Neither a fisher, nor a shooter,
No man’s, but any woman’s vassel,
If he could find a way to suit her”;
so he wrote himself down; and the description is good so far as it
goes. But though “My Cousin Anthony” thus indicates that, unlike
Sterne, he has no liking for field sports, he does not mention that
he found his pleasure at home in the great library, that was so rich
in what Bagehot has described as “old folio learning and the amatory
reading of other days.” There the owner browsed for hours together,
and he wrought better than he knew when he introduced his friend
Sterne to the apartment and made him free of it, for there it was that
Sterne found in many quaint forgotten volumes much of that strange
lore with which the elder Shandy’s mind was packed. Dr Carlyle found
Hall-Stevenson a “highly-accomplished and well-bred gentleman,” and
Sterne’s opinion of his old college friend is clearly shown not only
in his letters but in the character of “Eugenius” in “Tristram Shandy.”
There must have been virtues in the man who stood for Eugenius, else
Sterne, who had as keen an eye for the weaknesses of his fellows as
any author that ever lived, would not have immortalised him as the
wise, kindly counsellor of Yorick. How tenderly Sterne rallied “Cousin
Anthony” upon his hypochondria.
“And so you think this [letter] cursed stupid--but that, my dear H.,
depends much upon the quotâ horâ of your shabby clock, if the pointer
of it is in any quarter between ten in the morning or four in the
afternoon--I give it up--or if the day is obscured by dark engendering
clouds of either wet or dry weather, I am still lost--but who knows
but it be five--and the day as fine a day as ever shone upon the earth
since the destruction of Sodom--and peradventure your honour may have
got a good hearty dinner to-day, and eat and drink your intellectuals
into a placidulish and blandulish amalgama--to bear nonsense, so much
for that.”
So he wrote from Coxwould in August 1761; and rather more than a year
later, when he was at Toulouse, he reverted to the subject:
“I rejoice from my heart, down to my reins, that you have snatched
so many happy and sunshiny days out of the hands of the blue devils.
If we live to meet and join our forces as heretofore, we will give
these gentry a drubbing--and turn them for ever out of their usurped
citadel--some legions of them have been put to flight already by your
operations this last campaign--and I hope to have a hand in dispersing
the remainder the first time my dear cousin sets up his banners again
under the square tower.”
Once, indeed, Sterne tried to cure his friend. Hall-Stevenson had a
great fear of the effect of the east wind upon his health, and he had
a weather-cock placed so that he could see it from the window of his
room, and he would consult it every morning. When the wind blew from
that quarter he would not get up, or, being up, would retire to bed.
During one of Sterne’s visits to Skelton Castle he bribed a lad to
climb up one night and tie the vane to the west; and Hall-Stevenson,
after the customary inspection of the weather-cock, joined his guests
the next day without any ill effect, although as a matter of fact an
east wind was blowing. The trick was subsequently explained; but it is
doubtful if it cured the _malade imaginaire_.
Hall-Stevenson was as devoted to Sterne as Sterne to him, and he made
agreeable reference to their affection:
“In this retreat, whilom so sweet,
Once _Tristram_ and his cousin dwelt,
They talk of _Crazy_ when they meet,
As if their tender hearts would melt.”
When the first two volumes of “Tristram Shandy” were published,
Hall-Stevenson indicted a lyric epistle “To my Cousin Shandy, on his
coming to Town,” that, through its indecency, brought in its train
more annoyance than pleasure to Sterne; and subsequently (in 1768)
parodied the style of the book under the title of “A Sentimental
Dialogue between two Souls in the Palpable Bodies of an English Lady
of Quality and an Irish Gentleman,” introduced by a note: “Tristram
Shandy presents his compliments to the Gentlemen of Ireland, and begs
their acceptance of a Sentimental Offering, as an acknowledgment
due to the Country where he was born.” A year after Sterne’s death
Hall-Stevenson, over the signature of “Eugenius,” issued a continuation
of “A Sentimental Journey,” for which he made the following excuse:
“The Editor has compiled this Continuation of his Sentimental Journey,
from such motives, and upon such authority, as he flatters himself
will form a sufficient apology to his readers for its publication.
