SECT. I.

OUR road led us firſt to Epſom through Nonſuch-park. The very veſtiges of the ſplendid palace and ſumptuous gardens of Nonſuch, where Henry VIII. and Elizabeth held their royal revelries, cannot now be traced; except here and there, in the form of a canal, or a terrace. Impreſſions made upon the ground itſelf, are commonly more laſting than any of the works of art, which are con⯑ſtructed on its ſurface. They are generally more enormous; and the materials of no value. Thus we have numberleſs tumuli—intrench⯑ments —mounds—and ditches, of Roman and Saxon conſtruction, which will probably ſee as many ages as they have already ſeen: while [2] the architectural remains of thoſe nations are either gone, or falling faſt into ruin. The ruin however of Nonſuch had an earlier date than happens to moſt great houſes. The pru⯑dent foreſight of the ducheſs of Cleveland, to whom Charles II. preſented it, was the cauſe of its ſpeedy diſſolution. She feared a re⯑ſumption, and pulling it in pieces, ſold the materials. It is ſomewhat remarkable that her father, Lord Francis Villiers, one of the hand⯑ſomeſt men of his time, was killed, in the pre⯑ceding reign, in a ſkirmiſh with a party of Cromwell's forces, on this very ſpot.

But though the building of Nonſuch was ſplendid, and the gardens ſumptuous beyond any of the royal houſes of that time, the ſitu⯑ation has little merit. At this day, a ſitu⯑ation is generally the firſt point attended to, as indeed it ought, in building a grand houſe; but formerly the very worſt ſituations ſeem to have been choſen; as if on purpoſe to ſhew the tri⯑umphs of art over nature. Indeed our an⯑ceſtors had little taſte for the beauties of na⯑ture; but conceived beauty to reſide chiefly in the expenſive conceits and extravagances of art; in which this palace particularly abounded. The body of the edifice formerly ſtood in a [3] field, acroſs the road, oppoſite to a little farm, now known by the name of the Cherry-gar⯑den. If it had been carried a quarter of a mile higher, where a detached building appendant upon it, called the banqueting-room, formerly ſtood, its ſituation would have been much bet⯑ter. It might have commanded a view over a country, which is in ſome parts pleaſing.

Of the numerous appendages of this ſump⯑tuous pile, nothing remains but a houſe, now modernized, which is ſaid to have been formerly the habitation of Queen Elizabeth's maids of honour. In the garden was a large chalk-pit, containing about an acre of ground, which has been planted, and formed into a pleaſing little ſequeſtered ſcene by Mr. Whately, late ſecre⯑tary to the treaſury, who wrote Obſervations on Modern Gardening. His brother now poſſeſſes that eſtate, which was formerly the demeſne of the palace.

From Nonſuch we paſs through Ewel to Epſom. Ewel is chiefly remarkable for a co⯑pious ſpring of limpid water, which ariſing in ſeveral parts of the village, forms itſelf into a [4] conſiderable ſtream. The baths collected from it, are chill, and pure in a great degree. Ep⯑ſom hath been deſcribed by the pen of Toland; who exerciſed the powers of a wan⯑ton imagination with more innocence on this ſubject, than on many others. All that can now be ſaid of it with truth (and it is now much improved ſince the days of Toland) is, that it is a large pleaſant village, built in the form of a creſcent, in an open country; and that it contains a few elegant houſes. Of theſe the moſt remarkable is a houſe belonging to the late Lord Baltimore; though it is now neglected, and the park thrown into farms.

The chief recommendation of Epſom, is its ſituation on the ſkirts of that open country, called Banſtead-downs, celebrated for hunting, racing, cricket-matches, and mutton. Theſe downs conſiſt of beautiful ſweeps of interſecting grounds; disfigured indeed here and there by a chalky ſoil, but adorned with rich and very pictureſque diſtances.

On theſe downs ſtands a hunting-ſeat of Lord Derby's, called the Oaks; which that no⯑bleman [5] brought into repute (for it was for⯑merly an inn) by a very expenſive ſummer-evening entertainment, which he gave upon his marriage. General Burgoyne celebrated both the place and the occaſion, in a ſmall dramatic piece, called the Maid of the Oaks.

Though this little villa is whimſical and ſin⯑gular, it has its beauty. It commands about twenty acres, in an oblong form. In the cen⯑tre ſtands the houſe, which is a kind of tower; but yet unfiniſhed. One half of the ground is laid out in cloſe walks, winding among oaks, from whence the place has its name: the other is a hanging lawn, interſperſed with fir, flow⯑ering ſhrubs, and beeches. The oaks are or⯑dinary; and the firs ſcarcely yet half-grown; but ſome of the beeches are of the grandeſt form. The whole is ſurrounded by a ſunk fence; and like an inchanted iſland in a deſert, appears a beautiful ſpot from every part of the downs in its neighbourhood; and has itſelf a grand view over them, as far as the towers of London.

From Epſom we proceeded to Leatherhead, ſkirting Lord Suffolk's park at Aſhted: which [6] is a pleaſant ſcene, including a great variety of ground, and ſome fine oaks and elms, within a walled circumference of about two miles. The houſe is not grand; but compact, and com⯑fortable ^*.

SECT. II.

AT Leatherhead, inſtead of continuing along the great road to Guilford, we turned ſhort on the left, to take a view of Mr. Lock's houſe at Norbury-park; which ſtands about half-way between that town and Dork⯑ing, on the banks of the Mole. Nothing in theſe parts is ſo well worth a traveller's at⯑tention.

The beauties of the Mole itſelf deſerve but little commendation. It is a lazy ſtream; and ſinking into the ground in ſome places, leaves its channel dry, in droughty ſeaſons. Its banks, however, are beautiful in various parts; but in no part more ſo than where Mr. Lock's woods and lawns riſe loftily above them.

On entering the gate from the road, and paſſ⯑ing the Mole, we wind round the hill on the right towards the houſe, which ſtands on the [8] ſummit, removed from the ſight, as we ap⯑proach it; though from various parts of the country it is a conſpicuous object.

Among other wood, which adorns this aſ⯑cent, is a profuſion of box. This plant grows here in full luxuriance, in its native unculti⯑vated ſtate; marking the road on the right with great beauty. A regular clipt box-wood hedge is an object of deformity: but growing wildly, as it does here, and winding irregu⯑larly, at different diſtances, along the road, it is very ornamental. The box itſelf alſo is a pleaſing object: in winter it harmonizes with the ground; and, in ſummer, with the woods, which ſurround it. Box has a mellower, a more varied, and a more accommodating tint, than any ever-green. One other circumſtance of advantage attends it. Almoſt every ſpecies of ſhrub, in a few years, outgrows its beauty. If the knife be not freely and frequently uſed, it becomes bare at the bottom; its branches diſpart, and it rambles into a form too diffuſe for its ſtation. But box-wood long preſerves its ſhape: and in the wild ſtate in which we found it here, is far from regular; though its branches, which are never large, are cloſe [9] and compact. I ſhould, however, mention holly, as having all the pictureſque qualities of box, except the variety of its tints. But in the room of theſe it throws out its beautiful cluſters of coral berries, which have a pleaſing effect among its dark green poliſhed leaves. Like box it grows ſlowly, and alters leiſurely.

After winding about a mile up the hill, we arrive at the houſe, which is encircled with groves of lofty, full-grown beech. The back-front (if I may be allowed an awk⯑ward expreſſion for want of a better) over⯑hangs the ſteep part of the hill; and com⯑mands, as you ſurvey it from the windows of the houſe, a very grand vale; not like the winding rocky vales of a mountainous coun⯑try, but ſuch as we ſometimes find (though rarely on ſo ample a ſcale) among the downy hills of a chalky ſoil; though here the chalk rarely offends. This vale is a flat area of cul⯑tivated ground, about five or ſix miles in length, and one in breadth. Sometimes in⯑deed, though but rarely, it takes the form of a lake or bay of the ſea; which it exactly reſem⯑bles when it happens to be overſpread by a thick white fog, ſuch a fog as from its gravity, [10] and the want of air to diſturb it, ſinks to a level like water; and like water alſo deſcribes the prominences of the vale around the baſes of the hills.

Generally indeed theſe heavy fogs are miſ⯑chievous, when they float over ſea-marſhes, and other moiſt lands. A gentleman once fitted up a houſe near the coaſt of Suffolk, which was often ſubject to them. It ſtood on a ſmall eminence, in the midſt of a rich woody vale; the whole ſurrounded by hills. Here the fogs would ſometimes appear, in an au⯑tumnal evening, winding along the vale like a river, and ſometimes like a lake; not with that indiſtinct and vapouriſh ſurface which fogs commonly aſſume, but flat, clear, and tranſ⯑parent; forming diſtinctly all thoſe little in⯑dentations which a water-line would have de⯑ſcribed. Theſe beautiful exhibitions, though frequently preſented, never failed to pleaſe. In the mean time the family were all ſeized with agues, fevers, and bilious diſorders; and in three years found out, that theſe beautiful fogs were the cauſe of their complaints. When the maſter of the ſcene therefore had juſt gotten his houſe and grounds completed, he was conſtrained to leave them.

[11]Norbury park, however, is not ſubject to this beautiful miſchief. It is but rarely that its vale is thus filled with a ſleeping fog; and when it is, the houſe ſtands ſo proudly above it, that it deſpiſes its bad effects.

The ſide-ſcreen of this vale, on the right, as you ſtill ſurvey it from the windows, conſiſts of a downy hill, marked with various large ir⯑regular channels, and planted with ancient oak and beech. Through theſe woods, a walk is conducted along its ſloping ſide; from whence you have deſcending views into the vale be⯑low: ſome of which ſeen through the ſpread⯑ing arms of an oak or a beech, as through the frame of a picture, have a pleaſing effect.

The other ſide-ſcreen of the vale conſiſts of that boaſt of Surrey, the celebrated Box-hill; ſo called from the profuſion of box which flouriſhes ſpontaneouſly upon it. This hill, from its downy back and precipitous ſides, ex⯑hibits great variety of pleaſing views into the lower parts of Surrey; and the higher parts of the neighbouring counties. But we have here only to do with it, as itſelf an object in a retir⯑ing ſcene; in which it fills its ſtation with great beauty; diſcovering its ſhivering preci⯑pices, and downy hillocks, every where inter⯑ſperſed [12] with the mellow verdure of box, which is here and there tinged, as box commonly is, with red and orange.

This hill, and the neighbouring hills, on which this beautiful plant flouriſhes in ſuch profuſion, ſhould be conſidered as making a part of the natural hiſtory of Britain. Aſſer, in his Life of Alfred the Great, tells us, that Berkſhire had its name from a wood, ubi buxus abundantiſſimè naſcitur. No trace of any ſuch wood now remains: nor is there perhaps a ſingle buſh of indigenous box to be found in the whole country. All has been rooted up by the plough. If it were not therefore for the growth of box on the Surrey hills, whoſe precipitous ſides refuſe cultivation, it might perhaps be doubted, whether box were a na⯑tive of England. As to the common tradition of the country, that it was planted by an earl of Arundel, it is certainly fabulous: for there are court rolls ſtill exiſting, which mention the box-wood on the hill, before any ſuch artificial plantation could have taken place ^*.

[13]The end-ſcreen which ſhuts in the beautiful vale juſt deſcribed, conſiſts of the range of hills beyond Dorking; and the riſing grounds of Deepden; where in a clear day, a new houſe, built by the Duke of Norfolk, makes a con⯑ſpicuous object. A little to the left of Dork⯑ing hills, the high grounds gradually falling, admit a diſtant catch of the South downs, which overhang the ſea.

Such is the ſituation of this elegant villa; though, like all other ſituations, it hath its fa⯑vourable and unfavourable lights. It is ſeen to moſt advantage in an evening. As the vale points almoſt directly ſouth from the houſe, the weſt is on the right. In the evening therefore the woods of that ſcreen are all in [14] ſhadow, which is flung in one vaſt maſs over the boſom of the vale: while the ſetting ſun, having juſt touched the tops of the trees, as its rays paſs over, throws a beautiful light on the guttered ſides of Box-hill.

This view over the vale, (beautiful as it is,) is ſubject, however, to inconvenience. Every houſe ſhould, if poſſible, overlook its own do⯑mains, as far at leaſt as to remote diſtance. All the intermediate ſpace, in which objects are ſeen more diſtinctly, may ſuffer great injury from the caprice of different proprietors: and, in fact, this view has, in two or three inſtances, ſuffered injury from the interference of neigh⯑bours. This is indeed one reaſon, among others, why noble palaces, with extenſive pro⯑perty on every ſide, are moſt adapted to theſe commanding ſituations.

Norbury-houſe pretends only to comfort and convenience; except in the drawing room, which is an object of great curioſity. It is an oblong of 30 feet by 24. The walls are co⯑vered with a hard and durable ſtucco, and are painted by Barret. The whole room repre⯑ſents a bower or arbour, admitting a fictitious [15] ſky through a large oval at the top, and co⯑vered at the angles with trellis-work, inter⯑woven with honey-ſuckles, vines, cluſtering grapes, and flowering creepers of various kinds. The ſides of the room are divided by ſlight painted pilaſters, appearing to ſupport the trel⯑lis roof; and open to four views. That to⯑wards the ſouth is real, conſiſting of the vale incloſed by Box-hill, and the hills of Norbury, and Dorking, which hath been juſt deſcribed. The other three are artificial. Two of them, which are the two end-views, cover the whole ſides of the room from the ceiling to the baſe.

The ſcene preſented on the weſt wall, is taken from the lakes of Cumberland. It is an exact portrait of none of them; but a land⯑ſcape formed from a collection of ſome of the happieſt circumſtances which belong to all. No real view could preſent ſo beautiful and complete a picture. A large portion of the lake, under a ſplendid calm, is ſpread before the eye, ſurrounded by mountains perfectly well ſhaped and ſtationed. Nature is not very nice in the moulds in which ſhe commonly caſts theſe enormous bodies; and as they have [16] various forms of beauty, ſo have they of de⯑formity; but here we have ſome of the moſt pleaſing ſhapes culled out, and beautifully grouped. Woods are ſcattered about every part, which give theſe ſcenes a greater richneſs than nature hath given to any of the lakes in Cumberland. The ſmaller ornaments alſo of buildings, figures, and boats are judiciouſly introduced, and have a good effect. All this ſcenery is contained in various removes of diſ⯑tance; for no part of the lake comes cloſe to the eye. The near ground is compoſed of bold rocks, and other rough ſurfaces, with which the banks of lakes commonly abound. Among theſe a wild torrent, variouſly broken, pours its waters under the ſurbaſe of the room, which intercepts it. This torrent the painter has managed ſo well, that its ſpirit and brilliancy produce no lights which interfere with the calm reſplendency of the lake, but rather con⯑traſt it.

In deſcribing this noble landſcape, I have thus far conſidered it chiefly as a whole. But all its parts are equally excellent. On the fore⯑ground particularly are two birch-trees, which are painted with great beauty. The roots, the bark, and the foliage, are all admirable.

[17]The other grand landſcape occupies the eaſt⯑ern wall of the room. It is, I think, inferior to that on the weſt; yet it is a noble work. The ſcene is ſylvan, and the objects of courſe leſs grand. The foreground, where we admire particularly ſome beautiful trees, is tumbled about in various forms; but in the diſtance it ſinks into a rich flat country, through which a ſluggiſh ſtream, winding its courſe, diſ⯑charges itſelf into the ſea. The ſame obſerv⯑ations might be made on this picture, which were made on the other, with regard to com⯑poſition, and the judicious management of the ſeveral parts.

The north ſide of the room, oppoſite to the windows, offers two more landſcapes; divided by the breaſt of the chimney; which is adorned with a pier-glaſs, let into the wall, and covered thick with a frame-work of ho⯑ney-ſuckles, vines, wild-roſes, and various creepers in flower; all painted with great beauty. Theſe two pictures on the north are a continuation of the ſcene exhibited on the weſtern wall, which they unite with the land⯑ſcape on the eaſt. Cluſtering vines, and wild flowers, form a frame-work to all theſe beauti⯑ful pictures, both at the baſe, and along the [18] trellis-work of the ſides; ſo as to give them the reſemblance of being ſeen through the openings of the arbour.

With this unity in the ſubjects of theſe land⯑ſcapes, the light alſo, and other particulars co⯑incide. The ſeaſon repreſented, is autumn. Every where round the room the year is in its wane. Each tree, and buſh, is touched with its autumnal hue. The time of the day is about an hour before the ſun ſets, which, after a rainy afternoon, is breaking out from the wa⯑tery clouds that are ſcattered before a gentle breeze, in too high a region of the air to affect the ſurface of the lake. The rainy clouds, which are broken in the weſt, hang heavy in the north; and give a dark lurid tint to the lake below. In the north-eaſt angle, a ray of ſunſhine, breaking through the gloom, gilds a caſtled cliff: but the clouds condenſing again, fall in a heavy, though a partial ſhower on the landſcape in the eaſt.

As the ſun is repreſented ſetting on the weſt⯑ern ſide of the room, it is ſuppoſed to illumine the ſeveral objects in all the pictures; and when the natural hour correſponds with the hour repreſented, there is a coincidence of arti⯑ficial and natural light. All the landſcape, [19] both within and without the room, appears illumined by the ſame ſun. The union too between the natural and artificial landſcape, is ſtill farther aſſiſted by a few ſtraggling trees, which are planted before the windows, with a view to connect the picture with the country.

We dwell the longer on this curious and in⯑tereſting room, as it is the only one of the kind perhaps in England. There is a room painted by the celebrated Gaſper Pouſſin, at the villa of Monte Dragone, near Rome, on a plan ſome⯑thing like this; but Gaſper has paid no atten⯑tion to the union of the ſeveral lights, nor to the characteriſtic agreement of the ſeveral views.

Added to the houſe is another grand room, full of much curioſity. It was built by Mr. Lock, as a painting room for the amuſement of his eldeſt ſon, whoſe genius, taſte, and know⯑ledge in painting contend with our beſt artiſts. This room is adorned with a rich collection of ſtatues, models, caſts, and bas-reliefs; all ex⯑cellent in their kind: and an adjoining cloſet is filled with heads, hands, feet, trunks, and other parts of the human body; ſo that the whole together is a complete ſtudy for a painter.

Among the caſts is a very fine one of the Venus of Medici. It is not common to ſee ſo [20] good a ſubſtitute of this figure. I have ſome⯑times heard her attitude called in queſtion. In⯑ſtead of that modeſt demeanor, which is com⯑monly aſcribed to her, I have known her re⯑proached for prudery, and theatrical affecta⯑tion. We can, in truth, ſay but little for her moral character. Her attitude, however, I think may be defended. The ſculptor, I ſup⯑poſe, meant her to be viewed with her face to⯑wards you. In that poſition ſhe makes the moſt elegant figure.

ſhe received the ſhot of the prophane eye that ſurpriſed her, as our modern heroes in duel⯑ling receive a bullet, by inſtantly drawing her body into a profile. In both caſes nature teaches the eaſieſt and moſt commodious poſ⯑ture.

But this collection, though it conſiſt chiefly of caſts, contains ſome genuine antiques; par⯑ticularly a Diſcobolus, which is eſteemed, I be⯑lieve, the firſt ſtatue in England. It turns on a pivot; and exhibits (what few ſtatues are able to exhibit) on every ſide the juſteſt propor⯑tions and the moſt pleaſing attitudes. But [21] what chiefly engages the attention in this ſta⯑tue, is its expreſſion. It is a great beauty in any figure to appear to have ſome object in view, which always gives animation to it. I mean not that ſtrong degree of action, which the ancient maſters ſometimes gave their figures; as in the Laocoon, the fighting gladia⯑tor, and the Torſo, as far as we may judge of that fragment from the ſwelling of the muſcles. Strong expreſſion, no doubt, is highly beautiful, when it is well executed. But I would here only obſerve the effect of ſome eaſy action, or expreſſion, in oppoſition to none at all; as in the Venus, the Belvidere Apollo, the liſ⯑tening Slave, or the Farneſian Hercules, reſt⯑ing from one of his labours. All theſe gentle modes of action or expreſſion are certainly much more beautiful than the unintereſting vacancy of a conſul ſtanding erect in his robes. Intereſting he ſtill may be, all I contend for is, that ſuch a ſtatue is not ſo intereſting as if it had ſome object in view. The Diſcobolus be⯑fore us poſſeſſes this beauty in a diſtinguiſhed manner. He has juſt delivered his quoit; and with an eager eye, and right arm ſtill ex⯑tended, is watching its ſucceſs. The expanded hand indicates, that the mind is yet in ſuſ⯑pence [22] ^*. His left hand holds another quoit; as, I ſuppoſe, each Diſcobolus had two. It is pro⯑bable, however, the ſtatuary might have diſ⯑poſed the left hand to more advantage, if he could have deſcribed a quoit flying through the air. But he thought it neceſſary in ſome way to ſhew in what mode of action his figure was engaged. Nature could not have told the ſtory with more expreſſion ^†.

As the ſtatuary has generally a ſingle figure only to manage, there is much artifice neceſſary to ſhew who he is; or, if he be employed, what he is about; and ſometimes this is done very awkwardly. We might produce many inſtances; but few perhaps more remarkable than M. Angelo's celebrated ſtatue of Moſes. Unleſs the original greatly exceed any of the copies we have of it, it certainly deſerves leſs praiſe than it has found. The face is incum⯑bered with beard, and the body with drapery. But what I mean to remark at preſent is, the conceit with which the ſtatuary has charac⯑terized [23] Moſes. Some ſymbol was neceſſary to diſtinguiſh him from a Roman conſul, ſitting in his curule chair. M. Angelo has given him horns, by which he has turned him into a ſatyr. From whatever ſilly conceit the idea of giving horns to the great Jewiſh lawgiver originally ſprang, it is certainly abſurd in the laſt degree, to ſee that idea realized in marble. How much better might Moſes have been cha⯑racterized ſimply by his rod, and the two tables of the covenant; which latter, well managed, might have made a broad contraſt with the drapery, while in part they might have been covered with it.

Among ſo many copies from the antique, it is difficult to forbear remarking, that the hair in ſome of them is very awkwardly expreſſed. I have the Laocoon particularly in view. The hair and beard of this ſtatue have an uncom⯑monly bad effect; for as the face is turned from the eye, the locks of hair, which are in round curls, are confounded with the features themſelves, preſenting a number of ſmall cavi⯑ties, whoſe dark ſhadows diminiſh the effect of thoſe in the noſtrils, mouth, and eyes, which ſhould give character and expreſſion to the face. It is a difficult thing, no doubt, to give [24] the eaſe of hair to a block of marble: yet it may be done in two ways. We have exam⯑ples of both. The hair may be repreſented very ſhort, juſt covering the head, approach⯑ing nearly to baldneſs, as we often ſee it ex⯑preſſed; or it may be repreſented in an eaſy flow. This is more difficult; yet we ſome⯑times ſee it well executed; and when it is ſo, it is certainly more beautiful than to expreſs the hair in ſmall ringlets, as it is in the Lao⯑coon, and in many other antiques.

Before we leave this room, I cannot forbear mentioning a head, which has a place there, with hair of another kind. It plainly indeed appeared allied neither to the Greek nor Ro⯑man models, among which it ſtood, (for the mouth was frightfully bad,) yet the upper part of the face was executed with ſimplicity, and had ſomething in it like taſte and beauty. On inquiry we found it was a great curioſity, being the workmanſhip of a native of Otaheite; and ſeemed a convincing proof, that a love for the imitative arts is innate. But what particularly ſtruck us in this head, was its being adorned with real hair, which had a ſtill worſe effect than the beard of Laocoon. The mixture in⯑deed of reality and imitation, is very diſguſting; [25] and I doubt not would have appeared ſo on a little more knowledge and experience, to the ingenious ſculptor of the head himſelf. But we need not wonder at ſuch abſurdity in an artiſt of Otaheite, when we ſee among our⯑ſelves ſo many ſhocking ſtatues, painted after the life; and vile waxen images with wigs and drapery; things to ſhudder at, rather than to admire. The plain marble makes no pre⯑tence to any thing but imitation. It means not to put a trick upon us, by ſubſtituting itſelf for real life. But when we look at a waxen figure, arrayed in real drapery; yet with rigid limbs, and glazed and motionleſs eyes; that is, with every appearance of life about it but mo⯑tion, in which the very eſſence of life conſiſts, we are ſhocked. The fact is, that when the art of imitation (applied to human life) is ſo perfect as to produce a real, though momentary illuſion, it preſents, by its near approach to life, an image of death. For the inſtant we per⯑ceive that a figure of this kind wants motion, we purſue it to the next ſtage, where motion ceaſes, which is death. A repreſentation of a dead body may be beautiful and pleaſing; but a figure which preſents you with the appear⯑ance [26] of death, when you expected life, not only diſguſts you by the ſuddenneſs of the tran⯑ſition; but alſo from the mind's having been even for a moment impoſed on by ſo paltry a trick.

From ſuch effects, therefore, it ſeems to fol⯑low, that an art calculated to pleaſe by an imita⯑tion of life, ſhould, when applied to the human figure, though neceſſarily imperfect, be made intentionally more ſo; leſt by too near an ap⯑proach to life, it ſhould ſhock us with the idea of death.

Beſides the ſhock which theſe repreſent⯑ations give to the ſenſes, they groſsly oppoſe every idea of taſte. When we ſee a ſtuffed ſkin in a Muſeum, we expect only an object of curioſity, and are ſatisfied. But when a thing of this kind is ſhewn as an object of beauty, it ſets all taſte (which in natural objects ſeeks for nature) at defiance; and we conſider a mummy, which aims at nothing but what it is, by many degrees the more reſpectable figure.

As we leave this elegant manſion and deſcend the hill, the views are more pictureſque than thoſe over the valley from the back-front. They conſiſt of oblique ſweeps of deſcending [27] fore-grounds, every where well-wooded, and ſet off with remote diſtances. This is the ſim⯑pleſt mode of landſcape; but where the fore-ground and diſtances are good, though there is a ſtrong oppoſition between them, they are not unpleaſing.

A little to the right, as we deſcend from the houſe, the beech-woods, conſiſting of lofty full-grown trees, ſweep down to the vale; though in leſs luxuriance, as they gradually deſcend. When the deſcent becomes precipitous, the channelled ſides of the hill are, in many parts, bare of vegetation, and diſcover the ſoil, which is not chalk, though of a chalky tendency, and rather grey than white. Patches of earth are mixed with theſe patches of barren ſoil, in which box-wood grows profuſely; and here and there, where the ſoil allows, a luxuriant beech. Down this hill an Alpine road winds into the vale, and adds much to its beauty and character. It is ſtill rendered more inte⯑reſting by opening, in various parts, towards Box-hill; which preſents its flanks in theſe partial views, with a very mountain-like ap⯑pearance. The whole ſcene makes a good Alpine picture.

[28]Our remarks on this place ſhould have been more curſory, if the plan of the whole, the ſituation, and the embelliſhments of it had not been all uncommon. Great houſes in general reſemble each other ſo nearly, that it is difficult to find among them any characteriſtic features. Here the whole is new.

SECT. III.

FROM Norbury-park we returned to Lea⯑therhead, and paſſed the Mole again in our way to Guildford. The country on the left conſiſts chiefly of open downs, which are ra⯑ther narrow in this part, as they are drawing to a point. They are interſperſed alſo with plots of cultivation. As theſe downs are generally high, we had, from many parts of them, a va⯑riety of beautiful diſtances on the right; not ſo expanſive as thoſe from Banſtead-downs; but more pictureſque, as they are more within the command of the eye. The great beauty of ſuch ſcenes conſiſts in the richneſs of their parts, in the removal of one diſtance beyond another, diſcoverable chiefly by lengthened gleams of light, and in the melting of the whole into the horizon. If a diſtance be de⯑prived of any of theſe characteriſtics, it is im⯑perfect; but the laſt is moſt eſſentially neceſ⯑ſary. A hard edge of diſtance checking the view, (which is often the caſe when the diſ⯑tance is not remote,) is exceedingly diſguſting. [30] When the diſtance indeed is bounded by moun⯑tains, it falls under other rules of pictureſque beauty.

Of the elevated ſituation of theſe downs much advantage hath been taken. Many ele⯑gant houſes are built upon the edge of them for the ſake of the various proſpects they com⯑mand. The whole country indeed from Lea⯑therhead almoſt to Guildford is thus richly adorned. Two of the moſt beautiful of theſe villas, are thoſe belonging to the late Admiral Boſcawen and Lord Onſlow. The latter is eſteemed one of the beſt houſes in Surrey. The grounds about it ſeem well diſpoſed; but we only rode paſt them.

A little to the left, near three parts of the way to Guildford, we were directed to look out, about half a mile from the road, for a beautiful ſcene called the Sheep-leas; conſiſting of lawns, divided from each other by woody copſes. We eaſily found it; and were much gratified with the appearance it preſented of a ſimple Arcadian retreat.

Few parts of this adorned tract of country between Leatherhead and Guildford, (through a ſpace of about eleven miles,) can be called pic⯑tureſque; yet from the variety it affords, it is [31] very amuſing. One of the great nuiſances of the landſcape here, as well as in other parts of the neighbourhood of London, is the formal manner which prevails of lopping trees, eſpe⯑cially elms. They are entirely deprived of the beautiful ramification of all their lateral branches, and you ſee them every where formed into mere poles, with a buſh at the top. We conſidered them only as objects of deformity: but the ſkilful woodman, I have heard, conſiders ſuch mutilation as very detri⯑mental to the timber. One reaſon given for lopping the elm is, that it may be the better converted into a hollow trunk to convey water under ground. Elm is the wood chiefly uſed for this purpoſe, as it continues long ſound if it be kept from the air; but perhaps not one in fifty of theſe mutilated trees is converted to this uſe.

Guildford is a town both of antiquity and curioſity; but is in no part pictureſque. It conſiſts of one long ſtreet, running down pre⯑cipitately to the river Wey; from whence the road on the other ſide riſes ſtill more ab⯑ruptly [32] ^*. In the higheſt part of the town ſtands the caſtle, which conſiſts of a heavy tower, though in one or two points it is not unpictureſque. The Wey is navigable as far as Guildford; and beyond it, for timber, which is brought down the river from the contiguous parts of the country.

Floats of timber are among the pleaſing ap⯑pendages of a river, when the trunks are hap⯑pily diſpoſed. This diſpoſition, however, I fear, muſt be the reſult of chance, rather than of art. It is hardly poſſible to pack a float pic⯑tureſquely by deſign. Theſe cumbrous ma⯑chines are navigated each by a ſingle man with a pole; and as they glide gently down the ſtream, the tremulous reflections they form on the ſtill ſurface of the water, and their contraſt with trees, buſhes, and paſturage, as they float along, are pleaſing.

But cumbrous as theſe rafts are, they are as nothing compared with thoſe which are often floated down the Rhine. In the neighbourhood of Andernach, great quantities of timber, brought down by various ſtreams, from the foreſts of Germany, are there conſtructed into [33] a float of vaſt dimenſions. Some of theſe floats are a thouſand feet long, and ninety broad; and are each furniſhed with five hundred men. For the accommodation of ſuch a company, a ſtreet of cabins is built upon the ſurface of the float. When all is ready, and the ſeveral men are at their poſts, (many of whom are in rafts and boats, both behind and before the float, to conduct it properly,) the pilot ſtands up, and taking off his hat, with a loud voice cries out, "Let us pray:" on which the whole body of the workmen on board fall down on their knees, and beg a bleſſing on the expedition. The anchors and cables are then drawn on board, and the whole machine is put in motion. As it ſails majeſtically down the Rhine, it draws all the inhabitants from the towns and villages on the banks of the river to ſee it paſs, till it ar⯑rive at Dort in Holland, the place of its deſti⯑nation; where being broken up, the ſale of its ſeveral parts continues many months, and raiſes often the ſum of thirty thouſand pounds ^*.

To theſe timber floats we may add one of a very ſingular kind on the Nile, conſtructed of earthen veſſels. Large jars, to preſerve water [34] in dry ſeaſons, are in great requeſt in many parts of Egypt. Theſe, of various ſizes, are manufactured chiefly in the clayey grounds of the upper parts of the country. When the potter has gotten a ſufficient number ready for market, he begins to form his float. In ſome convenient place near the river, he ranges his largeſt jars, empty, but well-corked, in rows of a proper length and breadth. Theſe he braces tight with flexible twigs: and with the ſame art ranges above them ſeveral tiers of ſmaller jars, till he has made up the quantity and kind of goods his market demands. Over all he conſtructs a ſeat for himſelf. By this time the waters of the Nile, whoſe increaſe he calculates, begin to ripple round his earthen raft, which is preſently after afloat. Hav⯑ing victualled it with a bag of parched rice, and put on his blue linen ſhirt and cap, he takes his ſeat, and paddles his veſſel into the middle of the channel. The wondering ſtranger eyes from the ſhore this odd ſpe⯑cies of navigation; and though aſſiſted by his pocket-perſpective, cannot conceive its con⯑ſtruction. In the mean time it glides down the ſtream. Neither ſtorms nor rocks it fears, with which the Nile is little acquainted; and if [35] it even touch the ground, its motion is ſo gen⯑tle, and the ooze ſo ſoft, that its conſtruction is not in the leaſt diſturbed. Nothing can be more ingenious than to make a cargo of heavy materials its own vehicle; at the ſame time, ſuch a float could hardly be an object of beauty.

The elegant author of the Elegy in a Church⯑yard ſeems to have had a float of this kind in his view, in the laſt lines of the following beau⯑tiful deſcription of the Nile.

From Guildford to Farnham the form of the country is ſingular. The road is carried through the ſpace of eight miles, over a ridge of high ground with a ſteep deſcent on each ſide. This grand natural terrace, which the country people call the Hog's back, preſents on each hand extenſive diſtances. On the [36] right the diſtance is very remote, conſiſting of that flat country through which the Wey, the Mole, and the Thames, though none of them objects in the ſcene, flow with almoſt imper⯑ceptible motion. On the left the diſtance is more broken with riſing grounds interſperſed through various parts of it.

Though the diſtance on neither hand forms a picture, except in a few places, for want of foregrounds and proper appendages pro⯑portioned to the ſcene; yet on both ſides we ſtudy a variety of thoſe pleaſing circumſtances, which we look for in remote landſcape. As we draw near the cloſe of this terrace, the two diſ⯑tances unite in one, forming a kind of grand amphitheatre in front.

Such violent contraſts as theſe, in which lofty grounds break down precipitately into extenſive plains, are rather uncommon in nature, as theſe different modes of country are generally more imperceptibly united. We have ſeveral ſcenes, however, of this kind in different parts of Eng⯑land; particularly in the view over the vale of Mowbray ^*; and in that over the vale of Se⯑vern ^†; in both which the union is abrupt. [37] As England, however, is a country only on a ſmall ſcale, compared with the vaſt tracts on the continent, its ſcenes are more in miniature. Its rivers, its lakes, its mountains, and plains, though generally more pictureſque, as more ſuited to human viſion, yet do not ſtrike the imagination with ſo much grandeur. Many inſtances might be brought from the continent of ſublimer effects in all modes of landſcape. A very abrupt tranſition from the moſt mag⯑nificent ſylvan ſcenery to entire ſterility, I met with lately in an account of the productions of Boutan and Thibet, communicated in the Phi⯑loſophical Tranſactions ^*. Where Boutan, ſays the author of thoſe remarks, joins the territory of Thibet, the boundary is marked by ſuch a line, as is perhaps hardly to be ſeen in any other part of the earth. From the eminence where we ſtood, the mountains of Boutan, which ranged above us, appeared every where beautifully arrayed in wood, mantling down to our very feet. This view was towards the ſouth. When we turned towards the north, the eye is received by a vaſt dreary waſte, de⯑ſcending far and wide, compoſed of extenſive [38] ranges of hills and plains; but, from the woody ſpot where we ſtood, through the whole unbounded diſtance, there is not the leaſt ap⯑pearance of vegetation.

Farnham conſiſts chiefly of one long, tho⯑rough-fare ſtreet, and is principally remarkable for its being the ſummer-reſidence of the Biſhop of Wincheſter.

Farnham-caſtle ſtands high, and was form⯑erly a fortreſs of conſiderable reputation. It was built by a Biſhop of Wincheſter in the time of King Stephen, when caſtles were much in faſhion, and made ſome figure in the trou⯑bled reign of that prince. It afterwards figured in the times of Lewis the Dauphin, in the in⯑ſurrections of the barons, and in the civil wars of the laſt century. During theſe laſt trou⯑bles it was blown up by Sir William Waller; though not with that pictureſque judgment with which many caſtles in thoſe times were demo⯑liſhed. Very little is left that can make a pleaſ⯑ing picture. After the reſtoration it depoſited its military character, and was changed again into an epiſcopal palace by Biſhop Morley; but it has ever ſince been neglected. The pre⯑ſent [39] biſhop is the firſt who has paid any atten⯑tion, for many generations, to Farnham-caſtle. He has greatly improved the houſe, and has fitted it up in ſuch a manner, as will probably make it an object to every future biſhop. The keep, or inner caſtle, is left ſtanding in its ruins, and is ſtill a curious piece of antiquity. It is ſurrounded by a deep ditch, which, toge⯑ther with the area of the caſtle, containing about two acres, makes an excellent kitchen-garden.

Behind the houſe extends a park, about four miles in circumference, which the biſhop found as much neglected and out of order as the houſe itſelf. It was cut with unlicenſed paths, the trees were mangled to browze the deer, and a cricket ground had ſo long been ſuffered, that the people conceived they had now a right to it. This laſt was a great nuiſance. Such a ſcene of riot and diſorder, with ſtands for ſelling liquor, juſt under the caſtle windows, could not eaſily be endured. The biſhop took the gentleſt methods he could to remove the nuiſance; and at length, though not without ſome difficulty, got it effected.

Having thus removed nuiſances from his park, he began to embelliſh it. He improved [40] the ſurface, he laid out handſome roads and walks, he planted young trees, and protected the old trees from farther ill uſage.

Acroſs the park runs an avenue a mile long, of ancient elms. The biſhop could not per⯑ſuade himſelf to remove this monument of an⯑tiquity; and I think with great judgment hath left it in its old form; for though an avenue is neither a pleaſing nor a pictureſque arrange⯑ment of trees, yet the grandeur of this gives it conſequence; and its connection with the an⯑tiquity of the caſtle gives it harmony. Here the poet, after mourning the loſs of other ave⯑nues, may exult:

About a quarter of a mile from the houſe ariſes in the park an eminence, on which ſtands a keeper's lodge. The ſituation is conſpicuous, but the object unpleaſing. A few acres, there⯑fore, around it are incloſed, a green-houſe is built to ſkreen the lodge, and walks are cut, and adorned with different kinds of curious ſhrubs in high perfection.

From this eminence are ſeveral openings into the country, particularly one towards [41] Moor-park, where that enlightened genius, Sir William Temple, (retiring in diſguſt from ſtate affairs, when Charles II.'s politics received a tincture from France,) cultivated every part of literature with an elegance of taſte uncommon at that day. His heart lies buried, according to his will, in a ſilver urn, under a dial in his garden. A ſingularity of this kind, in prefer⯑ring a garden to a church-yard, rather favours the opinion which Biſhop Burnet gives us, of Temple's religious ſentiments.

In moſt of the views from the park at Farn⯑ham-caſtle, Crookſbury-hill is a diſtinguiſhed feature; which, tradition ſays, Sir William Temple always conſidered as one of the greateſt ornaments of his place. This ſhews his love for nature; though in laying out his grounds, the awkward idea of the times miſled both his theory and practice.

From the terrace before the caſtle, the view is ſingular. We overlooked the town of Farnham, and a tract of country, which may properly be called the vale of hops: for we ſaw nothing but ranges of that plant, which was now in full leaf, and made a curious, though very unpleaſing, appearance. The hop and the vine, in a natural ſtate, are among the [42] moſt pictureſque plants. Their ſhoots, their tendrils, their leaves, their fruit, are all beauti⯑ful: but in their cultured ſtate they are perfect ſamples of regularity, ſtiffneſs, and uniformity; which are, of all ideas, the moſt alien to every thing we wiſh in landſcape.

