On my journey I visited Castle Howard, the seat of Lord Carlisle. It is one of the English ‘show places,’ but does not please me in the least. It was built by Vanbrugh, an architect of the time of Louis the Fourteenth, who built Blenheim in the same bad French taste. That, however, imposes by its mass, but Castle Howard neither imposes nor pleases. The whole park, too, has something to the last degree melancholy, stiff, and desolate. On a hill is a large temple, the burial-place of the family. The coffins are placed around in cells, most of which are still empty; so that the whole looks like a bee-hive, only indeed more silent and tranquil. In the castle are some fine pictures and antiques. Among the former, the celebrated Three Marys of Annibal Carracci is particularly remarkable. This picture represents the dead Christ, behind whom his mother has sunk fainting; the elder Mary hastens to her with a gesture of lamentation, while Mary Magdalene throws herself despairingly on the body. The gradation from actual death to fainting, thence to the subdued grief of age, and lastly, to the living despair of youth, is given with inimitable truth. Every limb in the body of Christ appears truly dead: you see that the vital spirit has utterly quitted this form, so motionless, cold, and stiff. On the contrary, all is life and motion in the beautiful Magdalene, even to the very hair; all is the vigour and fulness of life, excited by the bitterest grief.—Opposite hangs Annibal’s portrait by himself. It has very striking features, but looks more like a ‘highwayman’ than an artist. You, dear Julia, would have been most attracted by a collection of drawings of the Lords and Ladies of the Court of Francis the First,—fifty or sixty portraits: they were painted memoirs. Among the antiques I was amused by a Goose of the Capitol in bronze, which you fancy you hear cackling with its outstretched wings and open bill. A picture of Henry the Eighth, by Holbein, in admirable preservation, is worth mention;—otherwise nothing particularly struck me. The well-known St. John by Domenichino is here, and given out to be an original. If I mistake not, the real one is in Germany.
The park, planted in large stiff masses, is remarkably rich in archways: I passed through about seven before I reached the house. Over a muddy pond, not far from the Castle, is a stone bridge of five or six arches, and over this bridge—no passage. It is only an ‘object;’ and that it may answer this description thoroughly, there is not a tree or a bush near it or before it. It seems that the whole grounds are just as they were laid out a hundred and twenty years ago. Obelisks and pyramids are as thick as hops, and every view ends with one, as a staring termination. One pyramid is, however, of use, for it is an inn.
Sept. 22nd.
If colds and consumptions are frequent in England, it is more to be attributed to the habits of the people than the climate. They have a peculiar predilection for walks on the wet grass; and in every public room there are open windows, so that it is hardly possible to bear the drafts. Even when they are shut the wind whistles through them; for they are seldom substantial, and never double. The climate too, however favourable to vegetation, is dreadful for men. This morning at nine o’clock, I rode out on a hired horse, in beautiful weather and a cloudless sky, and before I had been out an hour the most soaking rain wetted me through and through. At last I reached the village, where, in despair at not finding even a gate-way under which to take shelter, I sprang from my horse, and seeing a cottage door open, went in, and found two old women cooking something over a fire. In England, everything domestic is held so sacred and inviolable, that a man who enters a room without having cautiously announced himself and begged pardon, instantly excites alarm and displeasure. Although the cause of my intrusion ran in pretty obvious streams from my hat and clothes, I was not very cordially received by the old ladies. But what was the rage and horror of my hostesses ‘malgré elles,’ when my steed, whose sagacity would have done honour to Nestor himself, walked in at the door, and before anything could be done to stop him, took his station in the most quiet and decorous manner before the chimney-piece, and with a look of sly, affected stupidity, began to dry his dripping ears at the fire. I thought the women would have died of rage, and I of laughing. I had such compassion for my poor comrade in misfortune, that I did not like to turn him out by force; and so,—they scolding and storming, I trying to appease them with gentle words, and the more approved eloquence of other silver sounds,—we staid, half by force, half by entreaty, till the storm was a little over, and we were a little dried. The drying, however, was of small avail; for, at the entrance to the romantic Forge Valley, storm and rain began afresh. I surrendered myself to my fate, though wholly without defence, and consoled myself with the beauties of the surrounding spot,—a deep, narrow valley, clothed with rich wood, through which a rapid, foaming streamlet took its way. By the side of the brook was a good road. I remarked a pretty and simple way of enclosing a spring between two large blocks of stones set upright, and a third laid across. Through this rude portal the water gushed forth, and bounded on its course.
