Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

“July 20.—Dined at the little village of Friston, seated deep down between immense hills, in a valley, that about a mile off opens to the sea, at the dangerous place called Burling Gap. A Prussian captain, whose vessel had been wrecked at the foot of Beacky, as our landlord called it, had been nine weeks at our poor little inn. The village had been almost buried in the snow, which came down upon the village from the steep sides of the hills; then the thaw nearly overwhelmed it. From the summit of a hill, on our way to Eastbourne, immense retrospect of sea and land. Surprising appearance of the sea, which seemed to rise so high, that it could scarce be distinguished from clouds; ships looked like birds in the sky. Nothing seen but great and simple objects—the round sea—the huge uncultivated headlands.”

The ascent of Beachy Head, and the view from it, are described at some length in the Journal; but the following scene on the shore is more peculiar and striking.

“July 23. Walked to the shore and along it, with a hope of having some sight of the sea—front of Beachy Head from beneath it, though four or five miles off. The beach impassable by any sort of carriage. A shore of ruins under the cliffs, which gradually rise from what is called the Wish-House, a small white building standing sweetly near the beach, to the summit of the Cape. Large blocks of granite imbedded on the shore, and extending to the waves, which rage and foam over them, giving one dreadful ideas of shipwreck. Sometimes, patches of gravelly sand, or pebbles, soon ending against masses of granite, or chalk, between which it is difficult, and not always possible to walk; some of them must be stepped upon. Within half a mile of the great front, unable to proceed farther; sat down on a block, wearied out, desiring William to go on; he was soon hid by a turn of the cliffs. Almost frightened at the solitude and vastness of the scene, though _Chance_[1] was with me. Tide almost out; only sea in front; white cliffs rising over me, but not impending; strand all around a chaos of rocks and fallen cliffs, far out into the waves; sea-fowl wheeling and screaming; all disappeared behind the point, beyond which, is the great cliff; but we had doubled point after point, in the hope that this would be the next, and had been much deceived in the distances by these great objects; after one remote point gained, another and another succeeded, and still the great cliff was unattained; the white precipices beautifully varied with plants, green, blue, yellow and poppy. Wheat-ears flew up often from the beach: _Chance_ pursued them. At length, William returned, having been nearly, but not quite, in front of the great promontory. Slowly and laboriously we made our way back along the beach, greatly fatigued, the day exceedingly hot, the horizon sulphurous, with lowering clouds; thunder rolled faintly at a distance.”

Footnote 1:

Her favourite Dog.

The same afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe continued their tour to Hastings. The following is the picturesque view of their journey from Bexhill to Hastings, in the evening.

“From Bexhill, descended between the high, shrubby banks of lanes, so narrow, that the wheels seemed to fill the passage; in some places a horse could not have passed; we met no carriage, or we must have backed a great way. Breathing honeysuckles on the banks; deep twilight. Heard the sea frequently on our right when the wheels stopped. We had before passed Pevensey levels and the town, with its fine old castle: towers in ruins. On our approach, it reminded one of Newark castle. Near eleven, before we reached Hastings; no moon; starlight; milky-way very lucid; seemed to rise out of the sea. Solemn and pleasing night-scene. Glowworms, in great numbers, shone silently and faintly on the dewy banks, like something supernatural. Judgment of Shakspeare in selecting this image to assist the terrific impression in his ghost-scene. May be called earth-stars. The coast patrole passed us. How far to Hastings? Three miles. Farther on had a narrow escape: horse and chaise suddenly plunged down a bank into the pebbles; nearly overturned. Happily our horse stood quite still, after the shock, and until we had ascertained the rugged course we were in; I walked the rest of the way. Pass under grand, dark rocks, disjointed and starting up in splintered points, and huge masses. These rocks, near the beach and over the road, continue to where the houses open.”

From Hastings Mrs. Radcliffe proceeded along the coast to Dover, to which place she was extremely partial, and thence by Feversham to London. After minutely detailing her little adventures, she thus concludes her journey:—

“In all our tour saw nothing so fine and beautiful as the views of sea and land from the Downs over the East Bourne. The sweet repose of the landscape and sea-bay to Hastings, and the grandeur of the various views, on all sides between the valleys of the South Downs, and even above these summits, circling nearly the whole horizon, with soft blue waves.”

In the autumn of this year, Mrs. Radcliffe spent a fortnight at Little Hampton, and returning by Haslemere, thus describes the country immediately southward of that place.

“Three miles of continual ascent, or descent of almost tremendous hills, long and steep opening to vast distances, now obscured in ruin, but sublime in their obscurity—

‘Where wilds immeasurably spread,
Seem lengthening, as we go.’—GOLDSMITH.

‘These high, wild hills and rough uneven roads,
Drag out our miles and make them wearisome.’
CYMBELINE.

“This is the country, from which Collins drew his first ideas, and fed his early taste for the wild and the grand.

’O! vales and wild-woods, would he say,
In yonder grave your Druid lies.”
COLLINS.

