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.
He himself records the fact. 'I knocked at a door in London,
asked, "Is Mrs. B- at home?" "Yes, sir; pray what name shall
I say?" I looked at the man's face astonished. What name?
what name? aye, that is the question. What is my name? I
had no more idea who I was than if I had never existed. I
did not know whether I was a dissenter or a layman. I felt
as dull as Sternhold and Hopkins. At last, to my great
relief, it flashed across me that I was Sydney Smith.'
In the summer of the year 1848 Napier and I stayed a couple
of nights with Captain Marryat at Langham, near Blakeney. He
used constantly to come over to Holkham to watch our cricket
matches. His house was a glorified cottage, very comfortable
and prettily decorated. The dining and sitting-rooms were
hung with the original water-colour drawings - mostly by
Stanfield, 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, but
clever young man with considerable artistic abilities, and
his talented daughter, Miss Florence, since so well known to
novel readers.
Often as I had spoken to Marryat, I never could quite make
him out. Now that I was his guest his habitual reserve
disappeared, and despite his failing health he was geniality
itself. Even this I did not fully understand at first. At
the dinner-table his amusement seemed, I won't say to make a
'butt' of me - his banter was too good-natured for that - but
he treated me as Dr. Primrose treated his son after the
bushel-of-green-spectacles bargain. He invented the most
wonderful stories, and told them with imperturbable
sedateness. Finding a credulous listener in me, he drew all
the more freely upon his invention. When, however, he
gravely asserted that Jonas was not the only man who had
spent three days and three nights in a whale's belly, but
that he himself had caught a whale with a man inside it who
had lived there for more than a year on blubber, which, he
declared, was better than turtle soup, it was impossible to
resist the fooling, and not forget that one was the Moses of
the extravaganza.
