Part 5

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 eyebrow’s 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 hole, 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 strands 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 re-ascended 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:—

‘Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell, Ding, dong, bell!’

“This chiming of the surge is when the tide is among the rocks, and the wind, blowing from the sea, bears and softens all the different notes of the waves to a distance, in one harmonious cadence; as in a concert, your distance from the orchestra blends the different instruments into a richer and softer harmony.”

From several walks in the neighbourhood of Steephill, we select the following:—

“Passed Lord Dysart’s beautiful cottage. It stands at some distance from the shore, and has several distinct roofs, well thatched: a large conservatory stands on a winding lawn, with a fine beech grove and a long and richly coloured copse, bending along down, and afterwards along the feet of cliffs below. The crimson berries of the hawthorn gave exquisite tints to this coppice, among the brown and various shades of the autumnal woods, and appeared in abundance every where among the trees and wild shrubs of the whole Undercliffe. The little church of St. Lawrence, perhaps the smallest in England, stands on a knoll, and terminates the cultivated valley; immediately beyond which, we entered upon a scene of extreme wildness, grandeur and solitude. Many of the ruinous precipices of the upper cliffs project in horizontal strata, yet have perpendicular rents. Some of the shattered masses give most clear echoes: we stood before one, which repeated every syllable of several passages from the most sonorous languages, with an exactness of tone that was truly astonishing. It seemed as if a living spirit was in the rock, so near, so loud, and so exact! ‘Speak to it, Horatio!’ I could have listened to it for hours. How solemn is the voice of cliffs and seas! How great the style of Nature! how expressive! ‘Speak to the rock!’ and again it gave every word, as if in sport or imitation, but with truth itself. How long had it slumbered in silence? We returned by the course we had come, the yellow sun lighting up seas and shores with the warmth of May, and the birds singing every where.

“Oct. 19.—Left Steephill. Sailed from Cowes in the Southampton packet, about half past five; the Naiad frigate lying before the town. What particularly struck me in the passage was, not only the sun actually appearing to set in the sea, but the splendid amber light, left upon that long level perspective of waters, and the vessels upon it at various distances, seeming dark on this side, and marking out its extent to the eye. The grace and majesty of an anchored ship, too, lying with her stern to the eye, though at less distance, is indescribable; showing all her shrouds and yards lessening, like a pyramid, as they rise upon the light. How tranquil and grand the scene lay, beneath the gradually deepening shade! Still the dark shores and stately vessels kept their dignity upon the fading waters. How impressive the silence, and then how according the solemn strain, that died upon the waves from unseen and distant bugles, like a song of peace to the departing day! Another of those measured portions that make up our span of life, was gone; every one who gazed upon this scene, proud or humble, was a step nearer to the grave—yet none seemed conscious of it. The scene itself, great, benevolent, sublime—powerful, yet silent in its power—progressive and certain in its end, steadfast and full of a sublime repose: the scene itself spoke of its CREATOR.”

In this year Mrs. Radcliffe visited Penshurst. From some very extensive notes upon this ancient seat of the Sydneys, we extract the following:—

“As we drew near, the woods began to thin; and an old latticed wooden gate showed one entrance into a park, now in ruins, for the grass is tall, scanty, and intermingled with taller fern. No deer appeared on the rusty lawns, or under the scattered trees, or decaying groves, of this once rich domain. Penshurst lies in a small valley of its own, that hangs upon the ridge of hills which form the southern boundary of the grand valley overlooked from Riverhill. All its heights are hung with its own woods, which shut out every distant prospect from the house, except from the turrets; and even from these, at least from the one I climbed, the view is not extensive; but it is a pleasing scene, with here and there an intermingled spire and ancient mansion. After following for a considerable time the paling of this extensive park, an elderly woman admitted us to it through the chief gate, and the ancient mansion immediately appeared over a rough lawn, surrounded with groves. The house is much in the style of Knole, but more irregular, and not of half the size. It is of brick and rough stone, with now a tower, and now a turret; high lozenge chimneys, an embattled wall, and, above all, the long peaked roof of the great hall. In the court, over the arched portal, is a row of five shields of the family arms, in stone. The great hall is on the opposite side: it is grand, but gloomy, showing the dark rafters of the roof; the tall, pointed windows below shed but a subdued light on the pavement, which is of brick. The rafters have been blackened by the fires of two centuries, lighted on the centre of the pavement, where the bricks, raised half a foot, form a small octagon, on which, perhaps, Sir Philip Sydney and the knights his companions have often stood round the blazing fagots, piled upon the same iron dogs, of enormous size, that still remain there. I think I see, in glimpses, the strong blaze of the wood flashing on their visages. The armour of Sir Philip himself, with helm (the vizor closed), stands at the back of an obscure gallery, and close beneath a high window, whose small frames admit a blunted, melancholy light. It stands like a spectre in arms, watching over the scene it once inhabited; and is admirably placed to touch the imagination, but not to gratify curiosity, its distance being considerable. A partial light, thrown more strongly on the head, would give it very fine effect. It is best seen from one of the doors, that open from the raised step at the upper end of the hall, where the high table stood.