“Have never seen such wild woody mountains before in England; they resemble the forests of Wetteravia more than any I have seen, but with this difference, that there the mountains are more pointing, abrupt and rocky, and that here the road often winds round the edge of the hills into deep and most picturesque glades, where comfortable cottages lie snug beneath noble trees, and ruddy children play under the branches, among the huge timber felled on the ground, the Woodman’s implements and the thatched hovel. Sylvan, or other rural industry appeared in every hamlet. Clouds of smoke from places, where wood was charred, sometimes darkened the air. This is the most woody tract in Sussex, and probably in England. The eastern end of the country has no wood: the immense hills stand bare in all their grandeur.”

The following notes are extracted from the Journal of a Tour, made in the autumn of 1801, to Southampton, Lymington, and the Isle of Wight. The two first days’ journey supply no matters of interest: in the afternoon of the third day, 29th Sept. the travellers thus approach the beautiful neighbourhood of Southampton:

“At length, the blue hill tops of the Isle of Wight appeared faintly on the horizon, over the stretching forest masses of the near scene. At the sixth mile-stone, entered a part of the New Forest; beautiful woods and glades; thick trees shadowing the road; wherever the woods opened, especially on the right and in front, other rich masses and others still beyond, rose pompously. One of the perspectives in front particularly fine, as we saw our road descending among the deep woods, and other woods rising up the hills and crowning the bold summit of an eminence, that seemed to rear itself over all the forest. The deep gloom of stormy clouds and fleeting lights of sunshine extremely various; the sun often shedding a misty glory over the solemn woods in the west, while sudden and awful shadows dwelt wide over other summits. Passed a most picturesque hamlet of green mossed cottages scattered round a little lawn, where the woods opened, but closed again in thicker shades. Four miles of this sweet scenery, when we entered upon heath, and came upon a high level common, extending a mile, or two, that opened upon a vast prospect on either hand: in front, all the hills of the Isle of Wight, from east to west, swelled along the horizon. On the right, the wavy woods of the New Forest bounded all the western and northern view. The richness of this vast mass of tufted woods is indescribable. Part of the Southampton water was visible on this side, flowing between wooded banks with villages on its edge. On the left, the view over the vale was not so grand, but more diversified by the light green of pastures and by frequent villages and white mansions among the woods, that spread among the gentle slopes. Showers and sunshine alternately dimmed and brightened the hills. The splendour of the sun fell, at times, upon the forest, in the west, while a heavy shower darkened an open valley in the east, softened the verdure of the nearer hills, and spread over the woods and meadows and villages a gradual chastening tint, that was enchanting. At length, the spire of the great church of Southampton appeared over the woods in front, while the town was yet unseen.”

After a short notice of Southampton, where Mrs. Radcliffe remained only two nights, the Journal proceeds:—

“After breakfast, set off for Lyndhurst; passed along the head of the bay, and by Millbrook, then the long bridge and causeway. After a long hill, descend upon the New Forest, and pass between open lawns and woods, capping every little eminence, and spreading round like those of Kensington Gardens. Longed for the speed of a stag to bound along these lawns and endless forest-glades. Dined at the Crown, in a parlour opposite to the inn, which was full; some forest-commissioners here. The Princess Sophia of Gloucester expected at the King’s House; shown to us by an elderly woman. Good rooms; ancient furniture. A wood fire on the hearth of the Princess’s room and on that of the dining-room below. All these rooms look under thick lofty trees to the forest woods, that rise close over the village, towards Brokenhurst. Oak-benches at the upper end of Rufus’-hall, where the forest courts are held—the most ancient part of the building. A large iron stirrup, called Rufus’s stirrup.

“From Lyndhurst, the ride to Brokenhurst is through five miles of pompous forest groves, of which grandeur is the characteristic, mingled with great beauty. The forest crowds over the road. Only two spots the whole way where the trees retire round lawns. Hence to Lymington: the country is inclosed; but still the lanes are forest-lanes. Passed Boldre, leaving Mr. Gilpin’s a mile on the left, and soon came in view of the Isle of Wight, with Lymington, and its neat cupola-church. Came in at dusk; made our way in the market-place, between waggons and cheese piled up for the morrow’s fair.

“Oct. 3. Left Lymington at half past three, in the packet for Yarmouth; after viewing the fair, and the fine booths of trinkets and plate. Passed many charming residences among the woody banks on the left. Glided smoothly under a light summer air; the evening splendid, and the scene most lovely. The Needles are vast dark blocks of rock, tall, but not pointed, standing out from the island in the sea. Hurst castle, with its dark line of peninsula stretching athwart the Channel. The Needles become more huge seen against the light, with the point of the Alum Rock in shade. These objects, with the high line of the Isle of Purbeck, faintly grey beyond, composed a perfect picture, with most harmonious colouring. The light silver grey of the sea first met the eye, then the dark Alum Rock projected to meet Hurst Castle, whose towers were pencilled in deep grey beyond, which softened away to the heights of Purbeck, that closed the perspective. After sunset, streaks of brightest crimson appeared on the sky, behind clouds, black and swelling; the upper shores clear, though dark. Approached Yarmouth, under this sweet twilight. The western shore of Yarmouth goes off in a darkly wooded point, with many white houses, or cottages, among the trees. Landed on Yarmouth quay, small, and crowded with people. Dutch sentinels on the little fort over the quay and rampart of the old castle. Our inn built by Sir Robert Holmes, governor of the island, on the scite, I fancy, of Henry the Eighth’s old castle. Our horse and gig came in another packet.

