William Hazlitt
Sketches of the Picture Galleries of England (1824)
[text from Criticisms on Art: and Sketches of the Picture Galleries of England,
London 1856, second edition, pp. 284-299
FONTHILL
ABBEY.
The old sarcasm – Omne ignotum pro magnifico est – cannot be justly
applied here. FONTHILL ABBEY, after being enveloped in impenetrable mystery
for a length of years, has been unexpectedly thrown open to the vulgar gaze,
and has lost none of its reputation for magnificence – though, perhaps,
its visionary glory, its classic renown, have vanished from the public mind
for ever. It is, in a word, a desert of magnificence, a glittering waste of
laborious idleness, a cathedral turned into a toy-shop, an immense Museum of
all that is most curious and costly, and, at the same time, most worthless,
in the productions of art and nature. Ships of pearl and seas of amber are
scarce a fable here – a nautilus's shell surmounted with a gilt triumph
of Neptune – tables of agate, cabinets of ebony, and precious stones,
painted windows "shedding a gaudy, crimson light," satin borders,
marble floors, and lamps of solid gold – Chinese pagodas and Per- [285]
sian tapestry - all the splendour of Solomon's Temple is displayed to the view – in
miniature whatever is far-fetched and dear-bought, rich in the materials, or
rare and difficult in the workmanship – but scarce one genuine work of
art, one solid proof of taste, one lofty relic of sentiment or imagination!
The difficult, the unattainable, the exclusive, are to be found here in profusion,
in perfection, all else is wanting, or is brought in merely as a foil or as
a stop-gap. In this respect the collection is as satisfactory as it is unique.
The spemens exhibited are the best, the most highly finished, the most costly
and curious, of that kind of ostentatious magnificence which is calculated
to gratify the sense of property in the owner, and to excite the wondering
curiosity of the stranger, who is permitted to see or (as a choice privilege
and favour) even to touch baubles so dazzling and of such exquisite nicety
of execution; and which, if broken or defaced, it would be next to impossible
to replace. The same character extends to the pictures, vhich are mere furniture-pictures
remarkable chiefly for their antiquity or painful finishing, without beauty,
without interest, and with about the same pretensions to attract the eye or
delight the fancy as a well-polished mahogany table or a waxed oak-floor. Not
one great work by one great name, scarce one or two of the worst specimens
of the first masters; Lionardo's Laughing Boy, or a copy [286] from Raphael,
or Correggio, as if to make the thing remote and finical - but heaps of the
most elaborate pieces of the worst of the Dutch masters, Breughel's Sea-horns
with coats of mother-of-pearl, and Rothenhamer's Elements turned into a Flower-piece.
The Catalogue, in short, is guiltless of the names of any of those works of
art
Which like a trumpet make the spirits dance;
and is sacred to those which rank no higher than veneering, and where the painter
is on a precise par with the carver and gilder. Such is not our taste in art;
and we confess we should have been a little disappointed in viewing Fonthill,
had not our expectations been disabused beforehand. Oh! for a glimpse of the
Escurial! where the piles of Titians lie; where nymphs, fairer than lilies,
repose in green, airy, pastoral landscapes, and Cupids, with curled locks,
pluck the wanton vine; at whose beauty, whose splendour, whose truth and freshness,
Mengs could not contain his astonishment, nor Cumberland his raptures;
While groves of Eden, vanish'd now so long,
Live in description, and look green in song;
the very thought of which, in that monastic seclusion and low dell, surrounded
by craggy precipices, gives the mind a calenture, a longing desire to plunge
through wastes and wilds, to [287] visit at the shrine of such beauty, and
be buried in the bosom of such verdant sweetness. – Get thee behind us,
Temptation; or not all China and Japan will detain us, and this article will
be left unfinished, or found (as a volume of Keats's poems was carried out
by Mr. Ritchie to be dropped in the Great Desert) in the sorriest inn in the
farthest part of Spain, or in the marble baths of the Moorish Alhambra, or
amidst the ruins of Tadmor, or in barbaric palaces, where Bruce encountered
Abyssinian queens! Any thing to get all this frippery, and finery, and tinsel,
and glitter, and embossing, and system of tantalization, and fret-work of the
imagination out of our heads, and take one deep, long, oblivious draught of
the romantic and marvellous, the thirst of which the fame of Fonthill Abbey
has raised in us, but not satisfied!
