with the room in which we are standing, and between each compartment of which is an immense painted window; and below, to the great Saloon itself, where the gorgeous shadows from those windows are falling; and, across these, down the stairs of the Great Hall, and through the lofty arched door-way, on to the great western avenue and lawn. In the above we may confidently reckon on looking upon a view altogether unique in its way; and not only so, but conceived in admirable taste, and executed in a manner as nearly as possible faultless, and producing an effect on the spectator which cannot be experienced without emotions of the most rare and valuable kind. We will now pass on again, and, taking but a glance, as we go, at the series of apartments, &c. from number 41 to number 47-descend the winding staircase of the Lancaster turret, and passing across the grand saloon, arrive at a lobby (48) which leads us to the great staircase of the tower (49). This, though it is rather tiresome work, and will scarcely repay us for our trouble, we must hastily ascend, or we shall be accused of not having seen the chief lion of the place. Mounting, then, a tedious number of stairs-which are a little relieved by the looks-out that we now and then get through the loop-hole windows that give them light-we arrive, at last, at a sort of gallery, or arcade, which runs round the upper part of the great tower, and communicates with four small apartments, called Nunneries, which fill as many of its sides. These occupy the numbers from 50 to 57. Having passed through these, in which there is little to admire except the view on to the great saloon below, we again ascend the great staircase, till we reach an open platform (58). As we have mounted thus far, we may as well complete our ascension, from this platform, up through the interior of the central tower (59) and the Gazebo, or star-chamber, (60) to the Tower Gallery itself-which is the highest point to which there is any regular means of ascent. Here we stand, then, on the summit of this far-famed tower, overlooking a spot which, even within the memory of most of us, was a barren heath-an interminable extent of bare down, with scarcely a tree upon it; and which now, by the means of one man, and under the inspection of one superintending assistant, has become what we now see it a magnificent domain, including nearly all the natural beauties that can belong to a spot of the kind, and crowned by a building of unrivalled extent and grandeur. But it is not for Ciceroni to indulge (themselves) in reflections upon what they see; otherwise here would be a fine opportunity for so doing. Leaving this, then, till we have cast off our present character—(which we must be allowed to do so soon as we have shewn our company fairly through the labyrinthine mazes of this extraordinary building)— we will pass on again,-first commending to their attention the view that presents itself from this tower; chiefly on account of its enabling them to glance, as on a map, at the plan which has been pursued in arranging the grounds within the inner circle of the domain: for the surrounding country presents nothing peculiarly entitled to notice, or that may not be equalled, if not surpassed, by most other views taken from an equal height. Descending now the Grand Staircase (which, by the way, is any thing rather than grand, except as compared with the exceedingly confined ones which lead to every other department of the building, with the undernamed exception) we reach, at the foot of it, the great hall; and again descending the staircase of that, which really is a fine one, and correspondent with its situation, we turn to the left at the foot; and crossing the western cloisters (62),—leaving on the left a little court-yard with a small and insignificant fountain in the centre,-— we once more, by passing up a narrow staircase leading from the oak dining-parlour, find ourselves entering upon a new suite of internal apartments, as richly arrayed as those which we have already passed through, and as gorgeously ornamented in the way of pictures, cabinets, curiosities, and costly articles of virtû of every denomination. The first of these is called the Western Yellow Drawing-room (72), which is hung with yellow damask, and gilt mouldings; and fitted up in parts with gothic oak bookcases, carved and arranged in admirable taste. This room also contains the grand show-piece of the place, in the shape of an enormous ebony cabinet, occupying nearly the whole side of the apartment, and reaching to the ceiling; and which is filled with a nondescript and nameless variety of what, for lack of a better 'generic title, we are obliged to call, in the language of catalogue-makers, "articles of virtû," but which are, generally speaking, in as vicious a (want of) taste as any thing can well be; being costly merely in virtue of their rarity and remoteness from all pretensions to either beauty or utility using the term "beauty" to signify a quality founded in some natural principle of taste; and "utility," as that which is, or may be made, in some way or other, subservient to our mental wants and propensities ;-in which sense, indeed, the one quality may be said in some degree to merge in the other; since beauty is, in this view of it, the most useful thing in the