Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) (346 page)

In the autumn of 1807, Mr and Mrs. Radcliffe visited Knole House for the second time. The following is a small portion of Mrs. Radcliffe’s reminiscences of the house, and especially of its pictures.

“We were astonished at the extent of this mansion, and at its vast collection of portraits. Warwick Castle has the greatest number of Vandyke’s pictures; Blenheim of Rubens’s; Knole of Holbein’s, with many of Vandyke too. The old porter at the first gate had lived about the spot fifty years; was there in the time of the late Duke’s grandfather: those were grand times; the late Dukes were very good, but things had got dearer then. When we were going, he desired Mr. R. to write our names in the book, that my lord might have the
pleasure
of seeing who had been there.

*

At the upper end of the lofty and noble hall, where the high table stood, is now a very large statue of Demosthenes, robed, with buskined feet and a book or scrowl in his hand; the attitude composed; the countenance expresses nothing of the energy and fire that characterize his eloquence.

It was bought by the late Duke in Italy, for seven hundred pounds. The brown gallery is almost covered with portraits by Holbein, the greatest assemblage of famous persons I ever saw. In the little closet of entrance, the countenance of Giardini, the composer, gives you the idea that he is listening to the long-drawn notes of his own violin. Holbein’s Erasmus, in the gallery, must be truth itself: the keen and quick, small eye; the humorous, though serious smile; the thin, finely-pointed, yet bending nose; the thin-drawn lips and chin, are all exquisite. In a picture containing three portraits, that in the middle is of Luther. His bluff, blunt, strong habits of expression; his dauntless and persevering mind; his consciousness of the truth and importance of his cause, and his resolution to maintain it, are well expressed: strength and resolution in the chin. On his right is Melancthon, reasoning, acute, amiable. On his left, Pomeranius; a somewhat sly and monkish countenance. Queen Elizabeth and several of her Court: Salisbury, civil, sagacious and fastidious; effeminate; very fair: Burleigh, with a steady, penetrating, grey eye, high forehead, with black hair; a cast of humour: Leicester, sturdy and crafty.

“Lord Surrey, the poet, young, thin and melancholy. No very fine” pictures in what is called Lady Betty Germain’s room, which looks delightfully upon the green and stately alleys of the garden.

High state-bed; dingy white plumes crown the bed-posts. In the dressing-room are three Earls of Dorset, and drawings by Titian and Michael Angelo. In another room a state-bed, presented by James the First. In the dressing-room, among many fine pictures, is one of Sir Theodore Mayerne, physician to James the First, and to two of his successors, by Vandyke: he is seated in an armchair, and his right hand rests on a human skull; his own head is grey, and he looks at you with a mild and sensible countenance, turned a little towards his left shoulder; the fading look of age, without actual weakness.

“In the great dining-room below, Hoppner’s copy of his portrait of Mr. Pitt, a strong, and, I think, not a flattering likeness. Fletcher, intelligent, thoughtful, and tender; brown complexion, acute black eyes. Beaumont, florid, with light blue eyes; of an open, cheerful, handsome countenance. Near the windows is a group of portraits, painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds, with one of himself, in the midst of these his familiar friends, now all dead. On his right is Doctor Johnson, drawn bareheaded — a severe deduction from the harmonies of any frame: it is nearly a profile; intense thought and anxiety press down the benevolent brow. On the left is Goldsmith, painted in the same style, a strong countenance, but of very different expression; coarse; the eyebrows not bent, like Johnson’s, firmly and evenly over the eyes, but only towards the nose; the other end highly hoisted, as if with caprice; unpleasing countenance; nothing of the goodness of Johnson. Garrick, with a most pleasant and living look, piercing eyes fixed upon you, with perfect ease and kindness, as he leans with both arms on a table; older than the portraits I have seen. Burke, vulgarized by Opie. Betterton, the actor, manly, sensible face. Pope, old, wrinkled, spectre-like. Swift, gentle in comparison with Pope. Otway, heavy, squalid, unhappy; yet tender countenance, but not so squalid as one we formerly saw; full, speaking, black eyes; it seems as if dissolute habits had overcome all his finer feelings, and left him little of mind, except a sense of sorrow. Dryden, in his velvet cap, younger than usual. Addison, mild. Waller, thinner and older than usual, with scarce a spark of his fire left, but still a courtier-like gentleman.

