(the boudoir of the Stuarts, where, alas, their subjects _boudoient
beaucoup_)—the Star-Chamber of Strawberry is only an innocent little
room, with green walls powdered with little stars, like a modern French
paper. Its treasures consist of a fine collection of medals, and it leads
by a “trunked ailed” passage to the Holbein Chamber, which looks like a
pet-room of Catherine of Arragon; small, gloomy, and magnificent, with
chairs from Glastonbury Abbey, and the red hat of her great enemy Wolsey,
lying beside that royal-looking bed, whose velvet hangings and waving
plumes put one in mind of the restless nights and uneasy dreams which the
crowned heads who slept on such couches were wont to endure, when the
heads themselves were never very sure upon the shoulders of the despots
who bore them. There are too few pictures of the “great original” whose
name gives interest to this room to entitle it to such a distinction;
what there are, however, are fine, and all the historical pictures are
curious and interesting.
The Gallery, long and narrow, in spite of its ceiling from Henry the
Eighth’s Chapel, will remind the Italian traveller of the gallery in the
royal palace at Turin. Its hangings of crimson damask have no better
effect than the crimson damask paper of the present day. It has doors
from the Abbey at St. Albans, and recesses from the tomb of Archbishop
Bourchier at Canterbury, and yet it is a light, splendid, and cheerful
apartment. Its pictures, busts, &c. would fill a tolerably sized
catalogue; and besides “Mrs. Keppel in white,” and “Lady Dysart in pink,”
and a hundred other such rainbow-dressed “Cynthias of the minute,”[81]
there are a number of the works of the best masters, particularly of
Zucchero, Vandyke, Jansen, Poussin, &c.; but here, as in the whole
collection, the pictures are more interesting as historical portraits,
than rare or valuable as paintings, and many of them would curl the
critical nose of the modern virtuosi, who, having posted through Italy,
return to buy Rembrandts and Raphaels, manufactured for the markets at
Amsterdam or the fairs of Leipsic.
The Round Room, which leads to the _sanctum sanctorum_ of the edifice,
(the Tribune,) is not to be passed through with careless glance or
rapid step, like an ordinary antechamber. It has the merit of all the
apartments of Strawberry, in offering an ample study to the antiquarian,
or to the curious in the economy of furniture. Its chairs of Aubusson
tapestry, its chimney-piece from the tomb of Edward the Confessor,
its ceiling from old St. Paul’s, and surbases from the monument of
Queen Eleanor in Westminster Abbey, have each their specific merit and
interest; while the wreck of Lady Betty Germaine’s collection, and
the plunder of Penshurst (from the apartments of Sidney “and Sidney’s
sister”) have contributed largely to enrich and adorn it, and to awaken
pleasant associations by its inspection. From the former, are the silver
chenets, vases, and sconces, which ornament the chimney-piece; from the
latter is the fine portrait, by Vandyke, of Lady Dorothy Percy, Countess
of Carlisle, and others.
Over the door is a most characteristic picture of Vandyke’s celebrated
love, “Mistress Lemon,” painted _con amore_ by the enamoured artist; she
represents Judith, and brandishes a sword, but
“There lurks more peril in those eyes,
Than twenty of such swords.”
Here, too, is Salvator Rosa’s fine[82] picture of Jacob travelling from
Laban. Whatever was consecrated by the pencil of that great master was
precious to the lord of Strawberry, who first acquired a knowledge and
professed an adoration of his genius, while yet a boy, in the gallery of
his own paternal Houghton.[83] When Lord Orford designed his tribune,
he doubtless had the tribune of the Imperial Gallery at Florence in his
head. The tribune at Strawberry is, however, of a less simple form.
