to whom I am indebted for my introduction to Mr. Beckford if he thought
it would be taking a liberty if I sent in my name when I called for it.
"I really don't know what to say" was the answer, "you must do as you
think proper. I will only say that for my part I am always looking out
for squalls, but I daresay he will be glad to see you." I accordingly
determined to make a bold stroke and call on him, remembering the old
adage, "Quidlibet audendum picturis atque poetis." The weather was most
delightful. A wet and cold summer had been succeeded by warm autumnal
days, on which the sun shone without a cloud; it was one of those seasons
of settled fair so uncommon in our humid country, when after witnessing a
golden sunset you might sleep
Secure he'd rise to-morrow.
I therefore called at the great man's house, and found the umbrella in
the exact corner in the ante-room where it had been left a fortnight
before, and told the porter to announce my name to his master. I waited
in anxiety in the hall a few moments. The footman returned, saying his
master was engaged, but if I would walk upstairs Mr. Beckford would come
to me. The servant led the way to the Duchess Drawing Room, opened the
door, and on my entering he retired, leaving me alone in this gorgeous
apartment, wondering what the dickens I did there. You may suppose I was
not a little delighted at this mark of confidence, and spent several
minutes examining the pictures till the author of "Vathek" entered, his
countenance beaming with good nature and affability. He extended his
hand in the kindest manner, and said he was extremely glad to see me. I
instantly declared the purport of my visit, that I had some copies of
pictures that were once in his possession, and that it would give me the
greatest possible pleasure to show them to him. "I shall be delighted to
see them" was the reply, "but for some days I am rather busy; I will come
next week." "You have had a visit from the author of 'Italy'," I
observed; "people say that you like Mr. R.'s poem." "Oh yes, some
passages are very beautiful. He is a man of considerable talent; but who
was that person he brought with him? What a delightful man! I suppose
it was Mr. L." I replied, "I believe they are great friends."
"What an awful state the country is in (he observed)! One has scarcely
time to think about poetry or painting, or anything else, when our
stupid, imbecile Government allows public meetings of 150,000 men, where
the most inflammatory language is used and the common people are called
on to arm, beginning, too, with solemn prayer. Their prayer will never
succeed. No, no, their solemn prayer is but a solemn mockery. They
seemed to have forgotten the name of the only Mediator, without whose
intercession all prayer is worse than useless. Well, well (said Mr.
Beckford), depend upon it we shall have a tremendous outbreak before
long. The ground we stand on is trembling, and gives signs of an
approaching earthquake. Then will come a volcanic eruption; you will
have fire, stones, and lava enough. Afterwards, when the lava has
cooled, there will be an inquiry for works of art. I assure you I expect
everything to be swept away." I ventured to differ from him in that
opinion, and said I was convinced that whatever political changes might
happen, property was perfectly secure. "Some reforms," I said, "would
take place, and many pensions perhaps be swept away, but such changes
would never affect him or his, and after all it was but a matter of
pounds, shillings, and pence." "There you are right," he exclaimed. "If
anything can save us 'twill be pounds, shillings, and pence," meaning, I
suppose, a union of all classes who possessed property, from the pound of
the peer to the penny of the plebeian. "But the present times are really
very critical. Have you time to go through the rooms with me?" he
demanded. I replied that nothing would give me greater pleasure. "But
perhaps you are going somewhere?" I answered that I was perfectly
disengaged. Passing along the landing of the stairs he paused before the
Alderman's portrait, and observed, "Had my father's advice been taken we
should not now be in danger of starvation." I ventured to say that in
those days there was more reciprocal feeling between the poor and the
rich than at present; now a-days classes are so divided by artificial
barriers that there is little or no sympathy between any. "You are
mistaken," he replied. "As long as I remember anything there was always
discontent, always heartburning; but at the time of my father's speech
dissatisfaction had risen to such a pitch that I assure you these people
were on the point of being sent back to the place they came from." (He
alluded to the present Royal Family).