“In a small, domestic parlour, leading into the book-room, is that fine picture of Lord Gowrie and Vandyke, by the latter; the finest portrait I ever saw except one of Rubens, by himself, at Buckingham House, and another at Warwick, in the cabinet that terminates the long suite of staterooms.

“In a blue room, a domestic drawing-room, Lord Whitworth, a shrewd and comely man of the world, with spirited and penetrating grey eyes; an expressive but somewhat clouded brow. The Duchess, in a black velvet riding habit, with a hat and feather, by Opie; a pleasing picture: you do not think of her in this portrait as of the Duchess, which is the object of one in the drawing-room, but as of a happy wife and a good-natured, sensible woman; a little too much care in the attitude.

“In one room a head of Louis the Fourteenth, all flutter and fume.

“The rooms are so numerous and the suites of them so long, that, though I have seen them twice, I could not now find my way through them, and cannot even recollect them all. All the principal rooms look upon the garden, with its lawns and lofty shades. Scarcely a spot of brown earth is visible: so many various tints of green; the trees sometimes bending their branches down to the shrubs and flowers.

“In the Park, abounding with noble beech groves, is one, on the left of the road leading to the house, which, for mass and overtopping pomp, excels even any in Windsor Park, when viewed as you descend from the Park gate, whence shade rises above shade, with amazing and magnificent grandeur. In this mass of wood is one beech, that stretches upwards its grey limbs among the light, feathery foliage to a height and with a majesty that is sublime. Over a seat, placed round the bole, it spreads out a light yet umbrageous fan, most graceful and beautiful. With all its grandeur and luxuriance, there is nothing in this beech heavy or formal; it is airy, though vast and majestic, and suggests an idea at once of the strength and fire of a hero! I should call a beech-tree — and this beech above every other — the hero of the forest, as the oak is called the king.”

In the autumn of 1811, Mrs. Radcliffe went again to Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight. The following extracts bear but a small proportion to her entire journal of this little tour.— “Passed through Bere Forest, on the right, with many seats and woods and spires, around. Almost dusk. An horizon of glowing crimson lay behind the woods on the right, where the sun had set. Delightful to catch the different saffron, crimson, or fiery tints among the purple streaks. All the prospect lay in sullen twilight from Portsdown Hill, and it was quite dark when we reached Portsmouth. Could just discern the high rampart walks, with trees, before we rambled under the deep, fortified gateway of Portsea. Went to the George Inn, a very large handsome house, with many galleries and staircases. Handsome furniture and excellent accommodation, except that you could get nothing when you wanted it. We had fish brought without plates, and then plates without bread. All this owing to a vast throng of company, two hundred vessels or more being detained by winds, besides many ships of war. Nothing but ringing of bells and running about of waiters. If you ask a waiter a question, he begins a civil answer, but shuts the door before you have heard it all. It was very diverting to hear the different tones and measure of the ringings, particularly about supper time, and the next day about five, when every body happened to be dining at one and the same time, to hear them all ringing together, or in quick succession, in different keys and measure, according to the worn out, or better, patience of the ringer. These different keys enabled me to distinguish how often each bell was rung before it was answered; also the increasing impatience of the ringer, till, at the third, or fourth summons, the bell was in a downright passion. There was a mischievous amusement in this, after we had gone through the delay ourselves, and had gotten what we wanted. Such life and bustle is inspiriting, for a little while. Before supper, we had been down to the platform, over the sea. All was indistinct and vast; the comet high, but no moon; calm. Heard the* falling of the tide — monotonous, not grand — cannon all around and sentinels; some old seamen.

