UNPUBLISHED LETTERS 
 
 OF 
 
 LADY BULWER LYTTON 
 
 A. E. CHALON 
 
UNPUBLISHED LETTERS OF 
 LADY BULWER LYTTON 
 
 TO A. E. CHALON, R.A. 
 
t&z.^<^kz£z>. 
 
UNPUBLISHED LETTERS OF 
 
 LADY BULWER LYTTON 
 TO A. E. CHALON, R.A. 
 
 WITH AN 
 INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 
 
 BY* 
 
 S. M. ELLIS 
 
 LONDON 
 
 EVELEIGH NASH 
 
 1914 
 
Printed by Ballantyne & Company Ltd 
 at the Ballantyne Press London 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 LADY BULWER LYTTON 
 
 Drawn by A. E. Chalon, 1852 
 
 EDWARD BULWER LYTTON 
 
 BERRYMEAD PRIORY, ACTON 
 
 Frontispiece 
 Facing page 
 
 H 
 
 20 
 
 SAMUEL CARTER HALL 130 
 
 N. P. WILLIS 158 
 
 FACSIMILE OF A LETTER FROM LADY 
 BULWER LYTTON, WITH VIEW OF 
 LLANGOLLEN 208 
 
 THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON 225 
 
 Portrait by A. E. Chalon 
 
 A. E. CHALON, R.A. 29° 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 The recent publication of Lord Lytton's authori- 
 tative biography of his grandfather, Edward 
 Bulwer, first Lord Lytton, has once more 
 directed attention to the dominant factor of the 
 novelist's life — his unhappy marriage. The 
 present generation has little conception of the 
 prominence in the public press and mind ac- 
 corded to the matrimonial differences of Sir 
 Edward and Lady Bulwer Lytton sixty years 
 ago. The papers were ever full of reports of 
 legal actions, and paragraphs inspired by the 
 conflicting parties, who were naturally a general 
 topic of conversation in all circles of society. 
 It would be an unpleasant and supererogatory 
 task to recount in full detail the facts of this 
 disastrous marriage. Lord Lytton has related 
 its history as much as is necessary, no doubt : 
 
 9 
 
Introduction 
 
 but it may not be inopportune, by way of sup- 
 plement to his record, to throw some further 
 light, by means of her correspondence, on Lady 
 Bulwer Lytton's life and state of mind subsequent 
 to the separation. Her point of view needs 
 attention. She was undoubtedly in the beginning 
 a much injured woman, for her husband was 
 unfaithful, selfish, exacting, and absurdly ego- 
 tistical ; but as the years of misery seared her 
 soul deeper and deeper, her mind became ob- 
 sessed by her wrongs and, at times, thrown off 
 the balance of reason. Her subsequent campaign 
 of virulent attacks upon her husband in speech 
 and letter and printed book cannot be defended, 
 however great the original provocation. She 
 ceased to have any sense of discrimination and 
 justice, and abused and vilified every one who 
 happened to be a friend of Bulwer Lytton. 
 This trait will be fully illustrated in her letters. 
 But — apart from the subject of her wrongs — her 
 sense of humour remained to the end, and despite 
 troubles, want of money, and perennial ill-health, 
 her letters are full of wit and descriptive power, 
 10 
 
Introduction 
 
 throwing many amusing — if rather ill-natured — 
 sidelights on her contemporaries. 
 
 Before briefly recapitulating the details of 
 Lady Bulwer Lytton's life, it must be pointed 
 out that the statements in the book written in - 
 vindication of her memory by her executrix, Miss 
 Louisa Devey, in 1887, do not always coincide 
 with those given by the present Lord Lytton. 
 
 Rosina Doyle Wheeler, born on November 2, 
 1802, at Bally wire, Co. Limerick, was the 
 daughter of Francis Massy Wheeler * by his 
 wife Anna, daughter of Archdeacon Doyle, her 
 parents both being under the age of nineteen 
 when they married. Rosina's early years were 
 spent in a typical Irish home of that time, a 
 great rambling house going to decay, amid an 
 atmosphere of shiftlessness, disorder, fox-hunt- 
 ing, and hard drinking. At the age of ten she 
 accompanied her mother on a prolonged visit 
 to Mrs. Wheeler's uncle, Sir John Doyle, 
 Governor of Guernsey, a post then of consider- 
 able importance. In 18 16 he retired and went 
 * His mother was a daughter of the first Lord Massy. 
 
 II 
 
Introduction 
 
 to live in London, with his grand-niece Rosina ; 
 her mother betaking herself to Paris and Caen, 
 where she indulged in the society of freethinkers 
 and socialists. It thus came about that Rosina 
 Wheeler had a degree of freedom unusual for 
 girls of that period, for by the time she was 
 twenty-three she was accustomed to go out un- 
 accompanied to social functions. She formed 
 one of the Bohemian, literary set which circled 
 round Miss Landon and Lady Caroline Lamb ; 
 and it was at a party of this description, in April 
 1826, that she met her fate in the person of 
 Edward Bulwer, then a brilliant young man of 
 twenty-two, on the threshold of his literary fame. 
 There is no reason to doubt that in the days 
 of his courtship Bulwer was intensely in love 
 with Rosina Wheeler, albeit the attraction was 
 probably altogether of a physical nature, for the 
 girl was extremely beautiful and of superb figure. 
 From the outset Bulwer's worldly-wise mother 
 was opposed to the match and refused her con- 
 sent, for she foresaw that this brilliant, witty, 
 rather lax and coarse-minded girl was not a 
 12 
 
Introduction 
 
 suitable wife for her favourite son, whose un- 
 stable qualities were much the same as Miss 
 Wheeler's. Three times the engagement was 
 broken off, and as often renewed. It is not easy 
 to gather what Rosina's feelings in the affair 
 exactly were. She submitted to the dictatorial 
 intervention of her future mother-in-law without 
 much protest. Probably, too, in her case the 
 sensual side predominated. At any rate, she 
 gave herself fully to Bulwer, and they contracted 
 an illicit "tie which made marriage a necessity." 
 Henceforth, though passion was spent, Bulwer 
 regarded the marriage as an inevitable reparation 
 to the woman he had wronged ; and so, at last 
 defying his mother's commands, he was married 
 to Rosina Wheeler in August 1827. Both the 
 partners to this inauspicious union knew they 
 did not truly love each other and that the future 
 was foredoomed, for Bulwer had written some 
 months earlier to Miss Wheeler : " I now look 
 to the hereafter, and I tremble at the prospect 
 . . . Separate yourself from me before it be too 
 late. . t , Save yourself from a love from which 
 
 13 
 
Introduction 
 
 you yourself only anticipate disappointment and 
 regret, and where the very passion that can alone 
 afford us the strength to hope may only end in 
 your despair." 
 
 For the first few years, however, they were 
 tolerably happy, living at Woodcot House, in 
 Oxfordshire — a fine house surrounded by a well- 
 timbered park — and later at 36, Hertford Street. 
 Both husband and wife were extravagant, and 
 with an actual income of about ^500 a year lived 
 at the rate of ^3000. Bulwer's mother injudi- 
 ciously stopped her son's allowance, and it came 
 about that he was compelled to maintain his 
 establishment by the labours of his pen. He was 
 now a popular novelist, and needed quiet and 
 solitude for his incessant imaginative work. His 
 wife resented his preoccupation and absences. 
 Remonstrances and reproaches led to arguments 
 and quarrels. A constant atmosphere of irrita- 
 tion surrounded husband and wife, culminating 
 even in shocking physical violence and outrage 
 on Bulwer's part.* This naturally led to a 
 
 * In particular, Lady Bulwer Lytton accused her husband 
 of kicking her violently in the side about a month before the 
 
 14 
 

 BULWER LYTTON 
 When about thirty years of age 
 
Introduction 
 
 separation. But in those days Mrs. Bulwer was 
 
 forgiving and still fond of her husband . She would 
 
 write abject, penitent letters — though her offence 
 
 had only been a too sharp, caustic tongue — and 
 
 there would be reconciliations, only to be followed 
 
 by more violent disagreements and appalling 
 
 scenes. Each fresh quarrel dulled the embers of 
 
 expiring love, soon to turn to the grey ashes of 
 
 hate.* 
 
 birth of her daughter in 1828, and of biting her cheek in a fit 
 of frenzical anger in 1834. Unhappily this latter incident 
 cannot be denied, for Bulwer wrote to his wife a day or so 
 after the assault : " You have been cruelly outraged, and I 
 stand eternally degraded in my own eyes. I do not for a 
 moment blame you for the publicity which you gave to an 
 affront nothing but frenzy can extenuate. ... I am now con- 
 vinced of what I have long believed : I am only fit to live 
 alone. God and Nature afflicted me with unsocial habits, 
 weak nerves, and violent passions. ... I do not ask your 
 forgiveness, which I know you would readily give. . . . For 
 six years you have been to me an incomparable wife. That 
 thought alone is sufficient to make me judge you leniently in 
 the last year. . . ." His wife not only gave her forgiveness 
 unasked, but went down to Richmond and humbled herself 
 to beg her husband to return to her • and, moreover, told her 
 servants that she had been to blame for the scene they had 
 witnessed. 
 
 * The present Lord Lytton writes thus of the state of 
 affairs between his grandparents before the final separation : 
 
 " Little by little they drifted apart. They seldom met, and 
 
 15 
 
Introduction 
 
 The last house that Bulwer and his wife 
 occupied nominally together (1835-36) was Berry- 
 mead Priory, Acton, situated at the entrance to 
 the village on the high road from London, from 
 which it was separated by open fields until 
 Notting Hill and Bayswater — then but con- 
 glomerations of a few houses and cottages — were 
 reached. The Priory, which had been the seat 
 of Lord Halifax and the Duke of Kingston in 
 the two previous centuries, was a picturesque 
 building with Gothic embellishments, and its 
 charming grounds were secluded from the outer 
 
 when they were together his nervous irritability vented itself at 
 every unwelcome circumstance in complaints or taunts or fits 
 of anger. At first Mrs. Bulwer exercised great forbearance. 
 To harsh words and unjust reproaches she returned meek 
 replies. She was studious to please him, and endeavoured, 
 as far as possible, to anticipate his wishes. Her attitude 
 increased his gratitude and devotion to her, and he reproached 
 himself bitterly whenever he realised that he had wronged 
 her j but the pangs of conscience only added to his mental 
 strain, and the exigencies of his daily existence left him no 
 time to make amends. Their quarrels were followed by re- 
 conciliations and apologies, but each one left a scar behind 
 upon the delicate surface of their affections, which served to 
 remind them of the wounds by which their love was being 
 gradually destroyed." 
 
 16 
 
Introduction 
 
 world by high walls. Here Mrs. Bulwer led a 
 solitary life, for her husband really lived at his 
 chambers in the Albany, and only visited at 
 Berrymead. A friend who was staying with his 
 wife at the Priory relates : " Mr. Bulwer came but 
 seldom to visit us, but expecting him was his 
 poor wife's greatest pleasure and amusement. 
 . . . Notwithstanding, we would not have sat 
 down to dinner five minutes, before she would 
 say the most insulting things to him. These I 
 often saw him try to bear, and when they at last 
 produced the effect of putting him in a rage, 
 she was sorry. " Mrs. Bulwer could be more 
 actively annoying, if the following story emanating 
 from Miss Landon can be credited. Dr. Kenealy 
 related in his autobiography that Dr. Maginn 
 wrote to him : " Mrs. M. relates, on the authority 
 of Miss Landon, that she and Lady B. were once 
 in the latter's dressing-room. L. E. L., observing 
 a beautiful shirt before the fire, began to admire 
 it, for it was fripperied with lace, and many fine 
 adornments of needlework, etc. etc. Lady B. 
 observing her evident admiration of the tunic 
 
 B 17 
 
Introduction 
 
 asked, ' Do you really think it beautiful? ' 'Yes,' 
 says L. E. L., ■ very beautiful indeed ; I never 
 saw anything like it before.' Lady B, said, ' See,' 
 and putting the shirt into the fire, she covered it 
 up with burning coals and reduced it to tinder in 
 a few minutes. Bulwer's rage, when he called 
 for his shirt soon after, may, as the newspapers 
 say, be more easily imagined than described." 
 It will be seen later that Miss Landon was par- 
 ticularly a friend of Bulwer Lytton and not of 
 his wife. 
 
 So this lamentable drama of <( incompatibility 
 of temper" — in the glib legal phrase — was 
 enacted to its painful end, and two people, who 
 might by a little consideration and self-sacrifice 
 have lived peaceably if not happily, forged their 
 own galling chains of misery and remorse. 
 
 After each violent quarrel, Mrs. Bulwer would 
 be left alone. She occupied her loneliness with 
 the care of her two children (then aged seven and 
 four) and developing the Priory garden. For a 
 time she kept a journal of her sad thoughts, and 
 a few brief extracts may be given here. 
 18 
 
Introduction 
 
 Berrymead Priory, Acton. 
 
 December 13, 1835. 
 What a life mine has been ! A sunless child- 
 hood ; a flowerless youth ; and certainly a fruit- 
 less womanhood. ... I hate looking back on 
 the last eight years of my life ; I so thoroughly 
 despise myself for having wasted so much 
 affection, zeal, and devotion on so worthless an 
 object. I forgot that nothing ever takes root 
 in a stone but weeds ; those of pride and selfish- 
 ness are rooted there with a vengeance, and yet 
 the eternal complaining of want of sympathy/ 
 Sympathy must be given before it can be 
 received, just as respect must be paid before it 
 can be expected in return. . . . 
 
 I dread going to bed, for there this gnawing 
 pain and low fever consume me. I cannot sleep, 
 and therefore cannot dream; which makes loneli- 
 ness doubly lonely, for dreams are a sort of 
 phantasmagoria of life ... if they are happy 
 ones they . . . bring tidings of those we love 
 from the happy, sunny past. 
 
 December 22. . . . Went out for the first 
 time these ten days ; described to the gardener 
 about making the flowerpots into baskets, and 
 
 19 
 
Introduction 
 
 dug the first circle of the Northern Star * myself. 
 . . . Came home ; had a greater bevy than ever 
 of robins in my room. . . . Played upon the 
 guitar for an hour, and sang many songs I had 
 heard or dreamt. 
 
 February 20. My jailer returned with his 
 amiable epicurean debauchee friend, Mr. Frederick 
 Villiers,f after a five weeks absence ; and ill as 
 I have been, too, he could not be here one day 
 alone. 
 
 March 1. From crying, coughing, and 
 violent agitation, I have burst a small blood- 
 vessel. Oh, my God ! my God ! when will You 
 take me ? 
 
 The illogical state of the poor lady's mind 
 is attested above, where in the same sentence she 
 calls her husband her jailer and yet complains 
 of his absence. She grew to be very fond of 
 Berrymead Priory and its garden, and when 
 fresh matrimonial quarrels led Bulwer to propose 
 
 * A new flower-bed. 
 
 ■j- Frederick Villiers was the natural son of a Mr. Meynell 
 by a girl of high rank. He was very original and gifted, and 
 suggested a good deal of the character of Pelham to his friend 
 Bulwer. 
 
 20 
 

 bfrrV 
 
Introduction 
 
 another separation, and his wifes removal to 
 Bath or elsewhere, she was very reluctant to 
 leave Acton. She wrote to her husband : 
 
 " I am quite prepared for your thinking me 
 the meanest wretch alive, that upon the fourth 
 time of your expressing your determination to 
 get rid of me, I should cringe and beg of you 
 to try me once more ; but this is more a weak- 
 ness of body than mind. I am quite unable 
 to move. ... I can do nothing but sit down 
 and cry when I think of finally leaving this 
 place, incapable as I am of all exertion. . . . 
 God must effect the separation you so pant for 
 very soon, as permanently as you can desire. 
 . . . Before I got your first letter ... I had 
 drawn a plan for the gardener to alter the lawn. 
 I am told it looks very pretty. The man he 
 has had to help him I have regularly paid and 
 also the osiers he has had to make the baskets 
 with : so whatever happens they have no bill to 
 bring in to you. You will not even have to fee 
 the sexton : for not liking to trust to contin- 
 gencies, he has very prudently dunned me 
 beforehand for a Xmas box. God bless you, 
 and may you hereafter be as happy as I have 
 
 21 
 
Introduction 
 
 made you the reverse, and may I soon be at 
 rest/' 
 
 Bulwer was always moved by his wife's pictures 
 of ill-health and death, and so he replied, 
 " Remain then at Acton, and let us forget the 
 object of our late correspondence ; we will try 
 once more." Alas ! it was in vain. The last 
 effort was futile, and this act of the long tragedy 
 was nearing the end. Bulwer was openly un- 
 faithful to his wife, and a violent scene in con- 
 nection with his liaison led to the final separa- 
 tion of husband and wife, which was officially 
 completed and signed in April i836. # Hence- 
 forth it was implacable hatred and combat a 
 outrance, and both vied in abuse and persecu- 
 tion of the other. 
 
 For the next two years Mrs. Bulwer lived in 
 Ireland with her children, Emily and Robert (sub- 
 
 * Mrs. Bulwer left Berrymead Priory finally in June. The 
 house of sad memories still stands, but amid very different 
 surroundings, for the garden and grounds wherein Mrs. Bulwer 
 took so much interest have long since been destroyed, and 
 covered with artisan dwellings and the municipal buildings of 
 Acton. 
 
 22 
 
Introduction 
 
 sequently first Earl of Lytton), who were, how- 
 ever, removed from her charge in 1838. They were, 
 of course, involved in their parents' misery. The 
 daughter died of typhus fever in Pelham Terrace, 
 Brompton, a lodging-house, when twenty years 
 of age, in 1848, and her mother only saw her 
 once — in a state of unconsciousness — before the 
 end. This event caused fresh recriminations, 
 which became public property, between the 
 parents. Of her son the mother saw nothing for 
 twenty years, for he was interdicted from com- 
 municating with her ; she sent him, when he was 
 a boy of fifteen, a watch and chain with a minia- 
 ture of herself attached, but the gifts were 
 returned by the father's agent with an intimation 
 that no more parcels were desired. 
 
 From 1838 Lady Bulwer (as she had now 
 become by the creation of her husband's 
 baronetcy *) lived a wandering life in Bath, Paris, 
 Florence, and Geneva ; she had many troubles 
 and adventures, and throughout believed herself 
 
 * The name of Lytton was added in 1844, on Eulwer's 
 succession to his mother's estate. 
 
 2 3 
 
Introduction 
 
 exposed to the unremitting persecution and 
 espionage of her husband's agents, whom she 
 alleged were ever seeking to entrap her in some 
 compromising position, or to steal her papers. 
 There is no doubt that an attempt of the latter 
 description was made in Paris in 1840, as the 
 reports in the contemporary press show : but 
 probably Lady Bulwer Lytton's disturbed state of 
 mind caused her to exaggerate the other annoy- 
 ances she experienced, particularly in later years, 
 and to attribute every mischance of life to her 
 husband's malice. In return she wrote various 
 rowans a clef depicting Bulwer Lytton and his 
 friends in an uncomplimentary light. Lady Bulwer 
 Lytton returned to England in 1847, and in- 
 stituted proceedings to obtain an increase of the 
 allowance of ^400 a year she received from her 
 husband. She had a few faithful friends, among 
 them Elizabeth Countess of Harrington, Miss 
 Kate Planchd (a daughter of the dramatist), and 
 Mrs. Carlyle. The last-named seems to have sym- 
 pathised fully with her friend's case, for writing, 
 fromCheyneRow,to Lady Bulwer Lytton she said : 
 24 
 
Introduction 
 
 "After all you have told me, and with all my 
 ardent esprit de corps, what excited in me the 
 realest, the most human sympathy for you, is 
 this brave eagerness to do anything in honesty for 
 the discharge of your involuntary debts. Surely 
 if we fail to give you any furtherance in this good 
 purpose of yours, it shall not be for want of 
 earnest wishing and trying. 
 
 " When you describe that man and his treat- 
 ment of you, I feel amazed before the whole 
 thing, as in the presence of the Infinite ; it is all so 
 diabolical — so out of the course of nature, that I, 
 who have mercifully had to do with only imperfect 
 human beings at worst, never with an incarnate 
 devil, cannot realise it to myself, and cannot get 
 any more intelligent impression from it than from 
 a bad dream, or a Balzac novel. 
 
 "The very inhumanness of your wrongs makes 
 it impossible for me to pity them after a right 
 genuine human fashion ; but when, not only 
 superior to but defiant of fine Ladyism and * all 
 that sort of thing,' you speak resolutely of helping 
 yourself, and set forth your qualifications for a 
 Housekeeper, a Companion, — you brought up to 
 be waited upon, and one of the cleverest authoresses 
 in England! — then my whole practical Scotch 
 
 2 5 
 
Introduction 
 
 nature applauds you, and cries ' God speed 
 you ! ' . . . 
 
 " My husband went to Murray that same day 
 after seeing you, and tried him, he declares, on all 
 tacks ; even on that of appealing to his feelings of 
 a gentleman. . . . 
 
 " Mr. C. is in ' The Valley of the Shadow of 
 Blue Pill," and won't go with me anywhere in the 
 evenings — and I have no carriage — and can't 
 afford flys, except like angel visits, ' few and far 
 between ! ' " 
 
 Carlyle's efforts did not succeed in getting any 
 of Lady Bulwer Lytton's books published by 
 Murray. Her worries with other publishers were 
 many. She entertained a lively hatred for them, 
 reviewers, the Press, and all who offended her. 
 On such subjects her letters and speech were 
 vivaciously vindictive, for Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 never feared to speak her mind freely. 
 
 26 
 
UNPUBLISHED LETTERS OF 
 
 LADY BULWER LYTTON 
 
 TO A. E. CHALON 
 
 On returning to England in 1847, Lady 
 Bulwer Lytton stayed at first with her friends, 
 the Rev. George and Mrs. Sandby, at Flixton 
 Vicarage, in Suffolk, and with the Hon. Mrs. 
 Leicester Stanhope (later Lady Harrington) at 
 Ashburnham House. In 1848 she stayed with 
 the assistant chaplain at the Tower of London, 
 and then occupied apartments at 97, Sloane Street 
 until 1851, in which year she removed to 13, Hans 
 Place. It is at this date that Lady Bulwer 
 Lytton's correspondence with A. E. Chalon, R.A., 
 begins. The two brothers, Alfred and John 
 Chalon,* were very successful and popular artists 
 
 * John James Chalon (1 778-1854) and Alfred Edward 
 Chalon (1 780-1 860) were members of a French family 
 resident at Geneva since the time of the revoke of the Edict 
 of Nantes. The two boys came to England in 1789 when 
 their father was appointed Professor of French at the Royal 
 Military College, Sandhurst. 
 
 27 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 in the second quarter of the last century, and 
 Alfred, in particular, was noted for his fine and 
 delicate drawings of feminine heads. He received 
 much employment from his friend, Lady 
 Blessington, and many examples of his art 
 will be found in The Keepsake and The Book of 
 Beauty. His best-remembered portrait, perhaps, 
 is that of Queen Victoria, just after her corona- 
 tion, standing at the top of a staircase. 
 
 With Lady Bulwer Lytton, A. E. Chalon 
 shared a love of art and small dogs, and it is 
 with these subjects and her sorrows and griev- 
 ances that the following letters are largely con- 
 cerned : throughout, however, an innate caustic 
 wit and a kind heart often irradiate what is in 
 the main a sad packet of letters from the dead 
 past. 
 
 13, Hans Place, 
 
 September 11, 1851. 
 Dear Sir, — Anything you were good enough 
 to do for me, were it no greater a matter than 
 the little flower that grows up between the 
 28 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 crevices of poor Silvio Pellico's * prison, would be 
 both interesting to, and valued by, me: but 
 alas ! for objects of special and deep interest, it 
 has pleased God not to leave me one. Even 
 my poor, darling, faithful dog Taff died last year, 
 so that my heart remains cold and bare and dark, 
 save one ray — the hope of heaven shining into it. 
 But having always considered myself a lineal 
 descendant of Job's (barring the patience which 
 he so mortgaged that I have never been able to 
 disencumber it !), like him, I have no heritage 
 but to suffer and endure. . . . 
 
 I should deserve to be indicted by the nation 
 for having defrauded it of one of its gems, could 
 I allow myself to be tempted into accepting 
 from your too great generosity so much of a 
 tableau as the one you mention: a little pencil 
 sketch of Mistletoe's f innocent head, in whose 
 history I have been much interested, will be 
 quite as great a tax as my conscience will permit 
 me to levy on your kindness ; and as I am 
 honorary grandmother to all the Puppy-dogs I 
 am sure Mistletoe will dutifully second my 
 
 * The Italian writer and patriot. He was imprisoned by 
 the Austrians 1820-30. 
 f Chalon's dog. 
 
 29 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 wishes. There is a song called "The Mistletoe 
 Bough," but I think there ought to be another 
 called "The Mistletoe Bow-wow" dedicated to 
 her. Though Petless, I am not Dogless, for 
 going to church last Easter Sunday, I saw a 
 collection of bones, barely covered by a Blen- 
 heim skin, being dragged along violently by a 
 rope ; and two large melancholy eyes looked 
 up imploringly in my face. I told the boy who 
 was pulling it after him that it was wicked to 
 starve and ill-use anything in that way, and 
 asked if this poor canine Jane Wilbred was for 
 sale? He said he should be glad to sell it, and 
 that its name was Tiber. So when poor Master 
 Tiber was brought to me at six o'clock that day, 
 I found he not only could not stand from weak- 
 ness but was nearly skinned from the mange, 
 so I sent him for six weeks to be cured to the 
 man from whom I have my brougham. He is 
 now a pretty little fellow, and I try hard to love 
 him, but as yet only owe him a grudge for being 
 in my poor darling, darling Taff's place, which 
 he occupies without being able to fill ; for my 
 dear friend Taff had licked my tears for so many 
 years that he seemed to feel and understand 
 every sorrow I had : dear fellow ! he had human 
 30 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 intelligence, and far more than human affection 
 and unselfish fidelity. 
 
 Hoping that both you and your brother may 
 derive every benefit from this charming weather 
 by the sea-side, pray believe me, my dear sir, 
 with best compliments to him, and a kiss to Miss 
 Mistletoe, a laquelle M. Tiber presente ses baise- 
 pattes et hommages respectueux, 
 
 Your greatly obliged, 
 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 Poor Lady Bulwer Lytton, bereft of her children and 
 compelled to expend her affections upon dogs, grew to love 
 Tiber as much as his predecessor, and when his short life, in 
 turn, came to an end six years later his mistress wrote : 
 
 "November 29, 1857. 
 "Truly say you, dear Dr. Price, about my poor little 
 darling Tiber, whose loss I feel more and more every day. I 
 at least, with the exception of your dear kind self and three 
 more, could better have spared all my worthless acquaintances 
 than that true-hearted, intelligent, faithful, darling dog. My 
 last hope even seems to have died with him. For every 
 evening I used to say my prayers over his innocent head with 
 1 Never mind, my Tiber, this day is over,' and ' Sure I am that 
 the Lord will avenge the poor and defend the cause of the 
 helpless.' I have no kind darling eyes now to encourage me 
 in this belief, so, having ceased to feel it, I have ceased to 
 say it." 
 
 Devotion and kindness to children and all 
 
 3i 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 animals was a prominent trait in Lady Bulwer 
 Lytton's character. At the time, 1858, she was 
 wrongfully confined in an asylum, at Inverness 
 Lodge, Brentford, she relates — with the same 
 characteristic humour, whatever the painful situa- 
 tion — of her jailer's daughter : "This dear little 
 girl, my only companion while there, conceived 
 the most violent affection for me, which I heartily 
 returned, for she was a perfect star in the desert, 
 and with a big, fat, magnificent tortoiseshell cat, 
 with the most fascinating manners, a perfect 
 feline Chesterfield, and the poor cow, which Hill 
 used to leave in an arid field, under a vertical 
 sun, without water (the pump being deranged, 
 like his patients), were my only comforts ; and as 
 I and poor little Mary Hill used to pump for 
 hours at this crazy pump, till we filled the stone 
 trough for the poor cow, which used to bound 
 and caper like a dog when it saw us coming to 
 the rescue, this was, no doubt, considered as a 
 strong proof of my insanity, or at least of my 
 having water on the brain." 
 
 32 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 13, Hans Place, 
 
 Belgravia. 
 My dear Sir, — I verily believe that one 
 reason that makes English people so grumpy and 
 disagreeable (after the fogs, beef, and bottled 
 darkness of the land of Egypt in the abomination 
 called porter) is that any amiability on the part 
 of our neighbours, as you now perceive, makes us 
 so very troublesome and encroaching ; but at the 
 risk of boring you I must thank you very 
 sincerely for your kind note received this morn- 
 ing ; with regard to your first offer of the 
 Tarragon vinegar, toute aimable qu'elle soit, je 
 ne l'accepte point pas si bete ! vu que je suis 
 deja abreuvee de vinaigre ! — mais encore plus 
 parceque il n'y a qu'un Chalon au monde de sorte 
 qui un croquis de lui ! n'est pas de refus ; and 
 however indisputable a bore I may be, at all 
 events you will not be throwing your pearls 
 before swine, as no one could be more grateful 
 or appreciate the promised drawing more highly 
 than I shall do. . . . 
 
 As for my spirits, they are such as a person 
 labouring under an indigestion of misery generally 
 fabricates ; but God's Will be done. We know 
 
 c 33 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 the Saviour is always there ; but as he slept 
 on earth, so — we sometimes fancy — that he must 
 sleep in Heaven, and while he sleeps, alas ! the 
 storm rages. 
 
 With every good wish for your own and your 
 brother's health, believe me, my dear sir, 
 Your sincerely obliged, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LYTTON. 
 
 13, Hans Place, 
 
 October 6, 1851. 
 My dear Sir, — When you were here yesterday, 
 I did not thank you half enough (indeed to do so 
 would be impossible) for your beautiful and most 
 magnificent present. The more I look at it, the 
 more beautiful I think it ; the idea is charming 
 and the execution a votre ordinaire exquisite ; the 
 face is so lovely I am never tired of looking 
 
 at it: 
 
 The trembling lustre of the hair 
 Seems radiant, radiant gold. 
 The mouth is as a rosebud wet 
 With summer's softest showers. 
 Her eyes among the stars seem set, 
 Her feet among the flowers. 
 
 Was this charming idea of The Launch of the 
 34 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 Homeward-bound your own ? I suppose so, for I 
 don't think anybody else could have thought of 
 anything half so graceful, and you may imagine 
 what a relief and delight it is to me to possess 
 this gem instead of a great hulking English 
 seventy-four ! . . . 
 
 Your most grateful and obliged, 
 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 October 8, 185 1. 
 My dear Sir, — It is very lucky that there are 
 so few people in Town, for you have bestowed, I 
 fear, a fatal gift upon me (as La dono plate di 
 bellezza is always said to be) for The Launch has 
 excited such admiration, with of course its shadow 
 envy, that I run great risks of being robbed — the 
 only misfortune my poverty has hitherto secured 
 me against. Every one is so exquisitely amused, 
 too, at my fears of The Launch before I saw this 
 exquisite Tableau de genre, for, argued I, a ship 
 even by Chalon will still be a ship ! and though 
 he may, and of course will, contrive to spiritualise 
 it, I defy even him to idealise the obligato bottle 
 of brandy to be thrown at the prow ! Therefore 
 you may believe that Noah never felt more re- 
 
 35 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 joiced and grateful at the return of the Dove than 
 I did at its arrival. Would that it had a more 
 worthy nest ; however, pray believe it could not 
 have one where it will be more cherished. I ought 
 to apologise for boring you with another note, but 
 having ''bestowed my hand upon you" (!) you 
 must take me for better, for worse. I only hope 
 you won't find me worse than you took me for, 
 which is generally the result of that proceeding. . . . 
 I hope you won't inflict my last book * either on 
 yourself or your brother, as I fear you would both 
 find it very puerile, and stupid. But here is a 
 secret (which I am sure you won't mention, as I 
 don't wish it known yet) — I have nearly finished 
 one that I will also have the pleasure of sending 
 you when out, and which I flatter myself you may 
 like. I call it Molieres Tragedy \ ... as he 
 really was, not as he has been caricatured. You 
 need not be alarmed at the word Tragedy — for it 
 can't well be too dull with the Court of Louis 
 Quatorze, Mde. de Sevigne\ Boileau, La Fontaine, 
 Chapelle, and Ninon for Dramatis Personae — a 
 relief at least from our wet-blanket English 
 
 * Miriam Sedley, 1850. 
 
 j- Published under the title of Molieris Life and Times; 
 or t The School for Husband s t 1851. 
 
 36 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 menages, where either men kick and cuff their 
 wives, or else the equally bad extreme 
 
 " Where the mistress-master rules 
 And one's a fool, or both are fools." 
 
 With kind regards to your brother, and a kiss to 
 La Norma Canina, 
 
 Ever, dear sir, your grateful and obliged, 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 October 10, 185 1. 
 My dear Sir, — Here is the history (as far as I 
 am acquainted with it) of the little hand. I bought 
 it at the Marchese Ginon's for its beauty ; they 
 told me there that it was a model of our Queens 
 hand, but then the Italians are almost as pro- 
 foundly and extensively ignorant on all subjects as 
 the English ; and though the Queen has a pretty 
 hand, I don't think it can be hers for this reason : 
 that though the Biscuit hand is small, still it is 
 open and looks as if it could give, which every one 
 knows hers cannot ! But an aunt of our Queen's 
 — who took it up one day on my table — and also 
 the poor Princess Soltikoff and the Countess 
 Marie de Warenzoff told me it was the model of 
 their young Grand Duchess Olga's hand, who is 
 as famed for her beautiful hands as she is for her 
 
 37 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 lovely face ; and this I take to be the little hands 
 real identity. 
 
 Chalon wished to make a portrait of his 
 correspondent, and in spite of the following 
 " refusal," he executed a very charming drawing 
 of Lady Bulwer Lytton the following year, 
 1852:* 
 
 No, indeed, my dear sir, were I as rich as 
 Crcesus instead of as poor as Job, I would not 
 allow you to waste your time and profane your 
 beau talent by (as far as I am concerned) perpe- 
 trating an old woman's ugly face, and time has 
 behaved as cruelly to me in that way as in every 
 other. I am very much flattered and touched by 
 your amiable offer all the same, but it is my high 
 and real appreciation of your genius which pre- 
 vents my consenting to your making so bad a 
 use of it. If you knew all or even half that I 
 have gone through, and per mi disgrazzia am still 
 going through, you would be convinced that I 
 have no comedy in my heart, though, like many 
 other poor drudges, I can do comic scenes "to 
 order y 
 
 * Reproduced in this work, as frontispiece. 
 
 38 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 My friend will too gladly avail herself of your 
 kind reproach to accompany me to your house* 
 some other day ; but having some odd sort of 
 Paletot on yesterday, she said she looked too like 
 a Scotch terrier for the Elegant Chalon, though 
 she would have been the very thing for Landseer. 
 . . . Do read Dumas' Dame de Monsoreau : it is 
 charming. You will find scenes in it worthy of 
 even yours and your brother's Pencil ; and Chicot, 
 le fou d'Henri Trois, is perfectly admirable. 
 
 Lady Bulwer Lytton speaks of her looks 
 hyperbolically. She was only forty-nine at this 
 date and exceptionally good-looking. Miss 
 Planche describes her thus in 1847: " Her hair 
 was of a beautiful dark brown, her eyes inde- 
 scribable as to colour and expression, ever varying 
 with each emotion. . . . Her mouth was a true 
 Cupid's bow, her straight, delicately shaped nose 
 of the most refined type, with arched nostrils, 
 and her eyebrows, so delicately pencilled, and 
 forehead were perfect." 
 
 In November 1851, Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 * The Chalons lived at 1 o, Wimpole Street at this date. 
 
 39 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 removed to what she called her "new den" near 
 Fulham Road — Thurloe Cottage, Old Brompton, 
 and her description of its situation in the next 
 letter gives an interesting idea of the rural 
 isolation that still surrounded what was then a 
 suburb of London. 
 
 December 26, 1851. 
 Dear Sir, — As I dined downstairs yesterday, 
 and am not only alive to tell the story, but am a 
 great deal better, I shall hope to have the pleasure 
 of seeing you and your brother according to your 
 kind promise on Saturday, though I begin to fear 
 that such really great men, in every sense of the 
 word, will hardly be able to get into my Lilliputian 
 kennel, which is about big enough for Titania, 
 Mistletoe, and Tiber, et voila tout, and neverthe- 
 less is not yet half furnished, not being able to 
 get my bookcases home, which are being made 
 after an idea of my own, as indeed the whole 
 nutshell is so arranged. Neither do I yet possess 
 an easy chair or a sofa, for you know the Fairies 
 all died before our time, leaving the Witch 
 Poverty Regent of the World. Lest you should 
 lose your way, and meet some Lancelot Gobbo to 
 40 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 send you " first to the right hand, then to the left, 
 and then to no hand at all," I must tell you it 
 is the last turn on your left hand as you come 
 from Town before you get to Thurloe Square, 
 exactly opposite Lord Talbot's place, Brompton 
 Park, # which is written in large white letters 
 on the Park Gates ; so now hoping you will be 
 able to find your way to me, believe me, 
 Ever your much obliged, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LYTTON. 
 
 January 5, 1852. 
 Dear Sir,— As you are not my Enemy (at 
 least I hope not?) I cannot say "Oh! that you 
 would write a book ! " Mais certes si jamais il 
 vous arrive de faire une pareille corvee you will 
 know, even with half-a-dozen revises, how im- 
 possible it is to get a book printed correctly when 
 it is printed in a hurry ; it goes through so many 
 hands, and as the Frenchman said of English 
 pronunciation — " The English write Nebuchad- 
 nezzar and pronounce it Sardanapalus ! ! " So 
 
 * A little farther west was another country-like residence, 
 Hereford House, Earl's Court, occupied by Lady Bulwer 
 Lytton's friend, Lady Hotham, who was famous for the 
 brilliant garden-parties she gave here and an excellent cook. 
 
 4* 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 English printers seem to think it is with French, 
 
 and though far from being an imaginative people, 
 
 it is astonishing the sportive fancy they exercise 
 
 with regard to fancy accents, for in printing French 
 
 as long as the accent is there, they seem to think 
 
 it is entirely a matter of taste over which letter it 
 
 hovers ! But look at the way the English is 
 
 mutilated in my poor Moliere and you will no 
 
 longer be astonished at the Bechamele of the 
 
 French. ... * 
 
 I am really astonished at the unbounded praise 
 
 the Book has received (from all except the clique 
 
 who have preserved a discreet silence up to the 
 
 present moment), and I am really grateful for a 
 
 magnificent leading article that appeared in The 
 
 Era on the Preface alone, for they are not to 
 
 review the book until next week. Verily, if ever 
 
 one has a friend and a judicious champion, it is in 
 
 a stranger. . . . 
 
 * Lady Bulwer Lytton always introduced a good deal of 
 French into her books, and her letters generally contained some 
 sentences in the same language. Thackeray noted this habit 
 in his chapter on Literary Snobs : — " And what linguists 
 many of our writers are ! Lady Bulwer, Lady Londonderry, 
 Sir Edward himself — they write the French language with a 
 luxurious elegance and ease which sets them far above their 
 Continental rivals, of whom not one (except Paul de Kock) 
 knows a word of English." 
 42 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 Only fancy a German (none but a German 
 could have perpetrated such a gaucherie) writing 
 me a flummerising letter about my books ; he 
 offers me a bust of my Brute, wishing to know 
 whether I would like it in bronze or in marble. 
 Voici comme je lui ai accused reception de sa 
 lettre — " Vraiment, monsieur, Sir E. Bulwer 
 Lytton s'est tant fait Statuetteisee Marbris6 
 et Bronserise que par nouveaut£, moi je lui 
 prefererai en terre I " — this, at least selon moi, 
 would be much more germane to the matter. 
 
 I am again laid up with one of my terrible colds, 
 so my visits to Brighton and Yorkshire are 
 adjourned sine die. . . . 
 
 Very truly yours, 
 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 January 7, 1852. 
 Encore un beau talent ! Why really, my dear 
 sir, you are a terrible monopolist, and had / any 
 influence in Parnassus I would have you indicted 
 for Bigamy! You have made us long to hear 
 you* as well as see you, and depend upon it we 
 shall avail ourselves of the earliest opportunity of 
 doinsr so : mais outre mon rhume le nouvel au me 
 
 * Chalon played the clarinet well. 
 
 43 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 grippe toujours dans les tristes a pattes du 
 desespoir — car les ennuyeux se suivent et pourtant 
 ne se ressemblent pas. . . . Strange to say that 
 Mr. Tiber, last evening, who had another 
 Blenheim to drink cream with him, it being 
 Twelfth Night, put his paw into the bag and drew 
 out Miss Mistletoe ! dont actuellement il fait 
 hommage a cette damzelle, and with Miss Ryves's 
 and my united kind regards. . . . 
 Ever truly yours, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LyTTON. 
 
 Lady Bulwer Lytton writes her next letter in 
 
 Caninese. 
 
 Thurloe Cottage, 
 
 January 10, 1852. 
 
 Bootiful Miss Mistletoe ! Belle dame blanche 
 
 de mes pensees, 
 
 I'll wear your colours in my hat 
 
 (when I get one ? ) 
 Your picture in my heart, 
 
 where you have reigned since the first moment I 
 beheld your starry eyes peeping out from those 
 fleecy clouds of silken love locks which shade 
 without veiling them. Neither will I boast among 
 other puppies of the flattering confidence you 
 44 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 have placed in me by trusting me with your 
 portrait, which nevertheless I must say is not 
 quite as beautiful as if your Masters had done it, 
 but your note as to caligraphy and composition is 
 exquisite and quite equal to such great Masters 
 as even yours. 
 
 My poor Mud is ill in bed, having ruptured a 
 small blood-vessel in the throat from coughing, 
 but begs her kind regards to your Masters and 
 many kisses to your silken ears, and with my 
 baise-pattes respectueuses, croyez moi, Belle 
 Mistletoe, 
 
 Votre tout d£voue\ 
 
 Tiber. 
 
 January 16, 1852. 
 My dear Sir, — When your Paquet d'esprit 
 arrived to-day I was in Park Lane with a friend 
 who had carried me off vi et armis this fine 
 day. . . . Your charming Mme. Bertini is like 
 the sun and sees brilliancy where none exists but 
 what is reflected from her own. My vanity would 
 tempt me to keep her exquis petit billet, mais par 
 surcroit de vanite je le renvoye, for like Horace's 
 praise of Psaphon's Birds, the eulogist so far 
 exceeds in merit the subject of her eulogy that it 
 
 45 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 cannot but make the latter feel too sensibly her 
 inferiority. On the other hand, returning a chef- 
 d'oeuvre to A. E. Chalon is indeed, as we vulgarly 
 say, sending coals to Newcastle. Shall we find 
 you and your brother at home if we storm your 
 castle at about one next Tuesday ? Should Mme. 
 Bertini be with you, it would indeed be an 
 additional pleasure, for the Originale d'un esprit 
 si original doit a la lettre etre charmante and in 
 perfect keeping with the inhabitants of No. 10, 
 Wimpole Street. 
 
 Ever your sincerely obliged, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LyTTON. 
 
 January 22, 1852. 
 My dear Sir, — I must thank you for the 
 charming Matinde Musicale you gave us yester- 
 day and which we hope did not fatigue you. The 
 liquid notes of your clarinet are still floating on 
 my ear and memory ; but as I before said, you 
 ought to be ashamed of yourself for monopolising 
 so many talents en perfection, and there really 
 ought to be some law of nature to prevent persons 
 like you (who with any one of your acquirements 
 are rich enough to purchase a large niche in the 
 Temple of Fame) from robbing tant de pauvres 
 46 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 ignorants qui courent le monde as you and your 
 brother have done, though I am willing to admit 
 that the great delight you both afford to the said 
 worldly compris meme les ignorants sont des cir- 
 constances extenuates. 
 
 What very nice people M. and Mme. Bertini 
 seem ; she sings with great taste, and both her and 
 her husband's touch on the piano are exquisite. 
 
 Mr. Tiber desires mille choses aimables to 
 Mesdames Tiney and Mistletoe. He has, I am 
 sorry to say, got the cramp in his left paw, having 
 gone out yesterday in pursuit of air and exercise 
 under difficulties — to wit, fog and frost. 
 Your much obliged, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LYTTON. 
 
 Samedi, Ce Janvier 24, 1852. 
 Ah ! si e'en est ainsi, mes chers Messieurs, je vous 
 en felicite, car ne savez vous pas que les injures 
 et l'injustice d'une Machine infernale aussi venale 
 et aussi m^prisable sur tous les rapports que la 
 Presse contemporaine ; font l'engrais qui fume les 
 lauriers sem£s pour la Post£rit£ ; et le veritable 
 g£nie n'arrive jamais si sitrement a son adresse 
 dans le Temple de la Gloire, qui quand e'est 
 bien et dument plombe de pareils mensonges et 
 
 47 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 nigauderies ; d'abord la camaraderie, c'est le 
 fleau de ^e pays et du siecle ; toute est clique, 
 soit en art, soit en litterature, soit en politique ; 
 et hors la clique — point de salut, c'est a dire pas 
 de chance. Mais avec un beau talent comme 
 le votre, Messieurs, vous pouvez bien vous en 
 moquer de cette sacre^e clique, pour laquelle rien 
 n'est sacre, ayant trempe" vos pinceaux dans les 
 couleurs immortelles — certes, c'est rimmortalite" 
 que vous r^compensera, et decid^ment la dite 
 recompense sera une peu plus belle qu'un Puff de 
 Journaliste ! 
 
 Adieu, cher monsieur, rappelez moi au souvenir 
 aimable de M. votre frere. Tiber ne veut plus 
 que la trop aimable Mistletoe souffre de sa crampe 
 a lui dans la patte gauche, car 9a serait un man- 
 age morganatique, et il n'est ni assez prince ni 
 assez scele>at pour se permettre de pareilles 
 lachettes, mais tout bonnement l'ami fidele de la 
 belle Mistletoe et sa mere, comme moi j 'aspire a 
 £tre l'amie tres sincere de leur Mattres. 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LYTTON. 
 
