Part 12

We got on swimmingly. He would not believe I had never been in England 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 Kohlmarket 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 any thing 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 own 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. Every thing 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 her 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 developes 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 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 every body. 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 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.

N. P. W.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MISS C----, ON HER COQUETRY.

"Go to," and quit thy idle ways Thou winning little creature; A mind of nobler import plays, Around thy every feature.

Why waste those powers, by heav'n design'd To win true hearts and wear them? To wreck the peace of half mankind, Who let thy arts ensnare them?

In thy pursuit 'tis all the same, The simple, wise, or learned, Alike are fuel for thy flame-- Are on thy altar burned.

Nay, say not "no!"--within that hall, Hallowed by deeds of ages, I've seen thy _look_ around thee call Virginia's proudest sages.

I've seen thee, 'midst the festive scene, With fools and fops in waiting, Essay to conquer things too mean, For pity, love, or hating.

Go, quit it all--'tis weak--'tis vain-- 'Tis wicked--nay, 'tis _cruel_; Thy native truth alone can gain For thee, the brightest jewel.

B.

_Richmond, Feb. 1835_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

WRITTEN FOR MISS M---- T----'S ALBUM.

Mary, thou wert a lovely child! A sweeter cherub never smiled! Tho' since we have not often met, Those days I well remember yet; When, in thy sportiveness and glee, Thou wert a favorite with me; And told me, in thy frolic mood, The story of Red-riding-hood-- In words I ne'er could understand-- They seemed sweet sounds from fairy land.

Time's changes numberless had passed O'er thee when I beheld thee last, Yet still I thought that I could trace The same expression in thy face; Only that then it was refined By the bright impress of the mind-- For years had failed to steal away The artlessness of childhood's day. In nature's richest tints arrayed, Thy cheek the bloom of health displayed; And in its varying flush, I read All that thy lips had left unsaid.

Mary, I thought thee lovely then-- Oh! may'st thou long thy charms retain, And ne'er thine eyes their witness bear To any but compassion's tear! May life's fast flowing stream, for thee Roll smoothly bright, and buoyantly-- Bearing thee calmly on thy way, To realms of ever-shining day; To regions of eternal peace, Where joys live on and sorrows cease.

E. A. S.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES

Written on the Pillar erecting by Mrs. Barlow, to the memory of her husband, Minister of the United States at Paris.

Where o'er the Polish desarts trackless way, Relentless Winter rules with savage sway, Where the shrill polar storms, as wild they blow, Seem to repeat some plaint of mortal woe; Far o'er the cheerless space, the traveller's eye Shall this recording pillar long descry, And give the sod a tear where Barlow lies, He who was simply great and nobly wise; Here led by Patriot zeal, he met his doom, And found amid the frozen wastes a tomb-- Far from his native soil the Poet fell, Far from that Western World he sung so well. Nor she, so long beloved, nor she was nigh, To catch the dying look--the parting sigh! She, who, the hopeless anguish to beguile, In fond memorial rears the funeral pile; Whose widowed bosom, on Columbia's shore, Shall mourn the moments that return no more-- While bending o'er the broad Atlantic wave, Sad fancy hovers on the distant grave.

H. M. WILLIAMS.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ONE WHO WILL UNDERSTAND ME.

Memory! within thy deepest cell A recollection glows; A burning thought--whose magic spell Can charm away my woes: It gushes o'er my troubled soul In lava streams of joy, Its talismanic power can roll The darkness from my sky; It thrills my heart with ecstacy, That ever present thought! And, oh! it were too sweet to die With mind so richly fraught: And who is she for whom my heart, My feelings, harmonize? And who is she that has the art To chain my sympathies?

Thine is the brightness of the eye, Which tide nor time can dim; Thy voice is softer than the sigh Of love, or angel's hymn; The rose is thine--but not the hue That fadeth with the morn-- _Thy_ color's deeper when the dew Away from flower is gone-- When all beside is bleak and drear Thy genial blushes rise, Like flow'rets of the northern year, That bloom amid the ice; But more than all, thy beauty brings In her imperial train; And more than all, thy magic flings To dim the dizzened brain. Yes! more than these--than rosy cheek-- Is thy pure lofty mind; Thy nature calm, and soft and meek, With warmth of heart conjoined. These are the charms that deck _thee_ most, With radiance deep and pure,-- These are the flow'rs that thou may'st boast, When beauty's hour is o'er: Thy world may fade--its glory past,-- But in the sky afar, Thy mind will shine undimmed at last, A high and holy star! Go to the East--it is thy home-- In nature like to thee; And while o'er beds of flowers you roam, No breeze, no bird so free-- And while you breathe the Attar-Gul Of fragrant memory, Your heart with thrilling joy so full, It throbs like summer sea; Oh! then should thought of times gone by, With dew-drop dim thine ee, May, mid the breeze that dances nigh, A sigh be heard for me.

----.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTRACT FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM.

There is a form before me now, A spirit with a peerless brow, And locks of gold that lightly lie, Like clouds on the air of a sunset sky, And a glittering eye, whose beauty blends With more than mortal tenderness, As bright a ray as Heaven sends To light those orbs, where the pure and blest Are taking their eternal rest. Sweet Spirit! thou hast stolen afar From thy home in yonder crystal Star, That I might look on thee, and bless Thy kindness and thy loveliness.

How oft against these prison bars I have leaned my head, and gazed for hours Upon the wonder-telling stars; Thinking, if in their sinless bowers The memory of this planet dim E'er mingles with thy blissful dream. And when low winds were stealing by, I have sometimes closed my weary eye; And fancied the sigh that was silently stealing Through my damp hair, was thine own breathing: Then would I lay me down upon This carpetless cold flinty stone, And pray--how long! how fervently! To look on thee once more and die.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MOONLIGHT.

The half-orbed Moon hangs out her silvery lamp, A liquid lustre pouring o'er the scene; While silk-winged zephyrs bathed in dewy damp Scarce move the pensile leaves, or break the calm serene.

Radiant she rests upon the brow of night, The lucid diadem that crowns the sky; So softly beautiful, so mildly bright, She sways the ravished heart, and feeds the insatiate eye.

In jocund _boyhood_ erst her magic face Impressed no feeling but a gentle joy; For moonlit memory knew not then to trace The saddened scenes of youth that later hopes alloy.

When dawning _manhood_, fired by fancy's ray, Enrobed all nature in her rainbow hues, Then fond affection loved at eve to stray And, gazing on the Moon, with thrilling heart to muse.

But when _advancing years_ have broke the ties Formed at the altar of the Moonlit Heaven, The thoughts of buried joys in sadness rise, And tear-drops glisten in the silent light of even.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO HOPE.

O! ever skilled to wear the form we love! To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart, Come gentle Hope! with one soft smile remove The wasting sadness of an aching heart.

Thy voice benign, enchantress let me hear; Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom; That Fancy's radiance. Friendship's precious tear Shall brighten or shall soothe misfortune's gloom.

But come not glowing with the dazzling ray, Which once, with dear illusions charmed my eye! O! strew no more, sweet flatterer! on my way, The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die. Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast, That asks not Happiness, but longs for rest.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO THE BIBLE.

Go, Holy Book! Tell those whom many woes assail On thee to look; They'll find how weak it is to wail Though every earthly comfort fail.