LORD  BYRON  and  his  TIMES
Byron
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Lady Morgan’s Memoirs
Journal entries: July 1844
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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July, 1844.—Another gone—poor Campbell! Oh for the day that I first saw him led in by Sir Thomas Lawrence, up the great dining-room of the Priory (Stanmore), in the middle of one of the great Saturday dinners! I was seated between Lord Aberdeen and Manners Sutton—the latter gave Campbell his seat beside me—opposite to us was Lord Erskine, and the Duchess of Gordon. Campbell was awkward, but went on taking his soup as if he was eating a haggis in the Highlands; but when he put his knife in the salt-cellar to help himself to salt, every eyeglass was up, and the first poet of the age was voted the vulgarest of
FIRST YEARS OF WIDOWHOOD.485
men. His coup de grâce, however, was in the evening, when he took the unapproachable Marquis of Abercorn by the buttonhole that joined his star! Oh, my stars! I thought we should all die of it, knowing the extreme fastidiousness of the possessor of the star. Next morning he went about asking every one if they could “take him into town with a wee bit of a portmanteau?” Lady Asgill (the most charming of coquets) gave a place in her carriage to the man who, by a line, could give her immortality.

My kind old friend, Horace Twiss (by-the-bye what a pair of coxcombs he and I were when we first met in the salons of Cork and Charleville), has just sent me, most kindly, his Life of Eldon, and with a flattering word of presentation to boot. It is an honest book, for the author believes every word he advances, in form of faith or opinion, and it is the work of a gentleman and a scholar, and of a good artist, too, for he knows his craft. His personal partiality for Eldon, though apparent, is never officious. He is above his subject—a narrow-minded, timid, and unenlightened man. Horace Twiss’s text is clear and brief, and in the best taste and style.