till the day before, but his cordiality was no colder for that. We
exchanged port and sherry, and a most amicable understanding found its
way down with the wine. Our table was near the window, and a great
crowd began to collect at the corner of St. James' street. It was the
king's birth-day, and the people were thronging to see the nobility
come in state from the royal _levee_. The show was less splendid than
the same thing in Rome or Vienna, but it excited far more of my
admiration. Gaudiness and tinsel were exchanged for plain richness and
perfect fitness in the carriages and harness, while the horses were
incomparably finer. My friend pointed out to me the different liveries
as they turned the corner into Piccadilly, the duke of Wellington's
among others. I looked hard to see His Grace; but the two pale and
beautiful faces on the back seat, carried nothing like the military
nose on the handles of the umbrellas.
The annual procession of mail-coaches followed, and it was hardly less
brilliant. The drivers and guard in their bright red and gold
uniforms, the admirable horses driven so beautifully, the neat
harness, the exactness with which the room of each horse was
calculated, and the small space in which he worked, and the
compactness and contrivance of the coaches, formed altogether one of
the most interesting spectacles I have ever seen. My friend, the
clergyman, with whom I had walked out to see them pass, criticised the
different teams _con amore_, but in language which I did not always
understand. I asked him once for an explanation; but he looked rather
grave, and said something about "gammon," evidently quite sure that my
ignorance of London was a mere quiz.
We walked down Piccadilly, and turned into, beyond all comparison,
the most handsome street I ever saw. The Toledo of Naples, the Corso
of Rome, the Kohl-market of Vienna, the Rue de la Paix and Boulevards
of Paris, have each impressed me strongly with their magnificence, but
they are really nothing to Regent-street. I had merely time to get a
glance at it before dark; but for breadth and convenience, for the
elegance and variety of the buildings, though all of the same scale
and material, and for the brilliancy and expensiveness of the shops,
it seemed to me quite absurd to compare it with anything between New
York and Constantinople--Broadway and the Hippodrome included.
It is the custom for the king's tradesmen to illuminate their shops on
His Majesty's birth-night, and the principal streets on our return
were in a blaze of light. The crowd was immense. None but the lower
order seemed abroad, and I cannot describe to you the effect on my
feelings on hearing my language spoken by every man, woman, and child,
about me. It seemed a completely foreign country in every other
respect, different from what I had imagined, different from my own and
all that I had seen; and, coming to it last, it seemed to me the
farthest off and strangest country of all--and yet the little sweep
who went laughing through the crowd, spoke a language that I had heard
attempted in vain by thousands of educated people, and that I had
grown to consider next to unattainable by others, and almost useless
to myself. Still, it did not make me feel at home. Everything else
about me was too new. It was like some mysterious change in my own
ears--a sudden power of comprehension, such as a man might feel who
was cured suddenly of deafness. You can scarcely enter into my
feelings till you have had the changes of French, Italian, German,
Greek, Turkish, Illyrian, and the mixtures and dialects of each, rung
upon your hearing almost exclusively, as I have for years. I wandered
about as if I were exercising some supernatural faculty in a dream.
A friend in Italy had kindly given me a letter to Lady Blessington,
and with a strong curiosity to see this celebrated lady, I called on
the second day after my arrival in London. It was "deep i' the
afternoon," but I had not yet learned the full meaning of "town
hours." "Her ladyship had not come down to breakfast." I gave the
letter and my address to the powdered footman, and had scarce reached
home when a note arrived inviting me to call the same evening at ten.
In a long library lined alternately with splendidly bound books and
mirrors, and with a deep window of the breadth of the room, opening
upon Hyde Park, I found Lady Blessington alone. The picture to my eye
as the door opened was a very lovely one. A woman of remarkable beauty
half buried in a fauteuil of yellow satin, reading by a magnificent
lamp, suspended from the centre of the arched ceiling; sofas, couches,
ottomans, and busts, arranged in rather a crowded sumptuousness
through the room; enamel tables, covered with expensive and elegant
trifles in every corner, and a delicate white hand relieved on the
back of a book, to which the eye was attracted by the blaze of its
diamond rings. As the servant mentioned my name, she rose and gave me
her hand very cordially, and a gentleman entering immediately after,
she presented me to her son-in-law, Count D'Orsay, the well-known
Pelham of London, and certainly the most splendid specimen of a man,
and a well-dressed one that I had ever seen. Tea was brought in
immediately, and conversation went swimmingly on.
