The little breakfast-room we mentioned, looks out not only by a side window into the parterre, but also by two large low windows into the garden; a fine old garden, with a fine stately old terrace, one of the noblest it was ever our good fortune to see, and such a one as Danby or Turner would be proud to enrich their fine pictures with. In this room were a few family portraits. One a small full-length figure, which the old woman very significantly told us was Byron’s Chaworth; that is, the Chaworth killed by the poet’s grandfather in a duel. Another portrait she informed us was the last Lord Chaworth; for this estate, which had been in the family of the Annesleys from the time of the Conquest, came into that of Lord Viscount Chaworth of Armagh, in Ireland, by the marriage of one of his ancestors with the sole heiress, Alice de Annesley, in the reign of Henry VI. “And this,” she said, pointing to a female portrait, “was his lawful wife.” “What then,” we said, “there was an unlawful wife, was there?” “Yes,” she added, “she is here.” We glanced at the picture placed in the shady corner by the window, next, however, to Lord Chaworth, and exclaimed, “and a good judge was his Lordship too!” A creature of most perfect and wondrous beauty it was that we beheld. What a fine, rich, oval countenance and noble forehead slightly shaded by auburn locks! what large dark eyes of inexpressible expression! what a soft, delicate, yet beautiful and sunny complexion! what a beautiful rounding of the cheek, chin, and throat! what exquisite features! what a perfect mixture of nobility of mind, with elegance and simplicity of taste. Never did we behold a more enchanting vision of youth and beauty; and all this hidden for generations in a dark nook of this old hall, unmentioned, and unknown. It were worth a journey from London but to gaze upon. Beautiful as this portrait is, it represents a mole upon either cheek; but this, instead of detracting from the loveliness of the face, as might be imagined, only appears to give it character and individuality, and vouches for the fidelity of the likeness. The painting, too, is extremely well done; far superior to any thing else in the house, except it be the satin petticoat of a Miss Burdett in the terrace-room. “And who,” we inquired, “was this charming creature?” “She was a girl of the village, sir,” was the reply. “What! could the village produce a creature like her?” “Yes: his Lordship took her into the house as a servant; but she did not like him and went away; however, he got her afterwards, and built a house for her on the estate, and she had one child. But she died, poor thing! all was not right somehow; and all her money she put in a cupboard for her son,—they would shew you the cupboard in the house to this day; and on the very night she died, her own relations came and took away the money;—things weren’t as they should have been! and she came again.” “What, was this the lady that we have heard an old man say, came up out of a well, and sat in a tree by moonlight, combing her hair?” “No, Lord bless you! that was another; but the parson laid her, and the well is covered in; but for all that she walks yet!” We smiled at the good woman’s very orthodox belief in ghosts; but we know not whether we should not be apt to catch the contagion of superstitious feeling, if we were to dwell all alone in this old house as she does, and hear the winds howling and sighing about it at night; the long ivy rustling about the windows, and dashing against the panes; and the owls hooting about in many a wild, piercing, and melancholy tone; and feel oneself in the unparticipated solitude of those ancient rooms, with all their trains of sad memories.
Besides this portrait of the beautiful and unhappy Mrs. Milner, we bestowed a look of great interest on one of much attraction, the daughter of Viscount Chaworth—not beautiful, but full of the fascination of cultivated mind, and of a heart so living and loving, that it caused the eyelids to droop over their beamy orbs, with an expression that made you tremble for the peace of its possessor. One other picture attracted our attention from its singularity. It represents a landscape, apparently, “the hill of green and mild declivity,” the line of trees, and the trees in circular array, from among which rises the temple we spoke of before, and which our cicerone assured us had been considered “the finest in all England, but had been blown down in Oliver Cromwell’s days.” In the foreground stands, as if painted in enamel, a gentleman in a strange sort of dress-jerkin, of white satin, with a short petticoat of purple velvet bordered with gold lace. On his right hand his amazonian lady, half the head taller than himself, clad in a riding-dress of green, bordered likewise with gold-lace; and on either side of them a son, in the full dress of William and Mary’s reign; with powdered wigs, long lapped scarlet coats, waistcoats, and breeches, with white silk stockings on their neat little legs, and lace ruffles at their hands, each with his little head turned on one side;—the one caressing a fawn, the other a greyhound; and the family group completed by the groom standing a little behind, holding the lady’s palfrey ready saddled for her use. These, and a portrait of the son of Lord Chaworth, are all the family pictures which the house contains.
