Chapter II: Part 2

We pursued our way to the Tower by a path of a quarter of a mile on the Down, along a walk parallel to the wall of the public road, gently curved to take off the appearance of formality, yet so slightly that you can go on in a straight line. On our right hand venerable bushes of lavender, great plants of rosemary, and large rose trees perfume the air, all growing as if indigenous to the smooth turf. In one place clusters of rare and deeply crimsoned snapdragons, in another patches of aromatic thyme and wild strawberries keep up the charm of the place. As we draw nearer to the Tower the ground is laid out in a wilder and more picturesque manner, the walks are more serpentine. We turned a corner, and Mr. Beckford stood before us, attended by an aged servant, whose hairs have whitened in his employment, and whose skill has laid out these grounds in this beautiful manner. Mr. Beckford welcomed me in the kindest way, and immediately began pointing out the various curious plants and shrubs. How on this happy spot specimens of the productions of every country in the world unite! Shrubs and trees, whose natural climates are as opposite as the Antipodes, here flourish in the most astonishing manner. We were shown a rose tree brought from Pekin and a fir tree brought from the highest part of the Himalaya Mountains; many have been brought to this country, but Mr. Beckford's is the only one that has survived. Here are pine trees of every species and variety--a tree that once vegetated at Larissa, in Greece, Italian pines, Siberian pines, Scotch firs, a lovely specimen of Irish yew, and other trees which it is impossible to describe. My astonishment was great at witnessing the size of the trees, and I could scarcely believe my ears when told that the whole of this wood had been raised on the bare Down within the last thirteen years. The ground is broken and diversified in the most agreeable manner: here a flight of easy and water worn steps leads to an eminence, whence you have a view of the building and an old ruin overgrown with shrubs, which looks as if it had seen five hundred summers, but in reality no older than the rest of this creation. On ascending the easy though ruined steps of this building, passing under an archway, the view of the Tower burst upon us, and a long, straight walk led us directly to the entrance. From this point the view is most imposing. 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 the whole. The effect of the building is grand and stately beyond description. The long line of flat distance and the flatness of the Down here come in contact with the perpendicular lines of the Tower and lower buildings, producing that strikingly peculiar combination which never fails to produce a grand effect. This is the real secret of Claude's seaports. His stately buildings, moles, and tall towers form a right angle with the straight horizon; thus the whole is magnificent. Nothing of the sort could be produced in the interior of a country but in a situation like the present. Who but a man of extraordinary genius would have thought of rearing in the desert such a structure as this, or creating such an oasis? The colouring of the building reminded me of Malta or Sicily, a rich mellow hue prevails; the ornaments of the Tower are so clean, so distinct, such terseness. The windows, small and few compared with modern buildings, give it the appearance of those early Florentine edifices reared when security and defence were as much an object as beauty. From every part of the ground the pile looks grand, the lines producing the most beautiful effect. The windows have iron gratings, which give it an Oriental character. We entered, and immediately ascended the Tower. A circular staircase was round the wall. The proportion of the interior is beautiful; you see from the bottom to the top. From the apparent size of the three or four loopholes seen from the outside I imagined it would be dark and gloomy from within, but I was agreeably surprised to find the whole extremely light. The balustrade is Egyptian in form, and banisters bronze. On reaching the top you find a square apartment containing twelve windows, each a piece of plate glass, the floor covered with red cloth and crimson window curtains. The effect of distance seen through these apertures unobstructed by framework, contrasted with the bronze balustrade without and crimson curtains within, is truly enchanting. We were not happy in the weather. The morning was sunny and promising, but at noon clouds obscured the heavens; therefore we wanted that glow and splendour sunshine never fails to give the landscape. The height is so great that everything looks quite diminutive. The road running in a straight line across the Down reminds one of a Roman work, and the whole expanse of country surrounding recalls the Campagna. Two more flights of stairs, most ingeniously contrived and to all appearance hanging on nothing, lead to two other apartments, the top one lighted by glass all round, concealed on the outside by the open ornament that runs round the very top of the cupola.

