Next to the dining room is a small salon, which we now enter

Transcribed from the 1893 edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE LATE WILLIAM BECKFORD

OF FONTHILL, WILTS and LANSDOWN, BATH

The Manuscript of the following Letters, written by my Father, has been

in my possession fifty years. He intended to publish it at the time of

Mr. Beckford's death, in 1844, but delayed the execution of the work, and

sixteen years afterwards was himself called to enter on the higher life

of the spiritual world.

Mr. Beckford and my Father were kindred spirits, conversant with the same

authors, had visited the same countries, and were both gifted with

extraordinary memories. Mr. Beckford said that he had never met with a

man possessed of such a memory as my Father; and many a time has my

Father told me that he never met a man who possessed such a memory as Mr.

Beckford.

If my Father had published the Reminiscences himself I think that much

misconception in the public mind respecting the character of Mr. Beckford

would have been prevented. For instance, I remember, when a child, being

warned that this great man was an infidel. When he showed my Father the

sarcophagus in which his body was to be placed, he remarked, "There shall

I lie, Lansdown, until the trump of God shall rouse me on the

Resurrection morn."

CHARLOTTE LANSDOWN.

8 Lower East Hayes, Bath;

July, 1893.

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE LATE WILLIAM BECKFORD.

Bath, August 21, 1838.

MY DEAR CHARLOTTE,--I have this day seen such an astonishing assemblage

of works of art, so numerous and of so surprisingly rare a description

that I am literally what Lord Byron calls "Dazzled and drunk with

beauty." I feel so bewildered from beholding the rapid succession of

some of the very finest productions of the great masters that the attempt

to describe them seems an impossible task; however, I will make an

effort.

The collection of which I speak is that of Mr. Beckford, at his house in

Lansdown-crescent. Besides all this I have this day been introduced to

that extraordinary man, the author of "Vathek" and "Italy," the builder

of Fonthill, the contemporary of the mighty and departed dead, the pupil

of Mozart; in fact, to the formidable and inaccessible Vathek himself! I

have many times passed the house, and longed to see its contents, and

often have I wondered how a building with so plain and unostentatious an

exterior could suit the reception of the works it contains, and the

residence of so magnificent a personage.

I first called by appointment on his ingenious architect, Mr. Goodridge

(to whom I am indebted for this distinguished favour), and he accompanied

me to the house, which we reached at half-past twelve o'clock. We were

shown upstairs, passing many fine family pictures, and were ushered into

the neat library, where Mr. Beckford was waiting to receive us. I

confess I did at first feel somewhat embarrassed, but a lovely spaniel

ran playfully towards us, licking our hands in the most affectionate and

hospitable manner; "You are welcome" was the silent language. I assure

you I judge much, and often truly, of the character of individuals from

the deportment of their favourite dogs. I often find them exactly

indicative of their master's disposition. When you are attacked by

snarling, waspish curs is it at all wonderful if you find them an echo of

the proprietor? But this beautiful animal reassured me, and gave me

instantly a favourable idea of its master. My astonishment was great at

the spaciousness of the room, which had in length a magnificent and

palatial effect, nor did I immediately discover the cause of its apparent

grandeur. It opens into the gallery built over the arch connecting the

two houses, at the end of which an immense mirror reflects the two

apartments. The effect is most illusive, nor should I have guessed the

truth had I not seen the reflection of my own figure in the glass.

The library, which is the whole length of the first house, cannot be much

less than fifty feet long. It has on one side five lofty windows, the

gallery having three on the same side. You have the light streaming

through eight consecutive openings; these openings, with their crimson

curtains, doubled by the reflection, produce a most charming perspective.

From the ceiling hangs a splendid ormolu chandelier, the floor is covered

with a Persian carpet (brought I believe from Portugal), so sumptuous

that one is afraid to walk on it, and a noble mosaic table of Florentine

marble, bought in at an immense price at Fonthill, is in the centre of

the room. Several rows of the rarest books cover the lower part of the

walls, and above them hang many fine portraits, which Mr. Beckford

immediately, without losing any time in compliments, began to show us and

describe.

First we were shown a portrait by de Vos of Grotius; next to it one of

Rembrandt, painted by himself. "You see," said Mr. Beckford, "that he is

trying to assume an air of dignity not natural to him, by throwing back

his head, but this attempt at the dignified is neutralized by the

expression of the eyes, which have rather too much of sly humour for the

character which he wishes to give himself." To praise individual

pictures seems useless when everyone you meet has excellencies peculiar

to itself; in fact, whatever our ideas of the great masters may be, and

we certainly do gain from prints and pictures a tolerable idea of their

style and different beauties (and I have myself seen the Louvre and many

celebrated pictures) there is in Mr. Beckford's _chef d'oeuvres_

something still more lovely than our imagination, than our expectation. I

speak not now of the St. Catherine, The Claud, The Titian, &c., but all

the pictures, whether historical, landscape, or low life, have this

unique character of excellence. You look at a picture. You are sure it

is by Gaspar, but you never saw one of Poussin's that had such an

exquisite tone of colour, so fresh and with such free and brilliant

execution.