It is a square, with semi-circular recesses in the middle of each
side, difficult to describe, but very effective to look at; its sober
stone-coloured walls are admirably relieved by its rich gold ornaments,
and other splendid decorations of every kind, and every age in the
history of the arts. The beautiful Gothic architecture of St. Albans has
furnished the models for its windows and niches; and its finely-fretted
roof, borrowed from the Chapter-house at York, is terminated by a star
of yellow glass, which throws a sort of Claude Lorraine tint over the
whole precious apartment. Amidst a number of fine antique busts and
statues, is raised a simple Gothic altar of black and gold; it is the
tomb of the children of Edward the Third in Westminster Abbey, and its
slab of black marble is covered with precious relics and _objets d’art_
of every time and description, silver filigree dishes, vases of amethyst,
and sconces of agate, with carved ivory by Verskovis; while a cabinet
of rose-wood, with panels and sculpture by Germaine of Paris, curiously
carved, rises above it, and contains one of the finest collections of
enamels and miniatures perhaps in England: some are by Lens, Carlo Dolce,
Boit, Zink, Groth, Isaac Oliver,[84] Petitot, Liotard, &c.;—many are
original portraits of the historical characters they represent, and
others are fine copies from Luca Giordano, Vanloo, and Holbein; some set
in the exquisitely little carved frames of Lejarée, and others mounted
in brilliants or precious stones. Here, in the immortal bloom of enamel,
still smiles the coarse but beautiful Cleveland, the intriguing but
_piquante_ Portsmouth, “Mistress Godfrey, of the York seraglio,” and
the lovely Countess d’Olonne (one of the heroines of De Retz’s Memoirs)
who had a seraglio of her own, though she is here represented as Diana.
Here, too, leers and lours the royal _petit-maître_ of despotism, as
he was wont to do at Versailles, in the midst of profligate mistresses
and slavish courtiers—Louis the Fourteenth, surrounded by De Fontanges,
De la Vallière, _et tutte quante_; while the wives of England’s Blue
Beard are to be found with all their heads on; and the lovely Madame
Mazarin, looking as if she had just escaped from St. Evremont’s letters,
accounts for the passion of the enamoured philosopher, in loveliness
far more bewitching than regular. Vases, cups, and chalices, in gems,
jewels, and chrystals, the great seals of great kings, and the pretty
_bijoux_ of great ladies, fill up this beautiful _répertoire_ of all
that is precious and curious, with rings to satisfy an alderman’s wife,
and snuff-boxes in number and beauty _à faire crever d’envie_ Beau B,
or Lord P; while vessels of wrought silver, and cups scooped out of
amethysts, or set with brilliants, recall the treasures of the _guarda
roba_ of the Medici, when Benvenuto Cellini worked for their amusement,
and had (as it sometimes fares with talent patronized by grandeur) his
labour for his pains. Pictures,[85] lamps, and bronzes, fill up every
part of this interesting room, and one leaves it with dazzled eyes,
and sated curiosity, by the sombre little passage and small closet
adjoining, (full to stuffing, like every other part of the edifice,
with objects of curiosity or of art) for that great north bed-chamber,
where the readers of French memoirs, and the adorers of Grammont, (or
rather of Antoine Hamilton,) may feast their eyes and associations to
satiety. The Great North Bed-chamber, considered as a bed-chamber,
is _en grande tenue_, according to the old style of magnificence; its
royal canopied bed is plumed with ostrich feathers, and hung with rich
tapestry of Aubusson, surrounded by a carpet of curious needlework, and
flanked by chairs of ebony and gold, too heavy to move, and too fine to
sit in. Its crimsoned damask walls are covered with the most precious
portraits. Over the chimney is a great picture of Henry the Eighth, and
his children,[86] and a bust of Francis the Second, the boy-husband of
the unfortunate Queen of Scots. Immediately opposite to the bed stands
that figure, which occasioned so many sleepless nights to the _gallants_
of Whitehall, “La belle Jennings,” afterwards Duchess of Tyrconnel,
whose _bon mot_ to James the Second, when, as Lady Lieutenant, she
received him at the Castle of Dublin, shows her not to have been of the
order of stupid beauties, or like Mademoiselle Stuart, _aussi bête que
belle_; her friend, Mademoiselle Hamilton, (Countess de Grammont,) is
placed near her. There is also in this chamber an admirable group, the
rehearsal of an opera, with the famous Mrs. Toft, the _prima donna_ of
her day, at the harpsichord. Its _pendant_ is a scene from the “Beggar’s
Opera,” by Hogarth, with portraits of the original performers.[87] The
charming portraits of Ninon de l’Enclos,[88] Hortense Mancini, and
Madame de Maintenon, long detain the attention, even from the wonders of
the “glass closet,” where a silver perfume box, by Benvenuto Cellini,
wedding-gloves of the patriot Hampden’s bride, and the trunked ones of