“Oct. 4. After breakfasting at Yarmouth, set out in a bright morning for the Light-house above the Needles. As we rose, the Channel and the English coast, from Portsdown Hill (known by its long chalk-pit) to the shore near Pool in Dorsetshire, lay before us, bounded partly by the New Forest and thick inclosures, and spreading with towns and villages and innumerable seats and farms, with a vast extent of the northern part of the Isle of Wight, and with Southampton Bay, to Lymington, here and there a white house on the shore, snug under trees, and other house-tops peeping out, almost wherever I directed the glass, above the forest. Discovered Lyndhurst steeple, with the large white house at Mount Royal, ‘bosomed high in tufted trees.’ The whole country, from the neighbourhood of Southampton to the West, rises gradually from the shore into a line of horizon little varied; but the richness and cheerful beauty of this widely extending amphitheatre, seen over the calm blue Channel, with here and there a white sail and a ship of war at anchor, permit no desire for greater variety. As we rose upon the down, this scene enlarged: the Isle of Purbeck became more majestic; its outline is more mountainous than that of the Isle of Wight, with a range of high awful cliffs below. It was now tinged with misty azure, but the sun brightened all the sea before it. Two of its summits appeared finely in the perspective from Cowes’ Point. The effect of the sea so close on either hand of this vast western promontory, called the Needle Point, or the Alum rock, running out upon the ocean like a long narrow causeway, is awful. You have a wonderful and rather a painful sensation of the narrowness of the earth that bears you, though it may be half a mile, or more, in width. As the Needle rocks were not visible from the Light-house, we left the chaise, and descended the down half a mile, and looked upon them. On their summits, which now seem sharp, and splintered into ledges and points, perceived with the glass numbers of dark birds quietly seated; not one took wing, or uttered any cry. Perhaps it was owing to our great height, that the Needles disappointed us, and appeared insignificant, compared with the grander objects around us: listened to the surge breaking below, round the feet of these rocks. Did not venture near enough the edge to see into Alum Bay. Drove to Freshwater Bay. The inn at Freshwater Gate in the bottom is a little cottage, with two or three rooms apart on the beach. A ruinous and desolate shore spreads and rises on either hand. Mounted a promontory, which confined our view from the inn, on the right. Greatness and desolation. As the tide was coming in, could not see a cave in the cliff below. Returned to Yarmouth at five.”

The following is Mrs. Radcliffe’s account of a visit to the tract called Undercliffe.

“Oct. 6. Set off for the Undercliffe, a tract of shore formed by fallen cliffs, and closely barricadoed by a wall of rock of vast height. Entered upon it about a mile from Kniton, and found ourselves in such a scene of ruin, as we never saw before. The road is, for the most part, close to the wall of rock, which seems to lie in loose horizontal strata, with frequent perpendicular fissures, which threaten the traveller with destruction, as he passes sometimes beneath enormous masses, that lean forward. This is the boundary on one side of the road; on the other side, is an extremely irregular and rugged descent of half a mile towards the sea: on this side, there are sometimes what may be called amphitheatres of rock, where all the area is filled with ruins, which are, however, frequently covered with verdure and underwood, that stretch up the sides, with the wildest pomp, and shelter here a cottage, here a villa among the rocky hillocks. We were two hours and a half in going from Kniton to the inn at Steephill, five miles, W. leading the horse almost the whole way: a Druid scene of wildness and ruin. Sometimes the road led us into vast semicircular bays of rock, filled up entirely to the eye with wild wood and broken hillocks; the sea below appearing to stretch so from point to point, that it seemed impossible to make our way out, till the road led us under projecting crags of the promontory into other recesses, and, winding under these threatening walls, again led near the sea, on which I looked down, not without terror. Descended upon the romantic and sweet village of St. Lawrence, among thickets on a hill, near the shore. Beautiful cottages, covered with ivy even to the chimney tops, with each its garden, and some with little orchards hung with golden fruit; clear, gushing rills passing under the shades to the sea. A mile beyond, the beautiful village of Steephill, in the same style. Went to the New Inn, standing on a hill, with a wide sea view in front, half a mile off, and at the foot of St. Boniface Downs, whose steep green sides rise to a tremendous height behind it, having below them, on the other hand, the little woody village of St. Boniface, with its beautiful cottages and villas.”

The remaining memoranda of the visit to Steephill, are too long to be extracted, but contain some beautiful descriptions, and several vivid notices of the effects of light, as for example:—“The sea in gloom, with gleams of cold silvery light upon it, where the clouds began to break: these lights finely marked the distances on the grand surface of the ocean, as they fell in blue lines.” Again, “Sunlights on the sea, and, now and then, bright green spots between black shadows;”—in the evening “a fiery sunset with _sullen_ clouds.” The following short recollection of a storm is full of feeling and power:—

“After dark, a storm, with thunder and lightning; listened to the strong, steady force of the wind and waves below. The thunder rolled and burst at intervals, and often the sound was so mingled with that of the wind and waves, as to be scarcely distinguished from it. No complaining of the wind, but a strong and awful monotony. Lightning, very blue, showed at moments the foaming waves far out: utter darkness between the flashes. Glad to hear from the other side of the house, cheerful voices talking, or singing. When the storm subsided, the thunder rolled away towards the Sussex coast. This display of the elements was the grandest scene I ever beheld; a token of God directing his world. What particularly struck me was the appearance of irresistible power, which the deep monotonous sound of the wind and surge conveyed. Nothing sudden; nothing laboured; all a continuance of sure power, without effort.”