Mr. Beckford opened the door of the great library, and on entering I
immediately discovered the cause of my being so much puzzled as to its
architecture. There are two doors in this magnificent room; one leads to
the Duchess Drawing Room, the other to the landing, and to produce the
air of privacy so delightful to a bookworm the latter is covered with
imitative books, exactly corresponding with the rest of the library. I
remembered on my first entering the room from the staircase, and when the
servant had closed the door, there appeared but one entrance, which was
that by which we left this noble room, passing thence into the Duchess's
room. I puzzled my brains in vain to make out the geography of the
place, but could make neither top nor tail, and should never have solved
the enigma but for this third visit. "I have been to Fonthill," he said,
"since I saw you. I don't think much of what Papworth has done there. I
rode thirty-eight miles in one day without getting out of the saddle.
That was pretty well, eh?" I thought so indeed for a man in his seventy-
ninth year.
* * * * *
On the 28th of October, 1844, we left Bath determined to examine the once
far-famed Abbey of Fonthill, and to see if its scenery was really as fine
as report had represented. The morning was cold and inauspicious, but
when we reached Warminster the sun burst out through the mists that had
obscured him, and the remainder of the day was as genial and mild as if
had been May. We procured the aid of a clownish bumpkin to carry our
carpet bag, and left Warminster on foot. About four miles from that town
those barren and interminable downs are reached which seem to cover the
greater part of Wiltshire. The country is as wild as the mountain
scenery of Wales, and the contrast between it and the polished city we
had left in the morning was truly singular. We took the road to
_Hindon_, but a worthy old man, of whom we asked particulars, pointed out
a pathway, which cut off at least a mile and a half. We followed his
direction, and left the high road. Mounting the hill by a steep and
chalky road we reached a considerable elevation; before us extended a
succession of downs, and in the extreme distance a blue hill of singular
form, at least nine miles off, was crowned by buildings of very unusual
appearance. Curiosity as to the place was at its utmost stretch, but our
ignorant bumpkin could tell nothing about it. It surely cannot be
Fonthill was the instant suggestion? Impossible. Can we see the remains
at this distance? We continued our walk for about two miles, without
losing sight of this interesting edifice, and at length all doubts were
cleared in the certainty that the long wished-for object was absolutely
before us. It is impossible to describe the feelings of interest
experienced by the sight of these gigantic remains. The eastern transept
still rises above the woods, a point, pinnacle, and round tower.
Descending the hill towards Hindon we lost sight of the Abbey. A most
singular specimen of country life was presented by an old shepherd, of
whom we inquired the way. "How far is it to Hindon?" "About four
miles." "Is this the right road?" "Yes, you cannot miss it, but I
haven't been there these forty years. Naa, this is forty years agone
save two that I went to Hindon: 'twas in 1807."
This place, which once sent members to Parliament, and which the author
of "Vathek" himself represented for many years, is not so large as the
village of Batheaston! There are neither lamps nor pavement, but it
possesses a most picturesque little church. It was one of the rotten
boroughs swept away, and properly enough, by the Reform Bill. Here our
rustic relinquished his burden to a Hindon lad, who acted as our future
cicerone, and undertook to show us the way to the inn called the Beckford
Arms. Soon after leaving Hindon the woods of Fonthill were reached. We
mounted a somewhat steep hill, and here met with a specimen of the
gigantic nature of the buildings. A tunnel about 100 feet long passed
under the noble terrace, reaching from Knoyle to Fonthill Bishop, at
least three miles in length; the tunnel was formed to keep the grounds
private. The beech trees, now arrayed in gaudy autumnal tints, seen
through this archway have a lovely effect. Emerging from the tunnel, the
famous wall, seven miles long, was just in front. To the left you trace
the terrace, on a charming elevation, leading to Fonthill Gardens, and
here and there you have glimpses of the great lake. The ground is broken
and varied in the most picturesque fashion. You pass some cottages that
remind you of Ryswick, and soon come to the church of Fonthill Gifford.
This church is perfectly unique in form, its architecture purely Italian;
one would think it was designed by Palladio. There is a pretty portico
supported by four tall Doric columns, and its belfry is a regular cupola.
We at last gained the inn, and were shown into a lovely parlour that
savoured of the refined taste that once reigned in this happy solitude.
It is lofty, spacious, and surrounded by oak panels; it has a charming
bow window, where are elegantly represented, in stained glass on distinct
shields, the arms of Alderman Beckford, his wife, and their eccentric
son.
