RECOLLECTIONS OF THE LATE WILLIAM BECKFORDOF FONTHILL, WILTS and LANSDOWN, BATH

The Manuscript of the following Letters, written by my Father, has beenin my possession fifty years. He intended to publish it at the time ofMr. Beckford's death, in 1844, but delayed the execution of the work, andsixteen years afterwards was himself called to enter on the higher lifeof the spiritual world. 

Mr. Beckford and my Father were kindred spirits, conversant with the sameauthors, had visited the same countries, and were both gifted withextraordinary memories. Mr. Beckford said that he had never met with aman possessed of such a memory as my Father; and many a time has myFather 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 muchmisconception in the public mind respecting the character of Mr. Beckfordwould have been prevented. For instance, I remember, when a child, beingwarned that this great man was an infidel. When he showed my Father thesarcophagus in which his body was to be placed, he remarked, "There shallI lie, Lansdown, until the trump of God shall rouse me on theResurrection 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 assemblageof works of art, so numerous and of so surprisingly rare a descriptionthat I am literally what Lord Byron calls "Dazzled and drunk withbeauty. " I feel so bewildered from beholding the rapid succession ofsome of the very finest productions of the great masters that the attemptto describe them seems an impossible task; however, I will make aneffort. 

The collection of which I speak is that of Mr. Beckford, at his house inLansdown-crescent. Besides all this I have this day been introduced tothat extraordinary man, the author of "Vathek" and "Italy, " the builderof Fonthill, the contemporary of the mighty and departed dead, the pupilof Mozart; in fact, to the formidable and inaccessible Vathek himself! Ihave many times passed the house, and longed to see its contents, andoften have I wondered how a building with so plain and unostentatious anexterior could suit the reception of the works it contains, and theresidence 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 accompaniedme to the house, which we reached at half-past twelve o'clock. We wereshown upstairs, passing many fine family pictures, and were ushered intothe neat library, where Mr. Beckford was waiting to receive us. Iconfess I did at first feel somewhat embarrassed, but a lovely spanielran playfully towards us, licking our hands in the most affectionate andhospitable manner; "You are welcome" was the silent language. I assureyou I judge much, and often truly, of the character of individuals fromthe deportment of their favourite dogs. I often find them exactlyindicative of their master's disposition. When you are attacked bysnarling, waspish curs is it at all wonderful if you find them an echo ofthe proprietor? But this beautiful animal reassured me, and gave meinstantly a favourable idea of its master. My astonishment was great atthe spaciousness of the room, which had in length a magnificent andpalatial effect, nor did I immediately discover the cause of its apparentgrandeur. It opens into the gallery built over the arch connecting thetwo houses, at the end of which an immense mirror reflects the twoapartments. The effect is most illusive, nor should I have guessed thetruth 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 muchless than fifty feet long. It has on one side five lofty windows, thegallery having three on the same side. You have the light streamingthrough eight consecutive openings; these openings, with their crimsoncurtains, doubled by the reflection, produce a most charming perspective. From the ceiling hangs a splendid ormolu chandelier, the floor is coveredwith a Persian carpet (brought I believe from Portugal), so sumptuousthat one is afraid to walk on it, and a noble mosaic table of Florentinemarble, bought in at an immense price at Fonthill, is in the centre ofthe room. Several rows of the rarest books cover the lower part of thewalls, and above them hang many fine portraits, which Mr. Beckfordimmediately, without losing any time in compliments, began to show us anddescribe. 

First we were shown a portrait by de Vos of Grotius; next to it one ofRembrandt, painted by himself. "You see, " said Mr. Beckford, "that he istrying to assume an air of dignity not natural to him, by throwing backhis head, but this attempt at the dignified is neutralized by theexpression of the eyes, which have rather too much of sly humour for thecharacter which he wishes to give himself. " To praise individualpictures seems useless when everyone you meet has excellencies peculiarto itself; in fact, whatever our ideas of the great masters may be, andwe certainly do gain from prints and pictures a tolerable idea of theirstyle and different beauties (and I have myself seen the Louvre and manycelebrated pictures) there is in Mr. Beckford's _chef d'oeuvres_something still more lovely than our imagination, than our expectation. Ispeak not now of the St. Catherine, The Claud, The Titian, &c. , but allthe pictures, whether historical, landscape, or low life, have thisunique character of excellence. You look at a picture. You are sure itis by Gaspar, but you never saw one of Poussin's that had such anexquisite tone of colour, so fresh and with such free and brilliantexecution. 

But I digress. I forgot that it was the library and its pictures I wasattempting to describe. Well, at the other end hangs a portrait of PopeGregory, by Passerotti; the expression of the face Italian, attitude likeRaphael. Over the door a portrait of Cosmo de Medici by Bronzino Allori, fresh as if painted yesterday. "The works of that master, " I said, "arerare, but a friend of mine, Mr. Day, had a noble one at his rooms inPiccadilly, St. John in the Wilderness. The conception of the figure andpoetical expression of the face always seemed to me astonishingly fine. Pray, Sir, do you know that picture?" "Perfectly, it partakes of thesublime and is amazingly fine. " "Your portrait of Cosmo has theexpression of a resolute, determined man, and I think it conveys well theidea of the monstrous parent, who could with his own hand destroy hisonly surviving son after discovering he had murdered his brother. What ahorrible piece of business! The father of two sons, one of whom murderedthe other, and that father is himself the executioner of the survivor. ""It was dreadful certainly, " said Mr. Beckford. "However, we have theconsolation of knowing that two broods of vipers were destroyed. "

Mr. Beckford next showed us a Titian, a portrait of the ConstableMontmorency, in armour richly chased with gold; a fine picture, but sadlydeficient in intellectual expression. And no wonder, for as Mr. Beckfordobserved, "He could neither read nor write, but he was none the worse forthat. " "There is, then, before us, " I rejoined, "the portrait of the manof whom his master, Henri Quatre, said: 'Avec un Counetable qui re saitpas ecrire, et un Chancelier qui ne sait pas le Latin, j'ai reussi danstoutes mes entreprises. ' It is the very portrait for which he sat. " "Theface, " I said, "has no great pretensions to intellect, but then Titianknew nothing of the refined flattery so fashionable now-a-days thatthrows a halo of mind and expression over faces more stupid thanMontmorency's, and whose possessors never performed the chivalrous deedsof the Constable. "

"Witness Sir Thomas Lawrence's fine picture of Sir Wm. Curtis, where theCourt painter has thrown a poetical expression over a personage thatnever in his life betrayed any predilection for anything but turtle soupand gormandizing. " Mr. Beckford burst out laughing. "Well, " said he, "here is a picture that will perhaps please you. Holbein has certainlynot been guilty of the refined flattery you complain of here; it is theportrait of Bishop Gardiner, painted at the time he was in Holland and indisgrace. What think you of it?" "It is admirably painted, and hasscarcely anything of his dry and hard manner, the hands are doneinimitably, but the eyes are small, and the expression cold-hearted andbrutal. 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 didnot express all I thought, but I certainly wondered how the effigy ofsuch a monster should have found an asylum in this palace of taste. Smithfield and its horrors rose vividly before me, and I turned, notwithout a shudder, from this too faithful portrait to copies by Phillipsof some family pictures in the Royal Collection, painted by permissionexpressly for Mr. Beckford, and looking more like originals than merecopies. 

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 notamazingly like Lord Byron?" "It certainly is very like him, but muchmore handsome. " This room is devoted entirely to portraits. 

Mr. Beckford opened a door and we entered the Duchess Drawing Room; atruly Royal room, the colour of the curtains, carpet, and furniture beingcrimson, scarlet, and purple. Over the fireplace is a full lengthportrait of the Duchess of Hamilton by Phillips, painted in the rich andglowing style of that sweet colourist. It represents a beautiful andtruly dignified lady. The sleeves of the dress are close and small, asworn in 1810 (Quel bonheur! d'etre jeune, jolie, et Duchesse), so trulybecoming to a finely formed woman, and so much superior to the presenthorrid fashion of disfiguring the shape by gigot and bishop's sleeves, which seem to have been invented expressly to conceal what is indeed mosttruly beautiful, a woman's arm. 

We were next shown a glorious Sir Joshua, a beautiful full lengthportrait of Mrs. Peter Beckford, afterwards Lady Rivers, and the"Nouronchar" of Vathek. She is represented approaching an altarpartially obscured by clouds of incense that she may sacrifice to Hygeia, and turning round looking at the spectator. The background is quiteTitianesque; it is composed of sky and the columns of the temple, thelight breaking on the pillars in that forcible manner you see on thestems of trees in some of Titian's backgrounds. The colouring of thispicture is in fine preservation, a delicate lilac scarf floats over thedress, 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 thatpicture, as it was left entirely to his own refined taste. The lady wasin ill-health at the time it was done, and Sir Joshua most charminglyconceived 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 viewof Fonthill in the background. Never was there a greater contrast inthis and the last picture; West certainly knew nothing of portraitpainting. The _tout ensemble_ of the portrait in question is as dry andhard as if painted by a Chinese novice. There is also a portrait of theCountess, of Effingham, Mr. Beckford's aunt. On one side is the originalportrait by Reynolds of the author of Vathek engraved as the frontispieceof the "Excursions to the Monasteries. " The character of the originalpicture is much superior in expression to the print, less stout, eyesvery intellectual; in fact, you are convinced it must be the portrait ofa poet or of a poetical character. The face is very handsome, so is theprint, but that has nothing in it but what you meet with in a goodlooking young man of fashion. This, on the contrary, has an expressionof sensibility, deeply tinged with melancholy, which gives it greatinterest. 

On the other side of Lady Rivers's portrait is the Duke of Hamilton whena boy. A sweet child, with the hair cut straight along the forehead, asworn by children some fifty years ago, and hanging luxuriantly down hisneck On the same side of the room, behind a bronze of the Laocoon, is awonderful sketch by Paolo Veronese, the drawing and composition in thegrand style, touched with great sweetness and juiciness. Two smallupright Bassans, painted conjointly by both, bearing their names; thepoint of sight is immensely high. 