Her ladyship's inquiries were principally about America, of which,
from long absence, I knew very little. She was extremely curious to
know the degrees of reputation the present popular authors of England
enjoy among us, particularly Bulwer, Galt, and D'Israeli (the author
of Vivian Grey.) "If you will come to-morrow night," she said, "you
will see Bulwer. I am delighted that he is popular in America. He is
envied and abused by all the literary men of London, for nothing, I
believe, except that he gets five hundred pounds for his books and
they fifty, and knowing this, he chooses to assume a pride (some
people call it puppyism), which is only the armor of a sensitive mind,
afraid of a wound. He is to his friends, the most frank and gay
creature in the world, and open to boyishness with those who he thinks
understand and value him. He has a brother Henry, who is as clever as
himself in a different vein, and is just now publishing a book on the
present state of France. Bulwer's wife, you know, is one of the most
beautiful women in London, and his house is the resort of both fashion
and talent. He is just now hard at work on a new book, the subject of
which is the last days of Pompeii. The hero is a Roman dandy, who
wastes himself in luxury, till this great catastrophe rouses him and
develops a character of the noblest capabilities. Is Galt much liked?"
I answered to the best of my knowledge that he was not. His life of
Byron was a stab at the dead body of the noble poet, which, for one, I
never could forgive, and his books were clever, but vulgar. He was
evidently not a gentleman in his mind. This was the opinion I had
formed in America, and I had never heard another.
"I am sorry for it," said Lady B., "for he is the dearest and best
old man in the world. I know him well. He is just on the verge of the
grave, but comes to see me now and then, and if you had known how
shockingly Byron treated him, you would only wonder at his sparing his
memory so much."
"_Nil mortuis nisi bonum_," I thought would have been a better course.
If he had reason to dislike him, he had better not have written since
he was dead.
"Perhaps--perhaps. But Galt has been all his life miserably poor, and
lived by his books. That must be his apology. Do you know the
D'Israeli's in America?"
I assured her ladyship that the "Curiosities of Literature," by the
father, and "Vivian Grey and Contarini Fleming," by the son, were
universally known.
"I am pleased at that, too, for I like them both. D'Israeli the elder,
came here with his son the other night. It would have delighted you to
see the old man's pride in him. He is very fond of him, and as he was
going away, he patted him on the head, and said to me, "take care of
him, Lady Blessington, for my sake. He is a clever lad, but he wants
ballast. I am glad he has the honor to know you, for you will check
him sometimes when I am away!" D'Israeli, the elder, lives in the
country, about twenty miles from town, and seldom comes up to London.
He is a very plain old man in his manners, as plain as his son is the
reverse. D'Israeli, the younger, is quite his own character of Vivian
Grey crowded with talent, but very _soigne_ of his curls, and a bit of
a coxcomb. There is no reserve about him, however, and he is the only
_joyous_ dandy I ever saw."
I asked if the account I had seen in some American paper of a literary
celebration at Canandaigua, and the engraving of her ladyship's name
with some others upon a rock, was not a quiz.
"Oh, by no means. I was equally flattered and amused by the whole
affair. I have a great idea of taking a trip to America to see it.
Then the letter, commencing 'Most charming Countess--for charming you
must be since you have written the conversations of Lord Byron'--oh,
it was quite delightful. I have shown it to everybody. By the way, I
receive a great many letters from America, from people I never heard
of, written in the most extraordinary style of compliment, apparently
in perfectly good faith. I hardly know what to make of them."
I accounted for it by the perfect seclusion in which great numbers of
cultivated people live in our country, who having neither intrigue,
nor fashion, nor twenty other things to occupy their minds as in
England, depend entirely upon books, and consider an author who has
given them pleasure as a friend. America, I said, has probably more
literary enthusiasts than any country in the world; and there are
thousands of romantic minds in the interior of New England, who know
perfectly every writer this side the water, and hold them all in
affectionate veneration, scarcely conceivable by a sophisticated
European. If it were not for such readers, literature would be the
most thankless of vocations. I, for one, would never write another
line.