On descending the staircase, the door opening showed us at the end of a small vaulted corridor a beautiful statue by Rossi of St. Anthony and the infant Jesus. At the back, fixed in the wall, is a large slab of red porphyry, circular at the top and surrounded by an elegant inlay of Sienna verd, antique border surrounding the whole figure of the Saint, and has a most rich effect; it is difficult to believe that the Sienna is not gold. The light descending from above gives that fine effect which sets off statues so much. On the left hand of the figure is a picture by Pietro 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 in obtaining it. It is the Virgin and two pretty boys, admirably drawn, very like Raphael, and in as fine preservation as the St. Catherine. The execution is masterly, and though not so free as the Raphael still it is forcible. The figure of the left hand boy is very graceful, face beautiful and sweetly dimpled. Opposite are a Francesco Mola and a Steinwych. The Mola is exceedingly fine, the sky and landscape much like Mr. Beckford's Gaspar Poussin in colour and execution; the Steinwych, interior of a Cathedral, one of the most wonderful finished pictures I ever beheld. This picture was painted for an ancestor of Mr. Beckford's. Here there is a little cabinet full of rare and curious manuscripts. We were shown a small Bible in MS., including the Apocrypha, written 300 years before printing was introduced, and a very curious Missal.

We then entered a gorgeous room containing pictures and curiosities of immense value. Its proportions seem exactly the same as the one on the floor below, and decorations with its furniture pretty similar. The windows 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 portrait of the Doge out of the Grimaldi Palace, purchased by Mr. Beckford from Lord Cawdor, who got it out of the Palace by an intrigue; this is a splendid portrait; he has on the Dalmatica and the Phrygian Cap worn by the Doges on occasions of State, and two lovely Polembergs, infinitely finer and more like Claude than anything I ever saw; in fact, they were ascribed to Claude by the German Waagen, architecture grand, foliage light and elegant; the figures are by Le Soeur. Two fine portraits by De Vos, wonderfully painted, execution and colouring reminded me of Vandyke, particularly the latter, and not unlike the Gavertius in the National Gallery. Then there is a magnificent Houdekoeta, the landscape part painted by Both most inimitably. A beautiful cabinet designed by Bernini, another with sculptured paintings, in the centre the story of Adam and Eve. Two more candlesticks from the Alhambra, in shape and execution similar to those at the house; two gold candlesticks after designs by Holbein; some curious specimens of china; an Asiatic purple glass vase, brought by St. Louis from the Holy Land, which contained at St. Denis some holy fragments; a piece of china, the centre of which is ornamented in a style totally different from the generality of china, in eight or ten compartments, and painted in such a manner that the festoon of leaves fall over and hide the fruit most picturesquely; two ivory cups, one in alto, the other in basso relievo; the latter the finer and most charmingly carved; a small group in bronze by John Bologna, "Dejanira and the Centaur," admirably done. Here are tables of the rarest marbles, one composed of a block from the Himalaya Mountains. In one of the windows is a piece of African marble brought to this country for George IV; also a small bath of Egyptian porphyry. In the lower room was a vase containing the most lovely flowers, that perfumed the apartment. In this room, from the judicious introduction of scarlet and crimson, you have the effect of sunshine. The ceilings are belted; the interstices painted crimson. It is impossible to give any idea of the splendour of these two rooms, the finishing touch being cabinet looking glasses, introduced most judiciously.

We now took leave of Mr. Beckford. His horses were waiting in the courtyard, with two servants standing respectfully and uncovered at the door, whilst two more held the horses. The stately and magnificent tower, the terrace on which we lingered a few moments, whilst this extraordinary man mounted his horse, all, all conspired to cast a poetical feeling over the parting moment which I shall never forget. I was reminded most forcibly of similar scenes in Scott's novels. In particular the ancient Tower of Tillietudleni was presented to my mind's eye, and I gazed for a moment on this gifted person with a melancholy foreboding that it was for the last time, and experienced an elevation of feeling connected with the scene which it is impossible to describe. Such moments are worth whole years of everyday existence. We turned our heads to look once more on a man who must always create the most intense interest, 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 my little darling flower. However, on stooping down I soon perceived by its fragrance it was the same plant that I had been accustomed to admire in greenhouses or in small pots.

October, 1838.