We were then led down the north staircase. Fronting us was a portrait ofMr. Beckford's father, the Alderman and celebrated Lord Mayor of London. Mr. Goodridge asked him if he knew a book, just published, denying thetruth of his father's famous speech to George III. He seemed astonished, and stood still on the staircase. "Not true! What in the world willthey find out next? Garrick was present when my father uttered it, heardthe 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 greatgrandfather, Colonel Peter Beckford. It was painted by a French artist, who went to Jamaica for the purpose, at the time he was Governor of theisland. " It is a full length portrait, large as life, the Coloneldressed in a scarlet coat embroidered richly with gold. There is also alovely portrait by Barker of the present Marquis of Douglas, Mr. Beckford's grandson; it was painted when Lord Douglas was twelve orthirteen years old. There is also a charming picture by Reynolds, twobeautiful little girls, full length and large as life, they are thepresent Duchess of Hamilton and her sister, Mrs General Ord. 

We now entered the lovely dining room, which in point of brilliancy andcheerfulness has more the character of a drawing than of a dining room. Opposite the window is an upright grand pianoforte. It is the largestever made, with the exception of its companion made at the same time, andits richness and power of sound are very great. Over the fire is what isseldom seen in a dining room, a large looking glass. The paintings inthis room have been valued at upwards of 20, 000 pounds. 

On the right as you enter are five pictures that once adorned theAldsbrandini Palace, namely, the St. Catherine by Raphael, a Claude, aGarofalo, two by Ferrara, and several smaller ones. But how shall Iattempt to describe to you the St. Catherine? This lovely picturecombines all the refined elegance of the Venus de Medici, in form, contour, and flowing lines, with an astonishing delicacy of colour, andmasterly yet softened execution. The eyes are turned upwards with anexpression of heavenly resignation, the neck, flesh and life itself, thehands, arms, and shoulders so sweetly rounded, while the figure meltsinto 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 bythe contemplation of this admirable painting. Such grace and sweetness, such softness and roundness in the limbs. She seems the most beautifulcreature that ever trod this earthly planet; in short it is no earthlybeauty 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, " saidMr. Beckford, "is that lovely creature from Mr. Etty's beauties. Theyare for the most part of a meretricious character, would do well enoughfor a mistress; but there, " pointing to the St. Catherine, "there arepersonified 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, saythey, 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. " Weburst out laughing, and I added, "Le pauvre Raphael quel dommage, de nesavoir rien du grand. Monarque! ni de la grande nation. " "Yet, " Icontinued, "there is a painter, Stotherd, who has come nearer to thegreat Italian, in the grace and elegance of his women and children, thanperhaps any other, and merits well the proud appellation of the EnglishRaphael. What a shame that he never met with encouragement. " "But Iunderstood that he was tolerably successful. He painted many things forme at Fonthill. You are surely mistaken. " "By no means, " I replied. "Latterly he seldom sold a picture, and supported himself on the paltryincome of 200 pounds a year, raised by making little designs forbooksellers. Yet what a noble painting is Chaucer's pilgrimage toCanterbury. " "It is indeed, " said Mr. Beckford. "But, sir, there isanother painter, Howard, whose conceptions are most poetical. Do youremember his painting at Somerset House in 1824, representing the solarsystem, 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'soriginal idea, that of the planets drawing light from their eternalsource, as water from a fountain, is certainly a glorious, a golden one;but who beside Howard could have so tangibly, so poetically developed thepoet's idea in colour. The personifying the planets according to theirnames, as Venus, Mercury, and so forth, was charming, and the splendourof the nearer figures, overwhelmed as it were with excess of light, andthe gloom and darkness of the distant, were admirably managed. What awonderful picture!" "He never painted a finer. "

Mr. Beckford then pointed out his Claude. It is a cool picture, thecolouring grey and greenish, the time of day, early morning just beforesunrise: but words fail to express its beauties. There is a something init, a je ne sais quoi. Such clearness in the colouring; the trees areall green, but so tenderly green; the sky and distance of such anexquisite tone that you are at once in imagination transported to those"southern climes and cloudless skies" that inspired Claude Lorraine. Ican give no possible idea in writing of the tone of colour in thispicture, except by comparing it to the semi-transparency of Mosaic, suchare the clearness of the tints and pearliness of the sky and distance. Asto chiaro-oscure, it is breadth and simplicity itself. Nothing but thepurest ultramarine could ever produce such a green as that which coloursthe 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 treesare grouped with all the grandeur of Claude or Poussin. Above are two ofthe finest Vernets; they are both sea pieces. The colouring has a depthand richness I never before saw in anything attributed to him. In theLouvre are his most famous pictures, and what I now say is the result ofcalm and mature reflection. I had the Louvre pictures constantly beforemy eyes for three months. They are very large, and certainly have greatmerit; but had I my choice I would prefer Mr. Beckford's to any of theset. 

West's original sketch for his great picture of King Lear, painted forBoydell's Shakspeare Gallery--"Blow, blow, thou winter wind. " A mostwonderful performance. The expression of face of the poor mad king isastonishing; the colouring rich and mellow--nothing of West's usuallyhard outline. The whole picture is full of energy and fire, and seems tohave been struck off with the greatest ease and rapidity. "Do observethe face of Edgar, " said Mr. Beckford. "Under his assumed madness youtrace a sentiment of respect and anxiety for the monarch; he could notforget that it was his sovereign. " "I have seen, " I said, "most ofWest's great pictures, but there is more genius in that sketch than inanything I ever saw of his. I think he took too much pains with hissketches. The consequence was that the original spirit evaporated longbefore the completion of the great tame painting, where his men and womentoo often look like wooden lay figures covered with drapery. " "Sir, didyou ever see his sketch of Death on the Pale Horse? The large picture iscertainly very fine, but I have heard the best judges say that theoriginal sketch is one of the finest things in existence. The Presidenthimself considered it his best and refused 100 pounds, offered for it bythe Prince Regent; yet afterwards, being distressed for money, he partedwith it, I believe, to Mr. Thompson, the artist, for 50 pounds. " "Is itpossible? I wish I had known that he wanted to dispose of it. I shouldhave liked it beyond anything. It was most wonderful. "

Above the picture of King Lear hangs a noble picture by Titian, thecomposition of which reminded me much of Raphael. The Virgin's face isextremely 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 elevatedstyle of beauty, more intellectual; in short, it possesses a combinationof charms that has never yet fallen to the lot of any mortal. The infantis extremely fine. On this side is also a portrait of himselfexquisitely coloured and finished. 

Near these paintings is a Canaletti, not a real view, but an assemblageof 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 himselfby putting an elegant colonnade; on the right hand is a bridge. Thecolouring is clear, the shadows rich, and the water softly painted andextremely 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, " hesaid, "and the reason is that very few of those generally attributed tohim are really genuine, but of mine there can be no doubt, as thispainting and several others that I have were got directly from the artisthimself by means of the English Consul at Venice; but not a quarter ofthe pictures that one sees and that are called his were ever painted byCanaletti. " There were several very fine pictures by this masterdestroyed in the lifetime of Alderman Beckford at the fire which consumedthe 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 hispictures, you see the hand of the master, whose common works you know, but in this house you find paintings still finer, which give you moreelevated and correct ideas of the style and manner of the genuineproductions of the great masters. There really seems some charm, somemagic in the walls, so great is the similarity of colouring in these_chefs d'oeuvres_, the clear, the subdued, the pearly tints, a variety ofdelicious colour, and none of the dirty hues you see in mediocre oldpaintings. 

Over the sofa is a constellation of beauties which we merely glanced atas we passed, but which I hope another day to examine. They are some ofthe rarest specimens by G. Poussin, Wouvermans, Berghem, Van Huysum, Polemberg, and others. On a small table was placed an elegantly cutcaraffe of carnations of every variety of colour that you can possiblyimagine. There is nothing in which Mr. Beckford is more choice than inhis 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 isa noble drawing by Turner of the Abbey, according to a plan proposed, butnever carried out. The tower is conical, and would have been even higherthan the one that was completed. "I have seen, " I said, "a fine drawingof Fonthill by Turner, originally in your possession, but now belongingto Mr. Allnutt, of Clapham. It is prodigiously fine. The scenery theremust be magnificent. The hills and beautiful lake in the drawing giveone an idea of Cumberland. " "It is a very fine drawing, but rather toopoetical, too ideal, even for Fonthill. The scenery there is certainlybeautiful, but Turner took such liberties with it that he entirelydestroyed the portraiture, the locality of the spot. That was the reasonI parted with it. There were originally six drawings of the Abbey; threewere disposed of at the sale, and I still have the remaining ones. " "Arethey going to rebuild the tower, sir? for when I was last in London, Papworth, the architect, was gone down to Fonthill to do somethingthere. " "Impossible, " he said, "unless it were to be made a nationalaffair, which indeed is not very likely. It would cost at least 100, 000pounds to restore it. But what can Papworth have done there? It must Ishould think be something to the pavilion. I assure you I had no idea ofparting with Fonthill till Farquhar made me the offer. I wished to purgeit, to get rid of a great many things I did not want, but as to thebuilding itself I had no more notion of selling it than you have (turningto his architect) of parting with anything, with--with the clothes youhave on. "

On the chimney piece, protected by a glass, is a precious Japan vase. Weexamined it for some time under its envelope. It seemed to me (for Iknow nothing of Japan work) a bronze vessel, richly and most elaboratelychased, and I could not help joining in the praises due to its exquisitefinish. Mr. Beckford took off the glass, and desired me to take it tothe window. "I am really afraid to touch it, " said I, but he forced itinto my hands. I prepared them to receive a massive and (as it seemed tome) very weighty vessel, when lo it proved as light as a feather. Wewere afterwards shown another Japan vase, the exterior of which exactlyresembled the Pompeian designs, elegant scrolls, delicate tracery ofblue, red, green, &c. These colours strongly opposed as in the remainsof paintings at Pompeii. Here are some other precious little pictures, asmall Gerard Dow, a Watteau, a Moucheron, and a Polemberg. He merelynoticed them, and then led us into the next room. 

