the works of his pupils from his original designs certainly; they were afterwards retouched by him, and people are silly enough to believe they are all his work. But mark well the difference in execution between those great gallery pictures and such a gem as this.” Mr. Beckford then showed me a “Ripon” by Polemberg, a lovely classic landscape, with smooth sky, pearly distance, and picturesque plains; the Holy Family in the foreground. “Do take notice of the St. Joseph in this charming picture,” he said. “The painters too often pourtray him as little better than a vagabond Jew or an old beggar. Polemberg had too much good taste for such caricaturing, and you see he has made him here look like a decayed gentleman.”
Mr. Beckford drew aside another curtain, and we entered the front drawing room, of larger dimensions, but fitted up in a similar style. The first thing that caught my eye was the magnificent effect produced by a scarlet drapery, whose ample folds covered the whole side of the room opposite the three windows from the ceiling to the floor. Mr. Beckford’s observation on his first view of Mad. d’ Aranda’s boudoir instantly recurred to my mind. These are his very words: “I wonder architects and fitters-up of apartments do not avail themselves more frequently of the powers of drapery. Nothing produces so grand and at the same time so comfortable an effect. The moment I have an opportunity I will set about constructing a tabernacle larger than the one I arranged at Ramalhad, and indulge myself in every variety of plait and fold that can be possibly invented.” “I never was so convinced,” I said, “of the truth of your observations as at the present moment. What a charming and comfortable effect does that splendid drapery produce!” “I am very fond of drapery,” he replied, “but that is nothing to what I had at Fonthill in the great octagon. There were purple curtains fifty feet long.”
Here was a cabinet of oak, made in Bath, in form most classical and appropriate. On one side stood two massive and richly chased silver gilt candlesticks that formerly were used in the Moorish Palace of the Alhambra. “Then you have visited Granada?” I inquired. “More than once.” “What do you think of the Alhambra?” “It is vastly curious certainly, but many things there are in wretched taste, and to say truth I don’t much admire Moorish taste.”
Mr. Beckford next pointed out a head in marble brought from Mexico by Cortez, which was for centuries in the possession of the Duke of Alba’s family, and was given to the present proprietor by the Duchess. “Her fate was very tragical,” he observed. In a small cupboard with glass in front is a little ivory reliquior, four or five hundred years old. It was given to Mr. Beckford by the late Mr. Hope. It is in the shape of a small chapel; on opening the doors, the fastenings of which were two small dogs or monkeys, you found in a recess the Virgin and Child, surrounded by various effigies, all carved in the most astonishingly minute manner.
The mention of Mr. Hope’s name produced an observation about “Anastasius,” of which Mr. Beckford affirmed he was confident Mr. Hope had written very little; he was, he positively asserted, assisted by Spence. My companion here observed, “Had Mr. Beckford heard of the recent discoveries made of the ruins of Carthage?” “Of Carthage?” he said, “it must be New Carthage. It cannot be the old town, that is impossible. If it were, I would start to-morrow to see it. I should think myself on the road to Babylon half-way.” “Babylon must have been a glorious place,” observed my companion, “if we can place any reliance on Mr. Martin’s long line of distances about that famous city.” “Oh, Martin. Martin is very clever, but a friend of mine, Danby, in my opinion far surpasses him.” I cannot agree with Mr. Beckford in this. Martin was undoubtedly the inventor of the singular style of painting in question, and I do not believe that Danby ever produced anything equal to some of the illustrations of “Paradise Lost,” in particular “The Fall of the Apostate Angels,” which is as fine a conception as any painter, ancient or modern, ever produced.
Mr. Beckford then, taking off a glass cover, showed us what is, I should imagine, one of the greatest curiosities in existence, a vase about ten inches high, composed of one entire block of chalcedonian onyx. It is of Greek workmanship, most probably about the time of Alexander the Great. The stone is full of veins, as usual with onyxes. “Do observe,” said he, “these satyrs’ heads. Imagine the number of diamonds it must have taken to make any impression on such a hard substance. Rubens made a drawing of it, for it was pawned in his time for a large sum. I possess an engraving from his drawing,” and
opening a portfolio he immediately presented it to my wondering eyes.
Over the fireplace is a magnificent picture by Roberts, representing the tombs of Ferdinand and Isabella in the Alhambra. What I had always imagined a small chapel is, I find, really of gigantic proportions, and looks like a Cathedral in solemn grandeur and softness; the two sarcophagi are of white marble. The light streams through enormous painted windows, and at the extremity of the edifice is an altar surrounded by figures in different attitudes. “I should never have dreamt, from what Washington Irving says of the chapel of Ferdinand and Isabella, that it was such a plan as this.” “Oh, Washington Irving,” he replied, “is very poor in his descriptions; he does not do justice to Spain.” I wished he had spoken with a little more enthusiasm of a favourite author, but I imagine that the author of the “Sketch Book” is scarcely aristocratic enough for Mr. Beckford.
On the right hand of the fireplace is a very large landscape by Lee, which Mr. Beckford eulogised warmly. “That silvery stream,” he observed, “winding amongst those gentle undulating hills must be intended to represent Berkshire,” or he pronounced it Barkshire. With all due deference to the taste of the author of “Vathek,” and his admiration of this picture, which he compared to a Wouvermann, it is in my eyes a very uninteresting scene, though certainly strictly natural. “I don’t in general like Lee’s pictures,” he said, “but that is an exception.” In the corresponding recess is a fine sea piece by Chambers. On the opposite side of the room are rows of the most valuable books, which almost reach the ceiling. I hinted that I was really afraid we were trespassing on his leisure, as our visit was lengthened out most prodigiously. “Not at all,” he replied, “I am delighted to see you. It is a pleasure to show these things to those who really appreciate them, for I assure you that I find very few who do.” We now returned through the apartments. He accompanied us as far as the dining room door, when he inquired if I had seen the Tower? On my answering in the negative he said, “Then you must come up again.” He shook hands with my friend, and bowing politely to me was retiring, when stepping back he held out his hand in the kindest manner, repeating the words “Come
up again.” We found we had spent three hours in his company.