“But if a little exercise you choose,
Some zest for ease, ‘tis not forbidden here;
Amid the groves you may indulge the Muse,
Or tend the blooms and deck the vernal year.”
_Castle of Indolence_.
THE house of Mr. Cleveland was an Italian villa adapted to an English
climate. Through an Ionic arch you entered a domain of some eighty or a
hundred acres in extent, but so well planted and so artfully disposed,
that you could not have supposed the unseen boundaries inclosed no
ampler a space. The road wound through the greenest sward, in which
trees of venerable growth were relieved by a profusion of shrubs, and
flowers gathered into baskets intertwined with creepers, or blooming
from classic vases, placed with a tasteful care in such spots as
required the _filling up_, and harmonised well with the object chosen.
Not an old ivy-grown pollard, not a modest and bending willow, but
was brought out, as it were, into a peculiar feature by the art of the
owner. Without being overloaded, or too minutely elaborate (the common
fault of the rich man’s villa), the whole place seemed one diversified
and cultivated garden; even the air almost took a different odour from
different vegetation, with each winding of the road; and the colours of
the flowers and foliage varied with every view.
At length, when, on a lawn sloping towards a glassy lake overhung by
limes and chestnuts, and backed by a hanging wood, the house itself came
in sight, the whole prospect seemed suddenly to receive its finishing
and crowning feature. The house was long and low. A deep peristyle that
supported the roof extended the whole length, and being raised above
the basement had the appearance of a covered terrace; broad flights
of steps, with massive balustrades, supporting vases of aloes and
orange-trees, led to the lawn; and under the peristyle were ranged
statues, Roman antiquities and rare exotics. On this side the lake
another terrace, very broad, and adorned, at long intervals, with urns
and sculpture, contrasted the shadowy and sloping bank beyond; and
commanded, through unexpected openings in the trees, extensive views
of the distant landscape, with the stately Thames winding through the
midst. The interior of the house corresponded with the taste without.
All the principal rooms, even those appropriated to sleep, were on the
same floor. A small but lofty and octagonal hall conducted to a suite of
four rooms. At one extremity was a moderately-sized dining-room with
a ceiling copied from the rich and gay colours of Guido’s “Hours;” and
landscapes painted by Cleveland himself, with no despicable skill, were
let into the walls. A single piece of sculpture copied from the Piping
Faun, and tinged with a flesh-like glow by purple and orange draperies
behind it, relieved without darkening the broad and arched window which
formed its niche. This communicated with a small picture-room, not
indeed rich with those immortal gems for which princes are candidates;
for Cleveland’s fortune was but that of a private gentleman, though,
managed with a discreet if liberal economy, it sufficed for all his
elegant desires. But the pictures had an interest beyond that of art,
and their subjects were within the reach of a collector of ordinary
opulence. They made a series of portraits--some originals, some copies
(and the copies were often the best) of Cleveland’s favourite authors.