A noble library. It is an elegant and charming apartment, very chastelyornamented. Here are no pictures; it is devoted entirely to books andponderous folios of the most rare and precious engravings. The sides ofthe library are adorned by Scagliola pilasters and arched recesses, whichcontain the books. The interstices between the arches and the ceilingare painted in imitation of marble, so extremely like that though theytouch the Scagliola it is next to impossible to distinguish anydifference. The ceiling is belted across and enriched with bands ofGrecian tracery in relief, delicately painted and slightly touched withgold. On the walls are some gilded ornaments, enough to give to thewhole richness of effect without heaviness. Between the windows is whatI suppose may be termed a table, composed of an enormous slab of therarest marble, supported by elegantly cast bronze legs. Over this asmall cabinet (manufactured in Bath from drawings by Mr. Goodridge) fullof extremely small books; it is carved in oak in the most elaboratemanner. The fireplace, of Devonshire marble, is perfect in design and inits adaptation to the rest of the room; in fact, everything in thislovely chamber is in unison, everything soft, quiet, and subdued. 

New wonders awaited me. Next to the library is a sort of vestibuleleading to a staircase, which from its mysterious and crimson light, richdraperies, and latticed doors seemed to be the sanctum sanctorum of aheathen temple. To the left a long passage, whose termination not beingseen allowed the imagination full play, led for aught I know to theFortress of Akerman, to the Montagne du Caf or to the Halls of Argenti. Ou sout peintes toutes les createures raissonables, et les animaux quiont habite la terre. 

To the right two latticed doors, reminding you of Grand Cairo orPersepolis, ingeniously conceal the commonplace entrance from theCrescent. The singular and harmonious light of this mysterious vestibuleis 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. " "Youare quite right, " he observed, "this is unquestionably the Hall ofEblis. " "Those latticed doors, " I continued, "seem to lead to the smallapartment where the three princes, Alasi, Barkiarokh, and Kalilah, related to Vathek and Nouronchar their adventures. " He seemed amused atmy observations, and said, "Then you have read 'Vathek. ' How do you likeit?" "Vastly. I read it in English many years ago, but never inFrench. " "Then read it in French, " said Mr. Beckford. "The Frenchedition 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 excludethe draughts, " said Mr. Beckford, "and to do away with the cold anduncomfortable appearance you generally have in staircases. " The effectof the whole is so novel that you lose all idea of stairs, and seemmerely going from one room to another. As you stand on the landing thevaulted and belted ceiling behind you has the appearance of a row ofarches in perspective. The same solemn and mysterious gloom pervades thestaircase. The architect has frequently entreated to be allowed tointroduce a little more light, but in vain. The author of "Vathek" willnot consent to the least alteration of the present mystical effect, andhe is quite right. This warm and indefinite light produces not only theeffect 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 lovelydrawing rooms lately fitted up. Before us, over the mantelpiece, wassuspended a magnificent full length portrait by Gaspar de Crayer ofPhilip II. Of Spain. Just then my head was too full of the Hall ofEblis, of "Vathek" and its associations, for mere ordinary admiration ofeven one of the finest portraits painted, and on Mr. Beckford pointingout the whitefaced monarch I almost involuntarily ejaculated "Pale slaveof Eblis. " He burst out laughing. "Eh! eh! what? His face is paleindeed, but he was very proud of his complexion. " This is a very finegroup. Philip is represented dressed in a suit of black armour, elaborately chased in gold, standing on a throne covered with a crimsoncarpet. Near him is his dwarf, dressed in black, holding the helmet, adorned with a magnificent plume of feathers, and turning towards hismaster (the fountain of honour) a most expressive and intelligent face. "That dwarf, " said Mr. Beckford, "was a man of great ability andexercised over his master a vast influence. " Lower down you discover thehead of a Mexican page, holding a horse, whose head, as well as that ofthe page, is all that is visible, their bodies being concealed by thesteps of the throne. This is a noble picture; but in my eyes the extremeplainness of the steps of the throne and the unornamented war boots ofthe king have a bare and naked appearance. They contrast rather tooviolently with the whole of the upper part of the picture. Over thesteps are painted in Roman letters Rx. Ps. 4s. (Rex Philippus quartos). Many who have hardly heard the painter's name will of course not admireit, being done neither by Titian nor Vandyke; but Mr. Beckford's taste ispeculiar. He prefers a genuine picture by an inferior painter to thoseattributed to the more celebrated masters, but where originality isambiguous, or at least if not ambiguous where picture cleaner, orscavengers, as he calls them, have been at work. In this room, suspendedfrom the ceiling by a silken cord, is the silver gilt lamp that hung inthe oratory at Fonthill. Its shape and proportion are very elegant, andno wonder; it was designed by the author of "Italy" himself. How greatwas my astonishment some time after, on visiting Fonthill, at perceiving, suspended from the _cul de lamp_, the very crimson cord that oncesupported this precious vessel! The lamp had been hastily cut down, andthe height of the remains of the cord from the floor was probably thereason of its preservation. 

Mr. Beckford next pointed out a charming sketch by Rubens, clear andpearly beyond conception. It is St. George and the Dragon, the dragonhero and his horse in the air, and the dragon must certainly have been anAfrican 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 thatthose great pictures that bear his name are all his pictures. He was toomuch of a gentleman for such drudgery, and the greatest part of suchpictures (the Luxembourg for instance) are the works of his pupils fromhis original designs certainly; they were afterwards retouched by him, and people are silly enough to believe they are all his work. But markwell the difference in execution between those great gallery pictures andsuch a gem as this. " Mr. Beckford then showed me a "Ripon" by Polemberg, a lovely classic landscape, with smooth sky, pearly distance, andpicturesque plains; the Holy Family in the foreground. "Do take noticeof the St. Joseph in this charming picture, " he said. "The painters toooften 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 hehas made him here look like a decayed gentleman. "

Mr. Beckford drew aside another curtain, and we entered the front drawingroom, of larger dimensions, but fitted up in a similar style. The firstthing that caught my eye was the magnificent effect produced by a scarletdrapery, whose ample folds covered the whole side of the room oppositethe three windows from the ceiling to the floor. Mr. Beckford'sobservation on his first view of Mad. D' Aranda's boudoir instantlyrecurred to my mind. These are his very words: "I wonder architects andfitters-up of apartments do not avail themselves more frequently of thepowers of drapery. Nothing produces so grand and at the same time socomfortable an effect. The moment I have an opportunity I will set aboutconstructing a tabernacle larger than the one I arranged at Ramalhad, andindulge myself in every variety of plait and fold that can be possiblyinvented. " "I never was so convinced, " I said, "of the truth of yourobservations as at the present moment. What a charming and comfortableeffect 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 greatoctagon. There were purple curtains fifty feet long. "

Here was a cabinet of oak, made in Bath, in form most classical andappropriate. On one side stood two massive and richly chased silver giltcandlesticks that formerly were used in the Moorish Palace of theAlhambra. "Then you have visited Granada?" I inquired. "More thanonce. " "What do you think of the Alhambra?" "It is vastly curiouscertainly, but many things there are in wretched taste, and to say truthI don't much admire Moorish taste. "

Mr. Beckford next pointed out a head in marble brought from Mexico byCortez, which was for centuries in the possession of the Duke of Alba'sfamily, and was given to the present proprietor by the Duchess. "Herfate was very tragical, " he observed. In a small cupboard with glass infront is a little ivory reliquior, four or five hundred years old. Itwas given to Mr. Beckford by the late Mr. Hope. It is in the shape of asmall chapel; on opening the doors, the fastenings of which were twosmall dogs or monkeys, you found in a recess the Virgin and Child, surrounded by various effigies, all carved in the most astonishinglyminute manner. 

The mention of Mr. Hope's name produced an observation about"Anastasius, " of which Mr. Beckford affirmed he was confident Mr. Hopehad written very little; he was, he positively asserted, assisted bySpence. My companion here observed, "Had Mr. Beckford heard of therecent discoveries made of the ruins of Carthage?" "Of Carthage?" hesaid, "it must be New Carthage. It cannot be the old town, that isimpossible. If it were, I would start to-morrow to see it. I shouldthink myself on the road to Babylon half-way. " "Babylon must have been aglorious place, " observed my companion, "if we can place any reliance onMr. Martin's long line of distances about that famous city. " "Oh, Martin. Martin is very clever, but a friend of mine, Danby, in myopinion far surpasses him. " I cannot agree with Mr. Beckford in this. Martin was undoubtedly the inventor of the singular style of painting inquestion, and I do not believe that Danby ever produced anything equal tosome of the illustrations of "Paradise Lost, " in particular "The Fall ofthe 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 shouldimagine, one of the greatest curiosities in existence, a vase about teninches high, composed of one entire block of chalcedonian onyx. It is ofGreek 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 takento make any impression on such a hard substance. Rubens made a drawingof it, for it was pawned in his time for a large sum. I possess anengraving from his drawing, " and opening a portfolio he immediatelypresented it to my wondering eyes. 