I have had another peep at the Tower. The day was auspicious. I ran up the staircase and wonderfully enjoyed the prospect. Looking through the middle window towards the west you have a delicious picture. The hills undulate in the most picturesque manner, the motion of the clouds at one moment threw a line of hills into shadow, which were the next minute illumined by the sun, the Avon glittering in the sunbeams, the village of Weston embedded in the valley, a rich cluster of large trees near the town, variegated by the tints of autumn, united to form a charming picture. The pieces of plate-glass that compose the twelve windows of this 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 the end of which is the statue of St. Anthony; on the pedestal (a block of Sienna) are engraved in letters of gold these words, "Dominus illuminatio mio." The Francesco Mola (the Magdalen in the Desert) is a lovely landscape indeed; the rocks and their spirited execution, lightness of the foliage, &c., in the foreground remind one of St. Rosa. A cluster of cherubs hovers over the head of Mary. In the smaller room on the upper floor is the picture by West of the Installation of the Knights of the Garter. From the contemplation of this picture I entertain a higher opinion of the genius of West than I ever did before. You can scarcely believe it is his painting; there is nothing of his usual hard outline, the shadows are rich, the background soft and mellow, the lights unite sweetly, and it is touched in the free and juicy manner of the sketches of Rubens or Paolo Veronese. It is difficult to believe that this picture is not 200 years old. The head of a child by Parmigiano; a large picture by Breughel. The enameled glass vase brought to Europe by St. Louis; this must be of Arabian manufacture, for the figures on horseback have turbans. A large cabinet by Franks, the panels most highly finished, different passages in the history of Adam and Eve form small pictural subjects. In the larger room is the cabinet by Bernini, inlaid with mosaic work in the most finished manner, surrounded by three brass figures; Bellini's two pictures of the Doges of Venice. Over Bernini's cabinet a large piece of looking glass is most judiciously introduced. In this and the lower room are two lovely crimson Wilton carpets; the ceilings of both are painted purple and red. Holbein's candlesticks are really gold! the chasing is elegance itself; an inscription states that they were made in 1800 for the Abbey at Fonthill. A fine picture of the infant St. John by Murillo; a curious one of St. Anthony by Civoli; an exquisite interior, by Steynwich, very small, and being a night effect, the shadows are amazingly rich. In the passage leading to the garden are the two ivory cups by Frainingo. One is much better carved than the other; it is copied from an antique vase. The figures are Bacchanalian.

The effect of this lower room from the vestibule, illumined by the rays of the glorious sun, was more beautiful than anything of the sort I had ever witnessed. Nothing can be more happy than the way the colour of this apartment is managed. The walls are covered with scarlet cloth; the curtains on each side of the window being a deep purple produce a striking contrast, the colouring of the ceiling, crimson, purple and gold, is admirable. In one window is a large table formed of a block of Egyptian porphyry, on which were flowers in a large vase of ivory; in the other recess, or rather tribune, is the small round Himalaya block. Over the fireplace is a charming little Dietrich, and on either hand a Polemberg. On this side of the room the two De Vos, two singularly shaped cabinets of oak finely carved; on one is a gold teapot. On the right hand of the door is a Simonini: sky and distance admirable, the colouring of two large trees very rich and mellow, one a dark green, the other 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 fine but figures lanky. I had not before to-day seen the Tower from the road entrance. The effect of the whole building is grand, and improved by the arches which support the terrace. On the left the ground is admirably broken and the foliage rich.

November 3rd, 1838.

Mr. Beckford showed me some sketches of St. Non's Sicily and harbour of Malta, forty drawings, given by St. Non himself, each bearing the name in pencil; he also showed me a MS. "Arabian Nights." He studied Arabic very deeply in Paris, and had a Mussulman master. He read to me part of a tale never put into the ordinary edition, translated into English tersely and perspicuously. He is much indebted to Arabic MS. for "Vathek," and reads Arabic to this day. He says Lord Byron and others are quite mistaken as to the age when he wrote "Vathek," not seventeen but twenty- three years of age. "Sir," says he, "if you want a description of Persepolis read 'Vathek.'" He laughed heartily at the different sorts of praise bestowed by Lord Byron on "Vathek," equal to Rasselas, like Mackenzie. Lord Byron tried many times to get a sight of the Eps [?], often intreated the Duchess to intercede with her father. He once called with "Vathek" in his pocket, which he styled "his gospel." Moore's "Lallah Rookh" has too much western sentimentality for an Oriental romance, the common fault of most writers of such stories. Beckford prefers 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 work which was supposed for years to be by a Frenchman, he said: "Oh, my great uncle did more than me. Did you never read 'Memories of the Duke of Grammont?' Voltaire told me he was entirely indebted to my great uncle for whatever beauty of style he might possess. French is just the same as English to me. He showed me the Eps."

October 31.--Went out and accidentally met Mr. Beckford speaking in praise of his West, who painted expressly for Mr. Beckford. I said, "How did you get him to paint it so soft? I suppose you particularly requested him to do so." "Oh no. Mr. West was a man who would stand no dictation; had I uttered such a thought he would have kicked me out of the house! Oh no, that would never have done. The only way to get him to avoid his hard outline would be to entreat him to paint harder. West came one day laughing to me, and said, "All London is in ecstasy beholding 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 salt water; you must try and restore the Lazarus.' I was shut up for two days, 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 and the figure of Lazarus was quite gone." "Then you don't value that picture much?" "All the rest is perfect, and I offered 12,000 pounds for that and four more. I saw in the Escurial the marriage of Isaac and Rebecca, now belonging to the Duke of Wellington. In fact, of all the pictures in the collection there is not more than one in ten that has escaped repainting. The picture given by H. Carr I cannot admire, the outline of the hill is so hard. It is just the picture Satan would show poor 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) could he hear some of our modern music! My father was very fond of music, and invited Mozart to Fonthill. He was eight years old and I was six. It was rather ludicrous one child being the pupil of another. He went to Vienna, where he obtained vast celebrity, and wrote to me, saying, "Do you remember that march you composed which I kept so long? Well, I have just composed a new opera and I have introduced your air." "In what opera?" 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 a piano, and immediately began what I thought a sort of march, but soon I recognized "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 greatest enthusiasm; his eye sparkled, and his countenance assumed an expression which I had never noticed before.

