Hesketh Pearson

by The Marrying Americans

  Our second pioneer had a very considerable effect on society and literature as well as politics. Elizabeth Vassall was descended on her father’s side from an old Massachusetts family, her mother also being American. She was born in 1771 when the Jamaican estates of her father, Richard Vassall, were highly profitable, and her parents spent much of their time in England. She may be described as a Pilgrim Baby and was married to the owner of Battle Abbey in Sussex, Sir Godfrey Webster, when she was only fifteen, her husband then being thirty-eight. As an only child it is queer that she should have been subjected to such an alliance, since her parents were well-off and love was out of the question. The pair were almost as dissimilar as Beauty from the Beast, she being remarkably attractive, he being a fox-hunting squire who mingled county business with drinking and gambling. She probably disliked him from the start, an emotion fostered by his spurts of violence and bouts of sullenness, by bad language when intoxicated and moroseness while sobering up. An intelligent girl, she hated what she called mere “existence” and described Battle, a fascinating place, as “the detested spot where I have languished in solitude and discontent the best years of my life.”

  She was, however, kept fairly busy, as she produced five children in eight years, three of whom, two sons and a daughter, survived. A young man, a son of Lord Pelham, fell in love with her and aroused her husband’s suspicions. Possibly to get her away from her admirers, Sir Godfrey took her abroad. But Pelham followed them, and there were scenes between husband and wife. She made friends easily wherever she went, and the continental resorts were as little to his taste as Battle was to hers. Even at this early age she must have asserted her will power, because she remained in Italy when he left for England, and she referred in her Journal to his madness and brutality. Annoyance with those who admired her increased the number and intensity of his wrathful outbursts, and when she met the third Lord Holland she decided, after the birth of her daughter Harriet, that she could no longer put up with her husband’s insane behavior. She and Lord Holland fell in love with one another while traveling about Italy together, and in 1796 it became clear that she would shortly have a child by him. She asked for a divorce, and Sir Godfrey, whose financial position had become involved, agreed to let her go in return for a substantial sum of money.

  Knowing that her husband would be given custody of the children, she decided to keep her daughter Harriet, for which purpose she conceived a plan that did little credit to her intelligence. By adorning the infant’s arms with red spots, and so getting rid of the nurse on the ground of infection from measles, she let it be known that the child had succumbed. Her guitar case seemed a satisfactory substitute for a coffin, so she weighted it with stones, put a pillow covered with white linen inside, topped it with a wax mask in case the custom-house officers peeped inside, and sent it off in charge of a valet to the British Consul at Leghorn with instructions to give it burial. She then left her temporary residence with Harriet dressed as a boy, who was concealed for three years, at the end of which her mother, tired of duplicity, explained her action and restored the child to Sir Godfrey.

  On Lady Webster’s return to England in June 1796, her husband began divorce proceedings; her child by Holland was born in November. Sir Godfrey was a man of moods, at one moment demanding everything his wife possessed, at another saying that he would be satisfied with a terrier puppy. In the end the larger demand prevailed, and the Squire of Battle got away with £6,000 damages, £7,000 a year from his ex-wife’s Jamaican estate, and other trifles. Their marriage was annulled by Parliament in July 1797, and her union with Holland was solemnized at Rickmansworth church two days later. She was nearly three years older than her new husband and owing to Sir Godfrey’s rapacity her income from the West Indian property had been greatly reduced. Fortunately, three years after the divorce Sir Godfrey shot himself, and Holland added Vassall to his name because his wife got back her inheritance.

  They moved into Holland House during the autumn of ‘97, and before long the most famous salon in the history of England had been inaugurated. Charles Greville, the diarist, declared that “the world never has seen and never will again see anything like Holland House,” and it is generally agreed by historians that with all the drawbacks of her divorce Lord and Lady Holland “were able to gather round them a coterie of social, literary and political talent, which in the annals of this country has never been equalled.”{4} The worldwide fame of Holland House was due as much to the mistress as the master. One contemporary described it as “the only really undisputed Monarchy in Europe,” wherein the Queen ruled the King, but solely because he had the most amiable of dispositions and loved her.