But I digress. I forgot that it was the library and its pictures I was

attempting to describe. Well, at the other end hangs a portrait of Pope

Gregory, by Passerotti; the expression of the face Italian, attitude like

Raphael. Over the door a portrait of Cosmo de Medici by Bronzino Allori,

fresh as if painted yesterday. "The works of that master," I said, "are

rare, but a friend of mine, Mr. Day, had a noble one at his rooms in

Piccadilly, St. John in the Wilderness. The conception of the figure and

poetical expression of the face always seemed to me astonishingly fine.

Pray, Sir, do you know that picture?" "Perfectly, it partakes of the

sublime and is amazingly fine." "Your portrait of Cosmo has the

expression of a resolute, determined man, and I think it conveys well the

idea of the monstrous parent, who could with his own hand destroy his

only surviving son after discovering he had murdered his brother. What a

horrible piece of business! The father of two sons, one of whom murdered

the other, and that father is himself the executioner of the survivor."

"It was dreadful certainly," said Mr. Beckford. "However, we have the

consolation of knowing that two broods of vipers were destroyed."

Mr. Beckford next showed us a Titian, a portrait of the Constable

Montmorency, in armour richly chased with gold; a fine picture, but sadly

deficient in intellectual expression. And no wonder, for as Mr. Beckford

observed, "He could neither read nor write, but he was none the worse for

that." "There is, then, before us," I rejoined, "the portrait of the man

of whom his master, Henri Quatre, said: 'Avec un Counetable qui re sait

pas ecrire, et un Chancelier qui ne sait pas le Latin, j'ai reussi dans

toutes mes entreprises.' It is the very portrait for which he sat." "The

face," I said, "has no great pretensions to intellect, but then Titian

knew nothing of the refined flattery so fashionable now-a-days that

throws a halo of mind and expression over faces more stupid than

Montmorency's, and whose possessors never performed the chivalrous deeds

of the Constable."

"Witness Sir Thomas Lawrence's fine picture of Sir Wm. Curtis, where the

Court painter has thrown a poetical expression over a personage that

never in his life betrayed any predilection for anything but turtle soup

and gormandizing." Mr. Beckford burst out laughing. "Well," said he,

"here is a picture that will perhaps please you. Holbein has certainly

not been guilty of the refined flattery you complain of here; it is the

portrait of Bishop Gardiner, painted at the time he was in Holland and in

disgrace. What think you of it?" "It is admirably painted, and has

scarcely anything of his dry and hard manner, the hands are done

inimitably, but the eyes are small, and the expression cold-hearted and

brutal. It conveys to my mind the exact idea of the cold-blooded wretch,

who consigned so many of his innocent countrymen to the flames." I did

not express all I thought, but I certainly wondered how the effigy of

such a monster should have found an asylum in this palace of taste.

Smithfield and its horrors rose vividly before me, and I turned, not

without a shudder, from this too faithful portrait to copies by Phillips

of some family pictures in the Royal Collection, painted by permission

expressly for Mr. Beckford, and looking more like originals than mere

copies.

But the picture of pictures in this room is a Velasquez, an unknown head,

the expression beyond anything I have ever seen. Such light and shade,

such expressive eyes; the very epitome of Spanish character. "Is it not

amazingly like Lord Byron?" "It certainly is very like him, but much

more handsome." This room is devoted entirely to portraits.

Mr. Beckford opened a door and we entered the Duchess Drawing Room; a

truly Royal room, the colour of the curtains, carpet, and furniture being

crimson, scarlet, and purple. Over the fireplace is a full length

portrait of the Duchess of Hamilton by Phillips, painted in the rich and

glowing style of that sweet colourist. It represents a beautiful and

truly dignified lady. The sleeves of the dress are close and small, as

worn in 1810 (Quel bonheur! d'etre jeune, jolie, et Duchesse), so truly

becoming to a finely formed woman, and so much superior to the present

horrid fashion of disfiguring the shape by gigot and bishop's sleeves,

which seem to have been invented expressly to conceal what is indeed most

truly beautiful, a woman's arm.

We were next shown a glorious Sir Joshua, a beautiful full length

portrait of Mrs. Peter Beckford, afterwards Lady Rivers, and the

"Nouronchar" of Vathek. She is represented approaching an altar

partially obscured by clouds of incense that she may sacrifice to Hygeia,

and turning round looking at the spectator. The background is quite

Titianesque; it is composed of sky and the columns of the temple, the

light breaking on the pillars in that forcible manner you see on the

stems of trees in some of Titian's backgrounds. The colouring of this

picture is in fine preservation, a delicate lilac scarf floats over the

dress, the figure is grace and elegance itself, and the drawing perfect;

the general effect is brilliancy, richness, and astonishing softness.

"Sir Joshua took the greatest pleasure and delight in painting that

picture, as it was left entirely to his own refined taste. The lady was

in ill-health at the time it was done, and Sir Joshua most charmingly

conceived the idea of a sacrifice to the Goddess of Health. Vain hope!

Her disorder was fatal."