Nothing ſhews ſo much the prejudice of names, as the value fixed on Farnham hops. Thoſe produced in this pariſh ſell at Weyhill, and all the great fairs, at a conſiderably greater price than thoſe which grow even in the next pariſh, though divided only by a hedge. To keep up this idea of excellence, the Farnham farmers agree every year on a ſecret mark, which they affix to all their own bags. The value of the hops, ſpread under our eye from the terrace on which we ſtood, was ſuppoſed to be at leaſt ten thouſand pounds.

SECT. IV.

FROM Farnham to Alton, the road paſſes through pleaſant lanes. Holt Foreſt occu⯑pying the left, forms an agreeable woody ho⯑rizon. Sometimes it breaks the line, and ad⯑vances a little nearer the eye; but it generally keeps the ſame diſtance, and runs along the higher grounds, through the ſpace of ſeveral miles. But though it is higher than the neigh⯑bouring country, it is itſelf a tract of level land. We rode through it, and were much pleaſed with its woods and lawns.

In the midſt of it ſtands a houſe which formerly belonged to Mr. Bilſon Legge. A very extenſive lawn is cleared before it, inter⯑ſperſed with combinations of trees; and though it is a perfect flat, yet the line of its woody boundary being varied, and removed to differ⯑ent diſtances by retiring woods, the whole has a good effect; which is not a little aſſiſted by ſome handſome trees on the foreground.—A flat, if it be very extenſive, may convey a grand [44] idea; but when we have a ſmall piece of flat ground to improve, all we can do, unleſs we vary its ſurface, is to adorn it with wood. Surrounded with artful ſcenery, as it is here, it may form a landſcape in which the eye may find great entertainment. The water which adorns this lodge, we thought but indifferently managed; though we were told it was con⯑trived by the late Lord Chatham.

From Alton to Alresford, and from thence to Wincheſter, we find little that excites atten⯑tion. The road is in general cloſe, till within a few miles of Wincheſter, where the downs begin to open. They are heavy unintereſting ſwells of ground: but as we proceeded farther, we admired ſome of the interſections of their vaſt heaving forms, and had at leaſt the plea⯑ſure of ſurveying a large tract of country in its original ſtate; on which neither Romans, Sax⯑ons, Danes, nor Britons ſeem to have made any impreſſion ^*.

[45]In a valley among theſe downs, watered by a conſiderable ſtream, lies Wincheſter. As we deſcend into it, the great church, and the King's Houſe, as it is called, are capital features, and give it an air of grandeur.

The ſouth ſide of the great church is a piece of heavy unadorned Gothic. But this was owing to accident. Formerly the buildings of a monaſtery covered this ſide of it, and the ar⯑chitect, William of Wickham, who could not foreſee the diſſolution of monaſteries, thought it of no conſequence to adorn a part of his church, which could never be ſeen. But when the monaſ⯑tery was removed, the defect became glaring.— Why the tower, in the hands of ſo elegant an architect, was left ſo ill proportioned, is a queſtion of ſurpriſe. It certainly contributes to give the whole building an air of heavineſs. I doubt whether a ſpire was ever intended, as it was not, I believe, among the Gothic orna⯑ments of that day.

The inſide, however, of this cathedral is very grand, except about the tranſept, where there ſeems to have been ſome awkward con⯑trivance. The nave, which is three hundred [46] feet in length, is perhaps the moſt magnificent in England. But it is injured by ſome monuments, particularly that of the founder, which treſpaſs upon it: they are placed between the pillars, and bulge out into the middle aiſle of the nave. Indeed I know not whether monu⯑ments at all in ſuch churches as pride them⯑ſelves on their architecture, can in any ſhape be conſidered as ornamental: the nave of Weſtminſter-Abbey, for inſtance, is injured, as a piece of architecture, by the ſeveral monu⯑ments introduced into it, which, like ſpots of light in a picture, injure the whole; they break in upon its ſimplicity and grandeur. Thus too I doubt whether the introduction of monu⯑ments will be any advantage to St. Paul's. I ſhould fear they might injure the grandeur of the dome, which the judicious architect had already adorned, as much as he thought con⯑ſiſtent with the ſublimity of his idea. In all cathedrals there are cloiſters and other receſſes, which are the proper ſituations for monuments: and even here every thing ſhould not be ad⯑mitted that comes under the name of a monu⯑ment, and pays the fee. Plain tablets may be allowed; but when figures and ornaments are introduced, they ſhould be ſuch as neither diſ⯑grace [47] the ſculptor, nor the perſon whom he meant to honour. It would be of great advan⯑tage alſo to claſs monuments, as we hang pic⯑tures in a room, with ſome view to ſymmetry and order; and, if different profeſſions were ranged by themſelves, it would ſtill make it more agreeable to examine them.

The choir of Wincheſter cathedral is greatly adorned, but without any taſte. The love of or⯑nament is one of the greateſt ſources of deform⯑ity; and it is the more to be lamented, as it is very expenſive, and very univerſal. It prevails from the churchwarden, who paints the pillars of his pariſh-church blue, and the capitals yel⯑low; to the artiſt, who gilds and carves the choir of a cathedral. A taſte of this kind pre⯑vails here.

In the firſt place, the ſituation of the organ ſeems injudicious. A view along the whole range of the church, no doubt, is grand; but not, I think, of conſequence to remove the organ into the awkward ſituation in which it now ſtands, in the middle of one of the ſides, where it has no correſpondent part: beſides, an organ, if judiciouſly adorned, is a proper finiſhing to one end of the choir, as the com⯑munion-table [48] and its appendages, are to the other.

The wood-work in the choir is elegant Go⯑thic; but it is greatly injured by a blue band, ſpangled with golden ſtars, with which the ground behind it is adorned. What the mean⯑ing of this ſtrange conceit is, I could not con⯑jecture.

But the decoration of the altar-piece is the moſt offenſive. The choir is ſeparated from the chapels beyond it, by a lofty ſcreen. The tabernacle work of this ſcreen ſtill remaining, ſhews it to have been of the pureſt Gothic. It is divided into twelve compartments, which are ſuppoſed to have held ſtatues of the twelve apoſtles. But theſe having been deſtroyed in the time of the civil wars, each Gothic niche is injudiciouſly filled with a Roman urn.

But the projection over the communion-table is ſtill more offenſive. It is a ſort of pent⯑houſe hanging over the table, and adorned with feſtoons of flowers. They are ſaid to have been carved by Gibbons, and probably were; but all the elegant touches of his chiſel are deſtroyed. At Hampton Court, at Chatſ⯑worth, and wherever we have the works of this [49] maſter, great care has been taken to preſerve them in their original purity. I believe not even a varniſh has been ſuffered. But here they are daubed all over with brown paint, to⯑tally at variance with every thing around them; and as if that were not enough, they are alſo adorned with profuſe gilding.

Inſhrined amidſt all this abſurdity, hangs Weſt's picture of the Reſurrection of Lazarus, which is by no means, in my opinion, among the beſt works of this maſter. The compo⯑ſition did not pleaſe me. The whole is divided formally into three parts, with too little con⯑nection among them. Jeſus and his diſciples ſtand on one ſide, the ſpectators on the other; Lazarus and his ſiſters occupy the middle. Neither is the effect of light nor the harmony of the colouring more pleaſing. The colouring particularly, which both the ſtory and the ſitu⯑ation of the picture required to be peculiarly modeſt, is inharmoniouſly glaring. The parts did not appear to more advantage than the whole. There is but little of thoſe paſſions, and varied expreſſion, which the ſtory is meant to excite. In drawing, Mr. Weſt is acknow⯑ledged to be a perfect maſter. But there is one thing in the picture which is particularly [50] diſpleaſing. Every painter ſhould ſo far pro⯑vide for the diſtant effect of his picture, that no improper or diſagreeable idea may be excited in the general view of it. As you approach this picture, without knowing what the ſubject is, a figure at the foot of Lazarus gives the whole too much the appearance of une femme accouchée.

The ſkreen which ſeparates the choir from the nave and the aiſles, is beautiful in itſelf; but we are aſtoniſhed that ſuch an artiſt as Inigo Jones ſhould not ſee the abſurdity of adorning a Gothic church with a Grecian ſkreen. The ſtatues of James I. and Charles I. however they come there, would have been in themſelves more pleaſing, if their unclaſſical inſignia of crowns and ſceptres had been re⯑moved.

The King's Houſe was built by Sir Chriſto⯑pher Wren for Charles II. It ſtands on the ſite of the old caſtle of Wincheſter, loftily overlooking the city, and is, I think, a beautiful piece of architecture. Magnificent it certainly is, extending in front above three hundred feet; and if it had been completed in the grand ſtyle in which it was conceived, with its lofty cupola, and other appendages; its gar⯑dens [51] and parks laid out in ample ſpace behind; a noble bridge in front over the ditch; and the ſtreet opened, as was intended, to the weſt end of the cathedral, with which its front is parallel; it would have been perhaps one of the grandeſt palaces in Europe. The death of Charles put an end to the ſcheme. It had afterwards another chance of being completed; having been ſettled on Prince George of Den⯑mark, if he had ſurvived Queen Anne. Its laſt tenants were ſix thouſand French priſoners, from whoſe dilapidations it will not ſpeedily recover ^*.

Wincheſter was not only a regal ſeat in Saxon times, but one of the firſt towns in Bri⯑tain. Its hiſtory is full of curioſity; and the antiquities with which it abounds confirm its hiſtory: but among its antiquities I recollect no object of beauty, except an old croſs in the high ſtreet, which is an exquiſite piece of Go⯑thic architecture; and ſhews that the artiſts of thoſe days could adapt their ideas of proportion as well to works of miniature as of grandeur. This little ſtructure riſes from a baſement of [52] half a dozen ſteps, with curious open work, in a pyramidal form. It is ornamented in the richeſt manner; but its ornaments are becom⯑ing, becauſe they are introduced with propor⯑tion, uniformity, and ſymmetry. If the edges had been gilt and adorned with Chineſe bells, it would have been ornamented in a taſte ſome⯑thing like that employed in the choir of the cathedral.

SECT. V.

FROM Wincheſter to Saliſbury the road ſtill continues along downs, the parts of which often fold beautifully over each other. This ſort of country, though in itſelf unpic⯑tureſque, affords a good ſtudy for a landſcape-painter. It gives him a few large maſterly ſtrokes, and forms an outline which the ima⯑gination fills up. About a mile ſhort of Stock⯑bridge, we had a good diſtance on the left.

As we gain the higher grounds about two or three miles before we reach Saliſbury, the lofty ſpire of the cathedral makes its firſt appearance, and fixes the ſpot to which the road, though devious, will certainly carry us at laſt. It is amuſing to ſee a deſtined point before us, as we come up to it by degrees. It is amuſing alſo to transfer our own motion to that of the object we approach. It ſeems, as the road winds, to play with us, ſhewing itſelf here and there, ſometimes totally diſappearing, and then riſing where we did not expect to find it. But the moſt pleaſing circumſtance in approaching [54] a grand object, conſiſts in its depoſiting by de⯑grees its various tints of obſcurity. Tinged at firſt with the hazy hue of diſtance, the ſpire before us was but little diſtinguiſhed from the objects of the vale. But as it was much nearer than thoſe objects, it ſoon began to aſ⯑ſume a deeper tint, to break away from them, and leave them behind. As we get ſtill nearer, eſpecially if a ray of ſunſhine happen to gild it, the ſharp touches on the pinnacles ſhew the richneſs of its workmanſhip, and it begins gradually to aſſume its real form.

Saliſbury is a pleaſant town, with the ſweet accommodation of a ſtream of limpid water running through every ſtreet. But the only thing in it worth the attention of a pictureſque eye, is the great church and its appendages.

Saliſbury cathedral is eſteemed the only pure ſpecimen we have of the early ſtyle of Gothic architecture. It marks the period when Saxon heavineſs began firſt to give way. It wants thoſe light and airy members which we find in the cathedrals of York, Canterbury, Lincoln, and others of a later period: but it poſſeſſes one beauty which few of them poſſeſs, that of ſymmetry in all its parts. The ſpire is eſteemed the loftieſt ſtructure of the kind in [55] England. It is very light: yet its great height, eſpecially when ſeen either from the eaſt or weſt, appears rather diſproportioned; and in⯑deed, on the whole, I think, no ſpire can be ſo pleaſing an object as an elegant Gothic tower. The tower is capable of receiving all the beau⯑ties of Gothic ornament. Thoſe of many of our cathedrals, indeed of many of our pariſh churches, as of Derby for inſtance, are adorned with great elegance; but the ſpire, tapering to a point, does not preſent a ſufficient ſurface for ornament. The bands round that of Saliſbury are rather a deformity: nor do I ſee what Gothic ornaments ſo tapering a ſurface is capable of receiving; for which reaſon, though a plain well-proportioned ſpire may happily adorn a neat pariſh church, and make a pic⯑tureſque object riſing among woods, or in the horizon, I think it is not ſo well adapted to the rich ſtyle of a Gothic cathedral: and in⯑deed ſucceeding architects, as the Gothic taſte advanced in purity, laid aſide the ſpire, and in general adopted the tower. Pinnacles, which are purely Gothic, are very beautiful: and for this reaſon the tower part, or foundation of the ſpire at Saliſbury, which is adorned with them, is the only part of it that is intereſting. [56] If inſtead of the ſpire, ſomething of a Gothic dome, or rich open work, had been carried up a moderate height, I think it would have been more beautiful. As it is, the chief idea ſeems to have been to carry ſtones higher into the air, than they were ever carried before.

The inſide of Saliſbury cathedral is more beautiful than the outſide. The aſſemblage of its various parts, ſo harmonious among them⯑ſelves, and its ſimple ornaments, though of the rudeſt Gothic, are very pleaſing.

There is one beautiful circumſtance in it which I remember not to have ſeen, with ſo good an effect▪ in any other cathedral, except that of Wells. To the eaſt end of the choir St. Mary's chapel is attached; and appears ſe⯑parated from it only by three large pointed open arches behind the communion-table. The internal part of the chapel, with its eaſt window and pillars, ſeen through theſe arches, gives the conjunct idea of ſpace and perſpec⯑tive, which is very pleaſing.

But this cathedral alſo, though in itſelf a noble piece of architecture, has been much in⯑jured by what is called beautifying. The nave of the church and ſide aiſles were painted, as if they had been arched with brick. Nothing [57] could be more abſurd or diſguſting. The choir alſo was coloured with three tints; which had a bad effect. If the whole had been waſhed with one uniform ſtone-colour, the natural lights and ſhades would have been ſeen to more advantage. The prebendal ſtalls alſo, and the organ, were all decorated in the ſame awkward manner. The ceiling too was patched over with circles containing ugly figures of le⯑gendary ſaints: and indeed the whole was a profuſion of bad taſte.

To remove all this deformity, and beautify the cathedral, Mr. Wyatt was engaged by the Biſhop and Chapter, and fully anſwered the expectation that was raiſed. The figures on the roof are obliterated. The whole is waſhed over with one uniform ſtone-colour; and the ornaments of the Biſhop's ſeat and the preben⯑dal ſtalls are beautiful; though rather perhaps in a ſtyle of later Gothic than the reſt of the church.

Acroſs the middle of the choir, from wall to wall, juſt under the roof, ran a maſſy beam eighty feet long, and four feet ſquare. It was a very diſguſting incumbrance; but as it had reſted there beyond the memory of man, and was thought to bind the two walls together, to [58] prevent their ſpreading, it had never been touched. Mr. Wyatt, however, examined it, and being perſuaded it had no connection with the walls, ventured to remove it; and has done it without any bad conſequence. It was ſup⯑ported in two or three places by ſcaffolding; and the middle part being ſawn and taken away, the ends were eaſily removed.

The next queſtion was, what ſhould be done with the three large arches which open the view into St. Mary's chapel? Should they be filled with tracery-work, like the eaſt win⯑dows of ſome cathedrals? Or, ſhould they be left open, as they had always been? The latter mode, which was certainly the better, was adopted. Tracery-work would have been out of place in this cathedral; which was built be⯑fore that mode of ornament was introduced. Beſides, a great beauty would have been loſt, which ariſes from a perſpective view into the chapel.

This queſtion being ſettled, another aroſe. A very beautiful altar-ſkreen was conſtructed out of the ornaments of a little chapel, which had formerly been attached to the church, and which Mr. Wyatt found it neceſſary to re⯑move. The queſtion was, where ſhould this [59] ſkreen be placed? Some thought it might be placed beſt at the end of St. Mary's chapel, ſo that it might be ſeen to advantage through the arches, which were to be left open entirely to the bottom. In this caſe the communion-table was to be moveable; and to be brought for⯑ward into the choir only when it was wanted. Others were of opinion, that the communion-table ſhould ſtand fixed where it had ever ſtood; and the ſkreen, which was a very low one, ſhould be placed juſt behind it, ſo as merely to hide the baſes of the pillars, and the pavement of St. Mary's chapel; permitting at the ſame time a perſpective view into it above the ſkreen. The former of theſe opinions pre⯑vailed, though ſome thought it might have been more proper, and more in taſte, to have taken the latter. It might have been more proper, becauſe it would have made a ſeparation be⯑tween the church and the chapel, which is as deſirable at one end, as the ſeparation made by the ſkreen and the organ, between the choir and nave, is at the other. Beſides, the com⯑munion-table is a natural adjunct to the choir, and could not be removed, without making an improper break. It might alſo be thought in⯑decent by many people, and give offence. This [60] ſeparation might likewiſe have been more in taſte, becauſe the eye, not having ſo good a cri⯑terion of diſtance as would be afforded by ſee⯑ing the baſes of the pillars, and pavement of the chapel, would have conceived the diſtance to the eaſt-window of the chapel greater than it really is: ſo that the idea being thus in part curtailed, would in fact have been enlarged. It is an undoubted rule in painting, that an exact delineation of a grand object injures its ſublimity. Whatever is diſcretely left to the imagination is always improved. Theſe re⯑marks, however, are founded only in theory; and it is poſſible the ſkreen may have a better effect where it ſtands at preſent.

The eaſt window of St. Mary's chapel is adorned with a picture of the Reſurrection, in painted glaſs. Sir Joſhua Reynolds gave the deſign; in which, though he had repreſented our Saviour riſing, he had left the tomb ſtill cloſed and ſealed. The Biſhop remonſtrated, that he had given the fact contrary to the truth of Scripture; where, it is ſaid, the ſeal was broken, and the ſtone removed. Sir Joſhua, however, ſtill perſiſted; contending, that by not breaking the ſeal, he had made the miracle ſo much the greater; and it was not without [61] ſome difficulty that the Biſhop got him per⯑ſuaded to correct his deſign. The truth, I ſuppoſe, was, Sir Joſhua had not fully, at firſt, attended to the circumſtances of the ſtory; and did not care to be at the trouble of altering his picture. How far this window, in the hands of ſo eminent a maſter, may be beautiful, I know not. It was not finiſhed when I was laſt at Saliſbury. But if it be not better than the other eaſt-window, given by Lord Radnor, (which is eſteemed good in its kind,) it will in my judgment be a diſagreeable ornament. In⯑deed, if colours cannot be better blended on glaſs, and harmonized, than I ever ſaw them, I own I ſhould never wiſh to ſee an hiſtorical ſubject painted in this way. The gloom of a painted window in an old cathedral is pleaſ⯑ing: but I ſhould deſire only ornamental ſcrawls. The beſt painted windows I remem⯑ber to have ſeen, were (I believe, in the cha⯑pel) at Magdalen College in Oxford. They are ſingle figures, and only in clair obſcure. They are the beſt, becauſe they are the leaſt glaring.

The choir of Saliſbury cathedral, thus im⯑proved under the able hands of Mr. Wyatt, is now one of the moſt beautiful pieces of Gothic [62] architecture in England. The deformities of the nave and grand aiſles, I fear, will not ſoon be removed; as there is a deficiency in the fund; but they greatly call for improvement.

Adjoining to the church is a ſquare cloiſter opening into a chapter-houſe. In abbies, we ſuppoſe, the cloiſter was a place for the monks to enjoy exerciſe under cover. But, from the connection of this cloiſter with the chapter-houſe, we are led to imagine it was intended alſo as a place for tenants and ſuitors to wait under ſhelter, till each was called into the chap⯑ter-houſe to ſettle his reſpective buſineſs. The chapter-houſe and cloiſters are in the ſame way connected at Glouceſter; and may probably be ſo in other cathedrals.

The cloiſter and the chapter-houſe at Saliſ⯑bury belong to an age of much better taſte in architecture than that of the cathedral itſelf. They are both of very pure and elegant Go⯑thic. The former is a light airy ſquare of about forty feet on each ſide. The latter is an octagon of fifty feet in diameter, with a pointed roof, ſupported by a light column (rather per⯑haps too light) in the centre. Nothing in ar⯑chitecture, I think, can be more pleaſing than theſe buildings; nor does any thing militate [63] ſo much againſt a ſervile attachment to the five orders. The Greek and Roman architecture, no doubt, poſſeſs great beauty: but why ſhould we ſuppoſe them to poſſeſs all beauty? If men were left to their own genius and invention, (as the founders of the Gothic probably were,) we might, it is true, have many abſurd com⯑poſitions, which we have even now; but we ſhould certainly have greater variety; and amidſt that variety, no doubt, ſeveral new and elegant models. But the five orders have drawn the art ſo much to themſelves, that it would be hereſy in architecture to oppoſe their canons.

Rules, we allow, muſt confine every art; but what rules are neceſſary to confine archi⯑tecture, except thoſe of utility, ſymmetry, pro⯑portion, and ſimplicity? Utility reſpects the pur⯑poſes for which an edifice is raiſed; ſymmetry the general purity and ſameneſs of the ſtyle; proportion the relation of parts; ſimplicity the modeſty and propriety of ornaments. I know not in which of theſe requiſites the Gothic does not equal the Roman. If in any it may be thought to fail, it is in the ornamental part.

[64]In what taſte the private buildings of thoſe times were conſtructed, when Gothic architec⯑ture was in its ſplendor, we know not. It is probable they were not deſigned by the emi⯑nent profeſſors of the art, but by low mecha⯑nics, according to every man's humour, with⯑out rule or knowledge. Many of them, no doubt, were inconvenient enough, as well as wretchedly adorned. But in the public buildings of thoſe times, there is generally ſuch propriety of ornament; that is, each ornamental member ariſes ſo naturally from the building itſelf, and is ſo much of a piece with it, (which ſeems to be all we wiſh in ornament,) that in the beſt ſpe⯑cimens of Gothic architecture, the eye is no where offended, or called aſide by the conten⯑tion of parts; but examines all, whole and parts together, in one general view. In the interior, perhaps, the Gothic architect is com⯑monly more chaſte than in the exterior, in which he allows himſelf more to wanton; and indeed ſeems to have had a worſe choice of proper ornaments. But in our beſt compo⯑ſitions, the outſide as well as the inſide is highly beautiful. For myſelf, I freely own, I am as much ſtruck with the cathedral of York, [65] or with this cloiſter and chapter-houſe, covered as they are with ornaments, as with the noble ſimplicity of the cathedral of St. Paul's. Each ſtyle is beautiful.

But in comparing the Gothic and Grecian ornaments in architecture, the compariſon holds merely with regard to ſuch ornaments as are fanciful and ideal. In portraying or combin⯑ing ſuch ornaments as have nature for their ori⯑ginal, either in human or in animal life, the Gothic ſculptor is in general miſerably de⯑ficient. He had little knowledge of Nature in forming, and leſs of Art in combining: and yet he is often offending with ſome groſs repre⯑ſentation of this kind.

In the chapter-houſe at Saliſbury, for in⯑ſtance, which gave occaſion to theſe remarks, amidſt all that beautiful profuſion of fancied ornaments, ſo elegant in themſelves, and ſo well adapted to the building to which they are ap⯑plied, there is likewiſe a great profuſion of hiſtorical ſculpture. The ſeveral ſides of the room are divided into ſtalls for the members of the church. I believe there are not fewer than fifty; and the little angular diviſions between the ſtalls are adorned with bas-relief. As Go⯑thic workmanſhip, it is not bad; though it is [66] very inferior to Roman or modern ſculpture. There is no idea either of grace or taſte, or even of proportion in the figures themſelves; nor in the mode of combining them. They all repreſent ſcripture ſtories; ſome of which are very ill-managed. In the ſtory of Noah, two beaſts are looking out of a window in the ark, ſufficient to load it; and Noah himſelf praying at the poop is ſufficient to ſink it. After the civil wars, the parliament commiſ⯑ſioners ſat in this chapter-houſe; and have left behind them marks of their rough ideas of re⯑ligion. At this ſculpture they ſeem to have taken particular offence, and have hacked it miſerably. They began as they entered, on the left; and for a while eraſed every thing before them: but they ſeem to have grown tired as they proceeded in their work: the middle part, therefore, is but little injured, and the figures on the right are perfect. If, however, the in⯑ſide of this elegant building were waſhed over with one uniform ſtone-colour, the ſculpture obtrudes itſelf ſo little on the eye, that bad as it is, it might eaſily paſs unobſerved. Both the cloiſter and chapter-houſe are in ſo decaying a ſtate, that it would require a great ſum to re⯑ſtore them; though there is now in the library [67] an eſtimate given in about an hundred years ago, from which it appears that the whole might then have been completely repaired for 150 l. It appears alſo from another paper in the library, of ancient date, that the cathedral coſt 42,000 marks in building, about twenty eight thouſand pounds; which is a much larger ſum than we ſhould have ſuppoſed it could have coſt at that early day.

Near the cathedral ſtands the biſhop's pa⯑lace, which till very lately was one of the moſt gloomy manſions that can well be imagined. It was a large incumbered houſe, with about a dozen acres of flat ground, by way of garden, lying behind it. This garden was biſected with a broad canal, and confined within an embattled wall. Such an aſſemblage of awk⯑ward circumſtances are not often united.

The preſent Biſhop of Saliſbury ^* has, at great expence, entirely new-modelled this gloomy palace. He has altered the rooms, enlarged the windows, made a new entrance, and given a new appearance to the whole place. One great and very expenſive improve⯑ment was, to arch over a wide drain, which [68] was carried along the whole back-front of the palace. It was paſſed, at different places, by two or three bridges; and was ſuch a nuiſance, that we are ſurpriſed it had been ſuffered ſo long.

As to the flat grounds which were biſected with the canal, laid out in viſtas, and circum⯑ſcribed by an embattled wall, it was impoſſible to do more, than to remove a few of the for⯑malities of the place, and carry a neat gravel walk round it, which near the houſe plays among a few irregular plantations.

But one improvement he has introduced, which adds a grandeur to the garden, beyond what any epiſcopal ſeat in England can boaſt. He has brought the cathedral into it, in one of its moſt pleaſing points of perſpective. Be⯑tween the palace and the cathedral ran for⯑merly a wall, which included a piece of ground belonging to the biſhops of Saliſbury, and uſed as a kitchen-garden.

This wall, and the kitchen-garden, Biſhop Barrington has removed; and has not only obtained a noble object, but he has exchanged the diſagreeable appearance of a long ſtraight wall, for a very grand boundary to his garden. The cloiſter and chapter-houſe are the parts [69] immediately introduced, whoſe ſeveral abut⯑ments and projections are pleaſing circum⯑ſtances. From theſe riſes the body of the cathedral; and the ſpire having here a larger baſe, appears more in proportion.

About a mile from Saliſbury Old Sarum for⯑merly ſtood. Its ſituation and eſtabliſhment were both very ſingular.

Imagine the ridge of a hill falling into a plain; from the end of which a part having been artificially ſeparated, forms a round knoll of about two thouſand feet in diameter. Cooped within this narrow compaſs, ſtood on a ſtill higher knoll in the centre a formidable caſtle; and juſt below it a cathedral. Here alſo ſtood the biſhop's palace, together with the houſes of his chapter; and the whole was ſurrounded with immenſe ditches and ram⯑parts, which ſtrike us with aſtoniſhment even at this day.—So cloſe a union between a caſtle and a cathedral, inſulated as they were, and ſeated ſo loftily, muſt have made a very ſingular appearance, though probably they never had much pictureſque beauty.

[70]Many retainers no doubt there were on ſo large a foundation; but it does not appear that any houſes, except thoſe of the chapter, were admitted within the precincts of the fortreſs. Other appendages ſeem to have been placed as a ſuburb under its walls.

Here the biſhops of Saliſbury lived like temporal princes; till king Stephen, ſuſpecting the biſhop of that day was attached to the empreſs Maud, diſpoſſeſſed him of his caſtle of Sarum, together with two other caſtles which he held; one at Sherborn, from whence the ſee had been removed by William I. and the other at the Devizes.—The caſtle of Sarum was given to a Norman earl, who held a garriſon in it for the king.

This became matter of continual conteſt. The clergy and the garriſon were at conſtant variance. Once the biſhop and his clergy returning from a proceſſion, found the gates ſhut againſt them.

Wearied at length by repeated inſults they complained to the pope, and at length got a diſpenſation to remove the ſee of Saliſbury to its preſent ſituation. This was ſoon found to be ſo very convenient in compariſon of the old one, that it drew the inhabitants of [71] Old Sarum by degrees after it. The caſtle was left by itſelf; and in a few years it alſo was deſerted, and Old Sarum became only a heap of ruins. But theſe ruins, deſerted as they are, preſerve a ſubſtantial proof of their antient dignity in being repreſented by two members in parliament.

SECT. VI.

FROM Saliſbury our firſt excurſion was to Longford Caſtle, the ſeat of the earl of Radnor. It was built about the time of James the Firſt on a Daniſh model; probably by ſome architect who came into England with the queen. Its form is triangular, with a round tower at each corner; which gives it a ſingu⯑lar appearance. It ſtands in a vale, which approaches nearly to a flat; as the Avon, which paſſes through the garden, does to ſtag⯑nation. Longford Caſtle therefore borrows little from its ſituation. All its beauty is the reſult of art, which cannot riſe beyond what may be called pleaſing. But the principal objects here are the pictures. The whole collection is good. The following we thought ſome of the beſt.

A Return from the Chace, by Teniers. The compoſition of this maſter is rarely ſo good as it is here. His colouring is always pleaſ⯑ing.

A boy, by Rubens.

[73]Peter de Jode's family, by Vandyck. The heads in this picture are perfect copies from Nature.

A view of Tivoli.

A landſcape by Hobima. The compoſition, the light, and the execution in this picture are all good.

Tobias, by Spagniolet.

Two pictures by Pouſſin. In theſe, as in many of this maſter's works, there is a great deficiency in point of general effect; but the claſſical ſpirit in which they are painted, with the pure taſte of deſign and correctneſs in the parts, will always give value to the works of Pouſſin. Theſe I think are executed with a firmer pencil and more ſpirited touch than moſt of his works.

A landſcape by Ruyſdaal.

Two ſmall paintings by Callot. It is ſur⯑priſing with what ſmart touches this maſter enlivens his figures. His pictures have all the ſpirit and preciſion of his etchings.

But the two moſt admired pictures in this collection, are two landſcapes by Claude, which exhibit the riſe and decline of the Ro⯑man empire in a pleaſing allegory. The for⯑mer [74] is repreſented by a ſun-riſe, and the land⯑ing of Eneas in Italy: the latter by a ſun-ſet, and ſeveral Roman buildings in ruin. No⯑thing can exceed the colouring of both theſe pictures. The hazy light of a riſing ſun, and the glowing radiance of a ſetting one, are exactly copied from nature; and therefore nicely diſtinguiſhed. An eye accurate in the effects of nature, will eaſily diſcern with which ſpecies of light the ſummit of the wave, or the edge of the battlement is tipped. And yet Claude has in none of his pictures that I have ſeen, diſcriminated the ſhadows of the morn⯑ing, which are certainly much darker than thoſe of the evening. He does not indeed appear to have marked the difference between them. Nor do we obſerve that painters in general are more accurate. Now and then, with Nature before him, Claude poſſibly may give a morning-ſhadow its character; but when an effect is very rare, it appears to be the reſult of imitation, rather than of prin⯑ciple.

With regard to aërial landſcape, Claude excelled all maſters. We are at a loſs, whe⯑ther to admire more the ſimplicity, or the ef⯑fect of his diſtances.

[75]But when we have beſtowed this commend⯑ation on him, we have ſummed up his merit. It all lay in colouring. We rarely find an inſtance of good compoſition in any of his pictures, and ſtill more rarely an exhibition of any grand ſcene or appearance of Nature. As he lived in Italy, he had frequent oppor⯑tunities of ſeeing much ſublime ſcenery: but as it ſeldom ſtruck him, we cannot help in⯑ferring that his genius was not ſublime. If a Dutch maſter who has ſeen nothing but a flat country, introduces neither rocks, nor caſ⯑cades, nor the ſloping ſides of hills, into his pictures, it is no wonder; but if a painter who has ſtudied among the Alps and Appen⯑nines rejects them, it is evident that he has no taſte for this ſpecies of ſcenery. Claude and Salvator received, or might have received, their ideas from the ſame archetypes: they were both Italian painters: but Claude ſtudied in the Campagna of Rome; Salvator among the mountains of Calabria. While the one therefore admired the tamer beauties of Na⯑ture, the other caught fire and roſe to the ſublime. I do not mean to inſinuate that Claude painted like a Dutchman: but only that his genius was leſs ſublime than Salva⯑tor's. [76] It is true, the objects he painted are of the grand ſpecies: he ſaw no other. But as he ſeldom made the beſt uſe of them by bring⯑ing them forward, and producing grand effects; it is plain he ſaw them with indifference; and we conclude it was much the ſame to him, whether he painted by the ſide of a ſtagnant canal at Harlem, or under the fall of a caſcade at Tivoli. In ſhort, he ſeems to have had a knack of colouring certain objects, ſkies, and diſtances in particular; and this is accounted for by his reſiding chiefly in the Campagna. —As to his figures and foregrounds, if they do not diſguſt the eye, it is all we expect. His buildings too are often unpleaſing and in⯑cumbered; and ſeem calculated rather to ſhew his ſkill in architecture than in the production of pictureſque beauty.—It is ſaying how⯑ever much in favour of Claude, that he had been bred a paſtry-cook; and that if he did not do all that might have been done, he did much more than could have been expected.

SECT. VII.

OUR next expedition from Saliſbury was to Stonehenge and Wilton.

Stonehenge, at a diſtance, appeared only a diminutive object. Standing on ſo vaſt an area as Saliſbury Plain, it was loſt in the im⯑menſity around it. As we approached, it gained more reſpect: and we could now trace a large ditch round the whole, confined within a gentle mound. But when we arrived on the ſpot, it appeared aſtoniſhing beyond con⯑ception. A train of wondering ideas imme⯑diately crowded into the mind. Who brought theſe huge maſſes of rock together? Whence were they brought? For what purpoſe? By what machines were they drawn? Or by what mechanic powers erected?

Many have attempted to ſolve ſuch queſtions as theſe, but none have gone farther than con⯑jecture. Even the very purpoſe for which theſe ſtones were brought together, is not ſuf⯑ficiently aſcertained. Mr. Walpole remarks, that whoever has examined this monument, [78] has aſcribed it to that claſs of antiquity of which he himſelf was moſt fond. This was at leaſt the caſe of the celebrated Inigo Jones. On his return from Italy, having nothing but Italian architecture in his head, he found out that Stonehenge was a Roman ruin.

Many idle things, no doubt, have been writ⯑ten on this ſubject. It is a happy field for conjecture. On the whole, perhaps, the la⯑borious inquiries of Dr. Stukeley have been at⯑tended with the moſt ſucceſs; for though nei⯑ther he nor any man could anſwer all the in⯑quiries which curioſity is apt to make on this ſubject; yet he ſeems to have contributed more towards a juſt idea of this wonderful monu⯑ment, than any other antiquarian. He has gone upon principle. He has traced it by its meaſures, and other data, into Druid times; and (as far as appears) conviction follows his reſearches. In his long diſcuſſion, he may, in ſome parts, be whimſical; and in many cer⯑tainly tedious: but allowances ſhould be made for a man full of his ſubject, who, of courſe, will ſee many things which he ſuppoſes to be of conſequence, and which he cannot, in few words, make apparent to others.

[79]Of theſe ſtones there are an hundred and forty: and by calculation it appears, that each of the largeſt of them would require the ſtrength of an hundred and fifty oxen to move it.

The outer circle has been formed by a com⯑bination of two uprights and an impoſt; yet each combination of theſe three ſtones is de⯑tached, and without any connection with the reſt, except that of coinciding in the form of a circle. Many of theſe uprights ſtill remain; but only five with the impoſts annexed.

The inner circle never had any impoſts, but conſiſted only of upright ſtones. Ten of theſe are ſtill ſtanding out of forty, of which the ori⯑ginal number is ſuppoſed to have conſiſted.

Beſides theſe circles, there are ſome internal parts formed of ſtones, placed eliptically; ſome of which alſo have had impoſts. Theſe Dr. Stukeley conceives to have been the receſſes of the prieſts. In this part of the circle alſo is placed a ſtone, which he ſuppoſes to have been an altar.

Rough as all this work appears now to be, after having been expoſed to the ſtorms of two thouſand winters, it has been originally con⯑ſtructed wlth wonderful art. All the ſtones [80] ſeem to have been chiſeled, on the inſide eſpe⯑cially, with great care; and the impoſts have all been let into the uprights by mortices, and tenons very curiouſly wrought.

But it is not the elegance of the work, but the grandeur of the idea, that ſtrikes us. The walk between the two circles, which is a cir⯑cumference of three hundred feet, is awfully magnificent: at leaſt it would have been ſo, if the monument had been entire. To be im⯑mured, as it were, by ſuch hideous walls of rock; and to ſee the landſcape and the ſky through ſuch ſtrange apertures muſt have thrown the imagination into a wonderful fer⯑ment. The Druid, though ſavage in his na⯑ture, had the ſublimeſt ideas of the object of his worſhip, whatever it was. He always wor⯑ſhipped under the canopy of the ſky, and could not bear the idea of a roof between him and heaven. I have known the idea ſometimes taken up by pious chriſtians, who have con⯑feſſed they found their minds moſt expanded, when they worſhipped in the open air.

Stonehenge is ſuppoſed to be the grandeſt ſtructure of the kind that exiſts. We meet with many other Druidical remains of this form, though of inferior ſize. But I have [81] ſomewhere heard of one in France, inferior indeed to Stonehenge in magnificence, but ſu⯑perior to it in elegant conſtruction. The im⯑poſts uniting with each other, form one conti⯑nued circle of ſtone on the top of the uprights; which makes a more pleaſing appearance than Stonehenge, where each impoſt, reſting on two uprights, ſtands detached from its neighbour.

Wonderful, however, as Stonehenge is, and plainly diſcovering that the mind, which con⯑ceived it, was familiar with great ideas, it is to⯑tally void, though in a ruinous ſtate, of every idea of pictureſque beauty; and I ſhould ſup⯑poſe was ſtill more ſo in its perfect one. We walked round it, examined it on every ſide, and endeavoured to take a perſpective view of it, but in vain; the ſtones are ſo uncouthly placed, that we found it was impoſſible to form them, from any ſtand, into a pleaſing ſhape.

Beſides theſe ſtones, there are others of im⯑menſe ſize in different parts of the iſland; though none, I believe, ſo large. Near Bo⯑rough-bridge two or three of the largeſt are found, which are known by the name of the Devil's Arrows.

Volney, in his Travels through Syria, men⯑tions three ſtones of white granite, among the [82] ruins of Balbeck, each of which was twelve feet thick; and which together extended above fifty-eight yards. And in an adjacent quarry, he found a ſtone lying, half chiſeled, which was ſixty-nine feet long, and in breadth and thickneſs about thirteen. It was probably too large to be carried from the ſpot ^*.

About two miles from Dol in Bretagne, in the middle of an orchard, Mr. Wraxall tells us, there is a ſingle ſtone fixed in the earth, of a conic form, which is about forty-five feet high, and nearly as many broad. It had long puz⯑zled the antiquarians of the country, and gave riſe to various conjectures. Some of them however endeavoured to get at its found⯑ation. There they found it was really a na⯑tural production, being fixed to a ſtratum of ſolid rock ſeveral feet below the ſurface ^†.