To avoid catching cold, if possible, I took a warm salt bath as soon as I arrived, and then proceeded to the ‘Sands,’—that is, the part of the beach left by the tide; a very singular promenade. Saddle-horses, and carriages of all kinds, stand in numbers for hire; and you may ride for miles on the very brink of the waves, over ground like velvet. The old Castle of Scarborough on the one side, and a fine iron bridge connecting two hills on the other, increase the picturesque character of the scene. I rode by the light of the evening sun up to the Castle, from which the view is magnificent, and which is itself an imposing object.
On the highest point of the ruin is an iron machine like a kibble, which serves as a beacon. A large tar-barrel is placed in it and set on fire. It burns like a flaming torch the night through. The Castle stands on a projecting rock, which rises to the height of a hundred and fifty or two hundred feet perpendicular from the sea. Around the Castle its summit is like a bowling-green.
Sept. 23rd.
To-day I rode along the sea-coast to Filey, where there is a celebrated bridge of rocks built into the sea by the hand of Nature. The sea was blue, and covered with sails. At Filey I took a guide. We passed along many strangely-shaped rocks, and came at length to this bridge, which is in fact only a broad reef, running out about three-quarters of a mile into the sea. The detached blocks were thrown about in fantastic groups, and it was necessary to take some care not to slip over their smooth-washed sides. The tide was coming in, and already covered a part of the reefs. After satisfying my curiosity I scrambled back, and took my way through a pleasant field to the nearest inn.
Flamborough Head, Sept. 24th:—Evening.
Distances are calculated quite otherwise here than with us. My respectable old mare, a hired one, brought me here very well, five German miles in two hours. As soon as I arrived, I hired another horse to ride a mile and a half (German) further, to see the light-house and cavern which render Flamborough Head remarkable. The weather was most brilliant, with a good deal of wind, so that I hoped this time to escape a wetting; but I was deceived; for I had scarcely reached the cliffs when I was regaled not only with the ‘obligato’ drenching rain, but also with the accompaniment of a violent tempest. This, however, was an agreeable variety; for thunder and lightning beheld from beetling cliffs overhanging a foaming sea are worth encountering some inconvenience for. The custom-house officer who accompanied me, very civilly brought me an umbrella, seeing the lightness of my dress; but the storm, and the slippery and perilous path at the edge of the precipice rendered it useless. The sea has washed away the rocks in such a manner that many stand like solitary towers or columns in the waves. They looked like huge sea-spirits,—their whiteness rendered more glaring by the inky sky. There are many caverns, to which there is access at low water. It was now high-tide, however, and I was obliged to hire a fishing-boat to take me to the largest of them. Inspired by the fresh breeze, I took an oar for the first time in my life, and rowed heartily: I find the exercise so pleasant that I shall certainly take it as often as possible. The sea was so rough that I could not help thinking we were in some danger, and expressed as much to my companion. He answered me very poetically; “O Sir! do you think life is not as sweet to me as it is to you, because I am only a poor fisherman? As far as the mouth of the cavern there is no danger, but we can’t go in to-day.” I was therefore obliged to content myself with casting a glance into the huge arch-way, whence the foam flew up like smoke, amid the howling and bellowing of the waves. As the fisherman assured me that sea-water never gave cold, I mounted my horse, still dripping from the salt wave, and rode to the light-house. This was the more interesting to me, as I had till now but a very imperfect conception of the construction of these buildings.[70]