 January 28, 1852. 
 Thank you sincerely, dear sir, for your kind 
 note and kinder sympathy, and can only say that 
 
 48 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 abuse in such company is certainly far more 
 honourable than puffery in that of the set that 
 are puffed ; " for is it not more glorious, oh ! 
 Cleomenes, to be defeated with the Athenians 
 than to conquer with the Boeotians ? " We are 
 indeed y compris notre aristocratie de hier — a 
 nation of shopkeepers, which accounts for our 
 generally running counter to good taste in Art 
 and Literature. 
 
 I send you a paper which was sent to me this 
 morning. I am both grateful for and pleased at 
 it, as, with the editor of The Era, this good 
 writer, whoever he is, is the only one of the tribe 
 who has had the justice, generosity, and courage 
 to defend me, for even The Observer and Dispatch 
 and Weekly Times, who seldom praise anything, 
 over-praised the book, mais en revanche over- 
 abused me. . . . 
 
 Your grateful and obliged, 
 
 rosina bulwer lytton. 
 
 Thurloe Cottage, 
 
 February 3, 1852. 
 My dear Sir, — I am indeed truly sorry to hear 
 of the cause of your leaving town, but hope 
 you may both succeed in not only finding sleep 
 
 49 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 but happy dreams to boot. Were it true that 
 dreams are the reflex of the imagination, who 
 would be so justly entitled to beautiful dreams as 
 you and your brother. . . . N'avez vous pas 
 honte ? — ou plutot n'avais-je pas bien raison 
 de dire qu'entre vous deux Messieurs — vous 
 accaparez tous les talents ; libre aux autres de 
 s'y soumettre s'ils veulent ; mais pour mon 
 comfite l'idee me trotte de vous entamer un 
 process de n'avoir si indignement juive ! I ought 
 to be at Brighton with Lady Hotham, but I 
 could not manage to get away, which I now 
 doubly regret as you are there. If it were only 
 the Press that abused me, I assure you it might do 
 so till it was tired without extorting any notice 
 from me ; but I have at length been goaded into 
 exposing The Infernal Machine that sets the 
 Press on. I send you another newspaper, and I 
 am happy to say several others have taken up 
 the persecution against me in a generous spirit. 
 M. and Mme. Bertini were good enough to call 
 on Sunday, but I was so ill I regret to say I 
 could not see them. 
 
 Miss Ryves unites with me in kind regards to 
 yourself and your brother, and sincerely hoping 
 that you may both return to Town with as great 
 
 5° 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 a stock of health as you possess of talents (vous 
 avouerez qu'il est impossible de pomper les bons 
 voeux plus loin), 
 
 Believe me, dear sir, 
 
 Ever your sincerely obliged, 
 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 Voici un Mot delicieux de M. Dupin qu'on 
 vient de me raconter, et comme vous en etes 
 digne, cher Monsieur, je vous le mande. Quand 
 Louis Napoleon avait confisque les Propri^tes de 
 la famille d'Orleans, " Ah!" s'ecria M. Dupin, 
 " C'est le premier Vol de l'Aigle ! " Nest ce pas 
 charmant? 
 
 T.A.V. R. Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 io heures, ce 5 Fevrier, 1852. Ma deuxieme 
 lettre aujourd'hui. 
 
 February 7, 1852. 
 A thousand thanks, my dear sir, for your 
 charming book of caricatures, at which we have 
 been greatly amused and which I will return 
 safely this evening. Your " Bird's-eye view of 
 a Prima Donna" is excellent. I rather winced 
 under my poor dear (and to the last beautiful) 
 
 5i 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 Catalani* I was so fond of her and she was so 
 kind to me at Florence. I now see why you 
 wanted my phiz, and for that book you are 
 quite welcome to it, mais il n'y a pas y qui 
 tient (pas meme tin Air Chalon) qui peut dune 
 genese faire un Greuze. 
 
 I congratulate you upon having such charm- 
 ing weather at Brighton, and I hope you will 
 both derive a fresh stock of health from it ; I 
 think it must be that in this, as in all else, 
 Apollo especially favours you twain, as we all 
 know to our sorrow that the English sun, like 
 the English people, seldom shines. How strange 
 that you should have found a duplicate Mizzy. 
 No doubt from having held her head Sky high 
 at being your dog, maintenant elle ira queue-bas 
 (oh ! ! !) d'avoir tiouvee une rivale. . . . 
 In whirlwind haste, 
 
 Ever your sincerely obliged, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LyTTON. 
 
 Thurloe Cottage, 
 
 February io, 1852. 
 Thank you, dear sir, very much for correct- 
 ing my ignorance. I was not aware that the 
 
 * Angelica Catalani, the singer. She appeared in London 
 1807-14, and again in 1822, and died in 1849. 
 
 5 2 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 feminine of gene meant anything worse than 
 what in this "Nation of Shopkeepers " is con- 
 sidered the very worst of crimes — to wit, the 
 extreme verge of beg-garhood or misere ren- 
 foncee : mais dorenavant grace a vos bons con- 
 seils, cher monsieur, je m'en garderai bien de 
 me fagoter de la sorte et me bornera — en fait 
 de beVue-a la stricte ve>ite de Mme. de Talley- 
 rand {Grant) qui annoncait a ses amis quelle 
 £tait d'Inde — et il faut avouer que quand on 
 est bien et honnetement bete c'est une maniere 
 comme une autre de s'orienter.* 
 
 The book of books was safely returned. Why 
 did you not embellish it with an effigy of old 
 Valabregue, who was one of Nature's caricatures ? 
 After having tormented her life out, he had the 
 grace to be inconsolable at poor Catalani's death 
 and to follow her a fortnight after — I suppose to 
 torment her in the other world en vrai mari. I 
 have not the least doubt, dear sir, that your 
 genius could even make a lovely picture out of an 
 old fright ; and if the prediction of a racecourse 
 sibyl that I was to be left a large fortune (! ? ? ?) in 
 March 1852, should come to pass, I would with 
 
 * Throughout this work Lady Bulwer Lytton's French, 
 though often dubious, has been transcribed as she wrote it. 
 
 53 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 pleasure give you an opportunity of achieving the 
 triumph of Art over Nature. As anything is 
 better than the canting women of England, I 
 envy you the cantering ladies you so wittily and 
 graphically describe. . . . 
 
 Forgive this horrid scrawl, for although a quill 
 has been scientifically described as being a thing 
 plucked from the pinions of one goose to express 
 the opinions of another goose, yet the one I'm 
 writing with positively refuses the sympathy 
 necessary to fulfil its mission, but on the contrary 
 plays the critic and almost blots every word I 
 write, so I will only add what nothing can efface, 
 namely, that I am, dear sir, 
 
 Ever your sincerely obliged, 
 
 rosina bulwer lytton. 
 
 Thurloe Cottage, 
 
 February 13, 1852. 
 Mille remerciments, cher monsieur, de votre 
 aimable billet. On a beaucoup parle ici de ce 
 malheur de porte cochere — et puis apres comme 
 a Brighton on a bien danse ! car tout ce qu'on 
 ne remporte pas, par un coup de main dans ce 
 monde ; on renvoye avec un coup de pied. Je vous 
 reconnais bien a votre critique, mais plus encore 
 54 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 a votre esprit. Vous avez raison touchant l'ordre 
 chronologique du Brigandage de l'Aigle, mais 
 pour celui de Louis Napoleon, c'etait bien son 
 coup d'essai, ou premier vol — mais puisque la 
 fortune vient en volant, comme l'appetit en 
 mangeant, sans doute il ne sera pas son dernier. 
 A propos des Bandits, on parle d'envoyer mon 
 animal de beau frere a Constantinople — tout 
 <£e que metonne moi c'est qu'on ne lui a pas mis 
 a la Porte, des ses escapades et gobemoucheries 
 a Madrid.* 
 
 I had a little black Syrian Princess here yes- 
 terday flanked by the Persian Secretary of Lega- 
 tion, a very handsome man in a still more 
 beautiful dress. They were in perfect ecstasies 
 at The Launch of the Homeward Bound — as 
 well they might be, for every day that I look at it 
 some new beauty seems to start out — just as one 
 looks at the sky of a summer's night till one 
 seems to look more stars into it than there were 
 at first. 
 
 Quant au Greuze ! — what objection could I have 
 
 * Sir Henry Bulwer (Lord Dalling and Bulwer) was ap- 
 pointed Minister Plenipotentiary at Florence in 1852, and did 
 not become Ambassador to the Ottoman Porte until 1858, so 
 the report was premature. 
 
 55 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 to being immortalised by you except one, that of 
 beggars having no right to pleasure or luxuries of 
 any kind ; and this year I have been so awfully 
 swindled, in more ways than one, that it will take 
 me three years hard work to make up for it, et 
 quand ma bourse reprendra un peu d'embonpoint 
 I assure you there are other pictures of yours that 
 I would far rather possess than my own ugly old 
 Phiz — which I think is a perfect desecration of 
 such a beau talent, as yours, to let you waste your 
 valuable time in doing, for old women should 
 never be canvassed except at a contested election. 
 Tiber desires all sorts of tender messages to 
 Mizzy — at least so I conclude by the accelerated 
 wagging of his tail (car les chiens prendent le 
 roman toujours par la queue). . . . 
 
 Ever your sincerely obliged, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LyTTON. 
 
 Ce 28 Fdvrier, 1852. 
 Dear Sir, — A feverish cold which has confined 
 me to my bed for the last week has prevented my 
 sooner thanking you for your last note. ... I 
 sincerely hope that your brother will eventually 
 derive benefit from chafings of the amiable per- 
 sonage you describe ; no doubt the latter is a 
 
 56 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 Citizen of the World, and having married an 
 English woman, upon the principle of doing at 
 Rome as Rome does, thinks it necessary in order 
 to keep pace with our National Customs to be as 
 brutal a husband as possible ; and giving them 
 black eyes is with regard to their wives la seule 
 maniere que les Maris Anglais ont de leur donner 
 dans l'ceil ! Quant a moi, j'ai une telle indigestion 
 du bonheur conjugal que je ferais fort bien de 
 mourir le plus tot possible, car je me damne sur 
 mes vieux jours en luttant contre mon mepris et 
 lache bourreau, ou que c'est anticiper FEnfer de 
 passer sa vie a dejouer les sourdes menees dune 
 pareille miserable. . . . 
 
 Agr£ez l'assurance de mon amide* sincere, 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 Thurloe Cottage, 
 
 March 6, 1852. 
 I am very happy, dear sir, to hear such good 
 accounts of your brother's improvement, and 
 despite the proverbial ne sutor ultra crepidam 
 begin to have some faith in the cobbler, and hope 
 that your brother will soon become a Peripatetic, 
 for of all Schools of Philosophy it is the best, and 
 
 57 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 would be still better if at times it would enable 
 one to walk away from oneself! 
 
 Mille remerciments du tas d'esprit de l'Elysee 
 Bourbon, ils sont tous charmant, and I only wish 
 we had some President here, or even some unpre- 
 cedented personage, pour donner le balai to our 
 Augean Stable of a Parliament, et un bon soufflet 
 to our Jew-dish-us Chancellor of the Exchequer,* 
 whose Brougham, the day after his advent, 
 was seen for three hours at Rothschild's door — 
 ainsi c'est clair qu'il commence par nous Juiver. 
 Mrs. Dizzy ex officio must be killing, which 
 she certainly never was before. In rummaging 
 over some old papers to arrange them (car j'ai un 
 pressentiment qu'enfin Dieu aura piti6 de moi et 
 me prendra bientot), I found a copy of an old 
 lady's will which I copied out some years ago 
 at Venice. As I am quite of her way of thinking 
 (barring "les amants," of which I have not 
 had any experience, and therefore on that score 
 alone have found them w anting X) I send it to 
 
 you. . . . 
 
 Ever sincerely yours, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LyTTON. 
 
 * Disraeli had recently been appointed to this office in Lord 
 Derby's first Ministry. 
 
 58 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 Testament dune Grande Dame qui mourut en 
 1775. Elle avait depose cette piece chez un 
 notaire trois ans avant sa mort. 
 
 Attendu que Mon Chien a dte le plus fidele de 
 mes amis, je le fais mon ex^cuteur testamentaire 
 et je lui confie la disposition de ma fortune. J'ai 
 beaucoup a me plaindre des hommes ; ils ne valent 
 rien, ni au moral, ni au physique. Mes amants 
 6taient faibles et trompeurs, mes amis faux et 
 perfides. De toutes les creatures qui m'entour- 
 aient, il n'y a que mon chien auquel j'ai reconnu 
 quelques hommes qualit^s. Je veux done que 
 Ton dispose de mon bien en sa faveur et qu'on 
 distribue des legs a ceux qui recevront ses 
 caresses. 
 
 Mon testament serait caique sur 9elui cj. 
 
 Rosin a Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 April 21, 1852. 
 It was very kind of you, my dear sir, to take 
 the trouble of bringing my cassolette on Sunday, 
 and I much regret that being confined to my bed 
 with a severe attack of bronchitis, I missed 
 the pleasure of seeing you : but being up for the 
 first time to-day I shall hope to be able de me 
 dtdommager by calling upon you some day next 
 
 59 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 week. I have had (so my doctor says) a very 
 narrow escape of my life, only living, like all other 
 bad habits, is one that old women cannot easily 
 leave off; and so the stupid man has been dosing 
 me with antimony, when, from its being chronic, I 
 am sure money would be much better for my chest 
 complaint! The buds and leaves are actually 
 beginning, like London Misses of eighteen, 
 to come out, so I hope Mme. de Sevigne" will 
 be able to bring you a bouquet next week. . . . 
 
 I am sure every one will say that the picture is, 
 yet is not, a copy of my countenance. However, 
 selon votre ordinaire, you prove yourself a great 
 artist by studying from the Antique. . . . 
 Your much obliged, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LYTTON. 
 
 May 4, 1852. 
 
 My dear Sir, — The Fates are, comme a 
 l'ordinaire, conspiring against me in the shape of 
 east winds, so that I know not when I shall 
 be able to get out ; and even Mme. de Sevigne^ 
 who has set Time at defiance, thanks to those 
 inveterate English bunglers, is not yet in a proper 
 frame of mind de se rendre chez vous.* Ainsi 
 
 * Lady Bulwer Lytton was presenting a picture of de 
 Sevigne to Chalon. 
 60 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 je viens vous supplier de me d^dommager de 
 toutes ces contraries. In plain English, I am 
 going to have a few friends and a little music on 
 Friday evening, the 14th, and hope that you and 
 your brother will kindly consent to join them ; he 
 shall have the easiest chair or sofa that my nut- 
 shell affords, and you one or two very pretty 
 faces to look at, so don't be afraid that it will be 
 all in the old woman line like the Hostess. I 
 must also most particularly request the pleasure 
 of your clarinet's company, but recollect that 
 there is this marked difference between you and 
 it, i.e., though I should not care to see it without 
 you, I shall be always happy to see you even 
 without it, though doubly happy to see you 
 together — the harmony is so perfect, which con- 
 vinces me that however fond you may be of that 
 instrument, on which you so pre-eminently excel, 
 you are nevertheless not wedded to it. . . . 
 Ever most sincerely yours, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LYTTON. 
 
 May 8, 1852. 
 I am really ashamed, my dear sir, to send you 
 such a heavy piece of gilt gingerbread, so very 
 different to the frame I designed ; but English 
 
 61 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 people have neither taste nor intelligence, and so 
 one only loses one's time and patience in trying 
 to din it into them ; so that I can only say that 
 in begging your acceptance of this little enamel 
 on copper of Mme. de SeVigne" when she was a 
 girl, the ugliness of the frame (so unworthy of 
 it and of you) is not my fault, as it has been sent 
 back to the maker six times ; and so now en 
 desespoir de cause, I have put my own taste out 
 of the question and kept it, it being a little less 
 Bartholomew Fairish than at first. . . . 
 
 I am very sorry to hear that you also have 
 followed that detestable fashion of getting the 
 Influenza, but hope sincerely that it will take 
 its departure before the 14th, and that your 
 clarinet will take a leaf out of your book and be 
 tres aimable on that evening. . . . 
 
 I have no doubt that the drawing looks very 
 charming, for I never saw one of yours that did 
 not ; but for the sake of truth it should have 
 figured in the Catalogue as "An imaginary 
 retrospective sketch by A. E. Chalon." 
 Ever sincerely yours, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LyTTON, 
 
 62 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 May 9, 1852. 
 
 My dear Sir, — The piano shall be tuned to 
 concert pitch : unfortunately it is not my own, for 
 not being able to get a white and gold one to 
 match my room I must have one made, Collard's 
 being only white and maple and ugly shapes. 
 Pray come as gothically early as you can on 
 Friday — eight if you like — but do not order your 
 Brougham till one. Many thanks for Mrs. 
 Kerr's note, by which it would appear that 
 already having " Condorcet on the Mind," we are 
 now likely to have Comte D'Orsay on the 
 Tourneur) as he is to be Chamberlain for a man 
 who has spent his last shilling, it was a great 
 thing to get hold of a Louis and a Napoleon, or 
 one may say a double Napoleon. . . .* 
 
 Forgive this vulgar sheet of paper worthy of a 
 Lady Mayoress or Mrs. Dizzy before her Ben 
 became an Exchequer Bill. . . . 
 
 You need not take the trouble of sending your 
 music-book stand, as I took care to order one, for 
 
 * Lady Bulwer Lytton's use of the word Tourneur — Turner 
 — was intended as a pun on D'Orsay's appointment as 
 Superintendent of the Beaux Arts by the budding Emperor 
 of the French. But Louis Napoleon came too late to the aid 
 of his old friend, for D'Orsay died in August 1852. 
 
 63 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 you could not suppose I would treat your music as 
 
 badly as my other guests and give it no place of 
 
 rest, which 1 fear will be the case with them, for 
 
 really considering the Lilliputian dimensions of 
 
 my rooms I should only have invited Cherubim — 
 
 but considering that they are as difficult to be had 
 
 as Angels, I have adopted the wise mezzo-termine 
 
 of giving my poor Terrestrials your heavenly 
 
 sounds. . . . 
 
 Ever your sincerely obliged, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LYTTON. 
 
 July 8, 1852. 
 My dear Sir, — You need not regret the 
 absence of grand aires, pianos, guitars, or any- 
 thing else : your own clarinet being a host in 
 itself and you, sans equivoque, being a Host in 
 yourself. I also congratulate you upon my loss, 
 which is your gain, as fat people ought to be ex- 
 cluded by Act of Parliament from all reunions 
 during the Dog Days. . . . 
 
 Ever sincerely yours, 
 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 August 5, 1852. 
 Dear Sir, — Even beyond your pencil and 
 pallet (to say nothing of your clarinet) you must 
 
 64 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 be a necromancer by the manner in which you 
 divine and supply people's wants and wishes. 
 Yesterday Lady Hotham was just in the act of 
 admiring your cadeatc, it having just opened one 
 of its beautiful dark blue eyes, when your note, 
 arrived. She enlightened my ignorance by 
 exclaiming, "Oh! I declare it's a Commilina — 
 a plant I've been long promised and have never 
 yet got ; is it not beautiful ? " So you see how 
 a propos your generosity was. ... As for the 
 Art Union, Miss Ryves and I will gratefully avail 
 ourselves of your obliging recollection, but Lady 
 Hotham * leaves Town for Lady de Trafford's 
 (her sister's) some day this week. We had a 
 great loss in your agreeable society at the 
 Gardens,! but you had none save in the Ballet, 
 which was exceedingly graceful, novel, and 
 pretty. . . . 
 
 Ever, dear sir, your much obliged, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LYTTON. 
 
 * She was Jane Seymour, daughter and co-heiress (with 
 her sister Laura, Lady de TrarTord) of Francis Colman 
 of Hillersdon, Devon. Married (i) Roger Pettiward, and 
 (2) Admiral Sir William Hotham, G.C.B. 
 
 \ This was probably a Fete at the Horticultural Gardens, 
 situated on the ground where the Imperial Institute and other 
 buildings now stand. 
 
 E 65 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 Thurloe Cottage, 
 
 September n, 1852. 
 Many thanks, dear sir, for your letter. ... I 
 am very glad to hear that your brother has 
 already derived so much benefit from the wild 
 waves and fresh sea breezes of Heme Bay. You 
 would not have got quietly out of Town without 
 an invasion from me, but that I have been three 
 weeks confined to my bed with a nervous fever, 
 which has been followed by an attack of erysipelas. 
 All this has effectually put an end to my long 
 owing visits into Derbyshire and Kent, for I am 
 so weak that Heaven only knows when I shall be 
 able to move. Tibby much envies Tiney and 
 Mizzy, and says how much luckier dogs are that 
 belong to a great man than to a big woman. . . . 
 As for littleness that is meanness, it is the 
 idiosyncrasy of the present age. I don't think a 
 great man could exist four and twenty hours in the 
 present state of our social atmosphere. I can't 
 even conceive what new quackery there can 
 be " looming in the future" even for that great 
 charlatan Disraeli to astonish our weak minds 
 with at the Opening of Parliament ; unless, 
 indeed, he takes to dancing Shaftesbury's Charac- 
 66 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 teristics or singing Babbage's Calculating Machine 
 to a Jew's-harp accompaniment. . . . 
 Ever sincerely yours, 
 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 Thurloe Cottage, 
 
 September 25, 1852. 
 My dear Sir, — I should instantly have complied 
 with your request about the receipt for the 
 Beignets, but when I got your letter Lady 
 Hotham had just come up from Trafford in great 
 grief about poor Lady de Trafford (her sister), who 
 is not expected to live :* but when Lady H. sent 
 me some game this morning the Bulletin was that 
 Lady de Trafford was a little better, so I went 
 down to Hereford House and got the receipt from 
 Brandling, Lady Hotham putting (as you will 
 perceive) her valuable autograph at the top 
 to authenticate it, and adding, " Pray tell Mr. 
 Chalon that as he likes my Beignets, I hope 
 he will come and eat them very often." When 
 you do, I'll take care that you have another 
 Plat doux for which Brandling is famous, and 
 which I think will quite eclipse the Beignets. By 
 the bye, you will perceive that there is neither 
 * She died a month later. 
 
 67 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 apple, quince, peach, orange, nor any other fruit in 
 the said Beignets, but that they are tout bonne- 
 ment des Pancakes Endtmanchds. 
 
 Only think of a madman of the name of Neild 
 dying and leaving all his poor relations starving, 
 while he bequeaths one million to notre petite, 
 ladre, dgoiste, imbecile de reine, qui sans doute 
 n'aura pas la justice de le restituer a la famille de 
 ce nigaud * I suppose you heard what the old 
 miser's tenants said when he was brought down 
 into Berkshire to be buried? "Ah! poor old 
 wretch, if he could a-knowed what an expense it 
 would have been a-bringing his empty bones down 
 here, he'd have come down hisself and a-bursted 
 here to save the money." I think his worthy 
 successor, the Queen, might have paid for the 
 Duke of Wellington's funeral out of this pretty 
 little windfall, without dragging it out of the 
 Public. My dear sir, they did give the poor old 
 Duke of Wellington an emetic, but he having the 
 chronic habit of not rejecting anything he was 
 offered, it took no effect ; his good fortune 
 
 * It was half a million that John Camden Neild, of Chelsea, 
 bequeathed to Victoria. She gave the executors ^iooo 
 each, secured an annuity to an old servant of the testator's, 
 erected a memorial window to Neild, and kept the vast 
 residue of the fortune for herself. 
 68 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 followed him to the grave, for he suffered little or 
 nothing, and he died as a great captain ought, by- 
 going off like a shot. . . . 
 
 I have finished " Napoleon Le Petit." It is 
 written with all the vivida vis anima with which 
 Victor Hugo must write, but where I think he is 
 wrong is in saddling Louis Napoleon with all the 
 butcheries of the Coup d'Etat; for he surely must 
 be aware that gunpowder entrusted a discretion 
 to a lawless soldiery is like the infernal wine in a 
 German tale and incites to all sorts of atrocities ; 
 the head and front of Louis Napoleon's offending 
 is his ambition — cela pos£, I do not see that he is 
 to blame for a single thing he has done: he 
 betrayed and conspired against no kind and con- 
 fiding relation to swindle him out of his Kingdom 
 and his Crown, as Louis Philippe did. The 
 French Empire was in want of a Groom of the 
 Chambers, and he as a Royalty out of place 
 applied for the situation and got it ; and what 
 Victor Hugo seems so very irate at is, that not 
 only is "a footman kept," but a score and all 
 en das de sole — by which he seems to think Louis 
 Napoleon has put \his foot in it as well as the 
 lackeys. As for the confiscation of the Orleans 
 property, that is only the regular routine of 
 
 69 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 usurpation, and independent of the many grudges 
 he owed Louis Philippe, it was only self-defence 
 to remove so great a lever of power from the 
 Orleans family that might be turned against him 
 any day. For that amiable and excellent family 
 I am truly sorry — but then we are told that the 
 sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children. 
 Quant a Louis Napoleon, he has now the finest 
 game in his hands that ever man played if he 
 will but play it : qui sait ? Rochefoucauld likens 
 our actions to bouts rimes which every one makes 
 correspond with what they please ; the fact is 
 they are more like mathematical problems, the 
 motive of which is the base, and the world seldom 
 or ever being able to discover this base, the 
 actions themselves, in every part of their super- 
 structure, to it appear dubious or untrue. 
 
 And so the Cocoanut is flourishing — as you 
 truly say — " like all other Humbugs" The 
 Scriptures say in allusion to this peculiar branch 
 of human industry (to wit, humbug) : " I saw the 
 wicked flourishing like a green bay-tree," but the 
 worldly version of this passage should be : " I saw 
 the Humbug flourishing like Mr. Chalon's sham 
 cocoanut-tree — pompously great without, but all 
 hollow within." But what think you of my having 
 70 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 a real oasis in the Desert ? All my laburnums 
 and roses in full bloom for the second time : 
 seeing is believing, so I send you a few leaves 
 — and take it as a good omen that I shall yet 
 flourish even though I have " fallen into the 
 sere and yellow leaf." 
 
 I have written you such a volume that I have 
 scarcely time to add that Miss Ryves unites with 
 me in kind regards to yourself and your brother ; 
 and Tibby, who is in a state of beatitude at one 
 side of the rug, and Djalma, my black cat, in a 
 state of becatitude at the other, me prient de 
 presenter mille pattes de velours a Mesdames 
 Mizzy et Tiney, and believe me ever, dear sir, 
 Sincerely yours, 
 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 Thurloe Cottage, 
 
 October 15, 1852. 
 At length I can acknowledge the roses with a 
 thousand thanks — but before it was impossible, 
 not being able to imagine from whence they 
 came : and yet I might have guessed ; vu que 
 vous, Monsieur, comme Chantilly embellisez les 
 roses, for it is only Chalon's roses that could be 
 so lovely at such a season of fog and frost. They 
 
 7i 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 arrived quite fresh and blooming, and in the right, 
 not wrong, box, at about half-past seven, when we 
 were at dinner, and it being the birthday of a 
 very pretty little girl, who with her mother is 
 staying with me, I thought the address was 
 a mistake and they were for her. . . . 
 
 I don't know whether your " We " is merely 
 regal parlance : if so, agr^ez mes hommages : but 
 if it means you and your brother I shall be doubly 
 glad to see you on Saturday : {{, on the other 
 hand, it means you, Mizzy, and Tiney, and the 
 new Dodge (not of Venice but of Heme Bay), 
 Tibby begs me to assure you that you shall have 
 anything but a dogged reception, though you will 
 have a very stupid one, as we shall be quite 
 alone. I still being full of pains and aches but 
 ever 
 
 Sincerely yours, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LyTTON. 
 
 Thurloe Cottage, 
 
 November 26, 1852. 
 My dear Sir, — With respect to the Coto- 
 neaster, it may be treated like a wife, c'est a dire 
 as ill as possible without the slightest attention, 
 save by throwing a little cold water on it when- 
 72 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 ever it attempts to put forth anything new. Like 
 me it is accustomed to rough it, but unlike me is 
 extremely hardy : in other words, it is of the 
 tough Mountaineer genus, and will bear being in 
 the open air in all weathers, very frosty nights 
 perhaps excepted; it is more rare than pretty, 
 having a largeish yellow flower. Before I go, 
 which will, d.v., be the first week in December, I 
 hope to take you a plant better worth your 
 acceptance. 
 
 The best thing I have heard about Uncle 
 Toms Cabin * is the following : "Ma; isn't Uncle 
 Tom the husband of Anti-Slavery ? " 
 Ever your sincerely obliged, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LYTTON. 
 
 During 1853 Lady Bulwer Lytton's corre- 
 spondence with A. E. Chalon lapsed, but it was 
 renewed in the following year and became even 
 more frequent than before. The interval of 
 silence is explained to some extent in the following 
 letter : 
 
 * First published this year, 1852. 
 
 73 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 Phillips's Hotel, 
 Llangollen, 
 
 North Wales, 
 January 21, 1854. 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, — No doubt you and Mizzy 
 will both be surprised at again seeing the print 
 of my paw, which you would have seen long 
 before this but for two reasons : first, when I wrote 
 to you from Brighton last winter you never 
 answered my letter, and I took your silence as 
 a hint that you were tired of my griffonnage, 
 and so though you are not yet, thank Heaven, 
 " where the weary are at rest," / (for you 
 know they say man and wife are one / ? ? ?) 
 as one of the wicked ceased from troubling 
 you. Then, after I returned from Paris with 
 Lady Hotham, having been cheated out of (for 
 me) a large sum of money, necessity forced me 
 into a voluntary exile,* and I chose this secluded 
 village but lovely country — with views worthy 
 of even your and your brother's Pencil, and 
 where I shall hope to entice you both down 
 to pay me a visit for three or four weeks next 
 
 * Lady Bulwer Lytton lost money heavily by the failure of 
 her publisher, Shoberl, just as her account became due. 
 
 74 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 summer, if I am still alive ? After I came here, 
 I had illness after illness, winding up with the 
 scarlatina. . . - About four months ago the 
 Chevalier de Birard and Lady Hotham wrote 
 me word that they had been to see you at 
 Kensington, and that you had been good enough 
 to ask kindly after me. I then wrote to both 
 for your exact address, for though " A. E. 
 Chalon, Europe," would in all probability have 
 found you,* yet in these days of juvenile delin- 
 quency and universal cigar smoking c'est trop 
 risquer sa correspondence de la laisser errer 
 dans le vague, and it was only last week, when 
 I was confined to my bed with bronchitis, that 
 I received your address. ... I do hope you 
 will both come and pay me and the other moun- 
 tains a visit this summer. I assure you I will 
 treat you very hospitably in "mine inn," where 
 I hope you will both "take your ease " as well 
 as me. ... I grieve to say this is a good and 
 aristocratic neighbourhood, for I had hoped to 
 be quiet here in my insignificance and obscurity 
 — but no ! — and so I am ruined in post horses 
 — and such post horses and crazy old vehicles. 
 
 * Chalon was now living at El Retiro, Campden Hill, 
 Kensington. 
 
 75 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 My pleasantest and kindest neighbours are the 
 Myddleton Biddulphs of Chirk Castle. She is 
 a very nice little person — ditto Col. Biddulph, 
 though I don't think he is as good-looking as his 
 brother, who is about the Queen. Chirk Castle,* 
 as of course you know, is one of the finest old 
 feudal places in the kingdom. You can see 
 seventeen counties from the battlements, and 
 Pugin has restored the house with excellent 
 taste. I never saw such magnificent timber in any 
 p ar k — some of the oaks being from a thousand 
 to twelve hundred years old. When we are 
 able to go over and stay, Tib and I are to have 
 the State bed that poor Charles the First slept 
 in, and then instead of a Blenheim I suppose 
 Master Tib will fancy himself a King Charles 
 dog! 
 
 We were all snowed up here a fortnight ago 
 — men, carriages, and horses daily lost in the 
 snow, and no post for four days, the river frozen 
 over — but the roaring, rushing, brawling Dee is 
 once more free and bounding along at railway 
 speed, so that like Baron Munchausen's dog it 
 runs a great risk — not indeed of running its legs, 
 but of running its waves off ! . . . 
 
 * It is now, 1 914, occupied by Lord Howard de Walden. 
 
 76 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 I have not even got my beautiful " Homeward 
 Bound" here to console me ; but as Heaven only 
 knows when (if ever again ?) I shall be homeward 
 bound, perhaps it is as well. Of course you know 
 Wilson's beautiful landscape of Llangollen Bridge? 
 But I could show you fifty more beautiful views 
 and more worthy of your pencil ; but if you 
 are good enough to come, as I hope you will, 
 pray don't forget your clarinet, which I long to 
 hear again. 
 
 Hoping that men donnerez de vos nouvelles au 
 plus tot, 
 
 Believe me ever, dear Mr. Chalon, 
 Sincerely yours, 
 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 Phillips's Hotel, 
 
 Llangollen, 
 
 January 26, 1854. 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, — I thank you sur le champ 
 for your letter, finding that when I don't do so my 
 correspondence accumulates so awfully that I run 
 the risk of dying and making "no sign." I can in 
 no way account for the loss of my Brighton letter 
 to you, unless by supposing that it was engulfed 
 in that bourne from which such travellers some- 
 
 77 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 times never return, i.e. a servant's pocket. I am 
 very glad to hear that your brother is so well, and 
 though you give me no hope of seeing you both 
 this summer, I am so accustomed to hope against 
 hope, that I will still hope that you may change 
 your mind and come. I think I know your 
 Bel Retiro : is it not an old James the First — red 
 brick with stone copings — Palazzo, very large, 
 within walls, on the left-hand side as you go 
 to the Palace from London ? I am glad both 
 your chef-d'ceuvres are more worthily lodged, 
 for a right royal genius should be regally 
 domiciled. . . . Heaven only knows if we shall 
 ever meet again on this side the grave. 
 
 Passo di pene in pene 
 Questa seccede a quella ; 
 Ma l'ultima chi viene 
 E sempre la peggior. 
 
 Such is my lot. . . . Believe me, dear Mr. 
 Chalon, yours truly, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LyTTON. 
 
 March 21, 1854. 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, — You are very good 
 to preserve those old roots — one would almost 
 suppose that you were as fond of weeds as I 
 
 78 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 am. But you say nothing of the dear cocoanut 
 tree — that Jewel of the Philippine Isles of your 
 garden ; and yet from the name I have the 
 misfortune to groan under, you might have 
 supposed that I should feel an especial interest in 
 anything of the Humbug genus, whether veget- 
 able, zoophyte, or zoological. A strange subject, 
 that tableau you are doing : if anyone could make 
 it interesting you can, still I should think evenyou 
 would find what you artists call the ordonnance of 
 the picture difficult, with that Paterfamilias and 
 his continuations all in deep mourning; . . . Alas! 
 yes, I shall again be dragged before "The British 
 Public " at the end of this week. My publisher 
 has orders to send you an early copy — mais cela 
 n'engage a rien, you are not obliged to read it ; it 
 will do for the waste-paper basket, or, better still, 
 would make an admirable fond for infant cocoanuts 
 with a little external green paint and varnish, 
 while the reviews of it would do for the milk — 
 not exactly of human kindness — but of human 
 jobbing. 
 
 Forgive this dull scrawl, but I am in bed with 
 a severe attack of bronchitis, so believe me, dear 
 Mr. Chalon, ever sincerely yours, 
 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 79 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 March 25, 1854. 
 
 I do indeed wish, dear Mr. Chalon, that I could 
 see your (I'm very sure charming) picture of what 
 the Yankees would call " The Father of a Family 
 and Juvenile Fixings" — but what is the use of 
 wishing for anything in this world? Neverthe- 
 less, I also wish I had the pretty string of pink 
 hearts that you mention, for I have had such a 
 string of black hearts to contend against that my 
 own is well nigh broken. The poor cocoanut ! 
 I am sorry for him, but he cannot be a genuine 
 humbug, or, as you say, it would flourish in any 
 soil, so perhaps it may turn out to be a real one 
 after all ! 
 
 I am afraid you will be greatly disappointed 
 with my book,* for in truth it seems to me a sad 
 hash, as I had originally intended affecting editor- 
 ship and calling it " Lay Sermons " by Alciphron, 
 but was bullied out of this and the anonymous by 
 my publisher ; so then I rechristened it, as you 
 see, and as it is an intensely political novel, per- 
 haps the present is a better title, only I wanted to 
 mystify the Philistines at first. I warn you that 
 the first vol. is very stupid — to make the whole 
 affair less so, I send you a key to it. 
 * Behind the Scenes, 1854. 
 
 80 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 This new book, Behind the Scenes, was, of 
 course, a thinly-veiled attack upon Bulwer Lytton 
 and his friends ; and the author in this case, as 
 ever, believed that adverse reviews of her work 
 emanated from " The Press Gang " of " Sir Liar " 
 — as she always styled her husband. She ex- 
 presses these views fully in the next letter to 
 Chalon : 
 
 Phillips's Hotel, Llangollen, 
 
 Easter Monday, 1854. 
 Had you been (which Heaven forbid !) as long 
 pounded in the mortar du plus fort with the un- 
 scrupulous pestle of paid-for abuse as I have, you 
 would understand how callous I feel both to 
 public abuse and public praise, being well aware 
 that the former is a matter of private malice and 
 personal pique, and the latter, nine times out of 
 ten, a matter of chance ; but really that disgusting 
 Press Gang has achieved the miracle of making 
 even me (!) pity their pet ruffian, Sir Liar, who 
 may well exclaim "Save me from my friends!" 
 For it is quite impossible to write a novel without 
 a bad character in it, and it is equally impossible 
 to find any evil, from the most embryo vice to the 
 
 f 81 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 most fully consummate crime, that would not be 
 applicable to that personage ; but it is not only 
 cruel but absurd of his dear clique to write under 
 every villain I draw — " That is Sir E. Bulwer 
 Lytton " (as Sir William Curtis used to write 
 under his own portrait in the Exhibition — " This is 
 /"!!); and when they have thus fitted the cap of 
 every vice upon him, stick him in the market- 
 place for all the little boys to point at : but if his 
 dear friends will go on assuming that he and 
 every villainy are synonymous (which far be it 
 from me to deny) the cruelty is in them and not 
 the scandal in me ; and when my Life is published 
 and bare unvarnished y^/s stated — authenticated 
 by the wretched animal's own letters — the world 
 will then see what faint shadowy creations such 
 water — or rather milk and water — colour sketches 
 the Ponsonby Ferrars tribe are. As for the abuse 
 in The Athenceum, it is so grossly personal, so ill— 
 temperedly and vexed-schoolboy ishly false in every 
 line, and the conscience stricken old score — of the 
 machinations exercised to prevent my books 
 being published by the magnates of the trade and 
 fairly dealt with after — is so dragged a propos de 
 bottes into court (since I make not the slightest 
 allusion to this well-authenticated fact in my 
 82 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 present book) that any one may swear to the 
 writer of that attack, coupled with the steam- 
 engine power exerted to assure the "pensive" 
 or pence-give " public " that the book is so dread- 
 fully dull, so vulgar, and the characters so un- 
 naturally drawn ! ! though the head and front of 
 my offending and the first count in the indictment 
 is their being such startling likenesses. You are 
 quite right in saying that I have flattered Dizzy- 
 in truth I have flattered them all, and Ponsonby 
 Ferrars * more than any of them : but you, who are 
 so much in the habit of doing likewise, ought to 
 know that portraits must be flattered — car ma foi ! la 
 nature est bien loin d'etre aussi belle — but though 
 you flattered till the flattery reached the moon, it 
 could never come up to the vanity of the originals. 
 I don't know if you ever read a clever — but 
 disgustingly coarse, not to say gross — book (more 
 especially for a Miss to write) called Jane Eyre} 
 An offensively vulgar and equally coarse book 
 called Shirley ? And a revoltingly blasphemous 
 book called Wuthering Heights'* — all of which 
 the Press Gang — who lapidate me — be-praised 
 and be-puffed up to the skies. Then to be sure 
 
 * Intended for Bulwer Lytton : the character of " Edith " 
 for herself. 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 these Bells — as they call themselves, but Miss 
 Brontes, adulate and bow down and worship men 
 in general in all their books, like genuine 
 " British Females" as they are, and court and 
 toady — Mr. Thackeray in particular — so no 
 wonder they have been puffed to the skies ; and 
 what would be coarse and trop libre in a man's 
 writing in them is extolled a Toutrance and called 
 "a masculine understanding," which is the critical 
 conventional term for lauding a woman ; whereas 
 when they want to sneer down the same, or it 
 may be a higher, calibre of intellect in another 
 woman, they have only to turn the phrase upside 
 down and brand her as " a strong-minded 
 woman." But commend me to the giant strides 
 cant has made in this most canting country under 
 the sun, for in the last century there was a 
 novelist, a certain Mrs. Charlotte Smith, who 
 only laboured under an incipient attack of 
 ordinary jog-trot-bad husband, and yet she 
 vigorously threw out the complaint by serving 
 him up — or out ? — in every novel she wrote — hot, 
 cold, roasted, and devilled, and yet she was not 
 reviled and lapidated : on the contrary, she was 
 voted extremely clever and very much to be 
 pitied ! Then, to be sure, poor Mr. Smith, good 
 
 8 4 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 easy man, not only bore it all, but frankly owned 
 that he deserved it, and did not set the blood- 
 hounds after her because, under the torture, his 
 victim had uttered a cry that reached the public ear. 
 I suppose it is because my doctor said I must 
 not even look at a pen and ink for at least three 
 weeks to come that I have bored you with this long 
 egotistical rigmarole ; the reason of his prohibi- 
 tion was that I am spitting blood and have a 
 cough that would kill a horse, so I hope it will do 
 me the comparatively trifling service of killing an 
 ass, and then The Assinceum can come out strong 
 in an obituary panegyric a sa maniere. I assure 
 you I had no qualms in killing poor Edith: I 
 only did as I would be done by. Your story of 
 the Queen of Squash would do for a pendant to 
 one I was ear witness to. My mother had a 
 maid who was a lump of affectation and a perfect 
 Mrs. Malaprop, so that my poor sister and I 
 delighted in drawing her out. One night she 
 had been to Drury Lane ; the next morning we 
 said : " Well, Gifford, how were you amused ? " 
 "Oh! I was much hedified, miss, it was a 
 Istorical Play, Junius Wezer ! " . . 
 Very truly yours, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LYTTON. 
 
 85 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 P.S. — I had hoped and expected that your 
 great common sense and very good eyesight 
 would have caused you to receive the glowing 
 description of my own youthful loveliness ! ! ! cum 
 grano salts, as it was only done as a set off to 
 Sir Liar's extatic importements in describing his 
 personal attractions in one of his published self- 
 adulations, where he says : 
 
 "He" (meaning himself) " was a gifted boy ! ! with golden 
 
 hair 
 And eyes of Heaven's " (query the other place) " own blue : 
 While her" (meaning me) " maturer charms but shone 
 With a faint lustre borrowed from his own ! ! " 
 
 (So you see I have not come up to him yet !) 
 
 Lady Bulwer Lytton was here, apparently, in- 
 correctly quoting some lines from a poem entitled 
 Lady Cheveley or the Woman of Honour, which 
 was written in retort to her first book, Cheveley ; 
 or the Man of Honotir, 1839: — 
 
 " But he of whom we sing was tall and fair, 
 With a proud brow, and the rich golden hair, 
 
 And he had large and melancholy eyes, 
 That seemed to win their azure from the skies. 
 
 86 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 A gifted boy, earth echoed with his fame, 
 And sages knew and reverenced his name. 
 
 He yet with boyhood's generous impulse warm, 
 She rich in womanhood's well-ripened charm. 
 
 He, her young lover, before whom she shone 
 With the reflected lustre of his own." 
 
 Bulwer Lytton denied the authorship of the poem, 
 and no doubt it was written either by his mother 
 or his brother, Henry Bulwer, more probably the 
 latter, as the Preface was dated from Paris. 
 
 March 28, 1854. 
 
 Mille et mille remerciments de votre belle et 
 magnifique fleur, cher Monsieur Chalon, elle est 
 vraiment jolie — comme un cceur ! 
 
 I should have warned you that the first volume 
 of Behind the Scenes is very stupid, but like 
 the dinners at Buckingham Palace (at least as 
 Lord Melbourne said of them) it's " meant to be 
 so " ! As usual, what a disgraceful hash they 
 have made of the French, and that very good 
 story which I got from Mr. Jerningham of 
 "Mes tres chers freres — et vous autres canaille 
 Chretiens" they have quite spoilt with their 
 " canaille de (!) chretiens " ; nor does the English 
 
 %1 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 always escape unscathed with their crufles for 
 truffles, and even Lord Jeffrey's name they have 
 spelt wrong — but such printing is one among the 
 many " miseries of authors." 
 
 Forgive this scrawl, but I am in bed with a bad 
 attack of bronchitis. 
 
 Ever your much obliged, 
 
 Rosin a Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 However, Behind the Scenes did receive some 
 favourable reviews, for Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 writes to Chalon soon after : 
 
 April 22, 1854. 
 Many thanks for your kind attention in sending 
 me that extract from The Observer. I was 
 astonished at The Globe and The Standard letting 
 me off so well, especially the latter, which tells 
 the world a piece of news which both it and I 
 certainly ignored till then — i.e., that I have "such 
 a reputation for talent that no praise can add to it, 
 and no blame scarcely diminish from it." ... I 
 have just got a letter telling me that the Queen 
 and Prince Albert have been reading Behind 
 the Scenes and by no means think me such a 
 monster! I wonder how her Majesty would 
 88 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 like such a husband as Sir Liar ! Quant aux 
 Gardes Suisses — I cry Peccavi ! All you say is 
 true, and I merely instanced them apropos of 
 foreign aid, which was to be had for hire ; and 
 perhaps my dislike of the sordid and canting 
 Genevons — whom I suffered under for five years — 
 made me thoughtlessly unjust to the Swiss — a 
 noble-hearted, brave people, whom as a nation I 
 adore. Qui sait? Perhaps your great-great-great- 
 grandsire and mine were friends ; for I have (or 
 rather had, for alas ! it has gone the way of all 
 gold with me) a gold snuff-box, with a portrait 
 (in relief) of King William — and some of his 
 followers — which his Majesty gave to a silly old 
 Lord Massy (the progenitor of a long line of 
 undegenerated boobies) for having fished him out 
 of the Boyne and entertained him afterwards. 
 