From Steephill the travellers proceeded to Ryde, where Mrs. Radcliffe made the following characteristic remarks:—“Rejoice to look again on a peopled sea, and prefer this point of the Isle, for animated and beautiful scenery, to any other. The back of the island has very extensive views; and, for that extensiveness, may be called grand; but there are no mountain lines, no shapes, that overwhelm us with admiration: the want of wood forbids them magnificence. The undercliff is wild and romantic, rather than grand; but the sea horizon from it, is often very grand. Upon the whole, I prefer rich beauty to wild beauty, unless accompanied by such shapes of grandeur as verge upon the sublime. Lovely sunset; a roseate, melting into saffron and shades of blue; some light purple streaks. Below, the dark woody line of shore bending towards Cowes; the bay at its feet, purpled from the clouds. All this seen from our bed-room windows, above and between lofty trees.”

Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe returned by Salisbury. We extract from the journal the approach to Salisbury and the description of its Cathedral.

“Oct. 13. Rainy morning; cleared up to a lovely afternoon. Left Southampton before twelve, for Salisbury. Turned out of the road, at the village of Totting, and soon entered upon the skirts of the New Forest, but saw no avenues there, no lovely forest-glades, rather forest-land, than forest; but we had often rich woody views into the vale, near Southampton on the right, and continual forests rising on the left; and a few miles from Plaitford, came upon some of the sweetest scenery of the New Forest. Upon a wild glade, touching effect of misty light, beyond its gloom. Sometimes an opening in the near copses showed a distant perspective of deep shade. About five miles from Salisbury, gain the summit of a high ridge, and look at once upon a new and grander ridge large and sharper hills rising to a great extent, with the vast Cathedral and lofty spire of Salisbury in front. We had lingered so much on our road, that as we entered Salisbury, a new moon gave us faintly the shadow of its sublime Cathedral, with its pointed roofs and its pinnacles and its noble spire. How could Mr. Gilpin prefer a tower to it! Saw, as we passed, the moonlight shining through the windows of the aisles and touching aslant the lofty spire, while the elms beside it were in deep shade. Had entered the city by a deep Gothic gateway, and saw others lighted up in perspective, in a street, out of which we turned to our inn, the Antelope—a very good inn.

“Oct. 14. Went, in the rain, to the Cathedral; entered it just as the organ and chaunt struck up; very fine, but not so solemn, as at Canterbury. The church most light, beautiful and elegant; but it did not affect me, like the solemn simplicity, the awful roofs and grand perspective of Canterbury. The tone of the organ, too, very good, but did not listen for its swelling and dying sounds, as through the vast aisles of Canterbury; there is not space for them to roll in, and murmur afar off, as there. Was much struck with the effigies of the dead, laid out on each side of the great aisle, from pillar to pillar. Having been brought by Mr. Wyatt from St. Mary’s Chapel, that terminates the choir, they have been placed on a raised step, that seems indeed to have been originally designed for them. The pillars of this Cathedral are in Gothic clusters, not of the slender form, that afterwards prevailed, but, as Mr. Gilpin says, “when Saxon heaviness first began to give way.” Their effect is elegant. They are washed of a stone colour, as are the walls and roofs; the last are without tracery, and are marked as if of brick. The arches are obtusely pointed, having one narrow vein of open work running near the outer edge, which gives lightness to them.”

After an attempt to visit Stonehenge, which was frustrated by a violent storm, Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe returned, in the leisurely manner which they preferred, to London.

In the autumn of 1802, Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe took a journey to Leicester and Warwick, and returned by Woodstock and Oxford. From the journal kept during that tour, the following descriptions of Kenilworth, of one or two scenes in Warwick Castle, and of Blenheim, are perhaps most worthy of selection. Both Warwick Castle and Blenheim are described with great minuteness; but both these mansions are so generally known, that it is thought sufficient to extract such portions of the accounts of them only, as are most characteristic of the writer’s feelings and tastes.

KENILWORTH.