Over the fireplace is a magnificent picture by Roberts, representing thetombs of Ferdinand and Isabella in the Alhambra. What I had alwaysimagined a small chapel is, I find, really of gigantic proportions, andlooks like a Cathedral in solemn grandeur and softness; the twosarcophagi are of white marble. The light streams through enormouspainted windows, and at the extremity of the edifice is an altarsurrounded by figures in different attitudes. "I should never havedreamt, from what Washington Irving says of the chapel of Ferdinand andIsabella, that it was such a plan as this. " "Oh, Washington Irving, " hereplied, "is very poor in his descriptions; he does not do justice toSpain. " I wished he had spoken with a little more enthusiasm of afavourite author, but I imagine that the author of the "Sketch Book" isscarcely 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 torepresent Berkshire, " or he pronounced it Barkshire. With all duedeference to the taste of the author of "Vathek, " and his admiration ofthis picture, which he compared to a Wouvermann, it is in my eyes a veryuninteresting scene, though certainly strictly natural. "I don't ingeneral like Lee's pictures, " he said, "but that is an exception. " Inthe corresponding recess is a fine sea piece by Chambers. On theopposite side of the room are rows of the most valuable books, whichalmost reach the ceiling. I hinted that I was really afraid we weretrespassing on his leisure, as our visit was lengthened out mostprodigiously. "Not at all, " he replied, "I am delighted to see you. Itis 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 throughthe apartments. He accompanied us as far as the dining room door, whenhe inquired if I had seen the Tower? On my answering in the negative hesaid, "Then you must come up again. " He shook hands with my friend, andbowing politely to me was retiring, when stepping back he held out hishand in the kindest manner, repeating the words "Come up again. " Wefound we had spent three hours in his company. 

We paused an instant before leaving the dining room to admire a lovelybit of perspective. It is a line of open doors, exactly opposite eachother (never seen but in large houses), piercing and uniting the threelower rooms. The effect is vastly increased by a mirror placed in thelobby leading to the second staircase, which mirror terminated the view. "L'une perspective bien menagee charmait la vue; ici, la magic del'optique la trompoit agreablement. En un mot, le plus curieux deshommes n'avait rien omis dans ce palais de ce qui pouvait contenter lacuriosite de ceux qui le visitait. "

You may imagine I did not forget Mr. Beckford's invitation, nor ceasepestering my friend till he at length fixed a day for accompanying meagain to Lansdown. My curiosity to see the Tower was excited. I longedto behold that extraordinary structure, but still more to see again thewonderful individual to whom it belonged. 

We proceeded in the first place to the house, and I had an opportunity ofexamining the pictures and curiosities in the ante-room. Here are twocabinets, containing curious china, and small golden vessels. Most ofthe china was, I believe, painted at Sevres expressly for Mr. Beckford, as the ornaments on several pieces indicate, being formed of his arms, soarranged as to produce a rich and beautiful effect without the slightestformality. I counted in one cabinet ten vessels of gold, in the otherfive: these were small teapots, caddies, cups, saucers, plates. I amtold that they are used occasionally at tea-time. 

Over the door is a magnificent drawing of the Abbey, by Turner, taken Ishould imagine at a distance of two miles. The appearance of thebuilding with its lofty tower is grand and imposing. The foregroundseems to have been an old quarry. The great lake glitters in the middledistance, from the opposite banks of which the ground gradually rises, and the eminence is crowned by the stately structure. Here are also afine interior by Van Ostade from Fonthill, representing a noble picturegallery; a drawing of the interior of St. Paul's; one by Rubens, representing Christ and the two disciples at Emmaus; a fine Swaneveldt; aglorious Weeninx, game and fruit; with a lovely bit by Lance, and manysmaller pictures. 

I was informed that Mr. Beckford intended meeting us at the Tower, andthat a servant was in readiness to conduct us thither by the walk throughthe grounds. We therefore issued by a private door, and presentlyentered the spacious kitchen garden, containing, I believe, seven oreight acres. A broad gravel walk, bordered by lovely flowers and fruittrees, leads to a magnificent terrace, which bounds the northern side ofthis beautiful enclosure, the view from which is enchanting. This nobleterrace is screened from the north by a luxuriant shrubbery, from whicharises an archway of massive proportions, erected chiefly to shut out theview of an unpicturesque object. The _tout ensemble_ reminds one ofFlorence. You pass this gigantic portal, and ascend the hill by awinding pathway through the fields, the grass being always kept clippedand short. At the distance of half a mile from the house we crossed alane, and our guide unlocking a gate entered the grounds at the brow ofthe hill. We again ascended, till we reached a broader way between twoflourishing plantations, branching off to the left, and leading by agently winding walk to a rustic sort of bungalow, which was discoveredabout a quarter of a mile off. "You must walk along here, " said myfriend, "and behold the prospect before we mount higher, for you willfind the view repay you. " It did indeed repay us: the grassy pathwayextends along the side of the southern brow of Lansdown, and the viewfrom this spot is unrivalled. The whole valley of the Doon stretchesbeneath you. Looking towards the east you discover in extreme distancethe Marlborough Downs; then somewhat nearer Kingsdown, Bathford, thehills above Warleigh, with Hampton cliffs and the neighbouring woods, where Gainsborough, Wilson, and Barker studied Nature so well, and whereis shown the flat rock called Gainsborough's table, on which the first ofthis picturesque triumvirate so often ate his rustic meal. To the southBladud's splendid city, with its towers and stately buildings, backed bythe long line of Wiltshire hills, and Alfred's Tower is faintly traced inthe clear, grey haze. The little conical hill of Englishcombe, where theunfortunate Duke of Monmouth drew up his army during his rash and fatalenterprise, awoke a thousand recollections, whilst the lovely riverflashed occasionally in the noontide sun. To the west are seen NewtonPark, the Mendip Hills, Dundry Tower, and the Welsh hills, whilst thehazy atmosphere marked the position of another great city, Bristol. Atthe extreme western point, too, are seen the waters of the BristolChannel, glittering under the glowing rays of the setting sun, andshining like a vast plateau of burnished gold. 

After feasting our eyes on this lovely panorama and tracing out wellknown places, at one moment lost in obscurity from the shadow of apassing cloud and the next moment appearing in the full blaze ofsunshine, we retraced our steps towards the path to the Tower. We againascended 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 doubtfurnished stone in vast quantities for the building of the splendid cityat the foot of the eminence. The remains of these quarries are mostpicturesque. At a little distance they seem to present the wrecks ofstately buildings, with rows of broken arches, and vividly recall theidea of Roman ruins. I afterwards mentioned my impressions on seeingthem to Mr. Beckford, who replied, "They do indeed put one in mind of theCampagna of Rome, and are vastly like the ruins of the Baths ofCaracalla. " We were now on the brow of the hill, and soon felt theinfluence of the genial breezes from the Bristol Channel. We quitted theopen Down, and passing under a low doorway entered a lovely shrubbery. The walk (composed of small fossils) winds between graceful trees, and isskirted by odoriferous flowers, which we are astonished to find growingin such luxuriance at an elevation of nearly a thousand feet above thevale below. In many places the trees meet, and form a green arcade overyour head, whilst patches of mignonette, giant plants of heliotrope, andclusters of geranium perfume the air. 

We next enter a beautiful kitchen garden, and are presented with a broadand noble straight walk fully ten feet in width and nearly four hundredfeet long, between beds of flowers, and on either side beyond fruit treesand vegetables. The garden terminates with a picturesque building, pierced by a lofty archway, through which the walk passes. This gardenis about eighty feet wide and about twelve feet below the level of theDown, being formed in an old quarry, besides which a lofty wall on eitherside shelters it. One cannot describe one's sensations of comfort atfinding so delicious a spot in so unexpected a place. I said to thegardener, "I understood Mr. Beckford had planted everything on the Down, but you surely found those apple trees here. They are fifty years old. ""We found nothing here but an old quarry and a few nettles. Those appletrees were great trees when we moved them, and moving them stopped theirbearing. They blossom in the spring and look pretty, and that is allmaster cares about. " We left this charming enclosure, passing under thearchway before mentioned. And here I must pause a moment and admire thehappy idea of placing this pretty building at the end of this cultivatedspot. It closes the kitchen garden, and as its front is similar oneither side, it harmonizes with the regular garden we have left, as wellas with the wilder spot which we next approach. This building forms acomplete termination to one of that succession of lovely scenes withwhich we are presented on our walk to the Tower. Each scene is totallydistinct in character from the others, and yet with matchless taste theyare united by some harmonious link, as in the present case. 

Having then passed through the archway of this building, we observedbefore us a grotto, into which we entered. On the right is a pond ofgold and silver fish, which are fed every morning by the hands of thegifted possessor of this charming place. On the opposite side thirty orforty birds assemble at the same time to hail the appearance of St. Anthony's devotee, and chirrup a song of gratitude for their morningmeal. The grotto is formed under a road, and is so ingeniously contrivedthat hundreds have walked over it without ever dreaming of thesubterranean passage beneath. The grotto-like arch winds underground forperhaps sixty or seventy feet. When coming to its termination we arepresented with a flight of rustic steps, which leads us again directly onto the Down. Looking back you cannot but admire the natural appearanceof this work of art. The ground over the grotto is covered with tangledshrubs and brambles. There is nothing formed, nothing apparentlyartificial, and a young ash springs as if accidentally from between thestones. 