Mr. Beckford showed me some very fine original drawings by Gaspar Poussin, exceedingly delicate. On the back a profile most exquisitely finished, another just begun, and another by his brother in admirable style, sketch of a peacock by Houdekoeta. "When I was in Portugal," said Mr. Beckford, "I had as much influence and power as if I had been the King. The Prince Regent acknowledged me in public as his relation (which indeed I was). I had the privilege of an entrance at all times, and could visit the Royal Family in ordinary dress. Of course, on grand occasions I wore Court costume." He showed me a letter from a rich banker in Lisbon, a man in great esteem at the Palace; another letter from one of the first noblemen in Portugal, entreating him to use his influence with the Prince Regent for the reversion of the decree of confiscation of some nobleman's estate; another from the Grand Prior of Aviz (in French). Mr. Beckford was treated as a grandee of the first rank in Germany; he showed me an autograph of the Emperor Joseph. Voltaire said to him, "Je dois tout a votre oncle, Count Anthony H. The Duchess was acknowledged in Paris by the Bourbon as Duchess de Chatelrault. On going to Court I saw her sitting next the Royal Family with the Duchess, whilst all the Court was standing. The Duchess has fine taste for the arts, quite as strong a feeling as I have. The Duke also is amazingly fond of the arts. The Marquis of D. has a spice of my character."

The Claude looked more blooming and pearly than ever. I observed that I had never seen such a tone in any Claude in existence. I know many pictures which had that hue, but they have been so daubed and retouched that they are no longer the same. He showed me the Episodes. One begins, "Mes malheurs, O Caliphe sont encore plus grands que les votres, aussi bien que mes crimes, tu a ete trompe en ecoutant un navis malheureux; mais moi, pour me desobir d'une amitie la plus tendre, je suis 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 she wished he would tell her something about the artists who painted his fine pictures, as visitors were always questioning her, and she did not know what to answer. "Oh, very well; I'll write down some particulars about them." He instantly composed "Lives of Extraordinary Painters." The housekeeper studied the manuscript attentively, and regaled her astonished visitors with the marvellous incidents it contained; however, finding many were sceptical, she came to her young master and told him people would not believe what she told them. "Not believe? Ah, that's because it is only in manuscript. Then we'll have it printed; they'll believe when they see it in print." He sent the manuscript to a London publisher, and inquired what the expense of printing it would be. The publisher read it with delight, and instantly offered the youthful author 50 pounds for the manuscript. The housekeeper was now able to silence all cavilers by producing the book itself.

Having left an umbrella in Lansdown-crescent, I inquired of the gentleman to whom I am indebted for my introduction to Mr. Beckford if he thought it would be taking a liberty if I sent in my name when I called for it. "I really don't know what to say" was the answer, "you must do as you think proper. I will only say that for my part I am always looking out for squalls, but I daresay he will be glad to see you." I accordingly determined to make a bold stroke and call on him, remembering the old adage, "Quidlibet audendum picturis atque poetis." The weather was most delightful. A wet and cold summer had been succeeded by warm autumnal days, on which the sun shone without a cloud; it was one of those seasons of settled fair so uncommon in our humid country, when after witnessing a golden sunset you might sleep

Secure he'd rise to-morrow.

I therefore called at the great man's house, and found the umbrella in the exact corner in the ante-room where it had been left a fortnight before, and told the porter to announce my name to his master. I waited in anxiety in the hall a few moments. The footman returned, saying his master was engaged, but if I would walk upstairs Mr. Beckford would come to me. The servant led the way to the Duchess Drawing Room, opened the door, and on my entering he retired, leaving me alone in this gorgeous apartment, wondering what the dickens I did there. You may suppose I was not a little delighted at this mark of confidence, and spent several minutes examining the pictures till the author of "Vathek" entered, his countenance beaming with good nature and affability. He extended his hand in the kindest manner, and said he was extremely glad to see me. I instantly declared the purport of my visit, that I had some copies of pictures that were once in his possession, and that it would give me the greatest possible pleasure to show them to him. "I shall be delighted to see them" was the reply, "but for some days I am rather busy; I will come next week." "You have had a visit from the author of 'Italy'," I observed; "people say that you like Mr. R.'s poem." "Oh yes, some passages are very beautiful. He is a man of considerable talent; but who was that person he brought with him? What a delightful man! I suppose it was Mr. L." I replied, "I believe they are great friends."