“Left Coventry at half past twelve, and passed through a pleasant well-wooded country to Kenilworth. Almost every village over-topped with lofty trees. Passed for some miles over Kenilworth Chase, by a straight road of noble breadth, bordered with forest. Part of this forest was, in former times, cut down, in order to dislodge robbers. The gate of the castle, to which we drove up, is in the grey square tower, built on a high rock, by Leicester. This gate being now a residence, the former entrance by it to the court of the Castle is stopped up, and we passed through the garden, at its side, into the green and open area, that was once the grand court of the castle. Hence we looked up to the noble masses of ruin, that still stand proudly, and form three broken and irregular sides of what was once the inner court. Of the buildings that formed the fourth side, there are now no vestiges, except the _knolliness_ of the ground, where they once stood, may be called such, and except part of the buildings still called Leicester’s, these having been built by him. These are a fine mass of ruined walls, covered with thickest ivy, on the left; on the right, stands a more noble mass, with three lofty arches in a row, going the whole depth of the wall, sixteen feet: this is called Cæsar’s Tower, and, though the oldest part of the Castle, appears, on the outside, the freshest and newest. It is of a greyer and more solid stone than the rest. This, too, is finely hung with ivy. Between these masses, in perspective, forming the third side of the court, is the most picturesque remainder of the castle, though Cæsar’s Tower is the grandest. This was once the great hall, or banqueting-room. Its three beautiful pointed window-frames are there still; and the arch of a Gothic door, most elegantly twined with vine-leaves, all now hung and clustered with the richest drapery of ivy. The trunk of some of this ivy is of great thickness, and it is so old, that in some places, the branches are sapless and leafless, and the grey stalks seemed to crawl about the ruin in sympathy. Other remains of buildings partly connect the three sides of the court, and are intermingled and crowned with alder and ash plants. This view of the ruin was very striking; the three chief masses great and solemn, without being beautiful. They spoke at once to the imagination, with the force and simplicity of truth, the nothingness and brevity of this life—‘generations have beheld us and passed away, as you now behold us, and shall pass away: they thought of the generations before them, as you now think of them, and as future ages shall think of you. We have witnessed this, yet we remain; the voices that revelled beneath us are heard no more, yet the winds of Heaven still sound in our ivy.’ And a still and solemn sound it was as we stood looking up at these walls.”

SCENES IN WARWICK CASTLE.

“After leaving the great hall, went, on the left, into the chapel—a plain memorable chapel, lined with oak; then to the armoury, a long, narrow gallery, or rather a suite of narrow rooms, communicating by small Gothic doorways, and extending, perhaps, nearly the whole length of the Castle, with tall windows of painted glass, bowing out into the court of the Castle. The walls of this armoury were covered with weapons of various kinds and sizes, from the Indian war-spear, to the Highland dirk, with a knife and fork tucked into the same sheath. But what struck me most was near the end of the gallery (when it makes a sudden turn into the tower that terminates the castle), where appeared before me a broad, yet dark staircase of oak, and at the foot of it, as if guarding the passage, a large figure in complete armour, the beaver down, and a sword in its hand! The general twilight, with the last western gleam breaking through the painted window at the foot of the staircase, and touching the bronze, gave full effect to this scene, and heightened the obscurity of the stairs, in perspective. This armour came from Germany; our conductor knew no more. Saw the brass coat, shot-proof, worn by Lord Brooke when he was shot in the eye during his attack upon Lichfield Cathedral. On the opposite side, a complete suit of black armour, the knees with projecting points: could learn nothing of its history. Left the building with regret. Paused again in the court to admire the beautiful lofty acacias and other noble trees surrounding the lawn, and the most majestic towers forming the grand front. The octagon tower, rising in the angle of the walls near the house-door, the most beautiful, as far as regards proportion; the one nearest the house the most venerable and warlike. Near the summit an embattled overhanging gallery, where formerly, no doubt, sentinels used to pace during the night, looked down upon the walls of the Castle, the rivers and the country far and wide, received the watch-word from the sentinel, perched in the little watch-tower, higher still and seeing farther in the moonlight, and repeated it to the soldiers on guard on the walls and gates below. Before those great gates and underneath these towers, Shakspeare’s ghost might have stalked; they are in the very character and spirit of such an apparition, grand and wild and strange; there should, however, have been more extent. Stayed before these grey towers till the last twilight.”

BLENHEIM.

“Lovely day. At eleven, walked through the Park. The triumphal arch, at the entrance, has too much the air of a merely handsome gateway; the convenient division into passages in the ordinary mode of considerable gates, leaves nothing appropriate to Fame. The view of the Park, with the turrets of the palace, of the mass of wood beyond, the verdant sweep of the intermediate ground, that descends to the water, with the water itself and the Palladian bridge beyond, is very striking, a few paces after the entrance. The palace itself, though here seen beyond and over clumps of trees, appears to greater advantage than when more distinctly viewed: its many turrets, now beheld in clusters, have an air of grandeur, which they want when separately observable. As we advance, the groves on the left thicken and have a forest-like shade; but the view on the rising ground, including the celebrated pillar, is too much broken into parts. Though the ground rises finely, its great flowing lines are spoiled by too many groves; there should have been one, or two, grand masses of wood, and the rest sweeping lawn. This park is not comparable with that at Knole, either for swell and variety of surface, or for grandeur and disposition of wood; no such enchanting groves of plane and birch and oak, as there. But a very grand avenue extends from the Oxford gate to the palace. On entering the garden, of finest turf and shade, pass the east front to the lawn of the back front, opening to a view of distant hills between the high groves. The back front of the house much the best; more simple, and, seen in perspective, very good. Parterres in the flower-garden, with basket-work round them, in the pretty fashion of the last century in France. Hence, through deep shade to the sheep-walk, where the light opens upon the country, and then soon look down upon another bridge and water. This walk continues on the brow, for about half a mile, very sweetly, and leads to a sloping lawn shaded with the noblest trees in the garden. More struck with this spot than with any, except about the large lake. First, two poplars of most astonishing height, much larger than those in the avenue at Manheim. At their feet, the light green spray foliage of these deciduous cypresses had a most charming effect. Near the poplars, a lofty plane, but inferior in height. Near this, a surprising Portugal laurel swept the ground, and spread to a vast circumference; a very extraordinary tree for size. Delighted with the steep green slope, the water and bridge below, the abrupt woody banks opposite, and, above all, the grandeur of the shades. Pass the bridge: on the right, the massy rocks of the cascade, but no water; on the left, the water winding beyond the woody banks; a highly tufted island, with a wooden building near its margin, very picturesque.