We pursued our way to the Tower by a path of a quarter of a mile on theDown, along a walk parallel to the wall of the public road, gently curvedto take off the appearance of formality, yet so slightly that you can goon in a straight line. On our right hand venerable bushes of lavender, great plants of rosemary, and large rose trees perfume the air, allgrowing as if indigenous to the smooth turf. In one place clusters ofrare and deeply crimsoned snapdragons, in another patches of aromaticthyme and wild strawberries keep up the charm of the place. As we drawnearer to the Tower the ground is laid out in a wilder and morepicturesque manner, the walks are more serpentine. We turned a corner, and Mr. Beckford stood before us, attended by an aged servant, whosehairs have whitened in his employment, and whose skill has laid out thesegrounds in this beautiful manner. Mr. Beckford welcomed me in thekindest way, and immediately began pointing out the various curiousplants and shrubs. How on this happy spot specimens of the productionsof every country in the world unite! Shrubs and trees, whose naturalclimates are as opposite as the Antipodes, here flourish in the mostastonishing manner. We were shown a rose tree brought from Pekin and afir tree brought from the highest part of the Himalaya Mountains; manyhave been brought to this country, but Mr. Beckford's is the only onethat has survived. Here are pine trees of every species and variety--atree that once vegetated at Larissa, in Greece, Italian pines, Siberianpines, Scotch firs, a lovely specimen of Irish yew, and other trees whichit is impossible to describe. My astonishment was great at witnessingthe size of the trees, and I could scarcely believe my ears when toldthat the whole of this wood had been raised on the bare Down within thelast thirteen years. The ground is broken and diversified in the mostagreeable manner: here a flight of easy and water worn steps leads to aneminence, whence you have a view of the building and an old ruinovergrown with shrubs, which looks as if it had seen five hundredsummers, but in reality no older than the rest of this creation. Onascending the easy though ruined steps of this building, passing under anarchway, the view of the Tower burst upon us, and a long, straight walkled us directly to the entrance. From this point the view is mostimposing. On your right is a continuation of the shrubberies I spoke of, at the end of which is a lovely pine, most beautiful in form and colour, which by hiding some of the lower buildings thus makes a picture of thewhole. The effect of the building is grand and stately beyonddescription. The long line of flat distance and the flatness of the Downhere come in contact with the perpendicular lines of the Tower and lowerbuildings, producing that strikingly peculiar combination which neverfails to produce a grand effect. This is the real secret of Claude'sseaports. His stately buildings, moles, and tall towers form a rightangle with the straight horizon; thus the whole is magnificent. Nothingof the sort could be produced in the interior of a country but in asituation like the present. Who but a man of extraordinary genius wouldhave thought of rearing in the desert such a structure as this, orcreating such an oasis? The colouring of the building reminded me ofMalta or Sicily, a rich mellow hue prevails; the ornaments of the Towerare so clean, so distinct, such terseness. The windows, small and fewcompared with modern buildings, give it the appearance of those earlyFlorentine edifices reared when security and defence were as much anobject as beauty. From every part of the ground the pile looks grand, the lines producing the most beautiful effect. The windows have irongratings, which give it an Oriental character. We entered, andimmediately ascended the Tower. A circular staircase was round the wall. The proportion of the interior is beautiful; you see from the bottom tothe top. From the apparent size of the three or four loopholes seen fromthe outside I imagined it would be dark and gloomy from within, but I wasagreeably surprised to find the whole extremely light. The balustrade isEgyptian in form, and banisters bronze. On reaching the top you find asquare apartment containing twelve windows, each a piece of plate glass, the floor covered with red cloth and crimson window curtains. The effectof distance seen through these apertures unobstructed by framework, contrasted with the bronze balustrade without and crimson curtainswithin, is truly enchanting. We were not happy in the weather. Themorning was sunny and promising, but at noon clouds obscured the heavens;therefore we wanted that glow and splendour sunshine never fails to givethe landscape. The height is so great that everything looks quitediminutive. The road running in a straight line across the Down remindsone of a Roman work, and the whole expanse of country surrounding recallsthe Campagna. Two more flights of stairs, most ingeniously contrived andto all appearance hanging on nothing, lead to two other apartments, thetop one lighted by glass all round, concealed on the outside by the openornament that runs round the very top of the cupola. 

On descending the staircase, the door opening showed us at the end of asmall vaulted corridor a beautiful statue by Rossi of St. Anthony and theinfant Jesus. At the back, fixed in the wall, is a large slab of redporphyry, circular at the top and surrounded by an elegant inlay ofSienna verd, antique border surrounding the whole figure of the Saint, and has a most rich effect; it is difficult to believe that the Sienna isnot gold. The light descending from above gives that fine effect whichsets off statues so much. On the left hand of the figure is a picture byPietro Perugino, which for centuries was in the Cathedral of Sienna, having been painted for that building and never removed till Mr. Beckford(I suppose by making an offer too tempting to be resisted) succeeded inobtaining it. It is the Virgin and two pretty boys, admirably drawn, very like Raphael, and in as fine preservation as the St. Catherine. Theexecution is masterly, and though not so free as the Raphael still it isforcible. The figure of the left hand boy is very graceful, facebeautiful and sweetly dimpled. Opposite are a Francesco Mola and aSteinwych. The Mola is exceedingly fine, the sky and landscape much likeMr. Beckford's Gaspar Poussin in colour and execution; the Steinwych, interior of a Cathedral, one of the most wonderful finished pictures Iever beheld. This picture was painted for an ancestor of Mr. Beckford's. Here there is a little cabinet full of rare and curious manuscripts. Wewere shown a small Bible in MS. , including the Apocrypha, written 300years before printing was introduced, and a very curious Missal. 

We then entered a gorgeous room containing pictures and curiosities ofimmense value. Its proportions seem exactly the same as the one on thefloor below, and decorations with its furniture pretty similar. Thewindows in both are in one large plate, and the shutters of plain oak. The colour of curtains and carpet crimson. In these rooms are a portraitof the Doge out of the Grimaldi Palace, purchased by Mr. Beckford fromLord Cawdor, who got it out of the Palace by an intrigue; this is asplendid portrait; he has on the Dalmatica and the Phrygian Cap worn bythe Doges on occasions of State, and two lovely Polembergs, infinitelyfiner and more like Claude than anything I ever saw; in fact, they wereascribed to Claude by the German Waagen, architecture grand, foliagelight and elegant; the figures are by Le Soeur. Two fine portraits by DeVos, wonderfully painted, execution and colouring reminded me of Vandyke, particularly the latter, and not unlike the Gavertius in the NationalGallery. Then there is a magnificent Houdekoeta, the landscape partpainted by Both most inimitably. A beautiful cabinet designed byBernini, another with sculptured paintings, in the centre the story ofAdam and Eve. Two more candlesticks from the Alhambra, in shape andexecution similar to those at the house; two gold candlesticks afterdesigns by Holbein; some curious specimens of china; an Asiatic purpleglass vase, brought by St. Louis from the Holy Land, which contained atSt. Denis some holy fragments; a piece of china, the centre of which isornamented in a style totally different from the generality of china, ineight or ten compartments, and painted in such a manner that the festoonof leaves fall over and hide the fruit most picturesquely; two ivorycups, one in alto, the other in basso relievo; the latter the finer andmost charmingly carved; a small group in bronze by John Bologna, "Dejanira and the Centaur, " admirably done. Here are tables of therarest marbles, one composed of a block from the Himalaya Mountains. Inone of the windows is a piece of African marble brought to this countryfor George IV; also a small bath of Egyptian porphyry. In the lower roomwas a vase containing the most lovely flowers, that perfumed theapartment. In this room, from the judicious introduction of scarlet andcrimson, you have the effect of sunshine. The ceilings are belted; theinterstices painted crimson. It is impossible to give any idea of thesplendour of these two rooms, the finishing touch being cabinet lookingglasses, introduced most judiciously. 

We now took leave of Mr. Beckford. His horses were waiting in thecourtyard, with two servants standing respectfully and uncovered at thedoor, whilst two more held the horses. The stately and magnificenttower, the terrace on which we lingered a few moments, whilst thisextraordinary man mounted his horse, all, all conspired to cast apoetical feeling over the parting moment which I shall never forget. Iwas reminded most forcibly of similar scenes in Scott's novels. Inparticular the ancient Tower of Tillietudleni was presented to my mind'seye, and I gazed for a moment on this gifted person with a melancholyforeboding that it was for the last time, and experienced an elevation offeeling connected with the scene which it is impossible to describe. Suchmoments are worth whole years of everyday existence. We turned our headsto look once more on a man who must always create the most intenseinterest, and I repeated those lines of Petrarch, introduced by Mr. Beckford himself in his "Italy" on a similar occasion--

 O ora, o georno, o ultimo momento, O stelle conjurate ad impoverime, &c. 

I forgot to mention a cluster of heliotrope in blossom on the Down, growing in such wild luxuriance that I could not believe it to be mylittle darling flower. However, on stooping down I soon perceived by itsfragrance it was the same plant that I had been accustomed to admire ingreenhouses or in small pots. 

October, 1838. 

I have had another peep at the Tower. The day was auspicious. I ran upthe staircase and wonderfully enjoyed the prospect. Looking through themiddle window towards the west you have a delicious picture. The hillsundulate in the most picturesque manner, the motion of the clouds at onemoment threw a line of hills into shadow, which were the next minuteillumined by the sun, the Avon glittering in the sunbeams, the village ofWeston embedded in the valley, a rich cluster of large trees near thetown, variegated by the tints of autumn, united to form a charmingpicture. The pieces of plate-glass that compose the twelve windows ofthis beautiful room cannot be less than 5. 5ft. High and 18in. Wide. 

On descending I was struck with the lovely effect of the corridor, at theend of which is the statue of St. Anthony; on the pedestal (a block ofSienna) are engraved in letters of gold these words, "Dominus illuminatiomio. " The Francesco Mola (the Magdalen in the Desert) is a lovelylandscape indeed; the rocks and their spirited execution, lightness ofthe foliage, &c. , in the foreground remind one of St. Rosa. A cluster ofcherubs hovers over the head of Mary. In the smaller room on the upperfloor is the picture by West of the Installation of the Knights of theGarter. From the contemplation of this picture I entertain a higheropinion of the genius of West than I ever did before. You can scarcelybelieve it is his painting; there is nothing of his usual hard outline, the shadows are rich, the background soft and mellow, the lights unitesweetly, and it is touched in the free and juicy manner of the sketchesof Rubens or Paolo Veronese. It is difficult to believe that thispicture is not 200 years old. The head of a child by Parmigiano; a largepicture by Breughel. The enameled glass vase brought to Europe by St. Louis; this must be of Arabian manufacture, for the figures on horsebackhave turbans. A large cabinet by Franks, the panels most highlyfinished, different passages in the history of Adam and Eve form smallpictural subjects. In the larger room is the cabinet by Bernini, inlaidwith mosaic work in the most finished manner, surrounded by three brassfigures; Bellini's two pictures of the Doges of Venice. Over Bernini'scabinet a large piece of looking glass is most judiciously introduced. Inthis and the lower room are two lovely crimson Wilton carpets; theceilings of both are painted purple and red. Holbein's candlesticks arereally gold! the chasing is elegance itself; an inscription states thatthey were made in 1800 for the Abbey at Fonthill. A fine picture of theinfant St. John by Murillo; a curious one of St. Anthony by Civoli; anexquisite interior, by Steynwich, very small, and being a night effect, the shadows are amazingly rich. In the passage leading to the garden arethe two ivory cups by Frainingo. One is much better carved than theother; it is copied from an antique vase. The figures are Bacchanalian. 