"What an awful state the country is in (he observed)! One has scarcely time to think about poetry or painting, or anything else, when our stupid, imbecile Government allows public meetings of 150,000 men, where the most inflammatory language is used and the common people are called on to arm, beginning, too, with solemn prayer. Their prayer will never succeed. No, no, their solemn prayer is but a solemn mockery. They seemed to have forgotten the name of the only Mediator, without whose intercession all prayer is worse than useless. Well, well (said Mr. Beckford), depend upon it we shall have a tremendous outbreak before long. The ground we stand on is trembling, and gives signs of an approaching earthquake. Then will come a volcanic eruption; you will have fire, stones, and lava enough. Afterwards, when the lava has cooled, there will be an inquiry for works of art. I assure you I expect everything to be swept away." I ventured to differ from him in that opinion, and said I was convinced that whatever political changes might happen, property was perfectly secure. "Some reforms," I said, "would take place, and many pensions perhaps be swept away, but such changes would never affect him or his, and after all it was but a matter of pounds, shillings, and pence." "There you are right," he exclaimed. "If anything can save us 'twill be pounds, shillings, and pence," meaning, I suppose, a union of all classes who possessed property, from the pound of the peer to the penny of the plebeian. "But the present times are really very critical. Have you time to go through the rooms with me?" he demanded. I replied that nothing would give me greater pleasure. "But perhaps you are going somewhere?" I answered that I was perfectly disengaged. Passing along the landing of the stairs he paused before the Alderman's portrait, and observed, "Had my father's advice been taken we should not now be in danger of starvation." I ventured to say that in those days there was more reciprocal feeling between the poor and the rich than at present; now a-days classes are so divided by artificial barriers that there is little or no sympathy between any. "You are mistaken," he replied. "As long as I remember anything there was always discontent, always heartburning; but at the time of my father's speech dissatisfaction had risen to such a pitch that I assure you these people were on the point of being sent back to the place they came from." (He alluded to the present Royal Family).

Mr. Beckford opened the door of the great library, and on entering I immediately discovered the cause of my being so much puzzled as to its architecture. There are two doors in this magnificent room; one leads to the Duchess Drawing Room, the other to the landing, and to produce the air of privacy so delightful to a bookworm the latter is covered with imitative books, exactly corresponding with the rest of the library. I remembered on my first entering the room from the staircase, and when the servant had closed the door, there appeared but one entrance, which was that by which we left this noble room, passing thence into the Duchess's room. I puzzled my brains in vain to make out the geography of the place, but could make neither top nor tail, and should never have solved the enigma but for this third visit. "I have been to Fonthill," he said, "since I saw you. I don't think much of what Papworth has done there. I rode thirty-eight miles in one day without getting out of the saddle. That was pretty well, eh?" I thought so indeed for a man in his seventy- ninth year.

* * * * *

On the 28th of October, 1844, we left Bath determined to examine the once far-famed Abbey of Fonthill, and to see if its scenery was really as fine as report had represented. The morning was cold and inauspicious, but when we reached Warminster the sun burst out through the mists that had obscured him, and the remainder of the day was as genial and mild as if had been May. We procured the aid of a clownish bumpkin to carry our carpet bag, and left Warminster on foot. About four miles from that town those barren and interminable downs are reached which seem to cover the greater part of Wiltshire. The country is as wild as the mountain scenery of Wales, and the contrast between it and the polished city we had left in the morning was truly singular. We took the road to _Hindon_, but a worthy old man, of whom we asked particulars, pointed out a pathway, which cut off at least a mile and a half. We followed his direction, and left the high road. Mounting the hill by a steep and chalky road we reached a considerable elevation; before us extended a succession of downs, and in the extreme distance a blue hill of singular form, at least nine miles off, was crowned by buildings of very unusual appearance. Curiosity as to the place was at its utmost stretch, but our ignorant bumpkin could tell nothing about it. It surely cannot be Fonthill was the instant suggestion? Impossible. Can we see the remains at this distance? We continued our walk for about two miles, without losing sight of this interesting edifice, and at length all doubts were cleared in the certainty that the long wished-for object was absolutely before us. It is impossible to describe the feelings of interest experienced by the sight of these gigantic remains. The eastern transept still rises above the woods, a point, pinnacle, and round tower. Descending the hill towards Hindon we lost sight of the Abbey. A most singular specimen of country life was presented by an old shepherd, of whom we inquired the way. "How far is it to Hindon?" "About four miles." "Is this the right road?" "Yes, you cannot miss it, but I haven't been there these forty years. Naa, this is forty years agone save two that I went to Hindon: 'twas in 1807."