 Troubling myself so very little as I do about 
 that English Council of Ten — the Press, I was 
 not aware that you and your brother had ever 
 been pressed ; but did your genius (which 
 happily it does not) want any additional zeal 
 that would stamp it for posterity, I only know 
 that the world at large — by which I don't mean 
 that concrete ass, the British Public, but 
 Europe, Asia, Africa (yes), and America — have 
 
 8 9 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 done you justice ; so courage, Messieurs, even 
 though Mesdames Gamp and Grundy should be 
 " dispoged " to mob you over their cups of gin 
 — or tea. 
 
 You are quite right ; in this nation not 
 only of shopkeepers, but of Hucksters and 
 Peddlers, Traders are, out and out, the most 
 liberal patrons of Art. Two years ago, when 
 all my pecuniary miseries came upon me, through 
 the fraud of a soi-disant stockbroker (who after- 
 wards turned out to be an emissary of the Arch 
 Fiend's), and I was obliged to sell everything 
 that was sellable — except, as I hope I need not 
 tell you, The Homeward Bound, * for which 
 I was offered a large sum — I had a very small 
 picture for which a friend (!) kindly offered me 
 £^o — but for which a Publisher (not mine but 
 one I never saw) gave me ^195. 
 
 Alas I my dear Mr. Chalon, as I expect and 
 hope to die here, I have little chance of ever 
 seeing your magnificent collection again, more 
 especially as you have got such a darling wise 
 canine Groom of the Chambers who mouths out 
 all Beggars by the skirts. Tib and I both send 
 
 * The picture of Chalon's, presented by the artist to Lady 
 Bulwer Lytton some years before. 
 
 90 
 
Lady Bulwer" Lytton 
 
 him our admiration and our kisses, avec mille 
 baise-pattes a Mme. Mizzy et sa chere petite 
 mere, and with kind regards to your brother, 
 Believe me, dear Mr. Chalon, 
 Ever sincerely yours, 
 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton, 
 
 MOGLIE DI DlAVOLO. 
 
 Hitherto Lady Bulwer Lytton's letters have, in 
 the main, made pleasant reading, for even painful 
 troubles and ill-health have been lightened by a 
 whimsical touch. But in the summer of 1854 — 
 harried by financial worries, for her allowance of 
 ^400 a year was always being mortgaged to meet 
 old debts — her nature hardened, and her wrongs 
 and hatred of Bulwer Lytton completely obsessed 
 her mind and, in result, her correspondence. To 
 Chalon, as to other friends, she wrote voluminous 
 letters of twenty pages and more narrating her 
 grievances, real and imaginary, and compact of 
 uncontrolled, indiscriminate abuse. As there was 
 of necessity much repetition, it will suffice to give 
 but a few examples of this most painful phase of 
 Lady Bulwer Lytton's painful life. 
 
 9i 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 Llangollen Workhouse or Union 
 
 (at least the result of my union), 
 
 Jtme 10, 1854. 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, — The reason I did not 
 thank you for your last kind note was that it 
 found me ill in bed, so ill that I hoped I was at 
 length en route for the other world. I am sorry 
 to bore you, and I don't want in any way to com- 
 promise you (or "get you into a mess" as the 
 English elegantly express it), for on returning the 
 accompanying letters and papers you need not 
 make a single comment, if you will only kindly 
 take the trouble of reading them, as I have now 
 resolved upon making the truth known every- 
 where, not from the chimerical idea of exciting 
 what don't exist in English people — i.e., sym- 
 pathy, justice, or feeling, but because I can stand 
 the ceaseless infamy I am subjected to no longer, 
 and therefore I imll make it known. You may 
 even show the enclosed hurried outline (which is 
 soiled from all the hands it has passed through) to 
 Mme. Bertini. In this outrageous infamy of Sir 
 Liar sending one of his mistresses about the 
 world to gull the public as a virtuous widow ! ! 
 and the other still blacker iniquity of setting up 
 92 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 her equally vicious sister, Miss Caroline Deacon, 
 in a school at Kensington, who had also been his 
 mistress, the real motive is this, not only to get 
 them cheaply off his hands but to set them about 
 the world puffing him and calumniating his poor 
 victim wife ; and then when such calumnies get 
 about comes the mystifying— and at the same 
 time apparently substantiating — cant of " Oh ! I 
 did not hear of it from Sir Edward, or any one of 
 his set, or any one he could possibly know ; I 
 heard it from a widow, who was on a visit at such 
 a place, or from Mrs. So and So, who has a 
 daughter at school at Kensington, or from a 
 clergyman" etc. Now I do hope that if you 
 hear of any gulls about to send their poor un- 
 fortunate children into the pollution of Miss 
 Caroline Deacon's " establishment "(??) at Ken- 
 sington, you will prevent their falling into the 
 trap. Another of that monster's infamies — as 
 you will perceive by those letters I send you — 
 is to pass himself off as the " Guardian " ! ! of his 
 own and Colonel King's natural children by this 
 wretch, Miss Laura Deacon alias Mrs. Beaumont 
 — the wretch for whom I and my poor children 
 were turned out of house and home, and have been 
 hunted through the world ; but were I to write 
 
 93 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 an encyclopedia I could not tell you all or half 
 that Fiend's villainy or the dirty work he and The 
 Guilt* have done about my last book. One 
 reporter was turned away for writing a scurrilous 
 review of it contrary to the positive orders of the 
 editor, but he had been bought over by The 
 Guilt ; as it appears there is a low pot-house in 
 the Strand called "The Cheshire Cheese" (not 
 quite the cheese either) where all the reporters and 
 myrmidons of The Guilt meet once a week, the 
 said Guilt finding the supper and gin ad 
 libitum ; and when these fellows get occasionally 
 kicked out of their employment by doing the 
 dirty work of The Guilt either against artists or 
 authors, medical men, lawyers, actors, n J importe 
 qui ? — The Guilt pays and maintains them till 
 they can get fresh employment.! It appears that 
 a fortnight ago forty of these wretches sat in 
 council "to decide upon the best plan of effectually 
 crushing me" and after The Forty Thieves had sat 
 four hours upon this momentous subject, they 
 could only resolve upon no better plan than con- 
 
 * An allusion to The Guild of Literature and Art, founded 
 by Bulwer Lytton in 1851. 
 
 + It is scarcely necessary to observe that this was a 
 perverted version of the short-lived Guild's aims ar^d wprk, 
 
 94 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 tinuing the conspiracy of giving out right and 
 left that I was mad! It was a spy in the camp who 
 informed me of all this, for there is no end of the 
 treachery and villainy of all the filth connected with 
 the English press. But no wonder English Society 
 should be the leprous Hypocrisy, the plague spot 
 of cant that it is when we have such a little mass 
 of selfishness and idiocy for a Queen. . . . 
 
 If possible, let Mrs. Braine have that skeleton 
 outline of my persecution by the end of the 
 week: any one may guess what the filling up 
 of such an outline has been, so that you cannot 
 wonder at my being always ill ; but you may 
 wonder why I should bore you with my griev- 
 ances ? Because, dear Mr. Chalon, I take the 
 liberty of calling you my friend, and therefore as a 
 matter of course victimise you like all my other 
 friends — mais je vous jure que cela ne tire pas a 
 consequence. As you have found me out, I may 
 as well "own the soft impeachment" about The 
 Bromelia. The fact is the man tempted me, and 
 I did write ! — that is he gave me £30 for that 
 tale, which I wrote in three days, and I thought 
 ^ioa day very good wages for an out pauper. 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LyTTON. 
 
 95 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 Preparatory to a statement in the next letter it 
 must be borne in mind that the circumstances 
 attending the death of Emily Lytton were very 
 sad. The mother learned through Miss Planche 
 that her daughter, whom she had not seen for 
 ten years, was lying dangerously ill in a small 
 lodging-house at Pelham Terrace, Brompton. 
 Lady Bulwer Lytton proceeded to the house, and 
 Miss Planche thus describes how the mother and 
 daughter met for the last time : " The pitiful 
 sight of this young girl, without a relative near 
 her, lying in a room which was almost entirely 
 taken up by the bedstead, was so startling that 
 she remained for a time speechless, as, almost 
 transfixed, she gazed on the loved form from 
 which she had been so long separated — lying 
 insensible, her features changed by fever, and 
 hardly to be recognised in the darkened room, 
 where only the sheen from her golden hair as it 
 reflected the light of the single candle guided the 
 eye to the pillow and the sufferer." According 
 to this narrative, the doctors, by Bulwer Lytton's 
 orders, insisted that the patient's life was en- 
 
 9 6 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 dangered by the excitement and knowledge of 
 her mother's presence, which could hardly be the 
 case when Miss Lytton was in a state of delirium 
 and unconsciousness alternately. Miss Planche" 
 continues : " Dr. Rouse followed me upstairs 
 immediately, and then Lady Lytton threw herself 
 on her knees to him, and implored him to let her 
 stay to the end. I had in a life, then quite 
 young, seen many stage representations of mental 
 agony, but here was the real anguish, and 
 every phase of it is burnt into my memory. . . . 
 I pointed out to the poor mother the risk she 
 ran of misrepresentation that she had caused the 
 death of her daughter through excitement, and 
 further attempted to show that she would gain 
 nothing by remaining ... I prevailed . . . God 
 alone knows the agony of that mother's heart as 
 she walked quietly past the closed door of the 
 room where her poor dying girl was so soon to 
 breathe her last." Emily Lytton died the 
 following evening, April 29, 1848, and the 
 newspapers announced that the event took place 
 ' f At Knebworth." But Miss Planche inserted a 
 
 g 97 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 correction : " On Saturday, April 29, at a 
 lodging in Brompton, of typhoid fever, Emily 
 Elizabeth, the only daughter of Sir Edward and 
 Lady Bulwer Lytton, aged twenty. " For this, 
 Miss Planche adds, " Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton 
 sent my father a challenge. . . . (no duel took 
 place) Seldom has it been the fate of any one to 
 be so maligned and crushed as this woman ; it 
 was even said of Lady Lytton that she did not 
 love her children — this I most emphatically deny. 
 I have good reason to know how she loved her 
 daughter, and as to her son, she scarcely ever 
 spoke of him to me without tears, in the early 
 days of our acquaintance." 
 
 June 15, 1854. 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, — I was quite prepared for 
 your being scandalised — like all " gentlemen of 
 England who live at home at ease" — at my 
 horrible language ! But as I not only always 
 have my poor murdered dying child before me, 
 and withal in the midst of great physical suffering 
 have to work hard for my daily bread — but also 
 on the other hand, in my miserable trade of author, 
 
 98 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 like to suit my words to the actions they endeavour 
 to represent — I feel that for the infamy I have 
 undergone and the persecution I am ^'//under- 
 going, were a quintessential, concrete vituperation 
 to be extracted and condensed from all the known 
 languages living and dead, it would fall far short 
 of conveying any adequate notion of the Fiendish 
 Villainy to which I have been subjected. As for 
 the iced cucumber cant of Society — more espe- 
 cially English Society — I despise it so cordially 
 that, as a choice, I would rather outrage 
 than conciliate it. No doubt were Shakespeare 
 living now, and silly enough to commit his play 
 of King Lear to the criticism of his friends (or 
 Society ! ) they would be scandalised at the heart- 
 wrung expressions he puts into poor old Lear's 
 mouth about his " Pelican Daughters," and would 
 strongly advise his substituting the mild and 
 gentlemanlike terms of "those young ladies," or 
 at most " those misguided and ill-advised young 
 women " ! ! ! As for poor Lord Byron, I venerate 
 his honest memory for his detestation of the beastly 
 canting English and his telling them so in suitable 
 language. No, what English Society requires 
 and bows down to and worships is a loathsome, 
 leprous, incarnate Infamy like Sir Liar Coward 
 
 99 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 Bulwer Lytton — a Profligate who has left no vice 
 unexhausted and a Hypocrite who has left no 
 virtue unassumed. Would that Dean Swift were 
 now living — he would be the only man who could 
 command suitable language to describe the wallow- 
 ing infamy of that man, more especially that for 
 which the Comtesse Marie de WarenzofT told me 
 he was drummed out of Nice, and which Lady 
 Pembroke had told her. When one neither 
 hopes nor expects sympathy — nor even human 
 feeling from any one — so neither does one ask or 
 expect advice. As for Sir Francis Doyle,* with 
 all his cold-blooded imbecility, he was by no means 
 such a fool with regard to his own daughter's 
 interests. I am sorry to have bored you with my 
 " grievances " (!) as you call them, but I only did 
 so en route to tell them, as I now do, to every 
 wind that blows, which will perhaps satisfactorily 
 account for the late Hurricanes ! 
 
 I trouble you with another history of the 
 infamy of The Guilt — having blotted out the 
 writer's name. She alludes at the beginning to a 
 warning I had received from another person (a 
 man of course) not to accept any offers of service 
 
 * Lady Bulwer Lytton's cousin, and trustee in her matri- 
 monial separation business. 
 
 IOO 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 from her or anybody else, for the moment any 
 one does such a strange and unique thing as to 
 try and serve me, of course I am immediately 
 warned against them by those who go upon the 
 quiet and gentlemanlike plan of letting my 
 enemies have full and unmolested scope for their 
 iniquity. . . . 
 
 I am grieved to hear that you also have 
 sorrows — I did not know that men ever had any, 
 especially men of your genius and renomme\ 
 With kind regards to your brother, 
 Believe me, yours truly, 
 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 Poor Chalon had to bear many repetitions of 
 
 his correspondent's " grievances " ; but after a 
 
 time Lady Bulwer Lytton's innate humour peeps 
 
 out again amid the welter of abuse, and her 
 
 acid comments and reminiscences concerning 
 
 her enemies often possess interest for those 
 
 acquainted with the literary and social life of the 
 
 time. 
 
 Llangollen, 
 
 August 20, 1854. 
 I am exceedingly sorry, dear Mr. Chalon, to hear 
 of your severe attack, which seems to have been 
 
 101 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 so bad that if the doctors say it is not Cholera, 
 I suppose it must have been something worse 
 — to wit, the Husband of Cholera. I hope you 
 will be careful, and not commit any imprudence 
 in the way of greengages — or what to me is a far 
 greater temptation, green melons. 
 
 Poor Lord Jocelyn!* his death was awfully 
 sudden, but no doubt sa veuve " inconsolable " 
 se remariera au plus tot. One morning last 
 week, when I opened my eyes, I saw a tall figure 
 in deep mourning standing by my bedside ! It 
 was old Lady Castle-Stuart, f Lord C. having had 
 the goodness at length to go the last stage to the 
 
 D 1. I made her take off her cap of liberty, 
 
 mantelet, etc., that I might roll in the Weeds — in 
 the hope of catching it ; but alas ! as yet, not a 
 single pin feather of the wings of freedom has 
 appeared, let alone the invaluable percussion cap ! 
 
 I am delighted to hear that you mean to 
 embellish the great French Exposition of '55. 
 Do you also mean to go over for it yourselves ? 
 If so, and you have no favourite locanda, I wish 
 you would patronise my friend M. Michel and 
 
 * Son and heir of the third Earl of Roden. 
 
 ■J- Jemima, daughter of Col. Robinson, R.A. Married, 
 1806, the second Earl Castle Stewart. She died 1859. 
 102 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 his most admirably appointed Hotel de Paris, 
 Rue de Richelieu ; and if you mentioned my 
 name to him, I am sure he would use you doubly 
 well. I now feel more lonely than ever in this 
 place,* a dear friend, who has been staying with 
 me for the last month, having just left me. We 
 did Conway, Chester, and the Menai Bridge 
 while she was with me. I think Conway Castle 
 without exception the most unique, stupendous, 
 and beautiful ruin I ever saw. My friend was in 
 raptures at the Menai Straits — but I, of course, 
 thought them a joke to my many straits without 
 any bridge to carry me over. Chester is more 
 like a Continental town — that one would see in 
 Burgundy or La Vendue — and it is out and out 
 the nicest old cinque cento looking town that I 
 have seen in England. 
 
 You must know that my reputation for miracles 
 has quite eclipsed that of Prince Hohenlohe! — 
 
 * It is curious that Lady Bulwer Lytton makes no allusion to 
 the visit of George Borrow, with his wife and his step-daughter, 
 to quiet Llangollen in August 1854. One would imagine 
 Lady Bulwer Lytton and Borrow had much in common, for 
 both assumed an attitude of defence — or rather offence — 
 against the world ; both despised " the contemptible trade of 
 author," which they pursued ; both were wanderers and yet 
 recluses ; and both combined a bitter tongue with a kind heart. 
 
 103 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 at least in this village, where typhus was raging 
 about three weeks ago ; and a very pretty little 
 milliner girl of about 16 having been given over 
 by the doctors of " this ilk " I took her in hand, 
 and gave her a dessert-spoonful of fresh yeast. 
 An hour after she had taken it, the delirium 
 left her. I repeated the dose every four hours ; 
 towards evening she grew hungry, having tasted 
 nothing for three weeks, and asked for something 
 to eat. She is now getting rapidly better, and 
 I give her meat and claret every day. The 
 parish doctors were so astounded at what they 
 considered a perfect miracle, and so grateful for 
 the secret, that they awarded me a vote of 
 thanks ! Would that they would evince their 
 gratitude by dispatching Sir Liar for me, which 
 from what I have seen of their practice they 
 seem quite competent to do. However, I am 
 endeavouring to learn patience — and perse- 
 verance from a " stout gentleman " at the back 
 of this house who is always in pursuit of healthful 
 exercise and domiciliary gymnastics under diffi- 
 culties, which he achieves by walking for hours 
 (literally) round an enormous cabbage which is 
 planted in the midst of his Garden of Eden, 
 which in itself is about the size of an ordinary 
 104 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 pocket-handkerchief; the whole performance con- 
 cludes by his vaulting (as high I suppose as his 
 own ambition) to clutch a clothes line, from 
 which are appended, fluttering in the breeze, 
 sundry pairs of certain masculine under-garments 
 which give the scenic effect of a grand tableau 
 of a monster and phantom gibbet ! After which, 
 upon again reaching terra fir ma, he bestows upon 
 himself a most unmerciful castigation with both 
 hands, comme cela se pratique parmi Messieurs 
 les cochers de fiacres in frosty weather, when ap- 
 parently well pleased with his successful labours 
 in his vocation he retires into the house. . . . 
 Ever truly yours, 
 
 rosina bulwer lytton. 
 
 Llangollen, 
 
 September 8, 1854. 
 You are very naughty, dear Mr. Chalon, to 
 show my scribbledoms to any one (more especially 
 such a distinguished authoress as Mrs. Ward) 
 since they are always written in Electric Tele- 
 graph haste — they ought to be lettres de cachi 
 (not cachet ! ) for all save the persons to whom 
 they are addressed. Two things prevented my 
 answering your last letter : first, I thought you 
 
 105 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 were at Margate adding to your caricature book, 
 and next, like the farmers, I have had such a 
 plentiful harvest — but mine has been of worries — 
 that I have literally not known which way to 
 turn. However, yesterday evening I turned down 
 to my favourite ruins of Valle Crucis Abbey and, 
 thanks to Tib's geological researches, I found a 
 small black curiously embossed crucifix, which 
 turns out to be silver, the ci-devant property, 
 I suppose, of one of the poor monks. Lord 
 Dungannon and the rest of the archaeologians 
 would give their ears for it — but their ears would 
 not tempt me. 
 
 I am exceedingly cross just now, having had 
 the virtue to resist an invitation to the camp 
 at Boulogne, and so virtue being its own reward 
 (and verily having no other ! ) I am taking it out 
 in a fit of the sulks. Nevertheless, I have had the 
 most joyous and genuine laugh I have had since 
 the year before the Flood, when I was 1 5. Doubt- 
 less you have " heard tell " of those two mis- 
 guided and romantic (?) old ladies, Lady Eleanor 
 Butler* and Miss Ponsonby, who eloped (!) about 
 the year 1782 from Ireland, Miss Ponsonby 
 dressed as a groom in top boots and buckskin 
 
 * Daughter of the sixteenth Earl of Ormonde. 
 106 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 unmentionables, Lady E. as a peasant girl or some 
 such misdrM. Well, they came and settled down 
 here at Plas Newydd, and in 1787 Lady Eleanor 
 kept a journal, which I have been reading. It is 
 written with a crow quill in a very fine Italian hand 
 and looks like poetry — but is the very prosiest of 
 prose. Their menus du diner are minutely given, 
 and as the dinners certainly were not such as 
 Vatel would have achieved, they (the old ladies) 
 appear to have been martyrs to indigestion, the 
 attacks of which seem to have been as regular 
 and relentless as the visits of the tax-gatherer, 
 n' ayant rien de cache* pour les amis. They also 
 give minute descriptions of the emetics which they 
 were in the habit of taking, but these latter, like 
 a fashionable husband, did not remain with them 
 long, and they, like ditto wives, appear to have 
 been considerably relieved by getting rid of them. 
 Then follows an entry somewhat compromising to 
 two soi-disant vestals : " November 2. Must turn 
 off John Thomas, for he has no idea of raking (!) 
 and never seems to improve." The next has at 
 this distance of time a sort of historical interest, as 
 the " third boy, Arthur," was the late Duke of 
 Wellington. Here is the passage. " Novem- 
 ber 3. A very kind letter this morning from 
 
 107 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 Lady Mornington, who tells me her third boy, 
 Arthur, has just been appointed aide-de-camp to 
 Lord Buckinghamshire." 
 
 The perusal of this priceless document I owe 
 to a great ally of mine, the Old Parish Clerk, who 
 was a protege of the old ladies, but being now 
 superannuated and consequently superseded since 
 he has been on half-piety, he does gentleman in 
 a pew behind mine at church. He is a great 
 character in his way, and before or after the 
 service generally favours me with either a political, 
 historical, or mythological discussion, and some- 
 times with all three. Last Sunday he observed, 
 after taking Bomarsund over again, " Why that 
 ere Emperor of Roosia ain't no better than 
 Alexander the Great, for if you remember, he 
 got to fancy his-self a demi-god, and insisted 
 upon the people calling him Jupiter Ammon ! " 
 " Yes," said I, "only the Emperor of Russia 
 goes a step further and fancies himself Jupiter 
 Tonans ! " 
 
 What a long rigmarole I have written you, and 
 yet I cannot end it without breaking a lance for 
 the most bootiful eyes in the world — my Tiber's. 
 You talk of your dog's eyes being like topazes ! 
 I tell you Tibbies are like two great suns in the 
 io8 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 dark under the sofa, and black as midnight in the 
 light. . . . 
 
 Ever truly yours, 
 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 September 16, 1854. 
 H&as ! cette pauvre mere, mais les meres ne 
 sont elles pas cr£e6s pour souffrir ? du moins jele 
 dirais moi d'assur^es mon experience personelle : 
 quant a la pauvre dame "soignant son malheur," 
 comme vous dites, cher M. Chalon, why it is the 
 nature of all great sorrows to be hugged, just as 
 my poor innocent Tibbie, when I go out and leave 
 him (which is seldom and only en cas de visite, 
 when being only a poor little Parish dog he wont 
 behave himself in a carriage), he consoles himself 
 by making himself as miserable as possible and 
 lying on the door-mat licking the paws of his 
 heart till I return. There is no balm for that 
 moral elephantiasis, a great grief— no, not even 
 the hackneyed assurance that " the darkest hour 
 is just before the dawn," for it has been the darkest 
 hour with me all my life, and I have seen no 
 dawn yet, so must only console myself with 
 La Fontaine's assertion, " Cest etre innocent que 
 d'etre malheureux " : only unfortunately there is 
 
 109 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 a sort of St. Bartholomew en permanence for all 
 the Innocents of this world ; and my fete, or rather 
 fate, being a continual 24th of August, I have 
 almost arrived at the same conclusion as a cook 
 I had when I was first executed (vulgo, married), 
 a Frenchman, who used to say : <c Oui, oui, sans 
 doute il y'a une Providence, mais diantre ! elle est 
 souvent en voyage ! " 
 
 I envy you seeing those graceful Spanish 
 dancers. Apropos of the graceful reminds one 
 of the disgraceful, and I see by yesterday's 
 Times that Mrs. Fitzwilliam, of the Haymarket 
 Theatre, is dead, poor wretched woman, after 
 a very short illness ; so I suppose it is Buck- 
 stone's Mrs. Fitzwilliam, as I do not know 
 of any other ? A quoi pensez vous done I 
 edit the old Lady s Journal? Don't you know 
 the fate of everything I publish ? And as you 
 are fresh from She Stoops to Conquer, forgive 
 me if I quote Tony Lumpkin and say " I should 
 not so much mind your disappointment, but I 
 should greatly care for my own ! " And I have 
 been jolted about quite enough already upon the 
 Crackskull Common (and very common it is) of 
 that infamous Press Gang without giving them 
 the Nuts of editing poor Lady Eleanor's Goose 
 no 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 Green, unless indeed I could be sure of finding 
 three jolly Pigeons in the shape of Publisher, 
 Printer, and Reviewers. 
 
 I am very glad you got well without going to 
 Margate, as I don't fancy you would have liked 
 it, as the natives not being edible like those of 
 Colchester, you might have found them difficult 
 to swallow. Vous dites a propos de ma trouvaille 
 que j'^tais nee coiffe'e — si e'en est ainsi d6cid£ment 
 e'est du malheur, car moi je dis, that I cannot 
 even take a walk without meeting with a cross 
 of some sort or other. . . . Forgive this atrocious 
 scrawl, but I am a goose that has been so well 
 plucked that I have not a single quill left. 
 Yours truly, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LYTTON. 
 
 September 28, 1854. 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, — You are cruel to threaten 
 me with not writing, as were it not for hearing 
 from my friends — between you and I and the 
 p os t — I should forget that I was in the land of 
 the living, where I would far rather not be had I 
 a choice, which I never have, beyond that of the 
 renowned Mr. Hobson. Poor Mrs. W., I 
 sincerely feel for her, or any one who has a living 
 
 in 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 or dead sorrow — but worse, far worse, the former. 
 However, having drained every human torture to 
 the dregs, I have naturally become an epicure 
 in misery, and can with truth say that the ne plus 
 ultra of all \s having the Mizantine punishment of 
 a living body tied to a dead one carried on to the 
 very soul ; and while fettered yet forsaken, 
 riveted to a man who has left no vice unex- 
 hausted or no virtue unassumed, or who, more 
 properly speaking, has worn every known sin 
 threadbare, and invented many others not yet 
 patent in the infernal regions. Forgive this 
 stupid letter, but I am suffering from intermitting 
 fever and unremitting villainy. Remember 
 to-morrow is my jour de fete or Goose Day,* 
 so I hope you will celebrate it appropriately. 
 Truly yours, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LYTTON. 
 
 Llangollen, 
 
 October 7, 1854. 
 Thank you very much, dear Mr. Chalon, for 
 letting me see the enclosed letters which I return, 
 * Apparently Lady Bulwer Lytton alludes to the anniver- 
 sary of her wedding, which took place on August 29, 1827. 
 If so, she wrote September 28, at the head of the letter, in 
 mistake for August. 
 112 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 because I think they ought to remain among your 
 family archives as authenticating a miracle ! i.e., 
 that there has been one Dutchman born into the 
 world — and that in the Nineteenth Century too — 
 poetically minded ! It is written, as the Turks 
 say, that you are destined to raise expectations in 
 old ladies which are not to be realised, for here 
 come I, following in the steps of Mrs. Wood, 
 owning " the soft impeachment " that I had hoped 
 you would have sent me a pen and ink croquis of 
 that good lady, but no, you wisely fly tempta- 
 tion (?) and won't go near her! I am not sur- 
 prised at you having " resisted the Queen," as I 
 think her by no means irresistible. So it seems 
 we have been reckoning our victories before they 
 are achieved, and that as Sebastopol has yet to be 
 taken we were only mistaken. The sole good 
 that I can see as likely to accrue from this horrid 
 war is that the frayering (!) with the French may 
 humanise (if anything can do so) the English in 
 their feelings (if they have any ? ), manners, and 
 cuisine. . . . Here is something really new about 
 Russia that I am sure you have not yet heard nor 
 the Duke of Newcastle either ! One of my poor 
 old proteges, who lives in the mountains and 
 who, like all old women of course, is often 
 
 h 113 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 " terrible bad with the rheumatics" to say nothing 
 of the room attic she lives in, when I went to see 
 her yesterday began by offering me the following 
 fitting consolations for my miserable lot by telling 
 me to think of the wretched state the " poor little 
 Queen must be in with that good-for-nothing 
 Emperor of Rooshee " ready from one moment to 
 another to come over and "cut off her head, and 
 make mincemeat agin Christmas of Prince Albert 
 and all the rile children." " But, dear heart, it 
 won't bear a thought, and what a dreadful thing 
 for trade if this here war continues, for it's from 
 Rooshee that all them there Dutch Cheeses comes, 
 isn't it, my lady, and them Rooshee ducks as the 
 men wears ? " . . . 
 
 Ever sincerely yours, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LYTTON. 
 
 Faugh ! 
 
 Phillips's Hotel, 
 Llangollen, 
 
 October 18, 1854. 
 Alas ! dear Mr. Chalon, there is no divesting 
 oneself of selfishness ! therefore I confess that I 
 sincerely regret that you refused Mrs. Wood's 
 soiree, as notwithstanding the phrenological on- 
 114 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 slaught, certes il n'y avait pas de quoi en perdre 
 la tete, therefore I wish you had risked yours, 
 " for that night only." The tour a l'lmp^ratrice 
 Romaine est un veritable tour de force. Cependant 
 meme avec son tour, la pauvre dame nest pas si 
 belle (Cybele!). Well might the Roman Poets 
 call such curious superstructures " building a 
 head." I am delighted that you were not dis- 
 appointed in the marvellous appearance de la dite 
 dame ; # that chin-trap she always wore, only to 
 the best of my recollection it used to be alternately 
 of black lace or very stiffly starched white cambric. 
 As for the powder, there is no vanity in her 
 wearing it — vu que lieu stir elle ne l'a pas 
 invented! I wonder how she liked the new 
 granddaughter the papers gave her the other 
 day, for I saw in a meeting at Macclesfield, 
 reported in The Times, where Lord and Lady 
 Harrington were, " Lord and Lady Petersham " 
 put down — poor little Petersham being just nine 
 years old ! du sorte qu'il n'a pas perdu son temps ! 
 
 * The mother of Elizabeth Lady Harrington. She was 
 Ann Rose, daughter of Cossley Hall, of Hyde Hall, Jamaica, 
 and wife of William Green of Jamaica. As Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 always refers to her as "Mrs. Wood," she no doubt married 
 a second time, though this fact is not mentioned in Burke. 
 
 "5 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 I am rejoiced to hear that you are painting a 
 tableau du genre, though it is so long since I read 
 any of Fielding's coarse, clever, and very graphic 
 novels que je riy suis pas as to the scene and 
 chapter you mention. I only hope you won't 
 bastardise Sophia Western's Muff by a race 
 croisie with Mrs. Wood's tour, which naturally 
 runs in your head as it runs round hers. As for 
 the chapter entitled " A Crust for the Critics," if 
 ever I write another chapter it shall be " A 
 Cudgel for the Critics," the most concrete Rascals 
 extant, always with the exception of their pet 
 Ruffian, Sir Mountebank Liar Coward Bulwer 
 Lytton. 
 
 How cruel of you to talk to me of what you 
 never shewed me — viz., a portrait of Mme. de 
 Genlis. Not that I am any admirer of that saint 
 in print and sinner in action, but I should much 
 like to have seen ces deux petites faussettes a 
 chaque cote" de son nez, which she herself admired 
 so much. 
 
 Oh ! this horrid war ! to me the most touching 
 incidents in it are the poor young Russian officer 
 found dead on the battle-field with his hands 
 clasped in prayer, and the other poor Russian 
 with his poor innocent darlingissimo of a dog 
 116 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 sitting between his feet whom no entreaties could 
 lure away from his dead master. Ah ! had I your 
 beau talent, this poor dog should not go long un- 
 immortalised. Apropos of horrors, how could 
 you ask if I was getting on with Welsh ! ! ! ! ! Do 
 you think I want to break every tooth in my head, 
 or to be eternally gargling my throat with German 
 gutturals and High Dutch splutterings, the whole 
 miraculously blent with an oleaginous Irish brogue, 
 rendered piquante by a dash of Scotch twang ? 
 At Babel they had the confusion of tongues, but 
 Welsh, being a mosaic of all, may truly be called 
 the confounded tongue. 
 
 As you will see by the date of this, I have got 
 back to my winter quarters at the Hotel. Still, 
 a village inn is but a sorry substitute for House 
 and Home. However, God's Will be done, and 
 the sooner it is His Will to let me go to my narrow 
 last home the better pleased I shall be. . . . 
 Ever truly yours, 
 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 October 23, 1854. 
 Au Gens du Village, Trompette du Bois and 
 the wooden flourish of the reVeil of the Matinee 
 
 117 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 in Wimpole Street (or Harley Street, which?) 
 that you have just sounded in my ears, dear Mr. 
 Chalon, rejoices me marvellously, and I only long 
 for it to " come off." . . . 
 
 Were I a capitol Goose I should return you my 
 grateful thanks for having eaten a capital goose in 
 my honour on Michaelmas Day — but as it is, de 
 grace ! never again drink my health, because 
 health entails life, of which I am heartily sick : 
 drink my wealth if you will, for verily poverty is 
 the most leprous leprosy that I know of; and 
 though we are told that the poor inherit the 
 Kingdom of Heaven, we are so long kept out of 
 our inheritance by this Chancery Suit of terrestrial 
 existence — and by such elites du Diable as Sir 
 Liar, who are so very long in going to another 
 and a hotter world — that as far as this one is con- 
 cerned I would rather attempt the tour de force of 
 attempting to get the camel through the eye of a 
 needle, for all the needles put together do not 
 present such a head as that said poverty. Qui 
 empeche toujours les bons esprits de parvenir, 
 ainsi vivent les riches parvenus, say I. 
 
 That poor young Cockerel — his death is indeed 
 truly melancholy, and I feel for his poor mother as 
 one well bruised heart alone knows how to feel 
 118 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 for another. The God alone who sends such 
 
 bitter trials can bear us up under them. 
 
 Yes, / was much touched too with that poor 
 
 dear innocent old French general qui meme 
 
 aux prises avec les Russes ne pouvait se passer de 
 
 sa tabatiere. What a charming tableau you might 
 
 make of this ready-made subject for next year's 
 
 Exhibition. I should indeed much like to see 
 
 your friend Mr. Munroe's splendid Gallery — but 
 
 do not see the least chance of my ever getting out 
 
 of this place — except to the Diet of Worms 
 
 (oh!) . . . 
 
 Ever yours truly, 
 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 Another year ! 
 
 January 2, 1855. 
 I should be very glad to hear, dear Mr. Chalon, 
 that you zvere basking in the bright sun and look- 
 ing at the blue Mediterranean, as I am sure 
 it would do you more good than anything: ne 
 cede malts is an excellent motto for a man, none 
 better, as all men have their locomotive powers at 
 least under their own control, not so we poor 
 chartered slaves ; and as for me individually, my 
 only chance, as indeed it is my only wish, is that I 
 
 119 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 may soon see (or rather that it may soon see me) 
 the Subterranean. Poor young Ryves's heritage, 
 like all else in this best of all possible worlds, 
 came too late, as he is going fast on a galloping 
 consumption in the Pyrenees to what the Germans 
 call God's Acre, and we English our last home, 
 which to some of us is also the first home we ever 
 knew. 
 
 Fie done ! Mizzy, to increase the canine popula- 
 tion, when the poor dogs in the Crimea are dying 
 by hundreds of starvation and the Russian dogs of 
 grief on their dead masters' bodies. . . . 
 
 Adieu, dear Mr. Chalon, and wishing you many 
 happy and happier New Years, 
 
 Believe me, ever sincerely yours, 
 
 Rosin a Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 Llangollen Cemetery. 
 
 Here I lies in dust, 
 Because I must. 
 
 February 10, 1855. 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, — According to the very 
 Irish postal arrangements of this Ilk, your kind 
 letter of the 6th. I only received this morning, 
 which is so far lucky, that having had a relapse I 
 have been so exceedingly ill that I could not 
 120 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 have thanked you for it before. . . . The Tiber, 
 I am happy to tell you, has not deborde" since ; 
 but has kept its bed, as you know it generally 
 does in a hard frost. I think the lines to 
 D'Orsay's Grandmother charming — at least your 
 version, for those headed " original " I take to be 
 yours ; they are graceful, charming, and ex- 
 quisitely turned, but the others, though the raw 
 material, as the Yankees would say, that is 
 the idea, is pretty, in the execution they are 
 un peu tir£s par les cheveux. You happy man, so 
 you are busy preparing contributions to the 
 Paris Exhibition ! I don't know which is the most 
 to be envied — you or it, but I suppose on the 
 utilitarian principle of "the greatest happiness of 
 the greatest numbers " — L'Exposition Temporte. 
 What a pity when My Lord Derby the other 
 night talked of Sir Liar's brilliant talents shedding 
 lustre on the Cabinet — on the principle, I suppose, 
 that the blacker Day and Martin is, the greater 
 the lustre that it sheds — but what a pity I say 
 that My Lord Derby did not specify which of 
 those brilliant talents he more particularly ad- 
 mired . . .** Really, " for the sake of public 
 
 * There follows the catalogue of Bulwer Lytton's offences 
 in more violent terms even than before. 
 
 121 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 morals," as that immured mosaic of every vice, 
 Sir Liar himself, would say in one of his clap-trap 
 speeches, you should have been more explicit ! 
 Truly England is a moral country ! Very! ! Only 
 Heaven defend me from the blasphemous cant 
 which does duty for morality both in Church and 
 State ; though it must be confessed that the 
 members of the former, for the most part, like the 
 Bishop of London, have at least a saving grace, 
 for a more grasping, sordid, Mammon- worshipping 
 set never existed — perfect chevaux de /rise of 
 Sectarianism without one spike of Christianity. 
 All this is public and ^-confidential, though 
 forgive me for boring you with it : but you know 
 there is a certain odious subject which always 
 runs away with me, and no other censure (though 
 it be legion) of its detestable object satisfies me, 
 for like Queen Constance I feel that " lacking my 
 wrong, no other tongue hath power to curse him 
 right ! " 
 
 To-day is the anniversary of our little selfish 
 Queens wedding. How I wish Prince Albert 
 would celebrate it by biting her very untempting 
 cheek till the blood streamed down her (as that 
 ornament to the English Cabinet, Sir Liar, used 
 to do mine), giving her a vigorous kicking into 
 122 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 the bargain ; sending her children off to Germany 
 or elsewhere away from her ; . . . and above all 
 stealing every guinea of her money which she so 
 doats upon ; and then perhaps she might have a 
 little human feeling for other women, which now 
 she has not, as lately for appearance sake to her 
 vicious, hypocritical Court, she insisted upon the 
 poor Duchess of Wellington continuing to live 
 with her disgusting brute of a legal tyrant.* 
 
 There has been great squabbling at Chester 
 between the Dean and Chapter and a Mr. 
 McConkey. I send you six lines of local wit 
 on the occasion : 
 
 Uplifting his heels, in a fit of the spleen, 
 McConkey kicks out at the Chapter and Dean ; 
 Sees a daw in each Canon, a nest in each stall — 
 A plague on this cawing — out, out with them all ! 
 True, a stall is less fit for a daw than a donkey, 
 So turn out the Canons and turn in McConkey. 
 
 I have no other news except that " Jenny 
 Jones" this morning very sensibly differed from 
 St. Paul and thought it better to burn than marry, 
 and so was burnt accordingly in the inn-yard — 
 but alas ! it was only an old omnibus of that name 
 that used to run to the station ! 
 
 * An allusion to the second Duke. 
 
 123 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 I saw that " Life of Lady Blessington " * adver- 
 tised and could not help thinking of the Mot of 
 Mme. de Stal (not de Stael Holstein — though it 
 would have held equally good in her case), who, 
 when she had furnished an author with materials 
 for writing her Memoirs and was asked by a friend 
 how on earth she would manage to veil certain 
 of her numerous and not very creditable adventures, 
 replied : " Oh ! ma chere, je me ferais faire qu'en 
 Buste!" But even en buste Lady Blessington 
 would gain little, as she was one of the blackest 
 hearted women I ever heard of, as indeed the 
 Orgies of Gore House Inquisition but too fully 
 proved. 
 
 Adieu, dear Mr. Chalon, and with a thousand 
 doggeries and darlingries from Tibby to Mizzy, 
 Croyez moi votre bien deVou^e, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LYTTON. 
 
 Par mi disgrazzia ! 
 
 Llangollen Cemetery. 
 
 February 17, 1855. 
 I am indeed glad, dear Mr. Chalon, that your 
 poor brother's and your own chef-d'ceuvres will 
 
 * Literary Life and Correspondence of the Countess of 
 Blessington, by R. R. Madden, 1855. 
 
 124 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 have so good an arena wherein to be done justice 
 to, and should rejoice still more had I any chance 
 of seeing them there. Poor Barry ! I have often 
 grieved over his fate,* but in the modern world 
 of art and literature destinies are divided into 
 puffs and blows, et si tu as pot de terre, tant pis 
 pour toi. Pray assure pretty little Mme. Bertini 
 that she gives me credit for talents I do not 
 possess ; like the Farrier who set up for a doctor 
 and had but one specific for every complaint, so I 
 never tell anything but the simple truth ; but 
 Truth, like a Roman two-edged sword, has this 
 great advantage, that it is the very best thing one 
 can say of those who deserve praise, and the very 
 worst thing that can be told of others, et comme 
 votre jolie et spirituelle correspondente est dans 
 la premiere catigorie il faut bien en prendre son 
 
 parti. 
 
 Vos enfants gates 
 
 En veulent-ils de cette pat£e ? 
 
 But I must tell you that a gamekeeper of my 
 father's once told me that dogs' food should be 
 
 * A reference, presumably, to James Barry (i 741-1806), 
 R.A., the Irish artist, who was deprived of his office of Pro- 
 fessor of Painting in 1799, owing to allegations he had made 
 against members of the Academy. 
 
 125 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 always given to them dry, as soups and liquids 
 spoilt their teeth ; and two physicians and a dog 
 doctor told me that bones, though good for large 
 dogs, were destruction to little dogs, more espe- 
 cially small chicken and pigeon bones, which they 
 cannot digest, and therefore have the effect of pins 
 and needles, causing them the most excruciating 
 pains and shiverings, and also to die prematurely. 
 And I have invariably found that when I do 
 not watch Tib's dinner, and the servants by way 
 of being very kind let him have chicken bones, he 
 has one of these ague shivering fits half the night, 
 with such a piteous expression of pain in hims 
 poor big bootiful eyes that it is quite heartrending 
 to see him. 
 
 Having done with the dogs, now for the ladies. 
 
 Yes, it is very amusing to watch even the 
 posthumous humbug that goes on to patch up 
 Lady Blessington's reputation, who, setting poor 
 D'Orsay aside (who had a heart and therefore 
 was worthy of a better fate), every one knows, 
 when her first Cavaliero, Captain Jenkins, voud- 
 rais s'en defaire, actually put her up to auction, 
 en costume de Paradis (! !), on the public mess 
 table, and after this creditable fashion she ran 
 the gauntlet of the whole regiment — before that 
 126 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 ass, Lord Blessington, married her. Then, to 
 be sure, after all this, she always wrote ultra 
 moral sentiments upon female propriety, and got 
 that English Infernal Machine — the Press — 
 always to travesty their type, and make black 
 white to puff her. I'll tell you another speech 
 which that prize Ox of Periodicals, Mrs. S. C. 
 Hall, made to me about her at the Prosery as I 
 and the Rosery* as they called it, and truly it bears 
 the Hall mark, though far from being pure gold ! 
 You must know I had upheld and defended that 
 unfortunate L. E. L. against all the world, and 
 firmly at that time believing in her innocence 
 made my house her home, which she repaid by 
 intriguing with my infamous husband ; t and at 
 
 * Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Carter Hall lived at The Rosery, 
 Brompton, for many years. 
 
 \ Twenty years earlier Miss Landon's affairs were much 
 discussed. Her contemporaries regarded her poetry as equal 
 to Byron's, and her private life was curious. Although a 
 young woman, she lived in Hans Place apart from her family. 
 Scandal coupled her name with two prominent journalists, 
 William Maginn and William Jerdan (who had known her from 
 her childhood). These rumours caused the rupture of her 
 engagement with John Forster. That L. E. L. intrigued with 
 Bulwer Lytton is open to doubt, and rests on the statement 
 of Lady Bulwer Lytton alone. He was a very great friend of 
 Miss Landon, and gave her away when she was married to Mr. 
 Maclean in 1838 ; and after her mysterious death four months 
 
 I27 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 a later period doing dirty work for him against 
 
 me. But at the time her marriage was broken 
 
 off with that brute Forster of The Examiner — 
 
 on account of Dr. Maginn having shown some 
 
 most horrible and disgusting letters of hers — 
 
 it appeared that loathsome satyr, old Jerdan, 
 
 in one of his drunken fits at some dinner let 
 
 out all his liaison with Miss Landon and gave 
 
 her name coupled with some disgusting toast ; 
 
 this Sir Liar told me. Whereupon I was so 
 
 indignant, and still so staunch to Miss Landon, 
 
 that I went to her and said, " Your only way 
 
 to clear yourself in the eyes of the world is for 
 
 ever to shut your doors against this infamous 
 
 man and on no pretext of literary or any other 
 
 business ever admit him." She affected to be 
 
 furious, made a great scene, and swore by all 
 
 the Gods of Olympus (the only ones in which 
 
 she believed) that Jerdan should never again 
 
 darken her doors. I said she could not do 
 
 less ; therefore imagine my consternation and 
 
 later, at Cape Coast Castle, Bulwer Lytton contributed to the 
 support of her mother, Mrs. Landon, annually until she died 
 in 1854. This fact may have rankled in Lady Bulwer Lytton's 
 mind, in view of her own financial difficulties, and caused her 
 to give a perverted account of Miss Landon's relations with her 
 husband. 
 