world. Passing out of this gorgeous apartment, through a little ante-room (64), we find ourselves in another of those sweet little retreats which are the exclusive boast of this spot, and which in some sort redeem the splendours by which they are surrounded, by permitting the latter to be used as contrasts to them. But there is no feeling the rich repose and still sweetness of this and similar apartments, unless we could visit them alone; so, glancing round for a moment at the really beautiful works of art which this little cell contains, and looking out upon the flower-crowned terrace on which it opens (71), and, through the loophole windows which light it, upon the rich prospect below, we will pass through another yellow drawing-room (73) nearly similar to the one above-named, and across the gallery noticed in our first coup-d'œil, and finally close our peregrination by resting our somewhat wearied forms-for there is no denying that, by this time, they are so-on one of the couches which stand before the mysterious curtains that fill the recesses of the great Saloon. Thus, gentle reader,-for "gentle" we will evermore proclaim you, if you have borne with us, pleased and patiently, all through this long, and (which is not our fault) somewhat monotonous range of splendours-thus have we led you through every open apartment of a building which is, with all its faults, calculated to excite a deeper interest in the spectator than any other of the kind that we could any where point out and we have endeavoured to indicate to you chiefly the merits of what we have met with. The defects (as we hinted in the outset of our examination) we are ready to expatiate on at equal length, on the conVOL. VI. No. 34.-1823. 48 ditions there named; which we have little hope (or rather, fear) of being complied with, since the world is more than sufficiently supplied with persons whose chief talent lies in finding fault, and who are so conscious of the superiority of their claims on this score, and so desirous that others should be equally convinced of that superiority, that, if they cannot get paid for calling it into action, they are generous enough to perform the task gratis. Here, then, beneath this great western arch of the saloon, we slip off our character of Cicerone, and having rested a moment to get rid of the feeling of it, descend the stairs of the Great Hall, and sally forth, alone, into the scene which has been all along beckoning us to its company from every window that we have passed; and which invitation we have had much ado to say nay to: for, after all, it is the external part of Fonthill Abbey, and the natural objects appertaining to it, that are alone worth serious and particular attention; and it is only when the spectator is alone, that this attention can be bestowed upon them. It is, of course, not our intention to give any thing in the shape of a detailed description of grounds, the inner circle of which extends above seven miles. All our already transgressed limits will permit us to attempt is, to notice the general impression they are calculated to produce, in connexion with the magnificent building which crowns and overlooks them. And first of the building itself. There are various points of view from which it may be seen; but none towards which it presents an aspect of more imposing and majestic beauty than that which is situated at the top of the great avenue on which the western doors abut. Standing on this spot, it rises before us with a look of solemn and stately grandeur, the effect of which has probably never been surpassed; and which effect, if we mistake not, arises in a considerable degree from the peculiar character of the building, coupled with the situation in which we meet with it. It has all the individual as well as general character of one of those stupendous religious temples which have come down to us from Gothic times; but, unlike any one of those, it stands detached from all other of the works of man, on the summit of an immense fir-clad hill, which it crowns as with a diadem. Hitherto the idea of a great cathedral has come to us accompanied by all sorts of associations connected with cities, societies, and population; but here we meet with it, utterly silent and solitary: reigning, it is true; but reigning over the still realm of Nature alone,-like a queen on a desert island, without a people. There is still another accidental feeling which contributes to the ef fect produced by this building. It is, as far as the memory of a general impression of mere size will enable us to judge, of greater extent than any other building of a similar character in Europe; and when we come to inquire into the history of these latter, we find, when they are finished at all, that such a portion was completed under the direction of such an abbot, in the year so and so; that this wing was added a century or two after, by such a bishop, by the aid of funds collected in such and such a manner; and so of the rest: that all, in fact, have demanded the united means, talents, and spirit of several individuals, or public bodies, and the lives of several architects, to bring them to the state in which we now see them:-but that here is one, equal to most, if not all of them in extent, grandeur, and beauty, which has sprung up at the command of one private