On the same side of the room are two small Vander Meulens, landscapes. They are very highly finished,
and the colouring is delicious; the trees are grouped with all the grandeur of Claude or Poussin. Above are two of the finest Vernets; they are both sea pieces. The colouring has a depth and richness I never before saw in anything attributed to him. In the Louvre are his most famous pictures, and what I now say is the result of calm and mature reflection. I had the Louvre pictures constantly before my eyes for three months. They are very large, and certainly have great merit; but had I my choice I would prefer Mr. Beckford’s to any of the set.
West’s original sketch for his great picture of King Lear, painted for Boydell’s Shakspeare Gallery—“Blow, blow, thou winter wind.” A most wonderful performance. The expression of face of the poor mad king is astonishing; the colouring rich and mellow—nothing of West’s usually hard outline. The whole picture is full of energy and fire, and seems to have been struck off with the greatest ease and rapidity. “Do observe the face of Edgar,” said Mr. Beckford. “Under his assumed madness you trace a sentiment of respect and anxiety for the monarch; he could not forget that it was his sovereign.” “I have seen,” I said, “most of West’s great pictures, but there is more genius in that sketch than in anything I ever saw of his. I think he took too much pains with his sketches. The consequence was that the original spirit evaporated long before the completion of the great tame painting, where his men and women too often look like wooden lay figures covered with drapery.” “Sir, did you ever see his sketch of Death on the Pale Horse? The large picture is certainly very fine, but I have heard the best judges say that the original sketch is one of the finest things in existence. The President himself considered it his best and refused £100, offered for it by the Prince Regent; yet afterwards, being distressed for money, he parted with it, I believe, to Mr. Thompson, the artist, for £50.” “Is it possible? I wish I had known that he wanted to dispose of it. I should have liked it beyond anything. It was most wonderful.”
Above the picture of King Lear hangs a noble picture by Titian, the composition of which reminded me much of Raphael. The Virgin’s face is extremely beautiful, but it is the sort of beauty we sometimes meet with, that we sometimes may have seen. The St. Catherine is of a more elevated style of beauty, more intellectual; in
short, it possesses a combination of charms that has never yet fallen to the lot of any mortal. The infant is extremely fine. On this side is also a portrait of himself exquisitely coloured and finished.
Near these paintings is a Canaletti, not a real view, but an assemblage of various fine buildings; in fact, a sort of union of Rome and Venice. In the centre is the Mole of Hadrian, round which he has amused himself by putting an elegant colonnade; on the right hand is a bridge. The colouring is clear, the shadows rich, and the water softly painted and extremely transparent. This is the most beautiful Canaletti I ever saw. I observed that the generality of his pictures had a hardness, dryness, and blackness that we saw nothing of here. “You are quite right,” he said, “and the reason is that very few of those generally attributed to him are really genuine, but of mine there can be no doubt, as this painting and several others that I have were got directly from the artist himself by means of the English Consul at Venice; but not a quarter of the pictures that one sees and that are called his were ever painted by Canaletti.” There were several very fine pictures by this master destroyed in the lifetime of Alderman Beckford at the fire which consumed the old mansion at Fonthill nearly a hundred years ago.
This Canaletti partakes of the same character of high excellence that Mr. Beckford’s other pictures possess; in fact, as with so many of his pictures, you see the hand of the master, whose common works you know, but in this house you find paintings still finer, which give you more elevated and correct ideas of the style and manner of the genuine productions of the great masters. There really seems some charm, some magic in the walls, so great is the similarity of colouring in these chefs d’œuvres, the clear, the subdued, the pearly tints, a variety of delicious colour, and none of the dirty hues you see in mediocre old paintings.
Over the sofa is a constellation of beauties which we merely glanced at as we passed, but which I hope another day to examine. They are some of the rarest specimens by G. Poussin, Wouvermans, Berghem, Van Huysum, Polemberg, and others. On a small table was placed an elegantly cut caraffe of carnations of every variety of colour that you can possibly imagine. There is nothing
in which Mr. Beckford is more choice than in his bouquets. At every season the rarest living flowers adorn the house.
Next to the dining room is a small salon, which we now entered. Here is a noble drawing by Turner of the Abbey, according to a plan proposed, but never carried out. The tower is conical, and would have been even higher than the one that was completed. “I have seen,” I said, “a fine drawing of Fonthill by Turner, originally in your possession, but now belonging to Mr. Allnutt, of Clapham. It is prodigiously fine. The scenery there must be magnificent. The hills and beautiful lake in the drawing give one an idea of Cumberland.” “It is a very fine drawing, but rather too poetical, too ideal, even for Fonthill. The scenery there is certainly beautiful, but Turner took such liberties with it that he entirely destroyed the portraiture, the locality of the spot. That was the reason I parted with it. There were originally six drawings of the Abbey; three were disposed of at the sale, and I still have the remaining ones.” “Are they going to rebuild the tower, sir? for when I was last in London, Papworth, the architect, was gone down to Fonthill to do something there.” “Impossible,” he said, “unless it were to be made a national affair, which indeed is not very likely. It would cost at least £100,000 to restore it. But what can Papworth have done there? It must I should think be something to the pavilion. I assure you I had no idea of parting with Fonthill till Farquhar made me the offer. I wished to purge it, to get rid of a great many things I did not want, but as to the building itself I had no more notion of selling it than you have (turning to his architect) of parting with anything, with—with the clothes you have on.”