The diary resumes with the notice of Moore’s death:
February 28.—On coming down, an hour back, to the drawing-room, The Times was lying on my writing-desk; I lighted on the death of the poet Moore. It has struck me home; I did not think I should ever shed tears again; but I have. The funeral attended only by strangers, to the neighbouring churchyard! Surely they will do something to honour his memory in Ireland! I will write on the subject to Saunders’ News Letter and other papers.
March.—I have written to Mr. M’Garel, sending my contribution to the fund for the benefit of the school of poor Irish children; and I took the opportunity of suggesting that some monumental testimony to Moore, Ireland’s greatest poet, should be raised in St. Patrick’s cathedral, Dublin; and that no occasion for proposing it could be more aptly made than the celebration of the festival of St. Patrick.
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The question of raising a monument to Moore in Dublin was at once taken up, and Lady Morgan was involved in correspondence on the choice of site and other particulars.
Lady Morgan presents her compliments to
Mr. Mulvany, and, in answer to his
flattering note, begs to say, that any project for honouring the memory of
their illustrious countryman Moore,
cannot fail to interest her feelings or her pride, both as a personal friend
and as an Irish woman. With respect to Mr. Mulvany’s
allusion to Lady Morgan’s suggestion of a monumental
tablet in St. Patrick’s Cathedral (the Westminster Abbey of Ireland) it
was only incidentally made in a note to one of the best patrons of the
benevolent St. Patrick’s School Society in London. For the rest,
Lady Morgan presumes to say, that in the choice of a
site, and the selection of a monumental testimonial, climate and money are
necessary subjects of consideration; to “consult the genius of the
place in all,” is an old maxim of taste, and to have some regard to financial means,
is an indispensable restraint upon national enthusiasm in Ireland.
Lady Morgan has lived to see so
many “emerald crowns” national monuments,
tributary cenotaphs, and other such offerings decreed to national merit by
Irish gratitude through vocal acclamation and on paper, which “no
storied urn or ani-
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This letter received a lively response. It was copied into all the Dublin papers; and a meeting was called at Charlemont House. It was suggested that the site of the proposed statue should be Leinster Lawn, facing Merrion Square.
Lady Morgan also wrote to Mrs. Moore:
In looking over some letters the other day, of the year
’46, I found a note of dear Mr.
Moore’s, which I
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I assure you, my dear Mrs. Moore, I rejoice to hear, and from yourself that you are so well circumstanced, in a worldly point of view; and the Memoirs, edited by Lord John Russell, will, I am sure, prove a mine. And should business, connected with that most interesting publication, bring you to town, I shall be delighted to see you, in any way most desirable to you. My house is small, but I can offer you a tidy little bedroom, though rather loftily situated.
Mr. Rogers called here yesterday, but I was unluckily out. The last time I saw him, though very helpless, he was in good force and spirits, and narrated with his usual precision and accuracy.
October 1.—Returned to town from my country
excursions. I had just come off my journey and was lying stretched on the sofa
in the drawing-room, very dead and shattered, when I heard a voice, sharp and
Yankee, bullying my maid in the hall, for a free admit-
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My house is greatly improved—looks beautiful in its fresh green paint, but I am more inclined to my inclined plane, a sofa at home, than to gaieties; I am so completely “used up,” or, as Madame de Sevigné says—Je suis affamée pour le silence—for I am made to talk my life away at these charming country houses.
October 5.—Dined at Lady Talbot de Malahide’s; met there the Rajah of Courg, an amiable barbarian, or rather a specimen of the early creation. He played on the fiddle, and gave us “Rule Britannia,” to show his allegiance to England.
November 3.—I have missed my beautiful Irish seal with my Irish harp on it; I am astonished and do not know what to think. I have had it thirty years. It has been taken off my bunch of seals, which lies on my Pompadour.
November 4.—My whole nervous system has been
upset, by the discovery that I have had a Felon living in my house for the last
three weeks. Dr. Ferguson made the
discovery. He came to tell me, last night, too late to stir in the
business—and such a night as I passed! Locked up; my maid and myself, and
had a
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November 18.—The Duke’s funeral.—A melodramatic exhibition in the very worst style, in which there was but one noble feature,—the peace, order, and respect, as well as the respectability of the people. We saw the procession from the windows of the Vice Chancellor’s house, next door to Apsley House. We had a most sumptuous entertainment afterwards—not the display of “funeral baked meats,” but a very recherché repast. All London was eating and carousing, and the whole thing was in the spirit of an Irish wake. I hope we shall have no more heroes to bury for a thousand years.
In the last days of November I was struck by the most serious illness I have ever had, but I have been carried through by skill, care, and affection. Dr. Ferguson attended me daily for nearly a month. He has been the successor to poor Dr. Chambers, to my gratitude and confidence. Both are noble specimens of the noblest profession.
August, 1853.—Went to Bognor for my villegiatura; a most disagreeable place.
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Fiction has nothing more pathetic than that great melodramatic tragedy now performing on the shores of Ireland,—The Celtic Exodus. The Jews left a foreign country—a “house of bondage;” but the Celtic exodus is the departure of the Irish emigrants from the land of their love—their inheritance—and their traditions—of their passions and their prejudices; with all the details of wild grief and heartrending incidents—their ignorance of the strangers they are going to seek—their tenderness for the objects they are leaving behind. Their departure exceeds in deep pathos all the poetical tragedy that has ever been presented on the stage, or national novelists have ever depicted in their volumes.
Left Bognor. Returned to London in September. A long night of blindness and suffering, from the first week in September to the month of March following, when the dawn of light, health, and comfort once more broke upon me.
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