There is a portrait of Mr. Beckford's mother painted by West, with a view

of Fonthill in the background. Never was there a greater contrast in

this and the last picture; West certainly knew nothing of portrait

painting. The _tout ensemble_ of the portrait in question is as dry and

hard as if painted by a Chinese novice. There is also a portrait of the

Countess, of Effingham, Mr. Beckford's aunt. On one side is the original

portrait by Reynolds of the author of Vathek engraved as the frontispiece

of the "Excursions to the Monasteries." The character of the original

picture is much superior in expression to the print, less stout, eyes

very intellectual; in fact, you are convinced it must be the portrait of

a poet or of a poetical character. The face is very handsome, so is the

print, but that has nothing in it but what you meet with in a good

looking young man of fashion. This, on the contrary, has an expression

of sensibility, deeply tinged with melancholy, which gives it great

interest.

On the other side of Lady Rivers's portrait is the Duke of Hamilton when

a boy. A sweet child, with the hair cut straight along the forehead, as

worn by children some fifty years ago, and hanging luxuriantly down his

neck On the same side of the room, behind a bronze of the Laocoon, is a

wonderful sketch by Paolo Veronese, the drawing and composition in the

grand style, touched with great sweetness and juiciness. Two small

upright Bassans, painted conjointly by both, bearing their names; the

point of sight is immensely high.

We were then led down the north staircase. Fronting us was a portrait of

Mr. Beckford's father, the Alderman and celebrated Lord Mayor of London.

Mr. Goodridge asked him if he knew a book, just published, denying the

truth of his father's famous speech to George III. He seemed astonished,

and stood still on the staircase. "Not true! What in the world will

they find out next? Garrick was present when my father uttered it, heard

the whole speech, repeated it word for word to me, and what is more,

acted it in my father's manner." "That is the portrait of my great

grandfather, Colonel Peter Beckford. It was painted by a French artist,

who went to Jamaica for the purpose, at the time he was Governor of the

island." It is a full length portrait, large as life, the Colonel

dressed in a scarlet coat embroidered richly with gold. There is also a

lovely portrait by Barker of the present Marquis of Douglas, Mr.

Beckford's grandson; it was painted when Lord Douglas was twelve or

thirteen years old. There is also a charming picture by Reynolds, two

beautiful little girls, full length and large as life, they are the

present Duchess of Hamilton and her sister, Mrs General Ord.

We now entered the lovely dining room, which in point of brilliancy and

cheerfulness has more the character of a drawing than of a dining room.

Opposite the window is an upright grand pianoforte. It is the largest

ever made, with the exception of its companion made at the same time, and

its richness and power of sound are very great. Over the fire is what is

seldom seen in a dining room, a large looking glass. The paintings in

this room have been valued at upwards of 20,000 pounds.

On the right as you enter are five pictures that once adorned the

Aldsbrandini Palace, namely, the St. Catherine by Raphael, a Claude, a

Garofalo, two by Ferrara, and several smaller ones. But how shall I

attempt to describe to you the St. Catherine? This lovely picture

combines all the refined elegance of the Venus de Medici, in form,

contour, and flowing lines, with an astonishing delicacy of colour, and

masterly yet softened execution. The eyes are turned upwards with an

expression of heavenly resignation, the neck, flesh and life itself, the

hands, arms, and shoulders so sweetly rounded, while the figure melts

into the background with the softness of Corregio.

And fills

The air around with beauty, we inhale

The ambrosial aspect, which beheld instils

Part of its immortality; the veil

Of heaven is half withdrawn, within the pale

We stand, and in that form and face behold

What mind can make, when Nature's self would fail.

I can only convey to you a very slight idea of the impression produced by

the contemplation of this admirable painting. Such grace and sweetness,

such softness and roundness in the limbs. She seems the most beautiful

creature that ever trod this earthly planet; in short it is no earthly

beauty that we gaze upon, but the very beau ideal of Italian loveliness.

Eve of the land which still is Paradise.

Italian beauty! didst thou not inspire Raphael? "How different," said

Mr. Beckford, "is that lovely creature from Mr. Etty's beauties. They

are for the most part of a meretricious character, would do well enough

for a mistress; but there," pointing to the St. Catherine, "there are

personified the modesty and purity a man would wish to have in a wife,

and yet Frenchmen find fault with it. C'est un assez joli tableau, say

they, mais la tete manque, de l'expression, si elle avait plus d'esprit,

plus de vivacite! Mais Raphael, il n'avait jamais passe les Alpes." We

burst out laughing, and I added, "Le pauvre Raphael quel dommage, de ne

savoir rien du grand. Monarque! ni de la grande nation." "Yet," I

continued, "there is a painter, Stotherd, who has come nearer to the

great Italian, in the grace and elegance of his women and children, than

perhaps any other, and merits well the proud appellation of the English

Raphael. What a shame that he never met with encouragement." "But I

understood that he was tolerably successful. He painted many things for

me at Fonthill. You are surely mistaken." "By no means," I replied.

"Latterly he seldom sold a picture, and supported himself on the paltry

income of 200 pounds a year, raised by making little designs for

booksellers. Yet what a noble painting is Chaucer's pilgrimage to

Canterbury." "It is indeed," said Mr. Beckford. "But, sir, there is

another painter, Howard, whose conceptions are most poetical. Do you

remember his painting at Somerset House in 1824, representing the solar

system, from Milton's noble lines--

Hither as to their fountain, other stars

Repairing, in their golden urns draw light?"

