emember
Rogers showing me an invitation he had received from her for one of the
ancient concert evenings (these were musical entertainments of the
highest order, which Mr. Rogers never failed to attend), couched in
these terms: "Dear Rogers, leave the ancient music and come to ancient
Cork, 93." Lady Cork's drawing-rooms were rather peculiar in their
arrangement: they did not contain that very usual piece of furniture, a
pianoforte, so that if ever she especially desired to have music she
hired an instrument for the evening; the rest of the furniture consisted
only of very large and handsome armchairs placed round the apartments
against the walls, to which they were _made fast_ by some mysterious
process, so that it was quite impossible to form a small circle or
coterie of one's own at one of her assemblies. I remember when first I
made this discovery expressing my surprise to the beautiful Lady Harriet
d'Orsay, who laughingly suggested that poor old Lady Cork's infirmity
with regard to the property of others (a well-known incapacity for
discriminating between _meum_ and _tuum_) might probably be the cause of
this peculiar precaution with regard to her own armchairs, which it
would not, however, have been a very easy matter to have stolen even had
they not been chained to the walls. In the course of the conversation
which followed, Lady E----, apparently not at all familiar with
Chesterfield's Letters, said that it was Lady Cork who had originated
the idea that after all heaven would probably turn out very dull to her
_when she got there; sitting on damp clouds and singing "God save the
King_" being her idea of the principal amusements there. This rather
dreary image of the joys of the blessed was combated, however, by Lady
E----, who put forth her own theory on the subject as far more genial,
saying, "Oh dear, no; she thought it would be all splendid _fetes_ and
delightful dinner parties, and charming, clever people; _just like the
London season, only a great deal pleasanter because there would be no
bores._" With reference to Lady Cork's theory, Lady Harriet said, "I
suppose it would be rather tiresome for her, poor thing! for you know
she hates music, and there would be nothing to steal _but one another's
wings_."

Lady Cork's great age did not appear to interfere with her enjoyment of
society, in which she lived habitually. I remember a very comical
conversation with her in which she was endeavoring to appoint some