HOLLAND HOUSE AND GARDENS 
But to try conclusions with Rogers was a dangerous game, for 
nobody could say disagreeable things so wittily. Even Lady 
Holland’s sharp tongue must have found its match in his, and it 
is to the credit of both that their friendship was never broken. 
It was Rogers who introduced Byron to Lord and Lady Holland, 
about the time that “‘ Childe Harold ” appeared ; and afterwards— 
until he left England—he was frequently at their house. 
It is surprising that he never fell foul of his hostess, for he could 
be a most uncomfortable dinner guest. ‘‘ Did he take soup?” 
“No, he never took soup.” ‘‘ Did he take fish ? ”’ ‘‘ No, he never 
took fish.” ‘‘ Mutton?’ ‘‘ No, he never ate mutton.” 
“Would he take wine ?”’ ‘“ Thank you, I never take wine.” 
‘What will you take?” inquired the distressed host (who on 
this occasion happened to be Rogers, but might quite as well have 
been Lord Holland). ‘‘I take nothing but biscuits and soda- 
water.” There were no biscuits, and there was no soda-water in 
the house. So Byron helped himself to a plate of potatoes, mashed 
them with a fork, and drenched them with vinegar; ‘‘ and con- 
trived,” says Tom Moore, who was present, ‘‘ to make rather a 
hearty meal out of this meagre material.” 
In this year of grace 1918 we ourselves are fast learning to live 
on vinegar and potatoes, but minus Byron’s compensations ; for 
it appears in the sequel, that on leaving St. James’ Street, the poet 
turned into his club and had a good meat supper ! 
Moore was a welcome guest on the Kensington Mount Parnassus ; 
and once Rogers, desiring to take him to his sister’s at Highbury, 
met with strong opposition from her ladyship. ‘‘ Do you allow 
him,” she cried to Moore, ‘‘ to dispose of you like a little bit of 
literary property ?”’ She did her utmost to prevent “ her dear, 
dear Macaulay” from going to India. She cried and raved; and 
afterwards stormed at the Ministry for letting him go, rousing even 
her good-humoured husband to say: ‘‘ Don’t talk nonsense, my 
Lady !—what the devil !—can we tell a gentleman who has a claim 
upon us that he must lose his only chance of getting an independ- 
ence, in order that he may come and talk to you in an evening ? ”’ 
‘The ‘intimates of Holland House were Rogers, Luttrell, the epi- 
eurean, witty, and polished man-about-town ; and—when he was 
in London—Sydney Smith, the most lovable of the wits. In earlier 
days Charles James Fox was a welcome guest, and his delightful 
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