"I remember it perfectly; 'twas a most beautiful picture." "Milton's

original idea, that of the planets drawing light from their eternal

source, as water from a fountain, is certainly a glorious, a golden one;

but who beside Howard could have so tangibly, so poetically developed the

poet's idea in colour. The personifying the planets according to their

names, as Venus, Mercury, and so forth, was charming, and the splendour

of the nearer figures, overwhelmed as it were with excess of light, and

the gloom and darkness of the distant, were admirably managed. What a

wonderful picture!" "He never painted a finer."

Mr. Beckford then pointed out his Claude. It is a cool picture, the

colouring grey and greenish, the time of day, early morning just before

sunrise: but words fail to express its beauties. There is a something in

it, a je ne sais quoi. Such clearness in the colouring; the trees are

all green, but so tenderly green; the sky and distance of such an

exquisite tone that you are at once in imagination transported to those

"southern climes and cloudless skies" that inspired Claude Lorraine. I

can give no possible idea in writing of the tone of colour in this

picture, except by comparing it to the semi-transparency of Mosaic, such

are the clearness of the tints and pearliness of the sky and distance. As

to chiaro-oscure, it is breadth and simplicity itself. Nothing but the

purest ultramarine could ever produce such a green as that which colours

the trees.

On the same side of the room are two small Vander Meulens, landscapes.

They are very highly finished, and the colouring is delicious; the trees

are grouped with all the grandeur of Claude or Poussin. Above are two of

the finest Vernets; they are both sea pieces. The colouring has a depth

and richness I never before saw in anything attributed to him. In the

Louvre are his most famous pictures, and what I now say is the result of

calm and mature reflection. I had the Louvre pictures constantly before

my eyes for three months. They are very large, and certainly have great

merit; but had I my choice I would prefer Mr. Beckford's to any of the

set.

West's original sketch for his great picture of King Lear, painted for

Boydell's Shakspeare Gallery--"Blow, blow, thou winter wind." A most

wonderful performance. The expression of face of the poor mad king is

astonishing; the colouring rich and mellow--nothing of West's usually

hard outline. The whole picture is full of energy and fire, and seems to

have been struck off with the greatest ease and rapidity. "Do observe

the face of Edgar," said Mr. Beckford. "Under his assumed madness you

trace a sentiment of respect and anxiety for the monarch; he could not

forget that it was his sovereign." "I have seen," I said, "most of

West's great pictures, but there is more genius in that sketch than in

anything I ever saw of his. I think he took too much pains with his

sketches. The consequence was that the original spirit evaporated long

before the completion of the great tame painting, where his men and women

too often look like wooden lay figures covered with drapery." "Sir, did

you ever see his sketch of Death on the Pale Horse? The large picture is

certainly very fine, but I have heard the best judges say that the

original sketch is one of the finest things in existence. The President

himself considered it his best and refused 100 pounds, offered for it by

the Prince Regent; yet afterwards, being distressed for money, he parted

with it, I believe, to Mr. Thompson, the artist, for 50 pounds." "Is it

possible? I wish I had known that he wanted to dispose of it. I should

have liked it beyond anything. It was most wonderful."

Above the picture of King Lear hangs a noble picture by Titian, the

composition of which reminded me much of Raphael. The Virgin's face is

extremely beautiful, but it is the sort of beauty we sometimes meet with,

that we sometimes may have seen. The St. Catherine is of a more elevated

style of beauty, more intellectual; in short, it possesses a combination

of charms that has never yet fallen to the lot of any mortal. The infant

is extremely fine. On this side is also a portrait of himself

exquisitely coloured and finished.

Near these paintings is a Canaletti, not a real view, but an assemblage

of various fine buildings; in fact, a sort of union of Rome and Venice.

In the centre is the Mole of Hadrian, round which he has amused himself

by putting an elegant colonnade; on the right hand is a bridge. The

colouring is clear, the shadows rich, and the water softly painted and

extremely transparent. This is the most beautiful Canaletti I ever saw.

I observed that the generality of his pictures had a hardness, dryness,

and blackness that we saw nothing of here. "You are quite right," he

said, "and the reason is that very few of those generally attributed to

him are really genuine, but of mine there can be no doubt, as this

painting and several others that I have were got directly from the artist

himself by means of the English Consul at Venice; but not a quarter of

the pictures that one sees and that are called his were ever painted by

Canaletti." There were several very fine pictures by this master

destroyed in the lifetime of Alderman Beckford at the fire which consumed

the old mansion at Fonthill nearly a hundred years ago.

This Canaletti partakes of the same character of high excellence that Mr.

Beckford's other pictures possess; in fact, as with so many of his

pictures, you see the hand of the master, whose common works you know,

but in this house you find paintings still finer, which give you more

elevated and correct ideas of the style and manner of the genuine

productions of the great masters. There really seems some charm, some

magic in the walls, so great is the similarity of colouring in these

_chefs d'oeuvres_, the clear, the subdued, the pearly tints, a variety of

delicious colour, and none of the dirty hues you see in mediocre old

paintings.