“The abrupt manner in which the Second Volume concluded, seemed
forcibly to claim a sequel; and doubtless if the author’s life had been
spared, the world would have received it from his own hand, as he had
materials already prepared. The intimacy which subsisted between Mr
Sterne and the Editor, gave the latter frequent occasion of hearing
him relate the most remarkable incidents of the latter part of his
last journey, which made such an impression on him, that he thinks he
has retained them so perfectly as to be able to commit them to paper.
In doing this, he has endeavoured to imitate his friends stile and
manner, but how far he has been successful in this respect, he leaves
the reader to determine. The work may now, however, be considered
as complete; and the remaining curiosity of the readers of Yorick’s
Sentimental Journey, will at least be gratified with respect to facts,
events, and observations.”
The book opens with an apostrophe to his dead friend:
“Delightful Humourist! thine were unaccountable faculties. Thy Muse
was the Muse of joy and sorrow,--of sorrow and joy. Thou didst so
exquisitely blend fancy with feeling, mirth with misfortune; thy
laughter was so laughable; and thy sighs so sad; that--thou never wast,
never will be equalled.--Thou hadst the _Key of the Heart_.--Lend it to
a Friend.
“O Yorick, hear me! _Half_ thy work is left unfinished, and _all_ thy
spirit is fled.--Send part of it back. Drop one remnant of it to a
Friend.”
The prayer was not granted. The mantle of Yorick did not fall upon
Eugenius, who had neither the power of humour or pathos, but only the
indelicacy a hundredfold increased, of the great man. Indeed, the
writings of Hall-Stevenson rendered poor service to his friends, for it
was their publication that brought about the forcible condemnation of
the Demoniacs: the flagrant indecency of “Crazy Tales” being accepted
as a clue to the thoughts and actions of the members of the society.
Yet of that little production, which appeared in 1762, the author
thought very highly.
“As long as CRAZY Castle lasts,
Their Tales will never be forgot,
And CRAZY may stand many blasts,
And better Castles go to pot.”
Thus Hall-Stevenson in his Prologue, doubtless reflecting that since
Skelton Castle had endured through seven centuries, it might well
brave the breeze for many generations to come. His prophecy was not
falsified, for “Crazy Tales” were not forgot until the Castle went to
pot--which event, however, took place three years after his death,
when his grandson substituted for the unique and picturesque structure
a house in which it was possible to live in comfort. Nay, the “Tales”
outlived the Castle, being reprinted in 1796, and again four and twenty
years later, when they were assigned on the title-page to Sheridan. A
glance at the catalogue of the British Museum Library shows that some
singularly ill-advised person thought fit in 1896 to reissue the book
for private circulation.
That Sterne should find a word of praise for “Crazy Tales” was but
natural:
“I honour the man who has given the world an idea of our parental
seat--’tis well done--I look at it ten times a day with a _quando
te aspiciam_” (he wrote to his friend from Toulouse soon after the
publication of the volume; adding), “I felicitate you upon what messr.
the Reviewers allow you--they have too much judgment themselves not
to allow you what you are actually possessed of, ‘talents, wit, and
humour.’--Well, write on, my dear cousin, and be guided by thy fancy.”
It is more surprising to find Horace Walpole enlisting himself among
Hall-Stevenson’s admirers. “They entertained me extremely,” he wrote
to a friend, returning some verses, “as Mr Hall’s works always do. He
has a vast deal of original humour and wit, and nobody admires him more
than I do.... If all authors had as much parts and good sense as he
has, I should not be so sick of them as I am.” The critics as a body
were not so kind, and incurred the resentment of the author, who lashed
them in “Two Lyric Epistles,” which Gray, writing to the Rev. James
Brown,thought “seemed to be absolute madness.” The works, which were
collected in 1795, were declared by Sir Walter Scott to be witty; but
even that tribute has since been denied them. Bagehot dismissed them
as having “licence without humour, and vice without amusement,” and
Whitwell Elwin, in his masterly essay on Sterne, stigmatised the “Crazy
Tales” as infamous.