individual and under the direction of one architect. In threading the interminable mazes of the grounds surrounding this majectic mass of architecture, it is probable that something like the same complex and imaginative impression is received. Speaking for ourselves, we are sure that this is the case. The late owner of this place was at once the inventor, the creator, and the sole possessor of it. This, however, would have been nothing, if he had been like the usual possessors of such spots. But the author of Vathek is no common person; and the paths which he, and he alone, has trodden-where he has pondered his bitter thoughts, and dreamed his fantastic dreams, and mused his lofty imaginations; and whence he is now exiled for ever, only that they may be made a common thoroughfare for all the idle and curious-all the high and low vulgar of the land;-these paths cannot be paced (at least by those who have a jot of sympathy with either the strengths or the weaknesses of our human nature) without feelings and associations which are perhaps the more, rather than the less active, because they are not easily to be communicated or explained-in fact, they cannot be paced without what was, and must long continue, the genius loci, being ever present in imagination, under such form or image as the mood or recollection of the moment may invest it with. For our parts (who are, it is true, somewhat addicted to the romantic in such matters), we have seldom wandered alone through the mazes of this spot without fancying by the side of us an inhabitant of the Halls of Eblis, permitted for awhile to visit these Elysian fields; but still condemned to wear its right hand upon its left breast; or only allowed to lift it up now and then, to shew beneath, through the transparent flesh, the red heart burning like a flame of fire.* We must now positively take leave of Fonthill at once, by saying, of the grounds generally, that as far as the mere planning and arrangement of them goes, they strike us as being nearer to the perfection of this sort of spot than any thing else we are acquainted with, or had previously formed a conception of. The spirit of them, be it understood, is that of pure Nature; not unassisted indeed, but entirely unadorned, and almost uncontrolled. Every thing she is capable of producing, that will live under our skies, is here collected together; but scattered about with so artful a hand, that the art of it is entirely concealed. The usual natives of the forest, the heath, and the garden, here meet together in one spot, and form one beautiful and happy family; and all flourish and bloom together, by mutual consent. Roses blush from out the bosom of the heath furze; rhododendrons fling their gorgeous flowers at random among ferns and forest shrubs; the frail woodbine hangs its dependent clusters upon the everlasting laurel ; and on the ground all sorts of rich (so called) garden flowers group themselves with those gentle families of the earth which we (happening to be "drest in a little brief authority" over them) have chosen to banish from our presence into the fields and hedges, and denominate weeds. The above refers to particular spots that present themselves occasionally as you wander about. But the general character of the place, * See the conclusion of Vathek. as a whole, is that of one vast solitude, half wild, half cultivated, spreading itself over a plot of earth which includes every variety of natural beauty; here opening into rich lawns studded with lofty forest trees or low clumps of evergreens and underwood-there stretching away into interminable vistas through lines of larches and pines-now descending abruptly, and shewing, from between the topmost branches of the trees beneath, lovely lakes basking in the still light, and reflecting all the beauty about them; and now opening suddenly at a turn of the green path, and permitting a rich expanse of distant country to burst upon the eye for a moment, only to be lost again, as you pass on, in the dark shadows of some deep fir-grove :-a solitude; but— (and this is one of its greatest charms,) " a populous solitude:"-for here, all the animal tribe, save their would-be lord alone, have had permission to wander, unmolested, and uncontrolled, but by their own wills; and for them at least it has been, until lately, a new paradise. Even now, when the idle crowds that at present haunt and disturb this peace-hallowed spot have quitted it for a few hours, and in the sweet mornings before they have broken in upon it, we have seen the hares sporting about within a few yards of our feet like kittens, and heard the birds sing to each other upon the bough above our head, as if the place were all their own. For this alone, if for nothing else, we shall never cease to regret that any cause, but the inevitable one of death, should have laid bare the secret beauties of Fonthill Abbey, and divorced them from the only possessor who could be said to have a natural right in them, in virtue of their having been purely the work of his own hand.* SONNET, FROM FILICAJA. On the Earthquakes of Sicily. HERE, on the spot where stately cities rose, I seek, but cannot find ye;-nought appears, A sad memorial to futurity. *The Arabic figures in this paper refer to the numbers in the descriptive catalogue of the building, 1 |