The plain, on which Stonehenge ſtands, is in the ſame ſtyle of greatneſs as the temple that adorns it. It extends many miles in all direc⯑tions, in ſome not leſs than fifty. An eye un⯑verſed in theſe objects is filled with aſtoniſh⯑ment [83] in viewing waſte after waſte riſing out of each new horizon.

The ground is ſpread, indeed, as the poet ob⯑ſerves, like the ocean; but it is like the ocean after a ſtorm, it is continually heaving in large ſwells. Through all this vaſt diſtrict, ſcarce a cottage or even a buſh appears. If you ap⯑proach within two or three miles of the edge of the plain, you ſee, like the mariner within ſoundings, land at a diſtance, houſes, trees, and villages; but all around is waſte.

Regions, like this, which have come down to us rude and untouched, from the beginning of time, fill the mind with grand conceptions, far beyond the efforts of art and cultivation. Impreſſed by ſuch views of nature, our anceſ⯑tors worſhiped the God of nature in theſe boundleſs ſcenes, which gave them the higheſt conceptions of eternity. Such were the grand ideas of the patriarch, as he ranged the wide regions of the eaſt, and ſet up his monumental pile, not adorned with vaſes or ſtatues, but a mound of earth, a rude pillar, which he called [84] God's Houſe, or ſome vaſt heap of ſtones, of a fabric, firm as the ground on which it ſtood, like this before us, which has ſeen in ſucceſſion the ruins of innumerable works of art, and will probably remain undiminiſhed till the end of time.

All the plain, at leaſt that part of it near Stonehenge, is one vaſt cemetary. Every where, as we paſſed, we ſaw tumuli or barrows, as they are called, riſing on each hand. Theſe little mounds of earth are more curiouſly and elegantly ſhaped than any of the kind I re⯑member elſewhere to have ſeen. They com⯑monly riſe in the form of bells, and each of them hath a neat trench faſhioned round its baſe; though in their forms, and in the orna⯑mental circles at their baſes, ſome appear to be of more diſtinguiſhed workmanſhip. They are of various ſizes, ſometimes of thirty, ſome⯑times of forty or fifty yards in diameter. From many places we counted above an hundred of them at once; ſometimes as if huddled toge⯑ther without any deſign; in other places riſing in a kind of order. By the rays of a ſetting ſun the diſtant barrows are moſt conſpicuouſly ſeen. Every little ſummit being tipped with a ſplendid light, while the plain is in ſhadow, [85] is at that time eaſily diſtinguiſhed. Moſt of them are placed on the more elevated parts of the plain; and generally in ſight of the great temple. That they are manſions of the dead is undoubted; many of them having been opened, and found to cover the bones both of men and beaſts; the latter of which were pro⯑bably ſacrificed at the funeral. We ſuppoſe alſo that ſome of them contained the promiſ⯑cuous aſhes of a multitude, as Virgil deſcribes them.

Indeed this mode of burial, as the moſt ho⯑nourable, ſeems to have been dictated by the voice of nature. We meet with it in Homer; we meet with it in Herodotus. The veſtiges of it are found on the vaſt plains of Tartary; and even among the ſavages of Guinea.

That we do not aſcribe more antiquity to theſe temples and cemetaries, than rightly be⯑longs to them, the antiquarian hath ſhewn by many learned arguments. I ſhall ſubjoin an⯑other [86] of claſſic origin; from which it will ap⯑pear probable, that the furniture of theſe vaſt plains was exactly the ſame in Caeſar's days, as it is now.

That chief, in the firſt book of his Com⯑mentaries, deſcribing the place, which was agreed on to be the ſcene of conference be⯑tween him and Arioviſtus, tells us, it was an extenſive plain, in which was a large artificial mount. Planities erat magna, et in ea tumulus terreus ſatis grandis. I tranſlate terreus by the word artificial, becauſe it certainly implies ſome⯑thing factitious. No correct writer, ſpeaking of a natural hill, would uſe ſuch an epithet. It would be a mere redundancy; and juſt as im⯑proper as if he had ſaid, Planities erat magna terrea. But in deſcribing an artificial mount, it is certainly proper; becauſe ſuch a mount might have been conſtructed of other materials beſides earth.

That Caeſar's tumulus was intended alſo as a memorial for the dead, is probable from the common uſe of the word tumulus; eſpecially when accompanied with the epithet terreus; for we know no other uſe for which theſe tumuli terrei, or artificial mounts, were con⯑ſtructed, but that of being memorials of the [87] dead; and for this uſe we know they cer⯑tainly were conſtructed. We find Aeneas like⯑wiſe haranguing his troops from a tomb of this kind: ‘— Socios in caetum littore ab omni Advocat Aeneas, tumulique ex aggere fatur.’

Having thus ſettled Caeſar's tumulus terreus to have been a barrow; and knowing alſo from him, that the Druids frequented Gaul, we are led to believe, that his planities magna, and Sa⯑liſbury Plain, were places of the ſame kind; both of them moſt probably Druid ſcenes. Caeſar indeed mentions but one tumulus on his plain: but as he was deſcribing only a parti⯑cular ſpot, not the general ſcene, we may eaſily ſuppoſe there might be many other barrows, and perhaps a Stonehenge alſo in the neigh⯑bourhood of it.

It is probable alſo, (as Caeſar tells us the Druid diſcipline was carried originally into Gaul, from Britain, which was the great ſource of Druid-learning^*,) that Saliſbury Plain might [88] have been a ſcene of great antiquity many years before the time of Caeſar.

Though Saliſbury Plain in Druid times was probably a very buſy ſcene, we now find it wholly uninhabited. Here and there we meet a flock of ſheep, ſcattered over the ſide of ſome riſing ground; and a ſhepherd with his dog, attending them; or perhaps we may de⯑ſcry ſome ſolitary waggon winding round a diſtant hill. But the only reſident inhabitant of this vaſt waſte is the buſtard. This bird, which is the largeſt fowl we have in England, is fond of all extenſive plains, and is found on ſeveral; but theſe are ſuppoſed to be his principal haunt. Here he breeds, and here he ſpends his ſummer-day, feeding with his mate on juicy berries, and the large dew-worms of the heath. As winter approaches, he forms into ſociety. Fifty or ſixty have been ſome⯑times ſeen together.

As the buſtard leads his life in theſe unfre⯑quented wilds, and ſtudiouſly avoids the haunts of men, the appearance of any thing in mo⯑tion, though at a conſiderable diſtance, alarms him. I know not that he is protected, like the partridge and pheaſant, by any law; but his own vigilance is a better ſecurity to him than [89] an act of parliament. As he is ſo noble a prize, his fleſh ſo delicate, and the quantity of it ſo large, he is of courſe frequently the ob⯑ject of the fowler's ſtratagems. But his cau⯑tion is generally a protection againſt them all. The ſcene he frequents, affords neither tree to ſhelter, nor hedge to ſkreen, an enemy; and he is ſo tall, that when he raiſes his neck to take a perſpective view, his eye circumſcribes a very wide horizon. All open attempts therefore againſt him are fruitleſs. The fowl⯑er's moſt promiſing ſtratagem is to conceal himſelf in a waggon. The weſt country wag⯑gons, periodically travelling theſe regions, are objects to which the buſtard is moſt accuſ⯑tomed; and though he retires at their ap⯑proach, he retires with leſs evident ſigns of alarm, than from any thing elſe. It is poſſible therefore, if the fowler lie cloſe in ſuch a con⯑cealment, and with a long barrelled gun can direct a good aim, he may make a lucky ſhot. Sometimes alſo he ſlips from the tail of a wag⯑gon a couple of ſwift greyhounds. They ſoon come up with the buſtard, though he runs well; and if they can contrive to reach him, juſt as he is on the point of taking wing, (an operation which he performs with leſs expe⯑dition [90] than is requiſite in ſuch critical circum⯑ſtances,) they may perhaps ſeize him.

Some encroachments have been made by the plough, within theſe few years, upon Saliſbury Plain. But theſe inroads, though conſiderable in themſelves, bear little proportion to the vaſt⯑neſs of theſe downy grounds. The plough is a heavy invader; and its perſeverance only can produce a viſible effect in ſo vaſt a ſcene.

Another reaſon alſo may operate powerfully in preſerving theſe wide domains in a ſtate of nature. The ſoil is, in moſt places, very ſhal⯑low, not above five or ſix inches above a rock of chalk; and as the tillage of two or three years exhauſts it, without more expence than the land will anſwer, it hath been thought but ill huſbandry to deſtroy a good ſheep-walk, for a bad piece of arable land.

But though Saliſbury Plain is a remarkable ſcene in England, it is nothing in compariſon of many ſcenes of this kind on the face of the globe, in which the eye is carried, if I may ſo phraſe it, out of ſight; where an extent of land, flat, like the ocean, melts gradually into the horizon. Such are many parts of Poland and Tartary. The plains of Yedeſan, on the bor⯑ders of Beſſarabia, are among the moſt extra⯑ordinary. [91] Baron de Tott deſcribes them on his journey to the Cham of Tartary, as ſo im⯑menſe, that he tells us, (ſomewhat I think hy⯑perbolically,) the piercing eyes of the Tartars, who rode before him, could diſtinguiſh the heads of the horſemen in the horizon, when the convexity of the earth hid the reſt of their bodies. His deſcription is more natural after⯑wards, when he ſays, he ſaw the ſun riſe and ſet on theſe plains, as navigators do at ſea. Their ſingularity conſiſts both in their vaſtneſs and in certain regular vallies which biſect them. Theſe vallies are diſtant from each other about ten or twelve leagues, and run in parallel lines acroſs the plain. They are totally void of the uſual ornaments of our vallies, va⯑riety of ground, a foaming rivulet, and woody banks: they are mere trenches, cut out by Nature, about twenty yards deep, and ſome⯑times a quarter of a mile broad; ſo that as you traverſe the plain, the eye paſſes over them like ſunk fences, and all appears one boundleſs waſte. Through the middle of each of theſe vallies is a muddy rivulet, and as there is no elevation of ground, it is almoſt ſtagnant. The courſe of theſe rivulets, ſuch as it is, leads from north to ſouth; and at the end of the plain they form [92] ſmall lakes, which communicate with the Black Sea. In theſe vallies the Tartars of Yedeſan fix their tents, while their numerous herds of horſes, oxen, dromedaries, and ſheep graze the plains. Theſe herds are continually wander⯑ing from home in ſummer, eſpecially the larger kinds; and the chief employment of the Tar⯑tar is, to gallop about in queſt of them. He takes a quantity of roaſted millet in a bag, mounts his horſe, and rides till ſun-ſet. Then if he find not what he ſought, he clogs his horſe, and leaves it to graze; and as he is al⯑ways at home, he ſups, wraps himſelf in his cloak, and ſleeps till morning, when he begins his ſearch again. Having given this general account of the plains of Yedeſan, Baron Tott ſpeaks of his firſt day's journey over them. The concluſion of it was the neareſt valley, at about ten leagues diſtance. The ſun was now ſetting; and after a long journey, ‘I ſtill ſaw nothing before me,’ ſays he, ‘but a vaſt melancholy plain, when I ſuddenly felt my carriage deſcend, and looking out, I ſaw a range of tents, extending to the right and left. We croſſed a rivulet over a bad bridge, and found three tents on the other ſide out of the line, one of which was intended for me. [93] It was a kind of large hen-coop, conſtructed in a circular form, with a ſort of dome open⯑ing at the top, and was covered with a felt of camels hair. The paling was connected by ſlips of raw hides, and finiſhed with great ſtrength and delicacy ^*.’

But of all the plains of which we meet with any account, thoſe of the deſerts of Arabia are the moſt forbidding. Perhaps no part of the globe, of equal circumference, is ſo totally deſ⯑titute of Nature's bounty, and of every kind of vegetable furniture:

The Tartarean plains, juſt deſcribed, are bi⯑ſected with ſtreams and vallies, ſuch as they are, covered with herbage. But the barren⯑neſs of the Arabian plain in no part inter⯑mits. The tents, horſes, and camels of the caravan, to which the traveller is attached, are the only objects he ſees. If he ſhould fix one end of an immenſe cord at theſe tents, the other might be carried round, along the rim of a boundleſs horizon, without ſweeping over any inequality. All this vaſt circle is covered [94] with grey ſand, like the aſhes of a furnace. Over all hangs the canopy of heaven undiver⯑ſified by a ſingle cloud to break the rays of a ſcorching ſun; while a breeze, if it can be called ſuch, glowing with heat, often fills the air with clouds of overwhelming duſt; or to⯑tally deſtroys its vital ſpring.

In the mean time a univerſal ſilence reigns over the whole vaſt ſcene. None of the chearful ſounds of nature are heard; neither of beaſt, nor of bird, nor even of humming inſect. All is ſtill as night. With ſuch a country as this, Moſes threatens the people of Iſrael on their diſobedience. The heaven that is over thy head ſhall be braſs, and the earth that is under thee ſhall be iron. The Lord ſhall make the rain of thy land powder and duſt. From heaven ſhall it come down upon thee, till thou be deſtroyed ^*. —There is, however, an appearance in theſe [95] deſerts, taken notice of by Sir John Chardin, which is rather pictureſque. A ſplendor or vapour is ſometimes formed by the repercuſſion of the rays of the ſun from the ſand, which ſeems at a diſtance a vaſt lake. But as the thirſty traveller approaches in hopes of finding water, it retires before him, or totally diſap⯑pears ^*. Q. Curtius takes notice of the ſame effect in one of the marches of Alexander.

Thus we ſee how differently Nature works up the ſame modes of ſcenery; and there is great amuſement in bringing theſe ſeveral ſcenes to⯑gether, and in following her ſteps through all her ſimilar, but varied operations.

SECT. VIII.

HAVING ſatisfied our curioſity on Saliſ⯑bury Plain, and performed the due rites at Stonehenge by pacing its dimenſions, and counting the ſtones, we proceeded to Wilton. The point of Saliſbury ſpire, juſt emerging from the horizon, guided us acroſs the open country; and as we got into the more cul⯑tivated part, we turned out of the Saliſbury road, and fell down into Wilton, which lies in a vale on the edge of the plain. We can⯑not expect a very beautiful ſcene in the neigh⯑bourhood of ſuch a waſte. Nature's tran⯑ſitions are generally gradual. The true pic⯑tureſque vale is rarely found in any country, but a mountainous one. Great plenty of wood and water however give an agreeable air to the vale of Wilton.

Wilton was once the capital of all this country, to which it gave its name. But Saliſbury drawing Old Sarum within its vor⯑tex, drew Wilton alſo. At preſent this vil⯑lage is chiefly remarkable for the ſplendid pa⯑lace of the Earls of Pembroke.

[97]Wilton-houſe was formerly an Abbey; and felt the full weight of the inquiſition ſet on foot in the reign of Henry the Eighth. The ladies of Wilton-abbey were accuſed of too great an intimacy with the monks of a neigh⯑bouring houſe. Stories of this kind were liſtened to at the time of the diſſolution with great attention; though often perhaps void of any foundation. Both houſes however fell together; and the demeſnes of Wilton were given to the Pembroke family, in whoſe hands they ſtill continue. The earl of that day began immediately to turn the abbey into a manſion: but the plan was not completed in its preſent ſtate till late in the reign of Charles I. The garden-front by Inigo Jones is admired by all judges of architecture. The portico boaſts the hand of Hans Holbein. There are ſome things however yet wanting to give the houſe an air of magnificence. The entrance is particularly awkward and incum⯑bered ^*.

As the morning threatened rain, we thought it better to take a view of the garden, before we entered the houſe: it occupies the centre [98] of a wide valley, adorned with a river. This river was faſhioned, by the conductors of taſte in the laſt age, into an immenſe canal. It is now changed again into an irregular piece of water. But though its banks are decorated with rich garden-ſcenes, it ſtill retains enough of formality to ſuggeſt the old idea. It forms however the grandeſt view in the garden. Saliſbury church comes in very happily as an object at the bottom of it; and is of ſufficient magnitude to ſhew that it was not conſtructed for the purpoſe.

Garden-ſcenes are never pictureſque. They want the bold roughneſs of nature. A prin⯑cipal beauty in our gardens, as Mr. Walpole juſtly obſerves, is the ſmoothneſs of the turf: but in a picture, this becomes a dead and uni⯑form ſpot; incapable of light and ſhade, and muſt be broken inſipidly by children, dogs, and other unmeaning figures; — that is, I ſuppoſe Mr. Walpole means, by ſuch figures as commonly frequent garden-ſcenes, which are of all others the moſt unpictureſque. And yet I have been informed that Mr. B. Wilſon made a good landſcape even of this ſcene. He took it, however, from that end which is neareſt to Saliſbury, where he got a rougher [99] foreground than he could find in the garden. In a diſtance, he might more eaſily diſguiſe a garden-ſcene.

Oppoſite to the houſe, the river Willy enters the canal. It is a river only of ſmall dimen⯑ſions, but over it is thrown a magnificent Pal⯑ladian bridge.

I have ſometimes thought the Palladian bridge may be conſidered as a ſpecies of bom⯑baſt in architecture. It is like expreſſing a plain ſentiment in a pompous phraſe. Merely to paſs a trifling ſtream, a plank with a ſimple rail is ſufficient; and in a paſtoral ſcene, it is all you require. In ſuch a ſcene as this, indeed, a ſimple plank would be out of place. You are compoſing in heroics. But a certain ſpecies of ſimplicity is required even here; and as in all literary compoſitions turgid expreſſions offend, why ſhould they not offend in every mode of compoſition? Here we allow a handſome bridge is neceſſary. But why more than a bridge? What have pillars—walls—pediments —and roofs to do with a bridge? A bridge in itſelf is one of the moſt beautiful of artificial objects: but dreſſed in this bombaſt ſtyle, it offends: it offends at leaſt the ſimplicity of a pictureſque eye. If you want a cool, airy [100] building to receive the refreſhment of a ſum⯑mer breeze, as it paſſes over the lake, erect one in ſome proper place, and if it be well diſ⯑poſed, nobody can take offence. But let it ſtand for what it is. Do not leave people in doubt whether it is a houſe or a bridge, by uniting modes of architecture, which are in themſelves diſtinct; and giving one the orna⯑ments that belong to another. From theſe criticiſms we except ſuch bridges as are ſitu⯑ated, like the Rialto at Venice, which, connect⯑ing the parts of a large city, may be allowed to aſſume a correſpondent air of grandeur; and may with propriety even be covered with a roof. But here no ſuch accommodation is neceſſary; and what is unneceſſary is always affected.

From the Palladian bridge and banks of the river, the ground riſes beautifully, conſiſting of a hanging lawn, encompaſſed with wood, which is broken into pleaſing parts. But here, though in ſight of the Palladian bridge, we have another ornament full as much out of place as the other was out of form.

On the ſummit of the hill is erected a tri⯑umphal arch, with Marcus Aurelius mounted on horſeback on the top of it.

[101]Now if we only recollect the intention of a triumphal arch, we ſhall ſee how groteſquely ſuch a fabric is erected here.

When a Roman general triumphed, it was the cuſtom to raiſe theſe arches, through which the proceſſion paſſed to the city; and they were ſometimes conſtructed and adorned in a very magnificent manner, and left as memo⯑rials of the great event on which they were at firſt erected. All this was noble, and admir⯑ably adapted to the intended purpoſe. But we have here a triumphal arch ſet upon the top of a hill, totally unconnected with any thing near it. A triumphal arch would be perhaps too pompous a ſtructure to form a part of the approach to the houſe; yet in that capacity it might have been ſuffered; it might have had ſome analogy at leaſt to its ſituation. But as it now ſtands, however good it may be in it⯑ſelf, it is certainly an abſurd oſtentatious orna⯑ment.

The rain coming on obliged us to leave the reſt of the garden unſeen, and drove us into the houſe. It prevented alſo our ſeeing the ſtables, which are very grand; and what we ſtill regretted more, a row of cedars of Liba⯑non, which are eſteemed the fineſt in England. [102] We ſaw them afterwards from the windows of the houſe, but probably to ſome diſadvantage, as they did not anſwer the expectations we had formed of them.

The grand collection of ſtatues in Wilton-houſe entitle it very deſervedly to the attention of every traveller. When we enter the great hall, we are ſtruck with the profuſion of them.

At the firſt view of ſuch a collection, it be⯑comes matter of wonder how Italy can be ſo inexhauſtible a fund of ancient ſtatues. Be⯑ſides their peopling all the palaces of that coun⯑try, there is not a cabinet in Europe which is not more or leſs inhabited by them. All come from Italy. Italy has been ſupplying the cu⯑rious with antiques for many centuries; and they who have money may buy antiques in Italy ſtill.

The wonder will, in ſome degree, ſubſide, when we conſider the rage for ſculpture which poſſeſſed the ancient Romans. Statues were the chief ornaments of old Rome, and had for ages been collected there by all ranks of people.

The conqueſt of Greece brought them firſt into repute. As they became more admired; praetors and proconſuls made them every where [103] the objects of rapine. Not only Greece, but the Aegean iſles, Aſia, and Egypt, were pillaged. Statues, baſs-reliefs, buſts, pillars, every thing that could be ſevered from the buildings to which they belonged, were ſwept away to Rome. Temples, baths, porticoes, and other public places, were firſt adorned. The con⯑quered provinces could not ſupply the demand. Artiſts were called from Greece: Parian mar⯑ble was imported; and ſtatues were erected to the Gods, and heroes of Rome, as had been erected before to thoſe of Greece:

The rage for theſe beautiful ornaments next ſeized private perſons. Every one who had a conſular, or a praetorian anceſtor, wiſhed to ſee him erected in braſs or marble, till at length it became as common in Rome to have a like⯑neſs taken by a ſtatuary, as it is in London to have one taken by a portrait painter. Artiſts, no doubt, there were, of all kinds; and prices adapted to every rank. The mechanic, there⯑fore, as well as the ſenator, might ſee his houſe [104] adorned with himſelf, his wife, and his family, all ſculptured to the life in ſtone. Many of theſe ignoble ſtatues might, in length of time, depoſit their plebeian forms, and viſit foreign countries, as Scipios, Caeſars, and Octavias. It is not every connoiſſeur who can detect them by their garb.

From what has been obſerved, we may eaſily judge what an inexhauſtible fund of an⯑tiques Rome, and its colonies, (for the rage ſpread over all the neighbouring parts of Italy,) might produce. Quantities, no doubt, of theſe works are ſtill laid up in thoſe magazines of ruin and rubbiſh which Goths and other bar⯑barous invaders have heaped upon them.

The ſtatues, buſts, and baſs-reliefs, which we now ſurvey, were chiefly collected by the cardinals Mazarin and Richlieu; and the Earl of Arundel, in Charles the Firſt's time. Addi⯑tions have been made ſince. Some, I have been told, were preſented by one of the Dukes of Tuſcany, to whom an Earl of Pembroke had ſhewn particular civilities, during his ſtay in England. The collection, no doubt, is very magnificent, (one of the firſt, perhaps, in Eu⯑rope, if we except royal and claſſic ground,) and many of its contents are excellent pieces of [105] art. In general, however, they may be claſſed, as Martial claſſes his epigrams, into good, bad, and indifferent. It is impoſſible, that in ſo nu⯑merous a collection the whole can be valuable. In many of thoſe, however, which are indiffer⯑ent, ſome of the parts may be good, and afford uſeful ſtudies.

Among the buſts which ſtruck us moſt, (on the tranſient view we were able to give them,) were thoſe of Miltiades—Hannibal—Pindar— Adrian—Cleopatra, the ſiſter of Alexander— — Lepidus — Sophocles — Pompey — Nerva— Labienus Parthicus — Semiramis — Marcellus the younger—Metellus imberbis—Diana—Lu⯑can —Caracalla—Alcibiades—Cecrops—Vitel⯑lius —and Galba. Pyrrhus of Epire is parti⯑cularly fine. The air of this buſt is very noble; and is impreſſed with the whole character of the hero. A colloſſean buſt too of Alexander the Great is ſtriking; but the head ſeems ra⯑ther too long. Probably it might be covered, though I do not recollect the circumſtance, with a Grecian helmet. If ſo, the head-piece and viſor, connected without a joint, when thrown back, would make the head too long by the addition of the length of the face.

[106]Among the alto-relievos, we admired two Cupids—Curtius—Saturn—ſome Boys eating grapes—Ulyſſes in the cave of Calypſo—Sa⯑turn crowning the Arts—Cupid ſucking Venus —The ſtory of Claelia—Silenus on his aſs— —Galataea—Cupids and Boys—A Boy on a ſea-horſe.—A Victory, the compoſition of which is very good—A Prieſteſs ſacrificing, in which the animals are particularly fine—A Nuptial Vaſe, both the form and ſculpture of which are elegant.

Among the ſtatues, we thought the beſt were —A ſmall Meleager — An Amazonian Queen, leſs than the life, the attitude and ex⯑preſſion of which are both excellent—A dying Hercules: part of this group is good, particu⯑larly the expreſſion of Pean; but the principal figure, though in miniature, is monſtrous, and the character is unpleaſing—A Coloſſean Her⯑cules —Saturn holding a Child—The Father of Julius Caeſar; the attitude of this figure is very noble—Mark Anthony; the attitude of this too is admirable—Venus holding a Vaſe; this figure, if looked at on the ſide oppoſite the vaſe, is pleaſing, but on the other ſide it is awkward. —A Naiad, the upper part of which is beau⯑tiful—Apollo [107] in the Stone-hall; the body is better than the hands—Cleopatra and Caeſarion are eſteemed; we did not ſee much merit in them. There is at leaſt no feminine beauty in Cleopatra. The pillar too in the outward court may here be mentioned; the whole of which has an elegant appearance, and the ſtatue is beautiful.

It is not eaſy to avoid remarking that theſe antiques might poſſibly have been arranged in a more judicious manner. The apartments of a noble houſe ſhould not ſuffer their ornaments to obtrude foremoſt upon the eye. Each apart⯑ment ſhould preſerve its own dignity; to which the ornamental part ſhould be ſubordinate. In every work of art, and indeed of nature alſo, it is a breach of the moſt expreſs pictureſque canon, if the parts engage the eye more than the whole. The hall, therefore, the ſtaircaſe, the ſaloon, and other apartments, might be adorned with a few buſts and ſtatues; but to receive the whole collection, perhaps a long gallery ſhould have been profeſſedly built. In this they might have been arranged in profuſion.

In conſtructing ſuch a gallery, little orna⯑ment would be required. Here the ſtatues [108] would be the objects, not the room. To them therefore the whole ſhould be ſubordinate: they would conſtitute the whole.

Two things in ſuch a gallery ſhould chiefly be conſidered; the colour of the walls, and the diſtribution of the light. If the walls were ſtained with a darkiſh olive-tint, they would perhaps ſhew the ſtatues to the beſt advantage; and yet a lighter tinge might probably give them more ſoftneſs. The experiment might eaſily be tried.

With regard to the light, it ſhould be high, but not vertical. If the antiques were ranged on one ſide of the room, the light might be in⯑troduced from high windows on the other. Such a light would not certainly be the moſt pictureſque, as each figure, at leaſt when ſtu⯑died, would require a ſide light, appropriated to itſelf. But this in a degree might be ob⯑tained by the means of curtains.

Much of the beauty of ſuch a room would depend on the mode of arranging the antiques. The baſs-reliefs might be put in plain ſquare frames, and affixed to the wall; the buſts might ſtand on brackets between them, or in receſſes; and the ſtatues might occupy the [109] front. Or perhaps, on examining the whole collection together, ſome more happy arrange⯑ment might be formed.

As nobody in England but the Earl of Pem⯑broke could fit up ſuch a gallery, it ſhould not perhaps be made entirely a private concern. It would be generous and noble to lay it open to artiſts, when well recommended; and to let them ſtudy in it, under proper reſtrictions. It would bring Italy, as much as could be, into England.

But ſtatues are not the only furniture at Wilton: it contains many very valuable pic⯑tures.

Thoſe we admired moſt were,

A Cattle-piece, by Roſa of Tivoli. Few maſters are better acquainted with compoſition, colouring, and the diſtribution of light. This picture, though not a capital one, is an inſtance of his ſkill in all theſe reſpects.

A whole-length of the firſt Lady of the ſe⯑cond Earl Philip, and a half-length of the Counteſs of Caſtlehaven: both theſe are by Vandyck, and both are excellent.

Mrs. Kelligrew and Mrs. Morton, by Van⯑dyck: the latter we admired very much.

[110]Mr. James Herbert, by Lely.

A Carpet and Boar's-head, by Malteſe. The compoſition is a ſtrange one, but the picture is well painted.

An old Woman with Fiſh, by Snyders. The fiſh are maſterly, but the compoſition is diſ⯑agreeable.

An old Woman reading, by Rembrant.

Chriſt taken from the Croſs, by Albert Du⯑rer. They who admire the works of the old maſters, will find a very good one here.

A large Fruit-piece, with Figures, by M. An⯑gelo delle Battaglio. It is a tradition in the family, that M. Angelo kept this picture in his poſſeſſion as a favourite piece; and that Sir Robert Gere bought it of his widow for three hundred piſtoles.

Democritus, by Spagnolet. The ſtyle of painting in this picture is admirable; but the character of Democritus is bad.

Four Children, by Rubens. For compoſition and colouring we ſeldom ſee a more pleaſing picture, either by this maſter, or any other.

The Virgin with Chriſt, by Cantarini. The manner is indiſtinct, but the boy is a beautiful figure.

[111]The diviſion of Chriſt's Garments, by Carracci. This picture is well painted, but the light is ill-managed.

The Princeſs Sophia, habited like a Shep⯑herdeſs, by Huntorſt.

A good Virgin, by Carlo Dolce.

An admirable portrait of Titian, by himſelf.

The Woman taken in Adultery, by Janeiro. The ſtory is not well told; but the figures are beautifully grouped.

A good Schalken.

An old Man ſelling Plumbs to Children, by Francis Hals. This is a happy ſubject to ſhew pleaſure and diſappointment in young faces; and the painter has been as happy in his expreſſion of them.

In one of the rooms I remember meeting with a picture of Pietro Teſta, which is uncom⯑mon. There is great ſpirit in it.

But the capital picture at Wilton, is the large family-piece by Vandyck. Of the excellence of this picture we are told many ſtories; that it is Vandyck's maſter-piece; that it is celebrated through Europe; and that it might have been covered with gold, as a price to obtain it. This latter is a compliment which I have often heard paid in great houſes to favourite pictures; and [112] as the King of France is ſuppoſed to be the richeſt man in Europe, he is generally intro⯑duced, on theſe occaſions, as the bidder. For myſelf, I own I am not entirely of the King of France's opinion. I have examined this pic⯑ture with great attention; and reluctantly own I cannot bring myſelf to admire it, either in the whole, or in its parts. Vandyck's portrait of King Charles I. over a chimney at Hamp⯑ton Court ^*, which conſiſts only of a ſingle figure, I freely own I ſhould prefer to this, though it conſiſts of thirteen.

Vandyck ſeldom appears to advantage when he has ſeveral figures to manage. His maſter Rubens early ſaw this, and deſired him to re⯑linquiſh hiſtory, and apply to portrait. He did; but here he is again engaged in hiſtory; that is, he has a number of figures at full length to manage in one large piece, which extends twenty feet by twelve. The compo⯑ſition of ſuch a work required more ſkill than he poſſeſſed.

In the firſt place, there is no attempt at deſign. Some little family-ſcene ſhould have been introduced, which might have drawn the figures into one action. Thus Titian repreſents [113] the Cornaro family joining in an act of devo⯑tion ^*. Without ſomething of this kind, the figures had better have been painted in ſepa⯑rate pictures.

Compoſition too is wanting as well as deſign. The figures are ill-grouped, and produce no whole.

The colouring too is glaring. Yellow, red, and blue are the ſources, when properly blended, of every harmonious tint; but here they ſtare in raw colours. Every gaudy figure ſtands foremoſt to catch the eye; except the princi⯑pal figures, which are attired in black. The young people are all ſo richly dreſſed, that it ſeems as if their father and mother had ordered them to put on their beſt clothes, and come down to be painted: and that the painter had drawn them ſo attired, juſt as he ſaw them, without any diſtinction or choice of drapery. To deſtroy the harmony ſtill more, a large eſ⯑cutcheon of the Pembroke arms hangs in one corner of the picture, filled with ſuch a profu⯑ſion of red and yellow, that it catches the eye at once, and may properly be called one of the principal figures.

If from a general view of the picture, we proceed to particulars, I fear our criticiſms muſt [114] be equally ſevere. Never painter, it muſt be owned, had that happy art which Vandyck poſſeſſed, of turning earths and minerals into fleſh and blood. Never painter had that happy art of compoſing a ſingle figure with the chaſte ſimplicity of nature, and without affectation or artifice of any kind; and ſome of the figures in this picture are, no doubt, compoſed in this ſtyle, particularly the Earls of Pembroke and Carnarvon. But the figures in general, when conſidered apart, are far from capital. Some of the attitudes are forced: you look in vain for Vandyck's wonted ſimplicity. But what diſguſts us moſt, is a want of harmony. In all pictures, whether the faces are old or young, the ſame coloured light, if I may ſo expreſs myſelf, ſhould be ſpread over all,—the mellow or the bluiſh tinge, ariſing from the ſtate of the atmoſ⯑phere, whatever it is, through which the light is thrown upon them: but here this rule is ſo far from being obſerved, that even allowing the variation of different complexions, the faces of all, though of one country, belong to different climates. A yellow-faced boy parti⯑cularly, among the front figures, has a com⯑plexion, which nothing but a jaundice or an Indian ſun could have given him. For the [115] reſt, ſome of the carnations are very beautiful; particularly the hands of the Counteſs of Pem⯑broke.

All this cenſure, however, muſt not be laid to the charge of Vandyck. His pencil could never have been guilty of ſuch violence againſt Nature. I have been aſſured ^*, that about a dozen years ago, this picture was retouched by a painter, I think, of the name of Brompton. I ſaw it before that time, and ſome years after; and as far as my memory ſerves, it was altered much for the worſe. This may account for moſt of the faults that may be found with the carnations.

It would have been a happy thought to re⯑preſent the dead children by little cherubs ho⯑vering in the air; if the picture had had an em⯑blematical caſt. In ſerious portrait, the thought ſeems rather out of place.

At Wilton-houſe the accompliſhed Sir Phi⯑lip Sidney (whoſe beloved ſiſter was married to the Earl of Pembroke) wrote his Arcadia; a work of ſuch fancy, that although not accom⯑modated to the refinement of this age, it was greatly admired in the laſt, and went rapidly through eight editions.

SECT. IX.

FROM Wilton we returned to Saliſbury; and from thence proceeded to Fonthill, the ſeat of Mr. Beckford. The road conveyed us through lanes, along the edge of the plain. About Denton the ground lay beautifully; the hills deſcending gently on each ſide.

Fonthill is a noble houſe, ſituated in a park, which contains great variety of ground. It takes its name from a woody hill and fountain hard by it, from which riſes a ſtream that aſſiſts in forming an artificial river, decorated by a very ſumptuous bridge. If the bridge had been more ſimple, the ſcene about it would have been more pleaſing. The ground, though artificially formed, ſlopes well to the river on each ſide, and beyond the bridge opens into a ſweet retiring valley.

Mr. Beckford ſeems alſo to have been aſſi⯑duous in making a collection of pictures; and in point of numbers, he has ſucceeded. A So⯑crates, by Salvator, is moſt eſteemed. But though a capital picture, it ſeems ill-coloured, being a mere yellowiſh clair obſcure; nor has Socrates any character. I muſt add, however, []

[117] that I have, oftener than once, judged falſely on the firſt ſight of Salvator's pictures, which have pleaſed me more on a ſecond view. This, however, is certainly a fault. We expect from a good picture, as from a good man, a favour⯑able impreſſion at ſight.

But if there be few good pictures at Fonthill, there is abundance of ſplendor; not without a little daſh of vanity and oſtentation. What is wanting in taſte, is made up in finery. Never houſe was ſo bedecked with all the pride of up⯑holſtery. The very plate-glaſs in one room coſt fifteen hundred pounds^*.

From Fonthill we proceeded through Hen⯑don to Stourhead, the ſeat of Mr. Hoare, along downs overlooking an extenſive diſtance on the left. We ſoon came in ſight of the houſe and plantations, adorned with towers ſtretch⯑ing in a line along the horizon. The planta⯑tions, which ſeemed to ſtand on a flat, ap⯑peared, in this diſtant view, very regular, and [118] gave us but an unfavourable idea of the place. The myſtery, however, of this apparently un⯑pleaſing ſituation, was unravelled when we came upon the ſpot.

Mr. Hoare purchaſed Stourhead about forty years ago, of Lord Stourton, who takes his title from a village of that name in the neigh⯑bourhood. The improved grounds conſiſt of three parallel vallies; all of them cloſed at one end by an immenſe terrace, running ſeveral miles in length, with little deviation either to the right or left. This was the horizontal ſtretch of unpleaſing ground, which we ſaw at a diſtance. The vallies run from it nearly at right angles; and were entirely ſkreened from the eye, as we approached.

But though Mr. Hoare has taken all the three vallies, conſiſting of ſeveral miles in cir⯑cumference, within his improvements, he has adorned that only which lies neareſt his houſe. The other two are planted and cut into rides; but the wood is yet young.

The houſe is built on an elegant deſign by Colin Campbell, the architect of Wanſtead-houſe in Eſſex. It conſiſts of a baſement; one grand floor, and an attic. We enter a handſome hall, and paſs into the ſaloon, which [119] is a noble room, ſixty feet in length. On each ſide of theſe rooms range the apartments.

Several good pictures adorn them. Thoſe we admired moſt, were

Some Market peaſants, by Gainſborough. Both the figures and the effect of this picture are pleaſing.

The Conference between Jacob and Eſau, by Roſa of Tivoli. This is a capital picture, and abounds with amuſement, though it is neither painted in the maſter's beſt manner, nor are the figures well-grouped.

A ſmall landſcape, by Lucatelli.

A Holy Family, by Caracci.

A landſcape, by Rembrandt. The back⯑ground and ſky are dark; and the figures ſit⯑ting on the fore-ground, and ſeen by fire-light, have a good effect.

A Baptiſt's Head in a Charger, by Carlo Dolci.

A good copy of Reuben's Boys at Wilton.

Eliſha reſtoring the Widow's Son, by Rem⯑brandt. This is eſteemed the moſt capital pic⯑ture of the collection; but it wants a whole, and the prophet a character.

From the houſe we went to view the im⯑provements around it. That valley near which [120] the houſe ſtands, and which I have mentioned as the moſt adorned, contains a very noble ſcene. It is called the valley of Six-wells, from ſix heads of the river Stour, which ariſe here, and which the Stourton family take for their arms. The produce of theſe ſprings is col⯑lected into a grand piece of water; in which, and the improvements on its banks, conſiſt the beauties of the ſcene.

In the common round, we are carried firſt to the lower parts, along the margin of the lake, which we croſs in a narrow part, by a ſu⯑perb wooden bridge, and ſtill continuing along the water, are amuſed with a grotto, which has more propriety in it, than theſe places com⯑monly have. Here ariſes one of the heads of the Stour, which a well-cut river God (Deus ipſe loci) pours from his urn.

There is another grotto alſo near this, in which the ſprings are collected into a marble bath. It is adorned with the ſtatue of a ſleep⯑ing nymph, under whom you read theſe lines:

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[121]Leaving theſe grottos, we aſcend the higher grounds, and ſo proceed from one ornamental building to another, every where entertained with different views of the lake, and its banks.

One of theſe buildings is very beautiful. It is called the Pantheon, as it is built on ſome⯑thing like the model of the Pantheon at Rome. Though it is only the ornament of a garden, it is a ſplendid edifice. The rotunda, which is the grand part of it, is lighted from the top, and is thirty-ſix feet in diameter. To this is added a portico, and an apartment on each ſide. The inſide of the rotunda is adorned with ſtatues and bas-relievos; and in the centre ſtands an excellent Hercules, by Ryſbrach.

This ſtatue was the work of emulation. Ryſbrach had long enjoyed the public favour without a rival. Schemaker firſt aroſe as a competitor; and afterwards Rubiliac, both artiſts of great merit; the latter of uncommon abilities. Ryſbrach, piqued at ſeeing the ap⯑plauſe of the public divided, executed this ſta⯑tue as a proof of his ſkill. He compoſed it from the ſelected limbs of ſix or ſeven of the heroes of Broughton's amphitheatre; a ſcene [122] of diverſion, at that time, in high repute. The brawny arms were taken from that chief him⯑ſelf; the cheſt from the coachman, a champion well known in his day by that appellation; and the legs from Ellis the painter, who took more delight in Broughton's amphitheatre, than in his own painting-room.