Over the sofa is a constellation of beauties which we merely glanced at

as we passed, but which I hope another day to examine. They are some of

the rarest specimens by G. Poussin, Wouvermans, Berghem, Van Huysum,

Polemberg, and others. On a small table was placed an elegantly cut

caraffe of carnations of every variety of colour that you can possibly

imagine. There is nothing in which Mr. Beckford is more choice than in

his bouquets. At every season the rarest living flowers adorn the house.

Next to the dining room is a small salon, which we now entered. Here is

a noble drawing by Turner of the Abbey, according to a plan proposed, but

never carried out. The tower is conical, and would have been even higher

than the one that was completed. "I have seen," I said, "a fine drawing

of Fonthill by Turner, originally in your possession, but now belonging

to Mr. Allnutt, of Clapham. It is prodigiously fine. The scenery there

must be magnificent. The hills and beautiful lake in the drawing give

one an idea of Cumberland." "It is a very fine drawing, but rather too

poetical, too ideal, even for Fonthill. The scenery there is certainly

beautiful, but Turner took such liberties with it that he entirely

destroyed the portraiture, the locality of the spot. That was the reason

I parted with it. There were originally six drawings of the Abbey; three

were disposed of at the sale, and I still have the remaining ones." "Are

they going to rebuild the tower, sir? for when I was last in London,

Papworth, the architect, was gone down to Fonthill to do something

there." "Impossible," he said, "unless it were to be made a national

affair, which indeed is not very likely. It would cost at least 100,000

pounds to restore it. But what can Papworth have done there? It must I

should think be something to the pavilion. I assure you I had no idea of

parting with Fonthill till Farquhar made me the offer. I wished to purge

it, to get rid of a great many things I did not want, but as to the

building itself I had no more notion of selling it than you have (turning

to his architect) of parting with anything, with--with the clothes you

have on."

On the chimney piece, protected by a glass, is a precious Japan vase. We

examined it for some time under its envelope. It seemed to me (for I

know nothing of Japan work) a bronze vessel, richly and most elaborately

chased, and I could not help joining in the praises due to its exquisite

finish. Mr. Beckford took off the glass, and desired me to take it to

the window. "I am really afraid to touch it," said I, but he forced it

into my hands. I prepared them to receive a massive and (as it seemed to

me) very weighty vessel, when lo it proved as light as a feather. We

were afterwards shown another Japan vase, the exterior of which exactly

resembled the Pompeian designs, elegant scrolls, delicate tracery of

blue, red, green, &c. These colours strongly opposed as in the remains

of paintings at Pompeii. Here are some other precious little pictures, a

small Gerard Dow, a Watteau, a Moucheron, and a Polemberg. He merely

noticed them, and then led us into the next room.

A noble library. It is an elegant and charming apartment, very chastely

ornamented. Here are no pictures; it is devoted entirely to books and

ponderous folios of the most rare and precious engravings. The sides of

the library are adorned by Scagliola pilasters and arched recesses, which

contain the books. The interstices between the arches and the ceiling

are painted in imitation of marble, so extremely like that though they

touch the Scagliola it is next to impossible to distinguish any

difference. The ceiling is belted across and enriched with bands of

Grecian tracery in relief, delicately painted and slightly touched with

gold. On the walls are some gilded ornaments, enough to give to the

whole richness of effect without heaviness. Between the windows is what

I suppose may be termed a table, composed of an enormous slab of the

rarest marble, supported by elegantly cast bronze legs. Over this a

small cabinet (manufactured in Bath from drawings by Mr. Goodridge) full

of extremely small books; it is carved in oak in the most elaborate

manner. The fireplace, of Devonshire marble, is perfect in design and in

its adaptation to the rest of the room; in fact, everything in this

lovely chamber is in unison, everything soft, quiet, and subdued.

New wonders awaited me. Next to the library is a sort of vestibule

leading to a staircase, which from its mysterious and crimson light, rich

draperies, and latticed doors seemed to be the sanctum sanctorum of a

heathen temple. To the left a long passage, whose termination not being

seen allowed the imagination full play, led for aught I know to the

Fortress of Akerman, to the Montagne du Caf or to the Halls of Argenti.

Ou sout peintes toutes les createures raissonables, et les animaux qui

ont habite la terre.

To the right two latticed doors, reminding you of Grand Cairo or

Persepolis, ingeniously conceal the commonplace entrance from the

Crescent. The singular and harmonious light of this mysterious vestibule

is produced by crimson silk strained over the fanlight of the outer door.

"This place," I observed, "puts one in mind of the Hall of Eblis." "You

are quite right," he observed, "this is unquestionably the Hall of

Eblis." "Those latticed doors," I continued, "seem to lead to the small

apartment where the three princes, Alasi, Barkiarokh, and Kalilah,

related to Vathek and Nouronchar their adventures." He seemed amused at

my observations, and said, "Then you have read 'Vathek.' How do you like

it?" "Vastly. I read it in English many years ago, but never in

French." "Then read it in French," said Mr. Beckford. "The French

edition is much finer than the English."

We mounted the staircase. Above you in open niches are Etruscan vases.