Mr. Beckford has undoubtedly shown himself an industrious bijoutier, a prodigious
virtuoso, an accomplished patron of unproductive labour, an enthusiastic collector
of expensive trifles – the only proof of taste (to our thinking) he has
shown in this collection is his getting rid of it. What splendour, what grace,
what grandeur might he substitute in lieu of it! What a handwriting might be
spread out upon the walls! What a spirit of poetry and philosophy might breathe
there! What a solemn gloom, what gay vistas of fancy, like chequered light
and shade, might genius, guided by art, shed around! The [288] author of Vathek
is a scholar; the proprietor of Fonthill has travelled abroad, and has seen
all the finest remains of antiquity and boasted specimens of modern art. Why
not lay his hands on some of these? He had power to carry them away. One might
have expected to see, at least, a few fine old pictures, marble copies of the
celebrated statues, the Apollo, the Venus, the Dying Gladiator, the Antinous,
antique vases with their elegant sculptures, or casts from them, coins, medals,
bas-reliefs, something connected with the beautiful forms of external nature,
or with what is great in the mind or memorable in the history of man, – Egyptian
hieroglyphics, or Chaldee manuscripts on paper made of the reeds of the Nile,
or mummies from the Pyramids! Not so; not a trace (or scarcely so) of any of
these; – as little as may be of what is classical or imposing to the
imagination from association or well-founded prejudice; hardly an article of
any consequence that does not seem to be labelled to the following effect -
This is mine, and there is no one else in the whole world in whom it can inspire
the least interest, or any feeling beyond a momentary surprise! To show another
your property is an act in itself ungracious, or null and void. It excites
no pleasure from sympathy. Every one must have remarked the difference in his
feelings on entering a venerable old cathedral, for instance, and a modern
built private mansion. The one seems to fill [289] the mind and expand the
form, while the other only produces a sense of listless vacuity, and disposes
us to shrink into our own littleness.
Whence is this, but that in the first case our associations of power, of interest,
are general, and tend to aggrandize the species; and that, in the latter (viz.
the case of private property) they are exclusive and tend to aggrandize none
but the individual? This must be the effect, unless there is something grand
or beautiful in the objects themselves that makes us forget the distinction
of mere property, as from the noble architecture or great antiquity of a building;
or unless they remind us of common and universal nature, as pictures, statues
do, like so many mirrors, reflecting the external landscape, and carrying us
out of the magic circle of self-love. But all works of art come under the head
of property or showy furniture, which are neither distinguished by sublimity
nor beauty, and are estimated only by the labour required to produce what is
trifling or worthless, and are consequently nothing more than obtrusive proofs
of the wealth of the immediate possessor. The motive for the production of
such toys is mercenary, and the admiration of them childish or servile. That
which pleases merely from its novelty, or because it was never seen before,
cannot be expected to please twice: that which is remarkable for the difficulty
or costliness of the execution can be interesting to no one but the [290] maker
or owner. A shell, however rarely to be met with, however highly wrought or
quaintly embellished, can only flatter the sense of curiosity for a moment
in a number of persons, or the feeling of vanity for a greater length of time
in a single person. There are better things than this (we will be bold to say)
in the world both of nature and art – things of universal and lasting
interest, things that appeal to the imagination and the affections. The village-bell
that rings out its sad or merry tidings to old men and maidens, to children
and matrons, goes to the heart, because it is a sound significant of weal or
woe to all, and has borne no uninteresting intelligence to you, to me, and
to thousands more who have heard it perhaps for centuries. There is a sentiment
in it. The face of a Madonna (if equal to the subject) has also a sentiment
in it, "whose price is above rubies." It is a shrine, a consecrated
source of high and pure feeling, a well-head of lovely expression, at which
the soul drinks and is refreshed, age after age. The mind converses with the
mind, or with that nature which, from long and daily intimacy, has become a
sort of second self to it: but what sentiment lies hid in a piece of porcelain?