Leaving then this room, we re-crossed the hall, and ascending the staircase at the lower end, entered the drawing-room, which is over the hall—a handsome room, and the best furnished in the house. The most interesting piece of furniture it contains, or perhaps, which the house itself contains, is a screen covered over with a great number of cuttings in black paper, done by a Mrs. Goodchild, and representing a great variety of family incidents and character—those little passing incidents in life, which, though rarely chronicled, are most influential on its fortunes—on which often its very destiny hangs. The receipt of a letter—the first meeting—the last parting—how much do these things involve! Here we were introduced to Mary Chaworth, the lovely and graceful maiden, full of hope, and life, and gaiety; with her friends and dependents about her; at the very time when Lord Byron became attached to her. Of the accuracy of this likeness we have no doubt, from the wonderful fidelity of some of the others, with whose persons we are acquainted.
In one place she is represented as sitting in a room, her attitude one of terror. A man is before her presenting a pistol, and a little terrified page is concealing himself under a table. In another, she sits with her mother and a gentleman at tea; a foot-man behind waiting upon them. Again, she is in the gardens or grounds, walking with her cousin, Miss Radford; her rustic hat thrown back upon her shoulders; her beautiful head turned aside; and her hand put forth to receive a letter from a page, kneeling on one knee,—a letter from her lover and subsequent husband.
Again, she is playing with a little child; and in all, her figure is full of exquisite grace and vivacity, and the profile of the face remarkably fine. It is impossible to say with what intense interest we examined these memorials of private life; these passages so full of vitality and character, incidental, but important—the very essence of an autobiography.
On a small table in this room lay a rich fan belonging to Mary Chaworth, which the old woman told us had been laid down by her there on some particular occasion—perhaps the last time she used it, and, therefore, was never moved from the spot. We observed, too, another of those little incidents of family history in this house, which have something peculiarly touching in them. On the staircase stood the sea-chest of a son who died at sea. It stood as it had been sent home after his death, sealed up, and the seals still unbroken. Poor Nanny Marsland said sorrowfully—“Ah, poor fellow! he was a pious lad; he would fain have been a clergyman, but he could not be that—for the living went to his elder brother. He did not like the sea; but he used to write to the poor dear lady, his mother, and say—‘God’s will be done!’ Eh! what sweet letters he used to send, if you could but have heard them—but it’s all one—he’s gone; and his poor mother, that used to sit and cry over them—she’s gone too!”
From the drawing-room we passed to the one called the terrace-room, from its opening by a glass door upon the terrace, which runs along the top of the garden at right angles with the house, and level with this second story, descending to the garden by a double flight of broad stone steps, in the middle of its length, which is about eighty yards. This room formerly contained the billiard-table, and in it Mary Chaworth and her noble lover passed much time. He was fond of the terrace, and used to pace backwards and forwards upon it, and amuse himself with shooting with a pistol at a door. It was here that she last saw him, with the exception of a dinner-visit, after his return from his travels. It was here that he took his last leave of Mary Chaworth, when
He went his way,
And ne’er repassed that hoary threshold more.
It was here, then, those ill-fated ones stood, and lingered, and conversed, for at least two hours. Mary Chaworth was here all life and spirit, full of youth, and beauty, and hope. What a change fell upon her after-life! She now stood here, the last scion of a time-honoured race, with large possessions, with the fond belief of sharing them in joy with the chosen of her life. Never did human life present a sadder contrast! There are many reasons why we should draw a veil over this mournful history, much of which will never be known; suffice it to say, that it was not without most real, deep, and agonizing causes, that years after,