Having finiſhed our circuit round the gar⯑den, we were on the whole much pleaſed. There is a greatneſs in the deſign, though ſome⯑times a littleneſs in the execution. The build⯑ings, in general, are good; but they are too nu⯑merous and too ſumptuous. The gilt-croſs is a very diſguſting object. Indeed, ſimplicity is every where too much wanting. Many of the open⯑ings alſo are forced; and the banks of the lake in ſome places formal; the paths are mere zig⯑zags; the going off of the water, and all the ma⯑nagement about the head of the lake, which is always a buſineſs difficult to manage, is awk⯑ward and perplexed; and as to the grounds near the houſe, they are ſtill in the old ſtyle of avenues and viſtas. We ſaw many things at the ſame time which pleaſed us, particularly the line of the lake, in general, along its ſhores; the woody ſkreens that environed it; and the [123] effect of ſome of the buildings in the landſcape, when ſeen ſingle, eſpecially that of the Pan⯑theon. On the whole, we ſpent an agreeable ſummer evening at Stourhead, and found more amuſement than we generally find in places ſo highly adorned.

The next morning we viſited the more diſ⯑tant parts of Mr. Hoare's improvements, the other two vallies and the terrace. The vallies will be more beautiful, as the woods improve; at preſent they are but unfurniſhed; and yet in their naked ſtate we ſaw more clearly the pecu⯑liarity of the ground. Three vallies, thus cloſed by an immenſe terrace, is a ſingular production of nature. Some parts of the terrace command a moſt extenſive diſtance. At the point of it, where it falls into the lower ground, a trian⯑gular tower is erected for the ſake of the view. Over the door is the figure of King Alfred, with this inſcription:

From the tower of Alfred, we returned to Stourhead, after a ride of at leaſt eight miles through the different parts of Mr. Hoare's plantations.

SECT. X.

FROM Stourhead to Froom, we paſſed through an incloſed country, which is barren of amuſement. On our right, we left Maiden-Bradley, an old houſe belonging to the Duke of Somerſet; and went a few miles out of our road to ſee Longleat, the manſion of Lord Weymouth.

Longleat is a noble old fabric, the work⯑manſhip of John Padua, about the year 1567. This architect was much eſteemed by the Pro⯑tector Somerſet, whoſe houſe in the Strand he built. Sir John Thyn, who employed him here, was one of the Protector's principal offi⯑cers. The ſtyle, however, of Longleat has more a caſt of the Gothic, than that of Somer⯑ſet-Houſe, which makes a nearer approach to Grecian architecture ^*. Neither poſſeſſes enough of its reſpective ſtyle, to be beautiful in its kind. The Gothic ſtyle perhaps at beſt is but ill adapted to private buildings. We [126] chiefly admire it, when its cluſtered pillars adorn the walls of ſome cathedral; when its pointed ribs ſpread along the roof of an aiſle; or when the tracery of a window occupies the whole end of a choir. Gothic ornaments in this ſtyle of magnificence loſe their littleneſs. They are not conſidered as parts, but are loſt in one vaſt whole; and contribute only to im⯑preſs a general idea of richneſs.

We ſometimes indeed ſee the ſmaller appen⯑dages of cathedrals decorated very beautifully in the Gothic ſtyle; as the chapter-houſe at Saliſbury, and that moſt elegant building at Ely, called the Pariſh-churcb. But in theſe buildings the proportions chiefly fill the eye: for which ſuch ornaments are contrived, as have a good effect. Ornaments of this kind I have never ſeen uſed in any private houſe of Gothic conſtruction. Nor indeed are they proper. As they are only found in ſacred buildings, it might perhaps have been eſteemed a mode of profaneneſs, to adopt them in pri⯑vate ſtructures. This idea, indeed, the Gothic architects themſelves ſeem to have had, by never uſing them but in churches.

On the whole, the Grecian architecture ſeems much better adapted to a private dwell⯑ing-houſe, [127] than the Gothic. It has a better aſſortment, if I may ſo ſpeak, of proper orna⯑ments, and proportions for all its purpoſes. The Gothic ornaments might dreſs up a hall or a ſaloon; but they could do little more: we ſhould find it difficult to decorate the flat roof of an apartment with them, or a paſſage, or a ſtair-caſe.

Nor are the conveniencies, which the Grecian architecture beſtows on private buildings, leſs conſiderable, than the beauty of its decorations. The Gothic palace is an incumbered pile. We are amuſed with looking into theſe manſions of antiquity, as objects of curioſity; but ſhould never think of comparing them in point of convenience with the great houſes of modern taſte, in which the hall and the ſaloon fill the eye on our entrance; are noble reſervoirs for air; and grand antichambers to the ſeveral rooms of ſtate that divide on each hand from them.

Longleat has nothing of the Grecian gran⯑deur to recommend it. It is a large ſquare building, with a court in the middle; which is intended to enlighten the inner chambers. The whole is certainly a grand pile; but it has little beauty, and I ſhould ſuppoſe leſs conve⯑nience. [128] It is at preſent however exceedingly in diſhabille, and the furniture ſeems to be the relics of the laſt century. The family of the Thynnes cover the walls in great profuſion. We rarely ſee ſo numerous a collection of por⯑traits without one that is able to fix the eye.

Be the inſide of the houſe and its contents however what they may, when we view it ſeated, as it is, in the centre of a noble park, which ſlopes down to it in all directions, itſelf a grand object, evidently the capital of theſe wide domains, it has certainly a very princely appearance.

Somewhere among the woods of this man⯑ſion, was firſt naturalized the Weymouth-pine. This ſpecies of pine is among the moſt formal of its brotherhood; and yet the planter muſt conſider it, in point of variety, as an acquiſition. The patriarch-pine, Mr. Walpole tells us, ſtill exiſts, but we did not ſee it.

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SECT. XI.

FROM Longleat we purſued our road through Froom to Wells. The firſt part of our journey preſented nothing very inte⯑reſting. As we approached Mendip-hills, the road divides; one branch leading over thoſe high grounds, the other under them. We choſe the latter, which afforded us, on the right, thoſe hills for a back-ground; and on the left, an extenſive diſtance, in which Glaſtonbury⯑tor, as it is called, is the moſt conſpicuous fea⯑ture.

Our approach to Wells, from the natural and incidental beauties of the ſcene, was un⯑commonly pictureſque. It was a hazy even⯑ing; and the ſun, declining low, was hid be⯑hind a deep purple cloud, which covered half the hemiſphere, but did not reach the weſtern horizon. Its lower ſkirts were gilt with daz⯑zling ſplendor, which ſpread downwards, not in diverging rays, but in one uniform ruddy glow; and uniting at the bottom with the [130] miſtineſs of the air, formed a rich, yet modeſt tint, with which Durcote-hill, projecting boldly on the left, the towers of Wells beyond it, and all the objects of the diſtance, were tinged; while the foreground, ſeen againſt ſo bright a piece of ſcenery, was overſpread with the darkeſt ſhades of evening. The whole toge⯑ther invited the pencil, without ſoliciting the imagination. But it was a tranſitory ſcene. As we ſtood gazing at it, the ſun ſunk below the cloud, and being ſtripped of all its ſplendor by the hazineſs of the atmoſphere, fell, like a ball of fire, into the horizon; and the whole radiant viſion faded away.

Wells is a pleaſant town, and agreeably ſitu⯑ated. The cathedral is a beautiful pile, not⯑withſtanding it is of Saxon architecture. The front is exceedingly rich, and yet the parts are large. In the towers, the upper ſtories are plain, and make a good contraſt with the rich⯑neſs of the lower. But this circumſtance ap⯑pears to moſt advantage when the towers are ſeen in profile; in front there is too much or⯑nament. In the inſide the Saxon heavineſs prevails more. The choir-part is in better taſte; and the retiring pillars of the chapel be⯑yond [131] the communion-table, produce an un⯑uſual and very pleaſing effect, like that at Sa⯑liſbury. The chapter-houſe is an elegant octa⯑gon, ſupported by a ſingle pillar. One of the pariſh churches alſo at Wells is adorned with a very handſome Gothic tower, and is itſelf a beautiful pile.

Near Wells is a famous cavern, called Okey-hole. It lies under Mendip-hills, which in this place form a beautiful receſs, adorned with rock and wood. A receſs of this kind appears of little value to thoſe who are acquainted with mountainous countries; but in the ſouth of England it is a novel ſcene. As to the cavern itſelf, it runs about three hundred yards under ground, dividing into three large apartments. But no cavern that I know, except that at Caſtleton in Derbyſhire ^*, is worth viſiting in a pictureſque light. Caverns, in general, are mere holes, and have no connection with the ground about them. That at Caſtleton has a grand entrance, and the rocky ſcenery, with which it is hung, forms a moſt magnificent approach. But in the cavern here, there is no [132] grandeur of this kind; ſo that it contributes little to the beauty of the receſs in which it lies.

From Okey-hole we returned to Wells; and from thence proceeded to Glaſtonbury; the ruins of which had highly raiſed our expect⯑ation.

SECT. XII.

THE ground on which the abbey of Glaſ⯑tonbury ſtands, is higher than the neigh⯑bouring diſtrict, which is a perfect flat; inſo⯑much, that tradition ſays, it was formerly co⯑vered with the ſea. If that was the caſe, the ground which the abbey occupies, if not an iſland, was at leaſt a peninſula. To this day it bears the name of the Iſle of Avelon; and the meadows around it ſeem plainly to have been waſhed and relinquiſhed by the ſea.

The abbey of Glaſtonbury, therefore, does not enjoy that choice ſituation which the ge⯑nerality of religious houſes poſſeſs. Original foundations, like this, were generally fixed by accidental cauſes. An eſcape from a ſhipwreck; a battle; a murder; the ſcene of ſome prince's death; with a variety of other circumſtances, have commonly determined their ſite; ſo that if they enjoy a good ſituation, it ſeems to be accidental. Thoſe religious houſes whoſe ſitu⯑ation we particularly admire, I ſhould conjec⯑ture, have been chiefly colonies, or off-ſets [134] from the great religious houſes. In theſe there might be a choice of ſituation.

The event which ſettled the ſituation of this abbey, is firmly atteſted, on the proof of Romiſh legends. When Joſeph of Arema⯑thea came to preach the Goſpel in Britain, as it is aſſerted he did, he landed on the Iſle of Avelon; and fixing his ſtaff in the ground, (a dry thorn-ſaplin, which had been his companion through all the countries he had paſſed,) fell aſleep. When he awoke, he found, to his great ſurpriſe, that his ſtaff had taken root, and was covered with white bloſſoms. From this miracle, however, he drew a very natural concluſion, that as the uſe of his ſtaff was thus taken from him, it was ordained that he ſhould fix his abode in this place. Here, therefore, he built a chapel, which, by the piety of ſucceeding times, increaſed into this magni⯑ficent foundation.

Of this immenſe fabric nothing now remains, but a part of the great church, St. Joſeph's chapel, an old gate-way, part of the abbot's lodge, and the kitchen.

Of the great church, the ſouth ſide is nearly entire; ſome part of the eaſt end remains; a little of the croſs iſle; and a remnant of the tower; []

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[135] all of the pureſt and moſt elegant Gothic. The north ſide was lately taken down, and the materials were applied to build a meeting-houſe. From this defalcation, however, the ruin, as a pictureſque object, ſeems to have ſuffered little. In correſpondent parts, if one only be taken away, or conſiderably fractured, it may poſſibly be an advantage. But we greatly regret the loſs of the weſt end, which was taken down to build a town-hall. Still more we regret the loſs of the tower; as the eye wants ſome elevated part to give an apex to the whole. Beſides, in that part of the tower which remains, there is rather a form⯑ality. Two ſimilar points, which have been the ſhoulders of a Gothic arch, ariſe in equal dimenſions, and do not eaſily fall into a pic⯑tureſque form.

St. Joſeph's chapel, which ſtands near the weſt end of the great church, is almoſt entire. The roof indeed is gone; but the walls have ſuffered little dilapidation. This chapel was probably more ancient than the church, as it has evidently a mixture in it of Saxon archi⯑tecture; but the ſtyle is very pure in its kind; and the whole is rich and beautiful. It is no little addition to its beauty, that ivy is ſpread [136] about over the walls, in ſuch juſt proportion, as to adorn without defacing them.

On the ſouth-weſt of St. Joſeph's chapel, ſtands the Gate of ſtrangers, which ſeems to have been a heavy building, void of elegance and beauty. Not far from the Gate of ſtrangers, and connected with it in deſign, are ſhewn the foundations of the Linguiſt's lodge: but no part of it, unleſs it be a poſtern, is now left. This was a very neceſſary part of an endow⯑ment, which was viſited by ſtrangers from all parts of the world.

The Abbot's lodge has been a large building. It ranges parallel with the ſouth ſide of the church; and was nearly entire within the me⯑mory of man. It was a ſuit of ſeven apart⯑ments on a floor; but very little of it is now left. In the year 1714 it was taken down to anſwer ſome purpoſe of economy, though it ſeems never to have been a ſtructure of any beauty.

Hard by the Abbot's lodge ſtands the Kitchen, which is to this day very entire, and is both a curious remnant of antiquity, and a noble mo⯑nument of monkiſh hoſpitality. It is a ſquare building, calculated to laſt for ages. Its walls are four feet thick, and yet ſtrengthened with [137] maſſy buttreſſes. They have, indeed, an im⯑menſe roof to ſupport, which is ſtill in excel⯑lent repair. It is conſtructed of ſtone, and ſeems to be a work of very curious maſonry, running up in the form of an octagonal pyra⯑mid, and finiſhed at the top in a double cupola. The under part of this cupola received the ſmoke, in channels along the inſide of the roof; and the upper part contained a bell, which firſt called the ſociety to dinner, and afterwards the neighbouring poor to alms. The inſide of the Kitchen is an octagon; four chimnies taking off the corners of the ſquare. It has two doors, and meaſures twenty-two feet from one to the other, and a hundred and ſeventy from the bottom to the top. In this Kitchen, it is re⯑corded, that twelve oxen were dreſſed gene⯑rally every week, beſides a proportional quan⯑tity of other victuals.

Theſe are all the viſible remains of this great houſe. Foundations are traced far and wide, where, it is conjectured, the cloiſters ran; the monks cells; the ſchools; the dormitories; halls; and other offices. The whole together has been an amazing combination of various build⯑ings. It had the appearance indeed of a conſider⯑able town, containing perhaps the largeſt ſo⯑ciety [138] under one government, and the moſt ex⯑tenſive foundation that ever appeared in Eng⯑land in any form. Its fraternity is ſaid to have conſiſted of five hundred eſtabliſhed monks, beſides nearly as many retainers on the abbey. Above four hundred children were not only educated in it, but entirely maintained. Stran⯑gers from all parts of Europe were liberally re⯑ceived; claſſed according to their ſex and na⯑tion; and might conſider the hoſpitable roof, under which they lodged, as their own. Five hundred travellers, with their horſes, (though they generally, I ſhould ſuppoſe, travelled on foot,) have been lodged at once within its walls. While the poor from every ſide of the country waited the ringing of the alms-bell; when they flocked in crowds, young and old, to the gate of the monaſtery, where they received, every morning, a plentiful proviſion for themſelves and their families: all this appears great and noble.

On the other hand, when we conſider five hundred perſons, bred up in indolence, and loſt to the commonwealth; when we conſider that theſe houſes were the great nurſeries of ſuperſtition, bigotry, and ignorance; the ſtews of ſloth, ſtupidity, and perhaps intemperance; when we conſider, that the education received [139] in them had not the leaſt tincture of uſeful learning, good manners, or true religion, but tended rather to vilify and diſgrace the human mind; when we conſider that the pilgrims and ſtrangers who reſorted thither, were idle vaga⯑bonds, who got nothing abroad that was equi⯑valent to the occupations they left at home; and when we conſider, laſtly, that indiſcrimi⯑nate alms-giving is not real charity, but an avocation from labour and induſtry, checking every idea of exertion, and filling the mind with abject notions, we are led to acquieſce in the fate of theſe great foundations, and view their ruins, not only with a pictureſque eye, but with moral and religious ſatisfaction.

This great houſe poſſeſſed the ampleſt reve⯑nues of any religious houſe in England. Its ancient domains are ſuppoſed now to yield not leſs than an annual income of two hundred thouſand pounds. I have heard them calcu⯑lated at much more.

Within a mile of the abbey ſtands the Torr, which is by much the higheſt land in the iſland of Avelon, and had been our land-mark through an approach of many leagues. The ſummit of this hill is decorated with a ruin, which has its effect, though in itſelf it poſſeſſes [140] no beauty. It is a ſtructure of ambiguous in⯑tention. One tradition ſuppoſes it to have been a ſea-mark, for which it is well adapted. Another makes it an oratory. To the abbot it certainly belonged.

Here the holy man, when Satan led him aſide, might ſometimes aſcend, and looking round him, might ſee all the country his own; houſes and villages filled with his vaſſals; mea⯑dows covered with innumerable flocks and herds to ſupport the ſtrength of his table; rivers and woods abounding with fiſh and game to furniſh its delicacies; fields waving with corn to fill his granaries and his cellars; and, among other ſources of luxury, no fewer than ſeven ample parks, well ſtocked with ve⯑niſon. Here was a glorious view indeed! His heart might dilate, as the viſion expanded: and if he were not well upon his guard, he might eaſily have miſtaken an earthly reverie for holy joy and religious gratitude.

Near the bottom of this hill are found great quantities of that ſpecies of putrefaction which reſembles a coiled ſerpent; or, as it is often called, an Ammon's horn.

The ruins of Glaſtonbury-abbey occupy a piece of ground, about a mile in circumfe⯑rence, [141] which has no peculiar beauty, but might be improved into a very grand ſcene, if it were judiciouſly planted, and laid out with juſt ſo much art, as to diſcover the ruins to the beſt advantage. But ſuch ſchemes of improvement are calculated only for poſterity. A young plantation would ill accord with ſuch antique accompaniments. The oak would require at leaſt a century's growth, before its moſs-grown limbs could be congenial with the ruins it adorned.

I ſhould ill deſerve the favours I met with from the learned antiquarian, who has the care of theſe ruins, though he occupies only the humble craft of a ſhoemaker, if I did not at⯑tempt to do ſome juſtice to his zeal and piety. No pictureſque eye could more admire theſe venerable remains for their beauty, than he did for their ſanctity. Every ſtone was the object of his devotion. But above all the appendages of Glaſtonbury, he reverenced moſt the famous thorn which ſprang from St. Joſeph's ſtaff, and bloſſoms at Chriſtmas. On this occaſion he gave us the following relation.

It was at that time, he ſaid, when the King reſolved to alter the common courſe of the year, that he firſt felt diſtreſs for the honour of [142] the houſe of Glaſtonbury. If the time of Chriſtmas were changed, who could tell how the credit of this miraculous plant might be af⯑fected? In ſhort, with the fortitude of a Jewiſh ſeer, he ventured to expoſtulate with the King upon the ſubject; and informed his Majeſty, in a letter, of the diſgrace that might poſſibly enſue, if he perſiſted in his deſign of altering the natural courſe of the year. But though his conſcience urged him upon this bold action, he could not but own the fleſh trembled. He had not the leaſt doubt, he ſaid, but the King would immediately ſend down an order to have him hanged. He pointed to the ſpot where the laſt abbot of Glaſtonbury was executed for not ſurrendering his abbey; and he gave us to underſtand, there were men now alive who could ſuffer death, in a good cauſe, with equal fortitude. His zeal, however, was not put to this ſevere trial. The King was more merciful than he expected; for though his Majeſty did not follow his advice, it never appeared that he took the leaſt offence at the freedom of his letter.

The death of the laſt abbot of Glaſtonbury is indeed a mournful tale, as it is repreſented by the writers of thoſe times, and was cal⯑culated [143] to make a laſting impreſſion on the country.

This abbot is ſaid to have been a pious and good man; careful of his charge, kind to the poor, and exemplary in his conduct. He is particularly mentioned as a man of great tem⯑perance; which, in a cloiſter, was not, per⯑haps, at that day, the reigning virtue. What was ſtill as uncommon, he was a lover of learn⯑ing; and not only took great care of the edu⯑cation of thoſe young men, who were brought up in his houſe, but was at the expence of maintaining ſeveral of them at the univer⯑ſities. He was now very old, and very in⯑firm; and having paſſed all his life in his mo⯑naſtery, knew little more of the world than he had ſeen within its walls.

It was the misfortune of this good abbot to live in the tyrannical days of Henry VIII., and at that period when the ſuppreſſion of monaſteries was his favourite object. Henry had applied to many of the abbots, and by threats and promiſes had engaged ſeveral of them to ſurrender their truſts. But the abbot of Glaſtonbury, attached to his houſe, and connected with his fra⯑ternity, refuſed to ſurrender. He was conſci⯑ous of his own innocence; and thought guilt [144] only had to fear from the inquiſition that was abroad. But Henry, whoſe haughty and im⯑perious ſpirit, unuſed to control, ſoared above the trifling diſtinctions between innocence and guilt, was highly incenſed; and determined to make an example of the abbot of Glaſtonbury to terrify others. An order firſt came down for him to appear forthwith before the council. The difficulties of taking ſo long a journey, appeared great to an old man, who had ſeldom travelled beyond the limits of his monaſtery. But as there was no redreſs, he got into an eaſy horſe-litter, and ſet out. In his mode of travelling, we ſee the ſtate and dignity, which certainly required ſome correction, of the great eccleſiaſtics of that age. His retinue, it is ſaid, conſiſted of not fewer than an hundred and fifty horſemen.

The King's ſending for him, however, was a mere pretext. The real purpoſe was to pre⯑vent his ſecreting his effects; as it was never intended that he ſhould return. Proper per⯑ſons, therefore, were commiſſioned to ſearch his apartments in his abſence, and ſecure the wealth of the monaſtery. His ſteward, in the mean⯑time, who was a gentleman of the degree of a Knight, was corrupted to make what diſcoveries he [145] could. It was an eaſy matter in thoſe days to procure evidence, where it was already deter⯑mined to convict. In one of the abbot's cabi⯑nets ſome ſtrictures upon the divorce were either found, or pretended to be found. No⯑thing elſe could be obtained againſt him.

During this interval, the abbot, who knew nothing of theſe proceedings, waited on the council. He was treated reſpectfully; and in⯑formed, that the King would not force any man to do what he wiſhed him to do freely. However, as his Majeſty intended to receive his final determination on the ſpot, he was at liberty to return.

Being thus diſmiſſed, the abbot thought all was now over, and that he might be permitted to end his days peaceably in his beloved mo⯑naſtery.

He was now nearly at the end of his jour⯑ney, having arrived at Wells, which is within five miles of Glaſtonbury, when he was in⯑formed, that a county-court (of what kind is not ſpecified) was convened there on that day, to which he, as abbot of Glaſtonbury, was ſummoned. He went into the court room ac⯑cordingly; and as his ſtation required, was going to take his place at the upper end of it, among [146] the principal gentry of the country; when the crier called him to the bar, where he was ac⯑cuſed of high treaſon.

The old man, who had not the leaſt con⯑ception of the affair, was utterly aſtoniſhed; and turning to his ſteward, who ſtood near him, aſked, if he knew what could be the meaning of all this? That traitor, whiſpering in his ear, wiſhed him not to be caſt down, for he knew the meaning of it was only to ter⯑rify him into a compliance. Though the court, therefore, on the evidence of the paper taken out of his cabinet, found him guilty of high treaſon, he had ſtill no idea of what was intended. From the court he was conveyed to his litter, and conducted to Glaſtonbury; ſtill in ſuſpence how all this would end.

When he arrived under the walls of his abbey, the litter was ordered to ſtop; and an officer riding up to him, bad him prepare for inſtant death. A prieſt, at the ſame time, pre⯑ſented himſelf to take his confeſſion.

The poor old abbot, utterly confounded at the ſuddenneſs of the thing, was quite unman⯑ned. He begged with tears, and for God's ſake, they would allow him ſome little time for recollection. But his tears were vain. [147] Might he not then juſt enter his monaſtery; take leave of his friends; and recommend him⯑ſelf to their prayers? All was to no purpoſe. He was dragged out of his litter, and laid upon a hurdle, to which a horſe being yoked, he was drawn along the ground to the Torr, and there, to make the triumph complete, was hung up, in his monk's habit, and in ſight of his monaſtery. It was a triumph, however, that was attended with the tears and lamenta⯑tions of the whole country, which had long conſidered this pious man, as a friend, bene⯑factor, and father.

How far this ſhocking ſtory, in all its cir⯑cumſtances of ſtrange precipitancy, and wanton cruelty, may be depended on, conſidering the hands through which it is conveyed, may be matter of doubt: thus much, however, is cer⯑tain, that if the picture here given of the royal ſavage of thoſe days be not an exact portrait, it bears evidently a ſtriking reſemblance.

SECT. XIII.

HAVING given a laſt look at the pictu⯑reſque ruins of Glaſtonbury, we left them with regret. That pure ſtyle of Gothic, in which this grand houſe was compoſed, it is probable, gave the key-tone in architecture to all the churches in this neighbourhood; for it is certain a better taſte prevails among them, as far as we obſerved, than in any other part of England through which we had travelled.

From Glaſtonbury we took the road to Bridgewater, and paſſed through a very fine country.

About three miles beyond Piper's Inn, we mounted a grand natural terrace, called the heights of Pontic.

On the right we had the whole range of Mendip hills, which, though inconſiderable in themſelves, made ſome figure in this view, with pleaſant ſavannahs ſtretching among them. Beyond the hills appeared the ſea, and the iſland of Steep-holms. The nearer grounds, between this diſtance and the eye, were filled [149] with ample woods, which ranged, not in patches here and there diſperſed, but in one extended ſurface of tufted foliage; for we ſaw little more from the heights on which we ſtood, than the varied tops of the woods beneath us. The whole country, I believe, is a ſcene of culti⯑vation; and the woods little more, in fact, than hedge-rows. But one row ſucceeding another, the intermediate ſpaces are concealed, together with all the regularity of that mode of plant⯑ing; and the whole appears, in the diſtance, as one vaſt bed of foliage.

On the left we had the ſame kind of coun⯑try; only the hills on this ſide of Pontic are much ſuperior to thoſe of Mendip on the other. Among the ſavannahs on this ſide, ſhoot the extenſive plains of Sedgmore, which ſtretch far and wide before the eye. Here the unfor⯑tunate Monmouth tried his cauſe with his uncle James; and all the country was after⯑wards the ſcene of thoſe acts of brutality, which Kirk and Jefferies committed, and which are ſtill remembered with horror and deteſtation.

This vaſt diſtance, which we ſurveyed from the heights of Pontic, not only filled the eye with its grandeur as a whole, but was every where interſperſed with amuſing objects, which [150] adorned its ſeveral diviſions. In one part Lord Chatham's obeliſk pointed out the do⯑mains of Pynſent. In another part we were told, the rich ſcenes before us were the woods of Sir Charles Tint. The tall ſpire which aroſe on the right belonged to the great church at Bridgewater; and the ſeveral little ſpots of water, glittering under the ſun-beams, were reaches of the river Parret,

At the diſtance at which we ſtood, we could not well unite all theſe bright ſpots of the river into a winding courſe; but the imagination eaſily traced the union.

The diſtances, indeed, from the heights of Pontic, are both grand and pictureſque; pic⯑tureſque, when thus reduced into parts; though in their immenſity greatly too extenſive for painting. The whole ſcene was a tranſlation of a paſſage in Virgil, bringing before our eyes,

We have the ſame view elſewhere:

[151]I cannot forbear contraſting this grand view with a few bold ſtrokes of diſtance, which Moſes gives us, when he tells us, ‘he went up from the plains of Moab to the top of Piſ⯑gah; from whence the Lord ſhewed him all the land of Gilead unto Dan, and all Naph⯑tali, and the land of Ephraim and Manaſſeh, and all the land of Judah, unto the utmoſt ſea; and on the ſouth the plain of the valley of Jericho unto Zoar.’

On Mr. Hoare's terrace we had ſeen the ſpot where Alfred the Great muſtered his ſcat⯑tered troops to oppoſe the Danes. The coun⯑try near Bridgewater affords a ſcene, where, on another occaſion, he appeared in a different character.

Where the Thone and the Parret join their waters, they form between them a piece of ground, containing about two acres, which is called the Iſle of Athelney. In Saxon times it was not only ſurrounded by water, but with woods and marſhes to a great extent, and was in every part of very difficult acceſs. Here the gallant Alfred retired in his diſtreſſes, when he fled before the Danes, after the battle of Wilton. At firſt he conſidered it only as a place of refuge, and ſuſtained himſelf by ſhoot⯑ing [152] the wild deer with his arrows. But by degrees getting together a few of his friends, he fortified the iſland, and particularly the only avenue that led to it. From hence he often made ſucceſsful inroads upon the Daniſh quar⯑ters; and retreating among the marſhes, eluded purſuit. From hence too, in the habit of a minſtrel, he made that celebrated excurſion to their camp, in which, under the pretence of amuſing them with his ſongs and buffooneries, he took an exact ſurvey of their ſituation. He then laid his meaſures ſo judiciouſly, and fell upon them with ſo much well-directed fury, that he entirely broke their power during the remainder of his reign. In after-times, when ſucceſs had crowned his enterprizes, he founded a monaſtery in the iſland, in memory of the protection it had once afforded him. But its ſite, which had nothing to recommend it, ex⯑cept this perſonal circumſtance, was in all re⯑ſpects ſo inconvenient, that it never flouriſhed, though it exiſted till the times of the diſſo⯑lution.

SECT. XIV.

THERE is very little in Bridgewater, which was our next ſtage, worth a tra⯑veller's attention. Its great boaſt is the cele⯑brated Blake, one of Cromwell's admirals, who was born in this town, and repreſented it in ſe⯑veral parliaments.

The name of Blake can hardly occur to an Engliſhman without ſuggeſting reſpect. If ever any man was a lover of his country, with⯑out being actuated by party, or any other ſiniſter motive, it was Blake. Whether in a divided commonwealth, one ſide or the other ſhould be cordially choſen by every citizen, is a nice queſ⯑tion. Some of the ancient moraliſts have held the affirmative. But a man may ſee ſuch errors on both ſides, as may render a choice difficult. This ſeems to have been Blake's caſe. The glory of his country therefore was the only part he eſpouſed. He fought, indeed, under Cromwell; but it was merely, he would ſay, to aggrandize Old England. He often diſ⯑liked the protector's politics. With the death [154] of Charles he was particularly diſpleaſed; and was heard to mutter, that to have ſaved the King's life, he would freely have ventured his own. But ſtill he fought on; took an im⯑menſe treaſure from the Portugueſe; beat the Dutch in two or three deſperate engagements; burnt the Dey of Tunis's fleet; awed the pira⯑tical States; and, above all, deſtroyed the Spa⯑niſh plate-fleet in the harbour of Santa Cruz, which was thought a piece of the moſt gallant ſeamanſhip that ever was performed. Some things in the mean time happened at home which he did not like, particularly Cromwell's treatment of the Parliament: but he ſtill fought on; and would ſay to his captains, It is not for us to mind ſtate matters, but to keep foreigners from fooling us. What is ſingular in this com⯑mander is, that all his knowledge in maritime affairs was acquired after he was fifty years of age. He had the theory of his profeſſion, as it were, by intuition; and crowded as many gallant actions into nine or ten years, as might have immortalized as many commanders. One perſonal ſingularity is recorded, which gives us a ſort of portrait of him. When his choler was raiſed, and he was bent on ſome deſperate undertaking, it was his cuſtom to twirl his whiſ⯑kers [155] with his fore-finger. Whenever that ſign appeared, thoſe about him well knew ſome⯑thing dreadful was in agitation.

Such a peculiarity, however, could not eaſily be made intelligible in a picture; and therefore it is more proper for hiſtory than repreſentation. And yet I can conceive a portrait of Blake, in this attitude, if well managed, to have a good effect. His fleet might lie in the offing ready to ſail. At a diſtance might ſtand a caſtle, which he meant to attack, firing at his fleet, and involved in ſmoke. Blake, with a few of his officers around him, might ſtand on the fore-ground, occupying the principal part of the picture; and ready to embark in a boat, which was waiting for them on the ſtrand. Blake himſelf might be repreſented in the atti⯑tude above deſcribed, throwing a dreadful look at the caſtle; but this dreadful look muſt be in the hands of a maſter, or it will infallibly become groteſque and caricature. After all, though this diſpoſition might make a good picture, I know not that it would be intelli⯑gible enough to make a good portrait.

All this coaſt, between Bridgewater and Briſtol, is low, and ſubject, in many parts, to overflowing tides. In the memorable ſtorm [156] of November 1703, it was a melancholy ſcene. The ſea broke over it with great outrage, and did ſurpriſing damage. In many places, as you travel through it, you ſee marks ſet up by the country people, to ſhow how far the ſea poured in at that time. But, indeed, every part of the Briſtol channel is ſubject to very high tides at all times. In Bridgewater-river it often riſes in an uncommon manner, and comes forward in ſuch rapid ſwells, that it has been known ſometimes to overſet ſhips. It affects the river at Briſtol alſo, and all the rivers on the coaſt; and, if I am not miſtaken, on the oppoſite coaſt likewiſe.

SECT. XV.

AS we left Bridgewater, we drew nearer the ſea. In our way we paſſed Sir Charles Tint's plantations, which we had before ſeen as parts of a diſtance. They appeared now ſtretching to a great extent along the ſide of a hill, and beautifully interſperſed with lawns. They were adorned with too many buildings, which would, however, have had a better effect, if they had not been painted white. A ſeat or ſmall building, painted white, may be an ad⯑vantage in a view: but when theſe white ſpots are multiplied, the diſtinction of their colour detaches them from the other objects of the ſcene, with which they ought to combine: they diſtract the eye, and become ſeparate ſpots, inſtead of parts of a whole.

In the neighbourhood of Sir Charles Tint's, lies Enmore-caſtle, the ſeat of Lord Egmont. It is a new building, in the form of an old caſtle. A dry ditch ſurrounds it, which you [158] paſs by a draw-bridge. This carries you into a ſquare court, the four ſides of which are oc⯑cupied by the apartments. It is called whim⯑ſical; and, no doubt, there is ſomething whim⯑ſical in the idea of a man's incloſing himſelf, in the reign of George the Second, in a fortreſs that would have ſuited the times of King Ste⯑phen. But if we can diveſt ourſelves of this idea, Enmore-caſtle ſeems to be a comfortable dwelling, in which there is contrivance and convenience. The ſituation of the ſtables ſeems the moſt whimſical. You enter them through a ſubterraneous paſſage, on the right of the great gate. There was no occaſion to carry the idea ſo far as to lock up the horſes within the caſtle. If the ſtables had been placed at ſome convenient diſtance, nobody, who ſhould even examine the caſtle under its antique idea, would obſerve the impropriety; while the inconvenience, as they are placed at preſent, is evident to every one who ſees them.

But if the houſe be well contrived within, it is certainly no pictureſque object without. The towers, which occupy the corners and middle of the curtains, are all of equal height, which gives the whole an unpleaſing [159] appearance. If the tower at the entrance had been more elevated, with a watch-houſe at the top, in the manner of ſome old caſtles, the re⯑gularity might ſtill have been obſerved; and the perſpective in every point, except exactly in the front, would have given the whole a more pleaſing form.

But even with this addition, Enmore-caſtle would be, in a pictureſque light, only a very indifferent copy of its original. The old baronial caſtle, in its ancient ſtate, even before it had received from time the beau⯑ties of ruin, was certainly a more pleaſing object than we have in this imitation of it. The form of Enmore is ſacrificed to conveni⯑ence. To make the apartments regular within, the walls are regular without. Whereas our anceſtors had no idea of uniformity. If one tower was ſquare and low, the other, perhaps, would be round and lofty. The curtain too was irregular, following the declivity or pro⯑jection of the hill on which it ſtood. It was adorned alſo with watch-towers, here and there, at unequal diſtances. Nor were the windows more regular, either in form or ſituation, than the internal parts of the caſtle, which they en⯑lightened. Some jutting corner of a detached [160] hill was alſo probably fortified with a project⯑ing tower. A large buttreſs or two perhaps propped the wall, in ſome part, where the at⯑tack of an enemy had made it weak: while the keep, riſing above the caſtle, formed gene⯑rally a grand apex to the whole. Amidſt all this maſs of irregularity, the lines would be broken, the light often beautifully received, and vari⯑ous points of view preſented, ſome of which would be exceedingly pictureſque. Whereas En⯑more-caſtle, ſeen in every point of view, pre⯑ſents a face of unvaried ſameneſs. Even taken in perſpective, it affords no variety. We ſee three ſimilar towers, with two ſimilar curtains between them, on one ſide; and three ſimilar towers, with two ſimilar curtains between them, on the other. On the whole, therefore, as it obtains no particular convenience from its caſtle-form, and evidently no particular beauty, it might, perhaps, have been as well if the no⯑ble founder had built, like other people, on a modern plan.

SECT. XVI.

FROM Enmore-caſtle we aſcended Quantoc-hills. Our views from the heights of Pon⯑tic were chiefly inland; but from the high grounds here, as we now approached the ſea, we were entertained with beautiful coaſt-views, which make a very agreable ſpecies of land⯑ſcape.

The firſt ſcene of this kind was compoſed of Bridgewater-bay, and the land around it. We ſaw indeed the two iſlands of Flat-holms and Steep-holms, and the Welſh coaſt beyond them; but they were wrapped in the ambiguity of a hazy atmoſphere, which was of no ad⯑vantage to the view. Hazineſs has often a good effect in a pictureſque ſcene. The variety of objects, ſhapes, and hues which compoſe an extenſive landſcape, though inharmonious in themſelves, may be harmoniouſly united by one general tinge ſpread over them. But here the land bore ſo ſmall a proportion to the water, that as we could not have a picture, and ex⯑pected only amuſement, we wiſhed for more diſ⯑tinctneſs. [162] We had it ſoon; for before we left our ſtation, a light breeze ariſing from the weſt ſwept away the vapours: the diſtant coaſt became diſtinct, and many a little white ſail appeared in different parts of the channel, which had been loſt before in obſcurity.

The going off of miſts and fogs is among the moſt beautiful circumſtances belonging to them. While the obſcurity is only partially clearing away, it often occaſions a pleaſing contraſt be⯑tween the formed and unformed parts of a land⯑ſcape; and like cleaning a dirty picture, pleaſes the eye with ſeeing one part after another emerge into brightneſs. It has its effect alſo, when it goes off more ſuddenly.

The exhibition we juſt had of the fog's leav⯑ing the Welch coaſt, was a pleaſing one; but where there is a coincidence of grand ob⯑jects under ſuch circumſtances, the exhibition is often ſublime. One of the grandeſt I remember to have met with was preſented at the late ſiege of Gibraltar ^*.

It was near day-break on the 12th of April 1781, when a meſſage was brought from the [163] ſignal-houſe at the ſummit of the rock, that the long expected fleet, under Admiral Darby, was in ſight. Innumerable maſts were juſt diſ⯑cerned from that lofty ſituation; but could not be ſeen from the lower parts of the caſtle, being obſcured by a thick fog, which had ſet in from the weſt, and totally overſpread the opening of the ſtraits. In this uncertainty the garriſon remained ſome time; while the fleet, inveſted in obſcurity, moved ſlowly towards the caſtle. In the mean time, the ſun becoming powerful, the fog roſe like the curtain of a vaſt theatre, and diſcovered at once the whole fleet, full and diſtinct before the eye. The convoy, conſiſt⯑ing of near a hundred veſſels, were in a com⯑pact body, led on by twenty-eight ſail of the line, and a number of tenders and other ſmaller veſſels. A gentle wind juſt filled their ſails, and brought them forward with a ſlow and ſolemn motion. Had all this grand exhibition been preſented gradually, the ſublimity of it would have been injured by the acquaintance the eye would have made with it, during its approach; but the appearance of it in all its greatneſs at once, before the eye had examined the detail, had a wonderful effect.