The effect of this lower room from the vestibule, illumined by the raysof the glorious sun, was more beautiful than anything of the sort I hadever witnessed. Nothing can be more happy than the way the colour ofthis apartment is managed. The walls are covered with scarlet cloth; thecurtains on each side of the window being a deep purple produce astriking contrast, the colouring of the ceiling, crimson, purple andgold, is admirable. In one window is a large table formed of a block ofEgyptian porphyry, on which were flowers in a large vase of ivory; in theother recess, or rather tribune, is the small round Himalaya block. Overthe fireplace is a charming little Dietrich, and on either hand aPolemberg. On this side of the room the two De Vos, two singularlyshaped cabinets of oak finely carved; on one is a gold teapot. On theright hand of the door is a Simonini: sky and distance admirable, thecolouring of two large trees very rich and mellow, one a dark green, theother pale yellow. A picture on the other side of the door by Canaletti. On the opposite side of the room a large Pastel, ruins of foliage finebut figures lanky. I had not before to-day seen the Tower from the roadentrance. The effect of the whole building is grand, and improved by thearches which support the terrace. On the left the ground is admirablybroken and the foliage rich. 

November 3rd, 1838. 

Mr. Beckford showed me some sketches of St. Non's Sicily and harbour ofMalta, forty drawings, given by St. Non himself, each bearing the name inpencil; he also showed me a MS. "Arabian Nights. " He studied Arabic verydeeply in Paris, and had a Mussulman master. He read to me part of atale never put into the ordinary edition, translated into English terselyand perspicuously. He is much indebted to Arabic MS. For "Vathek, " andreads Arabic to this day. He says Lord Byron and others are quitemistaken as to the age when he wrote "Vathek, " not seventeen but twenty-three years of age. "Sir, " says he, "if you want a description ofPersepolis read 'Vathek. '" He laughed heartily at the different sorts ofpraise bestowed by Lord Byron on "Vathek, " equal to Rasselas, likeMackenzie. Lord Byron tried many times to get a sight of the Eps [?], often intreated the Duchess to intercede with her father. He once calledwith "Vathek" in his pocket, which he styled "his gospel. " Moore's"Lallah Rookh" has too much western sentimentality for an Orientalromance, the common fault of most writers of such stories. Beckfordprefers Moore's Melodies, and likes the "Loves of Angels" least of all. "Fudge Family" he thinks admirable. 

Speaking of the triumph he achieved in writing as an Englishman a workwhich was supposed for years to be by a Frenchman, he said: "Oh, my greatuncle did more than me. Did you never read 'Memories of the Duke ofGrammont?' Voltaire told me he was entirely indebted to my great unclefor whatever beauty of style he might possess. French is just the sameas English to me. He showed me the Eps. "

October 31. --Went out and accidentally met Mr. Beckford speaking inpraise of his West, who painted expressly for Mr. Beckford. I said, "Howdid you get him to paint it so soft? I suppose you particularlyrequested him to do so. " "Oh no. Mr. West was a man who would stand nodictation; had I uttered such a thought he would have kicked me out ofthe house! Oh no, that would never have done. The only way to get himto avoid his hard outline would be to entreat him to paint harder. Westcame one day laughing to me, and said, "All London is in ecstasybeholding the Lazarus in Sebo Deltz, painted they say by M. A. Ha! ha!they don't know it is my painting. L. , who brought the picture over, came to me in the greatest distress, 'The set is ruined by the saltwater; you must try and restore the Lazarus. ' I was shut up for twodays, and painted the Lazarus. " On my asking if he believed it true, Mr. Beckford replied, "Perfectly true, for I saw it lying on the floor andthe figure of Lazarus was quite gone. " "Then you don't value thatpicture much?" "All the rest is perfect, and I offered 12, 000 pounds forthat and four more. I saw in the Escurial the marriage of Isaac andRebecca, now belonging to the Duke of Wellington. In fact, of all thepictures in the collection there is not more than one in ten that hasescaped repainting. The picture given by H. Carr I cannot admire, theoutline of the hill is so hard. It is just the picture Satan would showpoor Claude, if he has him, which we charitably hope he has not. "

November 10th, 1838. 

How poor dear Mozart would be frightened (moralised Mr. Beckford) couldhe hear some of our modern music! My father was very fond of music, andinvited Mozart to Fonthill. He was eight years old and I was six. Itwas rather ludicrous one child being the pupil of another. He went toVienna, where he obtained vast celebrity, and wrote to me, saying, "Doyou remember that march you composed which I kept so long? Well, I havejust composed a new opera and I have introduced your air. " "In whatopera?" asked I. "Why in the 'Nozze di Figaro. '" "Is it possible, sir, and which then is your air?" "You shall hear it. " Mr. Beckford opened apiano, and immediately began what I thought a sort of march, but soon Irecognized "Non piu andrai. " He struck the notes with energy and force, he sang a few words, and seemed to enter into the music with the greatestenthusiasm; his eye sparkled, and his countenance assumed an expressionwhich I had never noticed before. 

Mr. Beckford showed me some very fine original drawings by GasparPoussin, exceedingly delicate. On the back a profile most exquisitelyfinished, another just begun, and another by his brother in admirablestyle, sketch of a peacock by Houdekoeta. "When I was in Portugal, " saidMr. Beckford, "I had as much influence and power as if I had been theKing. The Prince Regent acknowledged me in public as his relation (whichindeed I was). I had the privilege of an entrance at all times, andcould visit the Royal Family in ordinary dress. Of course, on grandoccasions I wore Court costume. " He showed me a letter from a richbanker in Lisbon, a man in great esteem at the Palace; another letterfrom one of the first noblemen in Portugal, entreating him to use hisinfluence with the Prince Regent for the reversion of the decree ofconfiscation of some nobleman's estate; another from the Grand Prior ofAviz (in French). Mr. Beckford was treated as a grandee of the firstrank in Germany; he showed me an autograph of the Emperor Joseph. Voltaire said to him, "Je dois tout a votre oncle, Count Anthony H. TheDuchess was acknowledged in Paris by the Bourbon as Duchess deChatelrault. On going to Court I saw her sitting next the Royal Familywith the Duchess, whilst all the Court was standing. The Duchess hasfine taste for the arts, quite as strong a feeling as I have. The Dukealso is amazingly fond of the arts. The Marquis of D. Has a spice of mycharacter. "

The Claude looked more blooming and pearly than ever. I observed that Ihad never seen such a tone in any Claude in existence. I know manypictures which had that hue, but they have been so daubed and retouchedthat they are no longer the same. He showed me the Episodes. Onebegins, "Mes malheurs, O Caliphe sont encore plus grands que les votres, aussi bien que mes crimes, tu a ete trompe en ecoutant un navismalheureux; mais moi, pour me desobir d'une amitie la plus tendre, jesuis precipite dans ce lieu d'horreur. "

The origin of Beckford's "Lives of Extraordinary Painters" was very odd. When he was fifteen years old the housekeeper came to him, and said shewished he would tell her something about the artists who painted his finepictures, as visitors were always questioning her, and she did not knowwhat to answer. "Oh, very well; I'll write down some particulars aboutthem. " He instantly composed "Lives of Extraordinary Painters. " Thehousekeeper studied the manuscript attentively, and regaled herastonished visitors with the marvellous incidents it contained; however, finding many were sceptical, she came to her young master and told himpeople would not believe what she told them. "Not believe? Ah, that'sbecause it is only in manuscript. Then we'll have it printed; they'llbelieve when they see it in print. " He sent the manuscript to a Londonpublisher, and inquired what the expense of printing it would be. Thepublisher read it with delight, and instantly offered the youthful author50 pounds for the manuscript. The housekeeper was now able to silenceall cavilers by producing the book itself. 

Having left an umbrella in Lansdown-crescent, I inquired of the gentlemanto whom I am indebted for my introduction to Mr. Beckford if he thoughtit 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 youthink proper. I will only say that for my part I am always looking outfor squalls, but I daresay he will be glad to see you. " I accordinglydetermined to make a bold stroke and call on him, remembering the oldadage, "Quidlibet audendum picturis atque poetis. " The weather was mostdelightful. A wet and cold summer had been succeeded by warm autumnaldays, on which the sun shone without a cloud; it was one of those seasonsof settled fair so uncommon in our humid country, when after witnessing agolden sunset you might sleep

 Secure he'd rise to-morrow. 