 128 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 disgust when a fortnight after, going to call upon 
 her in Hans Place, the servant threw open the 
 door too suddenly to announce me — and what 
 should I see ! but Miss Landon seated on old 
 Jerdan's knee, with her arm round his neck ! 
 Sick at heart, I darted back into the carriage. 
 She rushed out after me saying, " Mais, ma 
 belle Rose, only hear me ! " But I would hear 
 nothing, as I had seen too much, and I always 
 believe my eyes, though I don't always believe 
 my ears, or at least what my ears hear. I was 
 lamenting to the red-round-in-roses * the severe 
 blow it had been to me to be so painfully convinced 
 of this girl's utter worthlessness, and here is her 
 creditable reply, with a laugh : "Oh ! — I don't 
 chuse to believe anything against Miss Landon 
 — that is, it's like Lady Blessington — it don't 
 suit me to do so." t And such was the highly 
 moral and intellectual atmosphere (according to 
 the Press !) which my young years were doomed 
 to wither in, and by whose baneful influence my 
 whole life has been blighted. 
 
 Your story about the conflagration at The 
 
 * Her nickname for Mrs. S. C. Hall. 
 + Both ladies were editors of Annuals to which Mrs. Hall 
 contributed. 
 
 I 129 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 Prosery (which I had never heard before) made 
 me laugh out loud. I am glad the Insurance 
 were not to be done by the Assurance of Pecksniff,* 
 and that instead of its being "The light of the 
 Harem, the young Nourmahal^ it turned out to be 
 only the light of the scare'em, by that old noodle 
 Hall ! That man, were he not so disgusting an 
 escroc, would be too ridiculous. At the time I knew 
 them, Mrs. Pecksniff ("Maria, my love!") used 
 to produce a book and a baby every nine months, 
 both of which were invariably buried the follow- 
 ing week — the former in oblivion, the latter in 
 a garden that Pecksniff then possessed filled with 
 little homoeopathic tombstones labelling these 
 lucky little abortions. One cold day in March, he 
 kept me in an east wind beginning an elaborate 
 explanation of the idea (? ?):he meant to work out in 
 collecting his annuals there, but I cut him short by 
 saying " Yes, yes, I perceive, Mr. Hall, the fact 
 is you have converted this into a nursery garden ! *' 
 On another occasion he had the luminous idea of 
 having the red-round-of-beeff sit for her por- 
 
 * S. C. Hall is supposed to have been the original of 
 Pecksniff as far as appearance and unctuous way of speaking are 
 concerned, but not, of course, in character. 
 
 \ Mrs. Hall. 
 
 130 
 
i 
 
 SAMUEL CARTER HALL 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 trait as Sterne's Maria ! I suggested to him that 
 in the event of her becoming a widow it might be 
 very appropriate to have her represented as 
 mourning over her dead ass, but that en attendant 
 that event, the public might not see the point of it. 
 I can well understand all the artists rushing like 
 hungry lions from The Prosery and taking 
 refuge in bread and cheese, upon the same 
 principle, no doubt, of the late King of Prussia 
 who, when Napoleon, after his divorce from 
 Josephine, took him and two or three more 
 crowned heads to pay her a visit at Malmaison, 
 and left them for four hours sitting in the 
 carriage in a cold north wind. Le Roi de Prusse — 
 comme Napoleon n'avait jamais travaille' pour lui, 
 n'avait pas decide d'attendre pour Napoleon — 
 enfin ouvra la portiere, et sautant par la 
 voiture disait a ses confreres: " Ma foi ! puisque 
 on nous traite en laquais, amusons nous comme 
 tels ! Je vais chercher du pain et du fromage moi, 
 car je meure de faim !" — as I have no doubt the 
 sovereigns of art did at The Prosery. 
 
 Do you not admire the nun-like portrait 
 (Mother Abbess perhaps ?) of Lady Blessington ? 
 
 The portrait of D'Orsay is exceedingly like, 
 particularly the psychological part I mean — his 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 waistcoat ! The lithograph of Lady Blessington's 
 tomb — Lord save us ! — is very like a dish of 
 Purde de pommes de terre a la comtesse, and there- 
 fore exceedingly appropriate. But having been 
 christened Margaret tout honnement by the 
 priest, I never could understand why she took 
 French leave and called herself Marguerite, 
 I quite agree with you that D'Orsay was the 
 greatest humbug in art and Lady B. the greatest 
 and most successful in Europe. I think Dr. 
 Maddens climacteric doubt — as to whether the 
 making a butt of one's friends is quite consistent 
 with the laws of hospitality — is charming ! le cher 
 homme oublie que le Bon Dieu n'a point du role 
 dans le drame de ces gens la, et quand e'en est 
 ainsi, on donne toujours " Les Pilules du Diable." 
 I was invaded yesterday by a legion of British 
 Females staying at Chirk Castle. I said " You 
 find me labouring under an attack of nausea over 
 Lady Blessington's Life." "Oh!" said they, 
 simultaneously bridling with a regular British 
 Female Virtue-steeped-in- Vinegar look, "/ 
 should never dream of even reading anything 
 about such a woman as Lady Blessington ! " 
 Chorus echo — " Nor I ! nor I ! nor I ! nor I !" 
 
 You mistake, dear Mr. Chalon, about my 
 132 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 always recurring to my ide*e fixe. God knows I 
 should be only too glad to forget it ; but it is the 
 infamy which is always recurring to me and 
 keeping alive the irritation. The last insult the 
 wretches have hit upon is certainly a most pitiful 
 and impotent one — still it is an insult and an 
 irritation ; every other day I receive, directed in 
 the spy Barnes's hand (whom I understand is an 
 actress at the St. James's Theatre under the 
 name of Miss Bulwer, to which she is no doubt 
 naturally entitled), an old copy of The Times very 
 dirty — as dirty as the creatures who send it : au 
 reste je sais bien ne c'est inutile, archi-inutile de 
 regimber contre les aiguillons, cependant on 
 passe sa vie en regimbant contre et on regimbera 
 toujours tant que les blesseurs nous irritent. 
 
 I hope you have read that pretty expose of My 
 Lord C.'s honourable doings? Oh! yes! " they 
 are all honourable men " — till they are found out. 
 It was in parts so like that mosaic of every vice 
 varnished with every hypocrisy, Sir Liar, that 
 I fancied I was reading an episode of his infamous 
 career, especially where the horrible scene of 
 trying to cajole the dying man into leaving his 
 property to My Lord C.'s bastard was on the 
 trial varnished into the virtuous endeavour of 
 
 133 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 reconciling him with his family! This, and the 
 placing spies round the poor victim and the 
 perjury of his being in Russia when he was at 
 Portumna Castle with his paramour, is quite 
 worthy of Sir Liar ; and the horrible account of 
 the way in which that unnatural and infamous 
 Mrs. Handcock starved and ill-used her poor 
 murdered daughters is nearly a facsimile of the 
 woman Beaumont's menage and her treatment of 
 her children by Sir Liar and Colonel King, to 
 whom that Admirable Crichton, Sir Liar, now does 
 duty as their " Guardian " (!), selected by poor 
 dear Mr. Beaumont on his death-bed ! ! — the said 
 Mr. Beaumont being the male specimen of Mrs. 
 Harris, inasmuch as that no such person ever 
 existed.* But I must leave all this wickedness 
 to tell you something very innocent and darling. 
 You must know that when I was well there were 
 six pigeons I used to feed every morning at 
 the drawing-room window, among which was 
 one white one that the others used to bully. 
 Well, when I had been in bed about three weeks, 
 one day the door from the sitting-room opening 
 
 * It is interesting to note that " Mrs. Harris " had become 
 a colloquial classic allusion only ten years after the publication 
 of Martin Chuzzlewit. 
 
 1 34 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 into my room was left open, and who should fly 
 in but the poor darling white pigeon, who first lit 
 upon my bed, and then flew into my bosom 
 making a great cooing, to tell me he was glad he 
 had found me, and since then he comes regularly 
 every morning and seems to enjoy being King of 
 the Castle and breakfasting in state without the 
 others amazingly, and it is very pretty to see Tib 
 giving him a slap with his paw if he thinks he is 
 getting more than his share, and then the pigeon 
 pecking Tib's brown ear en revanche — the whole 
 thing is very doatskin, a word which you perhaps 
 don't understand, but which I, who have invented 
 a Dog Language — which I call Canish — and 
 written a Dog Dictionary and Grammar, know 
 comprehends the very quint-essence of Darlingry. 
 
 That is a disgusting story about C. Mathews, 
 but then every one knows it is not exactly the 
 Gospel according to St. Matthew. We also have 
 a bright sun here, but the cold is something fear- 
 ful, and the Dee is now so solid that carts and 
 carriages can traverse it. The times are equally 
 hard for the poor — and, ibid, the hearts of those 
 who have ample means to relieve them. 
 
 I have just had a letter from Paris filled with 
 Louis Napoleon's love for his wife. La pauvre 
 
 U5 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 Imperatrice ! It is always suspicious, not to say 
 ominous, when husbands profess great love for 
 their wives, without citing that model woman 
 owner, Harry the Eighth. We all know that 
 Cicero wrote to his dear Terentia, " Mea lux ! 
 mea vita ! ! mea desideria ! ! ! fidelissima et optima 
 conjux ! ! ! ! " — which did not prevent his repudiat- 
 ing her six weeks after to marry a rich heiress of 
 eighteen, et voila les hommes ! 
 
 I am sorry to say that the last leaf fell from the 
 beautiful Camelia to-day, and there is nothing 
 now left but the bare stem and leaves — like a 
 poor withered heart, stripped of its last hope and 
 become a bore for all the world. 
 
 Jai bien considered le texte of Mme. Votre 
 Mere — " Le Mechant fait un ceuvre qui lui 
 trompe " — et voice leseul sermon que je puis faire 
 la dessus — oui e'en est ainsi avec les mechants en 
 general ; mais mon mechant a moi fait un ceuvre 
 qui trompe tour le monde hormis sa victime. 
 
 Sorry to say it, but your Jew conundrum is 
 atrocious — anything but quite the cheese — and 
 proves that there is even rnore-de-cay in wit than 
 I thought there was. How flat to the racy 
 wellings of the old spring — like old Curran, when 
 he was running in great haste down Piccadilly to 
 136 , 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 catch the last postman and was stopped by an 
 inveterate button holder to ask him what he 
 thought of the taking of Algiers ? — " Pooh ! 
 pooh!" said he, " Sufficient for the day (the 
 Dey) is the evil thereof!'' . . . 
 
 Your much obliged, 
 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 S. C. Hall preserved his impressions of Lady 
 Bulwer Lytton in his Retrospect of a Long Life 
 as follows : "A young and singularly beautiful 
 lady, whose form and features were then as near 
 perfection as art, or even fancy, could conceive 
 them. Lively, vivacious, with a ready, if not a 
 brilliant, word to say to every member of the 
 assembly — displaying marvellous grace in all her 
 movements, yet cast in a mould that indicated 
 great physical strength — she received in full 
 measure the admiration she evidently coveted, 
 and did her utmost to obtain. Her abundant 
 hair fell over the whitest of shoulders ; her com- 
 plexion was the happiest mixture of white and 
 red ; in fact, she was as perfect a realisation of 
 the beauty whose charm is of the form, and not 
 
 137 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 of the spirit, as poet ever set forth in words or 
 painter upon canvas. It was not difficult, how- 
 ever, to perceive . . . something that gave dis- 
 quieting intimations concerning the spirit that 
 looked out from her brilliant eyes — that he who 
 wooed her would probably be a happier man if 
 content to regard her as we do some beautiful 
 caged wild creature of the woods — at a safe and 
 secure distance." 
 
 Concerning the Bulwers' unhappy married life 
 S. C. Hall said, "the faults were on both sides. 
 On the one there was no effort — no thought 
 indeed, to make home a sanctuary, a source of 
 triumph or of consolation ; on the other there 
 seemed the indifference that arises from satiety." 
 
 Mrs. Hall was Irish, and Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 had no partiality for her compatriots. On 
 one occasion her husband entertained Daniel 
 O'Connell and other Irish Members to dinner, 
 and S. C. Hall relates : " The next day I saw 
 Mrs. Bulwer directing some arrangements in the 
 dining-room, which she told me she was fumigat- 
 ing in order to get rid of the brogue." It is 
 138 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 evident that Hall and Lady Bulwer Lytton were 
 not much in sympathy at the time they were ac- 
 customed to meet, as their mutual criticisms of 
 each other in after years demonstrate. 
 
 Sydney Lady Morgan, from personal pique, 
 disliked Lady Bulwer Lytton, and wrote of her 
 countrywoman thus in her diary, July 29, 1833 : 
 " Mrs. Bulwer Lytton handsome, insolent, and 
 unamiable, to judge by her style and manners ; 
 she and all the demi-esprits looked daggers at me : 
 not one of them have called on me, and in society 
 they get out of my way. How differently I 
 should behave to them if they came to Ireland." 
 
 This passage may, of course, refer to the 
 novelists mother as his wife in 1833 was merely 
 Mrs. Bulwer : but in view of Lady Morgan's use 
 of the word " handsome," she no doubt was 
 speaking of Rosina Bulwer, and added the word 
 Lytton by mistake. 
 
 February 26,1855. 
 Allons done! cher M. Chalon, vous vous 
 moquez de moi comme de l'an quarante en datant 
 
 139 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 les singeries de la malheureuse L. E. L. De quarante 
 ans ! vu, qu'elle naquit en 1802: de sorte que 
 pour cela il aura fallu qu'elle eut devenu guenon 
 pour plaire a l'ourangoutang en lunettes a 13 
 ans ! c'est par trop fort ! de montrer de pareilles 
 faiblesses si tot. 
 
 Poor Pickersgill * used to be famous for throw- 
 ing up those formidable fortifications of black hats 
 and feathers. I remember his studio was once 
 barricaded with a perfect bastion of Mrs. P. alone 
 repeated in that costume, so that on first entering 
 one fancied that one had got by mistake into 
 the Old Hats Club. 
 
 Toutes les Belles Meres tiennent tant soit 
 
 peu au diable, but to give you an idea of 
 
 the extra strength of mine, the moment I was 
 
 turned out of my home she invited two of 
 
 her son's mistresses (that wretched L. E. L. and 
 
 Mrs. Beaumont alias Miss Laura Deacon, whom 
 
 I have since been informed was a great — and 
 
 worthy — crony of L. E. L.) to Knebworth ; but 
 
 England is a moral country very ! And that old 
 
 wretch used occasionally to give ^500 to Bible 
 
 and Missionary Societies ! ! ! You wonder that 
 
 Lord C. is not cut by his Peers ? C'est sans 
 
 * H. W. Pickersgill, the portrait painter. 
 14O 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 doute quils sont, pour le plus part, pire que lui. 
 The great difference that I see between Lady 
 Blessington and D'Orsay is, that his Art was 
 overrated and hers (which was supreme) under- 
 rated — and so they both achieved their one great 
 aim, that of gulling the sapient public. Ah ! my 
 dear M. Chalon, if you think giving sovereigns to 
 people in distress, or even more than half one 
 possesses sometimes to extricate very worthless 
 people from difficulties, who repay one's "folly" 
 with the blackest ingratitude — if you, I say, think 
 this such a redeeming point, I only wish you had 
 the writing of my life. Your anecdote of Lane * 
 only adds another to my long list of disgusts at 
 the private detraction and published adulation 
 that goes on among artists and authors. I had 
 quite enough of this with Moore and Campbell 
 about poor Lord Byron. 
 
 As they have secured Wagner between Lumley 
 and Gye there will be no lack of a Mephistopheles.f 
 
 This arctic cold brings fresh horrors every day. 
 
 * R. J. Lane, portrait painter. 
 
 \ Wagner came to England this year, 1855, to conduct the 
 London Philharmonic Society's concerts. He had already 
 composed Rienzi, The Flying Dutchman, Tannhduser, and 
 Lohengrin. 
 
 141 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 Last Thursday a poor young shepherd was frozen 
 to death, having lost his way in the mountains. 
 He was found the next morning quite dead, with 
 his poor innocent faithful dog trying to lick him 
 back to life. I grieved the more at this, having 
 once seen the poor man when staying last summer 
 at Lady Marshall's, a neighbour of mine, who has 
 a very pretty dairy maid to whom the poor shep- 
 herd was to have been married. On Saturday 
 they had lighted a large fire on the river, which 
 lasted all night, which the gamins du village were 
 sing-ino- and dancing round to warm themselves. 
 
 How disgusting are the daily puffs about the 
 Queen inspecting the poor wounded soldiers 
 from the Crimea ; but you do not hear of her 
 saying one kind word to them, or of her giving 
 them anything, ce que fera mieux leur affaire. 
 No, I did not send General Routine's marriage* 
 
 * A jeu d'esprit on the Crimean War mismanagement : — 
 
 Marriage in High Life. 
 On the first instant, by special licence, at the house of the 
 Bride's Father : General Routine, of the Veteran Battalion, to 
 Miss Management, daughter and sole heiress of the Right 
 Hon. Job Management, of Downing Street, London, and 
 Windsor, Berks. Immediately after the ceremony the happy 
 pair left Town for the Crimea, where it is their intention to 
 pass some time, notwithstanding the base attempts of The 
 142 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 to Punchy for they, or none of the clique, would 
 put in anything I wrote, however they may occa- 
 sionally steal mots of mine printed and published 
 years ago. . . . 
 
 Adieu, cher Monsieur Chalon — encore vous 
 remerciant mille fois de vos spirituelles et 
 charmantes lettres qui sont de veritables rayons 
 de soleil a travers mon desert. 
 
 Croyez moi votre bien devouee, 
 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 Lady Bulwer Lytton's supposition in the next 
 letter that the extract she sent from Punch was 
 intended by Thackeray to refer to her husband 
 was no doubt correct. Rarely, even at that 
 period of bludgeoning methods in criticism and 
 satire, was an author the victim of such sustained 
 and violent attack as Bulwer Lytton suffered at 
 the hands of Thackeray. It is true that the 
 grosser satires appeared in Frasers Magazine 
 when Thackeray was yet in his callow days and 
 
 Times and other journals to oust the veteran General from 
 his command there in favour of his as yet little employed 
 contemporary, General Utility. 
 
 *43 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 unknown to fame. But that cannot excuse the 
 amazing vulgarity of Mr, YellowplusKs Ajew, 
 where Bulwer's every trait, even to his lisp, was 
 held up to ridicule ; or the extraordinary person- 
 alities in the review of Ernest Maltravers, 
 when, instead of criticising the book, Thackeray 
 rode off on a dissertation against the habits of 
 Bulwer— " if he would but leave off scents for 
 his handkerchief, and oil for his hair : if he would 
 but confine himself to three clean shirts in a week, 
 a couple of coats in a year, a beef-steak and 
 onions for dinner, his beaker a pewter pot, his 
 carpet a sanded floor, how much might be made 
 of him even yet." And yet it was this sort of " per- 
 sonal journalism " which so annoyed Thackeray 
 in after years when he himself was the subject 
 of it, in a very modified degree, and caused the 
 famous combat with Edmund Yates. 
 
 In Punch Thackeray dealt with Bulwer Lytton 
 more fittingly — George de Barnwell was an ex- 
 cellent burlesque of the novelist's style — though 
 some of the pleasantries did not err on the side 
 of politeness. Thus, on the publication of 
 144 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 Zanoni\ " It is not true that the hero of Sir 
 E. L. Bulwer's new novel, is, as usual, a por- 
 traiture of himself. The report arose from a 
 notion that the title of the work is the Italian 
 form of the word ' Zany,' or ' Za-ninny.' " 
 
 Many years later, in 1861, Thackeray wrote a 
 graceful letter to Lytton expressing- regret and 
 apology for the Yellowplush betises of his youth. 
 He liked The Caxtons, but his attitude to Bulwer 
 Lytton's earlier work is best expressed in this 
 letter, written to Lady Blessington : " I wish to 
 egsplain what I meant last night with regard to a 
 certain antipathy to a certain great author. I 
 have no sort of personal dislike to Sir E. L. B. L., 
 on the contrary, the only time I met him, at the 
 immortal Ainsworth's years ago, I thought him 
 very pleasant, and I know from his conduct 
 to my dear little Blanchards that he can be a 
 most generous and delicate-minded friend. BUT 
 there air sentiments in his writings which always 
 anger me, big words which make me furious, and 
 a premeditated fine writing against which I can't 
 help rebelling." 
 
 k 145 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 It is curious that Lady Bulwer Lytton does 
 not refer more often to Thackeray's lampoons 
 upon her husband, which no doubt she appreciated. 
 But, rather wisely, Thackeray does not seem to 
 have taken any definite side in this notorious 
 matrimonial quarrel, and so could not be claimed 
 as a supporter by either of the protagonists. 
 
 Llangollen Cemetery, 
 
 March 17, 1855. 
 A thousand thanks, dear Mr. Chalon, for your 
 beautiful envoye — the flowers are all the happier 
 for being single. The sprig of Daphne is very 
 sweet, having more of her sire Ladon about her 
 than of her mother Terra, for it is not at all " of 
 the earth, earthy." To be sure, I remember that 
 extensive Mrs. Fitzgerald, who, like one of 
 Towpion's old-fashioned watches, was always so 
 thickly studded with jewels. When I was last at 
 Brighton, of a day that I could not get out, if I 
 had the good fortune to meet her anywhere at 
 dinner, I used to walk round her for exercise. . . . 
 Alas ! no, dear Mr. Chalon, I have not the least 
 hope of seeing your beautiful collection this 
 146 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 spring,* and as for books, I am only writing 
 my life, which ought to be called The Nemesis 
 of Humbug. I have been reading that most 
 disgusting and mendacious book of Dr. Madden's 
 (which is enough to madden any honest person), 
 I mean his Literary Life of Lady Blessington, 
 which should be called his Literary Lie of 
 Lady Blessington — c etait plus fort que moi, so 
 I have crammed it full of marginal notes, giving 
 the true version of most of the lies. Nothing 
 can equal the bad taste of the book, unless 
 it be the bad French, which is more than usually 
 atrocious even for Newby's printing. And English 
 compositors invariably seem to deal with French 
 accents as confectioners do with caraway seeds — 
 put them into a sieve and shake them out pro- 
 miscuously. It is the old story of save me from 
 my friends, for with all this plaister and stucco, by 
 Dr. Madden's own showing, Lady Blessington 
 is the beau id^al of hollow, heartless humbugs, 
 toadying a l'outrance those disreputable literary 
 sbirri like Fonblanque, Forster, and Sir Liar, who, 
 upon the scratch-me-and-I'll-scratch-you principle 
 
 * A. E. Chalon exhibited a collection of his own and his 
 brother's works in London this year, 1855, which was not 
 very largely attended by the public. 
 
 H7 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 (the only principle they possess), puffed her ditto 
 for her dinners and Opera Box and the Lords 
 she brought their canaille-aleties and venal-eties 
 acquainted with. And in the puffs of poor Miss 
 Landon's high-mindedness they prove more clearly 
 than any enemy could have done how she and 
 her friends completely bullied that sneaking 
 Mr. Maclean into marrying a woman for whom 
 he did not care, and of whom he had good reason 
 to have so bad an opinion. The only things that 
 redeem the utter trash of the book are these gems 
 of letters of old Landor's and those delicious ones 
 of Charley Mathews'. But the refreshing naivete" 
 of poor D'Orsay's letter to Dr. Quin, remonstrat- 
 ing with him for his persiflage the day before at 
 Chesterfield House, lest it should lower the higher 
 standard of humbug that he, D'Orsay, had estab- 
 lished in public opinion, is impayable and quite 
 more verdant than I should have given D'Orsay 
 credit for. As for poor Lord Blessington, I think 
 the Protectionists ought to have erected a statue 
 to him for doing away with protection by espousing 
 the Farmer's grievances ! * I think that melo- 
 
 * After separating from her first husband, Captain Farmer, 
 who disgracefully ill-used her, the future Lady Blessington 
 lived under the protection of Captain Jenkins, to whom Lord 
 
 148 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 dramatic scene where Lady Blessington rushes 
 in, in Dublin, My Lording her husband, and 
 reminding him that a Mountjoy never yet for- 
 feited his word, and if he, Lord B., did, she 
 should be ashamed of bearing his name, is really 
 too ridiculous, as it conjures up ideas of that 
 awful woman at the Princess's who does the 
 mother in The Corsican Brothers or the other 
 formidable " British Female " in red cotton velvet 
 at the Surrey, booming out in true Poluphloisboio 
 Thalasses style a similar speech to the anti- 
 domestic-felicity Bluebeard of the night. I must 
 say that I think Lord Hertford paid very dearly 
 for Lady B.'s picture at the Gore House sale,* 
 considering the original had been all her life 
 si bon march d ! The truth has now come out, 
 but she used to tell her dear friend, Sir Liar (who, 
 by the bye, with his disgusting little abortion of a 
 brother, Henry, were always abusing and ridicul- 
 ing her behind her back, and they it was who told 
 me everything infamous of Lady B., D'Orsay, 
 
 Blessington sent a cheque for ^10,000 when he, the earl, 
 established the lady in London preparatory to his marriage 
 with her. 
 
 * Lord Hertford gave ^366 for Lawrence's portrait of 
 Lady Blessington : it is in the Wallace Collection. 
 
 149 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 and Lord Blessington, and the revolting vice of 
 their Italian menage, and Sir Liar used to make 
 out that Lady Blessington drank, which I never 
 believed . . .) that she only — with all her dinners 
 — spent twelve hundred a year, and did not owe 
 a shilling ! ! The moral of which was, of course, 
 what a bad manager I was, when he insisted upon 
 living at the rate of £6000 a year, not to be able 
 to do it on £3000 ! I was really sick with con- 
 tempt and disgust at Dr. Maddens barefaced puff 
 about Sir Liar's devotion to his mother being 
 such an amiable trait in his character. Now, a 
 really good son indulging in the very natural 
 feeling of affection for his mother would not 
 require to be puffed for such a matter of course 
 occurrence. A man like Charles Kean, who 
 defended his mother against his father's cruelties, 
 and worked for the support of a very vulgar and 
 unpresentable old mother as he did, really deserves 
 praise, though he is by no means an amiable 
 person in other relationships of life. But what is 
 the truth about that loathsome monster and triton 
 of the Humbugs, Sir Liar, is — when he kicked me 
 within an inch of my life a month before my first 
 child was born, and I nearly died of it, his amiable 
 speech was, " D — n you, madam, you can bear 
 150 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 nothing : I have often felled my mother to the 
 earth." And on other occasions, when I have 
 reminded him that his mother was not well, and 
 he ought to go and see her, it used to be, " D — n 
 you, and my mother too." Which did not, how- 
 ever, prevent his adulating her in print, and 
 evincing the most unremitting and genuine de- 
 votion to her unentailed property. . . . Poor 
 General Bulwer,* who had been ten years screwing 
 his courage to the sticking-point to marry the 
 Gorgon Heiress of Knebworth, died without his 
 errand after all, as old Lytton did not rejoin his 
 friends Voltaire and Rousseau in the Infernal 
 Regions till five years after his son-in-law's death ; 
 and that is the way that most wicked old woman — 
 who not only encouraged, but trained, her son 
 " Eddard " (as she used to call him) in every vice — 
 came to have uncontrolled power over Knebworth. 
 My only consolation about this disgusting book 
 is what Madden himself says in the Appendix, 
 in trying to blacken Mr. Maclean to patch up 
 L. E. L. apropos of that horrid Mrs. Thomson's 
 pamphlet, i.e. that " The minds of people in the 
 long run revolt at attempts to force conclusions 
 upon them which are not legitimately arrived at." 
 * The novelist's father. 
 
 151 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 But as for that Madden, he would say anything 
 after having had the face to print in the teeth of 
 the London public that Disraeli was reserved (! ! !) 
 and thoughtful in society ! He had better have 
 said "shy and diffident " at once, as the game of 
 the whole of that infamous clique is to have 
 themselves puffed in print for the virtues and 
 qualities diametrically opposite to the vices and 
 failings they possess. But I took care to put a 
 note about that other charlatan Maclise* — stating 
 that his and Disraeli's intriguing en partie carrde 
 with Lady Sykes at the same time as Lord 
 Lyndhurst, was the first honourable stepping- 
 stone of the be-puffed artist's and the trading 
 politician's fortunes. Were you not highly 
 amused and greatly enlightened by Mr. Snob 
 Willis's description of Sir Liar's "Joyous"!! 
 <f Boyish " ! ! ! cordial manner at Lady Blessington's, 
 and his having the appearance of being " the best 
 fellow in the world " ! ! ! t Here is the real 
 
 * Daniel Maclise (1806-69), the future R.A., arrived in 
 London from his native city of Cork in 1827, when he at once 
 began to achieve success. 
 
 j* N. P. Willis, the American journalist (who had started 
 life as a type-setter in his father's office), arrived in London in 
 1834, a cute, vulgar young man of twenty-seven, with letters of 
 introduction from Walter Savage Landor. Willis, in his 
 Pencillings by the Way, said of Bulwer : "He ran up to Lady 
 
 152 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 history of this. Ours was the first house in 
 London where this Willis had made his appear- 
 ance ; the house which I had just furnished, I 
 may say it now, certainly was very beautiful, and 
 Snob Willis appeared perfectly dazzled, forthwith 
 firing off the first of his " Pencillino-s " to an 
 American magazine, and not only giving an 
 elaborate account of our house, but a somewhat 
 too flattering description of me, and of one who 
 could not be flattered — i.e. my poor little darling 
 dog Fairy, whose picture Landseer had just 
 done in his very best style and very generously 
 given me (ah ! thereby hangs one of the sad 
 episodes of my life !). Sir Liar could not brook 
 this flourish of trumpets about me, so when 
 Willis's " Pencillings " were coming out in a 
 collected form and a second edition, he sfot his 
 dear friend, Lady Blessington, to tell Willis that 
 he (Sir Liar) had a great objection to having his 
 wife noticed in print * (and he might have added 
 
 Blessington with the joyous heartiness of a boy let out of school ; 
 and the 'how d'ye do, Bulwer?' went round, as he shook 
 hands with everybody, in the style of welcome usually given 
 to ' the best fellow in the world.' " 
 
 * It is true that in later editions of Willis's Pencillings by 
 the Way all references to Lady Bulwer Lytton (or Mrs. Bulwer 
 as she then was) were omitted. 
 
 153 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 out of it), but that instead he could sketch in a 
 more detailed and elaborated account of himself, 
 whereupon Lady B. gave Willis the foregoing 
 catalogue raisonne of the perfections he wished 
 to be accused of, winding up with his brilliancy 
 in conversation, a man that is as deaf as a post ! 
 Et voila comme on £crit les memoirs de nos jours : 
 mais moi j'ecrirai l'Histoire d'une bien autre 
 fagon. 
 
 Did I ever tell you that that full-length picture 
 which you painted long ago of me, and which on 
 leaving England I left with the present Lady 
 Harrington, Heath, from the beauty of the paint- 
 ing and the composition of what you artists call 
 the ordonnance of the picture, wanted to engrave 
 it for The Book of Beauty : but it was no 
 sooner in his hands for that purpose than Lady 
 Blessineton went to him and said Sir Liar had 
 flown into a terrible fury at the idea of such a 
 thing, saying, " If he wants beauty, let him take my 
 picture" ! ! ! * Apropos I enclose you a facsimile of 
 
 * In her book, Cheveley ; or, The Man of Honour (1839), 
 Lady Bulwer Lytton introduces this incident, but there states 
 that it was her mother-in-law's portrait that was suggested as 
 a substitute for her own. In this work Bulwer Lytton and 
 his wife figure as " Lord and Lady de Clifford "; N. P. Willis 
 is "Snobguess"; John Forster is " Fuzboz " \ Albany 
 
 154 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 him I cut out of Punch long ago which I know 
 Thackeray meant for him, but let me have it back 
 for I would not lose it for the world, and I am sure 
 you will believe me when I tell you I would fifty 
 thousand times rather lose the original ! 
 
 I like the letter saying that no one had ever 
 presumed to caricature Fonblanque ! Why I defy 
 even you to do so ; inasmuch as nature has been 
 beforehand with every one by making the man 
 himself a flagrant caricature of Mephistopheles. 
 Next to Satan reproving sin, the richest thing 
 I ever heard is Sir Liar lauding Fonblanque's * 
 honour in one of his letters to Messalina Blessing- 
 ton — yes, the honour of a man . . . who would 
 swear black was white in The Examiner for any 
 man who would ask him to dine off a silver plate, 
 and meet Lords and Ladies ; it is certainly very 
 great and quite a la portee of the Gore House 
 clique, who instead of the " Gorgeous Lady 
 Blessington " ought in common gratitude to have 
 called her the 1 " Gorge-ns Lady Blessington." I 
 
 Fonblanque is "Fonnoir"; Henry Bulwer is "Herbert 
 Grimstone," and A. E. Chalon is mentioned by his own 
 name. 
 
 * Albany Fonblanque (i793" l8 72), the editor of The 
 Examiner. He also formed one of the Dickens, Forster, and 
 Macready set. 
 
 155 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 think the letters signed L. N. at the end of the 
 book, from the soi-disant madman, were in reality 
 from Louis Napoleon, written in a cipher pre- 
 concerted between him, Lady B., and D'Orsay. 
 Here is another charming little trait of Sir Liar's 
 sincerity and friendship. When we were going to 
 Italy the first time, Lady B. had given him a mail 
 bag of letters of introduction to very agreeable 
 people ; so he being, as Willis says, " the best 
 fellow in the world," pressed her to give him any- 
 thing, everything not exceeding the size of a 
 house ; whereupon, after much pressing, she gave 
 him one of her novels to take to Mr. Landor at 
 Florence (by the bye, if ever I have the pleasure 
 of seeing you again I'll tell you how old Landor 
 behaved to me, which I much regretted, as I liked 
 the man and venerate his genius, but this, if ever 
 you hear it, will give you a good idea of the force 
 of the Arcana-cana of Gore House). But to 
 return to Sir Liar, in one of his periodical furies 
 he flings poor Lady B.'s books out of the carriage 
 window into the Lake at Bolsano, and at Florence 
 sits down and writes her a long and graphic letter 
 deliberately stating that he had been robbed in 
 the Apennines, and though he had lost money 
 and other valuables, the only things he regretted 
 
 156 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 were the books she had entrusted to him. Beine 
 in the habit of working up his plots elaborately, 
 he even carried the farce so far as to blow 
 up the courier for the loss, fearing he might 
 peach on our return to her servants, where- 
 upon that worthy was furious and began cosa 
 stupenda-ing at a great rate, and said to my 
 maid, " Sangue de Dio ! he nevere lose noting 
 de whole way boat his tempere, and dat not 
 for long, as he find him again to lose at every 
 poste and kick la signora." Is not this trait 
 almost as amiable as his devotion to his mother ? 
 I only wonder he has not made them write him 
 up upon his conjugal devotion, at the same time 
 lamenting that it should have degenerated into 
 uxoriousness ! ! But depend upon it, if / were 
 but dead to-morrow you would have that next, so 
 be prepared. 
 
 After one week's sunny and almost Neapolitan 
 weather, we are again snowed up. Poor Tib 
 bears the want of exercise better than I do 
 and thrives marvellously on his saute almonde 
 du lit a la table de la table au lit, and unites 
 with me in loves and canineries to your 
 doggies. 
 
 Sincerely hoping that you won't die of the 
 
 l 57 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 visitation of this letter, believe me ever, dear 
 Mr. Chalon, 
 
 Yours sincerely though 
 
 Rosin a Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 N.P. Willis's description of Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 was in The New York Mirror (4th April, 1835), 
 wherein his Pencillings by the Way were first 
 published : 
 
 "An Evening party at Bulwer's. Not yet 
 perfectly initiated in London hours, I arrived not 
 far from eleven and found Mrs. Bulwer alone in 
 her illuminated rooms, whiling away an expectant 
 hour in playing with a King Charles Spaniel, 
 that seemed by his fondness and delight to 
 appreciate the excessive loveliness of his mistress. 
 As far off as America, 1 may express even in 
 print an admiration which is no heresy in 
 London. 
 
 " The author of Pelham is a younger son and 
 depends on his writings for a livelihood, and, 
 truly, measuring works of fancy by what they 
 will bring (not an unfair standard perhaps), a 
 158 
 
N. P. WILLIS 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 glance around his luxurious and elegant rooms is 
 worth reams of puff in the quarterlies. He lives 
 in the heart of the fashionable quarter of London, 
 where rents are ruinously extravagant, entertains 
 a great deal, and is expensive in all his habits, 
 and for this pay Messrs. Clifford, Pelham, and 
 Aram — (it would seem) most excellent bankers. 
 As I looked at the beautiful woman seated on 
 the costly ottoman before me, waiting to receive 
 the rank and fashion of London, I thought that 
 our close-fisted litterateur never had better reason 
 for his partial largesse. 
 
 "One of the first persons who came was Lord 
 Byron's sister, a thin, plain, middle-aged woman, 
 of a very serious countenance, and with very 
 cordial and pleasing manners. The rooms soon 
 filled, and two professed singers went indus- 
 triously to work in their vocation at the 
 piano. . . . Sheil, the Irish orator, a small, dark, 
 deceitful, but talented looking man, with a very 
 disagreeable speaking voice, stood in a corner, 
 very earnestly engaged in conversation with the 
 aristocratic old Earl of Clarendon. . . . Fonblanque 
 
 159 
 
Unpublished ^Letters of 
 
 of The Examiner, with his pale and dislocated 
 looking face, stood in the doorway between the 
 two rooms, making the amiable with a ghastly 
 smile to Lady Stepney, the patroness of all callow 
 poets and new-found geniuses of every description. 
 The ( bilious Lord Durham,' as the papers call 
 him, with his Brutus head. . . stood. . . talking 
 politics with Bovvring ; and near them, leaned 
 over a chair the Prince Moscowa, the son of 
 Marshal Ney, . . . unconscious of everything 
 but the presence of the Honourable Mrs. Leicester 
 Stanhope, a very lovely woman. . . . 
 
 Disraeli also mentioned Lady Bulwer Lytton's 
 dog " Fairy" in an account of a dinner at the 
 Bulwers about this date. He said the Hostess 
 was a blaze of jewels and looked like Juno — 
 "only instead of a peacock, she had a dog in her 
 lap, called Fairy, and not bigger than a bird of 
 paradise and quite as brilliant. We drank 
 champagne out of a saucer of ground glass, 
 mounted on a pedestal of cut glass." This seems 
 to indicate that the wide circular champagne 
 glasses had just come into fashion, superseding 
 the tall beakers until then in use. 
 
 1 60 
 
 k 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 Llangollen Cemetery, 
 
 March 21, 1855. 
 
 Alas ! dear Mr. Chalon, I should be too glad to 
 comply with your request if I could, but the dear 
 friend to whom I gave that picture * has been 
 long dead, and I am not on terms with her 
 husband and never could succeed in getting it 
 back, so that I don't even know where it is. 
 A thousand thanks for the Frontispiece, which I 
 like all the better for being a mild caricature of 
 myself. 
 
 As the " Life " will be a long affair, what think 
 you of writing one of those saleable shilling or 
 small half-crown books to be called The Nemesis 
 of Humbug, showing up the whole gang and 
 the whole system, to appear anonymously — 
 something in the style of Guicciardini's " Maxims." 
 I could do it con amove > and have two delicious 
 epigraphs — upon Hypocrisy and Humbug — from 
 Luttrell and Douglas Jerrold : the only difficulty 
 would be to find a publisher ; they are all so 
 clique bound, and to publish it with the sort of 
 nonentities with whom I am driven to publish 
 
 * Chalon's portrait of Lady Bulwer Lytton painted some 
 sixteen years before. 
 
 L l6l 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 my novels would be tantamount to putting it 
 behind the fire — for my books are not pub- 
 lished, they are only misprinted, and myself 
 grossly and personally abused by that infamous 
 clique, whenever one appears. I don't wonder at 
 your blood boiling at the barefaced, gross, and 
 scandalous injustice you and your equally gifted 
 brother have received from that human-infernal 
 machine of a Press Gang. My blood, I know, not 
 only boils but boils over ; however you can carry 
 it vi et armis — or rather by force of genius with 
 the Public : I cannot, the ramification of ex- 
 tinguishers being instantly down upon me at 
 whatever point I try to find an egress. I have 
 no doubt that by applying to the London pub- 
 lisher who publishes Fanny Fern's books — alias 
 Nathaniel Cooke, Milford House, Strand, he 
 could easily get for you the American magazine 
 in which Willis's first Pencillings by the Way 
 appeared, with the obnoxious description of me.* 
 I suppose you are aware that Fanny Fern is only 
 a nom de plume and that she is Snob Willis's sister, 
 
 * At the time of the publication of the book, Lady Bulwer 
 Lytton wrote in her Journal, December 22, 1835: "Read 
 Mr. Willis's Pencillings by the Way, and very racy and 
 pleasant they are." 
 
 162 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 and this last tale of hers — Rtith Hall — clever 
 like all she writes, but intensely vulgar like the 
 whole of that class of American literature, is 
 sense to be her own history (except that she has 
 not that amiable dead husband, the most amiable 
 thing a husband can be, but is separated from an 
 unamiable living one), and the brother Hyacinth, 
 the Tuft-hunter, is meant for N. P. Willis, her 
 real brother, who really (worthy of the Gore 
 House clique) did leave her to starve till she made 
 a name and a fame and did not want him, when 
 he of course became very anxious to sister her, 
 though in her misery he took care never to 
 brother -her. If you saw Cooke you might sound 
 him as to whether he would publish the Nemesis 
 in a square half-crown illustrated form, and if he 
 would — " by Jove, Sir, I'll do it" and avenge you 
 and myself too, and as there would be no names 
 mentioned, only certain facts and the iniquitous 
 system well exposed, they could not take hold of 
 it ; and if only properly brought out, it would run 
 along the railways like electric telegraph wires and 
 soon shiver their chronic humbug.* I agree with 
 
 * Lady Bulwer Lytton duly wrote Nemesis. It was not 
 published during her lifetime, but most of the manuscript was 
 quoted in Miss Devey's Life of Rosina Lady Lytton. 
 
 163 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 you nothing can be more infamous than the 
 betrayal of private letters throughout that dis- 
 gusting book of Madden's. N.B. Remember 
 that whatever I write to you or to anybody else 
 about that Infernal Clique and its Triton of the 
 Humbugs, Sir Liar, is not private and confidential 
 but public and diffusive. In one of his letters to 
 Messalina Blessington, where he so paternally and 
 amiably alludes to having been to Brighton while 
 his son was at school there, you must know that 
 his son was then with me in Ireland and was not 
 at school for three years after that.* How much 
 better his threatening letter to me will read in 
 print, written before I published my first book, 
 in which the following honourable and manly 
 passage occurs: "If you publish that or any 
 other book, Madam, / will ruin you. I'll 
 say that you were my mistress, that you 
 drink, you forge. Beware ! I have not hitherto 
 crossed your path — woe be to you when once I 
 do ! " Don't you think Messalina Blessington 
 had reason to talk of his noble mind and his deep 
 feeling ! She ought to have added another 
 
 * Madden assigned this letter to 1837, the year when Lady 
 Bulwer Lytton was in Ireland with her children : they were 
 removed from her charge in 1838. 
 
 164 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 flourish of trumpets about his exalted love of 
 Truth. When I showed this infamous letter to 
 every one — the only notice I took of it — the 
 monster denied it upon oath (so he did being the 
 author of The Nezv Timon), and said it was a 
 forgery of mine ! but I have got the letter, post- 
 mark, frank, and all, with all his other abomina- 
 tions of love (?!) and hate, and they shall be not 
 printed but facsimiled. 
 
 How I should like to see that picture of yours 
 of Lady Byron ; but I think it is greatly to your 
 credit, and you ought to be highly flattered at not 
 being mentioned as one among the immured 
 animalcula found in the Gore House sewer! 
 How shocked those worthies would no doubt 
 be (in print!) at my staying at home and 
 scribbling to you instead of being at church 
 doing penance for the sins of the Government ; 
 but as every day that I have been in this place 
 has been to me a day of fast and humiliation, I 
 did not think it necessary to perform a work of 
 supererogation, which perhaps it is to assure you, 
 dear Mr. Chalon, that I am ever sincerely yours, 
 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 line id£e ! At each of the ends of the cat-o'- 
 
 165 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 nine-tails we might have small but striking like- 
 nesses of the Chiefs of the Clique — Sir Liar, that 
 brute Forster, Fonblanque, Dickens, etc. For- 
 give this horrid blurred letter, but Tib has upset 
 the glass of water with your beautiful camellias. 
 
 P.S. — Deux heures apres. 
 
 Of course Snob Madden had no idea that the 
 letters I allude to in the Appendix were written 
 by a real live Emperor en role de bourgeois fou, 
 but such is my conjecture — that these letters 
 were L.N.'s, written as I told you in cipher, and 
 I am pretty sure I am right ; and if ever I see 
 his Majesty again I'll try and ascertain the fact, 
 though, like other great (?) men, I believe it is 
 difficult to elicit the truth from him. It was Lady 
 Harrington who wrote me word of that Heath 
 affair while the picture was in her custody. I 
 have eot her letter about it which shall in due 
 time be published to authenticate the fact. If 
 the Nemesis ever comes off, I'll do it in 
 Dialogues, such as those between " Testy and 
 Sensitive" in Beresford's Miseries of Human 
 Life, as that form gives one more scope for 
 saying one's say and hitting the right nails upon 
 the head. If you go to Cooke's, Milford House, 
 1 66 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 in the Strand, about the American magazine con- 
 taining the first puffs of the "Pencillings," pray 
 don't forget to sound him touching the publication 
 of the said Nemesis, and if he would undertake 
 it, be sure and swear him to secrecy touching the 
 authorship ; I know it would have a run and 
 cause an epidemic, not to say a mortality among 
 the Clique. Tib, with those most innocent paws 
 of his, begs a thousand pardons for his " beginning 
 of strife," alias ''letting out of water" over your 
 letter, but as it was about that infamous Gang he 
 says blots and blurs were all the more appropriate. 
 