[164]To this account of a grand effect from the clearing away of a fog, I ſhall ſubjoin another, which, though of the horrid kind, is grand and ſublime in the higheſt degree. It is taken from Captain Meares's voyage from China to the northern latitudes of America. That navi⯑gator, having gained the inhoſpitable coaſt he was in purſuit of, was ſailing among unknown bays and gulphs, when he was ſuddenly im⯑merſed in ſo thick a fog, that the ſeamen could not even diſcern an object from one end of the ſhip to the other. Night too came on, which rendered every thing ſtill more diſmal. While the unhappy crew were ruminating on the va⯑riety of diſtreſſes that ſurrounded them, about midnight they were alarmed with the ſound of waves burſting and daſhing among rocks, with⯑in a little diſtance of the head of the ſhip. In⯑ſtantly turning the helm, they tacked about. But they had ſailed only a ſhort way in this new direction, when they were terrified with the ſame dreadful notes a ſecond time. They altered their courſe again: but the ſame tre⯑mendous ſound again recurred. At length day came on; but the fog continuing as intenſe as before, they could ſee nothing. All they knew was, that they were ſurrounded by rocks on [165] every ſide; but how to eſcape they had no idea. Once, during a momentary interruption of the fog, they got a glimpſe of the ſummit of an immenſe cliff, covered with ſnow, tower⯑ing over the maſt. But the fog inſtantly ſhut it in. A more dreadful ſituation cannot eaſily be conceived. They had ſteered in every di⯑rection, but always found they were land-locked; and though they were continually cloſe to the ſhore, on ſounding they could find no bottom. Their anchors therefore were of no uſe. Four days they continued in this dreadful ſuſpence, tacking from ſide to ſide: on the 5th the fog cleared away, and they had a view at once of the terrors that ſurrounded them. They had, by ſome ſtrange accident, found their way into a bay, invironed on all ſides with precipices of immenſe height, covered with ſnow, and falling down to the water, in lofty rocks, which were every where perpendi⯑cular, except in ſome parts where the conſtant beating of the ſurge had hollowed them into caverns. The ſound they heard was from the waters ſwelling and ruſhing into theſe caverns, which abſorbing them, drove them out again with great fury againſt the rocks at their mouths, daſhing them into foam with a tre⯑mendous [166] ſound. Captain Meares now per⯑ceived the paſſage, through which he had been driven into this ſcene of horrors, and made his eſcape.

On reading ſuch accounts as theſe in a pic⯑tureſque light, one can hardly avoid making a few remarks on the grand effects which may often be produced by, what may be called, the ſcenery of vapour. Nothing offers ſo extenſive a field to the fancy in invented ſcenes; nothing ſubjects even the compoſitions of nature ſo much to the control and improvement of art. It admits the painter to a participation with the poet in the uſe of the machinery of uncertain forms; to which both are indebted for their ſublimeſt images. A ſublime image is perhaps an incorrect phraſe. The regions of ſublimity are not peopled by forms, but hints; they are not enlightened by ſunſhine, but by gleams and flaſhes. The tranſient view of the ſummit of a cliff towering over the maſt, filled the deſpair⯑ing ſeaman with more terror than if he had ſeen the whole rocky bay. It ſet his imagi⯑nation at work. The ideas of grace and beauty are as much raiſed by leaving the image half []

[167] immerſed in obſcurity, as the ideas of terror. Definition, which throws a light on philoſophic truth, deſtroys at once the airy ſhapes of fic⯑tion. Virgil has given more beauty in three words,

than he could have done in the moſt laboured deſcription; as Grey likewiſe has in the two following lines, though ſome cold critic would probably aſk for an explanation:

It is by ſnatches only that you catch a glimpſe of ſuch beauties. Would you analyſe them, the viſion diſſolves in the proceſs; and diſap⯑pears, like life purſued to its laſt retreat by the anatomiſt. You ruin the image by determining its form, and identifying its tints.

As we proceeded farther along the heights of Quantoc, we had views of the promontory of Minehead, which forms a more beautiful coaſt than Bridgewater-bay: the land is higher and more varied. Here we had ſtill a diſtinct view of the Briſtol channel, and the coaſt of [168] Wales. The ſea, as is not uncommon, hap⯑pened to be beautifully variegated. It had a reddiſh hue with a tinge of rainbow green, which being mixed together, formed different gradations of kindred colours; and ſometimes going off in purple, gave the ſurface of the ocean a great reſplendency.

Minehead ſeems by its ſituation to confirm what we were told, that its harbour was the beſt and ſafeſt in this part of the coaſt. When the great ſtorm of 1703 ravaged all theſe ſhores with peculiar fury, Minehead was the only harbour which could defend it's ſhipping. It is chiefly uſeful in the Iriſh trade, as it lies in the midway between Ireland and Briſtol.

In ſo ordinary a town as Watchet, we were ſurpriſed to find ſo handſome a pier. But in many of the ports along this coaſt, though inconſiderable in appearance, we ſee a great air of buſineſs. This little Mediterranean is crowded with ſkiffs paſſing and repaſſing; and has a briſk trade within itſelf in corn, metals, lime-ſtone, and other commodities. The coaſt about Watchet is very rocky; and the crevices of the rocks are curiouſly veined with alabaſter, [169] which makes a part of the traffic of the place. But the ſtone from which the greateſt advan⯑tage is derived, is a kind of pebble, found on the ſhore, when the tide leaves it. Theſe peb⯑bles burn into lime of ſo peculiar a texture, that when placed under water, it aſſumes its original hardneſs. Even when pulverized, and laid upon land, it is turned into a kind of hard grit by the firſt ſhower of rain. In the found⯑ation of bridges, therefore, and all ſtone-work, which lies under water, the lime of Watchet is exceedingly valued. A ſpecies of this kind of lime, Mr. Bryant informs us, was in uſe among the Romans: the foundation-ſtones particu⯑larly of the great mole at Puteoli were united by this cement ^*.

From Watchet we purſued our route along the coaſt. The promontory of Minehead ſtill continued the principal feature of the view. As we approached it, a woody hill, which in the diſtance adhered to the promontory, began more and more to detach itſelf from it: and as we came ſtill nearer we diſcovered a light airy building on its ſummit, which by degrees ap⯑peared [170] to be an unfiniſhed edifice with its ſcaf⯑folding about it. In this condition it has pro⯑bably a more pictureſque effect than it will have, when it has completely taken the form which ſeems to be intended. At a diſtance it had the appearance of the Sibyl's temple at Tivoli: the tower is round, and the ſcaffolding annexed the idea of a range of ruined pillars ſupporting the roof.

As we turned a little from the ſea, Dunſter-caſtle, the ſeat of Mr. Lutterell, opened before us at about the diſtance of half a mile, and made a ſtriking appearance. It is, indeed, on the whole, one of the grandeſt artificial objects we had met with on our journey. Its towers, which are pictureſque, ariſe near the ſummit of a woody hill, which ſeems connected with an⯑other hill, much higher, though it is in fact de⯑tached from it. This apparent union makes the compoſition more agreable, and is of great advantage to the view. It takes away that idea of art which an inſulated hill would be apt to raiſe. The conſequence of this grand object is greatly increaſed by a dead flat between it and the eye. Broken ground in []

[171] itſelf is more beautiful; but a flat often carries the eye more directly to a capital object, with which alſo it often very agreably contraſts. I ſpeak, however, undecidedly, becauſe ſome⯑times it is otherwiſe. But in the preſent caſe we thought the approach by a flat had a good effect.

From the terrace of the caſtle we had a great variety of amuſing landſcapes; though nothing very intereſting. We obtained a good idea, however, of the form of the country; and found that Dunſter-caſtle, which ſtands high, is ſurrounded, though at a conſiderable diſ⯑tance, by grounds that are much higher. In this amuſing circle round the walls of the caſtle, we had three diſtinct ſpecies of landſcape, a park-ſcene; a tract of mountainous country; and a ſea-coaſt.

In the time of the civil wars, Dunſter-caſtle had a reſpectable name; and was conſidered as one of the ſtrongeſt of the King's garriſons in the weſt. When his affairs were in the wane after the battle of Naiſby, it was fixed on as the beſt place of refuge for the Prince of Wales; but the plague immediately breaking out in the town of Dunſter, ſome other place of ſecurity was ſought for.

[172]At Dunſter, we were told, there is a very elegant Gothic church, built in the time of Henry VII. when it is commonly ſuppoſed Gothic architecture was in its pureſt ſtate; though I think it was rather, as all arts end in refinement, at that period, on the decline. Whether this church, however, were of elegant architecture, or not, the late intelligence we received did not ſuffer us to examine. We had already left the place; and when there, had conceived the caſtle to be the only thing worth viſiting.

From Dunſter, in our route to Dulverton, we had a pleaſant ride for half a dozen miles, through a winding valley, and along the ſides of hills on the left, which came ſloping down with their woody ſkirts to the road. But we ſoon exchanged theſe vallies for a naked open country; and the woody hills for dreary ſlopes, cut into portions, by naked hedges, unadorned by a ſingle tree.

As we left Dulverton, in our way to Tiver⯑ton, we entered another pleaſing valley, wooded [173] thick with oaks, which climbed a ſteep on the right, and formed a hanging grove. On the left ran the Ex, a rapid rocky-channelled ſtream, ſhaded likewiſe with trees. Beyond the Ex, the ground roſe in a beautiful park-ſcene; in the midſt of which ſtands the houſe of Sir Thomas Acland.

From hence to Tiverton the country affords nothing that is ſtriking. We had hills; but they were tame and uniform, following each other in ſuch quick ſucceſſion, that we rarely found either a foreground or a diſtance. As we mounted one, we had another immediately in view. At Tiverton are the remains of a caſtle, which was formerly the manſion of the earls of Devonſhire.

SECT. XVII.

FROM hence we travelled through the ſame kind of hilly country towards Barnſtaple. In our way we turned aſide to ſee Lord For⯑teſcue's at Caſtlehill, where we did not think we were ſufficiently repaid for going ſo far out of our way. Lord Forteſcue has improved a large tract of ground; but with no great taſte or contrivance ^*. Into one error he has parti⯑cularly fallen, that of over-building his im⯑provements. From one ſtand we counted eight or nine buildings. This is the common error of improvers. It is a much eaſier matter to erect a temple, or a Palladian bridge, than to improve a piece of ground with ſimplicity and beauty, and give it the air of nature. One of his buildings, an old caſtle upon a hill, from which his place, I ſuppoſe, takes its name, ſtands beautifully. Little more, I ſhould think, in the way of building, would have been ne⯑ceſſary. [175] This lofty caſtle might be object ſuf⯑ficient from almoſt every part of his improve⯑ments.

As we approached Barnſtaple, the view from ſome of the high grounds is very grand, com⯑poſed on one ſide of Barnſtaple-bay, and on the other of an extenſive vale; the vale of Taunton carrying the eye far and wide into its rich and ample boſom. It is one of thoſe views which is too great a ſubject for painting. Art, confined by the rules of pictureſque com⯑poſition, muſt keep within the compaſs of inch, foot, and yard. But ſuch ſlender confines cannot rouſe the imagination like theſe exten⯑ſive ſcenes of nature. The painter, jealous of his art, will ſometimes deny this. If the pic⯑ture, he tells us, be well painted, the ſize is nothing. His canvas (however diminutive) has the effect of nature, and deceives the eye. You are affected, ſays he, by a landſcape ſeen through the pane of a window. Why may you not be equally affected by a landſcape well painted within the ſame dimenſions?

It is true, the eye is frequently impoſed upon. It is often purpoſely miſled by tricks of deception. [176] But it is not under the idea of deception, that the real artiſt paints. He does not mean to impoſe upon us, by making us believe that a picture of a foot long is an extended landſcape. All he wiſhes is, to give ſuch characteriſtic touches to his picture, as may be able to rouſe the imagi⯑nation of the beholder. The picture is not ſo much the ultimate end, as it is the medium, through which the raviſhing ſcenes of nature are excited in the imagination.—We do in⯑deed examine a picture likewiſe by the rules of pictureſque compoſition: but this mode of examination we are not now conſidering. The rules of compoſition ſerve only to make the picture anſwer more effectually its ultimate end. We are now conſidering only the effect which the picture produces on the mind of the ſpec⯑tator, by carrying him forcibly, and yet will⯑ingly, with his eyes open, into thoſe ſcenes which it deſcribes.

It is juſt the ſame in every ſpecies of paint⯑ing. The portrait-painter muſt raiſe the idea of wit, or humour, or integrity, or good ſenſe, or piety, or dignity, in the character of the per⯑ſon whoſe portrait he repreſents, or he does nothing. In hiſtory too, unleſs the picture rouſe the imagination to ſomething more than [177] you ſee on the canvas, it leaves half its work undone. You coolly criticiſe it indeed by pic⯑tureſque rules. But that is not all. It ought to raiſe in you thoſe ideas and ſentiments which paint cannot expreſs; that is, it ſhould produce ſomething in you, which the painter could not produce on his canvas.

On the whole, then, the true enjoyment of the picture depends chiefly on the imagination of the ſpectator; and as the utmoſt the landſcape-painter can do, is to excite the ideas of thoſe de⯑lightful ſcenes which he repreſents, it follows, that thoſe ſcenes themſelves muſt have a much greater effect on the imagination, than any re⯑preſentation of them which he can give; that is, the idea muſt be much more ſtrongly ex⯑cited by the original, than by a repreſentative. The fact is, art is a mere trifler compared with Nature. The efforts of both, it is true, may be called the works of God: but the difference lies here. In the efforts of art, God works with thoſe little inſtruments called men; he works in miniature. But when he works in the grand ſtyle of nature, the elements are his inſtru⯑ments ^*.

SECT. XVIII.

THE approach to Barnſtable from the lower grounds, is as beautiful as from the higher. The river, the bridge, the hills beyond it, and the eſtuary in the diſtance, make all together a good landſcape. The town itſelf alſo, ſituated about nine or ten miles from the ſea, ſtands in a pleaſant vale, ſhut in by hills, forming a ſe⯑milunar cove around it. When the tides are high, it is almoſt inſulated. The flat grounds which lie immediately about it make an agree⯑able contraſt with the hills. Once theſe grounds were little better than marſhes; but by proper draining, they are now become beautiful mea⯑dows. In a word, Barnſtable is the pleaſanteſt town we met with in the weſt of England.

From hence to Torrington the country is unintereſting; but between Torrington and Oakhampton it aſſumed a better appearance. In ſome parts of it we had grand diſtances; in other parts hanging woods; particularly a [179] very noble one belonging to Mr. Harris, which travelled with us a conſiderable way on the left, and afforded us a view ſometimes over it, and ſometimes through it, but at all times pleaſing.

From Oakhampton we viſited the falls of Lidford, which compoſe the moſt celebrated piece of ſcenery in this country.

Lidford was formerly a town of the firſt conſequence in England. In William the Con⯑queror's time it was taxed pretty nearly on an equality with London. As tin was at that time the ſtaple commodity of the country, Lidford might draw its conſequence from being one of the principal marts of that metal. Here afterwards a ſtannery-court was kept. The caſtle, in which it was held, is ſtill in being. It is a large ſquare tower, rather out of repair, than in ruin. Near it ſtands the pariſh church; and at a diſtance we had a view of another church, loftily ſeated, called Brentor. But the falls of Lidford are a mile and half from the caſtle.

In our way, we were to paſs a bridge, which, we were informed, was thrown over the rocky [180] ſides of two frightful precipices of the river Lid, each eighty feet high. The idea was ter⯑rific; and we expected a very grand ſcene. But we were diſappointed, from the omiſſion of a ſingle circumſtance in the intelligence, which was, that the ſeparation between theſe two tre⯑mendous precipices is little more than the cre⯑vice of a rock; and, in fact, we had paſſed it before we knew we had been upon it. It is only ſeen by looking over the battlements of the bridge. If the day be clear, you juſt diſ⯑cover the river foaming among rocks many fa⯑thoms below. If not, you muſt be content with liſtening to its roar. The muſic, how⯑ever, is grand; for if the river be full, the notes ſwell nobly from the bottom, varied, as they are, by aſcending ſo narrow and broken a funnel.

We were told a ſtory of a London rider, who travelled this road in a ſtormy night; and being deſirous to eſcape the rain, as quickly as he could, puſhed his horſe with what exertion his whip and ſpurs could excite. The next morning he heard that Lidford bridge had been carried away in the night, when he recollected that his horſe had made a ſingular bound in the middle of its courſe. In fact, he had ſeen bet⯑ter [181] in the dark than his maſter, and had ſaved both his own life and his rider's by ſpringing over the chaſm.

In the back ſettlements of Virginia, at the bottom of the Allegeny mountains, near a place called Stanton, there is a ſpecimen of this mode of ſcenery in a very grand ſtyle. A valley winds ſeveral leagues in length, and yet is ſcarce any where more than a hundred feet wide; though in many places it is two hun⯑dred and fifty deep. It is adorned in various parts with rock; and ſecured by lofty moun⯑tains, covered with wood. This valley, through much of its courſe, is little more than the chan⯑nel of a conſiderable river. But in one part the rocks approximate ſo nearly as to form a complete natural arch, not only over the river, but over the valley itſelf. When Nature mi⯑mics (if I may ſo ſpeak) the works of man, for bridges are not a natural production, you ſee the comparative magnificence of her operations not only in their vaſtneſs, but in the careleſs ſimplicity with which they are wrought. When the hand of man throws an arch over a river or a chaſm, he piles up a number of little ſtones or bricks, fixing them with cement carefully and painfully, one upon [182] another, in a certain regular ſhape. All is nicety, exactneſs, and preciſion. If one ſtone be fixed awry, the whole ſtructure is endan⯑gered. But when Nature throws an arch, her firſt operation perhaps is, to bury deep in the ſoil one end of ſome vaſt diagonal or hori⯑zontal ſtratum of rock, flinging the other end athwart over the chaſm; or, if that be not ſufficient, ſhe unites it perhaps to the fragment of a rock, formed in the ſame manner on the other ſide of a valley. Sometimes ſhe works in a ſtill grander ſtyle, and forms her arch of one ſingle maſs of perforated ſtone, which in her way ſhe hews into a vaſt irregular ſurface. In both operations it is evident a variety of forms muſt reſult. Sometimes the arch is pointed; ſometimes it is flat and horizontal; and often varied into ſome nameleſs form. When the grand maſs of the edifice is thus reared, Nature proceeds to ornament. She leaves the cornice and the baluſtrade to human artiſts. Her ornaments are of a different kind. She firſt ſpreads the whole over with ſoil. In the American arch here ſpecified, the thickneſs of the ſoil, including the ſubſtratum of rock, is at leaſt forty feet. This is a depth of ſoil ſuffi⯑cient for trees of conſiderable ſize; many of [183] which adorn the arch. Among theſe Nature has planted various ſhrubs and hanging buſhes, which are often highly coloured, and, ſtream⯑ing down, wave in the wind in great profuſion. Then perhaps with one of her broadeſt pencils ſhe daſhes the ſides of the rock with a thou⯑ſand beautiful ſtains from moſſes, and other in⯑cruſted vegetation of various kinds, which finiſh and complete the operation.

Such an arch is the American one we are now ſurveying; which, on the authority of an eye-witneſs, I have heard deſcribed as a moſt magnificent ſtructure of the kind. Sometimes, I underſtand, when the water is low, the tra⯑veller may walk under it, ſurvey its maſſy abutments, and looking up admire its tremen⯑dous roof, raiſed at the vaſt height of at leaſt two hundred feet above his head, and froſted over with various knobs and rocky protube⯑rances, which have ſtood for ages, though they continually threaten ruin. When he hath ſa⯑tisfied his curioſity below, he may find a path, [184] which leads him to the top. There he meets a commodious road which is the only paſſage the inhabitants have over the valley. He finds alſo, in different parts, a rude rocky parapet; and if his curioſity carry him farther, he may cling to ſome well-rooted plant, and have a perpendicular view to the river below, as ter⯑rific as the view he had juſt had over his head. He will probably ſee alſo on one ſide, the river as it approaches, and on the other as it retires. Many beauties, I doubt not, might likewiſe be pointed out from this ſtation. But what I have heard chiefly noticed, are the rocky hills which environ the valley, and ſhoot into it, here and there, in vaſt promontories, covered with ſtately pines and oaks, which perhaps flouriſhed, as they now do, in the days of Co⯑lumbus. Let us now return to humbler ſcenes.

The channel of the Lid, though contracted at the bridge, ſoon widens, both below it and above, and would afford many beautiful ſcenes to thoſe who had leiſure to explore them. This river riſes about three or four miles above Lidford, on the edge of Dartmore, and flowing through a barren plain, finds a ſmall rocky barrier, through which it has, in a courſe of ages, worn a whimſical paſſage. As it iſſues []

[185] from the check it meets with here, it falls about thirty feet into a ſmall dell, which was not repreſented to us as a ſcene of much beauty. But a little farther the banks riſe on each ſide; vegetation riots, the ſtream deſcends by a winding and rapid courſe; and the ſkreens, though ſmall, are often beautifully adorned with wood and rock. By this time the river approaches the bridge, where it is loſt in the narrowneſs of the channel, and, as I have juſt obſerved, becomes almoſt ſubterranean.

From the bridge we proceeded directly to what are emphatically called the falls of Lid⯑ford, which are about three miles below. We alighted at a farm-houſe, and were conducted on foot to the brow of a ſteep woody hill, from which we had a grand view of Lidford-caſtle, which appeared now, at a diſtance, more proudly ſeated than it ſeemed to be when we rode paſt it. Of the river we ſaw nothing, but could eaſily make out its channel, under the abutments of grand promontories, which marked its courſe.

Having viewed this noble landſcape, we de⯑ſcended the hill by a difficult winding path, and at the bottom found the Lid. The appear⯑ance which the river and its appendages made [186] here from the lower grounds were equally pleaſing, though not ſo grand as from the higher. Indeed no part of this magnificent ſcenery would be a diſgrace to the wildeſt and moſt pictureſque country.

The fall of the river, which brought us hi⯑ther, and which is the leaſt conſiderable part of the ſcenery, (for we had heard nothing of theſe noble views,) is a mere garden-ſcene. The ſteep woody hilt, whoſe ſhaggy ſides we had deſcended, forms at the bottom, in one of its envelopes, a ſort of little woody theatre; ra⯑ther indeed too lofty when compared with its breadth, if Nature had been as exact as Art would have been, in obſerving proportion. Down the central part of it, which is lined with ſmooth rock, the river falls. This rocky cheek is narrow at the top, but it widens as it deſcends, taking probably the form of the ſtream, when it is full. At the time we ſaw it, it was rather a ſpout than a caſcade; for though it ſlides down a hundred and eighty feet, it does not meet one obſtruction in its whole courſe, except a little check in the middle. When the ſprings are low, and the water has not quantity enough to puſh itſelf forward in one current, I have been told, it ſometimes falls [187] in various little ſtreams againſt the irregulari⯑ties of the rock, and is daſhed into a kind of vapoury rain, which has a good effect.

This caſcade, it ſeems, is not formed by the waters of the Lid, as we had ſuppoſed from its name; but by a little ſtream, which runs into that river, riſing in the higher grounds, at the diſtance of about two miles from the caſcade.

SECT. XIX.

FROM Lidford we found a cheerful coun⯑try to Taviſtock. In our way we paſſed Brentor, which we had ſeen at a diſtance when we firſt ſaw the caſtle of Lidford. It is ſeated on the top of a mountain, and was enveloped, when we rode paſt it, in all the majeſty of darkneſs. In fact, it was ſo much immerſed in clouds, that we could not even diſtinguiſh its form; and if we had not ſeen it before at a diſtance, we ſhould have been at a loſs to have known what it was; though we ſhould certainly have thought it rather a caſtle than a church. How very lofty its ſituation is, may be ſuppoſed from its being a good ſea-mark in opening Plymouth harbour, though it ſtands at the diſtance of twenty miles from the ſea.

At Taviſtock, from the appearance which the river Tavey makes at the bridge, it is pro⯑bable there may be ſome beautiful ſcenes along its banks, but we had not time to explore them.

[189]As to the abbey, though it was once of mi⯑tred dignity, and though a conſiderable por⯑tion of it ſtill remains, we did not obſerve a ſingle paſſage that was worth our notice. What is left is worked up into barns, mills, and dwell⯑ing-houſes. It may give the antiquarian plea⯑ſure to reverſe all this metamorphoſis; to trace back the ſtable to the Abbott's lodge; the mill to the refectory; and the malt-houſe to the chapel: but the pictureſque eye is ſo far from looking at theſe deeds of economy under the idea of pleaſure, that it paſſes by them with diſdain, as heterogeneous abſurdities.

From Taviſtock our next ſtage was to Laun⯑ceſton, through what ſeemed an unpleaſant country. But the whole road was involved in ſo thick a fog, that we ſaw but little of it. Where we could have wiſhed the fog to clear up, it fortunately did, at a place called Ax⯑worthy. Here we deſcended a ſteep winding woody hill, through the trees of which we had beautiful views of tufted groves, and other ob⯑jects on the oppoſite ſide. At the bottom we found the Tamar, a fine ſtream, adorned with a pictureſque bridge.

[190]The road ſoon brought us to Launceſton, the capital of Cornwall, which is a handſome town. The caſtle was formerly eſteemed one of the ſtrongeſt fortreſſes of the weſt, as we may ſuppoſe at leaſt from the name it bore, which was that of Caſtle-terrible. During the civil wars of Charles I. It continued among the laſt ſupports of the royal cauſe in thoſe parts: though it has ſuffered great dilapi⯑dations ſince that time, its remains are ſtill re⯑ſpectable; and, what is more to the purpoſe at preſent, they are pictureſque. The great gate and road up to it, and the towers that adorn it, make a good picture. The ſtately citadel makes a ſtill better. It is raiſed on a lofty eminence, and conſiſts of a round tower, en⯑compaſſed by the ruins of a circular wall; in which, through a wide breach, you diſcover the internal ſtructure to more advantage. The conſtruction of this whole fortreſs is thought to have been very curious; and they who wiſh to have a full account of it, may be gra⯑tified in Borlaſe's Hiſtory of Cornwall.

[]

[191]A little to the north of Launceſton lies Wer⯑rington, an eſtate belonging to the Duke of Northumberland. The park contains many beautiful ſcenes, conſiſting of hanging lawns and woods, with a conſiderable ſtream, the Aire, running through it. In ſome parts, where the ground is high, the views are extenſive. Many antiquarians ſuppoſe this to have been the ſeat of Orgar Earl of Devonſhire, whoſe beautiful daughter, Elfrida, is the ſubject of one of the moſt affecting ſtories in the Engliſh hiſtory, and one of the pureſt dramatic com⯑poſitions in the Engliſh language.

Somewhere in this neighbourhood lived Thomaſine Percival; at what time, I find not; but the ſtory of this extraordinary woman is ſtill current in the country. She was originally a poor girl, and being beautiful, had the fortune to marry a rich clothier, who dying early, left her a well-jointured widow. A ſecond advan⯑tageous match, and a ſecond widowhood, in⯑creaſed her jointure. Being yet in the bloom of youth and beauty, her third huſband was Sir John Percival, a wealthy merchant of Lon⯑don, of which he was Lord Mayor. He alſo [192] left her a widow with a large acceſſion of for⯑tune. Poſſeſſed of this accumulated property ſhe retired to her native country, where ſhe ſpent her time and fortune altogether in works of generoſity and charity. She repaired roads, built bridges, penſioned poor people, and por⯑tioned poor girls, ſetting an example, which ſhould never be forgotten among the extraor⯑dinary things of this country.

From Launceſton we travelled as far into Cornwall as Bodmin, through a coarſe naked country, and in all reſpects as unintereſting as can well be conceived. Of wood, in every ſhape, it was utterly deſtitute.

Having heard that the country beyond Bod⯑min was exactly like what we had already paſſed, we reſolved to travel no farther in Cornwall; and inſtead of viſiting the Land's-end, as we had intended, we took the road to Leſcard, propoſing to viſit Plymouth in our return.

An antiquarian, it is probable, might find more amuſement in Cornwall than in almoſt any country in England. Even along the road [193] we ſaw ſtones, and other objects, which ſeemed to bear marks both of curioſity and antiquity. Some of the ſtones appear plainly to be monu⯑mental: the famous Hurlers we did not ſee.

The naturaliſt alſo, the botaniſt, and the foſ⯑ſiliſt, eſpecially the laſt, might equally find Cornwall a country full of intereſting objects. Here his ſearch would be rewarded by a great variety of metals, foſſils, ſtones, pebbles, and earths.

Here too the hiſtorian might trace the va⯑rious ſcenes of Druid rites, and of Roman and Daniſh power. Here alſo he might inveſti⯑gate ſome of the capital actions of the civil wars of the laſt century; and follow the foot⯑ſteps of Fairfax, Sir Beville Grenville, Lord Hopton, and other great commanders in the weſt. The battle of Stratton, in which the laſt of thoſe generals commanded, was an action maſterly enough to have added laurels to Caeſar, or the King of Pruſſia. Indeed we could have wiſhed to have gone a few miles farther to the north of this country, to have inveſtigated the ſcene of this action. Lord Clarendon has deſcribed it ſo accurately, that it can hardly be miſtaken. It was a hill, ſteep on all ſides, bordering, if I underſtand him rightly, [194] on a ſandy common. On the top were en⯑camped a body of 5400 of the parliament forces, with thirteen pieces of cannon, under the Earl of Stamford. At five o'clock in the morning, on the 16th of May 1642, the roy⯑aliſts attacked them with very inferior force, in four diviſions, who mounted four different parts of the hill at once. After a well-fought day, they all met about three in the afternoon at the top, and congratulated each other on having cleared the hill of the enemy, and taken their camp, baggage, ammunition, and cannon. The ſcene of ſo notable an exploit may be ſtill per⯑haps pointed out by the inhabitants of the country. From Lord Clarendon's deſcription, however, it may certainly be found.

It is probable alſo that, in a pictureſque light, many of the caſtles of this county might have deſerved attention; many of the coaſts might have amuſed us with elegant ſweeping lines, and many of the bays might have been nobly hung with rockey ſcenery. We ſhould have wiſhed alſo to have heard the winds howl among the bleak promontories of the Land's-end; to have ſeen, through a clear evening, the light fall indiſtinctly on the diſtant iſles of Scilly; and to have viewed the waves beating [195] round the rocks of that ſingular ſituation, Mount St. Michael. The loſs of this laſt ſcene we regretted more than any thing elſe. But to travel over deſarts of drearineſs in queſt of two or three objects ſeemed to be buying them at too high a price; eſpecially as it is poſſible they might have diſappointed us in the end. Many a time has the credulous traveller gone in queſt of ſcenes on the information of others, and has found (ſuch is the difference of opinions) that what gave his informant pleaſure, has given him diſguſt.

SECT. XX.

IN returning from Bodmin, we paſſed over that part of Bradoc-downs, where Lord Hopton's proweſs was again ſhewn in giving a conſiderable check to the parliament's forces in thoſe parts. This wild heath, and much of the neighbouring country, is in the ſame ſtyle of dreary landſcape, with that we had found between Launceſton and Bodmin. So very undiſciplined the country ſtill is, that the wild ſtags of nature, in many parts, claim it as their own. We did not ſee any of them; but we were told, they ſometimes ſhew themſelves on the high moors about Bodmin and Leſcard.

And yet theſe are the lands, wild as they are, that are the richeſt of the country. They bear little corn, it is true; but it is very im⯑material what the ſurface produces: the har⯑veſt lies beneath. In this neighbourhood ſome of the richeſt of the Corniſh mines are found; and Leſcard, where we now were, is one of the Coinage-towns, as they are called. Of theſe towns there are five, which are ſcattered [197] about the different parts of Cornwall, where mines are moſt frequent. After the tin is pounded, and waſhed from the impurities of the mine, it is melted, ſeparated from its droſs, and run into large ſquare blocks, con⯑taining each about three hundred pounds weight. In this form it is conveyed to the Coinage-town, where it is aſſayed and ſtamped. This ſtamp makes it a ſaleable commodity.

We had not, however, the curioſity to enter any of theſe mines. Our buſineſs was only on the ſurface. Great part of this country, it is true, is in a ſtate of nature, which in general is a ſtate of pictureſque beauty; but here it was otherwiſe. Our views not only wanted the moſt neceſſary appendages of landſcape, wood, and water, but even form. We might, perhaps, have ſeen this part of Cornwall in an unfa⯑vourable light; as the ſweeping lines of a country depend much for their beauty on the light under which they are ſeen; but to us they appeared heavy, unbroken, and unaccom⯑modating. In the wild parts of Scotland, where this drearineſs of landſcape often oc⯑curred, we had ſtill a diſtance to make amends for the fore-grounds. It was rarely that we had not a flowing line of blue mountains, [198] which gave a grandeur and dignity even to an impoveriſhed ſcene. But in theſe wild parts of Cornwall we ſometimes ſaw a face of coun⯑try, (which is rather uncommon in the wildeſt ſcenes of nature,) without a ſingle beauty to re⯑commend it.

This drearineſs, however, had begun to im⯑prove before we arrived at Leſcard. Planta⯑tions, though meagre only, aroſe in various parts; and the country aſſumed ſomewhat of a more pleaſing air; particularly on the right towards Leſtwithiel. The high grounds formed interſections; ſomething like a caſtle appeared on one of them, and the woody decorations of landſcape in ſome degree took place.

As we left Leſcard, the country ſtill im⯑proved. Extenſive ſides of hills, covered with wood, aroſe among the fore-grounds, and rang⯑ing in noble ſweeps, retired into diſtance. Theſe burſts of ſylvan ſcenery appeared with particular beauty at a place called Brown's-woods. Here too we were entertained with an incidental beauty. The whole ſky in front was hung with dark clouds to the very ſkirts of the horizon. Behind us ſhone the brighteſt [199] ray of an evening ſun, not yet indeed ſetting, but very ſplendid: and all this ſplendor was received by the tops of trees, which roſe di⯑rectly in front, and being oppoſed to the gloomy tint behind them, made a moſt bril⯑liant appearance. This is among the moſt beautiful effects of an evening-ſun. Theſe effects are indeed as various as the forms of landſcape which receive them; but nothing is more richly enlightened than the tufted foliage of a wood.

We now approached the ſea, at leaſt the river Tamer, which is near its eſtuary; and as this coaſt is perhaps one of the moſt broken and irregular of the whole iſland, we had ſe⯑veral views of little creaks and bays, which being ſurrounded with wood, are often beau⯑tiful. But they are beautiful at full-ſea only; at the ebb of the tide, each lake becomes an oozy channel.

The pictureſque beauty of a ſcene of this kind once coſt a poor traveller dear. He had long been in queſt of a ſituation for a houſe, and found one at length offered to ſale, ex⯑actly ſuited to his taſte. It was a lake ſcene; [200] in which a little peninſula, ſloping gently into the water, preſented from its eminence a pleaſ⯑ing view of the whole. Charmed with what he had ſeen, he ruminated in his way home on the various improvements it might admit; and fearing a diſappointment, entered, without farther ſcrutiny, into an agreement with the owner, for a conſiderable ſum. But what was his aſtoniſhment, when, on taking poſſeſſion, his lake was gone, and in its room, a bed of filthy ooze! How did he accuſe his raſhneſs, and blame his precipitate folly! In vain he wiſhed to retract his bargain. In vain he pleaded, that he had been deceived; that he had bought a lake; and that, in fact, the ob⯑ject of his purchaſe was gone. ‘You might have examined it better,’ cried the unfeeling gentlemen of the law: ‘What have we to do with your ideas of pictureſque beauty? We ſold you an eſtate, and if you impoſed upon yourſelf, you have nobody elſe to blame.’

From the road, as we paſſed, we had a view of Trematon-caſtle, where a ſtannery court is ſtill kept, which had formerly very extenſive []

[201] privileges. Trematon-law is almoſt to this day an object of reverence among the common people of Cornwall.

Soon after, Saltaſh-bay opened on the left, and on the right, Hamoaz harbour, with many a gallant ſhip of war at anchor upon its ample boſom. Beyond the Hamoaz roſe the hang⯑ing lawns and woods of Mount Edgcomb, forming a noble back-ground to the ſcene.

At Saltaſh we had good views of the river Tamer, both above and below the town. A ſweeping bay is formed on each ſide, in many places at leaſt a mile in breadth. In both di⯑rections the banks are high, and the water re⯑tires beautifully behind jutting promontories.

Having croſſed the Tamer at Saltaſh, we had four miles farther to Plymouth. Through the whole way we had various views of the the ſound, Mount Edgcomb, Plymouth har⯑bour, Hamoaz, Plymouth town, and Plymouth dock. From all theſe views together we were able to collect a clear geographical idea of this celebrated harbour.

[202]Two rivers, the Tamer and the Plym, (the firſt of which is conſiderable,) meeting the ſea at the diſtance of about three miles aſunder, form at their ſeparate mouths two indented bays. Theſe two bays open into a third, which is the receptacle of both, and larger than either. The bay formed by the Tamer, is called the Hamoaz; that formed by the Plym is called Plymouth Harbour; and the large bay, into which they both open, is called the Sound. At the bottom of the Sound, where the two bays communicate with it, lies St. Nicolas, a large iſland, fortified with a caſtle and ſtrong works; which are intended to defend the en⯑trance into both theſe inlets. The entrance into Hamoaz is very intricate; for the iſland can be paſſed only at that end next Plymouth; which makes the paſſage narrow and winding. The entrance at the other end is wide and direct; but is defended by a dangerous ſhelf of hidden rocks; the ſituation of which ap⯑pears plainly at low-water from the ripling of the tide above them. The Corniſh ſide of Ha⯑moaz is formed by Mount Edgcomb.

SECT. XXI.

PLymouth-dock, or Dock-town, as it is often called, lies at the entrance of Ha⯑moaz, and is about two miles diſtant from the town of Plymouth. It is chiefly worth viſit⯑ing, as it is the ſtation of the docks, ſtorehouſes, gun-wharfs, and other appendages of this noble arſenal; which is a wonderful ſight to thoſe who have ſeen nothing of the kind. The ci⯑tadel too, and the victualling-office, which is cloſe to it; the bake-houſe alſo, and the ſlaugh⯑ter-houſe, (whatever unpleaſant ideas may ac⯑company the latter,) are all grand objects of their kind.

Among the things which attracted our at⯑tention at Plymouth-dock were the marble quarries. We ſaw ſeveral of the blocks po⯑liſhed; and thought them more beautiful than any foreign marble. The ground is dark brown, the veining red and blue. The colours are ſoft in themſelves, and intermix agreeably; [204] whereas in the Sienna, and other foreign marbles, there is often, amidſt all the richneſs of their colours, a glare and harſhneſs in their mixtures, diſagreeable to the pictureſque eye, which always wiſhes to unite harmony with colouring. In the verde antique the tints are ſufficiently ſoft; but they are ſo much the ſame, and broken into ſuch minute parts, that they have no effect, when exhibited in quantity. After all, however, different kinds of marble are ſuited to different purpoſes. But I think there are two rules which ſhould direct the choice of all marbles. In columns, and other large ſurfaces, the parts ſhould be large; that is, the veins of the marble ſhould be conſpicuous. I think alſo that no marble, in any ſituation, can be beautiful, unleſs there be a degree of ſoft⯑neſs and harmony in it: if it be veined, for in⯑ſtance, the veins ſhould, in ſome parts, ſtrike out boldly, and in other parts ſink and retire, as it were, into the ground of the marble, leaving only ſlight traces of their colours here and there behind them. In both theſe reſpects I have thought the columns in the hall at Kid⯑delſton in Derbyſhire models of beauty. It will, however, be underſtood, that when form [205] or inſcription is required, veined marble of any kind is improper. In ſome works, as in moſt kinds of ornaments, the marble itſelf is the principal object: in others, as in ſtatuary and inſcription, the marble is only the vehicle.

With the Plymouth marble, in its rough ſtate, moſt of the buildings of the dock are conſtructed. The refuſe burns into excellent lime. Between Launceſton and Kellington, I have heard there is a ſpecies of marble found almoſt purely white; but as I never heard of its being applied to any uſe, I ſuppoſe it is only of a ſpurious kind.