I therefore called at the great man's house, and found the umbrella inthe exact corner in the ante-room where it had been left a fortnightbefore, and told the porter to announce my name to his master. I waitedin anxiety in the hall a few moments. The footman returned, saying hismaster was engaged, but if I would walk upstairs Mr. Beckford would cometo me. The servant led the way to the Duchess Drawing Room, opened thedoor, and on my entering he retired, leaving me alone in this gorgeousapartment, wondering what the dickens I did there. You may suppose I wasnot a little delighted at this mark of confidence, and spent severalminutes examining the pictures till the author of "Vathek" entered, hiscountenance beaming with good nature and affability. He extended hishand in the kindest manner, and said he was extremely glad to see me. Iinstantly declared the purport of my visit, that I had some copies ofpictures that were once in his possession, and that it would give me thegreatest possible pleasure to show them to him. "I shall be delighted tosee them" was the reply, "but for some days I am rather busy; I will comenext week. " "You have had a visit from the author of 'Italy', " Iobserved; "people say that you like Mr. R. 's poem. " "Oh yes, somepassages are very beautiful. He is a man of considerable talent; but whowas that person he brought with him? What a delightful man! I supposeit was Mr. L. " I replied, "I believe they are great friends. "

"What an awful state the country is in (he observed)! One has scarcelytime to think about poetry or painting, or anything else, when ourstupid, imbecile Government allows public meetings of 150, 000 men, wherethe most inflammatory language is used and the common people are calledon to arm, beginning, too, with solemn prayer. Their prayer will neversucceed. No, no, their solemn prayer is but a solemn mockery. Theyseemed to have forgotten the name of the only Mediator, without whoseintercession all prayer is worse than useless. Well, well (said Mr. Beckford), depend upon it we shall have a tremendous outbreak beforelong. The ground we stand on is trembling, and gives signs of anapproaching earthquake. Then will come a volcanic eruption; you willhave fire, stones, and lava enough. Afterwards, when the lava hascooled, there will be an inquiry for works of art. I assure you I expecteverything to be swept away. " I ventured to differ from him in thatopinion, and said I was convinced that whatever political changes mighthappen, property was perfectly secure. "Some reforms, " I said, "wouldtake place, and many pensions perhaps be swept away, but such changeswould never affect him or his, and after all it was but a matter ofpounds, shillings, and pence. " "There you are right, " he exclaimed. "Ifanything can save us 'twill be pounds, shillings, and pence, " meaning, Isuppose, a union of all classes who possessed property, from the pound ofthe peer to the penny of the plebeian. "But the present times are reallyvery critical. Have you time to go through the rooms with me?" hedemanded. I replied that nothing would give me greater pleasure. "Butperhaps you are going somewhere?" I answered that I was perfectlydisengaged. Passing along the landing of the stairs he paused before theAlderman's portrait, and observed, "Had my father's advice been taken weshould not now be in danger of starvation. " I ventured to say that inthose days there was more reciprocal feeling between the poor and therich than at present; now a-days classes are so divided by artificialbarriers that there is little or no sympathy between any. "You aremistaken, " he replied. "As long as I remember anything there was alwaysdiscontent, always heartburning; but at the time of my father's speechdissatisfaction had risen to such a pitch that I assure you these peoplewere on the point of being sent back to the place they came from. " (Healluded to the present Royal Family). 

Mr. Beckford opened the door of the great library, and on entering Iimmediately discovered the cause of my being so much puzzled as to itsarchitecture. There are two doors in this magnificent room; one leads tothe Duchess Drawing Room, the other to the landing, and to produce theair of privacy so delightful to a bookworm the latter is covered withimitative books, exactly corresponding with the rest of the library. Iremembered on my first entering the room from the staircase, and when theservant had closed the door, there appeared but one entrance, which wasthat by which we left this noble room, passing thence into the Duchess'sroom. I puzzled my brains in vain to make out the geography of theplace, but could make neither top nor tail, and should never have solvedthe 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. Irode 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 oncefar-famed Abbey of Fonthill, and to see if its scenery was really as fineas report had represented. The morning was cold and inauspicious, butwhen we reached Warminster the sun burst out through the mists that hadobscured him, and the remainder of the day was as genial and mild as ifhad been May. We procured the aid of a clownish bumpkin to carry ourcarpet bag, and left Warminster on foot. About four miles from that townthose barren and interminable downs are reached which seem to cover thegreater part of Wiltshire. The country is as wild as the mountainscenery of Wales, and the contrast between it and the polished city wehad left in the morning was truly singular. We took the road to_Hindon_, but a worthy old man, of whom we asked particulars, pointed outa pathway, which cut off at least a mile and a half. We followed hisdirection, and left the high road. Mounting the hill by a steep andchalky road we reached a considerable elevation; before us extended asuccession of downs, and in the extreme distance a blue hill of singularform, at least nine miles off, was crowned by buildings of very unusualappearance. Curiosity as to the place was at its utmost stretch, but ourignorant bumpkin could tell nothing about it. It surely cannot beFonthill was the instant suggestion? Impossible. Can we see the remainsat this distance? We continued our walk for about two miles, withoutlosing sight of this interesting edifice, and at length all doubts werecleared in the certainty that the long wished-for object was absolutelybefore us. It is impossible to describe the feelings of interestexperienced by the sight of these gigantic remains. The eastern transeptstill rises above the woods, a point, pinnacle, and round tower. Descending the hill towards Hindon we lost sight of the Abbey. A mostsingular specimen of country life was presented by an old shepherd, ofwhom we inquired the way. "How far is it to Hindon?" "About fourmiles. " "Is this the right road?" "Yes, you cannot miss it, but Ihaven't been there these forty years. Naa, this is forty years agonesave two that I went to Hindon: 'twas in 1807. "

This place, which once sent members to Parliament, and which the authorof "Vathek" himself represented for many years, is not so large as thevillage of Batheaston! There are neither lamps nor pavement, but itpossesses a most picturesque little church. It was one of the rottenboroughs swept away, and properly enough, by the Reform Bill. Here ourrustic relinquished his burden to a Hindon lad, who acted as our futurecicerone, and undertook to show us the way to the inn called the BeckfordArms. Soon after leaving Hindon the woods of Fonthill were reached. Wemounted a somewhat steep hill, and here met with a specimen of thegigantic nature of the buildings. A tunnel about 100 feet long passedunder the noble terrace, reaching from Knoyle to Fonthill Bishop, atleast three miles in length; the tunnel was formed to keep the groundsprivate. The beech trees, now arrayed in gaudy autumnal tints, seenthrough this archway have a lovely effect. Emerging from the tunnel, thefamous wall, seven miles long, was just in front. To the left you tracethe terrace, on a charming elevation, leading to Fonthill Gardens, andhere and there you have glimpses of the great lake. The ground is brokenand varied in the most picturesque fashion. You pass some cottages thatremind 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 porticosupported 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 thatsavoured of the refined taste that once reigned in this happy solitude. It is lofty, spacious, and surrounded by oak panels; it has a charmingbow window, where are elegantly represented, in stained glass on distinctshields, the arms of Alderman Beckford, his wife, and their eccentricson. 

The evening was most lovely. A soft haze had prevailed the wholeafternoon, and as there was still an hour's daylight I determined oninstantly visiting the ruins. Just without the sacred enclosure thatonce prevented all intrusion to this mysterious solitude is the lovelylittle village of Fonthill Gifford; its charming cottages, with theirneat gardens and blooming roses, are a perfect epitome of Englishrusticity. A padlocked gate admits the visitor within the barrier; asteep road, but gently winding so as to make access easy, leads you tothe hill, where once stood "the gem and the wonder of earth. "

The road is broad and entirely arched by trees. Emerging suddenly fromtheir covert an astonishing assemblage of ruins comes into view. Beforeyou stands the magnificent eastern transept with its two beautifuloctangular towers, still rising to the height of 120 feet, but rooflessand desolate; the three stately windows, 60 feet high, as open to the skyas Glastonbury Abbey; in the rooms once adorned with choicest paintingsand rarities trees are growing. Oh what a scene of desolation! What thenoble poet said of "Vathek's" residence in Portugal we may now literallysay 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 nowsee as ruins, and which were lately the abode of splendour andmagnificence. Ruins that have been such for ages, whose tenants havelong since been swept away, recall ideas of persons and times so far backthat we have no sympathy with them at all; but if you wish for a sight ofall that is melancholy, all that is desolate, visit a modern ruin. Wepassed through briars and brambles into the great octagon. Straightbefore us stands the western doorway of the noble entrance hall; butwhere is its oaken roof, with its proud heraldic emblazonments, where itslofty painted windows, where its ponderous doors, more than 30 feet high?The cross still remains above, as if symbolical that religion triumphsover all, and St. Anthony still holds out his right hand as if to protectthe sylvan and mute inhabitants of these groves that here once foundsecure shelter from the cruel gun and still more cruel dog. But he istottering in his niche, and when the wind is high is seen to rock, as ifhis reign were drawing to a close. 

Of the noble octagon but two sides remain. Looking up, but at such anamazing elevation that it makes one's neck ache, still are seen twowindows of the four nunneries that adorned its unique and unrivalledcircuit. 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 doorwayof the southern entrance hall, that door which once admitted thousands ofthe curious when Fonthill was in its glory. This wing, though not yet inruins, 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. Thisroom has survived the surrounding desolation, and gives you a slight ideaof the former glories of the place. Each window consists of fourgigantic pieces of plate-glass, and in the midst of red, purple, lilac, and yellow ornaments are painted four elegant figures, designed by theartist, Hamilton, of kings and knights, from whom Mr. Beckford wasdescended. As there are eight windows there are thirty-two figures, drawn most correctly. What reflections crowd the mind on beholding thisonce gorgeous room! There stood the sideboard, once groaning beneath theweight of solid gold salvers. In this very room dined frequently themagnificent "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. Onthe right hand is the famous cedar boudoir, whose odoriferous perfume issmelt even here. We entered the Fountain Court, but sought in vain thestream that was once forced up, at vast expense, from the vale below andtrickled 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 departwhile there was yet light enough to trace our path through the gloomywood. We entered its thick and umbrageous covert, and were near losingour road before we reached the barrier gate. The road was strewed withdry 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 thanthat afforded by momentary enjoyment, tempting and blooming as thefoliage of summer, but evanescent as its withered leaves. 

