"Not in London, but a great many abroad. I was with Lord Blessington
in his yacht at Naples, when the American fleet was lying there, eight
or ten years ago, and we were constantly on board your ships. I knew
Commodore Creighton and Captain Deacon extremely well, and liked them
particularly. They were with us, either on board the yacht or the
frigate every evening, and I remember very well the bands playing
always 'God save the King,' as we went up the side. Count D'Orsay
here, who spoke very little English at that time, had a great passion
for Yankee Doodle, and it was always played at his request."
The count, who still speaks the language with a very slight accent,
but with a choice of words that shows him to be a man of uncommon tact
and elegance of mind, inquired after several of the officers, whom I
have not the pleasure of knowing. He seemed to remember his visits to
the frigate with great pleasure. The conversation, after running upon
a variety of topics, which I could not with propriety put into a
letter for the public eye, turned very naturally upon Byron. I had
frequently seen the Countess Guiccioli on the continent, and I asked
lady Blessington if she knew her.
"No. We were at Pisa when they were living together, but though Lord
Blessington had the greatest curiosity to see her, Byron would never
permit it. 'She has a red head of her own,' said he, 'and don't like
to show it.' Byron treated the poor creature dreadfully ill. She
feared more than she loved him."
She had told me the same thing herself in Italy.
It would be impossible, of course, to make a full and fair record of a
conversation of some hours. I have only noted one or two topics which
I thought most likely to interest an American reader. During all this
long visit, however, my eyes were very busy in finishing for memory a
portrait of the celebrated and beautiful woman before me.
The portrait of lady Blessington in the Book of Beauties is not unlike
her, but it is still an unfavorable likeness. A picture by Sir Thomas
Lawrence hung opposite me, taken, perhaps, at the age of eighteen,
which is more like her, and as captivating a representation of a just
matured woman, full of loveliness and love, the kind of creature with
whose divine sweetness the gazer's heart aches, as ever was drawn in
the painter's most inspired hour. The original is now (she confessed
it very frankly) forty. She looks something on the sunny side of
thirty. Her person is full, but preserves all the fineness of an
admirable shape; her foot is not crowded in a satin slipper, for which
a Cinderella might long be looked for in vain, and her complexion, (an
unusually fair skin, with very dark hair and eyebrows,) is of even a
girlish delicacy and freshness. Her dress of blue satin, (if I am
describing her like a milliner, it is because I have here and there a
reader of the mirror in my eye who will be amused by it,) was cut low
and folded across her bosom, in a way to show to advantage the round
and sculpture-like curve and whiteness of a pair of exquisite
shoulders, while her hair dressed close to her head, and parted simply
on her forehead with a rich _ferronier_ of turquoise, enveloped in
clear outline a head with which it would be difficult to find a
fault.--Her features are regular, and her mouth, the most expressive
of them, has a ripe fulness and freedom of play, peculiar to the Irish
physiognomy, and expressive of the most unsuspicious good humour. Add
to all this a voice merry and sad by turns, but always musical, and
manners of the most unpretending elegance, yet even more remarkable
for their winning kindness, and you have the prominent traits of one
of the most lovely and fascinating women I have ever seen. Remembering
her talents and her rank, and the unenvying admiration she receives
from the world of fashion and genius, it would be difficult to
reconcile her lot to the "doctrine of compensation."
There is one remark I may as well make here, with regard to the
personal descriptions and anecdotes with which my letters from England
will of course be filled. It is quite a different thing from
publishing such letters in London. America is much farther off from
England than England from America. You in New York read the
periodicals of this country, and know every thing that is done or
written here, as if you lived within the sound of Bow-bell. The
English, however, just know of our existence, and if they get a
general idea twice a year of our progress in politics, they are
comparatively well informed. Our periodical literature is never even
heard of. Of course, there can be no offence to the individuals
themselves in any thing which a visiter could write, calculated to
convey an idea of the person or manners of distinguished people to the
American public. I mention it lest, at first thought, I might seem to
have abused the hospitality or frankness of those on whom letters of
introduction have given me claims for civility.