There is alſo another ſpecies of beautiful ſtone much in uſe at Plymouth, which is of Corniſh extraction, and is found chiefly on the moors, from whence it is called the Moor-ſtone. The beſt kind of it is a perfect granite, and will bear a poliſh; though the ſpars ſome⯑times fly off in the operation, and leave an un⯑equal ſurface. The more friable kind of this ſtone ſpangles the road with an excellent bind⯑ing gravel.

Among the ſights of a dock-yard, the ca⯑reening of a ſhip is not the leaſt pictureſque. We happened to ſee an operation of this kind [206] in great perfection. The ſhip itſelf, lying on one ſide, is a good object. Its great lines, which in an upright ſtate are too regular, take now more pleaſing forms; and while the roll⯑ing volumes of ſmoke harmonize the whole, the fire glimmering, ſparkling, or blazing, is ſome⯑times enveloped in theſe black voluminous eddies, and ſometimes brightening up, breaks through them in tranſient ſpiry blazes.

But as light is beſt ſupported by ſhade, a conflagration by night, from whatever cauſe produced, has the grandeſt effect. By day the effect depends chiefly on the ſmoke, aided per⯑haps by ſome accidental objects; as it was here by the pitchy ſide of a veſſel. But at night, the darkneſs of the hemiſphere makes the grandeſt oppoſition. The light is concen⯑trated to one ſpot, only variouſly broken, as it may happen to fall on different objects. At the ſame time it receives the full beauty of gradation. The ruddy glow which ſpreads far and wide into the regions of night, gra⯑duates, as it recedes from its centre, and be⯑coming fainter and fainter, is at laſt totally loſt in the ſhades of darkneſs. A conflagration, therefore, by night preſents us with the juſteſt [207] ideas of the great principles of light and ſhade. It gives a body of light variouſly broken; and at length dying gradually away.

A common bonfire, ſurrounded by a few figures ſcattered about it in groups, forms often a beautiful ſcene. That paſſage, in which Shakeſpeare deſcribes the camp-fires of the French and Engliſh, gives us a different pic⯑ture. In that deſcription the fires are diſtant; and the paly flames juſt umber the faces that watch round them. Touched with the pencil, they ſhould be marked only as ruddy ſpecks: all diſtinction of feature is loſt. But round a bonfire on the ſpot you ſee action and paſſion diſtinctly repreſented; the hat waved, the agi⯑tated body, and the lips of the bawling mouth, all marked with the ſtrongeſt effects of light; while ſome of the figures, which ſtand be⯑tween the eye and the fire, are as pictureſquely diſtinguiſhed by being totally in ſhade.

Grand indeed, though dreadful, is the con⯑flagration of houſes; eſpecially if thoſe houſes have any dignity of form. The burſts of fire from windows and doors, the illumination of the internal parts of a ſtructure, and the va⯑ried force of the fire on the different materials it meets with, which may be more or leſs com⯑buſtible, [208] are all circumſtances highly pictu⯑reſque. It may be added alſo, that wind makes a great difference in the appearance of a conflagration; and yet I know not whether its moſt ſplendid effects are not ſeen beſt in a calm.

But the operations of war produce ſtill grander effects of this kind. The burning of ſhips is productive of greater ideas, and more pictureſque circumſtances, than the burning of houſes. The very reflections from the water add great beauty. But theſe repreſentations are among the difficult attempts of the pencil. Vanderveld, who did every thing well, and burnt many a ſhip in a truly pictureſque man⯑ner, failed moſt in his grandeſt work, the burn⯑ing of the Armada. Some parts of his pic⯑tures on this ſubject at Hampton Court are maſterly; but in general they are but an indif⯑ferent collection of Vanderveld's works. Pro⯑bably the ſubject was impoſed on him; and when that is the caſe, the painter ſeldom arrives at the excellence which his own ſubjects pro⯑duce. It cannot well indeed be otherwiſe; for the choice of a ſubject is, in other words, that juſt arrangement of it, which he conceives ia his own mind, both in regard to compo⯑ſition [209] and light. So that when a ſubject is impoſed, the arrangement is to ſeek; and it is probable, he may not eaſily find one that ſuits his ſubject. Beſides, he ſets to it without that enthuſiaſm which ſhould animate his pencil. When the Empreſs of Ruſſia, therefore, em⯑ployed Sir Joſhua Reynolds, ſhe did well in leaving him to chooſe his own ſubject. One thing, indeed, which injures Vanderveld in burning the Armada pictureſquely, is the num⯑ber of fires he is obliged to introduce, which can never have ſo good an effect as one.

But among all the grand exhibitions of this kind, the ſiege of Gibraltar furniſhes two of the nobleſt. They had every circumſtance to recommend them. They were grand in their own nature; they were connected with great and proſperous events, which is a recommend⯑ation of any ſubject; and they were actions performed in the night. The firſt relates to the burning of the enemy's batteries by a ſally from the garriſon; the ſecond, to the deſtruc⯑tion of the battering ſhips. I ſhall give them both in the words of a publiſhed Journal of that ſiege, in which the effects are well de⯑ſcribed ^*.

[210] ‘Nov. 27, 1781. The batteries were ſoon in a ſtate for the fire-faggots to operate, and the flames ſpread with aſtoniſhing rapidity into every part. The column of fire and ſmoke, which rolled from the works, beauti⯑fully illumined the troops, and neighbour⯑ing objects; forming all together a coup d'ail not poſſible to be deſcribed.’

‘Sept. 13, 1782. About an hour after mid⯑night one of the battering-ſhips was com⯑pletely in flames; and by two o'clock ſhe appeared one continued blaze from ſtem to ſtern. Between three and four o'clock, ſix other ſhips were on fire. The light thrown out on all ſides by the flames, illumined the rock, and all the neighbouring objects; forming, with the conſtant flaſhes of our cannon, a mingled ſcene of ſublimity and terror ^*.’ The former of theſe ſcenes would have made a good picture: the latter, if repre⯑ſented, ſhould be taken, when one ſhip only was completely in flames, with ſmall appear⯑ances of fire in ſome of the others.

At the end of the 8th book of Homer we have the effects of an illumination very pictu⯑reſquely [211] detailed. Hector [...]aving driven the Greeks to their intrenchments, was prevented by the night from completing his victory. Reſolving therefore to puſh it the next morn⯑ing, inſtead of retreating to Troy, he encamped under its walls in the field of battle, where

Homer, however, has nothing to do with moſt of theſe pictureſque images. They are only to be found in Pope's tranſlation. Though it may be faſhionable to depreciate this work, as a tranſlation, it muſt at leaſt be owned, that Pope, who was a painter, has enriched his ori⯑ginal with many of the ideas of his art.

But ſtill, in all theſe operations, however grand, the fire ravages only the works of man. To ſee a conflagration in perfection, we muſt ſee the elements engaged. Nothing is eminently grand, but the exertion of an element. The effect of the air is grand, when excited by a ſtorm. Piles of earth or mountains are ſuperbly [212] grand. The ocean in a ſtorm is ſtill grander: and the effect of fire, when let looſe in its full fury, carries the idea of grandeur to a ſtill greater height.

One of the moſt aſtoniſhing effects of this kind, which is any where to be met with, may be found in the 70th volume of the Philoſo⯑phical Tranſactions, in a letter from Sir William Hamilton. It contains the account of an erup⯑tion of Mount Veſuvius, in the autumn of the year 1779. The whole relation is full of grand ideas; but the parts of it, to which I particu⯑larly allude, were the concluding efforts of the eruption; from which I ſhall ſelect a few cir⯑cumſtances.

The relater, who was an eye-witneſs, tells us, that on Saturday the 7th of Auguſt, as he was watching the agitations of the mountain from the mole of Naples, which gave him a diſtinct view of it, a violent ſtorm came on, juſt as the volcano was throwing out ſome of its fierceſt fires. The clouds of black ſmoke ſometimes covered great part of the fire; at other times diſparting, preſented it in fuller view. This awful conjunction of light and ſhadow, was farther aſſiſted by various tints, which were produced by lights reverberated [213] from the clouds, and by pale flaſhes of light⯑ning, which were continually iſſuing from them.

But the appearance of the volcano, the next day, was ſtill more ſublime. About nine o'clock in the morning, a loud report iſſued from the mountain, which ſhook the houſes of Por⯑tici to ſuch a degree, as to alarm the inhabit⯑ants for their ſafety, and drive them into the ſtreets. Immediately volumes of liquid fire, or rather, as the relater deſcribes it, fountains of red-hot lava, ſhot upwards to ſuch an amaz⯑ing height, that they ſeemed three times as high as the mountain itſelf, which is computed to riſe three thouſand feet from the level of the ſea. Together with theſe volumes of liquid fire, vaſt clouds of the blackeſt ſmoke ſucceeded each other in burſts, intercepting this ſplendid brightneſs here and there by maſſes of the darkeſt hue.

The wind was ſouth-weſt; and though gen⯑tle, was ſufficient to put the ſmoke into mo⯑tion, removing it by degrees ſo as to form be⯑hind the fire a vaſt curtain, ſtretching over great part of the hemiſphere. To add to the ſolemnity, this black curtain was continually diſparted by pale, momentary, electric fires. [214] In the mean time, the other parts of the ſky were clear, and the ſtars ſhone bright. The contraſt was glorious beyond imagination. The ſplendor, which was ſufficiently balanced by the ſhadowy curtain behind it, illumined the ſea, which was perfectly calm, far and wide, and added much to the ſublimity of the ſcene.

Some of the fiery lava being thrown on mount Somna, in the neighbourhood of Ve⯑ſuvius, its woods were frequently in a blaze. This introduced a ſecondary light, very differ⯑ent in its tint, either from the fiery red of the volcano, or the ſilvery blue of the electric fire.

This grand and awful viſion, in which as ſub⯑lime an effect of light and ſhade was preſented, as Nature perhaps ever exhibited before, laſted about half an hour.

I make no apology for introducing all theſe grand effects of fire, as I never think myſelf out of ſight of my ſubject, when I can lay hold of any pictureſque idea.

SECT. XXII.

OUR curioſity having been gratified among the dock-yards at Plymouth, led us next to viſit Mount Edgcomb.

The promontory of Mount Edgcomb run⯑ning a conſiderable way into the ſea, forms, as was juſt obſerved, one of the cheeks of the en⯑trance of Hamoaz-harbour, which is here half a mile acroſs. The whole promontory is four or five miles long, and three broad. In ſhape it is a perfect dorſum, high in the middle, and ſloping gradually on both ſides towards the ſea; in ſome places it is rocky and abrupt.

Lord Edgcomb's houſe ſtands half way up the aſcent, on the Plymouth ſide, in the midſt of a park, containing an intermixture of wood and lawn. It makes a handſome appearance with a tower at each corner; but pretends only to be a comfortable dwelling.

The great object of Mount Edgcomb is the grandeur of the views. As we advanced towards the ſummit of the promontory, we ſaw, in various exhibitions, on one ſide, all the [216] intricacies and creeks, which form the harbour of Plymouth; with an extenſive country ſpreading beyond it into very remote diſtance; and ſcattered with a variety of objects; among which we diſtinguiſhed the well-known fea⯑tures of Brentor.

The other ſide of the promontory overlooks the Sound, which is the great rendezvous of the fleets ſitted out at Plymouth; though ſea⯑men ſpeak very indifferently of its anchorage. One of the boundaries of this extenſive bay is a reach of land running out into pointed rocks; the other is a lofty ſmooth promontory, called the Ram's-head. The top of this promontory is adorned with a tower, from which notice is given at Plymouth, by a variety of ſignals, of the number of ſhips, and their quality, that appear in the offing.

Between the Ram's-head and Mount Edg⯑comb is formed a ſmaller inlet, called Cauſand-bay, at the head of which lies Kingſton. Be⯑fore this little town rode a large fleet of what appeared to be fiſhing boats; but we were in⯑formed that moſt of them were ſmuggling veſſels.

The ſimplicity of the few objects which form the Sound on one ſide, made a pleaſing [217] contraſt with the intricacies of the Plymouth-coaſt on the other.

At the diſtance of about three leagues from the Ram's-head, ſtands the Edyſtone light-houſe. We could juſt diſcern it, as it caught a gleam of light, like a diſtant ſail.

Having viewed from the higher grounds of Mount Edgcomb this immenſe landſcape, which is, on both ſides, a mere map of the country, and has little pictureſque beauty, eſpe⯑cially on the Plymouth ſide, we deſcended the promontory, and were carried on a lower ſtage round its utmoſt limits.

The grounds here are profuſely planted. On that ſide which overlooks Cauſand-bay, the plantations are only young; but on the other, which conſiſts of at leaſt half the promontory, they are well-grown, and form the moſt pleaſ⯑ing ſcenes about Mount Edgcomb. That im⯑menſe map, as it lay before the eye in one view from the higher grounds, and appeared vari⯑ouſly broken and ſcattered, was now divided into portions, and ſet off by good foregrounds. Some of theſe views are pleaſing; but in ge⯑neral they are not pictureſque. A large piece of water full of moving objects, makes a part [218] of them all; and this will always preſent at leaſt an amuſing ſcene.

The trees, both evergreens and deciduous, are wonderfully fine, conſidering their ſea-aſ⯑pect. But chiefly the pine-race ſeems to thrive; and among theſe the pinaſter, which, one ſhould imagine, from its hardy appearance, to be indigenous to the ſoil. The woodman would diſlike that great abundance of hoary moſs, which bedecks both it and moſt of the other plants of this marine ſcenery; but to the pictureſque eye, the vegetation ſeems perfect; and the moſs a beauty. It is moſs of a pecu⯑liar form, at leaſt of an unuſual growth. Its hue is generally cerulean, with a ſtrong touch here and there of Naples-yellow, mixed with other pleaſing tints, which being ſcattered pro⯑fuſely about the whole plantation, give it an uncommon richneſs. In theſe woods the ar⯑butus grows in great perfection, and many other ſhrubs, which are generally found only in ſheltered ſituations.

Beſides a luxuriance of wood, a variety of rocky ſcenery embelliſhed our walk, eſpecially about the vertical point of the promontory. It is a well-coloured brown rock; which appears [219] in all forms. Nor is it bald and naked, but every where garniſhed with twirling boles and hanging ſhrubs.

Upon the whole, though there are many formalities about Mount Edgcomb, terraces particularly, and viſtas near the houſe, a few puerilities alſo ^*, and too little advantage taken every where of the circumſtances which na⯑ture has pointed out; yet it is certainly a noble ſituation, and very well worth the attention of a traveller.

SECT. XXIII.

AMONG the curioſities of this coaſt, the Edyſtone light-houſe is not one of the leaſt. About three leagues beyond Plymouth-ſound, in a line nearly between ſtart-point and the Lizard, lie a number of low rocks, exceed⯑ingly dangerous at all times, but eſpecially when the tides are high, which render them in⯑viſible. On theſe rocks it had long been thought neceſſary to place ſome monitory ſignal. But the difficulty of conſtructing a light-houſe was great. One of the rocks indeed, which com⯑poſe this reef, is conſiderably larger than the reſt: yet its dimenſions are ſtill narrow; it is often covered with water, and frequently, even in the calmeſt weather, ſurrounded by a ſwell⯑ing ſea, which makes it difficult to land upon it; and much more ſo to carry on any work of time and labour. The uncommon tumult of the ſea in this place is occaſioned by a pecu⯑liarity in the rocks. As they all ſlope and point to the north-eaſt, they ſpread their inclined ſides, of courſe, to the ſwelling tides and ſtorms [221] of the Atlantic. And as they continue in this ſhelving direction many fathoms below the ſur⯑face of the ſea, they occaſion that violent work⯑ing of the water, which the ſeamen call a ground ſwell. So that after a ſtorm, when the ſurface of the ſea around is perfectly ſmooth, the ſwells and agitation about theſe rocks are dangerous. From theſe continual eddies the Edyſtone de⯑rives its name.

The firſt light-houſe of any conſequence, erected on this rock, was undertaken by a per⯑ſon of the name of Winſtanley, in the reign of King William. Mr. Winſtanley does not ap⯑pear to have been a man of ſolidity and judg⯑ment ſufficient to erect an edifice of this kind. He had never been noted for any capital work; but much celebrated for a variety of trifling and ridiculous contrivances. If you ſet your foot on a certain board in one of his rooms, a ghoſt would ſtart up; or if you ſat down in an elbow-chair, its arms would claſp around you. His light-houſe, which was built of wood, par⯑took of his whimſical genius. It was finiſhed with galleries, and other ornaments, which en⯑cumbered it, without being of any uſe. It was, however, on the whole, much admired as a very ingenious edifice, and Winſtanley cer⯑tainly [222] deſerved the credit of being the firſt pro⯑jector of a very difficult work. He had fixed it to the rock by twelve maſſy bars of iron, which were let down deep into the body of the ſtone. It was generally indeed thought well founded; and the architect himſelf was ſo con⯑vinced of its ſtability, that he would often ſay, he wiſhed for nothing more than to be ſhut up in it during a violent ſtorm. He at length had his wiſh; for he happened to be in it, at the time of that memorable ſtorm on the 26th of November 1703, which hath been already mentioned ^*. As the violence, however, of the tempeſt came on, the terrified architect began to doubt the firmneſs of his work: it trembled in the blaſt, and ſhook in every joint. In vain he made what ſignals of distreſs he could in⯑vent, to bring a boat from the ſhore. The ter⯑rors of the ſtorm were ſuch, that the boldeſt veſſel durſt not face it. How long he conti⯑nued in this melancholy diſtreſs is unknown; but in the morning no appearance of the light-houſe was left. It and all its contents, during that terrible night, were ſwept into the ſea. This cataſtrophe furniſhed Mr. Gay with the [223] following ſimile in his Trivia, which was writ⯑ten a few years after the event:

A light-houſe was again conſtructed on this rock before the concluſion of Queen Anne's reign. It was undertaken by one Rudyard, who built it alſo of wood, but having ſeen his predeceſſor's errors, avoided them. He followed Winſtanley's idea in the mode of fix⯑ing his ſtructure to the rock; but he choſe a plain circular form, without any gallery, or uſeleſs projecting parts for the ſtorm to faſten on. To give ſtability alſo to his work, he ju⯑diciouſly introduced, as ballaſt at the bottom, 270 tons of ſtone. In ſhort, every precaution was taken to ſecure it againſt the fury of the two elements of wind and water, which had de⯑ſtroyed the laſt. But it fell by a third. Late one night, in the year 1755, it was obſerved from the ſhore to be on fire. Its upper works having been conſtructed of light timber, pro⯑bably could not bear the heat. It happened fortunately that Admiral Weſt rode with a [224] fleet at that time in the Sound; and being ſo near the ſpot, he immediately manned two or three ſwift boats. Other boats put off from the ſhore; but though it was not ſtormy, it was impoſſible to land. In the mean time the fire having deſcended to the lower parts of the building, had driven the poor inhabitants upon the ſkirts of the rock; where they were ſitting diſconſolate, when aſſiſtance arrived. They had the mortification, however, to find that the boats, through fear of being daſhed in pieces, were obliged to keep aloof. At length it was contrived to throw coils of rope upon the rock, which the men tied round them, and were dragged on board through the ſea. The caſe of one of theſe poor fellows, who was above 90 years of age, was ſingular. As he had been endeavouring to extinguiſh the fire in the cupola, where it firſt raged, and was looking up, the melted lead from the roof came trickling down upon his face and ſhoulders. At Plymouth he was put into a ſurgeon's hands; and, though much hurt, he appeared to be in no danger. He conſtantly, however, affirmed, that ſome of the melted lead had fallen down his throat. This was not believed, as it was thought he could not have ſurvived ſuch a [225] circumſtance. In twelve days he died; and Mr. Smeaton ſays, he ſaw the lead, after it had been taken out of his ſtomach; and that it weighed ſeven ounces ^*.

The next light-houſe, which is the preſent one, was built by Mr. Smeaton, and is con⯑ſtructed on a plan, which it is hoped will ſe⯑cure it againſt every danger. It is built entirely of ſtone, in a circular form. Its foundations are let into a ſocket in the rock, on which it ſtands, and of which it almoſt makes a part; for the ſtones are all united with the rock, and with each other, by maſſy dove-tails. The ce⯑ment uſed in this curious maſonry is the lime of Watchet ^†, from whence Mr. Smeaton con⯑trived to bring it barrelled up in cyder-caſks; for the proprietors will not ſuffer it to be ex⯑ported in its crude ſtate. The door of this in⯑genious piece of architecture is only the ſize of a ſhip's gun-port; and the windows are mere loop-holes, denying light to exclude wind. When the tide ſwells above the foundation of the building, the light houſe makes the odd ap⯑pearance of a ſtructure emerging from the waves. But ſometimes a wave riſes above the [226] very top of it, and circling round, the whole looks like a column of water, till it breaks into foam, and ſubſides.

The care of this important beacon is com⯑mitted to four men; two of whom take the charge of it by turns, and are relieved every ſix weeks. But as it often happens, eſpecially in ſtormy weather, that boats cannot touch at the Edyſtone for many months, a proper quan⯑tity of ſalt proviſion is always laid up, as in a ſhip victualled for a long voyage. In high winds ſuch a briny atmoſphere ſurrounds this gloomy ſolitude from the daſhing of the waves, that a man expoſed to it could not draw his breath. At theſe dreadful intervals the two forlorn inhabitants keep cloſe quarters, and are obliged to live in darkneſs and ſtench; liſten⯑ing to the howling ſtorm, excluded in every emergency from the leaſt hope of aſſiſtance, and without any earthly comfort, but what is adminiſtered from their confidence in the ſtrength of the building in which they are im⯑mured. Once, on relieving this forlorn guard, one of the men was found dead, his compa⯑nion chuſing rather to ſhut himſelf up with a putrifying carcaſe, than, by throwing it into the ſea, to incur the ſuſpicion of murder. In [227] fine weather, theſe wretched beings juſt ſcram⯑ble a little about the edge of the rock, when the tide ebbs, and amuſe themſelves with fiſhing; which is the only employment they have, ex⯑cept that of trimming their nightly fires.

Such total inaction and entire ſecluſion from all the joys and aids of ſociety, can only be endured by great religious philoſophy, which we cannot imagine they feel; or by great ſtu⯑pidity, which in pity we muſt ſuppoſe they poſſeſs.

Yet though this wretched community is ſo ſmall, we were aſſured it is generally a ſcene of miſanthropy. Inſtead of ſuffering the recol⯑lection of thoſe diſtreſſes and dangers in which each is deſerted by all but one, to endear that one to him, we were informed the humours of each were ſo ſoured, that they preyed both on themſelves, and on each other. If one ſat above, the other was commonly found below. Their meals too were ſolitary, each, like a brute, growling over his food alone.

We are ſorry to acknowledge a picture like this to be a likeneſs of human nature. In ſome gentle minds we ſee the kind affections rejoice in being beckoned even from ſcenes of inno⯑cence, [228] mirth, and gaiety, to mingle the ſympa⯑thetic tear with affliction and diſtreſs. But ex⯑perience ſhews us, that the heart of man is equally ſuſceptible of the malevolent affections; and religion joins in confirming the melan⯑choly truth. The pictureſque eye, in the mean⯑time, ſurveys natural and moral evil, under characters entirely different. Darken the ſtorm; let looſe the winds; let the waves overwhelm all that is fair and good; the ſtorm will be ſub⯑lime, and the cataſtrophe pathetic; while the moral tempeſt is dreary, without grandeur, and the cataſtrophe afflicting, without one pictu⯑reſque idea.

The emolument of this arduous poſt is twenty pounds a year, and proviſions while on duty. The houſe to live in may be fairly thrown into the bargain. The whole together is, perhaps, one of the leaſt eligible pieces of preferment in Britain: and yet from a ſtory, which Mr. Smeaton relates, it appears there are ſtations ſtill more ineligible. A fellow, who got a good livelihood by making leathern-pipes for engines, grew tired of ſitting conſtantly at work, and ſolicited a light-houſe man's place, which, as competitors are not numerous, he [229] obtained. As the Edyſtone-boat was carrying him to take poſſeſſion of his new habitation, one of the boatmen aſked him, what could tempt him to give up a profitable buſineſs to be ſhut up, for months together, in a pillar? "Why," ſaid the man, ‘becauſe I did not like con⯑finement.’

SECT. XXIV.

AT Plymouth we heard much of the ſcenery upon the Tamer, of which we had had a little ſpecimen at Axworthy ^*. We reſolved therefore to navigate that river as far as the Weir, which is about twenty-two miles above Plymouth, and as far as we could have the ad⯑vantage of the tide. Procuring therefore a good boat, and four ſtout hands from the Ocean man of war, then lying in the Hamoaz, we ſet ſail with a flowing tide.

The river Tamer riſes from the mountains of Hartland, near Barnſtaple-bay, in the north of Devonſhire, and, taking its courſe almoſt due ſouth, divides that county from Cornwall. No river can be a more complete boundary. As it approaches Plymouth, it becomes a noble eſtuary. The Hamoaz is eſteemed, after Portſ⯑mouth, the beſt ſtation for ſhips of war upon the Britiſh coaſt. This grand bay, which was the firſt ſcene we inveſtigated on the Tamer, is []

[231] about a mile in breadth, and ſeven miles in length; though the larger ſhips we obſerved ſeldom to anchor above a league from the ſea. Its banks on each ſide, though rather low, are by no means flat. They are generally culti⯑vated; and the ſhore is finiſhed by a narrow edging of rock.

The next view we had of any conſequence, was the opening towards St. German's on the left. This is a creek about three leagues in length. The woods of Anthony occupy one ſide of the opening; and a houſe which appeared at a diſtance in the centre, is Ince, a ſeat of the Killigrews.

Soon after, we came in ſight of Saltaſh, which ſtands high, but affords no very pic⯑tureſque appearance. When we croſſed the ferry the day before, the views of the creek from the hill preſented a beautiful ſcene, both above and below the town ^*; but when the eye is ſtationed upon the water, the retiring reaches of the river are loſt, and the landſcape is much impaired.

Our next ſcene was the opening of the Tavey into the Tamer. Sir Harry Trelaw⯑ney's [232] houſe was one of the principal objects of this view. The diſtance was compoſed chiefly of the Dartmore hills. The banks of the Tamer were ſtill low, and cultivated; and bore no proportion to the extent of the water, which did not begin to contract itſelf, nor the banks to ſwell, till we had proceeded nine or ten miles up the river.

The firſt ſcene, which in any degree en⯑gaged our attention, was compoſed of the woods of Pentilly, on the Corniſh ſide. The houſe too is a good object, and a building at the bottom of the bank has a pictureſque ap⯑pearance; though its dignity was degraded when we learned it was only a lime-kiln. Lime is the chief commodity of trade on this river, employing many large boats in tranſporting it; and the lime-kilns, which we ſee in many places on its banks, are of ſuch noble dimen⯑ſions, that they may, at a little diſtance, be miſ⯑taken for caſtles, without any imputation on the underſtanding. They are among the greateſt ornaments of the river. The back⯑ground of the ſcenery of Pentilly, is a lofty bank adorned with a tower, to which belongs a hiſtory.

[233]Mr. Tilly, once the owner of Pentilly-houſe, was a celebrated atheiſt of the laſt age. He was a man of wit, and had by rote all the ri⯑baldry and common-place jeſts againſt religion and ſcripture; which are well ſuited to diſplay pertneſs and folly, and to unſettle a giddy mind, but are offenſive to men of ſenſe, what⯑ever their opinions may be, and are neither in⯑tended nor adapted to inveſtigate truth. The brilliancy of Mr. Tilly's wit, however, carried him a degree farther than we often meet with in the annals of prophaneneſs. In general the witty atheiſt is ſatisfied with entertaining his contemporaries; but Mr. Tilly wiſhed to have his ſprightlineſs known to poſterity. With this view, in ridicule of the reſurrection, he obliged his executors to place his dead body, in his uſual garb, and in his elbow-chair, upon the top of a hill, and to arrange, on a table be⯑fore him, bottles, glaſſes, pipes, and tobacco. In this ſituation he ordered himſelf to be im⯑mured in a tower of ſuch dimenſions, as he preſcribed; where he propoſed, he ſaid, pati⯑ently to wait the event. All this was done, and the tower, ſtill incloſing its tenant, remains as a monument of his impiety and prophane⯑neſs. [234] The country people ſhudder as they go near it:

As we ſailed farther up the river, we came in view of the rocks and woods of Coteil, which are ſtill on the Corniſh ſide, and afford ſome beautiful ſcenery. Here we had grand ſweeping hills, covered with wood. At the bottom of one of them ſtands a noble lime-kiln-caſtle, which is relieved by a lofty back⯑ground.

Near the bottom of another ſtands a ſmall Gothic ruin, ſituated, with much pictureſque beauty, in a woody receſs. It was formerly a votive chapel, built by a chief of the Coteil fa⯑mily; though ſome ſay by one of the Edg⯑combs. Its founder had engaged on the unſuc⯑ceſsful ſide, during one of the periods of the dubious wars of York and Lancaſter. His party being beaten, he fled for his life; and as he was a man of conſequence, was cloſely pur⯑ſued. The Tamer oppoſed his flight. He made a ſhort vow to the Virgin Mary, threw himſelf into the river, and ſwam ſafe to the promontory, before which we now lay on our []

[235] oars. His upper garment, which he had thrown off, floated down the ſtream; and giving occa⯑ſion to believe he had periſhed, checked the ardour of purſuit. In the mean time Coteil lurked in his own woods, till a happier mo⯑ment; and in the day of ſecurity raiſed this chapel to the holy Virgin, his protectreſs, who had the full honour of his eſcape.

We have the ſtory ſometimes told other⯑wiſe, and given to the times of Charles I.; but a ſtory of ſo late a date, one ſhould ima⯑gine, might have been better aſcertained, than this ſeems to be; and if the chapel have any connection with the ſtory, it is much more credible, that a votive-chapel ſhould have been erected in the 15th century, when we know they were common, than in the 17th, when ſuch ſtructures were never heard of.

At Coteil-houſe we landed, which is entirely ſurrounded with wood, and ſhut out from the river. If it were a little opened, it might both ſee and be ſeen to advantage. To the river particularly it would preſent a good object; as it ſtands on a bold knoll, and is built in the form of a caſtle. But it is a deſerted manſion, and occupied only as a farm-houſe. Here we re⯑freſhed ourſelves with tea, and larded our bread, [236] after the faſhion of the country, with clouted cream.

Round this old manſion grew ſome noble trees; and among them the Spaniſh cheſnut, full grown, and ſpread out in huge maſſy limbs. We thought theſe cheſnuts ſcarce in⯑ferior in grandeur to the proudeſt oaks. The cheſnut, on which Salvator Roſa has hung Edipus, is exactly one of them.

We had now ſailed a conſiderable way up the Tamer, and, during the whole voyage, had been almoſt ſolely obliged to the Corniſh ſhores for amuſement. But the Devonſhire coaſt, as if only collecting its ſtrength, burſt out upon us at Calſtock, in a grander diſ⯑play of lofty banks, adorned with wood and rock, than any we had yet ſeen, and continued without interruption through the ſpace of a league.

But it is impoſſible to deſcribe ſcenes, which, though ſtrongly marked, have no peculiar fea⯑tures. In Nature theſe lofty banks are infi⯑nitely varied. The face of each rock is differ⯑ent; it projects differently: it is naked, or it is adorned; or, if adorned, its ornaments are of different kinds. In ſhort, Nature's variations are as infinite on the face of a rock, as in the [237] face of a man. Each requires a diſtinct por⯑trait to characterize it juſtly; while language can no more give you a full idea of one, than it can of the other.

With the views of Calſtock we finiſhed our voyage up the Tamer; and though the banks of the river were diverſified both with rocks and woods, with open and contracted country; yet, conſidering the ſpace through which we had ſailed, and the high commendations we had heard of this river, it was, on the whole, leſs a ſcene of amuſement, than we had expected to find it. We had a few grand views; but in general the navigators of the Tamer find only ſome of the common characteriſtics of a river:

All is beautiful, ſylvan, and highly pleaſing; but if you aſk what we ſaw, we can only ſay in ge⯑neral, that we ſaw rocks, trees, groves, and woods. In ſhort, the whole is amuſing, but not pictureſque; it is not ſufficiently divided into portions adapted to the pencil.

The ſcenery itſelf, on the banks of the Ta⯑mer, is certainly good; but had it even been better, the form of the river could not have [238] ſhewn it to much pictureſque advantage. The reaches are commonly too long, and admit lit⯑tle winding. We rarely trace the courſe of the river by the perſpective of one ſkreen be⯑hind another; which in river views is often a beautiful circumſtance: and yet, if one of the banks be lofty, broken into large parts, and fall⯑ing away in good perſpective, the length of the reach may poſſibly be an advantage. In ſome parts of the Tamer we had this grand lengthened view; but in other parts we wiſhed to have had its continued reaches more con⯑tracted.

Theſe remarks, however, it muſt be obſerved, affect a river only in navigating it. When we are thus on a level with its ſurface, we have rarely more than a fore-ground; at moſt we have only a firſt diſtance. But when we take a higher ſtand, and view a remote river, lofty banks become then an incumbrance; and in⯑ſtead of diſcovering, they hide its winding courſe. When the diſtance becomes ſtill more remote, the valley through which the river winds ſhould be open, and the country flat, to produce the moſt pleaſing effect.

In the immenſe rivers that traverſe conti⯑nents, theſe ideas are all loſt. As you ſail up [239] ſuch a vaſt ſurface of water, as the Miſſiſſippi, for inſtance, the firſt ſtriking obſervation is, that perſpective views are entirely out of the queſtion. If you wiſh to examine either of its ſhores, you muſt deſert the main channel; and, knowing that you are in a river, make to one ſide or the other.

As you approach within half a league of one of the ſides, you will perhaps ſee ſtretches of ſand-banks, or iſlands covered with wood, extending along the ſhore, beyond the reach of the eye, which have been formed by de⯑predations made on the coaſt by the river; for when the winds rage, this vaſt ſurface of water is agitated like a ſea; and has the ſame power over its ſhores. As the trees of theſe regions are in as grand a ſtyle as the rivers themſelves, you ſometimes ſee vaſt excavations, where the water has undermined the banks, in which im⯑menſe roots are laid bare, and, being waſhed clean from the ſoil, appear twiſted into various forms, like the gates of a cathedral.

Though the banks of the Miſſiſſippi, we are told, are generally flat, you frequently ſee beau⯑tiful ſcenery upon them. Among the vaſt woods which adorn them, are many groves of cypreſſes; to which a creeping plant, called [240] the Liane, is often attached. What kind of flower it bears, I have not heard; but if it be not too profuſe, it muſt be very ornamental: hang⯑ing from tree to tree, and connecting a whole cypreſs-grove together with rich feſtoons.

Theſe woods are interſperſed alſo with lawns, where you ſee the wild deer of the country feeding in herds. As they eſpy the veſſel glid⯑ing paſt, they all raiſe their heads at once, and ſtanding a moment, with pricked ears, in amazement, they turn ſuddenly round, and darting acroſs the plain, hide themſelves in the woods.

From ſcenes of this kind, as you coaſt the river, you come perhaps to low marſhy grounds; where ſwamps, overgrown with reeds and ruſhes, but of enormous growth, ex⯑tend through endleſs tracts, which a day's ſail⯑ing cannot leave behind. In theſe marſhes the alligator is often ſeen baſking near the edge of the river, into which he inſtantly plunges on the leaſt alarm; or perhaps you deſcry his hide⯑ous form creeping along the ſedges, ſometimes hid, and ſometimes diſcovered, as he moves through a cloſer, or more open path.

Contraſts, like theſe, between the Tamer and the Miſſiſſippi, are amuſing, and ſet each ſcene [241] off to more advantage. The Tamer may be called a noble river; but what is it in point of grandeur, when compared with the Miſſiſſippi, which, at the diſtance of two thouſand miles from the ſea, is a wider ſtream than the Tamer, where it falls into it? On the other hand, though the Miſſiſſippi, no doubt, has its beauty; yet as a river, it loſes as much in this reſpect, when compared with the Tamer, as it gained in point of grandeur. In the Miſſiſſippi you ſeek in vain for the rocky banks and winding ſhores which adorn the Tamer, and are the glory of river-ſcenery.

To theſe contraſts I ſhall juſt add one more. As Lord Macartney and his ſuit, in their way to Canton, ſailed down one of the rivers of China, they paſſed under a rock of grey mar⯑ble, which aroſe from the water to the amaz⯑ing perpendicular height of ſix hundred feet. It was ſhagged with wood, and continued va⯑rying its form, but ſtill preſerving its immen⯑ſity, through the ſpace of at leaſt two miles. In ſome parts its ſummit beetled frightfully over the river, and gave an involuntary ſhud⯑der to the paſſenger, as he paſſed under its tre⯑mendous ſhade.

SECT. XXV.

AS we were leaving Plymouth, the town was greatly agitated with an account received that morning of the battle of Lexington, which happened on the 19th of April. We had been chiefly in company with General Bell of the marines; and as a large detachment from that corps was with the troops in America, the ge⯑neral's houſe was crowded with people inquir⯑ing after their relations and friends; while they who looked farther, conceived, that as blood was now drawn, all hope of accommo⯑dation was over.

We left Plymouth under the impreſſion of theſe melancholy ideas, till a ſucceſſion of new objects diſlodged them. By the Aſhburton road we took our route to Exeter.

About three miles from Plymouth ſtands Salterham, the ſeat of Mr. Parker. It is Mount Edgcomb in miniature; being ſituated on a [243] ſmall peninſula, and ſurrounded, not indeed by the ſea, but by a conſiderable creek.

Mr. Parker commands a view of St. Ni⯑cholas's iſland, Mount Edgcomb, and the Ram's-head; but though the objects are great, they did not appear to us either pictureſque in themſelves, or agreeably combined. The ground, particularly beyond the creek, is ill ſhaped.

The ſoil of Salterham ſeems as unkindly to vegetation, as Mount Edgcomb is friendly to it; and the creek it ſtands on, is entirely for⯑ſaken by the tide at ebb, and becomes a mere channel of ooze. Perhaps in our remarks here we were too much under the impreſſion of the gloomy ideas we had brought from Ply⯑mouth.

From Salterham, we purſued our route to Ivy-bridge; where, as far as we could judge from the appearance of the river, we ſhould have met with ſome beautiful ſcenery, if we had had time to examine it.

From hence we proceeded to Aſhburton, which lies among hills; and Chudleigh, where [244] are ſtone-quarries, which at a diſtance have the appearance of a grand range of natural rock. Here the biſhops of Exeter formerly reſided. The ruins of the epiſcopal palace may ſtill be traced.

We were but little amuſed, however, with any thing we ſaw in this country. The whole of it from Plymouth is but an unintereſting ſcene. Its very appearance on a map, ſhews, in ſome degree, its unpictureſque form. It is in⯑terſected with ſeveral rivers, which run in val⯑lies between oppoſite hills. Theſe hills we were continually aſcending or deſcending. When we had mounted one hill, we were pre⯑ſented with the ſide of another; ſo that all diſ⯑tance was ſhut out, and all variety of country intercepted. A pleaſant glade here and there, at the dip of a hill, we ſometimes had; but this did not compenſate for that tireſome ſameneſs of aſcent and deſcent which runs through the country.

At Chudleigh we left the great Exeter-road, to ſee Mamhead, and Powderham-caſtle. In our [245] way we mounted a ſort of grand natural ter⯑race, about ſeven miles in length, and three in breadth; though this indeed is a broader ſur⯑face than we commonly diſtinguiſh by that ap⯑pellation. The name of this eminence is Hal⯑down-hill.

From hence we had a grand, extenſive, and, in many parts, a pictureſque diſtance; conſiſt⯑ing firſt of the whole courſe of the Ex, from Exeter to the ſea, the city of Exeter, the town of Topſham, Sir Francis Drake's, and Powder⯑ham-caſtle. Beyond theſe objects, all of which ſeemed in the diſtance to adorn the banks of the river, the eye ranged over immenſe plains and woods, hills and vales. Of theſe the vale of Honiton, and other celebrated vales made a part. But they were mere ſpecks, too incon⯑ſiderable for the eye to fix on. Diſtance had preſſed all the hilly boundaries of theſe vales flat to the ſurface. At leaſt it had ſo dimi⯑niſhed them, that the proudeſt appeared only as a ripple on the ocean. The extreme parts of this vaſt landſcape were bounded by the long range of Sedbury-hills; which were tinged, when we ſaw them, with a light ether hue, ſcarce one ſhade removed from the colour [246] of the ſky; the whole immenſe ſcene, there⯑fore, without the leaſt interruption from the hills of the country, faded gradually into air.