 Encore adieu. 
 
 T. A. V. 
 
 The New Timon, referred to by Lady Bulwer 
 Lytton in the preceding letter, caused a memor 
 able literary duel. In 1830, Tennyson had 
 published his youthful volume of verse, containing 
 among other things some puerile Lines to a 
 Darling Room (which particular piece he after- 
 wards suppressed). In 1845, Tennyson received 
 a pension of ^"200, and Bulwer Lytton in The 
 New Timon recalled the poet's early effusions in 
 a somewhat too sarcastic manner : 
 
 167 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 " The jingling medley of purloin'd conceits 
 Outbabying Wordsworth and outglittering Keats; 
 Where all the airs of patchwork pastoral chime 
 To drown the ears in Tennysonian rhyme 
 
 Let school-miss Alfred vent her chaste delight 
 On ' darling little rooms so warm and light ' ; 
 Chant ' I'm a-weary ' in infectious strain, 
 And catch the < blue fly singing i' the pane.'" 
 
 To this attack Tennyson retorted, in Punch 
 (February 28, 1846), most vitriolically with his 
 New Timon and the Poets : 
 
 11 We know him, out of Shakespeare's art, 
 And those fine curses which he spoke ; 
 
 The old Timon, with his noble heart, 
 That, strongly loathing, greatly broke. 
 
 So died the Old : here comes the New 
 
 Regard him : a familiar face : 
 I thought we knew him : What it's you, 
 
 The padded man — that wears the stays — 
 
 Who kill'd the girls and thrill'd the boys, 
 
 With dandy pathos when you wrote, 
 A Lion, you, that made a noise, 
 
 And shook a mane en papillotes. 
 
 And once you tried the Muses too ; 
 
 You faiFd, Sir : therefore now you turn, 
 You fall on those who are to you, 
 As Captain is to Subaltern. 
 1^58 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 But men of long-enduring hopes, 
 
 And careless what this hour may bring, 
 Can pardon little would-be Popes 
 
 And Brummels, when they try to sting. 
 
 An artist, Sir, should rest in Art, 
 And waive a little of his claim ; 
 
 To have the deep poetic heart 
 Is more than all poetic fame. 
 
 But you, Sir, you are hard to please ; 
 
 You never look but half content j 
 Nor like a gentleman at ease, 
 
 With moral breadth of temperament. 
 
 And what with spites and what with fears, 
 
 You cannot let a body be : 
 It's always ringing in your ears, 
 
 1 They call this man as good as me? 
 
 What profits now to understand 
 The merits of a spotless shirt — 
 
 A dapper boot — a little hand — 
 If half the little soul is dirt. 
 
 You talk of tinsel ! why we see 
 
 The old mark of rouge upon your cheek: 
 You prate of nature ! You are he 
 
 That spilt his life about the cliques. 
 
 A TIMON you ! Nay, nay for shame : 
 It looks too arrogant a jest — 
 
 That fierce old man — to take his name 
 You bandbox. Off and let him rest." 
 
 169 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 Tennyson, however, soon realised that he had 
 been too vindictive, and so the following week 
 Punch contained his After-Thought : 
 
 " Ah, GOD ! the petty fools of rhyme 
 That shriek and sweat in pigmy wars 
 Before the stony face of Time, 
 
 And look'd at by the silent stars ; — 
 
 That hate each other for a song, 
 
 And do their little best to bite, 
 That pinch their brothers in the throng, 
 
 And scratch the very head for spite, — 
 
 And strain to make an inch of room 
 For their sweet selves and cannot hear 
 
 The sullen Lethe rolling doom 
 
 On them and theirs, and all things here ; 
 
 When one small touch of Charity 
 Could lift them nearer Godlike state 
 
 Than if the crowded Orb should cry 
 Like those that cried Diana great. 
 
 And I too talk, and lose the touch 
 
 I talk of. Surely, after all, 
 The noblest answer unto such 
 
 Is kindly silence when they brawl." 
 
 Tennyson and Bulwer Lytton regretted this 
 
 affair in after years, and said civil things of each 
 
 other.* But it will ever be difficult to find a 
 
 * See Note A, p. 311. 
 170 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 plausible excuse for Bulwer Lytton's denial of the 
 authorship of The New Timon in 1846. 
 
 Llangollen, 
 
 March 24, 1855. 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, — J cannot understand how 
 you could so strangely have misunderstood my 
 letter, as I therein told you most explicitly that I 
 did not even know where the picture * was now, 
 not being on terms with the husband of my late 
 friend, which, had the picture been still in the 
 possession of Lady Harrington I could not have 
 said ! I moreover further (apropos of the Heath 
 affair) alluded to the time when the picture had 
 been in the custody of the present Lady Harring- 
 ton, who consequently could not be the present 
 Lord H.'s mother — that good lady having been 
 gathered to her fathers many years before you 
 painted that picture of me ! ! Therefore, I have 
 only to repeat that the picture having long ago 
 been removed from the care of the present Lady 
 Harrington (a chip of old Mrs. Wood), and I not 
 being on terms or even knowing what part of the 
 world the husband is in, I cannot apply for it, and 
 even if I did know his whereabouts, having failed 
 * Her earlier portrait by Chalon. 
 
 171 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 to obtain the picture by fair means, I should 
 certainly not condescend to make, or authorise to 
 be made, any further application for it ; and there 
 is one great and paramount good in your not 
 having it, i.e. the reproduction of it might en- 
 danger your new-fledged a bon pied with the 
 Clique, and only think what a terrible thing that 
 would be. 
 
 I am sorry I should have alarmed you by my 
 proposition of going to cook : n'ayez pas peur, I 
 can " cook my goose " without letting the slightest 
 flavour of the seasoning — including the sage — 
 pollute you. As for Lord Brougham, I have such 
 a supreme contempt for his intense and illimitable 
 rascality that I heed his talents (great as they are) 
 very little, and as for his pretended contempt for 
 courts, it is about as superficial as his pretended 
 scientific acquirements, not extending beyond the 
 sample brick of his oft quoted speech of " / and 
 the king ! " While, with regard to his impartiality, 
 it is like that of most men — merely exercised when 
 it may advance his interest ; and never evinced 
 when it might by any possibility militate against 
 it. With reference to his scientific affiches, I send 
 you an impromptu of mine some four years ago, 
 when, after he had been flaring up about " Bodies 
 172 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 of Light " at his Chateau at Cannes, he ran a 
 scientific instrument into his eye which he was 
 carrying in his carriage to some Institute at 
 Paris. . . . 
 
 That vulgar Ballieuse des rues, Mrs. Fon- 
 blanque, like her brute of a husband, had, some 
 years ago, behaved in the most ungrateful and 
 impertinent manner to me. . . . This did not 
 prevent these wretches having the impudence to 
 make up to me when I was last at Brighton, 
 and the she-Fonblanque actually had the 
 audacity to ask me to call upon them to see 
 my god-child — the one through whom, some 
 years ago, I had my unhappy cheek bitten by Sir 
 Liar till the blood streamed down me : * but as 
 
 * Lady Bulwer Lytton earlier described the incident thus : 
 " Upon his asking me with whom I was going to the christening 
 of Mr. Fonblanque's child that night, and I replying, c with 
 Lady Stepney,' he then repeated as fast as he could, a dozen 
 times running, ' My mother calls her that ugly old woman ! ' 
 He then called out, ' Do you hear me, Madam ? ' 'Of course 
 
 I hear you ! ' ' Then why the in don't you answer 
 
 me ? ' 'I did not think it required an answ T er.' ■ D your 
 
 soul, Madam ! ' he exclaimed, seizing a carving-knife (for we 
 were at dinner, and he had told the servants to leave the room 
 till he rang), and rushing at me, cried, ' I'll have you to know 
 that whenever / do you the honour of addressing you, it 
 requires an answer.' I said, ' For God's sake, take care what 
 
 l 73 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 through life I have never had, and sincerely hope 
 I never may have, the prudence and good sense 
 for the sake of my interest (or what in the world 
 is falsely so called) to overlook insult and connive 
 at the grossest injustice, I curtly told her that my 
 contempt and disgust at her husband and his 
 clique was so great that no earthly power would 
 induce me knowingly to cross the threshold of any 
 house he inhabited. To which she rather impo- 
 1 ideally replied : "I'm sure, Lady Lytton, you 
 cannot hate and despise the whole of that infamous 
 gang more than I do." And certainly at the 
 time I used to be acquainted with them, her 
 abuse and disgusting anecdotes of that brute 
 Forster — old Fonblanque's sub-editor — used to be 
 boundless. But as for me, I am, it would appear, 
 a sort of human spider — only made to extract (for 
 my own detriment) poison from everything, more 
 especially if I go out of my way to serve people, 
 which I am always doing. The amount of enmity 
 
 you are about, Edward ! ' He then dropped the knife and, 
 springing on me, made his great teeth meet in my cheek, and 
 the blood spurted over me. The agony was so great that 
 my screams brought the servants back, and presently Cresson, 
 the cook, seized him by the collar, but he broke from him, 
 and seizing one of the footman's hats in the hall, rushed down 
 Piccadilly." 
 
 174 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 and villainy I have reaped is something incredible. 
 Here is a charming trait of human (which as 
 a generic term should be spelt z«-human) nature 
 that I have met since I have been here, so 
 that you see the gloom is not always synonymous 
 with the peace of the grave. You must know that 
 among the numerous adorateurs of the beaux yeux 
 de sa cassette, Lady Hotham has a toady and 
 hanger-on called the Chevalier de Birard, a little 
 wizen old Frenchman, whom I think you 
 met the day you dined with me and Miss 
 Ryves at Hereford House. I liked the man 
 because he was French and pitied him because 
 he was poor — or rather felt for him as only 
 the poor can feel for poverty ; so that I used 
 to be ruined in Brougham hire running all over 
 London to try and sell his " Translations," and 
 begging favours, which I certainly neither would 
 nor could have done for myself. But now for 
 the pith of my story. In May, '53, Lady 
 Hotham invited me, as a trip of pleasure, to 
 go with her to Paris, which miserable and memor- 
 able expedition I shall never forget, for had 
 we been two escaped paupers out of a workhouse 
 there could not have been more haggling over 
 every sou — even at paying the fixed price railway 
 
 175 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 fares, which she would not trust any of the servants 
 to settle, not even Davis, her butler, who has lived 
 with her for fifty years ; and though she was 
 nominally to frank me, she told me before starting 
 that it would be more "prudent," a great word 
 of hers, not to take my maid, and then it would 
 not cost me anything, a broad, though not very 
 ladylike, hint that if I took her I might pay 
 for her myself, which I did, for being far from well 
 at the time I could not do without her. Nor was 
 that all I had to pay for, there being a regular 
 fight at every hotel and cafe about the bills, which 
 always ended in my having to settle, as also 
 for public amusements, catalogues, etc. etc. Her 
 haggling used nearly to get us mobbed. After a 
 fortnight of this pleasant work, to which the 
 fighting and privations in the Crimea were a joke, 
 we returned to England in a violent storm at sea, 
 she kindly leaving me half dead at the hotel 
 at Folkestone. The Sunday evening before 
 we set out on this charming excursion, the 
 Chevalier de Birard and Carew, the sculptor, 
 dined at Hereford House. . . . The Chevalier, 
 in walking with me in the garden, seemed — for 
 him — unusually downcast, which upon my re- 
 marking the tears came into his eyes, and he 
 176 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 said which way to turn he knew not, for that the 
 next day he should have all his poor furniture 
 seized for a very paltry arrear of rent which 
 he could not pay. At the moment I sin- 
 cerely wished I had Lady HothanVs unencum- 
 bered ,£18,000 a year, because, as people say, in 
 my position I have no right to do those things : 
 no beggars, in England, have any right to human 
 feeling. However, I could not resist this poor 
 old man's distress ; so, small though the sum was, 
 I gave him more than half I possessed in the 
 world till the next three months came round, and 
 it was not so much the having no money to 
 spend at Paris that was the great sacrifice as the 
 having, on my return, to borrow money from my 
 maid to come down here. Well ce brave — quoique 
 non preux chevalier qui ne perde jamais la carte 
 quand il s'agit de ses propres inteiets — gave me 
 an old tag MS. to try and dispose of in Paris, 
 where Lady H., with her usual amiability and 
 sympathy for misfortunes she has never experi- 
 enced, would not turn one street out of her way 
 or stop five minutes at any door to let me try 
 this forlorn hope ; so it ended by my daily 
 trotting over Paris — till I was half dead — in the 
 vain attempt to dispose of this affair ; she always 
 
 m 177 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 grumping out on my return, " I only hope you'll 
 let de Birard know all the terrible trouble you 
 have taken." " I should be very sorry," said I, 
 "for one had better not attempt to serve people 
 than make a parade of it se faire valoir, more 
 especially to the obligee." No sooner had I 
 arrived at my exile here than the Chevalier 
 inundated me with fulsome letters of grati- 
 tude : " I cannot turn in my house but I am 
 reminded of you. Should I have a bed to lie on, 
 a chair to sit on, but for you ? " etc., etc., till 
 I implored him to desist, as all this pained me. 
 And whenever I could scrape them, I from time 
 to time sent him a few pounds — certainly not 
 from my superfluities. He was always begging 
 and entreating me to make use of him or employ 
 him in some way or other, as the happiest day of 
 his life, etc., etc., would be if he could do any- 
 thing for me ; meanwhile, ill or well, he took 
 good care to employ me, for he was always 
 sending me his tiresome MSS. to correct and 
 make shipshape, which is much more trouble 
 than writing a book of one's own. He next 
 wrote to me to say that I could do him 
 a great service if I would allow him to republish 
 some old tales of mine which had originally 
 
 i 7 s 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 appeared in Fraser and The New Monthly, and I 
 was only too happy to put money into his pocket 
 without performing the miracle of taking it out of 
 my own, so I gave him the desired permission. 
 After this he began for four months bothering my 
 life out to write for that London Journal, he — 
 de Birard — being a sort of jackal to a man of the 
 name of Stiff, who is the editor and proprietor of 
 it as well as of another paper called The Weekly 
 Times. For a long time I was inexorable, saying 
 that poor as I was I had an insuperable objection 
 to write for penny papers : he argued that this 
 was not like other penny papers, that it had such 
 an enormous sale, and Stiff was so immensely 
 rich that he did not care what he paid for articles 
 that suited him, and had given de Birard carte 
 blanche to say that I might have my own terms, 
 and the Chevalier added, " think what a thing 
 a permanent engagement of this sort would be to 
 you who write so rapidly." I did think of it, and 
 that ;£iooo or ^1200 was not to be despised even 
 when earned through a penny paper ; and as I 
 always try to turn the glossy side out of that very 
 cross-grained texture, human nature, when I can, 
 I also thought that this was a nice way of this 
 poor Chevalier trying to repay me for the little 
 
 179 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 services I had rendered him, though at the same 
 time I could not disguise from myself the 
 unpoetical fact that the Chevalier was perfectly 
 aware that the chief part of any money I earned 
 through his instrumentality would most in- 
 dubitably flow into his pocket. At last I wrote 
 to this Stiff, saying that as he wanted domestic 
 love tales of everyday life, and as that mine was 
 pretty well exhausted, my terms were £25 a tale 
 without my name or initials — with either I must 
 have ^30. By return of post he closed with my 
 proposition and begged I would lose no time in 
 sending him a tale. Thereupon I set to work, 
 and on the fourth day I forwarded him The 
 Bromelia, that thing you read. He expressed 
 himself delighted with it and, to my surprise, 
 enclosed me back ^25 in three nice crisp new 
 bank notes. I say to my surprise, because it is 
 not usual in periodicals to be paid for one's con- 
 tributions before they have been printed and 
 published. I was also delighted to think that 
 neither my name nor my initials were to appear 
 to these contributions, and the Chevalier wrote 
 me a flourishing letter of congratulation (very 
 like the ringing of all the church bells for the 
 taking of Sebastopol) saying that Stiff was so 
 180 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 delighted with my diligence and the tale I had 
 sent him that I might consider my fortune made 
 (a la Gil Bias at the Archbishop's !), and that Stiff 
 was a wonderful man, being his own editor and 
 collaborateur for both his papers, and allowed no 
 one to interfere with them (mark this), and 
 de Birard begged me to be sure and have a copy 
 of Behind the Scenes sent to The Weekly Times 
 as he — de Birard— had such influence there that 
 he would ensure a good review for me (mark 
 this also). Meanwhile The Bromelia appeared — 
 with my initials ! I wrote to complain and to 
 remonstrate that this was a breach of faith ; de 
 Birard put it all upon a mistake and began 
 again entreating that I would give him some 
 commission to do. I did so — to go and see an old 
 governess for me, who lives at Fulham (he, de 
 Birard, living at Chelsea), and as I knew very well 
 he would — if he did not walk — go in an omnibus. 
 I enclosed him £l for cab hire. He wrote me a 
 se faire valoir letter, making out that the driver 
 had lost his way and thereby implying that he had 
 been put to great expense ; but as I knew that he 
 had been out from twelve in the day till ten at night, 
 il avait bien assez pour ses frais du voyage, I was 
 not at all uneasy on that score, and when my old 
 
 181 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 governess came down to see me at Xmas my 
 mind was quite set at ease by her informing me 
 that he had walked to Fulham ! In this letter 
 about going to see the governess I happened to 
 say, " You need not say anything to Lady 
 Hotham, for with her cast-iron constitution and 
 iced cucumber heart, she cannot feel for those less 
 fortunate than herself." His reply was, " Do you 
 suppose, best of women ( ! ), that I should consult 
 Lady Hotham, or any one else, about obeying 
 your commands ? " You will see further on the 
 honourable, gentlemanlike, and grateful use he 
 afterwards made of this essentially private and 
 confidential letter of mine. . . . But to return to 
 Mr. Stiff and his newspapers. Meanwhile my 
 book came out, and after it one of the most 
 scurrilous and personally abusive attacks upon 
 me, rather than it, in The Weekly Times, that you 
 can imagine. I was astounded, and waited, 
 thinking at all events to get a letter of explana- 
 tion, apology, or excuses — however lame — either 
 from the Chevalier or his Master, Stiff; but none 
 came. Whereupon I wrote to the Chevalier 
 expressing my disgust and indignation at such 
 black and gratuitous treachery, and demanding 
 back a second tale I had sent to The London 
 182 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 Journal, as neither he nor Mr. Stiff could suppose 
 that after such black and Judas-like abuse as that 
 in The Weekly Times I would ever write another 
 line for hirn. Mr. Stiff's only reply to this was in 
 the teeth of this prohibition to publish my second 
 tale, with my initials again appended to it ; while 
 the Chevalier, forgetting his former statement 
 that Mr. Stiff was his own collaborates, editor, 
 etc., and let no one interfere with his papers, and 
 also forgetting that I knew too much of the arcana 
 of the periodical press not to know that no weekly 
 paper has a reporter, writes me the most dis- 
 gusting tissue of lies, saying that poor Mr. Stiff 
 was much more to be pitied than any one with 
 regard to that review, that he would sooner have 
 forfeited ^"iooo than it should have happened — 
 but that he was at the Isle of Wight at the time, 
 and his reporter, to whom he had given the most 
 positive orders for not only a favourable, but a 
 flattering, review (as if reporters, even where 
 they exist, ever did write reviews), had disobeyed 
 him ; for the truth was that The Guild (or more 
 properly speaking Guilt) of Literature and Art 
 had a pot-house in the Strand, called " The 
 Cheshire Cheese," where all the reporters and 
 underlings of the press met and stuffed and drank 
 
 183 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 once a week at the expense of The Guilt, and 
 when any one of these were turned away from 
 any of the papers they were on for doing the 
 dirty work of the Clique — as in the instance of 
 the abuse of my book — they were supported by 
 The Guilt while out of employment till they got a 
 fresh engagement. 
 
 I wrote the Chevalier word that I did not in 
 the least doubt The Guilt being capable of any 
 villainy, but all his other fictions I refuted with 
 facts ; whereupon he changed his tack and wrote 
 me a series of fresh falsehoods which quite con- 
 tradicted the former ones, always however puff- 
 ing off this Stiff as the soul of honour and in- 
 capable of behaving ill to any one, and winding 
 up with saying (quite oblivious of his former 
 boast) " but even if it was as you seem to think 
 (good this !) so dishonourable to publish your 
 initials, and even if that review were ten times 
 worse (if worse it could be ?), what earthly 
 influence have / with Mr. Stiff and his papers ? " 
 Now knowing what abject cowards and servile 
 tools poverty makes of most people, had this 
 little reptile honestly said to me "he has behaved 
 shamefully to you, broken faith in every way 
 with you, and I am only grieved that in my 
 184 
 
\ 
 
 Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 anxiety to serve you I should have been the 
 innocent cause of entailing upon you such annoy- 
 ance, but I dare not break with him, as you 
 know unfortunately, Lady Lytton, my bread 
 depends upon him," I should have been the first 
 to have urged him by no means to do so ; but 
 what so thoroughly exasperated and disgusted me 
 was this man continuing to write me the most ful- 
 some and flummerising letters without ever once 
 making a proper honest explanation of all this 
 crooked affair or even a decent apology, so that 
 I could see (to use a vulgar expression) that his 
 game was to do Mr. Stiff's dirty work coute 
 qu'il coute, but to leave no stone unturned to 
 keep me as good milch cow also ; and from his 
 subsequent conduct my opinion of the man is 
 that for a £20 note he would sell his own father, 
 and that he was set on by George Beauclerk, 
 the latter being instigated thereto by Sir Liar, 
 to work heaven and earth to set Lady Hotham 
 against me, as from the extraordinary liking — or 
 rather enjouement— she professed for me at one 
 time, with sundry hints as to posthumous proofs 
 of regard, Sir Liar trembled at the idea of my 
 millstone ever being lightened, and the charming 
 George, or Gorge as we used to call him, also 
 
 185 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 began to quake for any diminution of his own 
 legacy which he has been hunting so long and 
 indefatigably. However, to return to the Cheva- 
 lier d' Industrie, the noblest part of whose conduct 
 remains to be told. When I found his lies so 
 barefaced and contradictory I treated them with 
 the silent contempt they deserved, never answer- 
 ing his last five letters, though he ends them 
 with the most abject supplications for me to 
 write to and forgive him, adding, " Je suis sur 
 le banc de la torture jusque votre response " : 
 but I merely got my Dr. — Dr. Price — to write 
 to him at the end of four months begging that 
 he would at least make Mr. Stiff pay me for my 
 second tale, which he had published in the teeth 
 of my prohibition. To each of Dr. Price's three 
 letters the veracious Chevalier replied the money 
 should be sent in a day or two. Finding it did 
 not arrive at the end of eight months, I set my 
 lawyer to get it, when the charming Mr. Stiff — 
 furious at thus being compelled to pay — cheats me 
 out of £i\ by counting the words contained in 
 my second tale (which he stipulated should be 
 shorter than the first — I to be paid the same) 
 and sends me £g ! ! 
 
 1 86 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 Finale ! 
 
 At Xmas I write as usual to Lady Hotham to 
 wish her a Merry Xmas, and receive in return 
 the most furious and impertinent letter from her 
 saying, the dear Chevalier, the best and only 
 friend I ever had, had told her of my base 
 ingratitude to him after his indefatigable efforts 
 to serve me (!), getting me an engagement to 
 write for some journal (! !), and even the walk (!) 
 to Fulham was not omitted ; but that as a man 
 could not fight a woman, he had adopted the only 
 plan — that of treating me with contempt and not 
 answering my letters ! ! ! So much for the 
 Plastron. Then came the real cause of this 
 outbreak — " Yes, Lady Lytton, the Chevalier 
 read out at my table your wit about my having a 
 cast-iron constitution and an iced cucumber 
 heart, which caused a great laugh at your ex- 
 pense" (J 'en doute). I replied I had not meant 
 it for wit, but for a melancholy truth, and as the 
 Chevalier had boasted so much of the great 
 services he had rendered me, I must for the first 
 time tell her of the little ones I had done him. I 
 thought publicly reading confidential letters and 
 repeating private conversations a most dastardly 
 
 187 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 and unwarrantable proceeding, and if every one 
 adopted the same plan I should like to know how 
 long Society would hold together or how many 
 persons would continue to visit at her house? 
 But as the "dear Chevalier" had set the example 
 I would so far follow it as to send her a few of 
 his letters to me and also his letters to Dr. Price, 
 which at all events would refute the accusation of 
 my base ingratitude and the silent contempt with 
 which the Chevalier had treated my letters. To 
 this line of refutation — especially as it included a 
 note from Dr. Price to me saying that after the 
 Chevalier's shameful conduct to me he thought I 
 was quite right not to trust myself to write to him 
 and that he would do so — she writes me back 
 word : " Really, Lady Lytton, I have neither time 
 nor spirits to read all these letters, and I don't 
 want to hear the other side as nothing can alter 
 my good opinion of the Chevalier ; but notwith- 
 standing my cast-iron constitution I have always 
 the same soft, forgiving heart. " It is she that 
 has. . . . Forgive my boring you with this long 
 rigmarole, but I am tired of being vilified, and as 
 I introduced you to Lady Hotham and thought 
 you might meet this little viper there this summer, 
 on her return from Brighton, I wished you to 
 1 88 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 know the truth ; but don't suppose I want you to 
 let them know that you know it or to compromise 
 you in any one way. 
 
 Ever yours truly, 
 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 [This rather trivial, prolix letter has been 
 given at length, as it illustrates very fully the 
 foibles in the writer's character, as well as her 
 generous attributes. Here is demonstrated that 
 injudicious freedom of speech which lost her 
 many a friend and that obsession by a grievance 
 (with attendant redundancy of detail) which 
 wearied out many more. It was these traits, in 
 part, which contributed to the shipwreck of her 
 marriage and fed the furnace of hate wherein she 
 immolated her husband's reputation after the 
 separation.] 
 
 Second Edition. 
 
 You will be frightened at seeing two missives 
 from me, but in my big letter I forgot to enclose 
 Mme. Bertini's letter, which I herewith send. / 
 also admire Job's forbearance in not setting his 
 dogs at his friends, but do not attribute this to 
 
 189 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 his patience as you do, but to the same motive 
 which made old Lady Cork* exclaim, when her 
 wretch of a parrot bit a piece out of poor Lady 
 Darlington's foot, " Poor dear bird, I hope it 
 won't disagree with it"!! After all, Job's trials 
 were limited, having them I suppose by the job 
 (oh !), and at all events his grumbling was un- 
 limited, which must have been a great relief to 
 him ; but in Moral England, however sorely one 
 may be afflicted, however a fifty-juggernaut power 
 of immolation may go over one, one is not even 
 allowed to complain — evil-doers in our highly 
 moral Society being always held sacred, tandis 
 que in immoral France ils seraient sacres ! I 
 quite agree with you that the Orgies etched by 
 poor D'Orsay, wretched by Lady B., and litho- 
 graphed by the long Lane that has no turning 
 (like the one I've got into !) fera fortune. 
 
 Encore adieu. Votre bien devouee, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LyTTON. 
 
 * The Hon. Mary Monckton, daughter of the first Viscount 
 Galway, married in 1786 the seventh Earl of Cork, and 
 died 1840. With Elizabeth Viscountess Langford she claims 
 a moiety of being the original of Thackeray's " Lady Kew " 
 in The Newcomcs. In her youth she was a celebrated member 
 of the " Bas Bleu " Coterie. See Note B, p. 311. 
 
 190 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 Llangollen Sarcophagus, 
 
 March 30, 1855. 
 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, — Once for all, and I hope 
 for the last time, permit me (if possible !) to 
 arrange the curious galimatias you appear to 
 have in your head about the Stanhope family, 
 beginning sans doute with my amis d'enfance, 
 Adam and Eve de Stanhope — as Lord Chester- 
 field, Temp. George II, had his great grandfather 
 and grandmother painted and labelled. 
 
 The picture you painted of me some sixteen 
 years ago is not in the possession — nor never 
 was — of Lady Jane Seymour Stanhope, now 
 Lady Mount Charles,* nor of any other member 
 of the Stanhope family living or dead. It was, 
 till some ten or twelve years ago, in the pos- 
 session or rather in the charge of (for the 50th 
 time !) the present Lady Harrington — Mrs. 
 Wood's daughter — and was then taken from her. 
 The friend to whom I gave it is since dead, and, 
 as you truly observe, every one knows their own 
 affairs best, for this simple reason, that they have 
 some human feeling for themselves, though 
 nobody else has any for them ; and that lady's 
 
 * She became the Marchioness Conyngham in 1876. 
 
 191 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 little reptile of a husband in professing to inherit 
 his dear, good wife's great friendship for me, 
 behaved so villainously to me that, as I before 
 said, having failed to get back the picture by fair 
 means, even if I knew in what part of the world 
 he now was, I should be very sorry to degrade 
 myself by allowing any application to be made 
 for it. If ever I should live to hear of his death, 
 I will then take measures to recover that picture 
 for the sake of those who would value it. 
 
 As for Lady Hotham's friendship, I never could 
 value, or aspire to, what I knew her to be in- 
 capable of according to my interpretation of that 
 obsolete virtue, and I never was — nor never will 
 be — like her other friends (?), or rather toadies, a 
 Legacy Hunter: but I liked her soi-disant love 
 of art, her pretty garden, and her absence of 
 English vulgar-mindedness in liking people for 
 what they are and not for zvho they are or what 
 they have ; and as for her figure, it is perfectly 
 beautiful, and even her extraordinary mode of 
 dressing it can neither conceal nor mar its perfect 
 symmetry — it is the most wonderful figure for a 
 woman of her age I ever saw. Quant a la 
 prudence, not having the good fortune to be 
 either English, Swiss, or Scotch, 1 have none— 
 192 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 alas ! no — not one particle of Number One- 
 ativeness ! And as for accepting an invitation 
 to Paris, truly, as Napoleon said — and Marcus 
 Antonius and Sir Robert Walpole long before 
 him — every one has their price if you can but 
 find it out — and Paris is mine. So that I greatly 
 fear that were the Devil in propria persona to 
 invite me to go to Paris, I should accept, and thus 
 "point a moral " by adorning his tail ! One little 
 reptile of a Frenchman's infamy (who, by the bye, 
 has been fifty-five years in England, and married 
 a very low, vulgar Englishwoman, so that he is 
 well petrie with all English vices — selfishness, 
 meanness, hollowness, deceit, and ingratitude at 
 their head) could never cure me of my love, 
 admiration, and respect for the generous, chivalric, 
 and self-sacrificing nature of the French people. 
 Lady Mary Wortley Montagu says: "Nowhere 
 are women treated with such contempt as in 
 England." True ; but she forgot to add, No- 
 where are they so contemptible from their intense 
 nullity and inanity and loathsome selfishness. As 
 to my "blue ink correspondent having my entire 
 confidence," it so happens that she is a vulgar 
 literary correspondent whom I have never seen ! 
 But she has my whole "confidence," as all others 
 
 n 193 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 have it ; for as bitter experience prevents my 
 having confidence in any one, I tell the infamies 
 I meet with to every one ; not being able to 
 afford to pay the Town Crier for disseminating 
 them, therefore my communications are worse 
 than inadvertent indiscretions — they are premedi- 
 tated ones ! 
 
 What convinces me that that little animalcule 
 of a Chevalier was a tool of Sir Liar's is that 
 when he was imploring my forgiveness at such 
 an abject rate, and wanting to assure me that 
 he and that Stiff were pure as unsunned snow 
 about that abuse of me in The Weekly Times, I 
 said : " Very well ; if such is the case, I will test 
 Mr. Stiff's sincerity. Let him every week in The 
 London Journal put extracts from Behind the 
 Scenes, as he does from Thackeray's New- 
 comes, and then I will believe in his and your 
 innocence as to that abuse in The Weekly Times" 
 The disgusting little reptile wrote me the most 
 solemn assistances for nine weeks — all of which I 
 have got — that these extracts should appear each 
 succeeding week, which they never did, but in lieu 
 of them puffs of Sir Liar, and citations from his 
 plagiaries and humbug speeches ; and after such 
 repeated proofs of this little Chevalier being a 
 194 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 barefaced and black-hearted Judas it was that I 
 ceased to reply to his disgusting blarneying letters: 
 his noble revenge you know. 
 
 Miss Ryves has written to me bemoaning her 
 hard fate of not being in London to see your 
 collection of Chef-d'ceuvres in May, and I would 
 pity her the more, only I can spare no pity from 
 myself on this occasion. She wants my opinion 
 on Madden's Literary Lies. I told her that the 
 subject was too disgusting to me to go over it 
 again, but, if she liked, she might write to you, 
 and ask you to lend her my letter to you on the 
 subject if you had not burnt it. Luckily for you, 
 but unluckily for me, here is the greatest bore in 
 the Principality arrived for a visitation, so I must 
 end. Mr. Beckford, in his Travels, makes men- 
 tion of a Brazilian Bore at Cintra who — as is 
 customary among the species — in pertinaciously 
 dodging round the room after him, had two chairs 
 killed under him ! I have not even this chance of 
 escape, all the chairs here being solid, old-fashioned 
 pondrosities, which look as if they had been made 
 either out of the bones of one of the black 
 elephants at the Caucasus or those of Dr. Samuel 
 Johnson. 
 
 *95 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 Adieu, encore vous souhaitant un veritable 
 triomphe pour le mois de Mai, 
 
 Votre bien devouee, 
 
 rosina bulwer lytton. 
 
 Llangollen Sarcophagus, 
 
 April 12, 1855. 
 I can well understand, dear Mr. Chalon, 
 the melancholy pleasure and the natural pride you 
 must feel in again seeing so many of your 
 poor brother's Chef-d'ceuvres.* As for the inane 
 queries touching the artist, nothing you could tell 
 me of that sort would or could astonish me — 
 les gens d'esprit en Angleterre sont en effet 
 bien et grandiosement bete, and have not 
 even as much heart as can be made out of brains, 
 which was the quantum that Fontenelle's apologists 
 allotted to him. It is also a work of supereroga- 
 tion to tell me of the hoggish indifference of 
 Englishmen touching the misery of others, or of 
 the egoism a la glace of British Females — qui le 
 sait mieux que moi ? But I cannot agree to what 
 
 * John Chalon had died the previous year, and this Exhibi- 
 tion of his and his brother's works in 1855 did not, as already 
 mentioned, meet with the appreciation it merited from press 
 and public. 
 
 196 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 you say about Paris and Frenchmen. I know I 
 have passed many months and years in Paris, 
 and never heard Frenchmen say anything that 
 could make a modest woman blush ; and this I 
 do know, that if a Frenchman does presume to sigh 
 out any nonsense about a passion malheureuse 
 et eternelle — which generally lasts about three 
 months ! — and he finds that a woman is neither 
 a Blessington nor a Prude he has a respect 
 for her, and becomes sincerely, unselfishly, and 
 devotedly her friend. As I once told the poor 
 Due d'Orl£ans, Albert Durer notes in his journal : 
 " Aujourd'hui j'ai achete six petites passions pour 
 six sous " — eh bien mot, je ne donnerai pas autant 
 pour toutes les grandes passions que les hommes 
 ont jure! But if your brute of an Englishman is 
 repulsed, when under the guise of friendship he 
 springs up — like a snake in the grass — at last 
 as a lover, he becomes a vulgar and implacable 
 enemy. 
 
 A propos revenons a nos anes, really I am getting 
 seriously alarmed about you, for do you know 
 Campden House was once a Young Ladies School 
 and once a Lunatic Asylum ! so that by infection 
 you are menaced with imbecility on the one hand 
 and insanity on the other ! And it is evident you 
 
 197 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 have gone the first stage of the latter by the 
 extraordinary monomania you seem to have got 
 into your head (and which there is no getting out) 
 about the Stanhope family ! Voyons encore les 
 cartes une fois. The present Lord Harrington, 
 the husband of Mrs. Wood's daughter, from 
 whom he never ran away, is not a "little reptile " 
 but a great ass, being one of the tallest men that 
 ever was seen. He is brother to the late Lord 
 Harrington, who married Miss Foote, the 
 ci-devant Lord Petersham that was — Lady Jane 
 Seymour's father ; and both he and the present 
 Lord were duly and legitimately the sons of old 
 Lord and Lady Harrington, who used to live in 
 the Stable Yard, St. James's, in George and 
 William the Fourth's time, and were also the 
 parents of the present Duchesses of Bedford and 
 Leinster. No member of the Stanhope family ever 
 ran away with any picture of me. The one you 
 painted of me when I went last abroad I left 
 with the present Lord and Lady Harrington to 
 take care of for me> having no house of my own to 
 leave it in. While I was abroad I made it a 
 present (as I have so often told you !) to a very 
 dear friend of mine, who sent for it and took it 
 away from them. When she died, poor dear 
 iq8 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 soul, her worthless little reptile of a husband came 
 abroad. I pitied him from my heart, as he 
 affected (as well he might) to be in such deep 
 affliction for one of the best women that ever 
 lived, and who on her death-bed begged him 
 never to lose an opportunity of serving me. 
 Having received a great deal of hospitality from 
 them, I showed him, in what I foolishly imagined 
 his grief, all the attention and kindness I could. 
 This went on for about a year, when I found Sir 
 Liar thought fit to get me talked about with 
 this little ugly country-cobbler-looking wretch. 
 Thereupon I, of course, said I could not allow 
 him to visit me any more, whereupon his pre- 
 tended friendship ended in a violent declaration, 
 which so disgusted and outraged me (under the 
 circumstances) that I forbid him my house, when 
 he behaved in the most dastardly, bullying, and 
 ungentlemanlike manner, refusing to return to 
 me the picture I had given his wife, and becoming 
 from that date my bitter and implacable enemy. 
 I don't now, as I before told you, even know 
 where he is, which could not be the case if he were 
 one of the Stanhope family : and now I hope you 
 will be satisfied to let this, to me very disagree- 
 able, subject drop. 
 
 199 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 I am glad you have got fine weather at last, 
 but verily you keep it all to yourself. I certainly 
 would have sent you some violets had there been 
 one to send ; the first that have appeared here 
 were the few little white grave-blossom-looking 
 things brought me by some village children this 
 morning, which I send you. I have been think- 
 ing, would you like that beautiful Launch of 
 the Homeward Bound, that you so generously gave 
 me, for your Exhibition ? If so, I would give you 
 a note to the man in whose charge — with all my 
 Sevres, Dresden, China, and Household Linen — it 
 was left, i.e.) Browne of 48 Sloane Street, the china 
 and curiosity shop, though at this moment I am 
 under the pleasant suspense of notknowing whether 
 all my things are seized or not, as this Browne, 
 my lawyer Mr. Hodgson wrote me word last week, 
 has become a bankrupt, and had the dishonesty 
 never to write and give me notice of the event ; 
 and I am still in all the delights of incertitude till 
 I hear again from Mr. Hodgson, which I suppose 
 will not be before Saturday, as on Friday he goes 
 to Herries and Farquhar to get me my parish 
 allowance, from which dear Sir Liar screws out the 
 double income-tax ! Sincerely do I wish that 
 every " British Female " who is so horrified at my 
 200 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 presuming to speak as I do of him may have a 
 similar husband, father, brother, and son — just to 
 see how they would like it. 
 
 I only wish that violets were as plentiful as my 
 worries of every kind, and I could not fail to 
 supply you with them — I mean the violets, not the 
 worries. My swindler of a publisher who cheated 
 me (by his own shewing) out of about ^275 — but 
 out of a great deal more in reality — is, with the 
 exception of Sir Liar, the most barefaced liar and 
 cheat — even for a publisher — I ever heard of. 
 He swore to me last June, and to Mr. Hyde, 
 another lawyer of mine, that Behind the Scenes 
 was out of print and that he had not a single copy 
 left, and as he had cheated me so abominably I 
 forbade him peremptorily to attempt to issue 
 another edition, when lo ! someone (I don't know 
 who, nor can I recognise the writing) sends me 
 The Athenceum last week with a long list of 
 Skeet's forthcoming works in flaring type, and 
 among them another edition of Behind the Scenes 
 . . . Mr. Hyde really ought to prosecute the 
 fellow for such unwarrantably fraudulent and 
 impertinent conduct, but of course I shall get no 
 redress, as ever since I came into the world all 
 laws, human and divine, have with impunity been 
 
 201 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 either violated or reversed to injure me, and no 
 doubt will continue to be so till I go out of it, 
 which every day I am more and more anxious to 
 do. As for you, I forgive all your impertinences, 
 for strong language goes for nothing in such weak 
 ink ! Cannot you ask for ink as black as a literary 
 mans heart, and with an equal quantity of gall in 
 it, which is the real secret of the blackness. Let 
 me know directly if you would like The Launch 
 of the Homeward Bound, and only recollect you 
 were good enough to write on it that you had 
 given it to me, and that neither you nor Pecksniff 
 might like to be made public. 
 
 If you would like any Frost I can send you some 
 as we have plenty every night. As people talk of 
 Welsh mutton I would send you some, only 
 that the mutton here is really uneatable, which is 
 perhaps lucky for me, or I might become more 
 moutonniere than ever ! 
 
 Adieu. T. A. V. 
 
 Rosin a Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 April 23, 1855. 
 Thank you very much for your intelligence 
 about Browne. I am indeed delighted to hear 
 that my beautiful Launch is safe, as I have only 
 202 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 been five weeks imploring Mr. Hodgson to let 
 me know that same, or even the worst, but in 
 vain ! Had I been let to have my own way, 
 which I never am, even in a selection of mis- 
 fortunes, poor Browne would have been paid long 
 ago : as for his Brighton letters, I never got them. 
 But as to my worries, if the Harvest was only 
 always half as abundant, what a land of plenty 
 this would be. My old do-nothing trustee, Sir 
 Thomas Cullum * (that horrid Mrs. Milner 
 Gibson's father), died the other day, and now 
 there is a hitch and delay about the payment of 
 my parish allowance till another can be appointed, 
 and I am afraid Mr. Hyde, who is generally an 
 electric telegraph, has taken to creep in Mr. 
 Hodgson's style by the terrible suspense he is 
 keeping me in, which is doubly distressing just 
 now, as I wanted to get away to some kind, old, 
 long-tried friends in Somersetshire : but pray 
 don't breathe a word of my intention of leaving 
 this horrid place to Lady Hotham or any one, as 
 I want, if possible, to escape the ceaseless perse- 
 cutions of my relentless fiend by keeping my 
 whereabouts secret ; and, indeed, if my beggarly 
 
 * The Rev. Sir Thomas Gery Cullum, of Hardwick, eighth 
 and last baronet. 
 
 203 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 parish allowance does not come soon I shall not 
 be able to leave this for another three or four 
 months. 
 
 If you could see the real architectural night- 
 mare of the " Cottage Horny,"* it is even uglier 
 than the lithograph, being patched together with 
 heavy heterogeneous pieces of old black oak 
 carving, of which the late Duchess of St. Albans 
 sent the old ladies a cart-load, so that it looks for 
 all the world like those concentrated indigestions 
 of unwieldy and elaborate gingerbread that one 
 sees at a Dutch Fair. 
 
 I am glad you had such a good view of Genie 
 et Eugenie — I mean the Emperor and Empress ; 
 but her great beauty is her skin and figure, the 
 first being like parian marble and the latter 
 moulded as if by Praxiteles : what a contrast to 
 our little flamme de bouche looking queen ! The 
 Capilotade a la lettre that I send you this time I 
 have wrapped up in a charming portrait of the 
 greatest scamp in the Principality, and being such, 
 I suppose, was the reason that he always wore a 
 bull's horn round his neck, doubtless as a practical 
 
 * Plas Newydd, the home of " The Ladies of Llangollen " 
 (Lady Eleanor Butler and Miss Ponsonby). 
 
 204 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 illustration of the promise that " The horn of the 
 righteous shall be exalted " ! * 
 
 Whoever thought of collecting the Portraits of 
 the Bonaparte family (et sur tout de la Reine 
 Hortense) at the Guildhall ? It was a very nice 
 and amiable idea, and much more French than 
 English. 
 
 Mr. Tib, with hims Koh-i-noor eyes, desires 
 mille baise-pattes to Miss Mizzy. I am up to 
 my eyes in business and bother of every kind, so 
 again thanking 'you very sincerely for having 
 been so kind as to take the trouble of going to 
 Browne's, 
 
 Believe me in haste, dear Mr. Chalon, 
 Ever truly yours, 
 
 rosina bulwer lytton. 
 
 Llangollen Sarcophagus, 
 April i$, 1855. 
 A thousand thanks, dear Mr. Chalon, for your 
 agreeable letter and the delicious flowers, which 
 revived on being put into tepid water and became 
 quite fresh and sweet : and truly it is a cause for 
 gratitude to get anything sweet and innocent in 
 
 * It was a portrait of Richard Robert Jones, alias Die 
 Aberdaron, " the celebrated Cambrian linguist." 
 
 205 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 the midst of so much bitterness, blackness, and 
 baseness. A propos de bottes, I am charmed 
 with your old aunt's boot and hat, and in common 
 with the rest of the world owe the good old lady 
 a debt of gratitude for having fostered your and 
 your poor brother's artistic genius. Have you 
 no portrait of her ? But of course you have. . . . 
 
 I am still in all the agonies of suspense, or 
 rather of despair, for not yet having had one line 
 from either of those dreadful lawyers touching 
 my parish allowance, here I must pine out my 
 miserable existence for another three or four 
 months instead of joining my kind friends as I 
 had anxiously hoped to do. However, I have 
 always the satisfaction of being furnished with 
 fresh matter for my black letter edition of human 
 nature.* . . . But so be it, I have still my poor 
 Tib with hims big bootiful darling honest eyes — 
 there is neither deceit, treachery, nor ingratitude 
 about him. 
 
 Instead of a diamond watch and chain our 
 
 little Brummagem queen would have given a 
 
 shilling pinchbeck one and ditto chain, for I saw 
 
 the disgraceful fifteen-shilling pins — such as a 
 
 * There follows a long recount of the Chevalier de Birard's 
 iniquities. 
 
