ABSTRACT
While I listened late at night to these reminiscences, I did not expect the next evening to be sitting on the same sofa chatting with Godwin’s daughter, Mrs. Shelley, 1 the author of “Frankenstein.” I dined with Theobald, 2 whose legal writings you well know, and, stealing away from his drawingrooms, repaired to Lady Morgan’s. 3 Her Ladyship had particularly invited me to her party on this evening, saying, “Promise me that you will come on Sunday night, and I will have all the literary characters of London. I will trot them all out for your benefit.” Accordingly, there were Sam Rogers, —just returned with renewed youth from Paris, — Kenyon, Hayward, Courtenay 4 (the M. P. and great London epicure), and his beautiful daughter; Westmacote Young, the retired actor, Young (Ubiquity), Mr. and Mrs. Yates, Quin, and Mrs. Shelley. We had excellent music. I talked a good deal with Mrs. Shelley. She was dressed in pure white, and seemed a nice and agreeable person, with great cleverness. She said the greatest happiness of a woman was to be the wife or mother of a distinguished man. I was not a little amused at an expression that broke from her unawares, she forgetting that I was an American. We were speaking of travellers who violated social ties, and published personal sketches, and she broke out, “Thank God! I have kept clear of those Americans.” I did not seem to observe what she had said, and she soon atoned for it. Lady Morgan points every sentence with a phrase in French. She is now engaged upon a work on “Woman,” which will be published in the spring. 5
