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.”