The evening was most lovely. A soft haze had prevailed the whole
afternoon, and as there was still an hour's daylight I determined on
instantly visiting the ruins. Just without the sacred enclosure that
once prevented all intrusion to this mysterious solitude is the lovely
little village of Fonthill Gifford; its charming cottages, with their
neat gardens and blooming roses, are a perfect epitome of English
rusticity. A padlocked gate admits the visitor within the barrier; a
steep road, but gently winding so as to make access easy, leads you to
the hill, where once stood "the gem and the wonder of earth."
The road is broad and entirely arched by trees. Emerging suddenly from
their covert an astonishing assemblage of ruins comes into view. Before
you stands the magnificent eastern transept with its two beautiful
octangular towers, still rising to the height of 120 feet, but roofless
and desolate; the three stately windows, 60 feet high, as open to the sky
as Glastonbury Abbey; in the rooms once adorned with choicest paintings
and rarities trees are growing. Oh what a scene of desolation! What the
noble poet said of "Vathek's" residence in Portugal we may now literally
say of Fonthill.
Here grown weeds a passage scarce allow
To halls deserted, portals gaping wide.
Fresh lessons, ye thinking bosoms, how
Vain are the pleasures by earth supplied,
Swept into wrecks anon by Time's ungentle tide.
Of all desolate scenes there are none so desolate as those which we now
see as ruins, and which were lately the abode of splendour and
magnificence. Ruins that have been such for ages, whose tenants have
long since been swept away, recall ideas of persons and times so far back
that we have no sympathy with them at all; but if you wish for a sight of
all that is melancholy, all that is desolate, visit a modern ruin. We
passed through briars and brambles into the great octagon. Straight
before us stands the western doorway of the noble entrance hall; but
where is its oaken roof, with its proud heraldic emblazonments, where its
lofty painted windows, where its ponderous doors, more than 30 feet high?
The cross still remains above, as if symbolical that religion triumphs
over all, and St. Anthony still holds out his right hand as if to protect
the sylvan and mute inhabitants of these groves that here once found
secure shelter from the cruel gun and still more cruel dog. But he is
tottering in his niche, and when the wind is high is seen to rock, as if
his reign were drawing to a close.
Of the noble octagon but two sides remain. Looking up, but at such an
amazing elevation that it makes one's neck ache, still are seen two
windows of the four nunneries that adorned its unique and unrivalled
circuit. And what is more wonderful than all, the noble organ screen,
designed by "Vathek" himself, has still survived; its gilded lattices,
though exposed for twenty years to the "pelting of the pitiless storm,"
yet glitter in the last rays of the setting sun. We entered the doorway
of the southern entrance hall, that door which once admitted thousands of
the curious when Fonthill was in its glory. This wing, though not yet in
ruins, not yet entirely dismantled, bears evident signs of decay.
Standing on the marble floor you look up through holes in the ceiling,
and discover the once beautifully fretted roof of St. Michael's Gallery.
We entered the brown parlour. This is a really noble room, 52 feet long,
with eight windows, painted at the top in the most glorious manner. This
room has survived the surrounding desolation, and gives you a slight idea
of the former glories of the place. Each window consists of four
gigantic pieces of plate-glass, and in the midst of red, purple, lilac,
and yellow ornaments are painted four elegant figures, designed by the
artist, Hamilton, of kings and knights, from whom Mr. Beckford was
descended. As there are eight windows there are thirty-two figures,
drawn most correctly. What reflections crowd the mind on beholding this
once gorgeous room! There stood the sideboard, once groaning beneath the
weight of solid gold salvers. In this very room dined frequently the
magnificent "Vathek" on solid gold, and there, where stood his table,
covered with every delicacy to tempt the palate, is now a pool of water,
for the roof is insecure, and the rain streams through in torrents. On
the right hand is the famous cedar boudoir, whose odoriferous perfume is
smelt even here. We entered the Fountain Court, but sought in vain the
stream that was once forced up, at vast expense, from the vale below and
trickled over its marble bason.
For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed,
Where the weeds and desolate dust are spread.