William Beckford of Fonthill Abbey
It may be said with truth that there were few famous men born in the
eighteenth century of whom less is known than of William Beckford of
Fonthill, the author of “Vathek.” There is an abundance of legend,
as little trustworthy as most legends, but of the man as he was few
people have even a remote conception. This may be partly because there
has been no biography of him worthy of the name; but it is, probably,
due even more largely to the fact that he led a secluded life. It is
certain that stories concerning him, invariably defamatory and usually
libellous, were circulated so far back as the days of his minority; and
that these were revived when, after his Continental tours, he settled
at Fonthill. Then the air of mystery that enveloped him created grave
suspicion in the minds of his fox-hunting neighbours. Everything he
said was misrepresented and regarded as evidence against him, until
so strong was the feeling that it was looked upon by his country
neighbours as disgraceful to visit him. This, however, did not prevent
Nelson or Sam Rogers or Sir William Hamilton from going to Fonthill,
nor, later, did it prevent his acquaintance with Benjamin Disraeli.
Notwithstanding, Beckford was accused of almost every conceivable
crime, and John Mitford, in one of his unpublished note-books,
solemnly recorded that Beckford was accused of poisoning his wife at
Cintra. There was no more truth in any other accusation than in this of
causing the death of a woman to whom he was deeply attached and whose
loss he sincerely mourned. Thirty years after her death, Rogers noticed
that there were tears in Beckford’s eyes while he was talking of her.
This, however, was but one of many slanders. It was said that Beckford
built the high wall round his estate of Fonthill that his orgies might
be carried on unperceived--the wall was built because no mere request
would keep the hunters off his land, and he could not bear to see the
death agonies of a fox. It was said that he kept a number of dwarfs,
and with their aid performed blasphemous rites and indulged in magical
incantations--he had in his service one dwarf, Piero, whom he had
rescued in some Italian town from a cruel father. Even so recently as
nine years ago an anonymous writer thought it worth while to record in
a literary journal the reminiscences of an elderly lady, who lived at
Bath when Beckford resided in that city, who was a child then, and who
had no acquaintance with him. This elderly lady stated that “a species
of paroxysm would seize Beckford if he saw a woman”--yet a line before
she speaks of his riding through the streets of Bath! Were the women
of Bath on these occasions, it is legitimate to ask, commanded, like
the inhabitants of Coventry when Lady Godiva took her famous airing, to
keep out of sight? or was Beckford seen to have paroxysm after paroxysm
as his horse took him through the narrow streets of the quaint old
city? The same authority relates that at Beckford’s house in Lansdown
Crescent (Bath) niches were constructed in the walls of the staircase,
so that the female servants could conceal themselves when they heard
their master’s footsteps; and that one girl, to satisfy her curiosity
as to what Beckford would do if he saw her, had her curiosity fully
satisfied, for the “woman-hater, in a paroxysm of fury, seized her
by the waist and threw her over the banisters.” This suggests a new
version of the Peeping Tom episode, and also brings to mind the nursery
rhyme,
“He took her by the left leg and threw her down the stairs.”
It is pleasant to be told that the misogynist generously bestowed on
the injured maid a pension for life. The story is nearly as good, and
doubtless quite as true, as that of the gentleman who killed a waiter
at an inn and told the landlord, who thought he must send for the
police, to charge it in the bill.
The fact is that the majority of writers on Beckford have been
willing to recount what they have heard, without making any attempt
at verification, even when such a task would not have been difficult.
Beckford, we are told, was as likely to thrash a beggar in the streets
as to give him alms. This is really the most truthful of all the
charges brought against him, for it actually has for its foundation the
fact that he once did strike a beggar! Here is the story: When Beckford
was riding one day to Weston, a suburb of Bath, a man near his gates
begged from him and received a coin; delighted with his success, the
beggar watched which way the donor was going, took a short cut, and at
another place again asked for alms, only to be recognised and struck
with a whip.