“Over a sofa, in the dining-room, a large family picture by Sir Joshua Reynolds. The Duke seated, and turning to the Marquis of Blandford, when a boy, with an air and countenance in which the nobleman and the good man are blended; more pleasing and dignified than Romney’s portrait of him. The Duchess, of pleasing countenance, and much sweetness in her eyes. Of the children, the most striking is Lady Charlotte (Nares), five or six years old, playfully holding a mask, and laughing behind it, as she frightens her sister, who draws back in doubt and with some apprehension but calmly. The figure of Lady C. has all the natural, playful grace of a child, though the attitude is rather overstrained. Vandyke’s portrait of Charles the First’s Queen is not so fine as his picture of her in the domestic drawing-room at Warwick Castle.

“It is in the superior colours and expressive drawing of the tapestry, that Blenheim chiefly excels the interior decorations of other great mansions. That in the state room is from Brussels, and most exquisite; presented by that city to the great Duke. It entirely covers the lofty walls. Each compartment displays a different siege or battle, and the distance, fading often into blue hills, is so finely shaded, that the whole seems almost a living prospect, and that you might step into the scene. The figures in the foreground are nearly as large as life, and chiefly portraits: they are admirably grouped, and the action not only spirited and natural, but often full of character. The Duke is always on horseback, and has the same air of countenance—attentive and eager; the features somewhat thin. The face of a French spy, under examination before the Duke, is admirable; watchful, sedate, and firm. In the next compartment is a very spirited figure of Lord Cadogan, on horseback, his hat held off at arm’s length, receiving orders from the Duke. His eagerness, proud submission, and impatience to be gone, while he bends to listen, and can scarcely rein his impatient charger, are all conspicuous. His faithful dog, that would be near him in every battle, and that returned safe home at last, is waiting beside him.”

In June 1805, Mrs. Radcliffe went to see Belvedere House, the seat of Lord Eardley. The following is an extract from her account of that mansion.

“The park entrance from Lexden Heath is through a low, iron gate, beyond which is seen the gravel road, winding like a path, among the turf, under the stately branches of clumps of oak, &c. Neither the house, nor any good prospect is visible here; but, as you advance along the elegant plain of the park, a blue distance of the Essex hills appears beneath the low-spread branches of oaks, where there is a seat; on the right, the Grecian portico of the house, among the deep shades, which exclude all other view. The entrance is to a light, elegant hall, or vestibule, of French grey stucco, as are all the extensive passages of the house, the floors covered with oilcloth, of a small pattern, in shades of blue. On the right, through an ante-room of elegant simplicity, pass to a dining-room; the walls of French grey; silk-moreen curtains, orange; chocolate-coloured fringe. Over the door, two exquisite views of Venice, by Canaletti; the Alchymist, Teniers, in a corner near the fire; then Rembrandt (by himself), looking out of the picture, with a broad smile, a coarse but arch countenance; Van Trump, the Dutch Admiral, a bluff countenance, as if the habits of a seaman predominated over those of the officer. After seeing several other very fine pictures here, pass some smaller rooms and elegant passages to the red drawing-room, the finest in the house; hung with crimson damask, bordered with gold; curtains and chairs the same, and a most rich carpet, in crimson and black. A finely stuccoed carved ceiling; a large bow-window looking upon the woods of the park. In a shaded corner, near the chimney, a most exquisite Claude, an evening view, perhaps over the Campagna of Rome. The sight of this picture imparted much of the luxurious repose and satisfaction, which we derive from contemplating the finest scenes of Nature. Here was the poet, as well as the painter, touching the imagination, and making you see more than the picture contained. You saw the real light of the sun, you breathed the air of the country, you felt all the circumstances of a luxurious climate on the most serene and beautiful landscape; and, the mind being thus softened, you almost fancied you heard Italian music on the air—the music of Paisiello; and such, doubtless, were the scenes that inspired him. Passed into smaller rooms, and by the same elegant lobbies, to the summer drawing-room, where the bowed window looks down upon a noble sweep of the Thames, with the well-wooded sloping hills of Essex in the distance. The noble simplicity of this long bend of the Thames, and of the whole scene, is very striking. The eye passes abruptly, between the hanging woods of two jutting eminences of the park, to the green level below, which forms in front a perfect bow of several miles. The woods near the house are so planted, as to conceal the entrance and exit of the river upon the plains below, leaving nothing of it visible but that line of perfect grace and grandeur which it marks between the two green shores, while the vessels seem to steal upon the scene, appearing and disappearing, on either hand, from behind the woods. The dark verdure of these, the lighter green of the plain beneath, the silver grey of the river that bounds it, the white sails and various shades of the fleeting vessels, ships with clustering top-gallant sails, sloops with the stretching and elegantly swelling sails at their heads and above them, and skiffs, or other boats, with their little spritsails, too often bending low:—these, with the hills of Essex bending into bluish distance, form altogether a soothing harmony of tints and objects.—Among other pictures that struck me, (especially the family of Snyders, by Rubens,) was one of Wouvermans, representing the dark gate of a fort, with cavaliers on war-horses, waiting impatiently for admittance, their horses rearing and prancing; upon the high, shadowing walls, shrubs appear against the light sky, and above them is seen a high embankment, with a cannon pointed downwards, and near it a tree, down which a man is hastily descending, as if he had been overlooking a skirmish on the plains below, (not in view,) whence the party without the gate seem to have made a precipitate retreat. They are, perhaps, waiting till he has reported to the guard at the gate, whether they are friends or enemies. The impatience for admittance of those who think themselves likely to be pursued, the cautious apprehension of those within the fort, and the unseen and doubtful battle, hinted at by the man on the tree, render this a very interesting picture.