 206 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 groom might stick in his shirt — that she gave her 
 aunt's chamberlains and dames d'honneur when 
 she went to Brussels and Coburg. . . . 
 
 No, decidedly I am not a prudent person, for 
 though I never begin by attacking or speaking 
 disparagingly of any one, as I find most other, 
 even very prudent, people do — like the despicable 
 little Chevalier for instance — yet when I have 
 been either grossly insulted or aggrieved, as 
 often happens to a person in my most cruel and 
 almost unparalleled position, I have a vulgar 
 habit of telling the exact truth and expressing 
 myself both plainly and strongly ; and although 
 Socrates's advice to live with one's best friends 
 as if they were one day to be one's enemies is 
 admirable as to prudence, yet the acting upon it 
 would render existence (for of Life I know 
 nothing) even a more bitterly nauseous chose 
 than it already is. . . . 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 May 6, 1855. 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, — You will think I am 
 making a perfect St. Paul of you, giving you the 
 
 207 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 care of all the churches,* which at all events 
 is very disinterested of me, as if my worries 
 continue much longer, I shall soon be past pray- 
 ing for. I have every prospect of being kept 
 here God knows how long, as you will see by the 
 enclosed letter from Mr. Hyde, which I hope 
 won't shock you too much, as you will perceive 
 that he has (though a lawyer and therefore know- 
 ing that every word of his letter would be action- 
 able if it were not much too true to be noticed) 
 the same " coarse, vulgar habit" of calling 
 certain persons and things by their right names 
 that I have. . . . 
 
 De grace donnez moi des nouvelles de vos 
 triomphes d'exposition ? A friend of mine writes 
 me word that Prince Albert looked quite 
 delighted at sitting beside that beautiful Empress 
 instead of his own dumpy, idiotic looking frau. 
 I wrote her back word no doubt he was delighted 
 at this change for his sovereign, a qui, si cela se 
 pourra, il eut ete tout a fait aussi content de 
 donner le change ! I hope you don't expect any 
 flowers because this is called " the merry month 
 of May," as I beg to tell you — all on account of 
 
 * There is a view of Wrexham Church on the notepaper of 
 this letter. 
 
 208 
 
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Lady Bulwer LyttQii 
 
 the War ! — we have ice two inches thick, while 
 the mountains, as Carlyle would say, look like 
 geographical flunkeys or the like powdered with 
 snow. Poor Sir Henry Bishop ! I am so sorry for 
 him : how came he to be in such distress ? for a 
 few years ago he was a very rich man, 
 
 Addio. In great haste, yours sincerely, 
 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 Phillips's Hotel, 
 
 Llangollen, 
 May 27, 1855. 
 Very many thanks, dear Mr. Chalon, for your 
 most kind and considerate thought of sending- 
 an admission to view your Chef-d'ceuvres to my 
 dear good Mr. Hyde ; next to having the great 
 pleasure and privilege of doing so myself, nothing 
 could afford me greater gratification. . . . The 
 moment that cowardly wretch, Sir Liar, got 
 Mr. Hyde's missive he paid my parish allowance 
 the next day, but Mr. Hyde said in his last letter 
 to me, three days ago, " I have not done with the 
 wretches yet," and Mr. Hyde having now got all 
 the documents and proofs of his infamous spies, 
 which have been traced by a magistrate, I have 
 no doubt he will make the dastard tremble in his 
 
 209 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 ugly skin. I hope to leave this the 12th of June, 
 and will let you know my whereabouts, but mind 
 cest pour vous seul on account of Sir Liars 
 organised system of espionage and conspiracy 
 en permanence. . . . 
 
 Mille remerciments for your kind suggestion 
 about Swansea, which by your account seems to 
 be a sort of Italy improvised : I should indeed be 
 glad to get to that or any other sea out of my sea 
 of troubles ! But of that I can see no chance, 
 being one of those inveterate manque tout, who 
 with enough to kill twenty people cannot even 
 manage to die. I think you wou/d pity me if you 
 knew the process of slow torture that Fiend — for 
 man he is not — has subjected me to ever since 
 I have been in this living tomb ; however, it is 
 God's Will or it could not be : therefore as His 
 Will I must bear it, though I do think no one was 
 ever so severely, so universally, and so long tried, 
 without intermission, as I have been. As for 
 Job, he was, compared to me, a pampered 
 sybarite, for in the whole of the Devil's repertoire 
 of that day there was no Sir Edward Bulwer 
 Lytton, for verily if there had been, his Satanic 
 Majesty might in point of wickedness have hid 
 his diminished head, to say nothing of his hoofs, 
 21Q 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 and sold off all his fire and brimstone "at a 
 tremendous sacrifice." But I have no right to 
 bore you with all this, so encore adieu. . . . 
 Yours sincerely, 
 R. B. L., 
 
 MOGLIE DI DlAVOLO ! 
 
 Lady Bulwer Lytton made a hasty departure 
 from Llangollen. For some time past she had 
 thought efforts were being made by her enemies 
 to poison her, or to kidnap and immure her in an 
 asylum. Much of this belief was probably delusion, 
 but in the unhappy state of her mind it was a very 
 real delusion, and she accordingly removed, with 
 great secrecy, to Taunton, in Somersetshire, 
 from where she wrote her next letter, in June 
 i355. 
 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, — I don't know if I ever 
 told you that when I made my escape from Llan- 
 gollen and came here, Sir Edward was perfectly 
 rabid at his and his bloodhounds having lost my 
 track. So well had I managed it, that all the 
 wretches there thought I was gone to London, 
 
 21 1 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 as I had all my luggage forwarded to a friend 
 in Hyde Park Terrace, and sent on here after, 
 so that when my parish allowance became due 
 he and Loaden * thought themselves very clever in 
 saying they would not pay it till they had a clergy- 
 man's certificate of the place I was in and of my 
 existence ! My dear good old lion, Hyde, said he 
 should have a better proof of my existence than 
 that, as he, Hyde, would accompany me to 
 Knebworth and see me properly installed there, 
 which, of course, brought the reptile instantly to 
 his senses ; but as I was determined not to endure 
 this infamy every time, and as poor Mr. Hodgson, 
 though an excellent man, is a sort of legal 
 Admiral Dundas, I determined to take the 
 matter in hand myself, more especially as the 
 spies were reappearing on the horizon. 
 
 About a week before my last parish allowance 
 became due, a creature calling herself Miss 
 Henna (why not Henbane at once ?) wrote to 
 request an interview with me — that is the way 
 they generally begin ; but by her coming in the 
 dusk of the evening, in a pouring rain, and 
 refusing to say what her business was, and being 
 so very urgent to see me, only to see me, Mrs. 
 
 * Rulwer Lytton's agent. 
 212 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 Clarke * told her, without mincing the matter, 
 that she firmly believed her to be one of Sir E.'s 
 spies and that therefore she might go back and 
 tell him, after being hunted to death by his 
 infamous emissaries, I saw no one not especially 
 recommended to me, but that no doubt he would 
 be delighted to hear that I had not been so well for 
 years, and was going abroad in a day or two. 
 "Miss Henna" then, by way of establishing her 
 respectability, said she was a governess. " Oh ! 
 very likely," said Mrs. Clarke ; " I understand 
 most of that vile man's mistresses are, and they 
 afterwards fill the equally honourable office of his 
 spies. Pray, where are you staying in Taunton ? " 
 She then got very red, stammered very much, 
 and named some doctor living near Trinity 
 Church (two miles from this). "Oh! indeed," 
 said Mrs. Clarke, " but it happens rather un- 
 fortunately that there is no doctor of law, physic, 
 or divinity of that name in Taunton, so the sooner 
 you return to your employer the better. " Mrs. 
 Clarke sent a policeman to watch her, and she 
 decamped by the next London train, and Mr. 
 Oakly, the governor of the jail, made every 
 inquiry, and no one of the name of " Henna," nor 
 * The landlady at Taunton. 
 
 213 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 answering her description, was known at the post 
 office or in the town. * 
 
 Giles's Castle Hotel, 
 
 Taunton, Somersetshire, 
 
 June 19, 1855. 
 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, — I have not the least 
 doubt that your Exhibition is both remarkable 
 and first-rate. I had a letter from Mr. Hyde a 
 few days ago begging of me again to thank you 
 for the ticket of admission you so kindly sent 
 him : he said he knew they would see some Chef- 
 d'oeuvres, but he had no idea they should see so 
 many, it is such a magnificent collection. 
 
 I arrived here yesterday week, and feel in 
 Heaven to be out of that horrid hole and once 
 more among kind friends who pet me from 
 morning to night. My present locale is very 
 agreeable, this being the original old Castle of 
 1296 (castellated), with a beautiful gateway, and 
 by moonlight really a beautiful pile of building. 
 My landlady, Instead of being an ugly old hyaena 
 
 * This letter was printed in Life of Rosina, Lady Lytton, 
 and was apparently the only one in the long series addressed 
 to A. E. Chalon that Miss Devey, the author of the book, ever 
 saw. The original of this letter is not with the rest of the 
 correspondence. 
 214 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 like my last, is a pretty, young, and very obliging 
 person, and has actually refurnished my rooms 
 for me, which are very pleasant — looking out 
 over the Castle Green ; and there is also a 
 beautiful Park of Lord Wilton's within ten 
 minutes' walk, qui fait les delices de Monsieur 
 Tib. For a country town, this is a much larger 
 place, with infinitely finer shops, than I should 
 have supposed, and the 15th Hussars being now 
 quartered here enlivens it considerably ; but alas ! 
 the rain is like marriage, inasmuch as that there 
 is no end to it, and although the almanack calls 
 it the 19th June, I have a Xmas fire which is 
 not a coal too warm. Here are some friends who 
 have called to take me to return some visits, and 
 as I cannot keep their horses in the rain — addio. 
 Ever, dear Mr. Chalon, sincerely yours, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LyTTON. 
 
 Castle Hotel, 
 June 24, 1855. 
 I am indeed grieved to hear, dear Mr. Chalon, 
 that the Infernal Machine has been at work 
 against you,* but I am never surprised at any 
 
 * An allusion, no doubt, to press criticisms of the Exhibition 
 of the Chalons' works. 
 
 2I 5 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 amount of infamy or treachery its propellers may 
 perpetrate. Take care that that mean reptile 
 Pecksniff's * profession of good will is not the 
 primo mobile of all this real ill will, for the whole 
 of that rascally Press Gang are more or less 
 Januses or Judases. I remember years ago that 
 ne plus ultra of clever blackguards, Dr. Maginn, 
 shewing me the most smashing articles he had 
 written for The Standard, against that vile Mrs. 
 Norton upon the Melbourne crim. con. affair, t 
 and another for The Globe written with the same 
 pen, and before the ink of the smasher was dry, 
 proving her to be an angel of light and injured 
 innocence — and injured in no sense she certainly 
 was, so far as this world goes, where brazen vice 
 in man or woman is the passport to all earthly 
 success : but infamy which plays so great a role 
 — more especially in England — has only two 
 
 * S. C. Hall, as owner of The Art Journal. 
 
 \ Caroline Sheridan, wife of George Norton (younger brother 
 of Lord Grantley), had much influence with Lord Melbourne, 
 the Prime Minister. Although he had accepted various favours 
 from his wife's friend, Norton claimed ^10,000 damages from 
 Melbourne, who, however, secured a successful verdict at 
 the famous trial, in 1836, for crim. con. Mrs. Norton, of 
 course, was to a great extent the model for Meredith's " Diana 
 of the Crossways." 
 
 216 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 agents, force and hypocrisy, and only two limits, 
 courage and independence, but alas ! where is the 
 latter combination to be found except in homeo- 
 pathic globules in a very small minority ? 
 
 You say you think your influential friend might 
 have exerted himself before : ah ! my dear sir, if 
 friends (?), influential or otherwise, ever did exert 
 themselves — instead of bearing all our insults, 
 injustices, and outrages with the most stoical 
 philosophy, the most Christian forgiveness, and 
 the most passive endurance — depend upon it, 
 enmity would soon be extinct, for it would have 
 no power whereon to exist. Enemies declare 
 war, but luke-warm friends it is who arm them 
 for the fray and ensure them the victory by leaving 
 them champ libre. I shall be very glad to see the 
 article in The Court Journal or any other that 
 does you justice. I have such a sovereign con- 
 tempt for the Press that I never see any paper 
 but The Times, and only that on account of its 
 leading articles and the fearless and masterly 
 manner it speaks out on the subject of all abuses 
 save one. But then the man is not yet born — 
 more especially the Englishman — who will 
 interest himself about that one. 
 
 I cannot think what takes old Lady Hotham 
 
 217 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 annually to the Continent, but verily believe it is 
 to screw in a garret abroad to avoid dinner-giving 
 in London and the corkscrewing that entails. 
 
 I continue to be delighted with my new abode, 
 and it would be difficult not to be, so surrounded 
 with kindness and prevenances as I am. My 
 landlady anticipates every wish I have in an 
 almost lover-like way, and supplies me daily with 
 whole parterres of the most lovely flowers, to 
 which I shall nevertheless be delighted to intro- 
 duce your promised rose. 
 
 Though Solomon said there was nothing new 
 under the sun, here is a strange thing and, to me, 
 one that is perfectly new. Mr. Oakly, the 
 governor, was shewing me over the Jail the 
 other day, and in pointing out the new wing that 
 had been built for the women's ward said that 
 last year, when the workmen were digging for 
 the foundation they came upon a perfect forest of 
 full-grown oaks ; the leaves and acorns on the 
 trees, but they as well as the trunks perfectly 
 black, and that that very handsome carved dining 
 table I had admired in his dining-room had been 
 made out of one of them. A learned geologist 
 lecturing on this extraordinary discovery roundly 
 asserted that this subterranean forest had been 
 218 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 planted by the acorns given in great profusion to 
 
 the Bishop of Winchester's pigs in Harry the 
 
 Eighth's time ! This is what you may call going 
 
 the whole animal in science, and as I have not a 
 
 fellow marvel to match it, I must conclude with 
 
 the anything but new assurance that I am, dear 
 
 Mr. Chalon, 
 
 Yours very sincerely, 
 
 rosina bulwer lytton. 
 
 Castle Hotel, 
 
 July 9, 1855. 
 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, — I have been waiting 
 avec tant soit peu d'impatience for the promised 
 article in The Court Journal and the sybarite 
 sandwiches you promised me in the shape of 
 rose leaves. I hope my story of the subterra- 
 nean forest did not amaze you with an oblivion 
 of all other things as the legends of " The Erl 
 King " do the German children. 
 
 Miss Ryves writes me word that she has just 
 been at a series of Bridal Festas at Hermitage 
 — my brilliant ( ! ) cousin Lord Massy's, who 
 has just got a young and very pretty wife* — 
 
 * Hugh, fifth Lord Massy, of Hermitage, Co. Limerick, 
 married, in 1855, Isabella, daughter of George More Nisbet, of 
 Cairnhill, Co. Lanark. 
 
 219 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 and that young Lady M.'s sister-in-law, Lady 
 Agnes Nisbet (she was a daughter of Lord 
 Stair's) has given her such a glowing and tanta- 
 lising description of the Chalon Exhibition, that 
 it makes her doubly regret not being able to 
 have an equal pleasure, "for which," she adds, 
 " I would gladly pay ios. to make up the deficit 
 of Lady Hotham's one — such is what she would 
 call my imprudence ! " I tell you this to show 
 you that all the world is not Press-ridden into 
 blindness and bad taste. 
 
 I continue to be what donkeys rarely are 
 — in clover. Such kind friends, and it is as 
 good an echappe of Elysium as one can hope 
 for on this side of the Styx to have every 
 wish anticipated, and be loved and cared 
 for from morning to night ; and then such 
 a pearl of a landlady, such a profusion of 
 beautiful fresh flowers every morning, and such 
 strawberries (they must have come from Brob- 
 dingnag !) and Devonshire cream for breakfast. 
 I wish you and Mizzy were here to share 
 them. Tib sends an effigy of our kennel 
 to show Mizzy she was wrong to turn up her 
 nose at him. Pray let me hear that both 
 you and the Gallery are going on as well and 
 220 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 prosperously as is the sincere wish of, clear Mr. 
 Chalon, 
 
 Yours very truly, 
 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 Per mi disorazzia. 
 
 '£> 
 
 August 6, 1855. 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, — I am glad, for your own 
 sake, that it was not your house that was polluted 
 by The Guilt, as not only " who can touch pitch 
 without being defiled ? " but also nothing can 
 pitch touch that it does not defile ; and moreover 
 I have a strong faith in the proverb of "Tell me 
 your company and I'll tell you who you are." . . . 
 I did not on second thoughts intend sending 
 you the accompanying letters, recollecting in 
 time my English proprieties, which always 
 inculcate that when persons have no earthly 
 interest in you or your affairs, you have no 
 right to bore them with them ; but on the 
 other hand my English selfishness predomi- 
 nates, and having no interests to manager or 
 ends to gain, and heartily despising the whole 
 tissue of infamies . . . , I am determined to make 
 the whole thing public with a vengeance. As for 
 poor timid Mr. Hodgson, it is such cowardice 
 
 221 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 from first to last which has wrecked me, and when 
 he like a goose wrote me word that I'd have to 
 give my address, I replied as Sir Cloudsley Shovel 
 did when he was Governor of the Castle here in 
 the Civil Wars and the Parliamentarians wanted 
 by starving him out to make him raise the siege 
 — " I'll eat my boots first ! " And accordingly the 
 moment that vile wretch Loaden got Mr. Hyde's 
 letter, the cowardly wretches instantly paid the 
 money at twelve o'clock that night, and that is the 
 only way to deal with such ineffable blackguards 
 as Sir Liar Coward Bulwer Lytton and "That 
 sublime of rascals his attorney," who little dream 
 of the moral earthquake that awaits them. But 
 you must not suppose a Fanglais that Mr. Hyde 
 writes these letters because he's paid for them and 
 is therefore obliged to do so, for, for the fifteen 
 years he has transacted my business, he has never 
 received or would accept a shilling from me ; and 
 when first I consulted him (though then alas ! it 
 was too late, for all the mischief had been done 
 by my ass of a cousin). ... I believe he thought 
 me quite as violent, unreasonable, imprudent, and 
 exaggerated in my indignation as you do — till 
 proof came under his own eyes so damning of that 
 Fiend's incredible villainy and fabulous black- 
 
 222 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 guardism, that nozv I think he even goes beyond 
 me in his sovereign contempt for and disgust at 
 him. Poor, good Mr. Hyde ! his illness is not 
 only a serious loss but a sincere grief to me, 
 though now, thank God, he is much better. I have a 
 most darling story to tell you of my little Tibby's 
 saving a kitten's life, but must put it off till I 
 write again, so believe me in haste, dear Mr. 
 Chalon, 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 August 8, 1855. 
 
 Many thanks, dear Mr. Chalon, for letting me 
 
 see the enclosed. I am glad that The Morning 
 
 Pap in its long career of falsehood and inanity 
 
 has at length written some sentences of truth and 
 
 sense. I cannot agree with you that age per se 
 
 •is respectable, though I do think it should always 
 
 be respected — that is spared — by " station " ! 
 
 Of course you mean wealth, for it so happens 
 
 that Pie-assiette * is three years older than Lady 
 
 Hotham and has quite as good blood in his veins, 
 
 though one would never suppose so by his 
 
 actions : yet because he is poor you have no such 
 
 * The Chevalier de Birard. 
 
 223 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 wondrous respect for his age or tenderness for 
 his vices ! The Queen is unquestionably a person 
 of " station," which does not, however, prevent 
 her being a most worthless, contemptible, insigni- 
 ficant person. However, chacun a son gout, and 
 there can be no doubt that the safe Swiss plan of 
 worshipping the powers that be is the most 
 prudent with regard to this world. I must end 
 in haste not to keep " a person of station ! " — 
 that is one infinitely richer than myself — waiting, 
 one who has come to take me out to drive, so 
 believe me by electric telegraph, 
 Truly yours, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LyTTON, 
 
 who in ten minutes will be a person of station as 
 she is going to the railway station ! 
 
 September 15, 1855. 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, — Your letter just received 
 is the first intelligence I have had of the poem 
 you mention ; but to tell you the truth, I take no 
 interest in Poetry since I have found what 
 unnatural brutes poets can be. I understand 
 . . . 's legitimate son is a poet, and by all 
 accounts as great a profligate and hypocrite as 
 his father ; one thing is at all events certain, 
 224 
 
THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON 
 From the portrait by A. E. Chalon, R.A. 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 that he is quite as unfeeling and unnatural, which 
 I suppose are the credentials necessary to be 
 called by the world extremely amiable. I hate 
 Classical Poetry, and though Clytemnestra fully 
 deserved her fate, at all events she had the satis- 
 faction (and the virtue!) to murder her husband 
 first, which would have been more praiseworthy 
 if he had not been Agamemnon. However, like 
 all good people, those Beldame Fates, of course, 
 compelled him to pay the tax of his worth. 
 
 Are you not much flattered and elated that the 
 Clique have generously allowed your portrait of 
 Messalina Blessington to appear to the second 
 edition of her Life ? I congratulate you upon their 
 dawning patronage ! * The weather is so delight- 
 
 * The picture in question by Chalon, showing Lady 
 Blessington in her opera box, is reproduced opposite. After 
 the engraving of this portrait, Lady Blessington's beau cavalier, 
 Count D'Orsay, wrote solicitously to the artist : 
 
 " Mon cher M. Chalon, 
 
 " Vous me rendrez grand service si vous voulez avoir 
 l'obligeance de recoller le portrait de Lady Blessington : vous 
 remarquerez que MM. les graveurs l'ont horriblement chiffonne, 
 et je n'ose le Conner a personne. Ayez aussi la bonte de 
 faire redorer la cadre pour moi. 
 
 " Vous voyez que je compte beaucoup sur votre amabilite 
 
 pour vous donner tout cet embarras. 
 
 " Votre tout devoue, 
 
 "A. D'Orsay." 
 
 p 225 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 ful that I think you will still enjoy the Isle of 
 Wight. I am going to Sweden with some friends 
 in their yacht, and am enchanted to get out of 
 England, the land of vice, cant, falsehood, 
 treachery, and every other rascality. 
 
 Wishing you a pleasant tour, believe me, dear 
 Mr. Chalon, 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LYTTON. 
 
 December 14, 18 55* 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, — L'homme propose (at 
 least sometimes when he is not wanted to do so) 
 et le Dieu dispose — sans doute toujours pour le 
 mieux, and so my trip to Sweden was knocked on 
 the head by a severe fit of illness — from which I 
 am still weak — and this journey put off till next 
 year. Next year! — when perhaps I may have 
 gone farther, though without I trust faring worse. 
 Many thanks pour les deux portraits nan 
 charmants. / can vouch for the likeness of that 
 of " Maria, my love," Mrs. Pecksniff; and for the 
 other, all I can say is, that if her voice was only 
 half as much in the air as her nose is, her singing 
 must have been perfection. 
 
 I supposeyou have heard of poor Lady HothanVs 
 226 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 death ? A friend wrote me word from Brighton 
 that she had been talking with her on the cliff 
 three days before, when she was as well as ever 
 she was : it was my old foe bronchitis that she 
 died of, for that said bronchitis is a regular Cossack 
 for carrying off old women, so it is to be hoped it 
 will not always disdain me. Doubtless Pie-assiette 
 is now, apres avoir si longtemps croquer le marmot, 
 reaping the golden harvest of his treachery, in- 
 gratitude, and blackguardism, but I have not yet 
 heard any particulars touching her behests. 
 
 This being a penal settlement I can only give 
 you extracts from the Jail and Gibbet Gazette. 
 The horrible case of that Tutton for poisoning his 
 father was tried here the other day, and I went 
 with a large party to hear the speech for the 
 prosecution, the barrister being a friend of ours. 
 Nothing could be stronger than the evidence 
 against him, and one of his sisters owned after 
 the trial that she had seen him secrete the arsenic 
 paper in his bosom ; but the shrieks of the poor 
 wretched mother and sisters caused them to be 
 taken out of court and so prevented their being 
 cross-examined, for they would not give evidence 
 against him. His countenance alone might have 
 hung him without judge or jury, for a more 
 
 227 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 villainous one — with a solitary exception — I never 
 saw, but he was acquitted and let loose to continue 
 his successful career of crime. The Judge (Baron 
 Parke) was furious and surprised beyond measure 
 at this verdict: not so I, as I have long been con- 
 vinced that to succeed in English Society one 
 must be guilty of great vices ; and to benefit by 
 English Legislation one must commit a great 
 
 crime. 
 
 A curious story this, about Miss Murray (the 
 ci-devant Maid of Honour) returning from 
 America a red-hot advocate for Slavery, which 
 she calls "a charming domestic arrangement," 
 and having written a book upon the theme, re- 
 quested permission to dedicate it to the Queen, 
 whose reply was "that she must chuse between 
 her Book and her Place," and accordingly she 
 has resigned. I can quite understand her crotchet 
 from the fact of our always judging of all things 
 from our own individual tzmnges ; and she having 
 made a comparative analysis between Slavery in 
 America and at Buckingham Palace, gave the 
 preference to the Nigger over the Niggard 
 system — et voila tout. 
 
 There is here the most prdvenant of waiters, 
 who supplies me with the most charming bouquets 
 228 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 — nothing less than myrtle, roses, geraniums, 
 and heliotropes, of which I send you a few leaves, 
 and with all the good wishes of the season, believe 
 me, dear Mr. Chalon, 
 
 Very truly yours, 
 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 January 17, 1856. 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, — Mr. Charles Hyde's 
 office is 32>> Ely Place, Holborn, London. Thank 
 Heaven, one of his country houses is within six 
 miles of this, which I feel as some little protec- 
 tion, considering the ceaseless persecution I am 
 subjected to from the most ruffianly blackguard 
 in England. 
 
 I'm very glad to hear Mme. Bertini is at 
 Windsor — if she likes it and thinks it will be any 
 service to her: I'd rather she than me, and I 
 hope she may get more than three farthings a 
 lesson and her travelling expenses deducted.* 
 In haste, dear Mr. Chalon, 
 Yours truly, 
 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 * Madame Bertini was engaged at times in teaching the 
 younger members of the Royal Family. 
 
 229 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 February 2, 1856. 
 Very many thanks to you, dear Mr. Chalon, 
 and many more to the Author of the very clever 
 ieu d'esprit which you were good enough to for- 
 ward me ; it has been a most agreeable reliet 
 to my dullness, and I sincerely (though alas ! 
 very disinterestedly) join in the author's regret 
 at your absence from the Exhibition. ... I am 
 delighted with the manner in which he has 
 kept the unities about Dickens's manipula- 
 tions of the samples of his Fatherland. Quant 
 a son eloge de cette petite ladre egoiste becasse 
 de Reine, c'est si peu merite qu'il devient 
 satire, et a ce titre est assez de mise. I do hope 
 that this poet is not also an artist, as that is too 
 much in your style to ingross so many talents, 
 and a shameful monopoly that we poor ignora- 
 muses have every right to resent as a sort of 
 personal robbery, and it is therefore very lucky 
 pour vous autres genies a facettes that we do not 
 harbour the savage idea that by strangling or 
 Palmerising you we might obtain possession of 
 your talents ; or else you would surely find (as 
 Mirabeau said of Necker) that you were " victims 
 to your own ambition and martyrs to your own 
 230 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 success." May I ask — if not a profound secret — 
 the name of the author whose piquant poem has 
 afforded me and two or three of my friends here 
 so much pleasure ? . . . 
 
 You will be charmed to hear that the dear 
 Chevalier has had his virtue rewarded by Lady 
 Hotham with a legacy of ^300, but as he is a 
 poor wretch, in every sense of the word, I don't so 
 much regret this as that that disgusting brute, 
 George Beauclerk, should have succeeded in his 
 designs and got one of ^2000 — a wretch who so 
 recently figured in a police court for so villainous 
 a crime ; but being a sexagenarian legacy hunter 
 it's satisfactory (to himself) that he should have 
 succeeded at last. Some sixteen years ago, 
 during; the life of her first husband, he was 
 playing precisely the same game with that old 
 ass, Mrs. Disraeli, little dreaming that she used 
 to show me all his letters and roar over them : but 
 Dizzy, who had also entered the lists with him, 
 being the cleverer rascal of the two, was in at the 
 death and so married the lean widow, or rather 
 her fat jointure, for which he proposed the very 
 day poor Wyndham Lewis died, as the Coroner's 
 Inquest were tramping up the stairs (for he died 
 suddenly of a heart complaint). This I know for 
 
 231 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 a fact from having been in the house at the time, 
 and Mrs. Dizzy owning — or rather proclaiming — 
 the "soft impeachment" to me herself. How- 
 ever, it must be confessed that Dizzy has always 
 behaved in the kindest and most cherishing 
 manner to her ^5000 a year, which dies with 
 her, he no doubt seeing a terrible void in his 
 banker's book " looming in the future ! " 
 
 What I cannot forgive Lady Hotham for is 
 the more than ingratitude — the positive dis- 
 honesty — of leaving her poor, old, life-long 
 servants totally unprovided for. As I told poor 
 old Davis (her butler), if I had but a home I 
 would willingly take both him and his wife. . . . 
 I can think of nothing better — at least truer — for 
 poor Lady Hotham's epitaph than alas ! that 
 such soft heads should go with such hard hearts 
 and hard cash. . . . 
 
 Croyez moi, cher M. Chalon, votre toute 
 devouee, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LyTTON. 
 
 February 8, 1856. 
 Mille graces, cher M. Chalon, pour le tres 
 spirituel billet de M. Lane, in whose opinion I so 
 cordially agree that I much prefer Lane upon 
 232 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 Chalon to either Chalons sur Marne or Saone ! 
 Mr. Lane says he is not an R.A., which I am 
 surprised at, as from what I have seen from his 
 pencil I always thought him the best sort of R.A. 
 —to wit, a Rare Artist.* I can only repeat that 
 you artists are most unconscionable monopolists, 
 and deserve to be tried for Bigamy with at least 
 five of the nine Muses, and have actions for 
 crim* con. brought against you with the other 
 four. . . . 
 
 And now I am going to fly in the face of the 
 whole Royal Academy, and criticise both your 
 anatomy and your design, for you have put a heart 
 where heart there was none ; it should have been 
 a plethoric Purse surmounted by a Cap of Main- 
 tenance, et pour time the cap and bells. I cannot 
 agree with you as to the superior physique of 
 that beast Beauclerk to Dizzy. Whether it is 
 knowing what I do of the brute, but he always 
 gives me the idea of a Brummagem Brigand 
 as manufactured at the Surrey Theatre or 
 Richardson's Show: whereas there is both 
 character (I don't, of course, mean moral 
 
 * R. J. Lane, like Chalon, particularly excelled in fine 
 pencil portraits. He lived at 3, Osnaburgh Terrace, Regent's 
 Park. 
 
 233 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 character) and uniqueness in Dizzy's grotesque 
 ugliness, as he is a facsimile of " The Black 
 Princely Devil " in a book of Chinese super- 
 stitions, which poor Captain Marryat lent me 
 once. Poor old Davis looked, acted, and felt 
 more like a gentleman any day than that brute 
 Gorge. My advice to Davis was to send the 
 wretch's letter intact to Mr. Shiel.* What a pity 
 Beauclerk could not cajole Lady Hotham into 
 leaving him everything, and then there would be 
 no one to blame but the Man in the Moon for the 
 treachery to poor Davis. As for Gorge's flourish 
 of penny trumpets about his character, as I told 
 Mrs. Davis, there is only one man in England 
 could do it justice, and that was Calcraft the 
 Hangman. The wretch's disgusting vanity, too : 
 he one evening, at Brighton, entertained Lady 
 Hotham for three hours with all the women in 
 London who had been in love with, and made set 
 at, him ; but when at last he came to the present 
 Lady Beauchamp I could stand it no longer, so 
 very quietly said, " Dear me, you astonish me, for 
 I thought in marrying Lord Beauchamp she had 
 got what she had always considered indispensable 
 — rank and money!" Upon another occasion Lady 
 
 * Lady Hotham's nephew and heir. 
 234 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 Hotham said to me, " George Beauclerk was quite 
 miserable the other day at having stained his lips 
 with mulberries." " What a fool he must be," 
 said I, "for does he not know that the King 
 Charles breed always are black in the mouth." * 
 
 I am thoroughly disgusted and much dis- 
 appointed at Mr. Shiel, and could I have dreamt 
 that he would have inherited his aunt's flinty 
 parsimony with her property I never would have 
 urged her to leave him the latter, as I did when 
 Gorge and the rest of the gang were doing all 
 they could to set her against him. 
 
 I wish you were within reach of an invitation, 
 as a young relation of mine, now on leave in 
 London from Aldershot, has this morning sent 
 me a perfect colony of Pates de foie gras and 
 a case of Champagne. ... I really think I shall 
 have to quote from one of those brilliant effusions 
 that I admire so much — the Speeches from the 
 Throne — and say that "at present my foreign 
 relations are highly satisfactory ! " 
 
 Adieu, dear Mr. Chalon. T.A.V. 
 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 * George Beauclerk was a descendant of Charles Beauclerk, 
 first Duke of St. Albans, son of King Charles II. and Nell 
 Gwyn. 
 
 235 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 I am sorry to say I have mislaid Mr. Lane's 
 note among my papers, but I will send it to you 
 to-morrow. I only hope it has not fallen in 
 Master Tiber's way, as he is so fond of running 
 down Lanes, and I should be sorry that he, or any 
 one else, should run down that one. 
 
 February 15, 1856. 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, — I am really sorry you 
 should have twice had the trouble of sending" me 
 your reply to M. de Caudolle ; but up to the 
 present moment I have never received the first 
 envoye. From what I can glean of the nature 
 of the Rapport (by your reply), I do not wonder 
 that you should be annoyed at its short-comings 
 with regard to the proper Standard of praise due 
 to your brother's and your own Chef-d'ceuvres ; 
 but I take it that it is pretty generally with critics 
 in art as with critics in literature— that even when 
 their intention is most to praise, their judgment 
 being at fault they invariably go upon a wrong 
 tack and select the very worst and least praise- 
 worthy points for their panegyrics — et puisque 
 peut on attendre de Geneve ? " Cette ville ladre 
 et roide ou tout est entame, ou Ton calcule 
 toujours et ne sent jamais," as Voltaire truly said 
 236 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 of it ; and which if it were not for the truly great 
 Painters it has produced in no niggardly degree, 
 deserves to be submerged in its own beautiful 
 Lake for its intense meanness, cant, self-suffi- 
 ciency, and having produced such an unprincipled 
 wretch as Jean Jacques Rousseau, who, barring 
 the vindictiveness and calculating villainy, was a 
 sort of highly diluted Sir Liar. Mais consoler 
 vous, cher M. Chalon, the higher order of genius 
 like yours and your brother's has always an 
 unalienable Crown, Throne, and Empire in 
 Posterity. . . . 
 
 You need not thank me for my confidence : it 
 was no confidence, but what I would make to the 
 Town Crier ; my miserable position not only 
 being exceptional but unique, it must be dealt 
 with after an exceptional and unique manner, 
 and I assure you you would have had my free 
 leave to have posted the last letters I sent you 
 on the outside walls of your house. Mais je 
 comprends that according to the practices of the 
 un-Holy Inquisition such a correspondence 
 might be compromising to the person in whose 
 hands or house it was found. I am sure you 
 would be surprised at the number of persons 
 who not only feel for me but, more wonderful 
 
 237 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 still, have not the least scruple or prudence in 
 expressing in the most strenuous and open- 
 mouthed manner their utter contempt for Sir 
 Liar, and unmitigated disgust at his unparalleled 
 infamy. It is no matter of wonder when one 
 can sow gold or influence that one should reap 
 partisans : but being a beggar I confess I my- 
 self am surprised that I should enlist so many 
 free lances. I really begin to think that I am 
 a sort of She Vicomte de Letoriere, for every 
 time I settle with my landlady she entreats me 
 not to do so if it is the least inconvenient to me, 
 whereupon I tell her that if she can only persuade 
 all the tradespeople to be content with my 
 custom without my money they shall be favoured 
 with the former to the most unlimited extent. . . . 
 The scrap of newspaper I enclose you is a 
 paragraph I sent to The Times about two months 
 ago. Was it not singularly applicable to the 
 present crisis ? * Avec mille choses de ma part 
 et de celle de mon fils cheri Tiber a Mesdames 
 Patapouffe et Mizzy, croyez moi, cher M. Chalon, 
 T.A.V., 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LyTTON. 
 
 * The cutting relates to political movements in Russia in 
 .1772. 
 238 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 February 20, 1856. 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, 
 
 Had I not felt a wish to keep your answer 
 to M. de Caudolle I should not have asked 
 your permission to do so. We won't talk of 
 "sympathy " because that would be toady- 
 ing you, an art I never could make the least 
 proficiency in, which proves my inveterate 
 stupidity as I have seen so much of it. But pray 
 never apply the word to good, honest, single- 
 minded Mr. Hyde,* who, like all sterling 
 characters, in loathing the rampant vice of English 
 Society naturally despises its stagnant conven- 
 tionalities, and so among the apathetically well- 
 bred must make up his account to being found 
 guilty of the lese-fadaise of <f bad taste " ; but 
 people don't toady beggars like me, even if they 
 are silly enough to feel for them, more especially 
 a lawyer who is a disgrace to his profession by 
 working for one gratuitously ! ! People in general 
 (though, thank Heaven, there are exceptions to 
 this rule) toady rich old misers, male or female, 
 that is pay their legacy duty to them, or sycophan- 
 tise to potential infamies like Dizzy or Sir Liar, 
 but not to poor wretches like me, who are only 
 * Her lawyer. 
 
 239 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 allowed to smuggle their very virtues (if they have 
 any) through the World's High Court of Chancery 
 in forma pauperis. 
 
 You say you refrain from invectives with regard 
 to Sir Liar because he is the best abused wretch 
 in Europe. I wish I could think so, and I would 
 immediately follow your magnanimous example ; 
 but, on the contrary, though all bought and paid 
 for, I think him the most be-puffed and over- 
 rated vaurien in Europe. However, I must make 
 allowances for the difficulties of the case and 
 remember that though by the slightest praise it 
 would be easy to overrate such a man, no amount 
 of vituperation could do justice to his infamy. 
 
 As for your courage in exhibiting the " Portrait 
 charmant" which you call mine, besides embellish- 
 ing me past recognition you made me at least thirty 
 years younger than I am : however, being used 
 to detraction in every way I can bear it with 
 Christian fortitude ; at all events I certainly shall 
 not begin complaining when it extends to my age ! 
 Many thanks for letting me see Sir Charles 
 Eastlake's letter, every word of which I am ready 
 to endorse — if need be upon oath before a 
 magistrate — though when I read it I could not 
 help thinking of a certain anecdote of the Marechal 
 240 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 de Villars when, upon the death of the Due de Ven- 
 dome, hewas made Governor of Provence. Where- 
 upon the good Provencals, according to a time 
 immemorial feudal custom, presented him with a 
 heavy purse of gold on a golden dish ; but at the 
 same time in order to give him an idea of what he 
 ought to do — at least of what was expected of him 
 — they informed him that his predecessor on his 
 inauguration had returned both purse and dish. 
 " Ah ! " cried the Marechal, handing the latter to 
 a page, and thrusting the purse into his pocket, 
 "an extraordinary man the Due de Vendome, a 
 very extraordinary man, for he has not left his 
 equal ! " 
 
 I am sorry I should have annoyed Mr. Lane, 
 but he must make allowances for my ignorance, 
 or perhaps there are two Lanes. If so, I may 
 have mistaken the one for the other, for though 
 living so much with dogs and admiring so 
 cordially those really superior beings, still, unlike 
 them, I have not the organ of locality ; but is he 
 not the artist who lithographed those things of 
 D'Orsay's ? Without being quite as bad as poor 
 Catalani, who told me that after seeing Poitier in 
 that most ridiculous burlesque, The Sorrows of 
 Werther, she had actually complimented Goethe 
 
 Q 241 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 on his delightful and most amusing drama ! 
 Still, I dare say I may be quite equal to Cardoza, 
 the poor Spaniard, who from having been a 
 fisherman became by a sudden freak of fortune a 
 millionaire. Often had he seen connoisseurs at 
 the Escurial shed tears of ecstasy over the figures 
 of the Christ, the Virgin, and the St. Jerome in a 
 Cardinal's hat (!) reading the Bible in Raphael's 
 Madonna del Pesce : but all he could see in it 
 was the fish that the young Tobit, led by an 
 angel, was presenting as tribute to the divine 
 group. Accordingly, when Cardoza went on his 
 Travels, as all millionaires must do, and finding 
 himself at Rome, was invited to a supper to meet 
 the great artist, after four and twenty hours of 
 hard study he could concoct no better compliment 
 than, "Ah! Signor ! Alexander rejoiced that he 
 lived in an age when there was an Apelles to do 
 his picture ; but the fishes may truly rejoice that 
 they live in an age when there is a Raphael to do 
 theirs " ! ! ! 
 
 I am very sorry to hear of Master Joli-petit's 
 accident, but respect him as an honest dog since 
 I find there are certain things he cannot swallow. 
 I congratulate Pattapouffe on her nice warm fluffy 
 name this bitter weather, and to make us feel it 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 the more we had a Neapolitan day on Sunday for 
 sunshine and warmth. Poor Tibby, too, has 
 been on a three days' visit to Channing (the dog 
 doctor) ; upon the principle of its being the last 
 straw that breaks the camel's back, I suppose it 
 was that last cram of foie gras that upset de dog's 
 digestion. . . . 
 
 How does Mme. Bertini get on, or rather off, at 
 Windsor ? I hope she has discovered some screw 
 propeller ! As for Lady Hotham's set, or any one 
 else's, I should not have the least scruple in saying 
 to them what I say of them, as I never abuse 
 people without just cause, and therefore do so 
 without fear . . . 
 
 Ever sincerely yours, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LYTTON. 
 
 February 23, 1856. 
 A mon tour je vous dis desabusez vous, cher 
 M. Chalon. I am as ugly and as stupid, though 
 not as old in years, as Mrs. Dizzy ; but I have 
 not the half of ^400, Sir Liar's Paris conspiracy 
 having cost me £ > joo i and his last plot, that 
 drove me out of my poor chaumiere, about £600 
 more. To raise these sums, having no earthly 
 security, I had to insure his valuable (!) and my 
 
 2 43 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 own worthless life, which with the interest of the 
 money leaves me the munificent sum of ^180 a 
 year to live — or rather to exist upon, for it is not 
 living. And from this splendid sum the income 
 tax is duly deducted by the meanest monster of 
 ancient or modern times. So I hope you will 
 allow that upon this there is not de quoi to 
 afford " Toadies," which must always be bought 
 and paid for, if only by expectations. Even when 
 I was first turned out of my home, with my 
 beggarly stipend of ^400 a year, instead of the 
 first quarter being paid in advance, as is always 
 customary on such occasions, it was not paid for 
 four months after, so that I was in the greatest 
 possible distress ; whereupon Mrs. Dizzy, who 
 for eighteen years — from the time I was fourteen — 
 had professed the most unbounded friendship for 
 me, and with whom I then corresponded, as she 
 was not at that time married to Dizzy, sent me 
 £20. But my parish allowance arriving on the 
 same day, I sent it back to her by return of post 
 with many thanks. Upon the strength of this, 
 I understand the vulgar old wretch boasts to 
 every one of her kindness in having lent me 
 money, which you will own fully qualified her for 
 marrying a Jew! Pray, may I ask when you 
 244 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 spoke to her about the brutalisation I had 
 received from my slave-driver? Fancy biting 
 Dizzy, and being alive after it to tell the story ! 
 A liquid black dose is horrible enough, but what 
 must a consolidated one be ! ! 
 
 Yes— " Abhorrence and Disgust" will do very 
 well, therefore, as you will perceive by the direc- 
 tion of your letter, in addition to your R.A., I 
 have created you S.A., or Satisfactory Abuser, 
 and I assure you (though in a different way) it 
 requires quite as much genius to be the one as 
 the other. As for " common sense," we are all 
 agreed that it is a sine qua non, but all apt to 
 differ as to what constitutes it : a Scotchman and 
 a Trading Politician think it consists in " getting 
 on " cotite quil coute ; some in extreme caution ; 
 some in hoarding what they can never either 
 want or use, like poor Lady Hotham ; and some 
 in spending lavishly to attain an object. For my 
 own part, I rather incline to the opinion of a 
 quaint old writer of the sixteenth century, who 
 makes it consist in a doubt of ourselves and our 
 acquirements ; whereupon speaking of pseudo 
 philosophers and litterateurs he says, " so much 
 are they possessed with the opinion and presump- 
 tion of science, that they know not that there is 
 
 245 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 a kind of ignorance and doubt more learned and 
 more certaine, more noble and generous than all 
 their science and certaintie ; this is that which 
 hath made Socrates so renowned and held for 
 the wisest of men, it is the science of sciences, 
 and the fruit of all our studies ; it is a modest, 
 mild, innocent, and hartie acknowledgment of the 
 mysticall height of truth, and the pouvertie 
 (poverty) of our humane condition, full of dark- 
 ness, weakness, uncertaintie. Heere I would 
 tell you that I caused to be graun (graven) our 
 (over) the gate of my small house, that I built 
 at Condom in the yeare 1570, this word : " / 
 know not." At all events, this doctrine is a most 
 consolatory one to us ignoramuses. 
 
 I congratulate you upon having Macaulay for 
 a neighbour * (and vice versa). I know nothing 
 of him personally, but admire him hugely as 
 a writer, as I think he is indisputably the Master 
 Spirit of the Age in Literature. It was his mis- 
 fortune and not his fault that he should have 
 been at Cambridge with Sir Liar, Praed, Cock- 
 burn, FitzGerald, and that gang. I hope you 
 will make his acquaintance and he yours, which 
 
 * Macaulay spent his last years at Holly Lodge, Campden 
 Hill, where he died in December 1859. See Note C, p. 311. 
 
 246 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 proves how well I wish you both, and, moreover, 
 proves my unselfish magnanimity ; vu que mon 
 triste metier, c'est de cacher mon exil et de 
 plaindre mon sort, so that my only refuge is 
 in the old Spanish prayer of "Oh! God, keep 
 myself from myself." 
 