“The hall being so lofty as to seem shorter than it should be, and than it really is, one of the late owners, to remedy this defect, had a painted perspective placed at one end—a most unsuitable expedient in so great and simple a scene; but the drawings of knights in armour, larger than life, between the windows, are well done. Several very rudely carved wooden images, now whitened and probably brought from some other part of the house, are placed in front of the gallery, as if looking over the railing.

“Mrs. Perry, the grandmother of the present Mr. Sydney, who changed his name from Shelley, was a niece of Sydney, Earl of Leicester, and co-heiress with her sister, Lady Howard, of the Penshurst estates. The old housekeeper, who attended us, lamented much that Mr. Sydney did not now live here, but hoped to see him return. She had been all her life on the spot, and told us what fine times she remembered when _Lady_ Perry used to drive to the gate in a coach and six, and come down with such ‘a sight of servants.’ All the tenants used to come to meet her, and ‘_we girls_’ (the speaker was a grandmother) used to stand all in a row to meet her. Such noble liveries! and then the poor woman shook her head, and bustled about, with emotion. The bells were a ringing all day, and there were such goings on. ‘Was she _Lady_ Perry?’ ‘Yes, sir,’ rather sharply, as if astonished that we could doubt it. ‘Was she a _Lady_ by birth?’ ‘Yes, sir,’ more sharply, ‘she _was_ a Lady indeed.’ She led us down a modernized winding staircase into a small hall in the chief part of the mansion, opening into the garden. We passed a fine Gothic window, that gives light to it, having painted shields of arms; among them Queen Elizabeth’s. From the great dining-parlour, a staircase leads past many rooms lined with oak panels, worm-eaten; among them the nursery, which the housekeeper pointed out, with a strong regret of _old times_—not those of Sir Philip Sydney, but of Lady Perry. And there were the children’s playthings; there they were all—with some sighs. As I humoured her, she began, in the midst of her regrets, to apologize for her dress, and to lament that she had not had time to appear better. ‘Do the stairs near the nursery lead to the top of the turret?’—‘I don’t know, ma’am, but I’ll see.’ I followed to the small platform, and looked over the battlements upon the wood and the valley. The view was pleasing, but not impressive, or extensive.

“She led us through the great hall, to see the kitchen; one suitable to such a hall, with a lofty, raftered roof, enormous chimney, and long old tables of oak, not nearly so thick as those in the hall at Coventry. Here the good woman was at the climax of her regrets, and she shook her head and sighed often. ‘It is a dismal place now, and what do I remember it in _Lady_ Perry’s time! I remember, when all them hooks,’ pointing to rows of them that run, at a great height, over the wide and lofty chimney piece and round the roof, ‘were hung with sides of bacon; ay, I ha’ seen them all hung with bacon. And here was such a sight of servants running about, some one way, some another.’ She then reverted to Lady P.’s coach and six, and the rejoicings that were to take place when she came down, and ‘_we girls_ used to stand all in a row.’ In short, one would have thought that nobody had ever lived in this mansion but Lady Perry. As to Sir Philip and the rest of the Sydneys, they were never thought of when she spoke of _old times_—a neglect which at first somewhat embarrassed me, who thought of them and old times as inseparable. She took us into a smaller kitchen, to show us the stoves and the iron plates, on which, in her old times, teacakes and crumpets were baked, and related, with pride, that she used to assist in turning them.”