The calumnies that pursued Beckford during his life, and his memory
since his death, were bad enough, but the excuses that are made for
him nowadays are worse. The writer already referred to as retailing
the elderly lady’s gossip, unable to account for Beckford’s mysterious
seclusion and other peculiarities, fell back upon the convenient
suggestion of “a mental derangement.” “We learn,” he said, in support
of his contention, “that at his death he showed scarcely a sign of
age, a peculiarity frequently noticed, of course, among those with
similar mental aberrations.” Another peculiarity frequently noticed,
among those with similar mental aberrations, we may add, is that at
their death many show every sign of age.
[Illustration: _William Beckford_]
Many of those who do not suggest that Beckford was mad love to dwell
upon his eccentricities; but an examination of their arguments shows
that these eccentricities were limited to the building of Fonthill
and a love of seclusion. His seclusion has been vastly exaggerated,
and Fonthill was but the whim of a millionaire--a whim, moreover,
prompted by a laudable desire to provide employment for the poor of the
countryside. What a genius he had “Vathek” proves conclusively; how
sane he was to the end of his days may be discerned from the letters
written in the last years, even in the last month, of his long life.
The keynote of Beckford’s character was enthusiasm. If he undertook
anything it must be done forthwith; if he had a desire, he must satisfy
it with the least possible delay. Thus, when he built Fonthill he had
five hundred men working day and night; when he collected books, he did
so with such vigour that in a few years he brought together one of the
finest private libraries in the world. That last passion never deserted
him, and in his eighty-fourth year he studied catalogues as keenly,
and was as impatient for news as to the success that had attended his
agent, as when he began half-a-century earlier. Like most men he did
not suffer bores gladly, but, unlike the majority, he would not have
aught to do with them. Having a genius and a million, he lived his
life as he pleased; while welcoming his friends, and opening wide his
doors to distinguished writers, artists and musicians, he held the rest
of the world at bay, and spent his days with his books and pictures,
playing the piano, and superintending his gardens. So well did he order
his life that when in his eighty-fifth year the flame was burning out,
he could say truthfully, “I have never known a moment’s _ennui_.”
Beckford was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Wealth came to
him from his father, the Alderman, and aristocratic connections from
his mother, the daughter and co-heir of the Hon. George Hamilton,
second surviving son of the Sixth Earl of Abercorn. Lord Chatham was
his godfather, and when the Alderman died in 1770, not only did Lord
Chatham, but also “the good Lord Lyttelton” and Lord Camden, interest
themselves in the education of the ten-years-old lad, who, if he lived
to attain his majority, would be the wealthiest commoner in England.
The Rev. John Lettice was his tutor; Sir William Chambers, who was
then rebuilding Somerset House, taught him architecture; and he studied
music under Mozart. He learnt declamation, too, and at an early age
won the approval of his godfather by reciting with correct emphasis
a passage from Thucydides which he had previously translated into
English. “May you,” the aged statesman said to his son William, “some
day make as brilliant a speaker.” The cynical may trace from this
remark the dislike that subsequently existed between the younger Pitt
and Beckford.
“Great pains were bestowed upon my education,” Beckford said in his
old age. “I was living amidst a fine collection of works of art,
under competent tutors. I was studious and diligent from inclination.
I was fond of reading whatever came in my way. After my classical
studies were finished, and while I worked hard at Persian, I read
French and English biographies of all sorts.” How much he profited
by his education, and how well he remembered what he read, is shown
conclusively by the numerous allusions to men and books in the
letters written when he was still a lad. He seems, indeed, to have
been taught, or to have acquired by reading, some knowledge of most
subjects, except, as he subsequently admitted regretfully, astronomy.