King James, with Von Trump’s tobacco-box, and “a silver-gilt apostle
spoon,” belonging to Lord knows who, offer a curious and heterogeneous
variety, and mark the successful and arduous researches of the collector
after all that was rare and old. The Beauclerc closet, dedicated to
the elegant works of the accomplished Lady Diana Beauclerc, the round
bed-room, and the great cloister, follow in sight-seeing succession, and
each has its separate interest and character. In the second are some fine
portraits, and many very pleasing ones: among the latter may be reckoned
the portraits of Lady Suffolk, the mistress _titré_ of George the
Second, Mrs. Barry and Mrs. Clive, the tragic and comic muses of their
time;—there is also a fine head of Oliver Cromwell’s mother. But the
Round Bedroom is to Strawberry, what Naples is to the rest of Italy, the
_ne plus ultra_ of curiosity: attention is exhausted, eyes are dazzled,
and expectation satiated by the time it is reached;[89] and it is with a
pleasure unspeakable, that one passes through the great cloister, into
the refreshing grounds and gardens, without even stopping to examine
those gate-piers, which are taken from the tomb of William de Luda in
the cathedral of Ely. The Shell Seat, at the end of the pretty winding
shaded walk, which is within view of the Gothic chapel, offers a _bel
riposo_ after the fatigue which pleasure ever imposes. This shell seat is
a very curious carving in oak, designed by the celebrated Bentley. The
shell is a _chama_. Here the three Graces of the Paphos of Strawberry[90]
were wont to repose, to the delight of their flattered and elegant host,
who saw even his friends with the eye of an artist. There is but little
in the grounds of Strawberry to detain the steps of the visitor, except
its beautiful little Chapel in the garden: an edifice of as true Gothic
taste and design, as its being copied, _à la rigueur_, from particular
parts of the Cathedral of Salisbury, and the Abbey of St. Edmundsbury,
can make it. The interior has all the character of the cells or oratories
appertaining to churches or monasteries in Catholic countries:—its
altar-piece and altar-picture are curious from their antiquity; the
beautiful windows of painted glass are emblazoned with saints and
arms and the effigies of kings and queens; a superb shrine faces the
door of entrance. In the front stands a superb crucifix, inlaid with
mother-of-pearl; on either side, a King of France, and the Virgin Mary,
in bronze and _faïence_, stand upon consoles. The story of the marvellous
“trasferimento” of this “holy house” is thus told on a tablet over the
door. “The shrine in front was brought, in the year 1768, from the church
of Santa Maria Maggiore in Rome, when the new pavement was laid there.
This shrine was erected in the year 1256, over the bodies of the holy
martyrs, Simplicius, Faustina, and Beatrix, by John James Capoccio and
Vinia his wife; and was the work of Peter Cavalini, who made the tomb of
Edward the Confessor in Westminster Abbey.”
Such is Strawberry, the cabinet, the toy, the retreat of the gifted son
of a great minister, whose talents, intellect, and observation, well
fitted him to run the career of his ambitious father: and who, had he
been an ambitious or an interested man, had eminent opportunities of
indulging either passion to their fullest extent. “I am unambitious, I
am disinterested, but I am vain,” observes Mr. Walpole, in a letter to
Lord Chatham. Into this frankly acknowledged foible, Strawberry Hill,
audits precious collection, entered largely; but the vanity of possessing
and showing off this monument of his taste, and knowledge, and industry,
and the objects of art they had gathered round him, did not blind Mr.
Walpole to the incongruities of the whole, nor to the objections which
the pedantry of _archi-virtu_ and the cant of criticism would eventually
level at the _hochet_ of one, who had shown so little mercy to the
unfounded pretensions and presumptuous mediocrity of that numerically
powerful body, in all communities, whose claims to distinction are
unsupported by those endowments which should alone command it:—
“In a house, affecting not only obsolete architecture, but pretending to
an observance of the custom even in the furniture, the mixture of modern
portraits and French porcelaine, and Greek and Roman sculpture, may seem
heterogeneous. In truth, I did not mean to make my home so gothic as to
exclude convenience and modern luxury. But I do not mean to defend, by
argument, a small capricious house. It was built to please my own taste,
and realize my own visions. Could I describe the gay but tranquil scene
where it stands, and add the beauty of the landscape to the romantic
cast of the mansion, it would raise more pleasing sensations than a dry
list of curiosities can excite: at least the prospect would recal the
good humour of those who might be disposed to condemn the fantastic
fabric, and to think it a very proper habitation—as it was the scene that
inspired—the author of ‘The Castle of Otranto!’”