The ceiling is arched and has belts at intervals. "I wished to exclude

the draughts," said Mr. Beckford, "and to do away with the cold and

uncomfortable appearance you generally have in staircases." The effect

of the whole is so novel that you lose all idea of stairs, and seem

merely going from one room to another. As you stand on the landing the

vaulted and belted ceiling behind you has the appearance of a row of

arches in perspective. The same solemn and mysterious gloom pervades the

staircase. The architect has frequently entreated to be allowed to

introduce a little more light, but in vain. The author of "Vathek" will

not consent to the least alteration of the present mystical effect, and

he is quite right. This warm and indefinite light produces not only the

effect of air, but also of space, and makes the passage before noticed,

seen through the latticed doors, apparently of lines of real dimensions.

Mr. Beckford drew aside a curtain. We entered the smaller of two lovely

drawing rooms lately fitted up. Before us, over the mantelpiece, was

suspended a magnificent full length portrait by Gaspar de Crayer of

Philip II. of Spain. Just then my head was too full of the Hall of

Eblis, of "Vathek" and its associations, for mere ordinary admiration of

even one of the finest portraits painted, and on Mr. Beckford pointing

out the whitefaced monarch I almost involuntarily ejaculated "Pale slave

of Eblis." He burst out laughing. "Eh! eh! what? His face is pale

indeed, but he was very proud of his complexion." This is a very fine

group. Philip is represented dressed in a suit of black armour,

elaborately chased in gold, standing on a throne covered with a crimson

carpet. Near him is his dwarf, dressed in black, holding the helmet,

adorned with a magnificent plume of feathers, and turning towards his

master (the fountain of honour) a most expressive and intelligent face.

"That dwarf," said Mr. Beckford, "was a man of great ability and

exercised over his master a vast influence." Lower down you discover the

head of a Mexican page, holding a horse, whose head, as well as that of

the page, is all that is visible, their bodies being concealed by the

steps of the throne. This is a noble picture; but in my eyes the extreme

plainness of the steps of the throne and the unornamented war boots of

the king have a bare and naked appearance. They contrast rather too

violently with the whole of the upper part of the picture. Over the

steps are painted in Roman letters Rx. Ps. 4s. (Rex Philippus quartos).

Many who have hardly heard the painter's name will of course not admire

it, being done neither by Titian nor Vandyke; but Mr. Beckford's taste is

peculiar. He prefers a genuine picture by an inferior painter to those

attributed to the more celebrated masters, but where originality is

ambiguous, or at least if not ambiguous where picture cleaner, or

scavengers, as he calls them, have been at work. In this room, suspended

from the ceiling by a silken cord, is the silver gilt lamp that hung in

the oratory at Fonthill. Its shape and proportion are very elegant, and

no wonder; it was designed by the author of "Italy" himself. How great

was my astonishment some time after, on visiting Fonthill, at perceiving,

suspended from the _cul de lamp_, the very crimson cord that once

supported this precious vessel! The lamp had been hastily cut down, and

the height of the remains of the cord from the floor was probably the

reason of its preservation.

Mr. Beckford next pointed out a charming sketch by Rubens, clear and

pearly beyond conception. It is St. George and the Dragon, the dragon

hero and his horse in the air, and the dragon must certainly have been an

African lion. Mr. Beckford called the beast, or reptile, a mumpsimus

(_sic_). "Do look at the Pontimeitos in the beautiful sketch," said he,

"there is a bit from his pencil certainly his own. Don't imagine that

those great pictures that bear his name are all his pictures. He was too

much of a gentleman for such drudgery, and the greatest part of such

pictures (the Luxembourg for instance) are the works of his pupils from

his original designs certainly; they were afterwards retouched by him,

and people are silly enough to believe they are all his work. But mark

well the difference in execution between those great gallery pictures and

such a gem as this." Mr. Beckford then showed me a "Ripon" by Polemberg,

a lovely classic landscape, with smooth sky, pearly distance, and

picturesque plains; the Holy Family in the foreground. "Do take notice

of the St. Joseph in this charming picture," he said. "The painters too

often pourtray him as little better than a vagabond Jew or an old beggar.

Polemberg had too much good taste for such caricaturing, and you see he

has made him here look like a decayed gentleman."

Mr. Beckford drew aside another curtain, and we entered the front drawing

room, of larger dimensions, but fitted up in a similar style. The first

thing that caught my eye was the magnificent effect produced by a scarlet

drapery, whose ample folds covered the whole side of the room opposite

the three windows from the ceiling to the floor. Mr. Beckford's

observation on his first view of Mad. d' Aranda's boudoir instantly

recurred to my mind. These are his very words: "I wonder architects and

fitters-up of apartments do not avail themselves more frequently of the

powers of drapery. Nothing produces so grand and at the same time so

comfortable an effect. The moment I have an opportunity I will set about

constructing a tabernacle larger than the one I arranged at Ramalhad, and

indulge myself in every variety of plait and fold that can be possibly

invented." "I never was so convinced," I said, "of the truth of your

observations as at the present moment. What a charming and comfortable

effect does that splendid drapery produce!" "I am very fond of drapery,"

he replied, "but that is nothing to what I had at Fonthill in the great

octagon. There were purple curtains fifty feet long."