Like most boys, he preferred the subjects of his own choosing to
those he was compelled to study. A chance discussion as to whether
the Abercorn branch of the Hamilton family from which his mother was
descended was older than the ducal branch sent him early to books of
genealogy, and his reading in this byway of history imbued him with
a pride of race that nothing could eradicate. His father’s ancestry
did not satisfy him, and he studied the pedigree of his mother, and
declared he could trace it to John of Gaunt. He claimed the distinction
of being descended from all the barons (of whom any issue remained)
who signed Magna Charta. At a very early age he came across a copy of
“The Arabian Nights”--and this chance find had more effect upon his
life and character than any other incident. He read and re-read these
stories with avidity, and the impression they made on him was so strong
that Lord Chatham instructed Lettice that the book must be kept from
the boy. The precaution came too late, for, though the injunction was
obeyed and for some years “The Arabian Nights” was withheld from him,
the Oriental tales had taken possession of the impressionable reader
to such an extent that he could never forget them. They had fired his
youthful mind and held his imagination captive; their influence over
him never waned all the days of his life; and while they inspired
him with the idea of “Vathek,” they also fostered in him the love of
magnificence, inherited from his father, that resulted in the erection
of Fonthill Abbey and other extravagances. As a lad, owing to the hold
the stories had over him, he became a dreamer and lived in an unreal
world; and it is not surprising, therefore, that, though of an amiable
disposition, he became wilful and capricious. “Little Beckford was
really disappointed at not being in time to see you--a good mark for my
young _vivid_ friend,” Lord Chatham wrote to William Pitt, 9th October
1773. “He is just as much compounded of the elements of _air and fire_
as he was. A due proportion of _terrestrial_ solidity will, I trust,
come and make him perfect.”
A boy of thirteen who is all “air and fire” is certain to be spoilt
by a doting mother and made much of by visitors to the house, and
Beckford’s wit was so much encouraged by almost all of them that, in
spite of Lettice’s admonitions, he frequently got out of hand. Only
his relative, the old Duchess of Queensberry--Gay’s Duchess--who lived
in the neighbourhood, ventured to rebuke him: when he treated her with
some lack of respect at her house, without making any reply, she sent
a servant for the great family Bible, and made the boy read a passage
from the Book of Solomon: “There it was, young man, that I learnt _my_
manners,” she said impressively; “I hope you will remember what you
have read.”
Mrs Beckford had refused to allow her son to go to school, and she
objected as strongly to send him to a university, regarding the
temptations that would there be held out to a young man of enormous
wealth as more than counterbalancing the advantages. Eventually it was
decided that the lad, now in his seventeenth year, should stay with his
relatives, Colonel and Miss Hamilton, who lived at Geneva. Though for
the first time emancipated from maternal control, Beckford, happy in
his daydreams, showed no desire to kick over the traces. It was at this
time that Beckford first gave expression to his intention to adopt a
mode of life different from that led by most fashionable young men.
“To receive Visits and to return them, to be mighty civil, well-bred,
quiet, prettily Dressed, and smart is to be what your old Ladies call
in England a charming Gentleman, and what those of the same stamps
abroad know by the appellation of _un homme comme il faut_. Such an
Animal how often am I doomed to be” (he wrote at the age of seventeen,
in a letter hitherto unpublished). “To pay and to receive fulsome
Compliments from the Learned, to talk with modesty and precision,
to sport an opinion gracefully, to adore Buffon and d’Alembert, to
delight in Mathematics, logick, Geometry, and the rule of Right, the
_mal morale_ and the _mal physique_, to despise poetry and venerable
Antiquity, murder Taste, abhor imagination, detest all the charms of
Eloquence unless capable of mathematical Demonstration, and more than
all, to be vigorously incredulous, is to gain the reputation of good
sound Sense. Such an Animal I am sometimes doomed to be. To glory in
Horses, to know how to knock up and how to cure them, to smell of the
stable, swear, talk bawdy, eat roast beef, drink, speak bad French, go
to Lyons, and come back again with manly disorders, are qualifications
not despicable in the Eyes of the English here. Such an Animal I am
determined not to be.”