ARTS AND ARTISTS.
I never raise my head from my writing-desk and look around me, without
being struck by the conviction, that though our inferiors may admire,
and our superiors notice us, for some quality of intellect which has
contributed to their ease, or their amusement, it is by our equals only,
or those who have pursued the same objects by the same efforts, (in
various degrees) that we are truly appreciated. The apartment in which I
usually scribble, is a little repository of precious objects, offered by
those, who, like myself (but in a far more eminent and successful career)
have owed their celebrity to their own efforts and genius. There are few
eminent artists in Europe whom I have numbered on the list of my personal
friends, to whom I do not stand indebted for some gracious and generous
offering of good will and esteem: and who in return for the idle hour’s
amusement afforded them by some trifling production of mine, have not
repaid me twenty times over, by works of art or literature, which mark
their feeling to merit (real or supposed), and are monuments of their
own superior abilities: Canova, Denon, Gerard, Robert Le Fevre, David,
Lawrence, Cosway, Berthon, Bartolini, Raphael Morghen, Mayer, Stroeling,
Davis, Turnerelli, Bate, Behnes, and many other younger friends,[91] who
have already given their promise to posterity, though yet unknown to
that fame, which can only come through time and industry, the true and
best friends of even the highest genius.
Such are _the great_, to whom alone talent should stand indebted; and
these are glorious times, when patronage is reduced to a party given and
returned by the man of rank to the man of letters; and when the mutually
exchanged rites of hospitality, replace the literary dependance of the
Spencers and the Savages, or the insolent protection of the Medici and
D’Este.
“NO ONE A PROPHET IN HIS OWN COUNTRY.”
An immensity has been written on absenteeism, (I have written a volume
on it myself,) yet it remains pretty much where it was. Every body sees
and feels, (at least every body who resides in Ireland does so,) that
the absence of the rich proprietors of the soil works misery for the
country which endures it. Yet Macculloch’s logic is very close, if not
very convincing. Under these circumstances, argument will do nothing. The
deficiency is in facts. The whole data for arriving at a satisfactory
conclusion have not yet been obtained; and one observation or experiment,
judiciously conducted, is worth an hundred _ergos_. Let Mr. Macculloch,
therefore, come and pay us a visit, somewhat longer than the few days
he bestowed upon us at his last _avatar_, and his truly national
perspicacity will not long remain at fault. Let me take this opportunity
of recommending Ireland “to all and every one whom it may concern,” as
one of the richest _cadavres_ that ever offered itself to the inspection
of the morbid anatomist,—one of the best furnished elaboratories for
political analysis. No where will the suckling statesman and political
economist find a richer harvest of elementary instruction, in all that it
is necessary for a legislator and a citizen to avoid.
Without, however, pausing to consider what are the effects of absenteeism
on the country, it may be worth while to inquire what are its
consequences on the individual himself,—a theme of some importance, that
has but seldom been touched upon. It is ordinarily, and in some degree
justly, said, that the absentee loses immeasurably by expatriation.
Unquestionably the person who derives all his importance and consequence
from the possession of “lands and beeves,” will sink into the class of
non-proprietors, in a foreign country; and with all his expenditure,
will find it very difficult to impress on his continental acquaintance
a proper respect for his title-deeds and his manors. I remember a
noble lord, who held a high office in the British revenue, being much
surprised, and more mortified, by finding that his official dignity
procured him neither respect nor forbearance from the administrators
of the French Douane. The same must pretty generally be the case with
our travelling Justice Shallows, who, however capable of committing
themselves, can commit no body else, beyond the boundaries of their
own county. The case, however, is something different with those whose
qualifications are more personal, and whose titles to esteem may be
transplanted more readily than the family oaks. Man is no where an
apostle in his own country; but the proverb is only true, in all its
intensity, in Ireland. In a country where every one is morbidly desirous
of distinction, and where the master caste has so long been every
thing, personal qualities are disregarded by the privileged few, and
are objects only of jealousy and dislike with the degraded many. In
Ireland, there is as little affection for merit, as there is market;
nor could it possibly be otherwise, in a country so governed as Ireland
has been. It is not so much the fault, as the misfortune of the people;
but whether fault or misfortune, it is a very good reason for rendering
absentees every individual who feels within himself the desire for
personal consideration, and the talent to command it by other means than
“taking the trouble,” as Figaro says, “to be born to an estate.” It is
not alone that such is the disposition of the public in Ireland. Were it
a theatre as well disposed to reward and appreciate great endowments, as
it is precisely the contrary, it would still be too limited in extent,
to afford that exciting and intoxicating approbation, which rewards the
labours of genius in other and happier countries.