One would almost imagine Byron had written his lines in the "Giaour"
describing Hassan's residence amidst the ruins of Fonthill, so striking,
so tangible, is the resemblance. He says of the fountains--
'Twas sweet of yore to hear it play
And chase the sultriness of day,
As springing high the silver dew
In whirls fantastically flew
And flung luxurious coolness round
The air, and verdure o'er the ground.
'Twas sweet, when cloudless stars were bright,
To view the wave of watery light
And hear its melody by night.
But the shades of evening, now rapidly advancing, warned us to depart
while there was yet light enough to trace our path through the gloomy
wood. We entered its thick and umbrageous covert, and were near losing
our road before we reached the barrier gate. The road was strewed with
dry leaves, which reminded me of the earthly hopes of man.
He builds too low who builds beneath the skies,
and he who wishes for solid happiness must rest on a broader base than
that afforded by momentary enjoyment, tempting and blooming as the
foliage of summer, but evanescent as its withered leaves.
The next morning was finer than our most sanguine wishes could have
anticipated. We were not long dispatching our comfortable breakfast, and
hastened to the barrier gate. We here met a venerable woman, whose noble
features and picturesque dress would have served as a splendid model for
Gainsborough or Ben Barker. Stopping to inquire a nearer road to the
Abbey, as she seemed indigenous to the place, I was tempted to ask if she
knew Mr. Beckford. "I have seen him, sir, many, many times; but he is
gone, and I trust--I do trust--to rest. He was a good man to the poor,
never was there a better." "You astonish me; I had heard that he never
gave away anything." "Good gracious, sir, who could have invented such
lies? There never was a kinder friend to the poor, and when he left they
lost a friend indeed. Not give away anything! Why, sir, in the winter,
when snow was on the ground and firing dear, he used to send wagons and
wagons for coal to Warminster, and make them cut through the snow to
fetch it, and gave the poor souls plenty of firing, besides money,
blankets, and clothing, too, and as for me I can answer for three half-
sovereigns he gave me himself at different times with his own hand." "You
surprise me." "I saw him coming once with his servants. I had my baby
in my arms--that's she that lives in that cottage yonder, she's grown a
woman now--and I was shuffling along to get out of his way, when he
called out, 'What a beautiful little babe, let me look at it,' and then
he smiled and made as though he would shake hands with the child, and,
bless you, he slipped half-a-sovereign into my hand." I confess I was
delighted at the little anecdote, and I am sure the good woman's praise
was perfectly disinterested. Those who know anything of the poor are
convinced they never flatter those from whom they can never again derive
any benefit. I had almost expected to hear curses, if not loud at least
deep.
A bailiff resides in the Abbey stables, who has charge of the place, but
the "steeds are vanished from the stalls." We inquired if we could see
the remaining apartments, but found the bailiff was gone to Hindon, and
had taken the keys with him. Here was a difficulty indeed. "Perhaps,"
said his daughter, "you can get into the great Tower staircase; I think
the door is open." We proceeded thither, but alas! a ponderous door and
locked most unequivocally denied all entrance. "Perhaps father has left
the key in his old coat; I will run and see" said our interesting young
cicerone. She scuttled off, and we waited in anxiety, till in five
minutes she returned with a large bunch of keys, the passport to the
extraordinary apartments still remaining. My joy was as great at hearing
the lock turn as was ever "Vathek's" when he discovered the Indian at the
gate of the Hall of Eblis with his _clef d'or_. The great circular
staircase survived the shock of the falling tower. The stairs wind round
a massive centre, or newel, three feet in diameter; the ascent is gentle,
the stairs at least six feet broad. They form an approach light,
elegant, and so lofty that you cannot touch with the hand the stairs
above your head. Numerous small windows make the staircase perfectly
light, and the inside is so clean that it is difficult to believe it is
not continually scoured and whitened, but this I was assured was not the
case. Two hundred and ten steps lead to a leaden roof, the view from
which beggars description. You have here a bird's eye view of the lovely
estate. Majestic trees, hanging woods, and luxuriant plantations cover
the ground for two or three miles round, whilst beyond this begin those
immense and interminable downs for which Wiltshire is so noted; they are
dreary and barren enough in themselves, but at such a point as this,
where the foreground and middle distance are as verdant and richly clad
with trees as can possibly be desired, their effect is very beautiful.