  Henry Richard, third Lord Holland, was born in 1773, nearly three years after his wife. He was a nephew of the famous politician Charles James Fox, the leading saint in the Whig calendar. After an excessively unpleasant time at Eton, where he was compelled to roast his fingers by toasting bread for his fag-master, he went on to Oxford, where life became agreeable. Then he traveled, meeting many people of note on the Continent from Gibbon to Talleyrand, above all Lady Webster. Although Holland House was the headquarters of Whiggery for a generation, the party’s policies emanating therefrom, and although Holland himself more than any other man kept the Whigs united, he was never rewarded with high office when his side came to power, becoming only Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster. This was in part explained by Lord John Russell who, on being asked why Holland had been excluded from the cabinet in 1827, replied: “If you must know, it is because no man will act in a cabinet with a person whose wife opens all his letters.”

  As a speaker, Holland did not distinguish himself in the House of Lords and was seen at his best in his own house, where he was notable for his extreme cheerfulness under physical disability, for his general benevolence and individual kindness, for his toleration of all opinions, and a temper of such sweetness that someone remarked, “The Devil could not make him lose it.” He was utterly unpretentious and by nature unambitious, though his wife instilled in him certain aspirations he was born without. His conversation was valued for the stream of illuminating anecdotes which poured from him, chiefly political, and for his sense of the ridiculous in imitating the mannerisms of famous orators. He put the most nervous guests at their ease and kept a conversation going without the slightest sense of strain, his good humor being as remarkable as his sound judgment. Indeed he seems to have had no fault except deference to the will of his wife, who called him “Holly,” while he called her “my woman.” They adored one another to the end of their lives, and she thought him “without comparison the most agreeable man in England.” He was also one of the most disinterested men in the world, championing oppressed races and persecuted sects without any of the prejudices of his class. Through his wife he owned slave plantations in Jamaica, but strongly opposed the Slave Trade, and fought the Corn Laws against his own interests as a landlord. He welcomed men of all creeds, of all opinions, of all nations. Hardly a personality of distinction in his time did not enjoy the hospitality of Holland House—from Metternich, Talleyrand, Canning, Castlereagh, Brougham and Grey, to Sheridan, Scott, Byron, Macaulay, Dickens and Sydney Smith.

  In later years he suffered much from gout and had to be wheeled or to wheel himself about in a chair, but he bore all with unruffled patience and uncomplainingly bowed to his wife’s arbitrary decrees. She would not sit down to dinner until he had changed a waistcoat she disliked; she ordered him to put aside his crutches during the torments of gout because he was allowing necessity to develop into a habit; sometimes she commanded a servant to take away his plate when he had not finished eating or to wheel him off to bed while he was in the middle of telling a story; all of which he endured with the utmost good humor.

  His opposite in nearly every respect, she was quick-tempered, imperious, irritable, superstitious, full of complaints and lamentations. Hating as many people as she loved, she ruled Holland House and its visitors with a tyrannical insolence that would ha
ve emptied her salon if she had not balanced these qualities with extreme generosity, warmth of feeling, loyalty, an unaffected interest in the thoughts and doings of other people, and a genius for mixing her guests. While her husband looked rather like Mr. Pickwick and possessed that character’s benevolence and simplicity, she had the air of Queen Elizabeth with no little of her temperament. Her manner was haughty, so much so that some people thought her vulgar, and she bullied peers with less consideration than she gave her footmen. “Lay that screen down, Lord Russell; you will spoil it,” was a typical charge. Once she ordered Lord Melbourne to change his seat at dinner, upon which he left the house in a fury, but came back. People sitting near her were expected to pick up her fan whenever she dropped it, and Count D’Orsay, who had retrieved it several times in succession one evening, suggested that he should remain on the floor for the purpose. “Now, Macaulay, we have had enough of this, give us something else,” she would say, breaking into his monologue and tapping her fan sharply on the table. The fact that others were delighted with such an order, even though they might fall under her displeasure later, helped to strengthen her authority over all. “Your poetry is bad enough, so pray be sparing of your prose,” she informed Samuel Rogers. The only person who was allowed to take liberties with her was Sydney Smith. “Ring the bell, Sydney,” she commanded. “Oh, yes, and shall I sweep the floor?” he inquired; and he even went so far as to help himself to pats of butter from her own special dish.