A view of this kind gives us a juſt idea of the ſurface of the globe we inhabit. We talk of its inequalities in a lofty ſtile. Its mountains aſcend the ſkies; its vallies ſink down into depths profound. Whereas, in fact, its ine⯑qualities are nothing, when compared with its magnitude. If a comprehenſive eye, placed at a diſtance from the ſurface of the earth, were capable of viewing a whole hemiſphere toge⯑ther, all its inequalities, great as we make them, Mount Caucaſus, the Andes, Teneriffe, and all the loftieſt mountains of the globe, would be compreſſed, like the view before us; and the whole would appear perfectly ſmooth. To us, a bowling green is a level plain; but a minute inſect finds it full of inequalities.

In ſurveying the windings of the Ex, in its courſe to the ſea, we are reminded of a ſketch, by a great maſter, of the courſe of Aufente. It is ſlightly touched indeed, but with great ſpi⯑rit; and the diſtances are particularly well [247] marked. We have it at the end of the ſeventh Aeneid, where the pictureſque poet, led by his ſubject to mention ſome of the countries of Italy, gives us this pleaſing view:

In this landſcape we have firſt the fore-ground, compoſed of the Temple of Jupiter Anxur, proudly ſeated; and overlooking the neigh⯑bouring country.

The immediate diſtance conſiſts of the Temple of Feronia, marked by a grove, which adorns it, and a lake lying at its foot:

The lake to which the poet gives the epithet atra, had that deep black clear hue, which Claude and Pouſſin well knew produced often the beſt effect. In the ſecond diſtance all co⯑lour is gone; and the fading landſcape of courſe takes its aërial tinge. It is enough now, if a few principal objects are dimly ſeen. A wind⯑ing [248] river is the moſt diſtinguiſhable. It is diſ⯑covered only by its meanders along the plain:

It has not its courſe ſhaped out between high banks, but ſeeks out its paſſage, here and there, as the ſmall depreſſions of a flat country allow. Beyond all appears the ſea; but the diſtance here is ſo remote, that it is not marked with any degree of ſtrength: no epithet is applied: you can ſcarce diſtinguiſh it from the ſky. Criticiſms of this kind may ſeem refinement: but there is little doubt, I think, but the poet, in compoſing theſe lines, had ſome real land⯑ſcape ſtrongly formed in his imagination. Chance could not have marked all theſe diſ⯑tances ſo very exactly.

Having deſcended Haldown-hill, we ſaw Mamhead, the ſeat of Lord Liſburne, and Powderham-caſtle; though we had no time to examine either.

The former from a woody hill, which ſeems to be adorned with much beautiful ſcenery, commands a noble view over the mouth of the Ex. The latter ſtands on a knoll, overlooking []

[249] a flat park, bounded by the ſame river; but with a leſs amuſing view of it. The Ex in both theſe views is a grand tide channel; and in the former eſpecially is very beautiful. But we ſaw nothing in the diſtance either from Mamhead, or Powderham-caſtle, which Haldown-hill had not already ſhewn us, though not in all reſpects perhaps to ſo much advantage.

SECT. XXVI.

THE city of Exeter, which we ſoon reached, is by far the moſt conſiderable town in the weſt of England. It is ſeated rather eminently on the eaſtern ſide of the Ex. From this river it derives its name; which is a corruption of Ex⯑ceſter, or the caſtle on the Ex; a name which gives it a title to Roman origin. The anti⯑quarian, however, is not obliged merely to ety⯑mology for his proof of its antiquity. He points out veſtiges of Roman maſonry in the ſouth gate; he finds variety of coins; and he meaſures the length and breadth of the walls, which form a parallelogram by Roman feet.

Exeter is ſaid to be very regularly built, having two large airy ſtreets, running through the length and breadth of it, and uniting in the centre. It appeared to us, however, very in⯑cumbered. We were directed from the bridge to the great church through cloſe and diſagree⯑able alleys. The beſt part of the town we did not ſee; as our time allowed us to examine only the moſt remarkable buildings.

[]

[251]On the north ſide, the higheſt ground is oc⯑cupied by the ruins of Rugement-caſtle, for⯑merly the reſidence of Saxon kings. From the terrace of this caſtle, and from the walls of the town, we had the ſame extenſive view over the country, which we had before from Haldown-hill: but as we now ſaw them from a different ſtation, and from a lower point, they were leſs grand, but more pictureſque. Hills which were there compreſſed to the ſurface, began here to ariſe, and take their form in the land⯑ſcape; breaking the continued lines of diſtance, and creating new lights, and new ſhades with their varied elevations. Towards the mouth of the river, we were told, a light miſt often prevails, when the reſt of the landſcape to⯑wards the weſt is perfectly clear. We did not ſee any appearance of this kind; but I ſhould ſuppoſe it might frequently produce a good effect, not only from the beauty of the miſt it⯑ſelf, but from its clearing away ^*, and leaving ſome objects diſtinctly ſeen, and others but ob⯑ſcurely traced.

The good Biſhop Rundle, who was educated in this town, ſpeaks with pictureſque warmth [252] of the views from its public walks, and the great beauty of the landſcape around it. The climate he affirms to be ſo fine, that in no part of England trees ſhoot with more luxu⯑riance, or fruits ripen to a richer flavour. The fig and the grape, he ſays, ſcarce deſire better ſkies ^*.

Few places in England are more renowned in the annals of war, than Exeter. It was three times beſieged by the Danes, once by William the Conqueror, again by King Stephen, a ſixth time in the rebellion of Perkin Warbec in the time of Henry VII. again in a rebellion which broke out in the reign of Edward VI. and two or three times more in the civil wars of Charles I. On many of theſe occaſions it was regularly garriſoned; and the citizens had nothing to do with its defence. But when it reſted on them, they generally behaved with re⯑markable ſpirit. Many inſtances of their gal⯑lantry are preſerved in hiſtory. Henry VII. was ſo much pleaſed with their behaviour, in his time, that he paid them a viſit on purpoſe to thank them; and when he left the town, he took his ſword from his ſide, and preſenting it [253] to the Mayor, deſired it might always be car⯑ried before him; which it has been ever ſince.

The hiſtory of the great church at Exeter is remarkable. It was four hundred years in building, under the direction of ſeveral biſhops; each adding ſomething to complete the deſign; one of them even lengthened the nave of the church by two additional arches. Yet not⯑withſtanding this lapſe of time, in which the faſhion of architecture underwent ſo much change; and notwithſtanding the different ar⯑chitects employed, whoſe genius and taſte muſt have been very different, it is ſingular, that each ſucceeding biſhop hath ſo attentively pur⯑ſued the plan of his predeceſſor, that the whole together ſtrikes the eye as a uniform building. On examining the parts nicely, we may here and there diſtinguiſh the oppoſition of Saxon and Gothic; but, in general, they accord very happily. The weſt front is uncommonly rich, and adorned with figures. The nave of the church is fitted up for divine ſervice; which may be uſeful, but injures the effect.

The curious ſhould not forget, before he leave the church, to ſee the chalice and ſap⯑phire ring, which were dug out of a biſhop's grave, when a new pavement was laid about [254] twenty years ago. To what biſhop the ring belonged is only gueſſed; but it might be tole⯑rably aſcertained by a knowledge of the pro⯑greſs of art which ſome antiquarians poſſeſs. Such a knowledge gives the form and work⯑manſhip of theſe curious remains of antiquity to their proper period. If the traveller have a mind alſo to pleaſe his conductor, who leads him through the aiſles of the church, he may tell him, he has heard that the great bell, called Peter, weighs above a thouſand pounds more than Great Tom at Lincoln; and that the pipes of the organ are wider than thoſe of any organ in Europe. Both theſe accounts he will pro⯑bably hear confirmed with great ſolemnity, though the latter of them is a miſtake; and as to the former, both it and its rival at Lincoln are mere hand-bells compared with the great bell at Moſcow, which weighs 432,000 pounds, and meaſures at its mouth above twenty-one yards.

SECT. XXVII.

FROM Exeter to Honiton we paſſed through a rich country, yet ſomewhat flatter than we had met with on the weſtern ſide of Exeter. We found, however, here and there, an emi⯑nence, which gave us a view of the diſtances around. At Fair-mile-hill, particularly, a very extenſive view opened before us; but nothing can make it pleaſing, as it is bounded by a hard edge. A diſtance ſhould either melt into the ſky, or terminate in a ſoft and varied moun⯑tain line ^*.

This high ground, which appeared at a diſ⯑tance as a hard edge, is on the ſpot a grand ter⯑race, running eight or nine miles from Honi⯑ton to Sidmouth, preſenting ſometimes the ſea, and ſometimes a variety of hills, vales, and diſ⯑tances, with which the country abounds. We had not time, however, to explore the ſeveral beauties of the landſcape it overlooks. Night came on before we reached Honiton, and drew a veil over all the objects of the horizon.

[256]At Honiton we intended to ſleep; but it was ordered otherwiſe. This town having been twice burnt down within theſe laſt thirty years, the inhabitants take a very effectual me⯑thod to prevent the cataſtrophe a third time, by appointing all travellers to the office of watchmen. About twelve o'clock a fellow begins his operations with a monſtrous hand-bell, and a hoarſe voice, informing us, that all is ſafe. This ſerenade is repeated every quar⯑ter of an hour, with great propriety; for in that portion of time, it may reaſonably be ſup⯑poſed the traveller, who is ignorant of the in⯑ſtitution, and not accuſtomed to ſuch nocturnal⯑din in a country-town, cannot well get his ſenſes compoſed, eſpecially as his ear will naturally lie in expectation of each periodical peal. In the mean time, the ſly inhabitant, who is uſed to theſe noiſes of the night, enjoys a quiet repoſe. The inſtitution may be good: we only wiſhed it had been intimated to us before, that we might have had an option in the caſe.

We had now travelled between ſeventy and eighty miles from Plymouth, and found the whole of the country, (except the little devi⯑ation [257] we made from Chudleigh, to examine the ſcenery about the Ex,) unvaried and unin⯑tereſting. Like an immenſe piece of high furrowed land, at leaſt as far as Exeter, it is continually riſing and falling; and though it has its beauties, yet they are chiefly ſeen near the coaſt, where its vallies break down, and open to the ſea; and where its eſtuaries often form very pleaſing ſcenes.

The road from Plymouth to Honiton, by the ſea-coaſt, was the road we ought to have taken; but as it had not been pointed out to us as particularly pictureſque, we took the upper road merely for want of better information. I ſhall, however, give the reader a ſketch of the coaſt, from ſome hints which I have had on good pictureſque authority. I have alſo my⯑ſelf ſeen a great variety of accurate drawings of this coaſt, which have given me a ſtrong idea of its character.

SECT. XXVIII.

FROM Plymouth, according to this route, you make the firſt ſtage to Totneſs; and ſo far the country wears nearly the ſame face which it did between Plymouth and Aſh⯑burton. You croſs the ſame rivers, aſcend the ſame hills, and fall into the ſame vallies.

This is a country, however, in which the farmer glories; though the painter treats it with neglect. Here the acre fills the buſhel with abundant increaſe; and here the ox does credit to his paſture. But though the country abounds in corn and paſturage, cyder is its ſtaple. The cyder of the South Hams, which is the name of a great part of this country, is every where famous.

At Totneſs you meet the Dart; down which river you may ſail, about ſix or ſeven miles, to Dartmouth. This little navigation I have heard much extolled as a peculiar ſcene of beauty; but I have heard others on whoſe judgment I can more rely, ſpeak of it with leſs emotion. And yet I can eaſily imagine, [259] that two people of equally pictureſque taſte, may conceive differently of the ſame ſcene. They may have different conceptions of beauty, though the conceptions of each may be very juſt; or they may examine the ſame ſcene under different circumſtances. A favourable, or an unfavourable light makes a greater alter⯑ation in any ſcene, than a perſon unaccuſtomed to examine nature would eaſily imagine.

At Dartmouth you have a great variety of intereſting views. The bay, which the river forms at its mouth, is one of the moſt beautiful ſcenes on the coaſt. Both the entrance of the Dart into it, and its exit to the ſea, appear from many ſtations cloſed up by the folding of the banks; ſo that the bay has frequently the form of a lake, only furniſhed with ſhipping inſtead of boats. Its banks are its great beauty; which conſiſt of lofty wooded hills, ſhelving down in all directions. You would not ex⯑pect ſuch ſcenery on a ſea-coaſt: but the woods by being well ſheltered grow luxuriantly.

And yet an eye verſed in the various ſcenes of nature, would eaſily diſtinguiſh theſe bays from the paſtoral ſimplicity of an inland-lake. The ſea always impreſſes a peculiar character on its bays. The water has a different aſpect; [260] its tints are more varied, and its ſurface differ⯑ently diſturbed. Its banks too have a more weather-beaten and ragged appearance, loſing generally their verdure within the air of the ſea. The ſea-rock alſo wants that rich incruſ⯑tation of moſſes and lychens, which adorns the rock of the lake; and the wood, though it grow luxuriantly, as it does here, ſhews plainly by its mode of growth, that it is the inhabitant of a ſea-girt clime. To this may be added, that the appendages of the bay and lake are dif⯑ferent. A quay perhaps for landing goods, an anchor, a floating buoy, or a group of figures in ſeamen's jackets, are the ornaments of one ſcene, but unknown to the other.

The bay, in the mean time, may be as pic⯑tureſque as the lake. All I mean to point out is, that the character of each is different; and therefore in painting they ſhould not be con⯑founded. Its particular value each receives from the fancy of the ſpectator. As was juſt obſerved, people may have different concep⯑tions of beauty, and yet the conceptions of both may be equally juſt. The paſtoral ſimplicity of the lake may pleaſe one perſon, and the buſtle of the bay another. I ſhall only add, that repreſentations of the two ſcenes are ex⯑ceedingly [261] well ſuited as companions to each other.

At the opening of Dartmouth-bay to the ſea, appears the town of Dartmouth, aſcending a hill. Its caſtle, at the diſtance of a mile, ſtands cloſe to the water's edge. On the other ſide, acroſs the bay, riſes Kingſwere, a ſort of ſuburb, belonging to the town. The winding of the bay, and the varied beauty of its banks are ſeen to great advantage in a walk which carries you from the town of Dartmouth to the caſtle.

All this coaſt affords excellent fiſh. The ſole breeds here in great abundance, and the john dory delights in it, as its moſt favourite haunt. The Torbay-boat often brings this delicious fiſh to the tables of the luxurious: but the epicure, who wiſhes to eat it in per⯑fection, does not think a journey to theſe coaſts too much. At Totneſs great quantities of ſalmon-peal are taken in an uncommon mode of fiſhing. The fiſh are intercepted, as the water ebbs, by dogs, which ſwim⯑ming after the ſhoal, are taught to drive them up the river into cloſe nets provided to receive them.

[262]Dartmouth harbour is a very buſy ſcene when a ſhoal of pilchards enters it, as they often do at particular ſeaſons, driven in by porpoiſes, which lie off at ſea in expectation of them. The ſhoal diſcovers itſelf by the tre⯑mulous motion of the water, and the leaping of the fiſh here and there on the ſurface. On this appearance every boat that can ſwim, puts off from the ſhore with nets. The whole would make a buſy and entertaining water ſcene, if it were well painted.

From Dartmouth you return with the tide tide to Totneſs. From thence, in the way to Brixham, you may viſit the grand ruins of Berry-Pomeroy-caſtle. This fortreſs belonged formerly to a family of the name of Pomeroy; which being ſeated there by the Conqueror, kept poſſeſſion of it, during all the various re⯑volutions of England, till the reign of Ed⯑ward VI. It was once a formidable place; and its ruins are ſtill magnificent. The grand gate-way remains entire, together with a round tower. A great part of the wall is ſtanding, and many of the chambers may be traced.

From hence you proceed to Brixham, where the naturaliſt finds himſelf puzzled with a well, [263] which ebbs and flows, though the waters are not in the leaſt brackiſh, but pure and limpid, which ſeems to indicate they have no commu⯑nication with tides.

Near Brixham you begin to ſkirt that cele⯑brated inlet of the ſea, called Torbay. It is a grand ſcene, and affords many magnificent views, if you have leiſure to circle the bay in queſt of them.

Its general form is ſemilunar, incloſing a cir⯑cumference of about twelve miles. Its wind⯑ing ſhores on both ſides are ſkreened with grand ramparts of rock; between which, in the central part, the ground from the country, forming a gentle vale, falls eaſily to the water's edge. Wood grows all round the bay, even on its rocky ſides; where it can get footing, and ſhelter; but in the central part with great lux⯑uriance.

In this delicious ſpot ſtood formerly Tor-abbey, the ruins of which ſtill remain. Its ſitu⯑ation was grand and beautiful. Wooded hills, deſcending on every ſide, ſkreened and adorned it both behind and on its flanks. In front the bay opening before it, ſpread its circling rocky cheeks, like a vaſt colonade, leſſening in all the pleaſing forms of perſpective; and receiving [264] all the variety of light and ſhade, which the ſun veering round from morning till evening, throws upon them. Here a ſociety of monks dwelt in peaceful ſecurity. The enemy's fleet more than once, in former times, ravaged the coaſt, and burnt Dartmouth and other towns. The abbey feared no miſchief. All it had to do, was to open its hoſpitable gates, and give an aſylum to the terrified fugitives of the country.

This noble bay has afforded its protection many a time to the fleets of England, which in their full array ride ſafely within its ample baſon. But it appeared in its greateſt glory on the fifth of November 1688, when King William entered it with fifty ſail of the line, and four hundred tranſports. The ſhips in⯑deed were Dutch; but a Britiſh admiral led the van, and a Britiſh flag flew at the maſt-head.

From Torbay your next ſtage is Newton-Buſhel, where, croſſing the Teign, you ride along the banks of that river to Teign-mouth. In your way you are entertained with a variety of river views. But Nature, laying aſide here in a great degree her rocks and bold ſhores, works with ſofter materials. The banks of the [265] Teign, I underſtand, are rather cultivated than wild; though at its mouth it receives the ſea with rocks, which are both magnificent and beautiful. They are covered, like the genera⯑lity of the rocks on this coaſt, with a profuſion of wood.

From Teign-mouth you ſkirt the ſhore to the mouth of the Ex, over which you ferry at the bar. Here the country grows ſomewhat bolder, but rather in the form of ſwelling hills. Theſe hills likewiſe are profuſely covered with wood, which ſweeps almoſt down to the water's edge. But as you take a view of them with your back to the ſea, they appear in ſtill greater magnificence, uniting with the woods of the country. Thoſe of Powderham-caſtle receive them firſt; and beyond theſe you ſee riſing and ſtretching into diſtance the woods of Mam-head, in rich, though indiſtinct, luxuriance.

The Ex is by far the nobleſt river in this part of the coaſt. It empties a profuſe chan⯑nel into the ſea, and forms a baſon at its mouth, which would be an excellent harbour for a royal navy, if it were not obſtructed by a bar. When the tide flows, however, ſhips of con⯑ſiderable burthen advance as far as Topſham, and could formerly have proceeded with equal [266] eaſe to the walls of Exeter; but a little above Topſham the channel of the river is again ob⯑ſtructed.

The tradition of the country aſcribes this obſtruction to a quarrel between the Mayor of Exeter, and an Earl of Devonſhire. The earl claimed the firſt ſalmon that was taken in the ſeaſon, as an acknowledgment of his juriſ⯑diction over the river. The mayor claimed it as a perquiſite of his office. The earl's claim appears to have been worſe founded; becauſe, inſtead of appealing to the laws for redreſs, he had recourſe to private revenge. Both ſides of the river were his property; and both ſides cloſely wooded with ancient oak. Theſe trees he cut down in abundance, and threw them into the channel of the river. The tide after⯑wards carrying up with it great quantities of ſand and gravel, formed this obſtruction by degrees into ſuch a barrier, as could never afterwards be removed. If this tradition be well grounded, we have ſeldom an inſtance of revenge in ſo grand a ſtyle. Moſt people, who ſeek gratifications of this kind, are ſatisfied with revenging themſelves on the perſon who had offended them. But the Earl of Devon⯑ſhire not only revenged himſelf on the Mayor [267] of Exeter; but on the whole city, and for all future times.

About ſeventy years ago the inhabitants of Exeter cut a new channel for the river, and built very expenſive locks upon it; by means of which they can now bring veſſels of ſome burthen to the town.

From the mouth of the Ex the coaſt affords nothing very intereſting, till you come to the mouth of the Sid. This river opens into the ſea between high promontories; that on the weſt is particularly lofty, and much broken, though not rocky, and is repreſented as afford⯑ing many pictureſque views. But here is no baſon opening into the land, as in the other rivers of this coaſt. The Sid is a mere rural ſtream, and preſerves its character pure to the very ſhores of the ocean.

The valley through which it takes its courſe, is a ſcene of peculiar conſtruction. It forms a gentle deſcent towards the ſea between two ſteep hills which leave little more room at the bottom, than what the road and the river oc⯑cupy. So that, in fact, it has hardly the dimenſions of a valley, but might rather be called a cleft in the higher grounds, running down to the ſea. The hills, however, which [268] compoſe its ſides, are not (like the narrow vallies of a mountainous and rocky country) ab⯑rupt and broken; but conſiſt chiefly of rich paſturage, and are covered with flocks and herds. They are adorned too with wood; and though in their courſe they now and then wind a little, they generally lead the valley in a ſtraight line from north to ſouth.

Through this narrow valley you riſe ſlowly near the ſpace of nine miles. So long an aſ⯑cent, though in all parts gradual, raiſes you at length to a great height. At the concluſion of the valley, you find yourſelf on a lofty down; from whence you have ſome of the grandeſt views which this country, rich in diſtances, affords. You look chiefly towards the weſt, and take in an amazing compaſs; indeed all the diſtrict on both ſides of the Ex, as far as the ſea. Theſe high grounds formed that hard edge, and made that peculiar appearance, which we obſerved in the road between Exeter and Honiton ^*. From theſe lofty downs you de⯑ſcend gently into Honiton, where theſe two different routes from Plymouth unite.

SECT. XXIX.

AS we left Honiton, the obſcurity of a hazy morning overſpread its vale; the pictu⯑reſque beauty of which we had heard much commended. If, therefore, it poſſeſſes any, (which from the analogy of the country may be queſtioned,) we are not qualified to give any account of it. A miſty morning, in gene⯑ral, gives new beauty to a country; but we muſt catch its beautiful appearance, as we do all the other accidental appearances of Nature, at a proper criſis. We left Honiton at too early an hour in the morning to ſee the full effect of the miſt. It rather blotted out, than adorned, the face of the country. The moſt pictureſque moment of a miſty morning is juſt as the ſun riſes, and begins its contention with the vapours which obſtruct its rays. That ap⯑pearance we had ſoon after, and in ſuch profu⯑ſion, that it gave a beautiful effect to a land⯑ſcape, which ſeemed not calculated to produce much effect without it.

[270]We have a ſtriking picture of a morning-ſun, though unaccompanied by miſt, in the ſhort account given us of Lot's eſcape from Sodom. We are told, The ſun was riſen upon the earth, when Lot entered into Zoar. Deſcrip⯑tive poetry and painting muſt both have objects of ſenſe before them. Neither of them deals in abſtracted ideas. But the ſame objects will not always ſuit both. Images, which may ſhine under the poet's deſcription, are not per⯑haps at the ſame time pictureſque; though I believe every pictureſque object is capable of ſhining as a poetical one. The paſſage before us is both poetical and pictureſque. A relation of the plain fact would have been neither. If the paſſage had been coldly tranſlated, Lot ar⯑rived at Zoar about ſun-riſe; the ſenſe had been preſerved, but the picture would have been loſt. As it is tranſlated, the whole is imagery. The firſt part of the expreſſion, the ſun was riſen upon the earth, brings immediately before the eye, (through the connection of the ſun and the earth,) the rays of a morning ſun ſtriking the tops of the hills and promontories; while the other part of the expreſſion, Lot entered into Zoar, brings before us (through the ſame [271] happy mode of raiſing and connecting images) a road, the gates of the town, and the patriarch approaching it. Not, by the way, that we ſhould wiſh to introduce the ſtory of Lot's retreat, with any diſtinction into the picture. The prin⯑cipal part would be the landſcape; and Lot could only be a diſtant figure to adorn it, and in that light unneceſſary. Hiſtory introduced as the ornament of landſcape appears abſurd. In Baſſon, and ſome other matters, ſuch intro⯑ductions are frequent. We conſider, there⯑fore, the paſſage before us merely as landſcape, and lay little ſtreſs on the figures. Reubens has thrown a fine glow of colouring into a picture on this ſubject, in the poſſeſſion of the Duke of Marlbrough. But Reubens has in⯑troduced, as he ought, the figures on the fore-ground, making the landſcape entirely an un⯑der-part. I forget whether he has given his picture the full effect it might receive by throwing the back ſcenery into that grand ſhade, ſuggeſted by the words of ſcripture, the ſmoke of the country went up as the ſmoke of a furnace. The atmoſphere alſo might have a good effect, tinged with the ruddy glare of fire blended with the ſmoke.

[272]As the miſt cleared away, and we ſaw more of the country around, its pictureſque charms did not increaſe upon us. If the hills and dales, however, of which the whole country is compoſed, poſſeſs little of this kind of beauty, they poſſeſs what is better, the riches of ſoil, and cultivation in a high degree. If any val⯑lies can be ſaid to laugh and ſing, theſe certainly may. Nothing can exceed either their tillage or their paſturage.

Among the beautiful objects we occaſion⯑ally met with in this country, the cattle, which every where grazed its rich paſtures, were worthy of remark. Moſt of thoſe we ſaw ſeemed to be of a peculiar breed, elegantly and neatly formed, rather ſmall, generally red, growing gradually darker towards the head and ſhoulders. Their horns, which are ſhort, are tipped with black; their coats are fine, and their heads ſmall.

At Axminſter the carpet-works are worth viſiting. Some of them diſplay a very rich combination of colours; but in general, they are ſo gay, that furniture muſt be glaring to be [273] in harmony with them. Of courſe they are too gay to be beautiful.

No carpeting, perhaps, equals the Perſian in beauty. The Turkey carpet is modeſt enough in its colouring; but its texture is coarſe, and its pattern conſiſts commonly of ſuch a jumble of incoherent parts, that the eye ſeldom traces any meaning in its plan. The Britiſh carpet again has too much meaning. It often repre⯑ſents fruits, and flowers, and baſkets, and other things, which are generally ill repreſented, or awkwardly larger than the life, or at leaſt im⯑properly placed under our feet. The Perſian carpet avoids theſe two extremes. It ſeldom exhibits any real forms, and yet, inſtead of the diſorderly pattern that deforms the Turkey carpet, it uſually preſents ſome neat and ele⯑gant plan, within the compartments of which its colours, though rich, are modeſt. The tex⯑ture alſo of the carpet is as neat and elegant as the ornamental ſcrawl which adorns it.

SECT. XXX.

FROM Axminſter we left the great road to viſit Ford-abbey.

In a ſequeſtered part of the country, where Devonſhire and Dorſetſhire unite, lies a cir⯑cular valley, about a mile and half in diameter.

Its ſides ſlope gently into its area in various directions; but are no where ſteep. Woody ſkreens, circling its precincts, conceal its bounds; and in many parts connecting with the trees, which deſcend into the boſom of the valley, form themſelves into various tufted groves. Through the middle of this ſweet retreat winds a ſtream, not foaming among broken rocks, nor ſounding down cataracts; but mild like the ſcene it accompanies, and in cadence not ex⯑ceeding a gentle murmur. From this retreat all foreign ſcenery is excluded. It wants no adventitious ornaments; ſufficiently bleſſed with its own ſweet groves and ſolitude.

[275]This happy retirement was once ſacred to religion. Verging towards one ſide of the valley ſtand the ruins of Ford-abbey. It has never been of large dimenſions, but was a model of the moſt perfect Gothic, if we may credit its remains, particularly thoſe of a cloiſ⯑ter, which are equal to any thing we have in that ſtyle of architecture. This beautiful frag⯑ment conſiſts of eight windows, with light but⯑treſſes between them, and joins a ruined chapel on one ſide, and on the other a hall or refec⯑tory, which ſtill preſerves its form ſufficiently to give an idea of its juſt proportions. To this is connected by ruined walls a maſſy tower. What the ancient uſe of this fabric was, whe⯑ther it belonged to the eccleſiaſtical or civil part of the monaſtery, is not now apparent; but at preſent it gives a pictureſque form to the ruin, which appears to more advantage by the pre-eminence of ſome ſuperior part ^*.

At right angles with the chapel runs ano⯑ther cloiſter, a longer building, but of coarſer workmanſhip, and almoſt covered with ivy. The river, which enters the valley at the diſ⯑tance of about half a mile from the ruin, takes [276] a ſweep towards it, and paſſing under this cloiſ⯑ter, opens into what was once the great court, and makes its exit through an arch in the wall on the oppoſite ſide.

and decorated all over with variety of lychens, ſtreaming weather-ſtains, and twiſting ſhrubs, is ſhaded by ancient oaks, which, hanging over it, adorn its broken walls without encumbering them. In ſhort, the valley, the river, the path, and the ruins are all highly pleaſing; the parts are beautiful, and the whole is harmonious.

They who have lately ſeen Ford-abbey will ſtare at this deſcription of it. And well may they ſtare; for this deſcription antedates its preſent ſtate by at leaſt a century. If they had ſeen it in the year 1675, they might probably have ſeen it as it is here deſcribed. Now, alas! it wears another face. It has been in the hands of improvement. Its ſimplicity is gone; and miſerable ravage has been made through every part. The ruin is patched up into an awkward dwelling; old parts and new are blended toge⯑ther, to the mutual diſgrace of both. The ele⯑gant cloiſter is ſtill left; but it is completely [277] repaired, white-waſhed, and converted into a green-houſe. The hall too is modernized, and every other part. Saſh-windows glare over pointed arches, and Gothic walls are adorned with Indian paper.

The grounds have undergone the ſame re⯑formation. The natural groves and lawns are deſtroyed; viſtas and regular ſlopes ſupply their room. The winding path, which con⯑templation naturally marked out, is gone; ſuc⯑ceeded by ſtraight walks, and terraces adorned with urns and ſtatues; while the river and its fringed banks have given way to canals and ſtew-ponds. In a word, a ſcene abounding with ſo many natural beauties was never per⯑haps more wretchedly deformed.

When a man exerciſes his crude ideas on a few vulgar acres, it is of little conſequence. The injury is eaſily repaired; and if not, the loſs is trifling. But when he lets looſe his de⯑praved taſte, his abſurd invention, and his graceleſs hands on ſuch a ſubject as this, where art and nature united cannot reſtore the havoc he makes, we conſider ſuch a deed under the ſame black character in matters of pictureſque beauty, as we do ſacrilege and blaſphemy in matters of religion. The effects of ſuperſtition [278] we abhor. Some little atonement, however, this implacable power might have made in taſte, for its miſchiefs in religion, if it had de⯑terred our anceſtors from connecting their manſions with ruins once dedicated to ſacred uſes. We might then have enjoyed in per⯑fection many noble ſcenes, which are now either entirely effaced or miſerably mangled.

Before we leave theſe ſcenes, I muſt relate a ſtory of the monks of Ford, which does great credit to their piety. It happened (in what century tradition ſays not) that a gentleman of the name of Courtney, a benefactor to the abbey, was overtaken at ſea by a violent ſtorm; and the ſeamen having toiled many hours in vain, and being entirely ſpent, abandoned themſelves to deſpair. ‘My good lads,’ (ſaid Courtney, calling them together, and pulling out his watch, if watches were then in uſe,) ‘My good lads, you ſee it is now four o'clock. At five we ſhall certainly be relieved. At that hour the monks of Ford riſe to their de⯑votions, and in their prayers to St. Francis, will be ſure to rembember me among their benefactors; and you will have the benefit of being ſaved in my company. Perſevere only one hour, and you may depend on [279] what I ſay.’ This ſpeech reanimated the whole crew. Some flew to the pump, others to the leak; all was life and ſpirit. By this vigorous effort, at five o'clock the ſhip was ſo near the ſhore, that ſhe eaſily reached it; and St. Francis got all the credit of the eſcape.

SECT. XXXI.

FROM Ford-abbey we were obliged to re⯑turn to Axminſter, and from thence we ſet out for Bridport, traverſing vaſt cultivated hills, from which, on the left, we had views into the country, and on the right, over the ſea. The iſle of Portland ranged in the diſtance, many leagues along the ſhore, forming a long white beach; which made an uncommon appearance.

From Bridport to Dorcheſter we paſſed through a more inland country, though in other reſpects ſimilar to the country we had juſt left. The features of it are broad and determined. Sweeping hills with harſh edges interſect each other. Here and there a bot⯑tom is cultivated, incloſed, and adorned with a farm-houſe and a few trees; but, in general, the whole country is an extended down. It is every where fed with little rough ſheep; which have formed it, with conſtant grazing, into the fineſt paſturage. Indeed a chalky ſoil itſelf, which is the ſubſtratum of theſe downs, [281] is naturally inclined to produce a neat ſmooth ſurface. The ſeveral flocks which paſture theſe wide domains, have their reſpective walks; and are generally found within the diſtance of a mile from each other. We ſaw them once or twice iſſuing from their pens, to take their morning's repaſt after a hungry night. It was a pleaſing ſight to ſee ſuch numbers of in⯑nocent animals made happy, and in the follow⯑ing lines it is beautifully deſcribed:

But the progreſſive motion here deſcribed, is one of thoſe incidents, which is a better ſub⯑ject for poetry than painting. For, in the firſt place, a feeding flock is ſeldom well grouped; they commonly ſeparate; or, as the poet well expreſſes it, they are ſcattered by degrees, and whiten all the land. Nor are their attitudes varied, as they all uſually move the ſame way, progreſſive like a ſtream. Indeed the ſhape of a feeding ſheep is not the moſt pleaſing, as its back and neck make a round heavy line, which in contraſt only has its effect. To ſee a flock [282] of ſheep in their moſt pictureſque form, we ſhould ſee them repoſing after their meal is over; and if they are in ſunſhine, they are ſtill the more beautiful. In repoſing they are gene⯑rally better grouped, and their forms are more varied. Some are commonly ſtanding, and others lying on the ground, with their little ruminating heads in various forms. And if the light be ſtrong, it ſpreads over the whole one general maſs; and is contraſted, at the ſame time, by a ſhadow equally ſtrong, which the flock throws upon the ground. It may be ob⯑ſerved alſo, that the fleece itſelf is well diſpoſed to receive a beautiful effect of light. It does not indeed, like the ſmooth covering of hair, allow the eye to trace the muſcular form of the animal. But it has a beauty of a different kind: the flakineſs of the wool catches the light, and breaking it into many parts, yet without deſtroying the maſs, gives it a peculiar rich⯑neſs.

We ſaw another circumſtance alſo, in which ſheep appear to advantage. The weather was ſultry, the day calm, and the roads duſty. Along theſe roads we ſaw, once or twice, a flock of ſheep driven, which raiſed a conſider⯑able cloud. As we were a little higher on the [283] downs, and not annoyed by the duſt, the cir⯑cumſtance was amuſing. The beauty of the incident lay in the contraſt between ſuch ſheep as were ſeen perfectly, and ſuch as were in⯑volved in obſcurity. At the ſame time the duſt became a kind of harmonizing medium, which united the flock into one whole. It had the ſame effect on a group of animals, which a heavy miſt, when partial, has on landſcape. But though circumſtances of this kind are pleaſing in nature, we do not wiſh to ſee them imitated on canvas. They have been tried by Loutherberg, who with a laudable endeavour hath attempted many different effects; but I think in this he has failed. He has repre⯑ſented the duſty atmoſphere of rapid wheels. But it is an incident that cannot be imitated: for, as motion enters neceſſarily into the idea, and as you cannot deſcribe motion, it is impoſ⯑ſible to give more than half the idea. It is otherwiſe with vapour, which, from the light miſt to the ſleeping fog, is of a more perma⯑nent nature, and therefore more adapted to the pencil.

The only circumſtance which can make a cloud of duſt an object of imitation, is diſtance; as this gives it ſomewhat of a ſtationary ap⯑pearance. [284] One of the grandeſt ideas of this kind, which I remember to have met with, may be found in Zenophon's Anabaſis.

As Cyrus was approaching Artaxerxes over one of thoſe vaſt plains which are often found in the eaſt, a horſeman, who had been making obſervations, returned at full ſpeed, crying out to the troops, as he rode through them, that the enemy was at hand. Cyrus, not ſuſpecting the king to be ſo near, was riding careleſsly in his chariot; and the troops unarmed, were marching negligently over the plain. The prince, leaping from his chariot, preſently armed himſelf, mounted his horſe, called his generals around him, and drew up his troops. This was ſcarce done, when the hiſtorian tells us, ‘a white cloud was ſeen in the diſtant ho⯑rizon ſpreading far and wide, from the duſt raiſed by ſo vaſt a hoſt. As the cloud ap⯑proached, the bottom of it appeared dark and ſolid. As it ſtill advanced, it was obſerved, from various parts, to gleam and glitter in the ſun; and ſoon after, the ranks of horſe and foot, and armed chariots, were diſtinctly ſeen ^*.’

[285]The extended plains of Dorſetſhire, however deſolate they now appear, have once been buſy ſcenes. The antiquarian finds rich employ⯑ment among them for his curioſity. To fol⯑low him in queſt of every heaving hilloc, and to hear a diſcuſſion of conjectures about the traces of a Daniſh or a Roman mattoc, where the eye of common obſervation perceives no traces at all, might be tedious; but he ſhews us ſeveral fragments of antiquity on theſe plains, which are truly curious; and convinces us, that few places in England have been more conſiderable in Roman times than Dorcheſter. Poundbury and Maiden-caſtle, as they are called, are both extraordinary remains of Ro⯑man ſtations; the latter eſpecially, which en⯑compaſſes a large ſpace of ground. Number⯑leſs tumuli alſo are thrown up all over the downs. Theſe were antiquities in the times even of the Romans themſelves.

But the moſt valuable fragment on theſe plains, is a Roman amphitheatre, about half a mile from Dorcheſter. It is conſtructed only of earth; but it is of ſo firm a texture, that it retains its complete form to this day. Its mounds are of immenſe thickneſs, and ſeem to be at leaſt twenty feet high. The area con⯑tains [286] about an acre of land, and is now a corn field. There are two openings in the mound oppoſed to each other, which have formerly been gates. The circumference without, ap⯑pears circular to the eye, though, in fact, I believe it is rather oval; the inſide is apparently ſo. The difference of the figure ſeems to have been occaſioned by the ſwelling of the mound within, where the ſeats have been diſpoſed. This piece of antiquity is known by the name of Maumbery. How much it reſembles in form and ſize the old amphitheatres now ſub⯑ſiſting in Italy, may be ſeen from the following deſcription of one near Nice. ‘I made a ſe⯑cond excurſion to theſe ancient ruins, and meaſured the area of the amphitheatre with thread. It is an oval figure, the longeſt dia⯑meter extending about a hundred and thir⯑teen yards, and the ſhorteſt about eighty. In the centre of it was a ſquare ſtone, with an iron ring, to which I ſuppoſe the wild beaſts were tied, to prevent their ſpringing upon the ſpectators. Some of the ſeats re⯑main, with two oppoſite entrances, conſiſting each of one large gate, and two ſmaller late⯑ral doors, arched: there is alſo a conſider⯑able portion of the external wall; but no [287] columns or other ornaments of architec⯑ture ^*.’