Here was a cabinet of oak, made in Bath, in form most classical and

appropriate. On one side stood two massive and richly chased silver gilt

candlesticks that formerly were used in the Moorish Palace of the

Alhambra. "Then you have visited Granada?" I inquired. "More than

once." "What do you think of the Alhambra?" "It is vastly curious

certainly, but many things there are in wretched taste, and to say truth

I don't much admire Moorish taste."

Mr. Beckford next pointed out a head in marble brought from Mexico by

Cortez, which was for centuries in the possession of the Duke of Alba's

family, and was given to the present proprietor by the Duchess. "Her

fate was very tragical," he observed. In a small cupboard with glass in

front is a little ivory reliquior, four or five hundred years old. It

was given to Mr. Beckford by the late Mr. Hope. It is in the shape of a

small chapel; on opening the doors, the fastenings of which were two

small dogs or monkeys, you found in a recess the Virgin and Child,

surrounded by various effigies, all carved in the most astonishingly

minute manner.

The mention of Mr. Hope's name produced an observation about

"Anastasius," of which Mr. Beckford affirmed he was confident Mr. Hope

had written very little; he was, he positively asserted, assisted by

Spence. My companion here observed, "Had Mr. Beckford heard of the

recent discoveries made of the ruins of Carthage?" "Of Carthage?" he

said, "it must be New Carthage. It cannot be the old town, that is

impossible. If it were, I would start to-morrow to see it. I should

think myself on the road to Babylon half-way." "Babylon must have been a

glorious place," observed my companion, "if we can place any reliance on

Mr. Martin's long line of distances about that famous city." "Oh,

Martin. Martin is very clever, but a friend of mine, Danby, in my

opinion far surpasses him." I cannot agree with Mr. Beckford in this.

Martin was undoubtedly the inventor of the singular style of painting in

question, and I do not believe that Danby ever produced anything equal to

some of the illustrations of "Paradise Lost," in particular "The Fall of

the Apostate Angels," which is as fine a conception as any painter,

ancient or modern, ever produced.

Mr. Beckford then, taking off a glass cover, showed us what is, I should

imagine, one of the greatest curiosities in existence, a vase about ten

inches high, composed of one entire block of chalcedonian onyx. It is of

Greek workmanship, most probably about the time of Alexander the Great.

The stone is full of veins, as usual with onyxes. "Do observe," said he,

"these satyrs' heads. Imagine the number of diamonds it must have taken

to make any impression on such a hard substance. Rubens made a drawing

of it, for it was pawned in his time for a large sum. I possess an

engraving from his drawing," and opening a portfolio he immediately

presented it to my wondering eyes.

Over the fireplace is a magnificent picture by Roberts, representing the

tombs of Ferdinand and Isabella in the Alhambra. What I had always

imagined a small chapel is, I find, really of gigantic proportions, and

looks like a Cathedral in solemn grandeur and softness; the two

sarcophagi are of white marble. The light streams through enormous

painted windows, and at the extremity of the edifice is an altar

surrounded by figures in different attitudes. "I should never have

dreamt, from what Washington Irving says of the chapel of Ferdinand and

Isabella, that it was such a plan as this." "Oh, Washington Irving," he

replied, "is very poor in his descriptions; he does not do justice to

Spain." I wished he had spoken with a little more enthusiasm of a

favourite author, but I imagine that the author of the "Sketch Book" is

scarcely aristocratic enough for Mr. Beckford.

On the right hand of the fireplace is a very large landscape by Lee,

which Mr. Beckford eulogised warmly. "That silvery stream," he observed,

"winding amongst those gentle undulating hills must be intended to

represent Berkshire," or he pronounced it Barkshire. With all due

deference to the taste of the author of "Vathek," and his admiration of

this picture, which he compared to a Wouvermann, it is in my eyes a very

uninteresting scene, though certainly strictly natural. "I don't in

general like Lee's pictures," he said, "but that is an exception." In

the corresponding recess is a fine sea piece by Chambers. On the

opposite side of the room are rows of the most valuable books, which

almost reach the ceiling. I hinted that I was really afraid we were

trespassing on his leisure, as our visit was lengthened out most

prodigiously. "Not at all," he replied, "I am delighted to see you. It

is a pleasure to show these things to those who really appreciate them,

for I assure you that I find very few who do." We now returned through

the apartments. He accompanied us as far as the dining room door, when

he inquired if I had seen the Tower? On my answering in the negative he

said, "Then you must come up again." He shook hands with my friend, and

bowing politely to me was retiring, when stepping back he held out his

hand in the kindest manner, repeating the words "Come up again." We

found we had spent three hours in his company.

We paused an instant before leaving the dining room to admire a lovely

bit of perspective. It is a line of open doors, exactly opposite each

other (never seen but in large houses), piercing and uniting the three

lower rooms. The effect is vastly increased by a mirror placed in the

lobby leading to the second staircase, which mirror terminated the view.

"L'une perspective bien menagee charmait la vue; ici, la magic de

l'optique la trompoit agreablement. En un mot, le plus curieux des

hommes n'avait rien omis dans ce palais de ce qui pouvait contenter la

curiosite de ceux qui le visitait."