“The grand staircase, by which we passed to the room over this, is remarkable for its lightness and elegance. All its light is received from a raised frame of glass, which crowns a most richly stuccoed roof, that forms a broad border only round it. I was much struck with the lightness, proportion, and elegance of this staircased hall, and indeed with the numerous long passages of the house. In the family dining-room the pictures are all portraits. One of the late Lady Eardley, when young, is a profile of most exquisite sweetness.

‘Softness and sweetest innocence she wears,
And looks like Nature, in the world’s first bloom.’

Strong countenance of a tutor of Lord Eardley. No view, but of the Park, from any of these rooms; nor from the library, opening by pillars from a kind of ante-room, or vestibule. Before a cone at the upper end, is a most noble mahogany library-table with drawers. Between the windows are semicircular inlaid tables, with deep drawers for maps; some valuable modern books, but no old ones. The art of giving effect to the finest views, by permitting them to be seen only from the rooms whence they may be observed without interruption and in their perfection, is carried very far here; for, as you advance through the grounds to the house, the eye is confined by the woods; and is suffered only once to catch a glimpse of distance under the spreading shades, sufficient to touch the imagination and excite expectation of a scene, whose grandeur and simplicity, when at length it does appear, fully repays the impatience of curiosity. We did not see the woody grounds extending very far along the brow over the Thames, nor the tower of the Belvedere, nearly at the extremity of them and on their highest point. This must look down suddenly upon a new scene of the river, where it spreads into that broad bay, whose eastern point projects opposite to the broken steeps of Purfleet, and comprehends within its curve Erith, with its ivied church, and the hills around it, varied with woods and villas, and whose western point lies near the foot of this eminence, concealed by the woods. But from a window of this lofty tower I doubt not the eye extends to Gravesend in the east, and probably further. Its southern window must look athwart the back of Shooter’s Hill to the Knockholt beeches on the ridge near Seven-oaks; and its northern one over Epping Forest and a great part of Essex. Wherever the wood-walks open, there must be a glimpse of the river, and white sails gliding athwart the vista.”

In the autumn of 1807, Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe visited Knole House for the second time. The following is a small portion of Mrs. Radcliffe’s reminiscences of the house, and especially of its pictures.

“We were astonished at the extent of this mansion, and at its vast collection of portraits. Warwick Castle has the greatest number of Vandyke’s pictures; Blenheim of Rubens’s; Knole of Holbein’s, with many of Vandyke too. The old porter at the first gate had lived about the spot fifty years; was there in the time of the late Duke’s grandfather: those were grand times; the late Dukes were very good, but things had got dearer then. When we were going, he desired Mr. R. to write our names in the book, that my lord might have the _pleasure_ of seeing who had been there.

* * * * *

At the upper end of the lofty and noble hall, where the high table stood, is now a very large statue of Demosthenes, robed, with buskined feet and a book or scrowl in his hand; the attitude composed; the countenance expresses nothing of the energy and fire that characterize his eloquence. It was bought by the late Duke in Italy, for seven hundred pounds. The brown gallery is almost covered with portraits by Holbein, the greatest assemblage of famous persons I ever saw. In the little closet of entrance, the countenance of Giardini, the composer, gives you the idea that he is listening to the long drawn notes of his own violin. Holbein’s Erasmus, in the gallery, must be truth itself: the keen and quick, small eye; the humorous, though serious smile; the thin, finely-pointed, yet bending nose; the thin-drawn lips and chin, are all exquisite. In a picture containing three portraits, that in the middle is of Luther. His bluff, blunt, strong habits of expression; his dauntless and persevering mind; his consciousness of the truth and importance of his cause, and his resolution to maintain it, are well expressed: strength and resolution in the chin. On his right is Melancthon, reasoning, acute, amiable. On his left, Pomeranius; a somewhat sly and monkish countenance. Queen Elizabeth and several of her Court: Salisbury, civil, sagacious and fastidious; effeminate; very fair: Burleigh, with a steady, penetrating, grey eye, high forehead, with black hair; a cast of humour: Leicester, sturdy and crafty.

“Lord Surrey, the poet, young, thin and melancholy. No very fine pictures in what is called Lady Betty Germain’s room, which looks delightfully upon the green and stately alleys of the garden. High state-bed; dingy white plumes crown the bed-posts. In the dressing-room are three Earls of Dorset, and drawings by Titian and Michael Angelo. In another room a state-bed, presented by James the First. In the dressing-room, among many fine pictures, is one of Sir Theodore Mayerne, physician to James the First, and to two of his successors, by Vandyke: he is seated in an armchair, and his right hand rests on a human skull; his own head is grey, and he looks at you with a mild and sensible countenance, turned a little towards his left shoulder; the fading look of age, without actual weakness.

