When we came fairly into the courtyard of Warwick Castle, a scene of
magnificent beauty opened before us. I can not describe it minutely. The
principal features are the battlements, towers, and turrets of the old
feudal castle, encompassed by grounds on which has been expended all that
princely art of landscape gardening for which England is famous--leafy
thickets, magnificent trees, openings, and vistas of verdure, and wide
sweeps of grass, short, thick, and vividly green, as the velvet moss we
sometimes see growing on rocks in New England. Grass is an art and a
science in England--it is an institution. The pains that are taken in
sowing, tending, cutting, clipping, rolling, and otherwise nursing and
coaxing it, being seconded by the misty breath and often falling tears of
the climate, produce results which must be seen to be appreciated....
Here, under the shade of lofty cedars, has sprung and fallen an hereditary
line of princes. One can not but feel, in looking on these majestic trees,
with the battlements, turrets, and towers of the old castle everywhere
surrounding him, and the magnificent parks and lawns opening through
dreamy vistas of trees into what seems immeasurable distance, the force of
the soliloquy which Shakespeare puts into the mouth of the dying old
king-maker, as he lies ebreathing out his soul in the dust and blood of
the battlefield....
I have described the grounds first, but, in fact, we did not look at them
first, but went into the house where we saw not only all the state rooms,
but, through the kindness of the noble proprietor, many of those which are
not commonly exhibited; a bewildering display of magnificent apartments,
pictures, gems, vases, arms and armor, antiques, all, in short, that the
wealth of a princely and powerful family had for centuries been
accumulating.
The great hall of the castle is sixty-two feet in length and forty in
breadth, ornamented with a richly carved Gothic roof, in which figures
largely the family cognizance of the bear and ragged staff. There is a
succession of shields, on which are emblazoned the quarterings of
successive Earls of Warwick. The sides of the wall are ornamented with
lances, corselets, shields, helmets, and complete suits of armor,
regularly arranged as in an armory.
Here we saw the helmet of Cromwell, a most venerable relic. Before the
great, cavernous fireplace was piled up on a sled a quantity of yew-tree
wood. The rude simplicity of thus arranging it on the polished floor of
this magnificent apartment struck me as quite singular. I suppose it is a
continuation of some ancient custom.
Opening from this apartment on either side are suites of rooms, the whole
series being three hundred and thirty-three feet in length. These rooms
are all hung with pictures, and studded with antiques and curiosities of
immense value. There is, first, the red drawing-room, and then the cedar
drawing-room, then the gilt drawing-room, the state bedroom, the boudoir,
etc., etc., hung with pictures by Vandyke, Rubens, Guido, Sir Joshua
Reynolds, Paul Veronese, any one of which would require days of study.
I walked to one of the windows of these lordly apartments, and while the
company were examining buhl cabinets, and all other deliciousness of the
place, I looked down the old gray walls into the amber waters of the Avon,
which flows at their base, and thought that the most beautiful of all was
without. There is a tiny fall that crosses the river just above here,
whose waters turn the wheels of an old mossy mill, where for centuries the
family grain has been ground. The river winds away through the beautiful
parks and undulating foliage, its soft, grassy banks dotted here and there
with sheep and cattle, and you catch farewell gleams and glitters of it as
it loses itself among the trees.
Gray moss, wallflowers, ivy, and grass were growing here and there out of
crevices in the castle walls, as I looked down, sometimes trailing their
rippling tendrils in the river. This vegetative propensity of walls is one
of the chief graces of these old buildings.
In the state bedroom were a bed and furnishings of rich crimson velvet,
once belonging to Queen Anne, and presented by George III. to the Warwick
family. The walls are hung with Brussels tapestry, representing the
gardens of Versailles as they were at the time. The chimney-piece, which
is sculptured of verde antique and white marble, supports two black marble
vases on its mantel. Over the mantel-piece is a full-length portrait of
Queen Anne, in a rich brocade dress, wearing the collar and jewels of the
garter, bearing in one hand a scepter, and in the other a globe. There are
two splendid buhl cabinets in the room, and a table of costly stone from
Italy; it is mounted on a richly carved and gilt stand.
The boudoir, which adjoins, is hung with pea-green satin and velvet. In
this room is one of the most authentic portraits of Henry VIII., by
Holbein, in which that selfish, brutal, unfeeling tyrant is veritably set
forth, with all the gold and gems which, in his day, blinded mankind; his
fat, white hands were beautifully painted....
After having examined all the upper stories, we went down into the vaults
underneath--vaults once grim and hoary, terrible to captives and feudal
enemies, now devoted to no purpose more grim than that of coal cellars and
wine vaults. In Oliver's time, a regiment was quartered there; they are
extensive enough, apparently, for an army.
The kitchen and its adjuncts are of magnificent dimensions, and indicate
an ancient amplitude in the way of provision for good cheer worthy an
ancient house; and what struck me as a still better feature was a library
of sound, sensible, historical, and religious works for the servants.
We went into the beer vaults, where a man drew beer into a long black
jack, such as Scott describes. It is a tankard, made of black leather, I
should think half a yard deep. He drew the beer from a large hogshead, and
offered us some in a glass. It looked very clear, but, on tasting, I found
it so exceedingly bitter that it struck me there would be small virtue for
me in abstinence.
KENILWORTH [Footnote: From Scott's "Kenilworth." Kenilworth is now the
most stately ruined castle in England. Its destruction dates from the
Civil War, when it was dismantled by soldiers under Cromwell. Then it was
allowed to decay. Scott describes it as it was in Queen Elizabeth's time.]