LORD  BYRON  and  his  TIMES
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The Autobiography of William Jerdan
Letitia Landon to William Jerdan, [22 June 1834]

Vol. I. Front Matter
Ch. 1: Introductory
Ch. 2: Childhood
Ch. 3: Boyhood
Ch. 4: London
Ch. 5: Companions
Ch. 6: The Cypher
Ch. 7: Edinburgh
Ch. 8: Edinburgh
Ch. 9: Excursion
Ch. 10: Naval Services
Ch. 11: Periodical Press
Ch. 12: Periodical Press
Ch. 13: Past Times
Ch. 14: Past Times
Ch. 15: Literary
Ch. 16: War & Jubilees
Ch. 17: The Criminal
Ch. 18: Mr. Perceval
Ch. 19: Poets
Ch. 20: The Sun
Ch. 21: Sun Anecdotes
Ch. 22: Paris in 1814
Ch. 23: Paris in 1814
Ch. 24: Byron
Vol. I. Appendices
Scott Anecdote
Burns Anecdote
Life of Thomson
John Stuart Jerdan
Scottish Lawyers
Sleepless Woman
Canning Anecdote
Southey in The Sun
Hood’s Lamia
Murder of Perceval
Vol. II. Front Matter
Ch. 1: Literary
Ch. 2: Mr. Canning
Ch. 3: The Sun
Ch. 4: Amusements
Ch. 5: Misfortune
Ch. 6: Shreds & Patches
Ch. 7: A Character
Ch. 8: Varieties
Ch. 9: Ingratitude
Ch. 10: Robert Burns
Ch. 11: Canning
Ch. 12: Litigation
Ch. 13: The Sun
Ch. 14: Literary Gazette
Ch. 15: Literary Gazette
Ch. 16: John Trotter
Ch. 17: Contributors
Ch. 18: Poets
Ch 19: Peter Pindar
Ch 20: Lord Munster
Ch 21: My Writings
Vol. II. Appendices
The Satirist.
Authors and Artists.
The Treasury
Morning Chronicle
Chevalier Taylor
Foreign Journals
Vol. III. Front Matter
Ch. 1: Literary Pursuits
Ch. 2: Literary Labour
Ch. 3: Poetry
Ch. 4: Coleridge
Ch 5: Criticisms
Ch. 6: Wm Gifford
Ch. 7: W. H. Pyne
Ch. 8: Bernard Barton
Ch. 9: Insanity
Ch. 10: The R.S.L.
Ch. 11: The R.S.L.
Ch. 12: L.E.L.
Ch. 13: L.E.L.
Ch. 14: The Past
Ch. 15: Literati
Ch. 16: A. Conway
Ch. 17: Wellesleys
Ch. 18: Literary Gazette
Ch. 19: James Perry
Ch. 20: Personal Affairs
Vol. III. Appendices
Literary Poverty
Ismael Fitzadam
Mr. Tompkisson
Mrs. Hemans
A New Review
Debrett’s Peerage
Procter’s Poems
Poems by Others
Poems by Jerdan
Vol. IV. Front Matter
Ch. 1: Critical Glances
Ch. 2: Personal Notes
Ch. 3: Fresh Start
Ch. 4: Thomas Hunt
Ch. 5: On Life
Ch. 6: Periodical Press
Ch. 7: Quarterly Review
Ch. 8: My Own Life
Ch. 9: Mr. Canning
Ch. 10: Anecdotes
Ch. 11: Bulwer-Lytton
Ch. 12: G. P. R. James
Ch. 13: Finance
Ch. 14: Private Life
Ch. 15: Learned Societies
Ch. 16: British Association
Ch. 17: Literary Characters
Ch. 18: Literary List
Ch. 19: Club Law
Ch. 20: Conclusion
Vol. IV. Appendix
Gerald Griffin
W. H. Ainsworth
James Weddell
The Last Bottle
N. T. Carrington
The Literary Fund
Letter from L.E.L.
Geographical Society
Baby, a Memoir
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Dear Sir,

“I began a letter to you yesterday, but on taking it up this morning, I find it is, even to you, scarcely legible, so will begin it over again. I have also another reason; I wrote on English paper, which is heavier, and I have to pay the inland postage, and to-day my time ne vaut pas mes sous. We parted on Thursday, though not at all too soon, much as I regretted it. You cannot think how I missed you. I really thought the morning never would pass. It did pass, however, and then I wished it back again. The wind blew directly in our teeth, and your friend the captain talked doubtingly as to whether we should reach Boulogne that night. Miss Turin was not out of bed the whole day. It was impossible to read for three reasons—the sun, the wind, and the noise. I suppose Lord Byron had the deck of a steam-vessel in his mind when he said,
‘This is to be alone;
This, this is solitude;’
And when I endeavoured to get into a pleasant train of
thought, it made me melancholy to think I was leaving my native country. I was fairly dying with a desire of talking. At last I made a sort of acquaintanceship with the proprietor of the rabbits, and really but for his kindness I know not what I should have done afterwards. I am quite cured of my wish to die for some time to come, as I really think that now I quite understand what the sensation is. I was not sick—scarcely at all; but so faint! As to what Boulogne is like from the sea, I cannot tell. I scarcely recollect anything about my landing. Misfortune first recalled my scattered faculties. At the Custom House you are searched. I had nothing; but poor Miss Turin had a lace pelerine, &c., which was seized. Except that, we have had no trouble. Yesterday is almost a blank. I was scarcely able to rise from my bed. I only began to revive towards evening, when we walked out on the pier. Nothing could exceed the beauty—the sea of that peculiar green, like no colour that I ever saw before—a sky of a soft grey blue, without a tint—a rich warmth rather than a tint—upon the west—the air so clear and soft—and such a moon; ‘the luminous vibration’ of her reflection in the water was not, as we say, silvery, but golden, like sunshine without its heat or dazzling. The town is a pretty, old-looking town, seemingly surrounded with English, all looking very vulgar. As for myself, I am a perfect horror. The sun has scorched my face to such a hideous degree—forehead, nose, and cheeks are all a ‘lively crimson,’ and swelled till I do not know myself in the glass. The bread is delicious, so is the wine; but Mr. Kempe’s house, where we are, is quite English. It is a disappointment being so comfortable; but there is such a pretty little French femme de chambre, with such a high neck, such short petticoats, and ancles so neatly rounded. I find I can make myself pretty well
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understood, and understand perfectly. We could not get places to go to Paris till Sunday. Miss Turin wanted to have taken the whole coupé, which would have been very comfortable; but a gentleman has already one place, and it is scarcely worth while waiting till Tuesday. Moreover, the conducteur says that ‘c’est un Monsieur si poli.’ How he has ascertained that fact I do not know. It has a very odd effect hearing a strange language spoken under our windows; and now I have told you everything that I can think of, which does not amount to much. However, I have taken two things for granted, first, that you would expect my first letter, and also that you would be glad to hear how I was. I fear I shall never make a traveller. I am already beginning to count the days for my return. Kind regards to all inquiring friends, and hoping that you are missing me very much,

“I remain,
“Most truly yours,