This place, which once sent members to Parliament, and which the author of "Vathek" himself represented for many years, is not so large as the village of Batheaston! There are neither lamps nor pavement, but it possesses a most picturesque little church. It was one of the rotten boroughs swept away, and properly enough, by the Reform Bill. Here our rustic relinquished his burden to a Hindon lad, who acted as our future cicerone, and undertook to show us the way to the inn called the Beckford Arms. Soon after leaving Hindon the woods of Fonthill were reached. We mounted a somewhat steep hill, and here met with a specimen of the gigantic nature of the buildings. A tunnel about 100 feet long passed under the noble terrace, reaching from Knoyle to Fonthill Bishop, at least three miles in length; the tunnel was formed to keep the grounds private. The beech trees, now arrayed in gaudy autumnal tints, seen through this archway have a lovely effect. Emerging from the tunnel, the famous wall, seven miles long, was just in front. To the left you trace the terrace, on a charming elevation, leading to Fonthill Gardens, and here and there you have glimpses of the great lake. The ground is broken and varied in the most picturesque fashion. You pass some cottages that remind you of Ryswick, and soon come to the church of Fonthill Gifford. This church is perfectly unique in form, its architecture purely Italian; one would think it was designed by Palladio. There is a pretty portico supported by four tall Doric columns, and its belfry is a regular cupola. We at last gained the inn, and were shown into a lovely parlour that savoured of the refined taste that once reigned in this happy solitude. It is lofty, spacious, and surrounded by oak panels; it has a charming bow window, where are elegantly represented, in stained glass on distinct shields, the arms of Alderman Beckford, his wife, and their eccentric son.

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

The road is broad and entirely arched by trees. Emerging suddenly from their covert an astonishing assemblage of ruins comes into view. Before you stands the magnificent eastern transept with its two beautiful octangular towers, still rising to the height of 120 feet, but roofless and desolate; the three stately windows, 60 feet high, as open to the sky as Glastonbury Abbey; in the rooms once adorned with choicest paintings and rarities trees are growing. Oh what a scene of desolation! What the noble poet said of "Vathek's" residence in Portugal we may now literally say of Fonthill.

Here grown weeds a passage scarce allow
To halls deserted, portals gaping wide.
Fresh lessons, ye thinking bosoms, how
Vain are the pleasures by earth supplied,
Swept into wrecks anon by Time's ungentle tide.

Of all desolate scenes there are none so desolate as those which we now see as ruins, and which were lately the abode of splendour and magnificence. Ruins that have been such for ages, whose tenants have long since been swept away, recall ideas of persons and times so far back that we have no sympathy with them at all; but if you wish for a sight of all that is melancholy, all that is desolate, visit a modern ruin. We passed through briars and brambles into the great octagon. Straight before us stands the western doorway of the noble entrance hall; but where is its oaken roof, with its proud heraldic emblazonments, where its lofty painted windows, where its ponderous doors, more than 30 feet high? The cross still remains above, as if symbolical that religion triumphs over all, and St. Anthony still holds out his right hand as if to protect the sylvan and mute inhabitants of these groves that here once found secure shelter from the cruel gun and still more cruel dog. But he is tottering in his niche, and when the wind is high is seen to rock, as if his reign were drawing to a close.

Of the noble octagon but two sides remain. Looking up, but at such an amazing elevation that it makes one's neck ache, still are seen two windows of the four nunneries that adorned its unique and unrivalled circuit. And what is more wonderful than all, the noble organ screen, designed by "Vathek" himself, has still survived; its gilded lattices, though exposed for twenty years to the "pelting of the pitiless storm," yet glitter in the last rays of the setting sun. We entered the doorway of the southern entrance hall, that door which once admitted thousands of the curious when Fonthill was in its glory. This wing, though not yet in ruins, not yet entirely dismantled, bears evident signs of decay. Standing on the marble floor you look up through holes in the ceiling, and discover the once beautifully fretted roof of St. Michael's Gallery. We entered the brown parlour. This is a really noble room, 52 feet long, with eight windows, painted at the top in the most glorious manner. This room has survived the surrounding desolation, and gives you a slight idea of the former glories of the place. Each window consists of four gigantic pieces of plate-glass, and in the midst of red, purple, lilac, and yellow ornaments are painted four elegant figures, designed by the artist, Hamilton, of kings and knights, from whom Mr. Beckford was descended. As there are eight windows there are thirty-two figures, drawn most correctly. What reflections crowd the mind on beholding this once gorgeous room! There stood the sideboard, once groaning beneath the weight of solid gold salvers. In this very room dined frequently the magnificent "Vathek" on solid gold, and there, where stood his table, covered with every delicacy to tempt the palate, is now a pool of water, for the roof is insecure, and the rain streams through in torrents. On the right hand is the famous cedar boudoir, whose odoriferous perfume is smelt even here. We entered the Fountain Court, but sought in vain the stream that was once forced up, at vast expense, from the vale below and trickled over its marble bason.