  A willing slave of hers, or at least one who put up with her domineering ways for the sake of comfort, was John Allen, who lived with the Hollands and acted as their physician, adviser, librarian and friend. In 1802 they had wanted a physician to accompany them abroad. On the advice of Sydney Smith and others, Allen was chosen, remaining with them until his death in 1843. Lady Holland bullied him mercilessly, but he bore it all in silence. Macaulay was never able to understand how a gifted fellow like Allen could stoop to be ordered about like a slave, and he recorded a scene at the house of Samuel Rogers in 1833 when Lady Holland, in a furious temper, was rude to everybody present. None of them treated her with much respect, and Sydney Smith made sport of her. Suddenly Allen rushed to her defense, flew into a rage with all of them, and was especially angry with Sydney, “whose guffaws were indeed tremendous.” After her party had left, Rogers praised the way in which Allen had fired up in defense of his patroness, but Tom Moore said that Allen was bursting with envy to see the rest of them so free, while he was conscious of his own slavery, and that one could give him credit for nothing but attachment to the good dinners at Holland House. All the same, Allen thought his mistress wonderful and even submitted to her caustic comments when he was carving the meat at dinner. Byron certified that Allen was the best-informed man he had ever encountered as well as one of the ablest, and he was certainly a great storehouse of facts. When not otherwise engaged at Holland House he was immersed in historical research, and from 1811 onward he paid weekly visits to Dulwich College, of which he was first Warden and then Master.

  Allen nearly always accompanied Lady Holland when she dined out or stayed away from home. She traveled like royalty with a retinue of servants, and long after the introduction of railways she preferred to journey “by land,” as it was called, making a slow and stately progress through the countryside. Once she visited Sydney Smith at his Yorkshire vicarage of Foston, and amazed the village by the gorgeousness of her coach, the number of her outriders and the apparel of her servants. Sydney reported that her arrival “produced the same impression as the march of Alexander or Bacchus over India, and will be as long remembered in the traditions of the innocent natives.” When at last she was prevailed upon to go by train, she talked of “the imminent perils” of the trip, and once, after visiting the Lansdownes at Bowood, she had Brunei as her companion in the carriage. He had been appointed engineer of the Great Western Railway, and between Chippenham and London she ordered him to slacken the pace of the express to less than twenty miles an hour, much to the annoyance of the other passengers. In the same dictatorial manner she insisted on placing the most entertaining people in her immediate neighborhood at the tables of her hosts, who complied with her unexampled demands out of sheer stupefaction. Most young women hated her, quailing under her acid humor. She seldom approved of their clothes, nor of their persons if they were too attractive. Her own children were frightened of her and never got used to her tyranny and mendacity, nor to her jealousy when their father displayed too much affection for them.

  In certain respects she was absurdly nervous. She thought it unlucky to travel on a Friday. She was terrified of thunderstorms, and would close all the shutters, draw all the curtains, and order candles to be lit in broad daylight to mitigate the flashes of lightning. The mere mention of cholera made her shake, and when a few cases were reported from Glasgow she said that the town ought to be surrounded by troops to prevent all intercourse with the surrounding country. The howling of a dog made her jump and she believed it portended her death. She never went anywhere without a doctor and surrounded herself with what her husband called a “host of leeches.”

  Whether from superstition or aestheticism she always took with her to the country mansions she visited a silver pot-de-chambre, which she insisted on using, disdaining the china substitute provided by hostesses for her accommodation. This caused a minor revolution amongst the domestic staff of certain great houses where a chambermaid was responsible for cleaning the crockery, an under-butler for the plate. At one establishment the chambermaid handed the vessel to the under-butler, saying it was his business, not hers. He appealed to the major-domo, alleging that a pot-de-chambre, though of silver, did not fall within his province. As trade union rules were strict, the other members of the staff took sides in the debate, and the matter was brought to the attention of the master and mistress of the house, who were furious. All sorts of domestic complications were threatened, a crisis being averted by the departure of Lady Holland. When the incident became known, some wag wrote a ribald poem on the subject which was much enjoyed in the strictest secrecy by those whose memory enabled them to pass it on.

