LORD  BYRON  and  his  TIMES
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Lady Morgan’s Memoirs
Journal entries: March, November 1826
INTRODUCTION & INDEXES
DOCUMENT INFORMATION
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Preface
Vol. I Contents.
Prefatory Address
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Vol. I Index
Vol. II Contents
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter IV
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX
Chapter XL
Vol. II Index
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March 13.—My novel of The O’Briens and the O’Flaherties, is announced as much nearer finished than it really is.

I was last night at a private party at the Castle. I was (as of late I have constantly been) the centre of a circle. It changed its character very often, at first; the courtiers, chamberlains, and aides-de-camps, all waiting near the door for the Vice-Regal entry, and as the circle widened, I found I was the nucleus of the falling set; on one side O’Connell, Lord Killeen (the Catholic chief), and my ultra-liberal husband—on the other side, stood North, whose gentle, temporising, Whig-Toryism, places him with the Doctrinaires of our country; Dogherty, the ministerial enfant trouvé; Col. Blacker, Grand Master of the Orange Lodge, commonly called “the roaring lion;” and Joy, the Solicitor-General, the oriflamme of every species of intolerance and illiberalism, all standing amicably side by side, like the statues in the “Groves of Blarney,” though not “naked in the open air”! Thirty years ago the roof would not have been deemed safe which afforded O’Connell, and such as he, a shelter.

That—
First flower of the earth,
First gem of the sea,
O’Connell, wants back the days of Brian Borru, himself to be the king, with a crown of emerald shamrocks, a train of yellow velvet, and a mantle of Irish tabinet, a sceptre in one hand and a cross in the other, and the people crying “Long live King O’Connell!” This is the object of his views and his ambition. Should
226 LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR.  
he ever be king of Ireland, he should take Charley Phillips for his prime minister, Tom Moore for chief bard, J. O’Meara for attorney-general, and Counsellor Bethel for his chief-justice. O’Connell is not a man of genius; he has a sort of conventional talent applicable to his purpose as it exists in Ireland—a nisi prim talent which has won much local popularity.

November 27.—Darby O’Grady, the Chief Baron’s brother, is impayable; he walks about the street in tight yellow buckskins and a dandy hat.


Here is a picture of O’Connell “in his habit as he lived,” or rather as he lives, which almost realises my fancy portrait! It came to-day in a letter from William Curran.


“The only country news I have is that some rain has fallen, and the fields are beginning to look almost as green as O’Connell, for he walks the streets here in the full dress of a verdant liberator—green in all that may and may not be expressed, even to a green cravat, green watch-ribbon, and a slashing shining green hat-band, and he has a confident hope that ‘the tears of Ireland will prevent the colours from ever fading.’”