“In the great dining-room below, Hoppner’s copy of his portrait of Mr. Pitt, a strong, and, I think, not a flattering likeness. Fletcher, intelligent, thoughtful, and tender; brown complexion, acute black eyes. Beaumont, florid, with light blue eyes; of an open, cheerful, handsome countenance. Near the windows is a group of portraits, painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds, with one of himself, in the midst of these his familiar friends, now all dead. On his right is Doctor Johnson, drawn bareheaded—a severe deduction from the harmonies of any frame: it is nearly a profile; intense thought and anxiety press down the benevolent brow. On the left is Goldsmith, painted in the same style, a strong countenance, but of very different expression; coarse; the eyebrow’s not bent, like Johnson’s, firmly and evenly over the eyes, but only towards the nose; the other end highly hoisted, as if with caprice; unpleasing countenance; nothing of the goodness of Johnson. Garrick, with a most pleasant and living look, piercing eyes fixed upon you, with perfect ease and kindness, as he leans with both arms on a table; older than the portraits I have seen. Burke, vulgarized by Opie. Betterton, the actor, manly, sensible face. Pope, old, wrinkled, spectre-like. Swift, gentle in comparison with Pope. Otway, heavy, squalid, unhappy; yet tender countenance, but not so squalid as one we formerly saw; full, speaking, black eyes; it seems as if dissolute habits had overcome all his finer feelings, and left him little of mind, except a sense of sorrow. Dryden, in his velvet cap, younger than usual. Addison, mild. Waller, thinner and older than usual, with scarce a spark of his fire left, but still a courtier-like gentleman.

“In a small, domestic parlour, leading into the book-room, is that fine picture of Lord Gowrie and Vandyke, by the latter; the finest portrait I ever saw, except one of Rubens, by himself, at Buckingham House, and another at Warwick, in the cabinet that terminates the long suite of staterooms.

“In a blue room, a domestic drawing-room, Lord Whitworth, a shrewd and comely man of the world, with spirited and penetrating grey eyes; an expressive but somewhat clouded brow. The Duchess, in a black velvet riding habit, with a hat and feather, by Opie; a pleasing picture: you do not think of her in this portrait as of the Duchess, which is the object of one in the drawing-room, but as of a happy wife and a good-natured, sensible woman; a little too much care in the attitude.

“In one room a head of Louis the Fourteenth, all flutter and fume.

“The rooms are so numerous and the suites of them so long, that, though I have seen them twice, I could not now find my way through them, and cannot even recollect them all. All the principal rooms look upon the garden, with its lawns and lofty shades. Scarcely a spot of brown earth is visible: so many various tints of green; the trees sometimes bending their branches down to the shrubs and flowers.

“In the Park, abounding with noble beech groves, is one, on the left of the road leading to the house, which, for mass and overtopping pomp, excels even any in Windsor Park, when viewed as you descend from the Park gate, whence shade rises above shade, with amazing and magnificent grandeur. In this mass of wood is one beech, that stretches upwards its grey limbs among the light, feathery foliage to a height and with a majesty that is sublime. Over a seat, placed round the hole, it spreads out a light yet umbrageous fan, most graceful and beautiful. With all its grandeur and luxuriance, there is nothing in this beech heavy or formal; it is airy, though vast and majestic, and suggests an idea at once of the strength and fire of a hero! I should call a beech-tree—and this beech above every other—the hero of the forest, as the oak is called the king.”

In the autumn of 1811, Mrs. Radcliffe went again to Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight. The following extracts bear but a small proportion to her entire journal of this little tour.—“Passed through Bere Forest, on the right, with many seats and woods and spires, around. Almost dusk. An horizon of glowing crimson lay behind the woods on the right, where the sun had set. Delightful to catch the different saffron, crimson, or fiery tints among the purple streaks. All the prospect lay in sullen twilight from Portsdown Hill, and it was quite dark when we reached Portsmouth. Could just discern the high rampart walks, with trees, before we rambled under the deep, fortified gateway of Portsea. Went to the George Inn, a very large handsome house, with many galleries and staircases. Handsome furniture and excellent accommodation, except that you could get nothing when you wanted it. We had fish brought without plates, and then plates without bread. All this owing to a vast throng of company, two hundred vessels or more being detained by winds, besides many ships of war. Nothing but ringing of bells and running about of waiters. If you ask a waiter a question, he begins a civil answer, but shuts the door before you have heard it all. It was very diverting to hear the different tones and measure of the ringings, particularly about supper time, and the next day about five, when every body happened to be dining at one and the same time, to hear them all ringing together, or in quick succession, in different keys and measure, according to the worn out, or better, patience of the ringer. These different keys enabled me to distinguish how often each bell was rung before it was answered; also the increasing impatience of the ringer, till, at the third, or fourth summons, the bell was in a downright passion. There was a mischievous amusement in this, after we had gone through the delay ourselves, and had gotten what we wanted. Such life and bustle is inspiriting, for a little while. Before supper, we had been down to the platform, over the sea. All was indistinct and vast; the comet high, but no moon; calm. Heard the falling of the tide—monotonous, not grand—cannon all around and sentinels; some old seamen.