The next morning was finer than our most sanguine wishes could haveanticipated. We were not long dispatching our comfortable breakfast, andhastened to the barrier gate. We here met a venerable woman, whose noblefeatures and picturesque dress would have served as a splendid model forGainsborough or Ben Barker. Stopping to inquire a nearer road to theAbbey, as she seemed indigenous to the place, I was tempted to ask if sheknew Mr. Beckford. "I have seen him, sir, many, many times; but he isgone, 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 nevergave away anything. " "Good gracious, sir, who could have invented suchlies? There never was a kinder friend to the poor, and when he left theylost 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 andwagons for coal to Warminster, and make them cut through the snow tofetch 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. " "Yousurprise me. " "I saw him coming once with his servants. I had my babyin my arms--that's she that lives in that cottage yonder, she's grown awoman now--and I was shuffling along to get out of his way, when hecalled out, 'What a beautiful little babe, let me look at it, ' and thenhe 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 wasdelighted at the little anecdote, and I am sure the good woman's praisewas perfectly disinterested. Those who know anything of the poor areconvinced they never flatter those from whom they can never again deriveany benefit. I had almost expected to hear curses, if not loud at leastdeep. 

A bailiff resides in the Abbey stables, who has charge of the place, butthe "steeds are vanished from the stalls. " We inquired if we could seethe remaining apartments, but found the bailiff was gone to Hindon, andhad taken the keys with him. Here was a difficulty indeed. "Perhaps, "said his daughter, "you can get into the great Tower staircase; I thinkthe door is open. " We proceeded thither, but alas! a ponderous door andlocked most unequivocally denied all entrance. "Perhaps father has leftthe key in his old coat; I will run and see" said our interesting youngcicerone. She scuttled off, and we waited in anxiety, till in fiveminutes she returned with a large bunch of keys, the passport to theextraordinary apartments still remaining. My joy was as great at hearingthe lock turn as was ever "Vathek's" when he discovered the Indian at thegate of the Hall of Eblis with his _clef d'or_. The great circularstaircase survived the shock of the falling tower. The stairs wind rounda 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 stairsabove your head. Numerous small windows make the staircase perfectlylight, and the inside is so clean that it is difficult to believe it isnot continually scoured and whitened, but this I was assured was not thecase. Two hundred and ten steps lead to a leaden roof, the view fromwhich beggars description. You have here a bird's eye view of the lovelyestate. Majestic trees, hanging woods, and luxuriant plantations coverthe ground for two or three miles round, whilst beyond this begin thoseimmense and interminable downs for which Wiltshire is so noted; they aredreary and barren enough in themselves, but at such a point as this, where the foreground and middle distance are as verdant and richly cladwith trees as can possibly be desired, their effect is very beautiful. The absence of enclosures produces breadth and repose, and the localcolour melts gradually into the grey distance in the most charmingmanner. Looking westward the great avenue, a mile in length, presentsitself; to the south the Beacon-terrace, a green road more than two mileslong, leads to a high hill, where the Alderman commenced, but neverfinished, a triangular tower. This road, or rather avenue, has a mostcharming effect; the trees that bound its sides are planted in a zigzagdirection, so as to destroy the appearance of formality, whilst inreality 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 thesouth 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 immenseplantations of dark pines give it this sombre hue, but in reality thewaters are clear as crystal. Beyond these groves, still looking south, you discover the woods about Wardour Castle, and amongst them the silverygleam of another sheet of water. To the south-west is the giant spire ofSalisbury, which since the fall of Fonthill Tower now reigns in solitarystateliness over these vast regions of down and desert. Stourton Towerpresents itself to the north, whilst to the west, in the extremedistance, several high hills are traced which have quite a mountainouscharacter--

 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 tohave suffered from the fall of the Tower, and we next proceeded toinspect it. A winding staircase from the kitchen court leads you at onceto that portion of the gallery called the vaulted corridors. Theceilings of four consecutive rooms are beautiful beyond all expectation. Prepared as I was by the engravings in Rutter and Britton to admire theseceilings, I confess that the real thing was finer than I could possiblyhave imagined. King Edward's ceiling of dark oak (and its ornaments instrong relief) is as fresh as if just painted, and the beautiful corniceround the four walls of this stately gallery is still preserved, with itsthree gilded mouldings, but the seventy-two emblazoned shields thatformed an integral part of the frieze have been ruthlessly torn off. Theroof of the vaulted corridor with its gilded belts is the most perfect ofthe series of rooms, and that of the sanctum is beautifully rich; it isfretted in the most elegant way with long drops, pendants, or hangingslike icicles, at least nine inches deep. Here alas! the hands of vandalshave knocked off the gilded roses and ornaments that were suspended. These three apartments are painted in oak, and gold is most judiciouslyintroduced on prominent parts. But the ceiling of the last compartmentis beyond all praise; it gleams as freshly with purple, scarlet, and goldas if painted yesterday. Five slender columns expand into and support agilded reticulation on a dark crimson ground. In the centre of theceiling is still hanging the dark crimson cord which formerly supportedthe elegant golden lamp I had formerly admired in Lansdown-crescent; itseemed to have been hastily cut down, and its height from the floor andits deep colour, the same as the ceiling, has probably prevented itsobservation and removal. The southern end of the gallery has beenstripped of its floor, and it was with difficulty, and not withoutdanger, I got across a beam; and, standing with my back against the brickwall that has been built up at the end, where were once noble glazeddoors opening into the grand octagon, I surveyed the whole lovelyperspective; the length from this spot is 120 feet. The beautifulreddish alabaster chimney-piece still remains, but it is split in thecentre, whether from the weight of wall or a fruitless attempt to tear itout I know not. The recesses, once adorned with the choicest and rarestbooks, still retain their sliding shelves, but the whole framework of thewindows has been removed, and they are open to the inclemency of theweather, or roughly boarded up. The stove, once of polished steel, isnow brown and encrusted with rust as if the iron were 500 years old. Itis impossible for an architect or artist to survey the ruthless andwanton destruction of this noble wing, unscathed and uninjured but by thehands of barbarous man, without feelings of the deepest regret andsorrow. How forcibly do the lines of the noble bard recur to the mind onsurveying these apartments, still magnificent, yet neglected, and slowlyand 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. 

I ran up the circular staircase, and entered the noble state bedroom. Theenormous plate glasses still remain; the ceiling is of carved oakrelieved by gold ornaments. With what emotion did I turn through thenarrow gallery, leading to the state room, to the tribune, which lookedinto the great octagon. A lofty door was at the extremity. I attemptedto open it; it yielded to the pressure, and I stood on the very balconythat looked into the octagon. 

Here the whole scene of desolation is surveyed at a glance. How deepwere my feelings of regret at the destruction of the loftiest domesticapartment in the world. Twenty years ago this glorious place was in allits splendour. High in the air are still seen two round windows thatonce lighted the highest bedrooms in the world. What an extraordinaryidea! On this lofty hill, 120 feet from the ground, were four bedrooms. Below these round windows are the windows of two of the chambers callednunneries. Landing on this balcony I quickly conjured up a vision offormer glory. There were the lofty windows gleaming with purple andgold, producing an atmosphere of harmonious light peculiar to this place, the brilliant sunshine covering everything within its influence withyellow quatrefoils. From that pointed arch once descended draperies 50feet long! The very framework of these vast windows was covered withgold. There was the lovely gallery opening to the nunneries, throughwhose arches ceilings were discovered glittering with gold, and wallscovered with pictures. Exactly opposite was another tribune similar tothis; below it the immense doors of St. Michael's Gallery, whose crimsoncarpet, thickly strewed with white roses; was seen from this place, whilst far, far above, at an elevation of 130 feet, was seen the loftydome, its walls pierced with eight tall windows, and even these werepainted and their frames gilded. The crimson list to exclude draughtstill remained on these folding doors, but the lock was torn off! Iclosed the doors, not without a feeling of sadness, and returning to thesmall gallery again ran up the Lancaster Gallery to another noblebedroom. Finding the stairs still intact I mounted them, and found adoor, which opened on to the roof. We were now on the top of theLancaster Tower. Though not so extensive as the view from the platformof the great staircase, there is a peep here that is most fascinating; itis the extreme distance seen through the ruined window of the oppositenunnery. 

The glimpse I had of the bittern lake having sharpened my appetite to seeit, I descended the staircase of the Lancaster turret, and marching offin a southerly direction hastened towards its shores. But it is soburied in wood that it was not without some difficulty we found it. Neverin happy England did I see a spot that so forcibly reminded me ofSwitzerland. Though formed by Art, so happily is it concealed thatNature alone appears, and this lovely lake seems to occupy the crater ofan extinct volcano. It is much larger than I anticipated. A walk runsall round it; I followed its circuit, and soon had a glorious view of theAbbey, standing in solitary stateliness on its wooded hill on theopposite side. The waters were smooth as a mirror, and reflected theruined building; its lofty towers trembled on the crystal wave, as ifthey were really rocking and about to share the fate of the giant Towerthat was once here reflected. We followed the banks of the lake. Passingsome noble oaks that were dipping their extended boughs in the water, wesoon gained the opposite side. Here is a labyrinth of exotic plants, amaze of rhododendrons, azaleas, and the productions of warmer climes, growing as if indigenous to the soil. We passed between great walls ofrhododendrons, in some places 15 feet high, and reached a seat, fromwhence you see the whole extent of this lovely sheet of water. What Ihad seen and admired so much on Lansdown was here carried to its utmostperfection; I mean the representation of a southern wilderness. In thisspot the formality of gardening is absolutely lost. These enormousexotic plants mingle with the oak, the beech, and the pine, so naturallythat they would delight a landscape painter. These dark and solemngroves of fir, contrasting so strikingly with the beech woods, nowarrayed in their last gaudiest dress, remind me forcibly of Switzerlandand the Jura Mountains, which I saw at this very season. Nature at thisperiod is so gaudily clad that we may admire her for her excessivevariety of tints, but cannot dare to copy her absolutely. In thissheltered and sequestered spot the oaks, though brown and leaflesselsewhere, are still verdant as July. Every varied shade of theluxuriant groves--yellow, red, dark, and light green--every shade isreflected in these clear waters. Three tall trees on the opposite shorehave, however, quite lost their leaves, and their reflection in the waveis so exactly like Gothic buildings, that one is apt to imagine you seebeneath the waters the fairy palace of the Naiads, the guardians of thisterrestrial Paradise.