You may imagine I did not forget Mr. Beckford's invitation, nor cease

pestering my friend till he at length fixed a day for accompanying me

again to Lansdown. My curiosity to see the Tower was excited. I longed

to behold that extraordinary structure, but still more to see again the

wonderful individual to whom it belonged.

We proceeded in the first place to the house, and I had an opportunity of

examining the pictures and curiosities in the ante-room. Here are two

cabinets, containing curious china, and small golden vessels. Most of

the china was, I believe, painted at Sevres expressly for Mr. Beckford,

as the ornaments on several pieces indicate, being formed of his arms, so

arranged as to produce a rich and beautiful effect without the slightest

formality. I counted in one cabinet ten vessels of gold, in the other

five: these were small teapots, caddies, cups, saucers, plates. I am

told that they are used occasionally at tea-time.

Over the door is a magnificent drawing of the Abbey, by Turner, taken I

should imagine at a distance of two miles. The appearance of the

building with its lofty tower is grand and imposing. The foreground

seems to have been an old quarry. The great lake glitters in the middle

distance, from the opposite banks of which the ground gradually rises,

and the eminence is crowned by the stately structure. Here are also a

fine interior by Van Ostade from Fonthill, representing a noble picture

gallery; a drawing of the interior of St. Paul's; one by Rubens,

representing Christ and the two disciples at Emmaus; a fine Swaneveldt; a

glorious Weeninx, game and fruit; with a lovely bit by Lance, and many

smaller pictures.

I was informed that Mr. Beckford intended meeting us at the Tower, and

that a servant was in readiness to conduct us thither by the walk through

the grounds. We therefore issued by a private door, and presently

entered the spacious kitchen garden, containing, I believe, seven or

eight acres. A broad gravel walk, bordered by lovely flowers and fruit

trees, leads to a magnificent terrace, which bounds the northern side of

this beautiful enclosure, the view from which is enchanting. This noble

terrace is screened from the north by a luxuriant shrubbery, from which

arises an archway of massive proportions, erected chiefly to shut out the

view of an unpicturesque object. The _tout ensemble_ reminds one of

Florence. You pass this gigantic portal, and ascend the hill by a

winding pathway through the fields, the grass being always kept clipped

and short. At the distance of half a mile from the house we crossed a

lane, and our guide unlocking a gate entered the grounds at the brow of

the hill. We again ascended, till we reached a broader way between two

flourishing plantations, branching off to the left, and leading by a

gently winding walk to a rustic sort of bungalow, which was discovered

about a quarter of a mile off. "You must walk along here," said my

friend, "and behold the prospect before we mount higher, for you will

find the view repay you." It did indeed repay us: the grassy pathway

extends along the side of the southern brow of Lansdown, and the view

from this spot is unrivalled. The whole valley of the Doon stretches

beneath you. Looking towards the east you discover in extreme distance

the Marlborough Downs; then somewhat nearer Kingsdown, Bathford, the

hills above Warleigh, with Hampton cliffs and the neighbouring woods,

where Gainsborough, Wilson, and Barker studied Nature so well, and where

is shown the flat rock called Gainsborough's table, on which the first of

this picturesque triumvirate so often ate his rustic meal. To the south

Bladud's splendid city, with its towers and stately buildings, backed by

the long line of Wiltshire hills, and Alfred's Tower is faintly traced in

the clear, grey haze. The little conical hill of Englishcombe, where the

unfortunate Duke of Monmouth drew up his army during his rash and fatal

enterprise, awoke a thousand recollections, whilst the lovely river

flashed occasionally in the noontide sun. To the west are seen Newton

Park, the Mendip Hills, Dundry Tower, and the Welsh hills, whilst the

hazy atmosphere marked the position of another great city, Bristol. At

the extreme western point, too, are seen the waters of the Bristol

Channel, glittering under the glowing rays of the setting sun, and

shining like a vast plateau of burnished gold.

After feasting our eyes on this lovely panorama and tracing out well

known places, at one moment lost in obscurity from the shadow of a

passing cloud and the next moment appearing in the full blaze of

sunshine, we retraced our steps towards the path to the Tower. We again

ascended the hill, and soon reached the sort of tableland on the top,

which seems to me to have been once an immense quarry, and no doubt

furnished stone in vast quantities for the building of the splendid city

at the foot of the eminence. The remains of these quarries are most

picturesque. At a little distance they seem to present the wrecks of

stately buildings, with rows of broken arches, and vividly recall the

idea of Roman ruins. I afterwards mentioned my impressions on seeing

them to Mr. Beckford, who replied, "They do indeed put one in mind of the

Campagna of Rome, and are vastly like the ruins of the Baths of

Caracalla." We were now on the brow of the hill, and soon felt the

influence of the genial breezes from the Bristol Channel. We quitted the

open Down, and passing under a low doorway entered a lovely shrubbery.

The walk (composed of small fossils) winds between graceful trees, and is

skirted by odoriferous flowers, which we are astonished to find growing

in such luxuriance at an elevation of nearly a thousand feet above the

vale below. In many places the trees meet, and form a green arcade over

your head, whilst patches of mignonette, giant plants of heliotrope, and

clusters of geranium perfume the air.