"And do you think these are the people who write to me? If I could
think so, I should be exceedingly happy. People in England are refined
down to such heartlessness--criticism, private and public, is so
interested and so cold, that it is really delightful to know there is
a more generous tribunal. Indeed, I think all our authors now are
beginning to write for America. We think already a great deal of your
praise or censure."
I asked if her ladyship had known many Americans.
"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 band 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 Beauty 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 _ferroniere_ 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 humor. 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 most 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 everything 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 anything which a visitor 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.
LETTER LXIX.
THE LITERATI OF LONDON.
Spent my first day in London in wandering about the finest part of the
West End. It is nonsense to compare it to any other city in the world.
From the Horse-Guards to the Regent's Park alone, there is more
magnificence in architecture than in the whole of any other metropolis
in Europe, and I have seen the most and the best of them. Yet this,
though a walk of more than two miles, is but a small part even of the
fashionable extremity of London. I am not easily tired in a city; but
I walked till I could scarce lift my feet from the ground, and still
the parks and noble streets extended before and around me as far as
the eye could reach, and strange as they were in reality, the names
were as familiar to me as if my childhood had been passed among them.
"Bond Street," "Grosvenor Square," "Hyde Park," look new to my eye,
but they sound very familiar to my ear.
The equipages of London are much talked of, but they exceed even
description. Nothing can be more perfect, or apparently more simple
than the gentleman's carriage that passes you in the street. Of a
modest color, but the finest material, the crest just visible on the
panels, the balance of the body upon its springs, true and easy, the
hammercloth and liveries of the neatest and most harmonious colors,
the harness slight and elegant, and the horses "the only splendid
thing" in the establishment--is a description that answers the most of
them. Perhaps the most perfect thing in the world, however, is a St.
James's-street stanhope or cabriolet, with its dandy owner on the
whip-seat, and the "tiger" beside him. The attitudes of both the
gentleman and the "gentleman's gentleman" are studied to a point, but
nothing could be more knowing or exquisite than either. The whole
affair, from the angle of the bell-crowned hat (the prevailing fashion
on the steps of Crockford's at present), to the blood legs of the
thorough-bred creature in harness, is absolutely faultless. I have
seen many subjects for study in my first day's stroll, but I leave the
men and women and some other less important features of London for
maturer observation.
In the evening I kept my appointment with Lady Blessington. She had
deserted her exquisite library for the drawing-room, and sat, in
fuller dress, with six or seven gentlemen about her. I was presented
immediately to all, and when the conversation was resumed, I took the
opportunity to remark the distinguished coterie with which she was
surrounded.
Nearest me sat _Smith_, the author of "Rejected Addresses"--a hale,
handsome man, apparently fifty, with white hair, and a very
nobly-formed head and physiognomy. His eye alone, small and with lids
contracted into an habitual look of drollery, betrayed the bent of his
genius. He held a cripple's crutch in his hand, and though otherwise
rather particularly well dressed, wore a pair of large India rubber
shoes--the penalty he was paying, doubtless, for the many good dinners
he had eaten. He played rather an _aside_ in the conversation,
whipping in with a quiz or a witticism whenever he could get an
opportunity, but more a listener than a talker.
On the opposite side of Lady B. stood Henry Bulwer, the brother of the
novelist, very earnestly engaged in a discussion of some speech of
O'Connell's. He is said by many to be as talented as his brother, and
has lately published a book on the present state of France. He is a
small man, very slight and gentleman-like, a little pitted with the
small-pox, and of very winning and persuasive manners. I liked him at
the first glance.
His opponent in the argument was Fonblanc, the famous editor of the
Examiner, said to be the best political writer of his day. I never saw
a much worse face--sallow, seamed and hollow, his teeth irregular, his
skin livid, his straight black hair uncombed and straggling over his
forehead--he looked as if he might be the gentleman
Whose "coat was red, and whose breeches were blue."
