' Of course, the culprit confessed; andmy brother got the support we hoped for. Thus it was thatthe political interests of several thousands of electorsdepended on a glass of wine.