What soul can you look for in a gilded cabinet or a marble slab? Is it possible
there can be any thing like a feeling of littleness or jealousy in this proneness
to a merely ornamental taste, that, from not sympathising with the [291] higher,
and more expansive emanations of thought, shrinks from their display with conscious
weakness and inferiority? If it were an apprehension of an invidious comparison
between the proprietor and the author of any signal work of genius, which the
former did not covet, one would think he must be at least equally mortified
at sinking to a level in taste and pursuits with the maker of a Dutch toy.
Mr. Beckford, however, has always had the credit of the highest taste in works
of art as well as in vertù. As the showman in Goldsmith's comedy declares
that "his bear dances to none but the genteelest of tunes – Water
parted from the Sea, The Minuet in Ariadne;" – so it was supposed
that this celebrated collector's money went for none but the finest Claudes
and the choicest specimens of some rare Italian master. The two Claudes are
gone. It is as well – they must have felt a little out of their place
here – they are kept in countenance, where they are, by the very best
company!
We once happened to have the pleasure of seeing Mr. Beckford in the Great Gallery
of the Louvre – he was very plainly dressed in a loose great coat, and
looked somewhat pale and thin – but what brought the circumstance to
our minds was that we were told on this occasion one of those thumping matter-of-fact
lies which are pretty common to other Frenchmen besides Gascons – viz.,
That he had offered the First [292] Consul no less a sum than two hundred thousand
guineas for the purchase of the St. Peter. Martyr. Would that he had! and that
Napoleon had taken him at his word! – which we think not unlikely. With
two hundred thousand guineas he might have taken some almost impregnable fortress. "Magdeburg," said
Buonaparte, "is worth a hundred queens:" and he would have thought
such another stronghold worth at least one Saint. As it is, what an opportunity
have we lost of giving the public an account of this picture! Yet why not describe
it, as we see it still "in our minds eye," standing on the floor
of the Tuileries, with none of its brightness impaired, through the long perspective
of waning years? There it stands, and will for ever stand in our imagination,
with the dark, scowling, terrific face of the murdered monk looking up to his
assassin, the horror-struck features of the flying priest, and the skirts of
his vest waving in the wind, the shattered branches of the autumnal trees that
feel the coming gale, with that cold convent spire rising in the distance amidst
the sapphire hills and golden sky – and overhead are seen the cherubim
bringing with rosy fingers the crown of martyrdom; and (such is the feeling
of truth, the soul of faith in the picture) you hear floating near, in dim
harmonies, the pealing anthem, and the heavenly choir! Surely, the St. Peter
Martyr surpasses all Titian's other works, as he himself did all other painters.
Had [293] this picture been transferred to the present collection (or any picture
like it) what a trail of glory would it have left behind it! for what a length
of way would it have haunted the imagination! how often should we have wished
to revisit it, and how fondly would the eye have turned back to the stately
tower of Fonthill Abbey, that from the western horizon gives the setting sun
to other climes, as the beacon and guide to the knowledge and the love of high
Art!
The Duke of Wellington, it is, said, has declared Fonthill to be "the
finest thing in Europe." If so, it is since the dispersion of the Louvre.