 What was Mme. Bertini's maiden name? 
 Counter or no Counter, she is a very nice, well- 
 educated little person ; but what a funny idea to 
 marry to be her own mistress ! " Good lack," as 
 Mr. Pepys used to ejaculate, the woman must 
 have been demented. . . . 
 
 I herewith return your Protest with many 
 thanks, and protest that I am, dear Mr. Chalon, 
 ever your sincere and tintoadiable friend (because, 
 like King Clo vis's cherubim, " Je n'ai pas de quoi! ") 
 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 February 26, 1856. 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, 
 
 There is another letter of yours which has 
 arrived wide open ; but no wonder, for it was not 
 sealed, and these soi-disant adhesive envelopes 
 are abominations in every way without sealing- 
 wax. . . . 
 
 Mille fois non ! cher M. Chalon, I am not 
 
 247 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 toadied, for if ever I had any good looks, of 
 course at my age they are gone and have only left 
 a lying epitaph in my face which gives no idea of 
 what they were. Neither have I any pretensions 
 to wit except in my anger, for it is by no means 
 inadvertent folly that makes me so open-mouthed, 
 but well-digested intention. And as for rank ! — 
 pray don't insult me if you mean by that the 
 beggarly brand-new title with which I am 
 hampered, and which (being of a really good 
 old family on both sides) I feel as a blister and 
 a blot ; for my father's family were Titled Fools 
 at the Conquest, and have continued uninter- 
 ruptedly so to the present day without the 
 plebeian taint of brains having come between 
 them and their nobility ; and since the days of the 
 third Edward my mother's family were distin- 
 guished in Senate, Church, and State for their 
 wit and the brilliancy of their acquirements. 
 However, much as I have bored you with my 
 affairs — in doing which I do not use you worse 
 than my other friends — you do not yet know half 
 the tortures that Fiend has inflicted and is inflicting 
 
 o 
 
 on me ; but, of course, you are naturally prone to 
 contemplate my position with conventional and 
 well-bred apathy — a woman separated from a dissi- 
 248 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 pated husband, and why can't I be quiet and not 
 have the " bad taste " to mention his name, much 
 less to abuse him so incessantly. All this would 
 be perfectly true if the premises were so : but they 
 are not, for, as I before said, my case being unique 
 and unparalleled, so must my mode of treating it 
 be, in sheer physical self-defence ! 
 
 Exposure is the only thing that complex monster 
 dreads, and consequently the only check I have 
 upon him. You, of course, like the rest of the 
 world superficially deciding upon what is of no 
 interest to them, can't conclude why he should 
 "spy" me, and therefore, somewhat illogically 
 jump to the conclusion that he don't ! Now the 
 motive is, and ever has been, to beggar me in 
 defending myself against his infamy, which he 
 has done most effectually, knowing there is no 
 extinguisher like poverty. But not content with 
 having by this organised system of preventive 
 persecution reduced my pittance to £\ 80 a year, 
 he must hunt me with his infamous cast-off mistress 
 spies into four removals in the miserable village of 
 Llangollen, and ultimately into getting out of it, 
 coute quil coiite, for which I had to borrow ^50 
 from a friend for six months, which I have paid 
 her back by ^25 a quarter, a pretty good pull, 
 
 249 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 you will own, upon my magnificent ^45 quarterly 
 dole ! — one which, of course, keeps me close 
 within my four walls, and would, if I had not a very 
 kind and considerate landlady, subject me to the 
 most galling humiliations and inconvenience. 
 That is the precise purpose for which it is done. 
 The monster tried to intimidate me into silence 
 and passive endurance by reminding me that he 
 had got every shilling of my own little property 
 out of me (only ^"300 a year), and that what he 
 allowed me was only for his life ; therefore, I have 
 no doubt that were he to die to-morrow I should be 
 a beggar, but that would trouble me very little, as I 
 then should have no Infernal Machine at work to 
 prevent me earning my bread. False in all else, 
 he is true to the letter when he promises a torture or 
 a curse. Years ago he promised he would torture 
 me " through my children" My poor martyred 
 Emily he could not pervert, he could only wither 
 up her young life and break her heart, but happier 
 than her mother she succeeded in dying of it. 
 Upon his worthy son he had more congenial 
 materials to work ; his game was to make him 
 like himself, an unfeeling, unprincipled intellectual 
 machine. I hear he speaks of his mother (this 
 came from a Harrow friend of his) with the 
 250 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 greatest of affection, but as he has never given any 
 evidence of a single human or natural feeling, I 
 can only look upon this as a sample of the 
 loathsome hypocrisy which, of course, has been 
 the chief ingredient of his perverted and unnatural 
 education, and as long as I live I never desire to 
 hear his name, for at the very least he is what his 
 mother is not, and what she most despises, a 
 craven and a coward. . . . 
 
 In short, I can give you no better idea of 
 the fullness of torture with which that Fiend, Sir 
 Liar, has scourged my miserable existence, com- 
 passing it with a snare and crowning it with a 
 curse, than by telling you that I should feel amply 
 avenged could he for one week lead the life he has 
 inflicted on me for years, but without the 
 refuge I have of a clear conscience, but on the 
 contrary his own as jailer. The incessant and 
 degrading pecuniary struggles alone, which he 
 has entailed upon me, are such as those superior 
 beings, men, blow their brains out under : but 
 women not being so superior are more humble, 
 and therefore endure and pray ; and surely no 
 faith can be so strong or so disinterested as that 
 which has no hope but what is beyond the grave. 
 Under such an accumulation of great afflictions, 
 
 251 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 spiked with sharp, petty tortures, I really should 
 go mad if I did not leave wrestling with secondary 
 causes, and be still, remembering that after all 
 they are but the instruments of omnipotence. 
 
 I hope now you will own that people do not, nor 
 cannot, toady a poor wretch in my most wretched 
 position — though it is so wretched, so brutally 
 unjust, that even the cold, calculating, selfish, 
 mammon-worshipping English cannot help feeling 
 for and with me. But a thousand pardons for 
 having thus like a man and a political humbug so 
 
 long 
 
 " Made dear self on well-bred ears prevail, 
 And / the hero of each endless tale." 
 
 I wonder you did not roar in that ass Planches 
 face. I am sure I should, had he attempted to 
 adulate me upon such a supposed burlesque. But 
 don't you know he is just the sort of man to die of 
 a bow from a Lord in aromatic pain, though a rose 
 would have no such effect upon him. Faugh ! 
 how loathsome these fourth, fifth, and sixth-rate 
 people are ; and that's what I feel most in my 
 miserable position, for truly in the whole arsenal 
 of calamity there is nothing so destructive as 
 a false position, for false positions may be truly 
 called the calamities of misfortune. Therefore I 
 252 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 heartily wish I could make Mr. Planche a present 
 of my beggarly title, and he might commit as 
 many " Follies of a Night" as he pleased with it, 
 even to be- knighting you ! I should have proved 
 to him that I was at least a Knight of the Whistle 
 by whistling him to me with sis ! sis ! sis ! " There 
 Planche, find him ! good dog ! " and flinging him 
 by the nape of the neck into the pit among those 
 noble puppies he is so fond of. What a pity 
 a Duke of Norfolk cannot have his neck wrung 
 every day to give Planche the pleasure of figuring 
 in the tomfoolery of Rouge Croix ! * C etait assez 
 polir faire sauter le pauvre decede jusqu'au 
 plancher ! 
 
 Adieu, cher M. Chalon. Tib joins in love to 
 de doggies. Ever truly yours, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LYTTON. 
 
 Out Pensioner of the Knebworth Union : 
 Naughtworth. would be a more appropriate name. 
 
 The reference to Lady Caroline Lamb in the 
 next letter is of interest when it is remembered 
 that she had had a romantic love affair with 
 
 * J. R. Planche, author, dramatist, and an authority on 
 costume, was appointed Rouge Croix Pursuivant in 1854, and 
 Somerset Herald in 1866. 
 
 253 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 Bulwer. He was twenty-one and she verging on 
 forty, a woman who had been married for twenty 
 years. She looked much younger, however, and 
 Bulwer has related that the chief attraction of 
 this wayward personality — " A creature of caprice, 
 and impulse and whim, her manner, her talk, and 
 her character shifted their colours as rapidly as 
 those of a chameleon" — was her conversation, 
 particularly her recollections of her earlier lover, 
 Byron, who had paid her the compliment of saying, 
 "you are the only woman I know who never 
 bored me." 
 
 Lady Caroline Lamb's affair with Bulwer 
 was short-lived and never very serious. The 
 Cambridge undergraduate soon found he was 
 supplanted by a Mr. Russell: " I had wit enough 
 to see that Lady Caroline and this gentleman 
 were captivated with each other. The next 
 morning I had a private conversation with the 
 Lady, which ended in my bidding her farewell." 
 
 February 29, 1856. 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, — Like the Anglo-Saxons, 
 you mistake effect for cause. They do so from never 
 2 54 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 having but one feeling excited by the misfortunes 
 of others, however deep or complex, — to wit, 
 curiosity : had they a grain of compassion or sym- 
 pathy, they would be more analytic and discern- 
 ing. Of course had I been a tigress and a devil, 
 then I should have treated that monster as you 
 suggest ; but unfortunately then I was a lamb, a 
 dove, a Griselda, and a fool, turning pale and 
 trembling when I heard his footsteps approaching. 
 It has been his outrageous and unparalleled 
 villainy which, when freed from the cowardly 
 physical 'fear of his vile presence, has turned me 
 into the tigress and devil, which for you and the 
 rest of the spectators of the Wife Hunt forms 
 such an amusing contrast to his sweet, gentle, 
 dovey manner and insignificant physique. 
 
 You have also got the Almack story wrong. 
 It was at Brocket (Lord Melbourne's) the brute 
 proposed for me and where I refused him twice, 
 and twice after in London ; and I recollect, at 
 Brocket, poor Lady Caroline Lamb, with the 
 tears streaming down her cheeks, said, " What- 
 ever you do, don't marry Edward Lytton Bulwer, 
 for they are a bad, bad set, all of them." 
 
 The only thing that ever happened at Almack's 
 was one night that we were dancing, and 
 
 255 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 George Anson was our vis-a-vis : I happened to 
 say to Sir Liar that I did not admire him, adding, 
 " but, indeed, I seldom do admire those men who 
 are called handsome." Whereupon Sir Liar 
 sulked for three days, at the end of which he said 
 that my telling him that I never admired men who 
 were called handsome was a personal insult to 
 him ! I defended myself by saying, " Good 
 Heavens ! I never heard any one call you 
 handsome." 
 
 It was his vile reptile of a brother, Henry, who 
 laid the charming plot to entrap me into that 
 infamous house in Paris, though of course at his 
 fiend-brother's instigation. I was looking out 
 for a travelling servant (not a courier) to go 
 to Italy, and a paper was left with the porter on 
 which was written : (i If Lady Lytton Bulwer 
 will call at such a house, in such a street, she will 
 hear of a most excellent servant." Luckily Sir 
 Henry Webster came in to ask me to dine with 
 them and go to the opera, and said, "Can I do 
 anything for you this morning?" I said, i( Yes ; 
 as men can better find out the character of men- 
 servants, I'll be much obliged if you'll go to this 
 address and inquire about this one." I had no 
 sooner given him the paper than he said, stamping 
 256 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 his foot, " Who the D 1 in H 1 has given 
 
 yon this ? " I said I did not know, that it had been 
 left that morning with the concierge. Luckily his 
 wife's carriage was at the door ; he jumped into 
 it and taking up M. Charles Le Dru, one of my 
 lawyers, they drove to the infamous place, and there 
 saw Henry Bulwer and Fool Howard of the Em- 
 bassy (the one who married Miss McTavish) 
 walking up and down. I acquit Howard of knowing 
 why he was brought there ; but Henry Bulwer was 
 looking about in all directions to see if I would 
 arrive, when of course the game would have been 
 to have turned to Howard in feigned astonish- 
 ment and have said: "Good Heavens! is it 
 possible ? why there's my sister-in-law ! " How- 
 ever, he was saved this piece of diplomacy by 
 Webster and Le Dru jumping out of the car- 
 riage and shaking their clenched fists in his 
 face, muttering, " You infernal blackguard ! " 
 
 I would have forgiven Sir Liar if he had ever got 
 up an honest conspiracy against me, and brought 
 me into Court upon even a sham crim. con., 
 as public investigation must soon have put that 
 right ; but when I brought the wretch into Court 
 for his conspiracy in sending his emissaries into 
 my house to steal my papers, and he wanted to 
 
 R 257 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 make out that I as a married woman could not 
 bring an action, Berryer, my counsel, said I could, 
 having just gained an action for libel against my 
 brother-in-law in London ; that I was then under 
 the protection of the Law of France, which did 
 protect married women, and that nothing could 
 stop that trial but Sir Liar's owning, through his 
 counsel in open Court, that it was a conspiracy of 
 his, got up to defame his wife — if indeed he liked 
 to resort to such a humiliating alternative as that, 
 then there was an end of the trial, as in no 
 country could a woman proceed against her 
 husband. Rather than let the trial go on and 
 the truth come out, the contemptible reptile did 
 so amid the yells, groans, and hisses of the whole 
 Court, and, I think for one week after, all Paris, 
 English as well as French, German, and Italians, 
 kept calling on me. But as the loathsome 
 monster pursues his system of espionage to this 
 day, it can only be to torture, to obstruct, to 
 degrade, and insult me, for even had I years ago 
 gone off with some man — as a " British Female" 
 inevitably would have done rather than struggle 
 through such difficulties and support herself — his 
 conduct has been so unprecedentedly infamous to 
 me, even in pecuniary matters alone, that he 
 
 258 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 knows in no Court in Europe could he reap 
 anything but shame and exposure, and 1 
 triumphant acquittal through the same exposure, 
 as I did the only two times (as the children say) 
 that I succeeded in getting his infamy before 
 a Court of Justice. . . . 
 
 Ever, dear Mr. Chalon, yours tigresse, non 
 encore morte aux rats, 
 
 ROSJNA BULWER LYTTON (syno- 
 nyme de toutes les infamies). 
 
 Another thing that should abate the sapient 
 surprise of my " friends " as to my not having 
 begun by being a devil is, that though I am now 
 old I was once young and — thanks to the asinine 
 way women are brought up in this country — 
 totally unfit to cope with such a calculating, dis- 
 gusting, and at the same time furious-tempered 
 fiend. Besides, in all nature, moral as well as 
 physical, there is sure to be at some time or other 
 a reaction ; and as the sweetest wine makes the 
 sharpest vinegar, so the most passive endurers 
 when too much outraged, and at length roused, 
 make the most dauntless opponents. Moreover, 
 shall frail humanity be wiser than Omnipotence 
 and Omniscience ? And God himself changed 
 his plan. He made man innocent and happy, 
 
 2 59 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 and it was not till after sin and disobedience that 
 death and sorrow came into the world. 
 
 Amen ! 
 
 Epitaph on a Libertine, from The Universal 
 Magazine of 1755, which will do admirably for 
 Sir Liar's, and save me the trouble of being even 
 at that much expense for his obsequies, should I 
 ever have the good fortune to see them : 
 
 " Here lies the vile dust of the sinfullest wretch 
 That ever the devil delayed for to fetch ; 
 Yet all the world will allow 'twas needless he should, 
 Since Satan saw he was coming as fast as he could." 
 
 Although Lady Bulwer Lytton states above 
 that she had won an action against her brother- 
 in-law, Henry Bulwer, it was in reality against 
 The Court Journal, which had published an 
 absurd canard to the effect that Lady Bulwer 
 had insulted Henry Bulwer at a public soiree. 
 She obtained a verdict for ^50 and costs. There 
 seems no doubt that Henry Bulwer engineered a 
 system of calumny and espionage against his 
 sister-in-law, in Paris, in 1839. 
 
 Two attorneys, named Lawson andThackeray, 
 attempted to corrupt Lady Bulwer's servants, who, 
 260 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 however, remained faithful to their mistress. A 
 trap was arranged, and Lawson was caught in 
 the act of opening a secretaire where Lady 
 Bulwer's papers were kept. In the resultant trial 
 there was much quibbling about the status of a 
 married woman as plaintiff, with the result that 
 Lady Bulwer was nonsuited. She lodged an 
 appeal, but owing to lack of funds did not 
 prosecute it. 
 
 March 4, 1856. 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, 
 
 No one ever yet disputed or doubted that 
 common sense, properly so called, was the 
 sine qua non of human intelligence, with- 
 out which all other gifts are nil. The only 
 doubt which occasionally arises touching this 
 indispensable attribute is whether in reality we 
 always possess it to as great an extent as we give 
 ourselves credit for doing. Macaulay has said 
 nothing new on that subject ; Mrs Macaulay, his 
 namesake, who wrote a hundred years ago, says 
 nearly the same in her History of England, though 
 apropos of a different period. And many hundred 
 years before that again, Seneca, Marcus Antonius, 
 
 261 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 Montaigne, give the Pas to common sense — above 
 all other attributes. 
 
 Mr. Hyde and several dozens such up and down 
 and round about the world are the exceptions 
 which prove, not disprove, the rule of men having 
 no moral courage. The opinion is by no means 
 an original one of mine, but is an acknowledged 
 psychological fact by most superior and honest 
 men themselves. 
 
 M. Bertini was very silly to marry as he did, 
 for surely he could not have lived so long in the 
 world without knowing that a very young, pretty, 
 and attractive girl never does marry an old man 
 but for his money ; and cui bono if it is to be 
 like the Miss Primroses' guinea, only for the 
 honour and glory of the thing, and on no account 
 to be spent ? 
 
 Cassandra will be believed at last, for there is a 
 capital critique in Eraser this month, echoing all 
 I have so long been saying, i.e., that The Caxtons 
 are only a restuffed Tristram Shandy, and we 
 have only to go across the Channel to find where 
 all his other stolen goods came from. 
 
 Ever, dear Mr. Chalon, yours with a sense of 
 common sense, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LYTTON. 
 
 262 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 March 26, 1856. 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, 
 
 I should have thanked you yesterday for your 
 kind envoye of pretty flowers, but that I had my 
 dear, good Bull-dog and his wife here all day ; he 
 being fanatico per la musica, I had asked them 
 over to the Madrigal Concert as being the only 
 thing worth coming to here. I had never seen 
 Mrs. Hyde before, but found her an exceedingly 
 agreeable, conversable, well-educated woman ; at 
 all events, sans toute cela y she would have won 
 my heart from her kindness and sympathy and 
 her love of her gem of a husband. She said to 
 me when he was out of the room after dinner: 
 " Ah ! Lady Lytton, you think Charley good, but 
 you cannot imagine even half the goodness that 
 is in that man." Seeing these two kind souls, 
 who really feel for and with me, did me more 
 good than a sail in the Mediterranean. More- 
 over, Mrs. Hyde has made a perfect Chateau des 
 Fleurs of my rooms with the enormous basket of 
 magnificent red and white camellias, violets, and 
 lily of the valley she brought me ; and my dear 
 Bull-dog's last bark was: " I am now in fighting 
 order again, and hope to take Sebastopol yet — 
 
 263 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 alias, get an opportunity of thoroughly unmasking 
 that wretch." 
 
 Forgive this stupid scrawl, as I got such a 
 terrible cold in church on Sunday and added to it 
 at the concert last night, so that I can from my 
 streaming eyes scarcely see to assure you that 
 I am, dear Mr. Chalon, ever truly yours, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LYTTON. 
 
 March 31, 1856. 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, 
 
 I am writing by electric telegraph to save — i.e., 
 catch — the post. I want you to decide a bet for 
 me, by which I shall (if right, as I think I am) 
 gain the large sum of £$. However, even should 
 riches increase to this amount, I will not "set my 
 heart upon them," build churches, take to gambling, 
 or be guilty of any other new folly. Here is the 
 moot point. / say that Turner the artist was not 
 married (except to mustard plaster skies). My 
 friend says he was : which of us is right ? I send 
 you a very kind letter I have just had from Mr. 
 Hyde, who against my monster is as good as an 
 ogre and an ogre's castle to me. 
 
 Believe me, in whirlwind haste, ever truly yours, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LYTTON. 
 
 264 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 April 2, 1856. 
 
 Surely, dear Mr. Chalon, you are going to have 
 an aviary of Blue Birds like that charming one 
 the hero of the Comtesse D'Anoi's (not d'Aulnoi's, 
 as the English call her) fairy tale. Despairing of 
 finding a goose to lay me golden eggs, instead of 
 looking blue upon it as I have done, I'll begin to 
 look out for blue eggs. 
 
 We have now here " the handsome Crowder," 
 as he is called. I think him frightful — d'abord 
 je deteste (a bon titre) les Blondins. But no 
 wonder, when we have the flower of English 
 profligacy for judges, chancellors, attorney and 
 solicitor-generals, and for legislators, that our 
 ecclesiastical laws should be the iniquitous, bar- 
 baric, national disgraces they are. However, if 
 we had more women and fewer " Females" in 
 England this would not and could not continue to 
 be the case. 
 
 I am surprised about Turner. Ou le dever- 
 gondage vat'il se nicher ? Surely his Fornarina 
 must have been a crocus or a daffodil ; for I 
 always suspected that he himself must have been 
 a lineal and direct descendant from the " Madam 
 Turner," repasseuse to Queen Elizabeth, so cele- 
 
 265 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 brated for stiffening her Majesty's ruffs with 
 bright yellow starch, and that Turner, in his 
 parsimony, always used up the debris of this 
 heirloom for his sunsets. 
 
 Tib is calling me to come down to him, and as 
 he is the man of the house I must obey ! 
 In haste, truly yours, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LYTTON. 
 
 April 13, 1856. 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, 
 
 I hope you have got rid of your cough, or you 
 are very ungrateful to this lovely Neapolitan 
 weather. I don't know what your lilacs may be 
 doing, but ours are well out in full leaf and will 
 be in flower next week ; and as for the hedges — 
 Heaven bless them — they are a perfect galaxy of 
 violets and primroses. 
 
 I am sorry you sent my scrawl to Mr. Jones,* 
 
 imprimis because I have a well-founded horror 
 
 of all persons, however remotely they may be so, 
 
 who are en rapport with any literary gang or 
 
 individual. If you live near the rose it gives you 
 
 its perfume, but if you live near any litterateur 
 
 he will give you nothing but falsehood and 
 
 * George Jones, R.A., of 8, Park Square, who was Keeper 
 of the Royal Academy for many years. 
 
 266 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 blackguardism. . . . With regard to jumping to 
 conclusions, men call us butterflies, so we only 
 use our wings at once to light upon the very same 
 point they take a long time crawling up to. 
 Owing to Mr. Jones not dotting his i's (an 
 unpardonable economy of ink by the bye, and 
 only conceivable and excusable in the late 
 Joseph Hume), I cannot make out whether 
 he says Sir Liar is " deified " ? Cela se peut bien, 
 as there are infernal deities, of which he is unques- 
 tionably the chief. But pray beg of your friend, 
 Mr. Jones, never to speak of the reptile as my 
 " husband," for that he has no pretension to being, 
 and all who know me never call the wretch 
 anything but my slave owner. I now send you a 
 " document," which I give you a carte-blanche to 
 show to the whole world, as I have sent copies of 
 it everywhere ; cordially despising every phase 
 of English Society, as I do, for its revolting 
 vice, disgusting cant, blasphemous hypocrisy, and 
 universal humbug in morals, politics, literature, 
 and art, I delight in flinging a twelve-pounder 
 into the fetid and stagnant pool of its conven- 
 tionality whenever I can. So, having no brother 
 to kick Sir Liar from his own den in Park Lane 
 down to the House of Humbugs, and not content 
 
 267 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 with Mr. Hodgson's receipt for my Parish 
 Allowance, he would also have one from me, I 
 sent him one, and enclose you a copy Pro Bono 
 Publico ! * 
 
 Ever, dear Mr. Chalon, yours truly, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LyTTON. 
 
 Castle Hotel, 
 
 August 2, 1856. 
 I am truly sorry, dear Mr. Chalon, to hear that 
 you have suffered in your agricultural interests. 
 Eisenbergt should change his name to Easing- 
 purse ; it is all very well that Sir Liar should go 
 to him because it is only right that one barefaced 
 charlatan should patronise another. Moreover he 
 can well afford to prove himself an ass for ten 
 guineas if only out of the income tax he so 
 
 * " True Copy. Received through Robert Hodgson, Esq., 
 solicitor, of 52, Broad Street Buildings, Bank of England, 
 London, from that ineffable blackguard, Sir Liar Coward 
 Janus Plagiary Allpuff Edward Bulwer Lytton, the disgraceful 
 swindle of ^94. 3s. $d mi which he doles out to me, his legal 
 victim, as Out Pauper of those Sodom and Gomorrah sinks of 
 iniquity, the Park Lane and Knebworth Unions. 
 
 " Rosina Bulwer Lytton alas ! 
 
 "April 12, 1856. 
 
 "To that loathsome old ruffian Sir E. B. Lytton, Bt., M.P." 
 
 f A chiropodist. 
 
 268 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 honourably deducts from my Parish Allowance ; 
 but I am surprised you should have put your foot 
 in it by going to such a quack. If ever you should 
 require any such services again (which I hope you 
 won't), there is a certain Madlle. Jacob at Brighton 
 who operates without being felt and only charges 
 five shillings. Though only a Jewess, like the 
 Wandering Jew she travels far and near; being 
 entre autres constantly sent for by the poor dear 
 ex-Oueen of the French down to Claremont, and 
 to Chatsworth, as his Grace of Devonshire, sans 
 doute n'ayant pas le sens commun non plus que le 
 sang commun, is so mortally afraid that any one 
 should extract a single drop of his precious blood 
 that he will not allow any one but her to throw 
 themselves at his very ugly feet. When I was 
 last at Brighton, after one of her returns from 
 Chatsworth he evinced his gratitude by sending 
 her a mezzotint portrait of himself. I told her 
 that notwithstanding their difference of creeds, I 
 thought a copy of Bunyans " Pilgrim's Progress " 
 would have been much prettier and more 
 
 appropriate 
 
 Having now finished with your feet, I must 
 turn to Mr. Lane's, to whom pray offer my best 
 thanks for his very clever jeu (Tesbrit which, like 
 
 269 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 your portraits, greatly improves on the original ; 
 for Hiawatha is solemn, stupid nonsense, whereas 
 Mr. Lane's parody is sparkling, clever nonsense, 
 and he has proved himself a strong fellow in 
 beating Lonofellow. 
 
 No doubt Mme. Bertini is as merry as a 
 disconsolate widow should be. Were my re- 
 verses only equally well capped, I should be 
 equally so. I have been assisting at several 
 executions, vulgo weddings, lately. I see Calcraft 
 is now also "assisted" by a deputy hangman at 
 the other executions. 
 
 With Miss Ryves's kind regards, believe me, 
 dear Mr. Chalon, yours truly, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LyTTON. 
 
 September n, 1856. 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, 
 
 I am sorry by your want of Mr. Hyde to make 
 the quack Eisenberg disgorge to deduce therefrom 
 that you are still suffering with your foot. . . . 
 
 No doubt the Noodle FitzDoodles alias Doyles 
 screwed you well, as no people have a keener 
 eye to or livelier sense of their own interests : it is 
 only those of their unfortunate and unprotected 
 relations they can wreck wholesale in the most 
 
 270 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 liberal manner. The Sir Francis Doyle you had 
 your Wimpole Street house from {my wrecker)* 
 was my mother's first cousin ; he married a 
 daughter of Sir William Milner, of Nun Appleton, 
 Yorkshire, and her maiden sister, Emily Milner, 
 survived, and lived with him, eventually leaving 
 her ,£30,000 among her nephews and nieces. 
 The present booby, also Sir Francis Hastings 
 Doyle, whom you met at Sandgate, is son to 
 the above. His little, silly, selfish, squeaky, 
 British Female of a wife was a niece of Lady 
 Grenville's and daughter of Charles Wynn, who 
 in the House of Commons rejoiced in the 
 sobriquet of Squeak, to distinguish him from his 
 brother, who was called Bubble — the pair making 
 Bubble and Squeak. The poor spendthrift 
 Military Knight of Windsor (lately dead) was 
 Sir John Milley Doyle, my mother's brother. 
 
 You have quite destroyed all my respect and 
 admiration for Mr. Lane by telling me that he 
 also is one of that ineffable blackguard, Dr. 
 Wilson's set — a fellow who turned his house into 
 a perfect brothel at Malvern (all the respectable 
 people leaving it) to take the woman Beaumont 
 off Sir Liar's hands while he was seducing the 
 
 * Her trustee. 
 
 271 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 Swiss governess ; and the fact of Mr. Lane having 
 made that rotten old ruffian, Sir Liar's, acquaint- 
 ance at that crisis, and going down to Knebworth 
 after, does not redound much to Mr. Lane's credit. 
 Of course a son who is aux petits soins to his 
 father's mistresses and treats his mother as Sir 
 Liar Coward Bulwer Lytton's son has done his, 
 must be extremely amiable, and pre-eminently 
 gentlemanlike : only God keep me from ever 
 encountering such amiability, and equally from the 
 contact of those who countenance and admire it. 
 At all events, the world is wide enough to prevent 
 my ever going via so very crooked a Lane. T. A. V. 
 
 R. Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 September 21, 1856. 
 
 I am delighted, dear Mr. Chalon, that you find 
 that the hay tea has already done you good, and 
 hope that ere long it will restore you (as it has done 
 me) to your hey-day ! — for you would not know 
 me since I have been able to walk away from 
 myself ! I have become nearly as slight as I was 
 when a girl, and look altogether so rejuvenated 
 that strangers think I cannot be the real Simon 
 272 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 p ure — Sir Liar's victim — but a Plastron pensioned 
 to perpetuate the role in order to torment him, so 
 that if the loathsome brute would but give me 
 the opportunity perhaps I might distinguish myself 
 like Mrs. Susannah Snookes ! That great fact 
 was as follows and duly recorded in The Times 
 about two months ago, when its perusal occasioned 
 me such hysterics of laughter that a doctor had 
 to be sent for to stop them : " On the 5th. instant, 
 Susannah, relict of Lieutenant John Snookes, late 
 of the Royal Marines, to Mr. Samuel Hodges, 
 of Boston, U.S. She had been a widow since 
 1805."! ! ! ! ! — only I should "wear my rue with a 
 difference," for immediately after the Obituary 
 that announced Sir Liar's departure for the 
 Infernal Regions should figure this paragraph : 
 " And three hours after, Rosina, relict of the 
 above, to Phcenix Paragon, Esq., etc." 
 
 Apropos of the Devil and all his works, as you 
 say Mr. Lane has had nothing to do with him 
 since his knowledge of Sir Liar's character 
 I must vindicate him (Mr. Lane) with a lady 
 to whom I lent his clever parody, and she 
 returned it to me with these lines : " I would not 
 read anything written by that man who swears by 
 Sir Liar, and who wrote a book with him at that 
 
 s 273 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 infamous Dr. Wilson's puffing the Water Cure * 
 and who in a word was one of that disgraceful 
 Malvern gang of which Sir L. and Mrs. Beaumont 
 were the High Priest and Priestess." 
 
 As for the young gentleman's revolting conduct^ 
 you must allow me, my dear Mr. Chalon, to be the 
 best judge of that. No one ever said his looks 
 were revolting; but one thing I can assure you 
 of, i.e., if he knelt till Doomsday, no earthly power 
 would ever induce me to take a shilling from so 
 despicable, craven, and unnatural a son,f and 
 were his infamous father but once removed I should 
 have a fair field for earning my own bread, and 
 shall always continue to do so. 
 
 You should hear Charles Hyde talk of your 
 esteemed friend Alaric Watts. He has one 
 standard anecdote about having saved Alaric 
 the Goth from being crushed to pieces by a 
 printing press, which he invariably concludes 
 
 * Bulwer Lytton contributed to The New Monthly Magazine } 
 1845, a sixteen-page article entitled Confessions and Observa- 
 tions of a Water-Patient, extolling the benefits he had received 
 at Malvern from Dr. Wilson's system. There is no mention of 
 Lane as joint author of the article. 
 
 -J- In 1874, after the death of her husband, Lady Lytton 
 accepted an additional ^200 a year from her son, which, 
 with one interval, was paid for the remaining eight years of her 
 life. 
 2 74 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 with " May God forgive me for that same/' so 
 that you see your Litanies are the same.* 
 
 Sincerely hoping* that as you are going to 
 Mahomet you may effectually get rid of the 
 Mountain that has oppressed you for the last 
 three months, and be shampooed into a state of 
 semi-beatitude, believe me, dear Mr. Chalon, with 
 Miss Ryves's kind regards, 
 
 Very sincerely yours, 
 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 October 5, 1856. 
 I am delighted, dear Mr. Chalon, to find that 
 you are luxuriating in a Mahomedan Paradise 
 (the only way in which being in hot water can be 
 "made pleasant"), and I hope the aromatic 
 watering pot and its ambrosial irrigations will 
 convert you into an Immortal : not that you 
 deserve it for leaving that poor innocent black 
 doggie behind ; it would serve you quite right if 
 when him heard the real wheels him never stirred 
 a paw to go and meet you. Tib says if such an 
 iniquitous thing had been done to him, him would 
 
 * Alaric A. Watts (1 797-1864), journalist and author, 
 seems to have been disliked by all his contemporaries. It 
 was Lockhart who bestowed upon him the Hunnic nickname of 
 Attila, and as Alaric Attila Watts he was always known. 
 
 275 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 have soon packed up him's tail, taken himsefs off, 
 and got a new master, which when a dog is left, 
 him is quite right in doing. 
 
 I think I shall send your Photographical 
 Etching to the Exhibition next year as a " Por- 
 trait of Sir B. Moon, by A. E. Chalon, R.A." 
 We have had Mr. and Mrs. German Reed here 
 (Miss P. Horton), and were much amused at her 
 " delineations of character," more especially that 
 of the impayable "Sir John Quill," whom one has 
 so often met and heard in that Reservoir of all 
 possible and unimaginable inanities, London 
 Society. Her voice is most exquisite and as 
 fresh as ever. She sang one or two things 
 from the "Traviata" charmingly in her role de 
 Savoyard (sans hurdy-gurdy !) 
 
 Don't talk of weather ! With such a climate 
 how could the English be anything but what they 
 are — half fog, half frost, and ambulating wet 
 blankets. . . . 
 
 Ever truly yours, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LyTTON. 
 
 276 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 November 2, 1856. 
 En costume du temps, 
 C'est a dire un Brouillard. 
 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, — I much doubted the fact 
 of that horror being engraved on plaster of Paris, 
 but, having great faith in the fallibility of my own 
 ignorance, I am never positive about anything of 
 which I am not sure ; however, la belle Louise 
 (or, according to plaster libel, la laide) having 
 been well plastered de son vivant can afford to be 
 ill-plastered in effigy. 
 
 I miss poor Miss Ryves very much now she is 
 gone, though she sends me a telegraphic dispatch 
 every morning of a sprig of myrtle from Torquay ; 
 and it is an intervention of Providence that I have 
 to work not only with my head but with my 
 hands, like a galley slave, or I really think I should 
 go mad if I had time to ponder on my unparalleled 
 fate, or leisure to feel my solitude and desolation ; 
 but when one has not breathing time one cannot 
 have fretting time, Amen ! . . . 
 
 As I before told you, dear Mr. Chalon, I fully 
 appreciate the kindness and benevolence of your 
 intention, mais quant a moi 1 never want to hear 
 anything of Sir Liar Coward Janus Allpuff Bulwer 
 
 277 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 Lyttun's worthy son, and would rather not be 
 reminded that I have the misfortune and disgrace 
 of being his nominal mother. Maximus Tyrius, 
 in his dissertation on the origin of evil, wishes 
 that some oracle would explain the difficulty. Pity 
 Maximus Tyrius did not live till now as he would 
 easily have discovered at least the origin of One 
 Evil. Tiberius Doatskin, King of de Darlings, 
 Emperor of Fine Eyes, and Duke of Silver Paws, 
 unites with me in best bow-wows to all your 
 doggies, and believe me, dear Mr. Chalon, 
 Ever truly yours, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LyTTON. 
 
 Siberia. 
 
 November 7, 1856. 
 I congratulate you, dear Mr. Chalon, on your 
 improved state ; marshmallows are excellent things 
 et votre Louis, * un vrai Louis d'or. I agree with 
 you on all you can say touching professional 
 humbug in general and medical humbug in par- 
 ticular — always excepting my dear, good, old Dr. 
 Price, qui est un medecin comme il y aura peu et 
 un homme comme il n'y aura point. I envy 
 you reading anything of Daniel Defoe's,, even 
 
 * Chalon's Swiss servant. 
 278 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 Robinson Crusoe ; but Defoe, with all his 
 wondrous powers and all his wondrous English, 
 was not qualified to write The History of 
 Disreputable Characters, as he should have waited 
 till now and known Sir Liar and the rest of 
 the Gore House Gang to have been thoroughly- 
 master of his subject. 
 
 The Petit St. Pierre il piccolo san Pietro is an 
 old friend of mine. I first made his acquaintance 
 going to Sicily, and envied him his waterproof 
 boots. For persons like myself, fond of the 
 cinqtte and sei centi, this is a charming place, as 
 one cannot from the maniere d'etre of the natives 
 fancy oneself a day beyond those two epochs, the 
 last new novels here being By Anne of Swansea 
 1796, and The Star of Fashion by Anthony 
 Frederick Holstein, said to have killed the 
 Duchess of Devonshire, and I am sure I don't 
 wonder at it. Alas ! that arrows barbed with 
 grey goose quills should be no longer mortal in 
 these our days, or I might have a chance ; and 
 would out of gratitude ever after wear the feather 
 in my cap had I but the cap of caps to wear it in. 
 Ever, dear Mr. Chalon, yours truly, 
 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 279 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 November 18, 1856. 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, — Victoria ! I congratulate 
 you on your triumph. I always thought Mr. Hyde 
 a duck of a man, and shall now think so more 
 than ever since he has conquered the quack* If a 
 few more of his dupes would give the said 
 Charlatan the good hiding (as they say in this part 
 of the world) that you have done, he would soon 
 have to abandon the corn market and confine him- 
 self entirely to his pied a terre in the Haymarket. 
 Did the affair p-o into court? — or how did the 
 Hydes make him disgorge ? Was it — as they do 
 the leeches — by smothering him with salt ? 
 Apropos not certainly of salt, but of sovereigns, 
 the on dit is the Queen has written a book and is 
 going to publish it ; were she capable of writing 
 it, no doubt she would be capable of the minor 
 offence of publishing. Again congratulating 
 you upon your Victory, believe me, Post Haste, 
 dear Mr. Chalon, 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LyTTON. 
 
 Lady Bulwer Lytton's letters to Chalon — if 
 
 any were written— during the next three years 
 
 * Eisenberg, the chiropodist. 
 280 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 are missing from the present collection, although 
 these years were eventful for her. Only four 
 more letters remain to bridge this long hiatus, 
 and then the correspondence is closed by Death. 
 
 Taunton, 
 
 March 17, i860. 
 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, — I was very sorry not to 
 have had the pleasure of seeing you on my flying 
 visit, or rather corvee, to Town the other day, and 
 still more sorry for the cause. My friend also was 
 much disappointed, car comme toutes les celebrates, 
 you know, you are open to invasion. I am very 
 glad, however, to find that your own bulletin is 
 much better than the verbal one we received. 
 
 Quant a votre brave homme de Louis — ou il 
 est tant soit peu persifleur comme son maitre ? — 
 ou il a bien besoin de lunettes, car certes les 
 infames et les tracasseries de tous genres ne 
 rajeunisse pas! Cagliostro meme ne l'a jamais 
 pretendu. 
 
 De most heart-rending accounts of Fansy 
 Pansy's despair when she found I was gone — 
 came to my door, howled, and cried real tears, 
 and converted him's paws into a pocket-handker- 
 
 281 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 chief. But you should have seen the meeting 
 when she came moaning to my bedroom door 
 this morning, and I called to her to come in. 
 The paws were round my neck in a moment, 
 nearly choking me, and de dog was positively in 
 hysterics. . . . 
 
 I feel as if broken on the wheel from over 
 fatigue, for we only got back here at 3 o'clock 
 this morning by the mail train : but sleep is out 
 of the question for the din is terrific, the Castle 
 Green being covered with Shows, on account of 
 the Assizes which commence on Monday. And 
 just under my windows — either as a pendant, 
 mauvaise plaisanterie, or devise parlante ? — is 
 exhibited " The wonderful Man Mountain," ac- 
 companied by an equally mountainous big drum, 
 while in the rear is " The Insatiable Bengal 
 Tiger," who does all his roaring to sound of 
 gong, and in front of his Bengalore is a gaunt 
 young lady, like a skewer in an atrophy, scream- 
 ing out in a shrill falsetto, to the wheezings of an 
 asthmatic accordion, " Wilt thou love me then as 
 now ? " — about the same I should think. 
 
 How very sad about poor Julien, and how very 
 English to have attempted to do nothing to help 
 him till it was too late. 
 282 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 Pray get well soon — to welcome this beautiful 
 weather — and believe me, dear Mr. Chalon, 
 Ever truly yours, 
 
 Rosina Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 March 24, i860. 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, 
 
 Now that you can eat, sleep, and above all 
 paint, I think I may safely congratulate you 
 upon having weathered the storm, and upon 
 being no longer even a "Malade Imaginaire." 
 Not so your correspondent : the wheezing is 
 so dreadful, occasioned by the tightness of 
 my chest, that it is exactly as if I had a 
 litter of pups or kittens whining piteously for 
 their mother whom they only knew too well was 
 out ! This said tightness of the chest I must have 
 got, with every other ill, by marriage, as most 
 decidedly none of my family, either on my father's 
 or mother's side, ever were troubled with anything 
 of the sort, but on the contrary rather suffered 
 from enlargement of the heart, a most troublesome 
 and generally fatal complaint in this world. 
 Apropos of the former fashionable epidemic, go 
 where one will, people are never tired of des- 
 
 283 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 canting on the Queen's and Lord Westminster's * 
 — I suppose what Lord Shaftesbury would call — 
 saving grace, but what unregenerate mortals call 
 disgraceful saving. When the housekeeper at 
 the Great Western Hotel came up to know if I 
 was satisfied with the arrangements, getting upon 
 the topic of domestic economy, naturally brought 
 her upon that ne plus ultra of thrift, poor Lord 
 Westminster ; and she told me it was a positive 
 fact that, when he had people staying at Eaton, 
 he always lagged behind in the breakfast-room to 
 swape off the bits of butter left on each plate to 
 have them made into fresh pats ! I said yes, 
 everybody knew that all scraping came very pat 
 to him. But sans rire kozv disgusting ! 
 
 As this is an age of testimonials, decidedly we 
 antiques ought to present your Louis f with a 
 valuable chronometer. How Mrs. Tyler will 
 laugh when I tell her his verdict: " Jolie, oui, 
 grasse, oui — mais jeune ! C'est une grande mere 
 de quelques annees, son petit Mis aine" ayant dix 
 ans." But I always tell her she looks so dis- 
 reputably young, particularly of an evening with 
 
 * Second Marquis of Westminster (i 795-1 869), and 
 father of the first Duke. 
 
 f Chalon's old Swiss servant. 
 284 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 diamonds in her very black hair and on her very 
 white neck, that she is a disgrace to our respectable 
 Veteran Battalion. Her daughters are very 
 pretty, sur totit the three married ones. She is a 
 dear, good little soul and I'll send her to see you 
 some day that Louis may gain a wrinkle, which, 
 however, he won't find on her face. 
 
 I fear had I said anything about Hel Retiro 
 they would have driven me to Sir L.'s at once, 
 for his Retiro must be a perfect hell. Hoping 
 that you will now go on and prosper without, 
 however, eating so as to cause a famine in 
 London, believe me, dear Mr. Chalon, ever truly 
 yours, 
 
 rosina bulwer lytton. 
 
 Taunton, 
 
 April 13, i860. 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, 
 
 I was glad to hear you had been to a concert, 
 and were none the worse for it notwithstanding 
 the mustard plasters ... I am not now going to 
 entertain you with myself and my sufferings — a 
 subject upon which all are said to be fluent and 
 none agreeable, more especially as I fully earned 
 my relapse by the unwonted dissipation of three 
 
 285 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 dinner parties in one week, at one of which I met 
 a charming captain of the 9th Lancers, who had 
 just returned from India, and whom the host 
 asked leave to introduce to me, saying he was one 
 of my warmest and most indignant champions ; 
 and having killed eleven Sepoys at Lucknow with 
 his own hand, felt a strong inclination to go to 
 Park Lane and do a little amateur murder on my 
 account. I said I hoped the honest man would 
 by no means baulk himself in so laudable a wish. 
 Last Thursday week, April 5, Giorno Felice! 
 the great event of the year happened. Master 
 Daisy, my new Doatskin, arrived from Blenheim. 
 So perfect a little booty never was seen, nor ever 
 imagined out of a fairy tale ; so small I can put 
 him in my muff, beautifully marked with dark 
 cinnamon-coloured spots, a coat that I can only 
 compare to chinchilla or moleskin, for velvet 
 or satin are harsh to it ; eyes as black as jet and 
 as brilliant as diamonds ; little jet-black ebony 
 nose ; magnificent niagaras of ears in clusters 
 of grape-like curls trailing on the ground ; and 
 added to all this the sweetest temper and most 
 darling ways in the world. When the Duchess of 
 Marlborough saw what a perfect booty him was 
 she wanted, right or wrong, not to let him come 
 286 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 away : but it serves her right, she should not let the 
 Duke be such a churlish Herod as to have nearly 
 all these Doatskins destroyed so that no one else 
 should have the breed. Twenty-five pounds were 
 offered for this little koh-i-noor of a dog before 
 even him had the distemper, so you may guess how 
 I value my present ! The whole household are 
 perfect fools about him, and him's wondrous 
 beauty has made such a sensation in Taunton, that 
 people drive in from the country, not acquaint- 
 ances of mine but strangers, asking to be let 
 to see him. Him such very clever little dog too, 
 quite fit to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, for 
 in order to repair Mr. Gladstone's extraordinary 
 oversight about the rags, he endeavours to 
 convert every article of him's Mud's wearing 
 apparel into lint. Hims would make an invalu- 
 able critic for The Saturday Review, him does so 
 tear books to pieces and make such biting remarks 
 upon them. Feeling I shall so soon have a daisy 
 quilt, and wishing to secure a friend among those 
 innocent little denizens, I have christened him 
 Daisy. 
 