The absence of enclosures produces breadth and repose, and the local
colour melts gradually into the grey distance in the most charming
manner. Looking westward the great avenue, a mile in length, presents
itself; to the south the Beacon-terrace, a green road more than two miles
long, leads to a high hill, where the Alderman commenced, but never
finished, a triangular tower. This road, or rather avenue, has a most
charming effect; the trees that bound its sides are planted in a zigzag
direction, so as to destroy the appearance of formality, whilst in
reality it is a straight road, and you walk at once in a direct line,
without losing the time you would if the road were more tortuous. On the
south side the view is most fascinating. In a deep hollow not half-a-
mile off, enbosomed, nay almost buried amidst groves of pine and beech,
are discovered the dark waters of the bittern lake. The immense
plantations of dark pines give it this sombre hue, but in reality the
waters are clear as crystal. Beyond these groves, still looking south,
you discover the woods about Wardour Castle, and amongst them the silvery
gleam of another sheet of water. To the south-west is the giant spire of
Salisbury, which since the fall of Fonthill Tower now reigns in solitary
stateliness over these vast regions of down and desert. Stourton Tower
presents itself to the north, whilst to the west, in the extreme
distance, several high hills are traced which have quite a mountainous
character--
Naveled in the woody hills,
And calm as cherished hate, its surface wears
A deep, cold, settled aspect nought can shake.
The north wing of the Abbey, containing the oratory, does not seem to
have suffered from the fall of the Tower, and we next proceeded to
inspect it. A winding staircase from the kitchen court leads you at once
to that portion of the gallery called the vaulted corridors. The
ceilings of four consecutive rooms are beautiful beyond all expectation.
Prepared as I was by the engravings in Rutter and Britton to admire these
ceilings, I confess that the real thing was finer than I could possibly
have imagined. King Edward's ceiling of dark oak (and its ornaments in
strong relief) is as fresh as if just painted, and the beautiful cornice
round the four walls of this stately gallery is still preserved, with its
three gilded mouldings, but the seventy-two emblazoned shields that
formed an integral part of the frieze have been ruthlessly torn off. The
roof of the vaulted corridor with its gilded belts is the most perfect of
the series of rooms, and that of the sanctum is beautifully rich; it is
fretted in the most elegant way with long drops, pendants, or hangings
like icicles, at least nine inches deep. Here alas! the hands of vandals
have knocked off the gilded roses and ornaments that were suspended.
These three apartments are painted in oak, and gold is most judiciously
introduced on prominent parts. But the ceiling of the last compartment
is beyond all praise; it gleams as freshly with purple, scarlet, and gold
as if painted yesterday. Five slender columns expand into and support a
gilded reticulation on a dark crimson ground. In the centre of the
ceiling is still hanging the dark crimson cord which formerly supported
the elegant golden lamp I had formerly admired in Lansdown-crescent; it
seemed to have been hastily cut down, and its height from the floor and
its deep colour, the same as the ceiling, has probably prevented its
observation and removal. The southern end of the gallery has been
stripped of its floor, and it was with difficulty, and not without
danger, I got across a beam; and, standing with my back against the brick
wall that has been built up at the end, where were once noble glazed
doors opening into the grand octagon, I surveyed the whole lovely
perspective; the length from this spot is 120 feet. The beautiful
reddish alabaster chimney-piece still remains, but it is split in the
centre, whether from the weight of wall or a fruitless attempt to tear it
out I know not. The recesses, once adorned with the choicest and rarest
books, still retain their sliding shelves, but the whole framework of the
windows has been removed, and they are open to the inclemency of the
weather, or roughly boarded up. The stove, once of polished steel, is
now brown and encrusted with rust as if the iron were 500 years old. It
is impossible for an architect or artist to survey the ruthless and
wanton destruction of this noble wing, unscathed and uninjured but by the
hands of barbarous man, without feelings of the deepest regret and
sorrow. How forcibly do the lines of the noble bard recur to the mind on
surveying these apartments, still magnificent, yet neglected, and slowly
and surely falling into ruin--
For many a gilded chamber's here,
Which solitude might well forbear,
Within this dome, ere yet decay
Hath slowly worked her cankering way.