And it was characteristic of the man, that Pope’s worn and thoughtful
countenance looked down from the central place of honour. Appropriately
enough, this room led into the library, the largest room in the house,
the only one indeed that was noticeable from its size, as well as its
embellishments. It was nearly sixty feet in length. The bookcases were
crowned with bronze busts, while at intervals statues, placed in open
arches, backed with mirrors, gave the appearance of galleries, opening
from the book-lined walls, and introduced an inconceivable air of
classic lightness and repose into the apartment; with these arches the
windows harmonised so well, opening on the peristyle, and bringing into
delightful view the sculpture, the flowers, the terraces, and the lake
without, that the actual prospects half seduced you into the belief that
they were designs by some master-hand of the poetical gardens that yet
crown the hills of Rome. Even the colouring of the prospects on a sunny
day favoured the delusion, owing to the deep, rich hues of the simple
draperies, and the stained glass of which the upper panes of the windows
were composed. Cleveland was especially fond of sculpture; he was
sensible, too, of the mighty impulse which that art has received in
Europe within the last half century. He was even capable of asserting
the doctrine, not yet sufficiently acknowledged in this country, that
Flaxman surpassed Canova. He loved sculpture, too, not only for its own
beauty, but for the beautifying and intellectual effect that it produces
wherever it is admitted. It is a great mistake, he was wont to say,
in collectors of statues, to arrange them _pele mele_ in one long
monotonous gallery. The single relief, or statue, or bust, or simple
urn, introduced appropriately in the smallest apartment we inhabit,
charms us infinitely more than those gigantic museums, crowded into
rooms never entered but for show, and without a chill, uncomfortable
shiver. Besides, this practice of galleries, which the herd consider
orthodox, places sculpture out of the patronage of the public. There
are not a dozen people who can afford galleries. But very moderately
affluent gentlemen can afford a statue or a bust. The influence, too,
upon a man’s mind and taste, created by the constant and habitual view
of monuments of the only imperishable art which resorts to physical
materials, is unspeakable. Looking upon the Greek marble, we become
acquainted, almost insensibly, with the character of the Greek life and
literature. That Aristides, that Genius of Death, that fragment of the
unrivalled Psyche, are worth a thousand Scaligers!
“Do you ever look at the Latin translation when you read Aeschylus?”
said a schoolboy once to Cleveland.
“That is my Latin translation,” said Cleveland, pointing to the Laocoon.
The library opened at the extreme end to a small cabinet for curiosities
and medals, which, still in a straight line, conducted to a long
belvidere, terminating in a little circular summer-house, that, by a
sudden wind of the lake below, hung perpendicularly over its transparent
tide, and, seen from the distance, appeared almost suspended on air, so
light were its slender columns and arching dome. Another door from
the library opened upon a corridor which conducted to the principal
sleeping-chambers; the nearest door was that of Cleveland’s private
study communicating with his bedroom and dressing-closet. The other
rooms were appropriated to, and named after, his several friends.
Mr. Cleveland had been advised by a hasty line of the movements of his
ward, and he received the young man with a smile of welcome, though
his eyes were moist and his lips trembled--for the boy was like his
father!--a new generation had commenced for Cleveland!
“Welcome, my dear Ernest,” said he; “I am so glad to see you, that I
will not scold you for your mysterious absence. This is your room, you
see your name over the door; it is a larger one than you used to have,
for you are a man now; and there is your German sanctum adjoining--for
Schiller and the meerschaum!--a bad habit that, the meerschaum! but
not worse than the Schiller, perhaps. You see you are in the peristyle
immediately. The meerschaum is good for flowers, I fancy, so have no
scruple. Why, my dear boy, how pale you are! Be cheered--be cheered.
Well, I must go myself, or you will infect me.”
Cleveland hurried away; he thought of his lost friend. Ernest sank upon
the first chair, and buried his face in his hands. Cleveland’s valet
entered, and bustled about and unpacked the portmanteau, and arranged
the evening dress. But Ernest did not look up nor speak; the first
bell sounded; the second tolled unheard upon his ear. He was thoroughly
overcome by his emotions. The first notes of Cleveland’s kind voice had
touched upon a soft chord, that months of anxiety and excitement had
strained to anguish, but had never woke to tears. His nerves were
shattered--those strong young nerves! He thought of his dead father when
he first saw Cleveland; but when he glanced round the room prepared for
him, and observed the care for his comfort, and the tender recollection
of his most trifling peculiarities everywhere visible, Alice, the
watchful, the humble, the loving, the lost Alice rose before him.
Surprised at his ward’s delay, Cleveland entered the room; there sat
Ernest still, his face buried in his hands. Cleveland drew them gently
away, and Maltravers sobbed like an infant. It was an easy matter
to bring tears to the eyes of that young man: a generous or a tender
thought, an old song, the simplest air of music, sufficed for that touch
of the mother’s nature. But the vehement and awful passion which belongs
to manhood when thoroughly unmanned--this was the first time in which
the relief of that stormy bitterness was known to him!