It is also said that the King is to visit it. We do not mean to say it is not
a fit place for the King to visit, or for the Duke to praise: but we know this,
that it is a very bad one for us to describe. The father of Mr. Christie was
supposed to be "equally great on a ribbon or a Raphael." This is
unfortunately not our case. We are not "great" at all, but least
of all in little things. We have tried in various ways: we can make nothing
of it. Look here – this is the Catalogue. Now what can we say (who are
not auctioneers' but critics) to
Six Japan heron-pattern embossed dishes; or,
Twelve burnt-in dishes in compartments; or,
Sixteen ditto enamelled with insects and birds; or,
Seven embossed soup-plates, with plants and rich borders ; or,
[294] Nine chocolate cups and saucers of egg-shell China, blue lotus pattern;
or,
Two butter pots on feet, and a bason, cover, and stand, of Japan; or,
Two basons and covers, sea-green mandarin; or,
A very rare specimen of the basket-work Japan, ornamented with flowers in relief,
of the finest kind, the inside gilt, from the Ragland Museum; or,
Two fine enamelled dishes scolloped; or,
Two blue bottles and two red and gold cups - extra fine; or,
A very curious egg-shell lanthern; or,
Two very rare Japan cups mounted as milk buckets, with silver rims, gilt and
chased; or,
Two matchless Japan dishes; or,
A very singular tray, the ground of a curious wood artificially waved with
storks in various attitudes on the shore, mosaic border, and aventurine back;
or,
Two extremely rare bottles with chimæras and plants, mounted in silver
gilt; or,
Twenty-four fine OLD SEVE dessert plates; or,
Two precious enamelled bowl dishes, with silver handles; –
Or, to stick to the capital letters in this Paradise of Dainty Devices, lest
we should be suspected of singling out the meanest articles, we will just transcribe
a few of them, for the satisfaction of the curious reader :
A RICH and HIGHLY ORNAMENTED CASKET of the very rare gold JAPAN, completely
covered with figures.
An ORIENTAL SCULPTURED TASSA OF LAPIS LAZULI, mounted in silver gilt, and set
with lapis lazuli intaglios. From the Garde Meuble of the late King of France.
A PERSIAN JAD VASE and COVER, inlaid with flowers and ornaments composed of
oriental rubies and emeralds, on stems of fine gold.
[295] A LARGE OVAL ENGRAVED ROCK CRYSTAL CUP, with the figure of a Syren, carved
from the block and embracing a part of the vessel with her wings, so as to
form a handle; from the ROYAL COLLECTION OF FRANCE.
An OVAL CUP and COVER OF ORIENTAL MAMILATTED AGATE, richly marked in arborescent
mocoa, elaborately chased and engraved in a very superior manner. An unique
article.
Shall we go on with this fooling? We cannot. The reader must be tired of such
an uninteresting account of empty jars and caskets – it reads so like
Della Cruscan poetry. They are not even Nugæ Canoræ. The pictures
are much in the same mimminèe-pimminèe taste. For instance, in
the first and second days' sale we meet with the following: –
A high-finished miniature drawing of a Holy Family, and a portrait: one of
those with which the patents of the Venetian nobility were usually embellished.
A small landscape, by Brueughel.
A small miniature painting after Titian, by Stella.
A curious painting, by Peter Peters Brueughel, the conflagration of Troy – a
choice specimen of this scarce master.
A picture by Franks, representing the temptation of St. Anthony.
A picture by old Brueughel, representing a fête – a singular specimen
of his first manner.
Lucas Cranach – The Madonna and Child – highly finished.
A crucifixion, painted upon a gold ground, by Andrea Orcagna, a rare and early
specimen of Italic art. From the Campo Santo di Pisa.
A lady's portrait, by Cosway.
Netecher – a lady seated, playing on the harpsichord, &c.