For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed,
Where the weeds and desolate dust are spread.

One would almost imagine Byron had written his lines in the "Giaour" describing Hassan's residence amidst the ruins of Fonthill, so striking, so tangible, is the resemblance. He says of the fountains--

'Twas sweet of yore to hear it play
And chase the sultriness of day,
As springing high the silver dew
In whirls fantastically flew
And flung luxurious coolness round
The air, and verdure o'er the ground.
'Twas sweet, when cloudless stars were bright,
To view the wave of watery light
And hear its melody by night.

But the shades of evening, now rapidly advancing, warned us to depart while there was yet light enough to trace our path through the gloomy wood. We entered its thick and umbrageous covert, and were near losing our road before we reached the barrier gate. The road was strewed with dry leaves, which reminded me of the earthly hopes of man.

He builds too low who builds beneath the skies,

and he who wishes for solid happiness must rest on a broader base than that afforded by momentary enjoyment, tempting and blooming as the foliage of summer, but evanescent as its withered leaves.

The next morning was finer than our most sanguine wishes could have anticipated. We were not long dispatching our comfortable breakfast, and hastened to the barrier gate. We here met a venerable woman, whose noble features and picturesque dress would have served as a splendid model for Gainsborough or Ben Barker. Stopping to inquire a nearer road to the Abbey, as she seemed indigenous to the place, I was tempted to ask if she knew Mr. Beckford. "I have seen him, sir, many, many times; but he is gone, and I trust--I do trust--to rest. He was a good man to the poor, never was there a better." "You astonish me; I had heard that he never gave away anything." "Good gracious, sir, who could have invented such lies? There never was a kinder friend to the poor, and when he left they lost a friend indeed. Not give away anything! Why, sir, in the winter, when snow was on the ground and firing dear, he used to send wagons and wagons for coal to Warminster, and make them cut through the snow to fetch it, and gave the poor souls plenty of firing, besides money, blankets, and clothing, too, and as for me I can answer for three half- sovereigns he gave me himself at different times with his own hand." "You surprise me." "I saw him coming once with his servants. I had my baby in my arms--that's she that lives in that cottage yonder, she's grown a woman now--and I was shuffling along to get out of his way, when he called out, 'What a beautiful little babe, let me look at it,' and then he smiled and made as though he would shake hands with the child, and, bless you, he slipped half-a-sovereign into my hand." I confess I was delighted at the little anecdote, and I am sure the good woman's praise was perfectly disinterested. Those who know anything of the poor are convinced they never flatter those from whom they can never again derive any benefit. I had almost expected to hear curses, if not loud at least deep.

