Queen of a Salon.
Another group of literary people, of a very varied sort, we should have found in the salons of my Lady Blessington,[55] who used to hold court on the Thames—now by Piccadilly, and again at Gore House—in the early part of this century. She was herself a writer; nor is her personal history without its significance, as an outgrowth of times when George IV. was setting the pace for those ambitious of social distinction.
She was the quick-witted daughter of an Irish country gentleman of the Lucius O’Trigger sort—nicknamed Beau Power. He loved a whip and fast horses—also dogs, powder, and blare. He wore white-topped boots, with showy frills and ruffles; he drank hard, swore harder—wasted his fortune, abused his wife, but was “very fine” to the end. He was as cruel as he was fine; shot a peasant once, in cold blood, and dragged him home after his saddle beast. He worried his daughter, Marguerite (Lady Blessington), into marrying, at fifteen, a man whom she detested. It gave relief, however, from paternal protection, until the husband proved worse than the father, and separation ensued—made good (after some years of tumultuous, uneasy life) by the violent and providential death of the recreant husband. Shortly after, she married Lord Blessington, a rich Irish nobleman, very much blasé, seven years her senior, but kind and always generous with her. Then came travel in a princely way over the Continent, with long stays in pleasant places, and such lavish spendings as put palaces at their disposal—of all which a readable and gossipy record is given in her Idler in Italy and Idler in France—books well known, in their day, in America. Of course she encountered in these ramblings Landor, Shelley, Byron, and all notable Englishmen, and when she returned to London it was to establish that brilliant little court already spoken of. She was admirably fitted for sovereign of such a court; she was witty, ready, well-instructed; was beautiful, too, and knew every art of the toilet.[56]
More than this, she was mistress of all the pretty and delicate arts of conciliation; had amazing aptitude for accommodating herself to different visitors—flattering men without letting them know they were flattered—softening difficulties, bringing enemies together, magnetizing the most obstinate and uncivil into acquiescence with her rules of procedure. Withal she had in large development those Irish traits of generosity and cheer, with a natural, winning way, which she studied to make more and more taking. One of those women who, with wit, prettiness, and grace, count it the largest, as it is (to them) the most agreeable duty of life, to be forever making social conquests, and forever reaping the applause of drawing-rooms. And if we add to the smiles and the witty banter and the persuasive tones of our lady, the silken hangings, the velvet carpets, the mirrors multiplying inviting alcoves, with paintings by Cattermole or Stothard, and marbles, maybe by Chantrey or Westmacott, and music in its set time by the best of London masters, and cooking in its season as fine as the music,—and we shall be at no loss to measure the attractions of Gore House, and to judge of the literary and social aspects which blazed there on the foggy banks of the Thames. No wonder that old Samuel Rogers, prince of epicures, should love to carry his pinched face and his shrunk shanks into such sunny latitudes. Moore, too, taking his mincing steps into those regions, would find banquets to remind him of the Bowers of Bendemeer. Possibly, too, the Rev. Sydney Smith, without the fear of Lady Holland in his heart or eyes, may have pocketed his dignity as Canon of St. Paul’s and gone thither to taste the delights of the table or of the talk. Even Hallam, or Southey (on his rare visits to town), may have gone there. Lady Blessington was always keenly awake for such arrivals. Even Brougham used to take sometimes his clumsy presence to her brilliant home; and so, on occasion, did that younger politician, and accomplished gentleman, Sir Robert Peel. Procter—better known as Barry Cornwall—the song-writer, was sure to know his way to those doors and to be welcomed; and Leigh Hunt was always eager to play off his fine speeches amid such surroundings of wine and music.
The Comte d’Orsay, artist and man of letters, who married (1827) a daughter of Lord Blessington (step-daughter of the Countess), was a standing ornament of the house; and rivalling him in their cravats and other millinery were two young men who had long careers before them. These were Benjamin Disraeli and Edward Lytton Bulwer.