  Although Lady Holland managed the general conversation at her table in a despotic manner, it was done so adroitly that her right to steer the talks from one subject to another was never questioned, and she could always be depended upon to keep the debate on a level that could be appreciated by all her guests. Perhaps theirs is the sole recorded example of a host and hostess being equally mercurial, adaptable and intelligent. But her adaptability did not lessen her individuality, and she was subject to all sorts of enthusiasms which resulted in extravagant actions. For instance, she adored Napoleon and after the battle of Waterloo spoke of him as “Poor dear man!” She sent books, papers and plums to him both at Elba and St. Helena; his last hours were comforted by “les pruneaux de Madame Holland”; and he left her a snuffbox in his will. But she was equally kind to uncelebrated friends who were sick or to poets who were in need, and she treated her servants well. When one of her pages fell ill, she made her guests sit by his bedside to amuse him, much to their embarrassment and his. She was the type of person whose kindness could only be aroused by those who needed help, and whose antagonism was evoked by those who could do without her or who dared to do things of which she disapproved. To give a trivial illustration of this, she was once scolded by her partner for playing the wrong card at whist. “Yes, I know you wanted trumps,” she said defiantly, “but my system of whist is to mistrust my partner. In fact I like to thwart him because I hate the way in which he draws the good cards out of my hand.”

  At her husband’s death in October 1840 she was plunged into despair. For a while she could not endure Holland House and retired to her residence in South Street, Mayfair. When compelled to revisit the old home, she came away weeping, and she could not even find solace in reading, because books brought back memories of “his” taste and opinions. But having no inner resources she hated solitude, and four months after his de
ath she was back at Holland House entertaining as usual. Her West Indian property was now practically valueless and to raise money she had to sell their house at Ampthill to the Duke of Bedford. She needed the perpetual excitement of society, and soon her salon was as well attended and as full of merriment as in its great days. Allen helped to make life tolerable, as a butt in company, as a friend out of it, and when he died she left Holland House, which was never reopened in her lifetime. She still gave dinners at her West End home, and it was observed how the mere presence of guests completely transformed her personality. Before they came she appeared a decaying figure of misery and ailments; after their arrival she bloomed into the handsome and lively woman of earlier times. But one evening she was seen to lean back in her chair, a thing she had never done before, and a few days later, November 17, 1845, the greatest of Anglo-American hostesses passed away. An epoch passed with her.

  CHAPTER 2—A Love Match

  Ellen Dwight and the Hon. Edward Twisleton

  Between the pioneer partnerships we have just chronicled and the title-rush toward the end of the century came a real love match, a placid lake of felicity on which we may rest before encountering the stormy seas ahead.

  A wealthy merchant of Boston named Edmund Dwight died when his children were young, leaving his invalid wife to look after them. She, too, had been dead for seven years by 1850 when her youngest daughter, Ellen, reached the age of twenty-one. Ellen lived with a married sister, Mrs. Charles Mills, at 1 Park Street, Boston, a large house looking on Boston Common. The family was related to the Nortons, the Ticknors, the Eliots, the Parkmans, and mixed with the leading social and literary circles of the place, which were only just recovering from the impact of Charles Dickens eight years earlier. The best people in Boston had considered Dickens “far from well-bred,” his waistcoats being too gaudy, his laugh too loud, his manners too free. Once he combed his hair while sitting at dinner; and when asked whether he thought the Duchess of Sutherland or Mrs. Caroline Norton the more beautiful, he replied: “Well, I don’t know. Mrs. Norton is perhaps the more beautiful, but the Duchess to my mind is the more kissable person.” Such curious behavior and such queer remarks shocked the elite of Boston, who were more strait-laced than their London equivalents, and they became a little guarded in their reception of English visitors.