 I hope you have been to the opera, and that 
 the weather behaves better in London than it does 
 here, for my doctor gives me no hope of being 
 
 287 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 able to go out while it lasts, it being the very 
 facsimile of a cold, raw, foggy, and particularly 
 detestable November. This is a great disappoint- 
 ment to me, as I wanted to introduce my youngest 
 son to his relations, the other Daisies in the Priory 
 Meadows. 
 
 Here is the last thing I have heard of their 
 Imperial Majesties: ''Why are the Emperor 
 and Empress of the French the most sleepless 
 couple in Europe ? " " Because in five years they 
 have had but one little Nap /" 
 
 Hoping you are now quite well, and no longer a 
 la tartare, with love to your dogerie and caterie, 
 
 Believe me, dear Mr. Chalon, very truly yours, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LyTTON. 
 
 April 17, i860. 
 Dear Mr. Chalon, 
 
 . . . Certainly next to English selfishness, 
 English apathy is about the most monstrous and 
 disgusting thing in the world. Did you read 
 that terrible account in yesterday's Times about 
 the poor mad woman at the Abergaveney Races 
 jumping into the Usk, and the assembled crowd, 
 with true English imperturbability, continuing 
 coolly to look on at the races. I am afraid the 
 288 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 millionaire Lord Tredegar ruined himself by 
 collecting ^"20 to give the one poor, brave, un- 
 selfish man who plunged in and saved the poor 
 maniac's life at the imminent risk of his own. 
 
 Alas ! dear Mr. Chalon, I fear there is no 
 chance of my introducing the King of the 
 Doatskins to you this year, for though I have 
 three very agreeable and tempting invitations 
 to London for May, June, and July, yet the 
 dishonest swindlings of my bashaw have put me 
 to such expense to try and obtain my right, 
 which there is no doing without public exposure 
 in that quarter, that I am ground down till I 
 have not the means of going anywhere (and that 
 is precisely what it is done for) ; and I always 
 find visiting the most expensive thing in the 
 world. 
 
 Not being a poet, I do not excel in fiction. 
 But as like a proper " British Female" I never 
 have "my dear husband" out of my head, here 
 is all that I have been able to achieve for your 
 bouts-rime's. 
 
 La Guillotine meme (quoique sans trop de faste) a sa toilette, 
 
 C'est dans cette galere, ou bateau ; 
 
 Que je voudrais deployer Pecriteau 
 De celui a qui j'ai bien parle a sa barrette. 
 
 T 289 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 Remember me to la jolie et attrayant Mme. 
 Bertini, et avec mille tir oreilles et baise-pattes 
 a meseigneurs vos chiens, et aussi de la part de 
 sa majeste tres bijou Daisy, 
 
 Believe me, dear Mr. Chalon, 
 Yours very truly, 
 
 ROSINA BULWER LyTTON. 
 
 Six months later Alfred Chalon died, and 
 Lady Bulwer Lytton lost one of her most faithful 
 friends. He had reached the age of eighty, and 
 his death broke a link with the past as well as 
 leaving a gap in the artistic and social circles of 
 London, for he and his brother had entertained 
 largely during a period of sixty years. Alfred 
 Chalon had intended to leave his beautiful home, 
 " El Retiro," at Campden Hill, with all his 
 valuable collections of pictures, china, and other 
 works of art, to the nation, and he had appointed 
 his two old servants to act as caretakers. But 
 from an unfortunate superstition that he would 
 die soon after completing his will he put off that 
 essential act, and when he did die, somewhat 
 suddenly, the will though signed was unwitnessed. 
 290 
 
■•\.. ■ 
 
 
 ■'-* 
 
 
 
 
 
 jBk 
 
 
 ! 
 
 ipsi 
 
 
 • 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 ALFRED EDWARD CHALON, R.A. 
 Drawn by G. R. Ward from the portrait by J. J. Chalon, R.A. 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 Consequently all the property went to the next 
 of kin, a watchmaker living in Switzerland, who, 
 caring nothing for art collections, sold everything, 
 and the house too. The latter has been demolished, 
 and the site is covered with smaller houses. 
 
 Lady Bulwer Lytton wrote to Dr. Price on 
 October 5th, i860 : " I had a great shock yesterday 
 in receiving a letter in an unknown hand, with an 
 enormously broad black edge. It was to announce 
 the death on that morning, the 3rd inst., of poor 
 Mr. Alfred Chalon, the painter." 
 
 And on the 17th, she continued: 
 
 " You will say there is no end to my luck when 
 I tell you that I had a letter from a lady who tells 
 me Mr. Chalon had made a will, and she believes 
 had left me two or three thousand pounds ; but 
 owing to his having made it himself, and it 
 not having been witnessed, it is invalid, and 
 all his beautiful pictures, instead of going as he 
 left them, will be sent to the hammer. But what 
 I think far worse, his poor, old faithful Swiss 
 servant, who had worn out his life with him, will 
 be left unprovided for." 
 
 291 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 Although in her letters Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 constantly expressed the hope and belief that a 
 speedy death would be her happy portion, she 
 was destined to outlive for many years Chalon 
 and all the friends of her youth and meridian. 
 Perhaps this was not the least of her sorrows — 
 it is the sad fate of every one who lives to be 
 old to see "our friends drop by the way, and 
 leave in our minds the flickering rushlight of 
 them in memory," as Meredith wrote. 
 
 It only now is necessary briefly to relate the 
 more important events of Lady Bulwer Lytton's 
 remaining years. In 1857, she published a 
 pamphlet entitled Lady Bulwer Lytton s Appeal 
 to the Justice and Charity of the English Public, 
 which, in addition to recounting fully all her 
 troubles and her charges against her husband, 
 was a frank appeal for financial help, for in this 
 work it was stated that copies of her book, 
 Very Successful, would be sent on receipt of 
 £1. us. 6d. — "as amid modern progressions 
 there are yet no workhouses for the destitute 
 wives of rich men, Lady Bulwer Lytton, as her 
 292 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 last hope, trusts this appeal to public charity will 
 not be made in vain." 
 
 In 1858, her chronic obsession was rendered 
 more acute by the honour which fell to Bulwer 
 Lytton on his appointment as Colonial Secretary 
 in Lord Derby's Administration. Bulwer Lytton, 
 of course, had to seek re-election at Hertford, and 
 his wife resolved upon the lamentable step of 
 publicly denouncing him to his constituents, 
 Accompanied by her landlady at Taunton, Mrs. 
 Clarke, Lady Bulwer Lytton travelled post 
 through the night and arrived at Hertford at five 
 in the morning. Here is her account of what 
 took place at this unprecedented scene on June 
 8th, 1858 : 
 
 " The moment I drove into the field the mob 
 began to cheer ; and even Sir Liar's two powdered 
 flunkeys, and both his postillions, took off their 
 hats and caps, and joined. I instantly alighted, 
 and walked to the hustings, just putting the crowd 
 aside with my fan, and saying, ' My good people, 
 make way for your member's wife.' They then 
 began to cheer, and cry, ' Silence for Lady 
 
 293 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 Lytton ! ' Sir Liar's head fell literally as if he 
 had been shot ; ... he staggered against the 
 post, and seemed not to have strength to move. 
 I then said, in a loud, calm, and stern voice, ' Sir 
 Edward George Earle Bulwer Lytton, as I am 
 not in the habit of stabbing in the back, it is to 
 you, in the first instance, that I address myself. 
 In the step your cruelty and your meanness have 
 driven me into taking this day, I wish you to hear 
 every word I have to say ; refute them if you can, 
 deny them if you dare.' Then, turning to the 
 crowd, I said, ' Men of Herts ! if you have the 
 hearts of men, hear me ! ' * We will. God bless 
 you ! Speak out.' Here Sir Liar, with his hands 
 before his face, made a rush from the hustings. 
 The mob began to hiss, and cry, 'Ah, coward, 
 he's guilty ; he dare not face her,' which he must 
 have had the pleasure of hearing, for, instead 
 of attending the public breakfast in the Corn 
 Exchange, he bolted from the town, and left them 
 all in the lurch." 
 
 Elated by at last having a large audience 
 sympathetic to her wrongs, Lady Bulwer 
 294 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 Lytton seems to have thrown all dignity and 
 restraint to the winds, and to have enjoyed 
 thoroughly her dramatic performance on the 
 hustings. One cannot be surprised that poor 
 Bulwer Lytton fled from such a painful and 
 unparalleled situation. His wife then proceeded 
 to harangue the crowd upon all those grievances 
 — some real, some imaginary — with which the 
 correspondence in this book has so largely dealt. 
 She began with her enemy the Press, then 
 narrated her husband's offences, then the painful 
 history of her daughter's death, then her own 
 financial position, concluding her oration with the 
 apology that " unaccustomed as / really was to 
 public speaking, I was unable to favour them with 
 any of those oratorical gymnastics they were 
 accustomed to be astounded by in the right 
 honourable baronet, the new Colonial Secretary. 
 (Renewed roars of laughter.) I then concluded 
 with a short parody of Lord Lyttelton's well- 
 known lines — 
 
 If on my statements some few doubts should fall, 
 Look in his face, and you'll believe them all. 
 
 2 95 
 
Unpublished Letters ot 
 
 ' We do, we do, we do ! God bless you Lady 
 Lytton ; you'll have your rights yet ; and you'll 
 see that the men of Herts have the hearts of men.' ' 
 
 Accompanied by the cheering mob, Lady 
 Bulwer Lytton repaired to the Mayor's house. 
 After directing that the money received from the 
 sales of her Appeal pamphlet during the day 
 should be given to the local poor, she made 
 another Royal Progress to the station — "the 
 crowd was dense, every window full, and on the 
 tops of the houses the people waving their caps 
 and handkerchiefs, and crying ' God bless you ! 
 God prosper you, brave noble woman ! You'll 
 defeat the wretch yet.' " She reached Taunton 
 again on Wednesday, June 9. 
 
 Enraged and irritated to frenzy by his wife's 
 wretched faux pas, Bulwer Lytton was goaded into 
 taking en revanche a far more culpable step — an at- 
 tempt to incarcerate his wife in an asylum. On the 
 morning of June 12, there arrived at Lady Bulwer 
 Lytton's bedroom door an inquisition consisting 
 of Mr. Hale Thomson, formerly connected with 
 Westminster Hospital; Dr. Woodford, of Taunton; 
 296 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 Mr. Loaden, the legal agent of Bulwer Lytton ; 
 and a woman keeper from a local asylum. There 
 was a great scene with the landlady, who stood 
 guard over her guest; finally the medical men 
 were allowed to see Lady Bulwer Lytton, and 
 after a prolonged examination they were obliged 
 to admit that the lady certainly was not mad. 
 According to Lady Bulwer Lytton's account, Mr. 
 Thomson then asked what terms she would accept 
 for giving an undertaking not to expose her 
 husband again publicly. She named her terms — 
 financial and otherwise — and required an answer 
 within a few days. Not receiving one, ever im- 
 petuous, she resolved to go to London and demand 
 it in person ; she duly made an appointment with 
 Mr. Thomson, and upon this occasion Bulwer 
 Lytton was so ill-advised as to have his wife 
 forcibly detained and removed to a private estab- 
 lishment for the mentally deficient at Inverness 
 Lodge, Brentford. This gross outrage occurred 
 at Mr. Hale Thomson's house, 4, Clarges Street, 
 on June 22, and Lady Bulwer Lytton thus 
 described the circumstances that attended it : 
 
 297 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 ''After being kept waiting more than half an 
 hour, he (Thomson) made his appearance . . . 
 and soon after him stalked into the room a tall, 
 raw-boned Scotchman, with hay-coloured hair, 
 who I subsequently learned was an apothecary 
 of the name of Ross, keeping a druggist's shop 
 in Fenchurch Street (another friend of Loaden's), 
 and the second, with Thomson, who signed the 
 certificate of my insanity, he never having seen 
 me, or I him, belore. . . . Finding I was to get 
 no answer about the letter from Thomson, I said 
 to Miss Ryves and Mrs. Clarke, 'Come, don't 
 let us waste any more time in being fooled and 
 insulted here; we'll go.' Easier said than done, 
 for on reaching the hall we found it literally filled 
 with two mad doctors, that fellow Hill, of Inverness 
 Lodge, Brentford, his assistant . . . two women- 
 keepers . . . and a very idiotic looking footman 
 of Thomson's with his back against the hall-door 
 to bar egress. Seeing this blockade, I exclaimed, 
 ' What a set of blackguards ! ' to which Mr. Hill, 
 wagging his head, replied, ' I beg you will speak 
 like a lady, Lady Lytton.' ' I am treated so like 
 298 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 one that I certainly ought,' I answered. . . . 
 Seeing a side door ajar that led into a back 
 room I looked in, and there saw those two pre- 
 cious scoundrels, Sir Coward Bulwer Lytton and 
 his attorney Loaden. Boldly advancing towards 
 him, ' You cowardly villain,' I said, ' this is the 
 second time I have confronted you this month. 
 Why do you always do your dirty work by 
 deputy ? ' At this he rushed as he had done 
 from the Hertford hustings . . . down Mr. Hale 
 Thomson's kitchen stairs and up his area steps 
 into the street. . . . The hall door was opened, 
 and two policemen were brought in, at which I 
 rose to my feet and said, * Don't presume to touch 
 me! I'll go with these vile men, but the very 
 stones of London will rise up against them and 
 their infamous employer.' At the advent of the 
 policemen I got into Hill's carriage, which was 
 in waiting, he, the two keepers, Mrs. Clarke, and 
 myself inside, and the impudent-looking snub- 
 nosed assistant on the box. The creature took 
 me through the Park, and as there had been a 
 breakfast at Chiswick that day, it was crowded. 
 
 299 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 Many whom I knew kissed their hands in great 
 surprise to see me." 
 
 It is needless to quote Lady Bulwer Lytton's 
 long account of her incarceration and annoyances 
 at Inverness Lodge, where, however, she only 
 remained a little over three weeks, for a public 
 outcry was raised against this despotic and illegal 
 detention of a sane — if abnormally excited — 
 woman at the behest of an irritated husband. 
 Taunton, whose inhabitants had come to like and 
 respect the lady dwelling among them, was the 
 first to make a protest. A meeting was held on 
 July 6, at the Castle Hotel, when it was resolved 
 that Lady Bulwer Lytton's incarceration called 
 for " a public expression of alarm for the rights 
 and liberties of the subject, and that a committee 
 be appointed to watch the case." A week later 
 a long statement of Lady Bulwer Lytton's Case 
 appeared in The Somerset County Gazette, and on 
 July 15 The Daily Telegraph took up the matter 
 in a very trenchant manner, observing in the 
 course of a lengthy article : 
 
 " Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton has succeeded in 
 300 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 hushing up the scandal of his wife's arrest and 
 conveyance to a madhouse at Brentford. The 
 matters in dispute, so say the persons interested, 
 will be arranged to the satisfaction of all con- 
 cerned. For the sake of the lady herself, the 
 public will rejoice that such a compromise has 
 been extorted from the Secretary of State ; if the 
 victim be content, no one has a right to complain, 
 but it must be remembered that Sir Bulwer 
 Lytton alone has gained by the suppression of 
 inquiry. We are now told that he will seal a 
 treaty of perpetual truce with the woman who 
 was, apparently under his instruction, dragged by 
 policemen into a carriage, hurried to a lunatic 
 asylum, and there compelled to sign a compact of 
 forbearance towards the individual by whom, 
 according to her statement, she had been grossly 
 and flagitiously wronged. It is with pleasure we 
 record that this ignominious family war has been 
 terminated, and the accusation of insanity has 
 been abandoned ; that Lady Lytton is confessedly 
 qualified to treat with her husband upon terms of 
 equality." 
 
 3 QI 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 To this, Mr. Robert B. Lytton, the son, replied 
 that the statements in the public press were 
 exaggerated and distorted, and that he had 
 conducted every arrangement his affection could 
 suggest for the benefit of Lady Lytton, adding : 
 " My mother is now with me, free from all 
 restraint, and about, at her own wish, to travel 
 for a short time, in company with myself and a 
 female friend and relation." There was also 
 made public a medical certificate which diplo- 
 matically endeavoured to placate the two prota- 
 gonists of this lamentable tragedy : 
 
 " To Edwin James, Esq., O.C. 
 
 " Having at your request examined Lady B. 
 Lytton this day as to her state of mind, I beg to 
 report to you that in my opinion it is such as to 
 justify her liberation from restraint. 
 
 " I think it but an act of justice to Sir Edward 
 B. Lytton to state that upon the facts which I 
 have ascertained were submitted to him, and 
 upon the certificates of the medical men whom 
 he was advised to consult, the course which he 
 has pursued throughout these painful proceed- 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 ings cannot be considered harsh or unjustifi- 
 able. 
 
 " I remain, sir, your obedient servant, 
 
 " Forbes Winslow, M.D., D.C.L. 
 " 23, Cavendish Square, July 16, 1858."* 
 
 Lady Bulwer Lytton was accordingly released 
 from detention at Brentford on July 17, and two 
 days later crossed to France with her son, with 
 whom, for a brief time, she found happiness in 
 the beautiful country of the Pyrenees ; she wrote 
 from Luchon — " If you knew how thoroughly 
 happy I am ... for my dear boy is never tired 
 of repeating to me that I am now his sole object 
 in life, and, God knows, his every act proves it."f 
 Unfortunately this state of affairs was only to last 
 for a few weeks. The same " incompatibility of 
 temper" that cursed husband and wife seems soon 
 to have sundered mother and son. The latter 
 stated afterwards that, contrary to agreement, 
 
 * Further articles on this matter will be found in The Daily 
 Telegraph, July, 1858. 
 
 f Mr. W. E. A. Axon has pointed out in Notes and Queries 
 that in the Wigan Public Library there is a book of views of 
 Luchon, bearing the autographs of Rosina Lady Lytton and 
 her son and the following words on the flyleaf: "Souvenir 
 
 303 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 Lady Bulwer Lytton attempted to undermine his 
 affection for his father ; and Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 asserted that she had been deceived in the 
 arrangements made at the time of her release and 
 that she had never seen the letters published in 
 the press. Whatever the cause, Mr. Lytton 
 suddenly left his mother at Luchon. She saw him 
 once more, in Paris on her way home, and after 
 that they never met again, although the mother 
 lived for twenty-four solitary years longer. 
 
 On October 23, 1858, Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 returned to her faithful friend Mrs. Clarke, at 
 the Castle Hotel, Taunton, and the inhabitants 
 
 of our Honeymoon on the aniversary (sic) of your Wedding 
 Day, August 29, 1858. Bagnieres de Luchon. Robert 
 Lytton. 
 
 Together thro' the mountain pass 
 
 We watched the torrent flow, 
 The rock above how high it was, 
 How deep the gulf below. 
 
 But you and I belov'd were not 
 
 So bent on elevation, 
 As arm-in-arm in that sweet spot, 
 
 To wish to change our station." 
 
 There are five verses altogether, which scarcely adumbrate 
 the fine and graceful style of " Owen Meredith." 
 
 304 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 of the town were so delighted at her return 
 that it was only by her urgent entreaty that 
 she was not given a public reception and her 
 carriage drawn by the crowd from the station. 
 The first day, however, that she went out, 
 the people gathered with cries of welcome and 
 "God bless your ladyship,'' and the bells were 
 rung. 
 
 The next few years passed amid a sordid con- 
 flict for the payment of her debts and a settlement 
 of her affairs in general. Although she became a 
 peeress in 1866, on the creation of her husband's 
 barony, her actual income was often only about 
 £244, as her annuity was depleted by ruinous 
 interest due on loans and other charges. Lord 
 Lytton died in 1873, and with her husband's death 
 it is to be hoped that ever active, implacable hatred 
 which had seared Lady Lytton's brain for nearly 
 forty years gave place to calmer, and perchance re- 
 gretful, feelings. There is some ground for this 
 belief in the action she took upon the disgraceful 
 publication, in 1880, of a book entitled A 
 Blighted Life, which was an account of her 
 
 u 305 
 
Unpublished Letters of 
 
 wrongs and imprisonment she had written, in 
 1866-67, for a literary man who said he was 
 planning a work exposing the dangers and evils 
 of illegal incarceration in madhouses. This book 
 was never issued, and Lady Bulwer Lytton's 
 manuscript was returned to her. But a copy had 
 been taken evidently, for, as related above, it was 
 published in 1880 without Lady Lytton's know- 
 ledge or sanction, and with her name on the title- 
 page. She issued a pamphlet of protest at this out- 
 rage, recounting the history of the matter, and 
 asserting that the manuscript had never been 
 intended for publication as it stood, and had been 
 merely a hasty compilation of notes for the perusal 
 of the intended author of the work on the evils 
 of the asylum system. 
 
 In 1874, Lady Lytton removed to Upper Nor- 
 wood, and in 1875 s ^ e went to live in a small 
 house called Glenomera, Upper Sydenham, where 
 her remaining years were passed. The accusers 
 and stern judges of Lady Lytton's conduct can 
 scarcely have realised all the bitter sadness of her 
 latter life. Hating husband and only son, lavish- 
 306 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 ing her starved affections on dogs, and hiding 
 a breaking — broken — heart behind the obviously 
 faulty armour of strained wit and vulgar abuse of 
 her enemies, the spectacle is appalling in its 
 unredeemed tragedy. The very contrast, merely, 
 in her way of life is terrible. Compare the days 
 when she reigned a queen of beauty and wit 
 in Hertford Street and Paris, surrounded by 
 countless admirers and acquainted with all 
 the most notable personalities in London and 
 Continental Society, and those final thirty years 
 dragged out in exile and ill-health in the country 
 inns of Llangollen and Taunton,* and the end in a 
 small suburban villa. Here, at Sydenham, as Miss 
 Devey relates, "she rarely left her room, and 
 the house only once during the last five years. 
 Naturally of a too generous disposition, wholly 
 unselfish, and frequently left to the care of a 
 
 * Of the life at Taunton, a friend of Lady Lytton's wrote : 
 " All there is on the lowest scale of country-townism. She 
 says it is terrible to contrast this life with what her early years 
 were, when she lived amongst and mixed in all that was high 
 and courtly, not only in social position but in intellectual life. 
 At Louis Philippe's Court she was ever most welcome; the 
 Queen Amelie took her especially to her heart. ," 
 
 307 
 
Unpublished Letters oi 
 
 servant who was equally unable to comprehend 
 or to supply her requirements, she could hardly 
 have lived so long had it not been for friends 
 who commiserated her neglected and desolate 
 condition, and tried to alleviate her sorrows and 
 to supply what were really necessities by assist- 
 ing her to the utmost of their ability. Although 
 in her eightieth year, she possessed to the last 
 the remains of a beauty that had been so noted 
 in her youth. Neither her general tone nor 
 manners had deteriorated through adversity, but 
 remained to the last as distinguished as they 
 were polished and winning. She was full of 
 anecdote and wit, and though not reticent on 
 the subject of her wrongs, she never failed to 
 impress upon her hearers a feeling of sadness 
 and regret that so much capacity for all that was 
 loving and affectionate had been so ruthlessly 
 destroyed by neglect, wrong, and persecution." 
 
 The end came somewhat suddenly on March 
 12, 1882, when Death gave release to one who 
 was very weary with much mental and bodily 
 suffering and surfeit of sorrow. Lady Lytton 
 308 
 
Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 
 was buried in the churchyard of St. John, at 
 Shirley, in Surrey, and the funeral was attended 
 by a solicitor representing the son, Lord Lytton ; 
 the Rev. Freeman Wills (a distant relative) ; Mr. 
 Ancona (a friend) ; and the Misses Devey. These 
 two ladies were faithful friends, and Lady Lytton's 
 sole heirs and executrices ; they were subsequently 
 buried near her in Shirley churchyard. In her 
 will Lady Lytton expressed the wish that these 
 words should be inscribed on her tombstone : 
 
 " The Lord shall give thee rest from thy 
 sorrow, and from thy fear, and from the hard 
 bondage wherein thou wast made to serve " 
 (Isaiah xiv. 3).* 
 
 • • • • 
 
 An impulsive, impetuous woman of ever 
 
 * No stone has ever been placed over Lady Lytton's grave, 
 which is covered by a grass mound : but immediately east of 
 it is the vault of the Misses Devey, and here is inscribed : " In 
 Loving Memory. In the grave immediately west of this stone 
 lie the remains of Rosina, Dowager Lady Lytton, widow of 
 the first Baron Lytton, of Knebworth " — followed by the dates 
 of birth and death, and the text that is given above. 
 
 In Shirley Church is a beautiful oak Altar given by Miss 
 Devey in memory of her friend Rosina, Lady Lytton. 
 
 309 
 
Letters of Lady Lytton 
 
 varying moods, Lady Lytton's letters have 
 demonstrated the warring qualities of her 
 character : at one moment indulging in the 
 bitterest and most scandalous abuse of a real 
 or fancied enemy, and in the next sentence 
 revealing a warm heart full of sympathy for some 
 suffering person and an extreme devotion for 
 birds and animals. With many fine redeeming 
 qualities, it is certain she was neither mad nor bad 
 to the degree her enemies represented. She was 
 the victim of malign circumstances, her nature was 
 warped by afflictions, and she never had a fair 
 chance of happiness. Thus was a fine character 
 brought to shipwreck, and a beautiful woman 
 intended for love and joy pitilessly immolated on 
 the altar of Tragic Fate. 
 
 310 
 
NOTES 
 
 A : page 170. Apparently Buhver Lytton never had 
 much admiration for Tennyson's poems. For 
 instance, he wrote, in 1852, of the Ode on the 
 Death of the Duke of Wellington : " Sad stuff seems 
 Mr. Tennyson's long-winded howl." 
 
 B : page 190. Concerning Lady Bulwer Lytton's 
 anecdote of Lady Cork's parrot, it may be noted 
 that Mrs. E. M. Ward, in her Reminiscences, has a 
 somewhat similar story about A. E. Chalon him- 
 self : " On the very day of our visit to Alfred 
 Chalon's studio, his dog Pedro, a cross-grained 
 poodle, bit a gentleman, and on the latter com- 
 plaining, Alfred coolly replied, ' Poor Pedro ! he 
 has bitten the wrong person, some one else must 
 have teased him.' " 
 
 C : page 246. Two days after Lady Bulwer Lytton 
 had expressed the hope that Macaulay and Chalon 
 would be friends as well as neighbours on 
 Campden Hill, the artist received the following 
 letter : 
 
 " February 25, 1856. 
 
 " Sir, — I am very sensible of your kindness and 
 shall be most happy to see you when we are 
 neighbours. I hope I shall be able to dispense 
 with the service of a yard dog ! 
 
 " I have the honour to be, 
 
 " Your faithful friend, 
 
 "T. B. Macaulay." 
 3ii 
 
INDEX 
 
 AlNSWORTH, W. H., 145 
 
 Albert, Prince Consort, 122, 208 
 Amelie, Queen of the French, 269, 307 
 
 Beauclerk, George, 231, 233-4-5 
 
 Beaumont, Mrs. Laura, 93, 134, 140, 271 
 
 Beckford, William, 195 
 
 Bertini, M. and Madame, 47, 229, 247, 262, 270 
 
 Birard, Chevalier de, 175-88, 194, 231 
 
 Blessington, Lady, 124, 126, 132, 147-50, 156, 225 
 
 Brontes, The, 83-4 
 
 Brougham, Lord, 172-3 
 
 Buckstone, J. B., no 
 
 Bulwer, Henry, Lord Dalling and Bulwer, 55, 87, 256-7, 
 
 260 
 Bulwer, General W. E., 151 
 Byron, Lord, 99, 141, 254 
 
 Cardoza and Raphael, 242 
 
 Carlyle, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas, 24-6, 209 
 
 Catalani, Madame, 52-3, 241 
 
 Chalon, A. E., R.A., 27-8, 43, 75, 290, 31 1 
 
 Chalon, J. J., R.A. 27, 196 
 
 Clarke, Mrs., 213, 293, 297, 304 
 
 Cork, Lady, 190 
 
 Curran, 136 
 
 313 
 
Index 
 
 Deacon, Miss Caroline, 93 
 
 Devey, Miss Louisa, 11, 163, 214, 307, 309 
 
 Devonshire, Duke of, 269 
 
 Dickens, Charles, 134, 166, 230 
 
 Disraeli, Benjamin, 58, 66, 83, 152, 160, 231-4, 245 
 
 Disraeli, Mrs., 63, 231-2, 243-4 
 
 D'Orsay, Count, 63, 126, 131-2, 148, 225 
 
 Doyle Family, The, 11, 248, 270 
 
 Doyle, Sir Francis, 100, 271 
 
 Doyle, Sir John, 1 1 
 
 Doyle, Sir John Milley, 271 
 
 Eugenie, Empress, 204, 208 
 
 Fonblanque, Anthony, 155 
 Fonblanque, Mrs., 173-4 
 Forster, John, 128, 154, 174 
 
 Hall, Mrs. Anna Maria, 127, 129, 130, 226 
 Hall, Samuel Carter, 130-1, 137-9, 2l6 
 Harrington, Lady, 27, 115, 171, 191, 198 
 Hotham, Lady, 41, 65, 175-88, 192, 226, 232 
 Hugo, Victor, 69 
 Hyde, Charles, 222, 229, 262-3 
 
 Jerdan, William, 127-8 
 Jones, George, R.A., 266-7 
 
 Kean, Charles, 150 
 Kenealy, Dr. E. V., 17 
 
 " Ladies of Llangollen," The, 106-8, 204 
 Lamb, Lady Caroline, 253-5 
 
 3M 
 
Index 
 
 Landon, Miss L. E., 17, 127-9, I 4°> x 4^> I S I 
 
 Landor, W. S., 156 
 
 Lane, R. J., 141, 233, 270-4 
 
 Lewis, Wyndham, 231 
 
 Lytton, Edward Bulwer, first Baron Lytton, 12, 81-2, 86-7, 
 
 92-4, ioo, i43-5» I 5 2 > 167-71, 293, 305 
 Lytton, Elizabeth, Mrs. Bulwer, 12-14, I 4° J I 5 I 
 Lytton, Miss Emily, 22, 96-8, 250 
 
 Lytton, Robert, first Earl of, 22-3, 250, 274, 278, 302-4 
 Lytton, Rosina, Lady Bulwer, 
 
 birth, 11 
 
 marriage, 13 
 
 at Berrymead Priory, 16-22 
 
 separation from her husband, 22 
 
 abroad, 23-4 
 
 at Brompton, 40-73 
 
 at Llangollen, 74-211 
 
 at Taunton, 211 
 ' I at the Hertford Election 293-6 
 
 imprisoned in an asylum, 297-303 
 
 death, 308 
 
 her personal appearance, 39, 158, 160 
 
 her love of dogs and birds, 29-32, 134-5, 281-2, 286 
 Lytton, Victor, second Earl of, 9, 15 
 
 Maclise, Daniel, R.A., 152 
 Macaulay, Lord, 246, 311 
 Madden, R. R., 147, 151-2, 164 
 Maginn, William, 128, 216 
 Marlborough, Duke and Duchess of, 286-7 
 Massy Family, The, 89, 219 
 Melbourne, Lord, 87,216 
 Morgan, Sydney, Lady, 139 
 
 315 
 
Index 
 
 Napoleon 1, 131 
 
 Napoleon III, 51, 69-70, 135, 288 
 
 Neild, J. C, 68 
 
 Norton, the Hon. Mrs. Caroline, 216 
 
 PlCKERSGILL, H. W., R.A., 1 40 
 
 Planche, Miss Kate, 96-8 
 Planche, J. R., 252-3 
 Price, Dr., 31, 278, 291 
 
 Reed, Mr. and Mrs. German, 276 
 
 Stewart, Lady Castle, 102 
 
 Tennyson, Alfred, 167-70, 311 
 Thackeray, W. M., 42, 84, 143-6, 155 
 Turner, J. M. W., R.A., 264, 265, 266 
 
 Victoria, Queen, 37, 88, 122, 142, 204, 206, 208, 224, 228 
 Villars, Marechal de, 241 
 Villiers, Frederick, 20 
 
 Wagner, 141 
 Ward, Mrs. E. M., 311 
 Watts, Alaric A., 274-5 
 Wellington, Duchess of, 123 
 Wellington, Duke of, 68, 107 
 Westminster, Lord, 284 
 Wheeler Family, The, 11, 248 
 Willis, N. P., 152-4, 158, 162-3 
 
A LITERARY CURIOSITY 
 
 THE MEMOIRS OF 
 MARIA STELLA 
 
 (LADY NEWBOROUGH) 
 
 Illustrated. Price ios 6d net 
 
 These are the famous suppressed memoirs of the 
 reputed legitimate daughter of Philippe Egalite, 
 Duke of Orleans. The copy, from which this edition 
 is published, was discovered among the archives of 
 the Vatican, and the Memoirs set forth Maria Stella's 
 claims, deal with events surrounding her supposed 
 exchange by Philippe Egalite for the infant son of an 
 Italian commoner and her subsequent treatment by the 
 French Royal Family. 
 
 " One of the most startling pages in the history of the 
 Bourbons ... an extraordinarily interesting book ... of 
 enthralling interest."— Globe. 
 
 " A rare and curious book ... it is just the sort of 
 revelation that would have delighted Browning. We can 
 even imagine him inspired by Maria Stella to write a 
 sequel to 'The Ring and the Book'." — Athenceum. 
 
 " As interesting as any novel . . . well worth reading." 
 
 Pall Mall. 
 
 "A strange chapter of history." — Sunday Times. 
 
 " An astounding story . . . of thrilling interest." 
 
 Notts Guardian. 
 
 At all Bookshops and Libraries 
 
 EVELEIGH NASH, King Street, Covent Garden, W.C. 
 
A KEEPER OF ROYAL 
 SECRETS 
 
 Being the Private and Political Life of 
 Madame de Genlis 
 
 By JEAN HARMAND 
 Price 15/- net 
 
 "Felicitc Stephanie de Genlis, comtesse, adventuress, gover- 
 ness, copious writer of novels, plays, and homilies, needed a 
 biographer, and M. Jean Harmand has adequately supplied the 
 want.'' — Times. 
 
 "Extremely interesting . . . peculiarly vivid, and even fas- 
 cinating ... he has made real for us the personality of Mme. 
 de Genlis as that of a remarkable woman, who led a remarkable 
 1 if e. ' ' — Daily Telegraph. 
 
 "The true story of Mme. de Genlis's life — a story now fully 
 set forth for the first time. And what an interesting figure she 
 is now that we can see her clearly ! ' A Keeper of Royal 
 Secrets ' runs to over four hundred pages, but few will find it 
 too long." — Daily News and Leader. 
 
 "With the help of documents in the possession of the Geulis 
 family, and of other materials obtained from a variety of 
 sources, M. Harmand has been able to give us the first full-length 
 portrait of the woman who witnessed the Ancien Regime, the 
 Revolution, the Empire, and the Restoration, and who died 
 under the July Monarchy." — Nation. 
 
 " Deeply interesting . . . she was an extraordinarily interesting 
 woman, who lived in extraordinarily interesting times, and 
 Jean Harmand has made the utmost of his long and deep study 
 of both in his fascinating volume." — Truth. 
 
 "Highly interesting . . . M. Harmand has produced much 
 fresh material, and has made a most interesting addition to the 
 inner history of nations." — Liverpool Daily Post. 
 
 At all Bookshops and Libraries 
 
 EVELEIGH NASH, 36 King Street, Covent Garden 
 LONDON, W.C. 
 
A LIST OF NEW 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 Mr. EVELEIGH NASH 
 
 36 KING STREET, COVENT GARDEN, 
 LONDON, W.C. 
 
 RANDOM RECOLLECTIONS 
 
 By R. CATON WOODVILLE 
 Illustrated Price 10s. 6d. net 
 
 SOME EARLY PRESS OPINIONS: 
 
 " As rollicking a book as ever was written : Lever 
 come to life again. . . . One good story follows 
 another in bewildering profusion." 
 
 — Evening Standard. 
 
 " Mr. Woodville has gone from Charing Cross to 
 the ends of the earth, and has found good stories 
 everywhere." — Daily Chronicle. 
 
 " Kings and Queens, artists and soldiers, Indian 
 Princes and Bohemian men about town flit through 
 his pages, and in each case form the subject of one or 
 more interesting recollections." — Liverpool Daily Post. 
 
 " Scores of good stories. . . . His book is of 
 the sort that challenges gravity, and conquers it with 
 honest laughter." — Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
THE MEMOIRS OF MARIA 
 STELLA (Lady Newborough) 
 
 Illustrated Price ios. 6d. net 
 
 These are the famous suppressed memoirs of the 
 reputed legitimate daughter of Philippe Egalite, 
 Duke of Orleans. The copy, from which this edition 
 is published, was discovered among the archives of 
 the Vatican, and the Memoirs set forth Maria Stella's 
 claims, deal with events surrounding her supposed 
 exchange by Philippe Egalite for the infant son of 
 an Italian commoner and her subsequent treatment 
 by the French Royal Family. 
 
 " It is just the sort of revelation that would have 
 delighted Browning. We can even imagine him 
 inspired by ' Maria Stella ' to write a sequel to i The 
 Ring and the Book.' "-—The Athenceum. 
 
 AN IRISHMAN IN ULSTER 
 
 By F. FRANKFORT MOORE. 
 Illustrated. Price ys. 6d. net 
 
 With Ulster occupying columns in the daily and 
 weekly press, with Ulster on the lips of everyone you 
 meet, it is surprising how little is known of this north 
 eastern corner of Ireland, and of the lives and habits, 
 the industries and activities of those sturdy Orange- 
 men who are quietly preparing to pit themselves 
 against the mighty forces of the Government. 
 Few are better qualified than Mr. Frankfort Moore, 
 a practised and popular writer, and himself an 
 
Irishman with an intimate knowledge of the country 
 
 to describe the land and people, and to show us 
 what " Ulster" really is. His book is valuable and 
 interesting, not only for its vivid pen-picture of a 
 flourishing and powerful community, but for the light 
 it sheds upon the traditional determination of " the 
 Loyalists of Ireland." 
 
 THE LIFE OF THE EMPEROR 
 FRANCIS JOSEPH 
 
 By FRANCIS GRIBBLE 
 Author of "The Comedy of Catherine the Great;' etc. 
 
 Illustrated Price i6j. net 
 
 There exists no life of the Emperor Francis Joseph, 
 and no History of Austria, in which the personal 
 and political aspects of the subject are considered in 
 their relation to each other. In this important new 
 biography we have not only the picture of a great and 
 successful ruler, but also of a brave old man main- 
 taining the mediaeval majesty of royal caste at a time 
 when certain members of his House—one Habsburg 
 after another — were, by their insurgent extravagances, 
 moving the Courts and Chancelleries of Europe to 
 consternation. 
 
 Cromwell, it will be remembered, insisted that the 
 artist should paint him " warts and all," and if the 
 life of an emperor is not to be written in that spirit, 
 one might just as well refrain from doing it, for there 
 would be nothing to be learnt from it when it was 
 written. Mr. Gribble's object is neither depreciation 
 nor flattery, but truth — as much of the truth as is 
 available — and his life of Francis Joseph should 
 
MR. NASH'S NEW BOOKS 
 
 rank as one of the most honest biographies in the 
 language. 
 
 SOME EARLY PRESS OPINIONS: 
 
 "Deals with a fascinating subject, and with problems 
 of immediate and vital importance ; his style is as 
 attractive as ever ... his book will be widely read 
 and appreciated." — Standard. 
 
 " A most engrossing book."— Daily News. 
 
 "Mr. Gribble strikes one as being coolly unpre- 
 judiced, slow to convince, as open-minded as tolerant 
 . . . interesting from the first page to the last." — Daily 
 Graphic. 
 
 THE LIFE OF KING GEORGE 
 OF GREECE 
 
 By CAPTAIN WALTER CHRISTMAS 
 
 Illustrated Price \$s. net 
 
 This is the authorised life of the late King George 
 of Greece and a peculiar interest attaches to the fact 
 that the author and King George were reading over 
 the final chapters of the book only a few hours before 
 the King's assassination in a street at Salonika. The 
 book contains many details of the private life of the 
 late monarch (who was Queen Alexandra's brother) 
 and of the Greek Royal Family, and is dedicated by 
 gracious permission to Queen Alexandra who has 
 supplied photographs, taken by herself, for reproduc- 
 tion in the volume. 
 
THE STORY OF DOROTHY 
 JORDAN 
 
 By CLARE JERROLD 
 Author of " The Early Court of Queen Victoria" etc. 
 
 Illustrated Price \$s. net 
 
 This is an authoritative life of the great actress 
 about whom there has been more mystery than about 
 any other such notability. Mrs. Jerrold, having had 
 access to a mass of family papers and many of the 
 actress's letters, is able to reveal the truth about Mrs. 
 Jordan's twenty years relationship with the Duke of 
 Clarence and proves how she " spoon-fed " thefDuke 
 from her theatrical earnings. It is a romance more 
 remarkable and pathetic than any fiction, yet imbued 
 with the gaiety of the loving, loyal woman, the brilliant 
 actress, to whom laughter was life and sorrow death. 
 
 ON THE TRACK OF THE GREAT 
 
 Reminiscences of a "Special Correspondent" 
 
 By AUBREY STANHOPE 
 
 Illustrated Price 7*. 6d. net 
 
 King Edward— King Leopold of the Belgians— 
 The Czar— The Kaiser— The Greek Royal Family- 
 King Christian of Denmark— King Carlos of Portugal 
 —King Alexander and Queen Draga of Servia— the 
 late Emperor of Brazil— Stanley the explorer— the great 
 Lesseps of Panama fame— Pasteur the famous scientist 
 and Bismarck— these are some of the " great ones" of 
 the world who figure in anecdote and story in the pages 
 
MR. NASWS NEW "BOOKS 
 
 HAUNTED HIGHWAYS AND 
 BYWAYS 
 
 By ELLIOTT O'DONNELL 
 
 A uthor of i ' Some Haunted Houses of England 
 and Wales y " etc. 
 
 Price 3^. 6d. net 
 
 Mr. O'Donnell is a prominent member of, and lectures 
 for, the Society of Psychical Research, and his experiences 
 in the investigation of ghostly phenomena are generally 
 admitted to be among the most eerie, and in some cases 
 gruesome, that find their way into print. 
 
 THE MEANING OF DREAMS 
 
 By ELLIOTT O'DONNELL 
 New Edition Price is, net 
 
 NURSERY MANAGEMENT 
 
 By MARY GARDNER 
 
 Price $s. net 
 
 Written by the late editress of a popular and very 
 widely circulated weekly home journal, this book deals in 
 a thoroughly up-to-date and practical manner with every 
 topic connected with the nursery and its proper manage- 
 ment. Special attention is devoted to the care of children 
 in India and to suitable games and amusements for 
 children at all ages. 
 
 8 
 
Mr. Nash's New 6\- Novels 
 
 TIME AND THOMAS WARING 
 
 By MORLEY ROBERTS 
 
 Author of u The Private Life of Henry Maitland" 
 " David Bran " etc. 
 
 "Time and Thomas Waring" is unlike any other 
 novel in the English language. It is the study of a 
 man whose outlook on life is entirely changed by 
 an operation he undergoes in a nursing home, and 
 it preaches the gospel of tolerance and human kindness 
 to an extent that it is not likely to be acceptable to 
 those worthy people whose lives are governed by 
 convention. "Time and Thomas Waring" is 
 enormously interesting and it contains more know- 
 ledge of human nature — especially of feminine motives 
 and the things which women do not tell each other — 
 than ninety-nine novels out of every hundred. 
 
 THE MARRIAGE LINES 
 
 By J. S. FLETCHER 
 
 A uthor of ' ' Ferris of the Cherry Trees, " " The Town 
 of Crooked Ways" etc. 
 
 A Yorkshire story of much power and strong 
 dramatic interest. 
 
 THIS MAN AND THIS WOMAN 
 
 By 
 LADY TROUBRIDGE 
 
 Author of " The Unguarded Hour." 
 9 
 
MR. SLASH'S ^EW ^OVELS 
 
 JUDAS, THE WOMAN 
 
 By 
 F. C. PHILIPS 
 
 (Author of " As in a Looking Glass ") 
 and A. R. T. PHILIPS 
 
 THE MATERNAL INSTINCT 
 
 By 
 
 ARTHUR LAMBTON 
 
 (Author of " The Splendid Sinner ") 
 
 and SIMON CARNE 
 
 Second Edition 
 
 THE CRIME DOCTOR 
 
 By 
 E. W. HORNUNG. 
 
 Author of " Raffles;' etc. 
 
 THE WOMAN'S LAW 
 
 By 
 MARAVENE THOMPSON 
 
 A first novel of absorbing interest. 
 
 10 
 
MR. RASH'S 3^EW 3^0FELS 
 
 NEW EDITION OF ALGERNON 
 BLACKWOOD'S EARLIER WORKS 
 
 Each volume Crown 8vo. 3^. 6d. net. 
 
 Volumes to be issued during the Spring, 19 14 : 
 I.— JOHN SILENCE. 
 II.— THE LOST VALLEY. 
 
 Volumes to be issued during the Autumn, 1914 : 
 III.— THE LISTENER. 
 IV.— THE EMPTY HOUSE. 
 
 Mr. Nastis New Library of Memoirs 
 at Popular Trices 
 
 VOLUMES NOW READY. 
 
 MY PAST 
 
 By the COUNTESS MARIE LARISCH 
 
 Niece of the late Empress Elizabeth of Austria 
 
 Price 2.T. net 
 
 MY OWN STORY 
 
 By LOUISA OF TUSCANY 
 Ex-Crown Princess of Saxony 
 
 Price is. net. 
 11 
 
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