To those who have established claims on the public, or have been
fortunate enough to captivate its good will, absenteeism from Ireland is
almost a duty to self; and nearly all the eminent individuals, born and
educated in that country, have thought themselves justified in leaving
it. Swift himself, the patriot _par excellence_ among Irish literary
characters, was a resident in his own land from necessity; and the sense
of that necessity pressed for ever on his mind, embittering his latter
days, and discolouring all his views, if it were not among the immediate
causes of his deplorable insanity. For my own part, small as are my
claims on public attention, I have every reason, perhaps, to be satisfied
with whatever portion of esteem I may in any country be honoured with;
but in all things there are degrees, and it is not vanity to feel and
to appreciate the superior kindness of strangers, and to be sensible to
distinctions, of which the worthiest and the wisest might be proud.
Upon the score of pleasure also, the absentee, it must be allowed, has a
decided advantage. Divided and distracted by parties, a prey to constant
turbulence, and to frequent insurrections, Ireland could never have
offered much attraction, to stay the foot of the absentee. In the best
times, the pleasures of the Irish capital were derived more from the
hilarity and social temperament of the people, than from the physical
resources of refined and enlightened amusement. Since the union, even
these have “made themselves air, into which they vanished;” and the
transfer of the Irish legislature to London, and the importation of
British methodism to Dublin, have left the latter city nothing but a
short and fitful season of balls and assemblies. All public places of
amusement have closed, or have dwindled into insignificance and neglect;
and however much it may be lamented, it cannot be wondered, that those
who are masters of their own time, and have wealth at their disposal,
should _promener leur ennui ailleurs_, and seek in foreign countries for
those agreeable sensations and exciting pleasures which are not to be
found at home.
To the student, the artist, and the philosopher, the resources of Ireland
are still more limited. The libraries and collections which draw this
class of persons to the greater capitals of Europe, are wholly wanting;
nor is there a sufficiency of congenial talent to make society, to excite
emulation, and encourage zeal. The Irish gentleman, who has been blessed
or cursed with a superior education and a refined taste, is compelled
to emigrate, or to mortify and place in abeyance his natural impulses.
It is not, therefore, so much a matter of reproach to the absentee, as
of praise and admiration to him, who from patriotism, devotes his time
and his faculties to his own country, that the one resides in foreign
countries, and the other at home. It is idle and vain to talk of duties,
and to insist that the holders of estates are bound by their tenure to
stand by the country that feeds them. Duties are only respected as far as
they carry with them their own reward; and a nation has no right to claim
the residence of its proprietors, if it will not, or cannot, cultivate
the arts of peace, and make that residence desirable in itself. Whenever
the misfortunes of Ireland have become matter of legislative discussion,
British statesmen have coolly turned round upon the friends of that
country and reproached them with its absenteeism, as if that were the
sole and exclusive cause of all that it has suffered, and all that it
must still continue to suffer. But, if even this were the truth, to whom
does Ireland owe this plague spot in her social condition? I speak it not
in anger, or in a spirit of wanton reproach, but the cause of all this
calamity is to be found in antecedents, of which the policy of England
is the first link. Long and persevering acts of national benevolence
and of legislative wisdom are requisite, to do away the fatal injury of
her proconsular regime, and to wipe away the stain which her character
has acquired, through her wanton neglect and wilful destruction of the
resources of Ireland.
PATRICK’S DAY.
“St. Patrick was a jontlemon,
And came of dacent people.”
IRISH SONG.
I was awakened this morning at daylight by the cry under my windows,
of “Green shamrock, fine shamrock;” and the cry has been repeated as
incessantly and as annoyingly the whole day, as that of “hot cross buns”
is in London on a Good Friday. The Irish, by the bye, with all their
catholicism, do not eat cross buns; which is as exclusively a protestant,
as it is a cockney fashion of idolatry.