A hollow, croaking voice, and a small, fiery black eye, with a smile
like a skeleton's, certainly did not improve his physiognomy. He sat
upon his chair very awkwardly, and was very ill-dressed, but every
word he uttered, showed him to be a man of claims very superior to
exterior attractions. The soft musical voice, and elegant manner of
the one, and the satirical, sneering tone and angular gestures of the
other, were in very strong contrast.
A German prince, with a star on his breast, trying with all his might,
but, from his embarrassed look, quite unsuccessfully, to comprehend
the drift of the argument, the Duke de Richelieu, whom I had seen at
the court of France, the inheritor of nothing but the name of his
great ancestor, a dandy and a fool, making no attempt to listen, a
famous traveller just returned from Constantinople; and the splendid
person of Count D'Orsay in a careless attitude upon the ottoman,
completed the _cordon_.
I fell into conversation after a while with Smith, who, supposing I
might not have heard the names of the others, in the hurry of an
introduction, kindly took the trouble to play the dictionary, and
added a graphic character of each as he named him. Among other things
he talked a great deal of America, and asked me if I knew our
distinguished countryman, Washington Irving. I had never been so
fortunate as to meet him. "You have lost a great deal," he said, "for
never was so delightful a fellow. I was once taken down with him into
the country by a merchant, to dinner. Our friend stopped his carriage
at the gate of his park, and asked us if we would walk through his
grounds to the house. Irving refused and held me down by the coat, so
that we drove on to the house together, leaving our host to follow on
foot. 'I make it a principle,' said Irving, 'never to walk with a man
through his own grounds. I have no idea of praising a thing whether I
like it or not. You and I will do them to-morrow morning by
ourselves.'" The rest of the company had turned their attention to
Smith as he began his story, and there was a universal inquiry after
Mr. Irving. Indeed the first question on the lips of every one to whom
I am introduced as an American, are of him and Cooper. The latter
seems to me to be admired as much here as abroad, in spite of a common
impression that he dislikes the nation. No man's works could have
higher praise in the general conversation that followed, though
several instances were mentioned of his having shown an unconquerable
aversion to the English when in England. Lady Blessington mentioned
Mr. Bryant, and I was pleased at the immediate tribute paid to his
delightful poetry by the talented circle around her.
Toward twelve o'clock, "Mr. Lytton Bulwer" was announced, and enter
the author of Pelham. I had made up my mind how he _should_ look, and
between prints and descriptions thought I could scarcely be mistaken
in my idea of his person. No two things could be more unlike, however,
than the ideal Mr. Bulwer in my mind and the real Mr. Bulwer who
followed the announcement. _Imprimis_, the gentleman who entered was
not handsome. I beg pardon of the boarding-schools--but he really _was
not_. The engraving of him published some time ago in America is as
much like any other man living, and gives you no idea of his head
whatever. He is short, very much bent in the back, slightly
knock-kneed, and, if my opinion in such matters goes for anything, as
ill-dressed a man for a gentleman, as you will find in London. His
figure is slight and very badly put together, and the only commendable
point in his person, as far as I could see, was the smallest foot I
ever saw a man stand upon. _Au reste_, I liked his manners extremely.
He ran up to Lady Blessington, with the joyous heartiness of a boy let
out of school; and the "how d'ye, Bulwer!" went round, as he shook
hands with everybody, in the style of welcome usually given to "the
best fellow in the world." As I had brought a letter of introduction
to him from a friend in Italy, Lady Blessington introduced me
particularly, and we had a long conversation about Naples and its
pleasant society.
Bulwer's head is phrenologically a fine one. His forehead retreats
very much, but is very broad and well marked, and the whole air is
that of decided mental superiority. His nose is aquiline, and far too
large for proportion, though he conceals its extreme prominence by an
immense pair of red whiskers, which entirely conceal the lower part of
his face in profile. His complexion is fair, his hair profuse, curly,
and of a light auburn, his eye not remarkable, and his mouth
contradictory, I should think, of all talent. A more good-natured,
habitually-smiling, nerveless expression could hardly be imagined.
Perhaps my impression is an imperfect one, as he was in the highest
spirits, and was not serious the whole evening for a minute--but it is
strictly and faithfully _my impression_.