A bailiff resides in the Abbey stables, who has charge of the place, but the "steeds are vanished from the stalls." We inquired if we could see the remaining apartments, but found the bailiff was gone to Hindon, and had taken the keys with him. Here was a difficulty indeed. "Perhaps," said his daughter, "you can get into the great Tower staircase; I think the door is open." We proceeded thither, but alas! a ponderous door and locked most unequivocally denied all entrance. "Perhaps father has left the key in his old coat; I will run and see" said our interesting young cicerone. She scuttled off, and we waited in anxiety, till in five minutes she returned with a large bunch of keys, the passport to the extraordinary apartments still remaining. My joy was as great at hearing the lock turn as was ever "Vathek's" when he discovered the Indian at the gate of the Hall of Eblis with his _clef d'or_. The great circular staircase survived the shock of the falling tower. The stairs wind round a massive centre, or newel, three feet in diameter; the ascent is gentle, the stairs at least six feet broad. They form an approach light, elegant, and so lofty that you cannot touch with the hand the stairs above your head. Numerous small windows make the staircase perfectly light, and the inside is so clean that it is difficult to believe it is not continually scoured and whitened, but this I was assured was not the case. Two hundred and ten steps lead to a leaden roof, the view from which beggars description. You have here a bird's eye view of the lovely estate. Majestic trees, hanging woods, and luxuriant plantations cover the ground for two or three miles round, whilst beyond this begin those immense and interminable downs for which Wiltshire is so noted; they are dreary and barren enough in themselves, but at such a point as this, where the foreground and middle distance are as verdant and richly clad with trees as can possibly be desired, their effect is very beautiful. The absence of enclosures produces breadth and repose, and the local colour melts gradually into the grey distance in the most charming manner. Looking westward the great avenue, a mile in length, presents itself; to the south the Beacon-terrace, a green road more than two miles long, leads to a high hill, where the Alderman commenced, but never finished, a triangular tower. This road, or rather avenue, has a most charming effect; the trees that bound its sides are planted in a zigzag direction, so as to destroy the appearance of formality, whilst in reality it is a straight road, and you walk at once in a direct line, without losing the time you would if the road were more tortuous. On the south side the view is most fascinating. In a deep hollow not half-a- mile off, enbosomed, nay almost buried amidst groves of pine and beech, are discovered the dark waters of the bittern lake. The immense plantations of dark pines give it this sombre hue, but in reality the waters are clear as crystal. Beyond these groves, still looking south, you discover the woods about Wardour Castle, and amongst them the silvery gleam of another sheet of water. To the south-west is the giant spire of Salisbury, which since the fall of Fonthill Tower now reigns in solitary stateliness over these vast regions of down and desert. Stourton Tower presents itself to the north, whilst to the west, in the extreme distance, several high hills are traced which have quite a mountainous character--

Naveled in the woody hills,
And calm as cherished hate, its surface wears
A deep, cold, settled aspect nought can shake.

The north wing of the Abbey, containing the oratory, does not seem to have suffered from the fall of the Tower, and we next proceeded to inspect it. A winding staircase from the kitchen court leads you at once to that portion of the gallery called the vaulted corridors. The ceilings of four consecutive rooms are beautiful beyond all expectation. Prepared as I was by the engravings in Rutter and Britton to admire these ceilings, I confess that the real thing was finer than I could possibly have imagined. King Edward's ceiling of dark oak (and its ornaments in strong relief) is as fresh as if just painted, and the beautiful cornice round the four walls of this stately gallery is still preserved, with its three gilded mouldings, but the seventy-two emblazoned shields that formed an integral part of the frieze have been ruthlessly torn off. The roof of the vaulted corridor with its gilded belts is the most perfect of the series of rooms, and that of the sanctum is beautifully rich; it is fretted in the most elegant way with long drops, pendants, or hangings like icicles, at least nine inches deep. Here alas! the hands of vandals have knocked off the gilded roses and ornaments that were suspended. These three apartments are painted in oak, and gold is most judiciously introduced on prominent parts. But the ceiling of the last compartment is beyond all praise; it gleams as freshly with purple, scarlet, and gold as if painted yesterday. Five slender columns expand into and support a gilded reticulation on a dark crimson ground. In the centre of the ceiling is still hanging the dark crimson cord which formerly supported the elegant golden lamp I had formerly admired in Lansdown-crescent; it seemed to have been hastily cut down, and its height from the floor and its deep colour, the same as the ceiling, has probably prevented its observation and removal. The southern end of the gallery has been stripped of its floor, and it was with difficulty, and not without danger, I got across a beam; and, standing with my back against the brick wall that has been built up at the end, where were once noble glazed doors opening into the grand octagon, I surveyed the whole lovely perspective; the length from this spot is 120 feet. The beautiful reddish alabaster chimney-piece still remains, but it is split in the centre, whether from the weight of wall or a fruitless attempt to tear it out I know not. The recesses, once adorned with the choicest and rarest books, still retain their sliding shelves, but the whole framework of the windows has been removed, and they are open to the inclemency of the weather, or roughly boarded up. The stove, once of polished steel, is now brown and encrusted with rust as if the iron were 500 years old. It is impossible for an architect or artist to survey the ruthless and wanton destruction of this noble wing, unscathed and uninjured but by the hands of barbarous man, without feelings of the deepest regret and sorrow. How forcibly do the lines of the noble bard recur to the mind on surveying these apartments, still magnificent, yet neglected, and slowly and surely falling into ruin--

For many a gilded chamber's here,
Which solitude might well forbear,
Within this dome, ere yet decay
Hath slowly worked her cankering way.

I ran up the circular staircase, and entered the noble state bedroom. The enormous plate glasses still remain; the ceiling is of carved oak relieved by gold ornaments. With what emotion did I turn through the narrow gallery, leading to the state room, to the tribune, which looked into the great octagon. A lofty door was at the extremity. I attempted to open it; it yielded to the pressure, and I stood on the very balcony that looked into the octagon.

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