Who cares any thing about such frippery, [296] time out of mind the stale ornaments
of a pawn-broker's shop; or about old Brueughel, or Stella, or Franks, or Lucas
Cranach, or Netecher, or Cosway? – But at that last name we pause, and
must be excused if we consecrate to him a petit souvenir in our best manner:
for he was Fancy's child. All other collectors are fools to him: they go about
with painful anxiety to find out the realities: – he said he had them – and
in a moment made them of the breath of his nostrils and the fumes of a lively
imagination. His was the crucifix that Abelard prayed to – the original
manuscript of the Rape of the Lock – the dagger with which Felton stabbed
the Duke of Buckingham – the first finished sketch of the Jocunda – Titian's
large colossal portrait of Peter Aretine – a mummy of some particular
Egyptian king. Were the articles authentic? – no matter – his faith
in them was true. What a fairy palace was his of specimens of art, antiquarianism,
and vertù, jumbled all together in the richest disorder, dusty, shadowy,
obscure, with much left to the imagination (how different from the finical,
polished, petty, perfect, modernised air of Fonthill!) and with copies of the
old masters, cracked and damaged, which he touched and retouched with his own
hand, and yet swore they were the genuine, the pure originals! He was gifted
with a second-sight in such matters: he believed whatever was incredible. Happy
mortal! Fancy bore sway in him, and so vivid [297] were his impressions that
they included the reality in them. The agreeable and the true with him were
one. He believed in Swedenborgianism – he believed in animal magnetism – he
had conversed with more than one person of the Trinity – he could talk
with his lady at Mantua through some fine Vehicle of sense, as we speak to
a servant down stairs through an ear-pipe. – Richard Cosway was not the
man to flinch from an ideal proposition, Once, at an Academy dinner, when some
question was made, whether the story of Lambert's leap was true, he started
up, and said it was, for he was the man that performed it; – he once
assured us, that the knee-pan of James I. at Whitehall was nine feet across
(he had measured it in concert with Mr. Cipriani); he could, read in the book
of Revelations without spectacles, and foretold the return of Buonaparte from
Elba and from St. Helena. His wife, the most lady-like of English-women, being
asked, in Paris, what sort of a man her husband was, answered, Toujours riant,
toujours gai. This was true. He must have been of French extraction. His soul
had the life of a bird; and such was the jauntiness of his air and manner that,
to see him sit to have his half-boots laced on, you would fancy (with the help
of a figure) that, instead of a little withered elderly gentleman, it was Venus
attired by the Graces. His miniatures were not fashionable – they were
fashion itself. When more [298] than ninety, he retired from his profession,
and used to hold up the palsied right hand that had painted lords and ladies
for upwards of sixty years, and smiled, with unabated good humour, at the vanity
of human wishes. Take him with all his faults or follies, "we scarce shall
look upon his like again!"
After speaking of him, we are ashamed to go back to Fonthill, lest one drop
of gall should fall from our pen. No, for the rest of our way, we will dip
it in the milk of human kindness, and deliver all with charity. There are four
or five very curious cabinets – a triple jewel cabinet of opaque, with
panels of transparent amber, dazzles the eye like a temple of the New Jerusalem – the
Nautilus's shell, with the triumph of Neptune and Amphitrite, is elegant, and
the table on which it stands superb – the cups, vases, and sculptures,
by Cellini, Berg, and John of Bologna, are as admirable as they are rare – the
Berghem (a sea-port) is a fair specimen of that master – the Poulterer's
Shop, by G. Douw, is passable – there are some middling Bassans – the
Sibylla Libyca, of L. Caracci, is in the grand style of composition – there
is a good copy of a head by Parmegiano – the painted windows in the centre
of the Abbey have a surprising effect – the form of the building (which
was raised by torch-light) is fantastical, to say the least – and the
grounds, which are extensive and fine from situation, are laid out with the
hand of a master. A quantity [299] of coot, teal, and wild fowl sport in a
crystal stream that winds along the park; and their dark brown coats, seen
in the green shadows of the water, have a most picturesque effect. Upon the
whole, if we were not much pleased by our excursion to Fonthill, we were very
little disappointed; and the place altogether is consistent and characteristic.