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RECOLLECTIONS OF THE LATE WILLIAM BECKFORD. Bath, August 21, 1838.
My Dear Charlotte,—I have this day seen such an astonishing assemblage of works of art, so numerous and of so surprisingly rare a description that I am literally what Lord Byron calls “Dazzled and drunk with beauty.” I feel so bewildered from beholding the rapid succession of some of the very finest productions of the great masters that the attempt to describe them seems an impossible task; however, I will make an effort.
The collection of which I speak is that of Mr. Beckford, at his house in Lansdown-crescent. Besides all this I have this day been introduced to that extraordinary man, the author of “Vathek” and “Italy,” the builder of Fonthill, the contemporary of the mighty and departed dead, the pupil of Mozart; in fact, to the formidable and inaccessible Vathek himself! I have many times passed the house, and longed to see its contents, and often have I wondered how a building with so plain and unostentatious an exterior could suit the reception of the works it contains, and the residence of so magnificent a personage.
I first called by appointment on his ingenious architect, Mr. Goodridge (to whom I am indebted for this distinguished favour), and he accompanied me to the house, which we reached at half-past twelve o’clock. We were shown upstairs, passing many fine family pictures, and were ushered into the neat library, where Mr. Beckford was waiting to receive us. I confess I did at first feel somewhat embarrassed, but a lovely spaniel ran playfully towards us, licking our hands in the most affectionate and hospitable manner; “You are welcome” was the silent language. I assure you I judge much, and often truly, of the character of individuals from the deportment of their favourite dogs. I often find them exactly indicative of their master’s disposition. When you are attacked by snarling, waspish curs is it at all wonderful if you find them an echo of the proprietor? But this beautiful animal reassured me, and gave me instantly a favourable idea of its master. My astonishment was great at the spaciousness of the room, which had in length a magnificent and palatial effect, nor did I immediately discover the cause of its apparent grandeur. It opens into the gallery built over the arch connecting the two houses, at the end of which an immense mirror reflects the two apartments. The effect is most illusive, nor should I have guessed the truth had I not seen the reflection of my own figure in the glass.
The library, which is the whole length of the first house, cannot be much less than fifty feet long. It has on one side five lofty windows, the gallery having three on the same side. You have the light streaming through eight consecutive openings; these openings, with their crimson curtains, doubled by the reflection, produce a most charming perspective. From the ceiling hangs a splendid ormolu chandelier, the floor is covered with a Persian carpet (brought I believe from Portugal), so sumptuous that one is afraid to walk on it, and a noble mosaic table of Florentine marble, bought in at an immense price at Fonthill, is in the centre of the room. Several rows of the rarest books cover the lower part of the walls, and above them hang many fine portraits, which Mr. Beckford immediately, without losing any time in compliments, began to show us and describe.
First we were shown a portrait by de Vos of Grotius; next to it one of Rembrandt, painted by himself. “You see,” said Mr. Beckford, “that he is trying to assume an air of dignity not natural to him, by throwing back his head, but this attempt at the dignified is neutralized by the expression of the eyes, which have rather too much of sly humour for the character which he wishes to give himself.” To praise individual pictures seems useless when everyone you meet has excellencies peculiar to itself; in fact, whatever our ideas of the great masters may be, and we certainly do gain from prints and pictures a tolerable idea of their style and different beauties (and I have myself seen the Louvre and many celebrated pictures) there is in Mr. Beckford’s chef d’œuvres something still more lovely than our imagination, than our expectation. I speak not now of the St. Catherine, The Claud, The Titian, &c., but all the pictures, whether historical, landscape, or low life, have this unique character of excellence. You look at a picture. You are sure it is by Gaspar, but you never saw one of Poussin’s that had such an exquisite tone of colour, so fresh and with such free and brilliant execution.
But I digress. I forgot that it was the library and its pictures I was attempting to describe. Well, at the other end hangs a portrait of Pope Gregory, by Passerotti; the expression of the face Italian, attitude like Raphael. Over the door a portrait of Cosmo de Medici by Bronzino Allori, fresh as if painted yesterday. “The works of that master,” I said, “are rare, but a friend of mine, Mr....