“Oct. 11. — Cloudy, with silver gleams. In the afternoon, sailed in the packet for Ryde. The wind being contrary, though moderate, we were two hours and a half on our passage; had a delightful sail, festooning among all the fleet at Spithead. A passenger asked ‘ What brig is that?’ as we passed a man-of-war. A midshipman, who leaned over the side, made no answer. ‘ What brig is that, sir?” The Rover.’ Every body admired this vessel. Two ships of 100 guns, one of 74, and many of other degrees of force. It was a grand and glorious sight, this anchored fleet, at various distances on the gleaming waves, some in shadow, others upon long lines of distant light, of coldest silver. Among other passengers were two Missionaries going to Sierra Leone in the brig Minerva, belonging to Mr. Macaulay: the eldest Wilhelm, a German, the younger a Persian; modest, sedate, well-intentioned men; had some knowledge of Greek; one of them was taking his wife with him. The captain of their ship, on board, seemed to be a good sort of German. Another captain of a trading ship was a passenger, Captain Reynolds, going to his ship, the Crescent, bound for the Mediterranean: a plain, steady, grave seaman, of the old stamp; good sense, with a pious tender heart. Said he had carried, or that he was then about to carry, several hundred copies of the New Testament in the modern Greek, to be distributed under the direction of agents of the British and Foreign Bible Society. Captain — , a Cornish man, going to his ship, the Commerce. These two captains had met “on stronds afar remote,” and now, by accident, on board this packet. One of them accosted the other with an apology for some apparent inattention at Malta, where they had last parted — his ship having been “so far to leeward.” They talked of parts of Smyrna, Constantinople, and other ports beyond the Straights, as familiarly as they could of London or Bristol. Mr. W —— — , a London merchant, having a seat somewhere in the west, a tall thin man, about sixty, with a florid face and white hair; an unassuming well-bred man. The captain of the packet, formerly a pilot, had a keen, steady, dark eye, with a brow low-bent, from attention to distant objects, and a countenance quick and firm, that seemed to say he was master of his business, and proud of it.

“Landed at Ryde, after a fine sail, through a grand and interesting scene.

“Oct. 15. — After a foggy night, a clear and cloudless day, with the warmth of June. At Steephill; saw the skirts of the fog clearing up the steeps of Boniface, like a curtain, and the sea below brightening from misty grey into it’s soft blue, and the whole horizon gradually clearing, till all was cheerful warmth and sunshine, about ten o’clock. About twelve, we set off to walk to the Signal-house, on the highest steep of Boniface, not visible near the house, nor indeed till we had gone a long way, being on the eastern side of the down. Followed the steep Newport road, for a mile or two; looked down on the vast sea-line, and on the huge promontories and broken rocks of the Undercliffe. Then, leaving the road, turned into a field on the right, with heathy steeps and downs, that would have been capped with clouds, had there been any. The air keen, and the climate considerably different from that below. The views astonishing and grand in a high degree. From these ridges we looked down, on one side, over the whole interior of the island: but the sublime view was that to the south; where, as we seemed perched on an extreme point of the world, we looked immediately down on hills and cliffs of various height and form, tumbled in confusion, as if by an earthquake, and stretching into the sea, which spreads its vast circumference beyond, and its various shades of blue. This soft blue, thus spreading below us, was, in general, deeper than that of the cloudless sky; and the sky itself was paler at the horizon than high above, appearing there like the dawn of light, and deepening as the arch ascended. This might be the effect of vapour, drawn up from the sea. Found our way at length over nearly trackless furze and heath, to the Signal-house, which looks down on the steeps of Boniface, and the rocks of Bonchurch, and over to the sweep of Sandown Bay, then all over Brading Harbour and the long coast of Sussex, which, in clear weather, may be seen as far as Beachy Head.

“In returning, we endeavoured to follow a path down the steeps near Bonchurch, and to find some steps, cut in the precipice, by which to descend. The look down upon the shores and sea tremendous — steeps below steeps, to the surge beating and whitening below all. Followed, for some time without dizziness, till we lost our little track, and saw all around and beneath us scarcely any thing but pathless descents — tremendous. From the fear of coming to some impracticable steep in this wild descent and being unable to find the hewn steps, we reascended to the Signal-house, and so returned home. The sea a desert, except that a fine frigate sailed majestically at a distance, and one brig was also in sight.

“How sweet is the cadence of the distant surge!

It seemed, as we sat in our inn, as if a faint peal of far-off bells mingled with the sounds on shore, sometimes heard, sometimes lost: the first note of the beginning, and last of the falling peal, seeming always the most distinct. This resounding of the distant surge on a rocky shore might have given Shakspeare his idea when he makes Ferdinand, in the Tempest, hear, amidst the storm, bells ringing his father’s dirge; a music which Ariel also commemorates, together with the sea-wave: —