On comparing the amphitheatre of Dor⯑cheſter with this at Nice, we find the form of both exactly ſimilar; and no great difference in the ſize. The area of Maumbery is two hundred and eighteen feet, by a hundred and ſixty-three. Dr. Stukely calculates, that it might have contained about thirteen thouſand people. At Mrs. Canning's execution, who was burnt in the middle of this amphitheatre for the murder of her huſband, it is ſuppoſed to have contained in the area, and on the mounds, at leaſt ten thouſand ſpectators. It is ſurpriſing that Camden takes not the leaſt notice of this ſingular piece of antiquity.

Dorcheſter, as we may judge from theſe no⯑ble remains, was a place of great conſideration in Roman times. The works of Maiden-caſtle, ſuppoſed to be capable of receiving fifteen thouſand men, ſhew plainly the conſequence of this ſtation in a military light; and I know not, that the erection of an amphitheatre was thought neceſſary in any other part of Britain; at leaſt we have not, that I recollect, the re⯑mains [288] of any other that is well aſcertained, except that at Sylcheſter.

The ſituation of Dorcheſter is pleaſant. It ſtands on a high bank of the Frome, and is ſurrounded with dry ſheep-downs, on which, however, the plough has lately made large en⯑croachments. The town is clean, and well built; and round it is a variety of pleaſant walks, which, to a certain degree, I think, ſhould always en⯑gage the attention of the magiſtrate.

In the neighbourhood of Dorcheſter are many gentlemen's ſeats, well worth viſiting. The woody dips among theſe downy hills af⯑ford naturally very fine ſituations. The only one, however, which we regretted our not being able to ſee, was Milton-abbey, the ſeat of Lord Milton, which lies about three miles from Dorcheſter. The day which we had laid out for ſeeing it was rainy, and we had not time to wait for a better. The capital feature of the landſcape, we were told, is a valley winding among hills of various forms, and covered with woods, which ſometimes ad⯑vance boldly on projecting knolls; and ſome⯑times [289] retire in bays and receſſes. We heard alſo the ruins of the abbey-church commended, as remains of the pureſt Gothic. All theſe materials are in a high degree pictureſque; and if they are happily united, Milton-abbey muſt be a very intereſting ſcene. To make a good picture, compoſition, however, is as ne⯑ceſſary as pleaſing objects.

SECT. XXXII.

BLANDFORD, our next ſtage, lies about ſixteen miles from Dorcheſter; and, though not a place of ſuch renowned antiquity, is perhaps a ſtill more agreeable town. It lies within a curve of the river Stour, and is plea⯑ſantly ſeated among meadows and woods. If a perſon wiſhed to retire from buſineſs, where he might have the conveniences and pleaſures of the town and country united, his choice might waver between Barnſtaple, Dorcheſter, and Blandford. If he wiſhed to be near the ſea, he will find a pleaſant ſea-coaſt at Barn⯑ſtaple. If airy downs, and open country pleaſed him, he might fix at Dorcheſter. But if he loved meadows and woodlands, he muſt make choice of Blandford.

This town has been twice burnt almoſt within the memory of man. The laſt fire, which was in the year 1731, deſtroyed it ſo completely, that only twenty-ſix houſes re⯑mained ſtanding. Here we cannot help be⯑moaning the ſingular fate of theſe weſtern [291] towns. This is the fourth of them we met with, (Dorcheſter, Crediton, and Honiton were the other three,) which have been totally, in a manner, deſtroyed by fire. To theſe might be added Wareham, and very lately Mine⯑head.

Near Blandford ſtands Eaſtbury, the ſeat of Lord Melcombe; but it did not much attract our curioſity; as it is more celebrated for the ſplendor of the houſe than the ſcenery around it.

Brianſton, Mr. Portman's ſeat, which is near the town, I ſuppoſe, is a much more pleaſing place. We were not at his houſe; but ſaw enough of his woody hill, and the variety both of its ſteep and eaſy ſlopes, together with the vale and winding river, over which it hangs, to regret the cloſing in of the evening upon us, before we had finiſhed our walk.

From Blandford the country ſtill continues wild and uncultivated, yet full of antiquities; among which the moſt celebrated is the found⯑ation [292] of a ſort, called Badbury-ring. It makes a conſiderable figure, as we rode paſt; and ſeems from its elevation, its dimenſions, and complicated works (for it has been fortified with a triple ditch) to have been a place of un⯑common ſtrength.

Some parts of theſe downs are very pictu⯑reſque. They are finely ſpread, and form ele⯑gant ſweeps, with many pleaſant views into a woody country, which ſtretches away to the right. They poſſeſs indeed all the variety taken notice of by the poet, when he ſpeaks of the

In the laſt epithet he is rather unhappy; for the ſheep, which graze theſe plains, are ſo far from being white, that they are univerſally waſhed all over with red-ocre, which greatly injures both the paſtoral and pictureſque idea.

Winborn was our next ſtage from Bland⯑ford; appearing, as we approach it, to ſtand in a wild vale ſurrounded with wood. This town takes its name from one of the moſt ce⯑lebrated [293] abbies of Saxon times. Its form dates its antiquity. The great church, which is the only part remaining, is of the heavieſt and earlieſt ſpecies of Saxon architecture. If it have no beauty, however, it hath at leaſt the peculiarity of two contiguous and ſimilar towers; on one of which ſtood once a ſpire, equal in height, it is ſaid, to that of Saliſbury.

In this church reſts a large collection of royal and noble bones; but the tomb moſt vi⯑ſited is that of King Ethelred, (brother to Al⯑fred the Great,) an excellent prince, juſt ſhewn to his ſubjects. In his early youth he engaged in all the toils and perplexities of government. The times were adverſe. His country was over⯑run by the Danes. He encountered them in bat⯑tle, and was mortally wounded. His remains were depoſited in the chancel of this church, where the inſcription upon his grave-ſtone, one ſhould ſuppoſe, hath been occaſionally re⯑paired, or it could never have endured the changes of ſo many hundred years. His effi⯑gies too, in ſculptured braſs, though of miſerable workmanſhip, is, however, better than we can ſuppoſe the times of Alfred could produce. In a life ſo ſhort there was little to record, but the laſt great ſcene of it. ‘[294]S: ETHELREDI, REGIS WEST SAX⯑ONUM, MARTYRIS, QUI ANNO DOMI⯑NI DCCCLXXII, XXIII APRILIS, PER MANUS DANORUM PAGANORUM, OC⯑CUBUIT.’ The whole monument has a monkiſh air, and was probably the production of later times than thoſe of Alfred. Mr. Gough, in his ſplen⯑did publication on ſepulchral antiquities, ſup⯑poſes from the form of the letters, that this in⯑ſcription is not older than the times of the Re⯑formation, which is perhaps bringing it as much too low, as other people are inclined to carry it too high.

From Winborn we paſſed through a heathy, barren, flat, unpleaſant country to Pool, which lies about nine miles farther. This country, unpleaſant as it is, is rendered more ſo as we approach the town. The whole coaſt is oozy, and when the tide ebbs, it has the ap⯑pearance of a vaſt ſwamp, with which the heathy flat before us unites in one level ſur⯑face. Nothing, under the idea of landſcape, can be more diſagreeable. When the tide flows, the view is ſomewhat mended. The [295] water covering the ſwamp gives ſome variety to the ſurface of a dead unintereſting flat.

Beyond the water appear the high lands of the iſle of Purbeck, as it is called; though it is, in fact, only a vaſt promontory running eight or nine miles in the form of a peninſula along the coaſt. It is waſhed by the river Frome on one ſide, and by the ſea on the other. Here are dug great quantities of that hard ſpecies of ſtone, which takes the name of the country, and is of ſuch excellent uſe in paving. Here too are found marbles more beautiful than the marbles of Italy; but leſs valued, becauſe more common. They are ſomething like the marbles we admired at Ply⯑mouth ^*; but I think more variegated. The veins, running on a brown ground, are white, red, and blue.

Seated high on one of the eminences of Purbeck, far to the weſt, we ſaw Corff-caſtle; but the diſtance was too great to diſtinguiſh its features clearly. The ruins of it are ſaid to be the moſt conſiderable of the kind in Eng⯑land. It was reduced to this ſtate by the par⯑liament at the concluſion of the civil wars. [296] Vaſt piles of ruin were thrown down into the ditch; but the immenſe maſſineſs of them, and the tenacity of the mortar, will long preſerve them from any farther ſeparation. The prin⯑cipal facts commemorated in this celebrated caſtle, are the murder of Edward the Martyr, by Elfrida; the impriſonment of Edward the Second, till he was carried to his laſt horrid confinement at Berkly-caſtle; and the long ſiege it underwent in the civil wars of Charles I. defended by Lady Banks (wife of Lord Chief Juſtice Banks, to whom it belonged) with a garriſon only of forty men, againſt an army with artillery.

In the king's library in the Britiſh Muſeum ^*, are a ſet of maps of the ſeveral counties of England, which belonged to the old Lord Bur⯑leigh; and are rendered curious by ſeveral of his notes and memoranda written upon their margins. To the iſland of Purbeck he ſeems to have paid great attention. His notes upon it probably have a reference to the Spaniſh in⯑vaſion. We are not to expect any pictureſque remarks from Lord Burleigh: but his obſerv⯑ations give us an idea of the coaſt. ‘At Stud⯑land-bay [297] he obſerves that forty boats may land, but not without danger. At Swanage, boats may land, and retreat at any time of the tide. In this bay and Studland-bay, ſix or ſeven hundred ſhips, of a thouſand ton burden, may ride ſafe in any wind. Along this coaſt, for three miles, there is a good landing. Shipman's-pool is a creek, where the enemy cannot land more than two or three boats. Batterage-bay is full of rocks and ſhelves. Such alſo are Worbarrow-bay, Areſtmiſs, and Lullworth-cove. But in Worbarrow-bay, and Shipman's-pool, five hundred ſail of large ſhips may ride in al⯑moſt every wind.’

Pool lies on a bay of the ſea, which is very intricate. The body of it is a large and com⯑modious harbour; but it runs into many little creeks and winding channels, which give it the air of a water-labyrinth. When the tide flows, the town appears encircled with water, and looks like Venice. But the ſhores are ſo low, eſpecially about Brown-iſland, (which appears only like a bank,) that there is little pictureſque ſcenery about the place. In ſome parts, when the tide is full, and you can get a few trees into the view, you have a tolerable Dutch [298] landſcape. In general, however, all is bare; and that painter only, who can ſkilfully fill his foreground with figures, and marine append⯑ages, can make a picture of it. But few paint⯑ers have the art of touching ſmall figures in landſcape; though many have the misfortune to ſpoil their pictures by attempting it. The general proportions even of ſmall figures, and their graceful actions, (for there is a ſpecies of pictureſque grace, of which even clowns ſhould participate,) are very hard to hit. We judge of the difficulty from the few who have ex⯑celled. Scot, who underſtood the form of a ſhip, and in his ſea-views could give his ſkies and water, not indeed the brilliancy of Van⯑derveld, yet a clearneſs, which every one could not attain, was very deficient in the neceſſary addition of figures. He could not place their heads on their ſhoulders, nor hang on their arms, nor ſet them on their legs, nor give them an eaſy action. And yet a few touches will do all this—it is ſurpriſing how few—when thoſe touches are well underſtood. Vander⯑veld could do it: Zeeman could do it; and yet, perhaps, neither of theſe maſters under⯑ſtood the anatomy of the human body. Nei⯑ther of them, perhaps, could have drawn either [299] a leg or an arm with accuracy. But in draw⯑ing a ſmall figure for a landſcape, accuracy is not required; it is enough to underſtand its ge⯑neral proportion, the ſymmetry of its parts, and the effect of action. To underſtand the effect of action is ſo exceedingly neceſſary, that nothing hurts the eye more, than to ſee a figure awk⯑wardly uſing its arms and legs. Almoſt any eye can ſee the impropriety. In the manage⯑ment of ſmall figures, I mentioned Callot (two of whoſe pictures we had ſeen at Longford-caſtle) among the moſt able maſters ^*. They who have not an opportunity of ſeeing his pictures, which are ſcarce, may obſerve the ſame ſkill in his prints; and yet I ſhould not care to mention this maſter as a perfect model; becauſe, with all his excellence, there is often a degree of affectation in his attitudes. If his figures had been large, the eye would have taken quick diſguſt; but in a miniature, the ex⯑aggeration of poſture is leſs ſtriking.

Our route from Pool to Chriſt-church led us over a heath, wilder almoſt than any we had [300] yet found; but it ſcarcely laſted four miles. It ended in agreeable lanes, through a country not unpleaſant. At leaſt the force of contraſt with the country we had juſt ſeen, gave it a pleaſant appearance. Here, whenever we had an opening on the right, we had views of the ſea, the Iſle of Wight, and the Needles.

From Chriſt-church we proceeded to Ly⯑mington, ſkirting the borders of New Foreſt. But as I have given an account of this coun⯑try in another work ^*, I ſhall paſs it over here.

SECT. XXXIII.

AT Lymington we embarked for the Iſle of Wight, and ſtood for Cowes. As we ap⯑proached it, the ſhore ſoon began to form into two points of land; the nearer of which is de⯑fended by a ſmall caſtle; the farther ſeemed high ground, and woody.

As we drew nearer, the bay began to open; and as we turned the caſtle-point, an ample road, well ſecured, lay before us full of large ſhipping. The town of Cowes occupied the two ſides of the hill on the right and left. The harbour is a creek, running a conſiderable way into the country. It is formed by the river Medina, which comes down from the higher grounds, where the iſland ſwells into its greateſt breadth, and is navigable as far as Newport, about ſix miles from the ſea.

At Cows we landed, intending to ſpend two or three days in the iſland, which we hoped would allow us ſufficient time to exa⯑mine its pictureſque beauties.

[302]The form of the Iſle of Wight is that of an irregular lozenge. From the eaſtern point to the weſtern, it ranges about twenty-three miles; from the northern to the ſouthern about thir⯑teen. Through the middle of it, in the longer direction, runs a track of high land, in ſome parts rather mountainous, but of the ſmooth downy kind, fit for the paſturage of ſheep. From theſe high grounds we have every where a view of the iſland, and its boundaries, of the ſea towards the ſouth, and towards the north of the coaſt of Hampſhire, from which the iſland is ſeparated by a channel about five or ſix miles in breadth.

The ſhores of the iſland on the northern ſide fall almoſt every where to the water in eaſy declivities; except juſt at the weſtern, or Needle point, where they are broken and pre⯑cipitous. But all the back of the iſland, (as the ſouthern coaſt is commonly called,) which is waſhed by the tides of the ocean, is worn bare to the naked rock, and is in moſt places bounded againſt the ſea by ſteep cliffs. What depredation the waves, in a courſe of years, have made upon it, is evident from the frag⯑ments of rock which have tumbled from the undermined cliffs, and lie ſcattered along the [303] ſhore. Many of them are far out at ſea; and at low water only, ſhew their heads above the waves. No part of the Britiſh coaſt is more dangerous to veſſels ungoverned, and driving in the ſtorm.

From Cowes our road led us firſt to New⯑port, along the courſe of the Medina; which afforded many happy ſituations to thoſe who are fortunate enough to have any of its more pleaſing reaches within the view of their houſes. A tide river has always its diſadvan⯑tages; but it has its advantages alſo. It is ge⯑nerally once or twice a day adorned with the white ſails of little ſkiffs paſſing to and fro; and at all times with boats or anchoring-barks, which have loſt the tide, and wait for its re⯑turn. Theſe are pictureſque circumſtances, which an inland river cannot have.

Newport is the capital town in the iſland. It grew into repute from its ſituation on the Medina, after Cariſbroke, the natural capital, was deſerted. It is a large handſome town; and its market is often a curioſity. As the iſland is ſo fertile, that it is ſuppoſed to produce ſeven or eight times more grain than [304] its inhabitants conſume, the overplus is com⯑monly brought to Newport to be ſhipped off, and an hundred laden waggons may ſometimes be ſeen ranged in double lines along the mar⯑ket-place. The free-ſchool alſo, which is a handſome room, about fifty feet long, is worth looking into, as it received greater honour than perhaps any ſchool-room ever did before. When the commiſſioners from the Parliament treated with King Charles I. in the Iſle of Wight, this room was choſen for the confer⯑ence.

From Newport we propoſed to take a view of the northern coaſt, which extends from Cowes-point to St. Helen's, and is thought to contain the moſt beautiful part of the iſland. This might be done in two ways; either by riding along the coaſt, and ſeeing each par⯑ticular place that was pointed out as moſt beau⯑tiful; or by keeping along the higher grounds, and taking a general view of the whole toge⯑ther. As we could not do both, we choſe the latter, and ſoon found we had made the more judicious choice: for the ground quickly nar⯑rows in that part of the iſland; and we ob⯑tained [305] a good idea of its general ſcenery. Mr. Groſe's houſe at the Priory, and two or three other places, we could have wiſhed to have examined more particularly; but as we ſhould have been confined within hedges, we could have ſeen little beſides the places we imme⯑diately viſited. Of the general appearance of the landſcape, on this ſide of the iſland, ſome account ſhall be given at the concluſion of our circuit round it.

Part of the high grounds, over which we paſſed, is called Aſhy-down. On the loftieſt ſummit of this ridge is placed a ſea-mark. When ſhips are driven by the ſtorm ſo near the ſouthern coaſt of the iſland, as to loſe ſight of this mark of ſecurity, little hope of ſafety remains. It is hardly poſſible for them to avoid the rocks.

As the high grounds began to decline, we verged towards the ſouthern part of the iſland, with an intention to take a view of its rocky boundaries. But we had not here the advan⯑tageous point of view, which we had on the other ſide. The rocky ſhores, which we wiſhed to examine, can be ſeen no where properly, but from the ſea. We could only, therefore, get a view of them from ſome particular ſtands, [306] which commanded a lengthened reach of the coaſt; and ſuch ſtands occurred but ſeldom.

From the high grounds we deſcended firſt to Sandown-bay, which lies on the ſouth coaſt, and is the only part on this ſide, where it is ſuppoſed an enemy could effect a landing. It is defended by a fort, which takes its name from the bay. But the rocks ſoon commence, and continue the guardians of the coaſt, in an almoſt uninterrupted chain from this place to the very weſtern point of the iſland.

Among the curious parts of this rocky ſcenery, we were carried to Shanklin-chine, a vaſt chaſm winding between two high promon⯑tories, more than a mile into the country. The chaſm opens to the ſea, upon a bed of pebbles; where generally a boat or two lie moored; and the fiſherman's hut ſtands half way up the pre⯑cipice. Both ſides of the chaſm are adorned with rock, and both with wood; and it is in general a pictureſque ſcene: but it has not the beauty of the dells of a mountainous country, where the wood is commonly finer, and the rocks more adorned, and more majeſtic; and where a ſtream, pouring over ledges of rock, [307] or falling down a caſcade, adds the melody of ſound, to the beauty of the ſcene.

Near Shanklin-chine, Mr. Stanley built a cottage among the rocks, where he enjoyed the ſea-breezes in the heat of ſummer. It is called Undercliff, as it is built on a ledge of rock be⯑tween the upper-cliffs and the ſea. The view in front is not unpleaſing. It is a ſort of wild rocky valley, about half a quarter of a mile acroſs, hanging over the ſea; which ap⯑pears abruptly beyond it, without the interven⯑tion of any middle ground. It exhibits gene⯑rally a moving picture, preſenting the track which ſhips, coaſting the iſland, commonly take.

As it is a bird's-eye view, many of theſe veſſels, eſpecially of the ſmaller ſize, appear with their maſts and ſails conſiderably below the horizon. I mention this circumſtance, be⯑cauſe in a picture ſuch repreſentations are ra⯑ther unpleaſing. In repreſenting a view of this kind, therefore, the painter (if under a neceſſity to paint it) ſhould always wiſh to re⯑move the veſſels he introduces ſo far into diſ⯑tance, as to raiſe their maſts above the hori⯑zon [308] ^*. The larger the veſſel is, the nearer of courſe ſhe may approach the eye. In the va⯑riety and motion of natural views, we are not ſo much hurt with theſe circumſtances, which have a bad effect in painting; and yet a bird's-eye view on water, is always leſs pleaſing than on land; as the variety of ground is more amuſing in itſelf than water, and as it carries off the perſpective better. The grandeur, which an extenſive view of the ocean preſents, is a differ⯑ent idea: we are ſpeaking here only of its beauty. If we reſtrict the maſts of ſhips, how⯑ever, from appearing below the horizon, we object not to boats and birds in that ſituation. The boat either fiſhing or in motion, the wheeling gull, or the lengthened file of ſea-fowl, appear often to great advantage againſt the boſom of the ſea; and being marked with a few ſtrong touches, contribute to throw the ocean into perſpective.

But though the ſituation of Undercliff or Steephill is pleaſing, we could not ſay much for what is called the cottage. It is covered indeed with thatch; but that makes it no more a cot⯑tage, [309] than ruffles would make a clown a gen⯑tleman, or a meally hat would turn a laced beau into a miller. We every where ſee the appen⯑dages of junket and good living. Who would expect to find a fountain bubbling up under the windows of a cottage, into an elegant carved ſhell to cool wine? The thing is beautiful; but out of place. The imagination does not like to be jolted in its ſenſations from one idea to another; but to go on quietly in the ſame track, either of grandeur or ſimplicity. Eaſy contraſts it approves; but violent interruptions it diſlikes.

Pleaſing ideas, no doubt, may be executed under the form of a cottage; but to make them pleaſing, they ſhould be harmonious. We ſome⯑times ſee the cottage idea carried ſo far, as to paſte ballads on the walls with good effect. But we need not reſtrict what may be called the artificial cottage to ſo very cloſe an imi⯑tation of the natural one. In the inſide cer⯑tainly it may admit much greater neatneſs and convenience; though even here every orna⯑ment that approaches ſplendor, ſhould be re⯑jected. Without too, though the roof be thatched, we may allow it to cover two ſtories; [310] and if it project ſomewhat over the walls, the effect may be better. We ſhould not object to ſaſhed windows; but they muſt not be large; and if you wiſh for a veſtibule, a common brick porch, with a plain neat roof, is all we allow. We often ſee the front of a cottage covered with what is called rough caſt; which has a good effect; and this may be tinted with a yellowiſh tinge mixed with lime, which is more pleaſing than the cold raw tint of lime and aſhes. But if in the front there is any ſtonework, under the denomination of frize, archetrave, or ornament of any kind, it is too much.

The ground about a cottage ſhould be neat, but artleſs. There is no occaſion to plant cab⯑bages in the front. The garden may be re⯑moved out of ſight; but the lawn that comes up to the door, ſhould be grazed, rather than mown. The ſunk-fence, the net, and the painted rail, are ideas alien to the cottage. The broad gravel walk too we totally reject; and in its room wiſh only for a ſimple unaf⯑fected one.

Theſe things being conſidered, it may, per⯑haps, be a more difficult thing to rear a cottage, [311] with all its proper uniformities, than is com⯑monly imagined; inaſmuch as it may be eaſier to introduce the elegances of art, than to catch the pure ſimplicity of nature.

From Steephill we viſited a ſcene of a very different kind, Sir Richard Worſley's ſeat at Appuldercomb. Here every thing was uni⯑formly grand. The houſe is magnificent, and it is magnificently furniſhed. Enriched ceilings, a few good pictures, coſtly hangings, ſhewy carpets, Gobelin chairs, and large pier-glaſſes, all correſpond; and yet not in any expenſive profuſion ^*.

The grounds too, which were more the objects of our curioſity, are laid out in a ſtile of greatneſs equal to the manſion. A woody ſcene riſing behind, is a beautiful back-ground to the houſe, as well as an excellent ſhelter from the north. In front is ſpread a magnifi⯑cent lawn, or rather a park, (for it is furniſhed with deer,) well varied, and not ill-planted, ſtretching far and wide. Its boundary, in one [312] part, is confined, at the diſtance of about two miles, by a hill running out like a promon⯑tory; whoſe continuous horizontal ridge might hurt the eye, if it were not crowned with a caſtle. This object ſeems well executed, and is certainly well placed. Views of the ſea, and various parts of the iſland, are judiciouſly opened from all the higher grounds about the houſe.

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SECT. XXXIV.

FROM this ſcene of magnificence in ſplen⯑dor, we viſited another of magnificence in ruin. This was Cariſbroke-caſtle, an object perhaps the beſt worth ſeeing of any in the iſland. Inſtead of paſſing on therefore to the Needle-cliffs, which remained yet unſeen, we returned to Newport, which lies within a ſhort walk of the caſtle.

Cariſbroke-caſtle ſtands on elevated ground, nearly in the centre of the iſland. It is a for⯑treſs of great antiquity. Its towers and battle⯑ments have been the care of ſeveral princes through a long ſeries of years; and we eaſily mark the ſtyle of different ages, not only from the dates, and arms, which are placed in vari⯑ous parts of the caſtle, but alſo in the mode of building. Its lateſt works have the air of mo⯑dern fortification. They are conſtructed of earth, faced with ſtone, and are carried round the caſtle as an outwork; forming a circum⯑ference of about a mile and a half. What is properly called the caſtle, ſtands on ſomewhat [314] leſs than two acres of land. It is difficult on the ſpot to comprehend the various parts of this complicated fortreſs; to deſcribe it would be impoſſible. Some of the more remarkable parts are commonly ſhewn. We were carried to ſee Montjoy's tower; the walls of which are eighteen feet thick. We were conducted alſo to the top of the Keep; from whence we diſcovered the ſea in the three directions of north, ſouth, and eaſt. On the weſt, a hill in⯑tercepted it. We were ſhewn alſo a well as curious for its depth, as the Keep is for its height; and were deſired to liſten to the echoes and lengthened ſound, which even a pin makes when thrown into it. There lived lately an appendage to this well, which deſerved notice alſo. It was an aſs, which had drawn water patiently from it, through the ſpace of forty years.

Cariſbroke-caſtle was once the reſidence of the princes of the country; and afterwards of appointed governors, when the iſland became annexed to the crown. As the inhabitants had not that ready acceſs to juſtice, which other parts of the kingdom had, they ſometimes ſmarted under the deſpotic power of their go⯑vernors. Remonſtrances were often made to [315] the crown; but it ſeems to have been a maxim of ſtate, eſpecially during the reign of the Tudors, to ſtrengthen, rather than abridge the power of governors in the remoter provinces; and though it was not always a maxim of juſ⯑tice, it was probably a maxim of good policy. On the borders of Scotland we have many in⯑ſtances of this delegated tyranny.

But though the governors of the iſland were ſometimes apt to over-rule law themſelves; they were careful not to let the inhabitants feel vexations of any law, but their own. For this reaſon they would never ſuffer an at⯑torney to ſettle in the iſland. In the Oglander family are preſerved ſome memoirs of the country, written by Sir John Oglander, one of their anceſtors, in which we are told, that in the reign of Elizabeth, when Sir George Cary was governor of the iſland, an attorney came ſneaking into it, with a view to ſettle. Sir George hearing of him had him apprehended; and ordering bells to be faſtened about his legs, and a lighted firebrand tied to his back, he turned him looſe to the populace, who hunted him out of the iſland ^*.

[316]Adjoining to Cariſbroke caſtle is a royal domain, called Parkhurſt, or Cariſbroke-foreſt. It contains about three thouſand acres; and muſt have been, when its woods were lux⯑uriant, very beautiful. It is now a naked ſcene; but we ſaw its elegant lines with more advan⯑tage, than if it had been adorned with all its ſylvan drapery. The deer, its ancient inhabit⯑ants, are now nearly extinct; and it is grazed by ſheep, and little groups of wild horſes, which are not leſs ornamental.

The great hiſtorical circumſtance of Cariſ⯑broke-caſtle, is its having been long the priſon of diſtreſſed majeſty. Many a mournful tale on this ſubject, the noble hiſtorian of thoſe times hath told us. He is circumſtantial in his relation of the unhappy Charles's impriſon⯑ment here. But in an account of the Iſle of Wight, collected by an anceſtor of the Worſley-family, and printed, though in few hands, ſome circumſtances with regard to that event are mentioned, which had not come to the ears of Lord Clarendon.

That hiſtorian tells us, through what means this unfortunate prince threw himſelf into the power of Colonel Hammond, who was then governor of the Iſle of Wight. Ham⯑mond, [317] however, ſeems to have been a man of humanity; and while his hands were untied, was diſpoſed to ſhew the king every civility in his power. Charles took his exerciſe on horſe⯑back, where he pleaſed; though his motions were probably obſerved; and, as the parliament had granted him five thouſand pounds a year, he lived a few months in ſomething like royal ſtate.

But this liberty was ſoon abridged: his chaplains and ſervants were firſt taken from him; then his going abroad in the iſland gave offence; and ſoon after, his intercourſe with any body, but thoſe ſet about him. So ſoli⯑tary were his hours, during a great part of his confinement, that as he was one day ſtanding near the gate of the caſtle, with Sir Philip Warwick, he pointed to an old decrepid man walking acroſs one of the courts, and ſaid, that man is ſent every morning to light my fire; and is the beſt companion I have had for many months.

All this ſevere uſage Charles bore with pa⯑tience and equanimity, and endeavoured as much as poſſible to keep his mind employed. He had ever been impreſſed with ſerious thoughts of religion, which his misfortunes had [318] now ſtrengthened and confirmed. Devotion, meditation, and reading the ſcriptures, were his great conſolation. The few books he had brought with him into the caſtle, were chiefly on religious ſubjects; or of a ſerious caſt. Among them was Hooker's Eccleſiaſtical Polity. This book, it is probable, he had ſtudied with great attention; as it related much to the na⯑tional queſtions of that time, in which no man was better verſed. In his ſlender catalogue we find alſo two books of amuſement, Taſſo's Jeruſalem, and Spencer's Fairy Queen. If Charles had acted with as much judgment as he read, and had ſhewn as much diſcernment in life, as he had taſte in the arts, he might have figured among the greateſt princes. Every lover of pictureſque beauty, however, muſt re⯑ſpect this amiable prince, notwithſtanding his political weakneſſes. We never had a prince in England, whoſe genius and taſte were more elevated and exact. He ſaw the arts in a very enlarged point of view. The amuſements of his court were a model of elegance to all Eu⯑rope; and his cabinets were the receptacles only of what was exquiſite in ſculpture and painting. None but men of the firſt merit in their profeſſion found encouragement from [319] him; and theſe abundantly. Jones was his architect, and Vandyck his painter. Charles was a ſcholar, a man of taſte, a gentleman, and a chriſtian; he was every thing but a king. The art of reigning was the only art of which he was ignorant.

But though a love for the arts, we ſee, has no connection with political wiſdom; yet we cannot ſo eaſily give up its tendency to melio⯑rate the heart. This effect we may preſume at leaſt it had on Charles.

To this ſuppoſition in favor of the arts, it is objected, that we often ſee among profeſſional men very abandoned libertines. But I ſhould here wiſh to ſuggeſt a diſtinction between an innate love for what is beautiful, and that ſort of mechanical turn, which can happily delineate, colour, and expreſs, an object of beauty. The one is ſeated in the heart, and the other in the eye and in the fingers. The mechanical man, merely following his profeſſion, is governed by no idea, but that of enriching himſelf. It is not the love of beauty with which he is ſmitten, but the love of money. He paints a picture with as little enthuſiaſm, as a blackſmith ſhoes a horſe. All this is ſordid. Whereas the true admirer of art feels his mind thoroughly [320] impreſſed with the love of beauty. He is tranſ⯑ported with it in nature; and he admires it in art, the ſubſtitute of nature. The love of beauty may exiſt without a hand to execute the images it excites. It may exiſt the more ſtrongly perhaps for being only felt; for the conceptions of genius never riſe in value from their being embodied. The embodied form is always below the original idea.

The beauteous forms of nature and art thus impreſſed on the mind, give it a diſpoſition to happineſs, from the habit of being pleaſed, from the habit of ſeeking always for pleaſing objects, and making even diſpleaſing objects agreeable by throwing on them ſuch colours of imagi⯑nation, as improve their defects; and if a love for beauty is not immediately connected with moral ideas, we may at leaſt ſuppoſe that it ſoftens the mind, and puts it in a frame to receive them. ‘An intimate acquaintance with the works of art and genius, in their moſt beautiful and amiable forms, (ſays an agreeable writer,) harmonizes and ſweetens the temper, opens and extends the imagin⯑ation, and diſpoſes to the moſt pleaſing views of mankind and Providence. By con⯑ſidering nature in this favourable point of [321] view, the heart is dilated, and filled with the moſt benevolent ſentiments: and then indeed the ſecret ſympathy and connection between the feelings of natural and moral beauty, the connection between a good taſte and a good heart, appears with the greateſt luſtre ^*.’

We left the unhappy Charles, who occa⯑ſioned theſe remarks, in one of the gloomy manſions of Cariſbroke-caſtle, amuſing his ſo⯑litary hours with Hooker's Eccleſiaſtical Polity, and Spencer's Fairy Queen. His exerciſe was now much abridged. He was ſkilled in horſe⯑manſhip, and fond of riding. But as this was refuſed, he ſpent two or three hours every morning in walking on the ramparts of the caſtle. Here he enjoyed at leaſt a fine air, and an extenſive proſpect; though every object he ſaw, the flocks ſtraying careleſsly on one ſide, and the ſhips ſailing freely on the other, put him in mind of that liberty, of which he was ſo cruelly deprived.

In the mean time, he was totally careleſs of his perſon. He let his beard and his hair grow, and was inattentive to his dreſs. ‘They [322] who had ſeen him,’ (ſays Lord Clarendon) ‘a year before, thought his countenance ex⯑tremely altered; his hair was grey, and his appearance very different from what it had been.’

There is a picture of him at Sion-houſe, in which the diſtreſſes of his mind are ſtrongly characteriſed on his countenance. A perſon is repreſented delivering him a letter, which may be ſuppoſed to contain bad news. Charles's features were always compoſed and ſerious; but here they are heightened with a melancholy air, and yet they are marked alſo with mildneſs and fortitude. It is a very affecting picture, as it brings ſtrongly before us the feelings of this amiable prince, on the moſt diſaſtrous events of his life. It is painted ſo much in the manner of Vandyck, that it might eaſily be miſtaken for one of his beſt pictures. But it was cer⯑tainly painted by Sir Peter Lely, who copied after Vandyck, when he firſt came into Eng⯑land. Vandyck died in the year 1641, which was before the troubles of Charles began.

During the time of his impriſonment in Cariſbroke-caſtle, three attempts were made, chiefly by the gentlemen of the iſland, to reſ⯑cue him. Lord Clarendon gives us the detail [323] of two of them; but a third, which he had heard of, he ſuppoſes to have been a mere fiction. As it is mentioned, however, in the Worſley papers, with every mark of authen⯑ticity, and as one of the principal conductors of it was a gentleman of that family, there ſeems to be little doubt of its being a fact. The following is an abſtract of it.

By a correſpondence privately ſettled with ſome gentlemen in the iſland, it was agreed, that the king ſhould let himſelf down by a cord from a window in his apartment. A ſwift horſe, with a guide, were to wait for him at the bottom of the ramparts; and a veſſel in the offing was to be ready to convey him where he pleaſed. The chief difficulty in the ſcheme was in the firſt ſtep. The aſſociating gentlemen were doubtful how the king ſhould get through the iron bars of his window. But Charles aſſured them, he had tried the paſſage, and did not doubt but it was ſufficiently large. All things, therefore, were now prepared, the hour was come, and the ſecret ſign thrown up to the king's window. Charles being ready, began the attempt; but he ſoon found he had made a falſe calculation. Having protruded his head and ſhoulders, he could get no far⯑ther; [324] and what was worſe, having made great exertions thus far, he could not draw himſelf back. His friends at the bottom heard him groan in his diſtreſs, but were unable to relieve him. At length, however, by repeated efforts he got himſelf diſengaged; but made at that time no farther attempt. Afterwards he con⯑trived to ſaw the bars of his window aſunder; and another ſcheme was laid; but the parti⯑culars of this, Lord Clarendon details.

The treaty at Newport ſoon followed; after which Charles was ſeized by the army, and carried a priſoner to Hurſt-caſtle. In his way thither he met Mr. Worſley, one of the gentlemen who had riſked his life for him at Cariſbroke. Charles wrung his hand with affection, and pulling his watch out of his pocket, gave it to him, ſaying, ‘That is all my gratitude has to give.’

This watch is ſtill preſerved in the family. It is of ſilver, large and clumſy in its form. The caſe is neatly ornamented with filagree; but the movements are of very ordinary work⯑manſhip, and wound up with catgut. I men⯑tion theſe particulars merely for the ſake of obſerving, that the arts do not certainly troop in companies together ſo much as they are [325] often repreſented. At the time when this clumſy piece of mechaniſm was made, which we may ſuppoſe was the work of the beſt artiſt of his day, architecture and painting were at a height, which they have never exceeded. The caſe ſeems to be this; when art has a model before it, (as painting has nature, and archi⯑tecture the Grecian orders,) it ſoon arrives at perfection. But ſuch arts as depend on inven⯑tion, ſcience, and mechanic ſkill, work their way but ſlowly in a country ^*.

From Cariſbroke-caſtle we propoſed to viſit the weſtern parts of the iſland, and took our courſe, as before, along the higher grounds, through the middle of the country. Our road led us near Swanſton, the ſeat of Sir Fitzwil⯑liam Barrington, which ſeems to be a pleaſant ſcene: and afterwards near Weſtover-lodge, the habitation of Mr. Holmes, where we ob⯑ſerved nothing very intereſting.

[326]A little ſtream, which we croſs here, falling down to the northern coaſt, forms at Newtown, a few miles below, one of the beſt natural har⯑bours in the iſland. The ſtreets and veſtiges of a conſiderable town are here traced; but ſcarce a houſe is ſtanding. Whether it was planned and never built, or whether it was de⯑ſtroyed and never reſtored, ſeems to be matter of uncertainty. It is the general opinion, that it was burnt in ſome Daniſh invaſion. But its being repreſented in parliament ſeems rather to indicate its having had a period of later exiſtence.

From hence we proceeded to Yarmouth, where Henry VIII. built a caſtle to defend the entrance through the Needles, between the Iſle of Wight and the coaſt of Hampſhire; on which coaſt ſtands Hurſt, another caſtle oppoſite to that at Yarmouth.

Here the iſland draws nearly to a point. The extreme part of it is almoſt ſeparated from the main body by a creek, which runs up from Yarmouth almoſt to the oppoſite ſhore. The narrow iſthmus is called Freſhwater-gate. Here [327] we found ourſelves among rocks and precipices of wonderful height, and had from this ſtand a view of an extended range of chalky cliffs, running along the ſouthern coaſt of the iſland. Here too we found a perforated cave; which in ſome poſitions makes a pictureſque fore⯑ground, while the ſea appearing through it, has a good effect.

SECT. XXXV.

WE had now taken a view of the iſland from one end to the other, and on the whole, found ourſelves rather diſappointed in the chief object of our purſuit, which was the pictureſque beauty of its ſcenery.

Pictureſque beauty is a phraſe but little un⯑derſtood. We preciſely mean by it that kind of beauty which would look well in a picture. Neither grounds laid out by art, nor improved by agriculture, are of this kind. The Iſle of Wight is, in fact, a large garden, or rather a field, which in every part has been disfigured by the ſpade, the coulter, and the harrow. It abounds much more in tillage than in paſtur⯑age; and of all ſpecies of cultivation, corn-lands are the moſt unpictureſque. The regula⯑rity of corn-fields diſguſts; and the colour of corn, eſpecially near harveſt, is out of tune with every thing elſe.

Yet theſe manufactured ſcenes are commonly thought to be pictureſque. You rarely meet a deſcription of the beauties of the country, in [329] which ſome of its artificial appendages do not make a part of the landſcape. And in poetry all theſe circumſtances appear with advan⯑tage:

But however pleaſing all this may be in poetry, on canvaſs, hedge-row elms, furrowed lands, meadows adorned with milk-maids, and hay-fields adorned with mowers, have a bad effect.

In conſidering the Iſle of Wight in a pic⯑tureſque light, we divide it into three kinds of landſcape, the high grounds, the lower culti⯑vated parts, and the rocky ſcenes.

The high grounds, which, as we juſt obſerved, run from the eaſtern to the weſtern point, through the middle of the iſland, are the only parts of the country which are in a ſtate of na⯑ture; and yet even theſe are not wholly ſo: for large farms have, in many parts, made in⯑croachments upon them, and cut them into ſquares by regular hedges, and incloſed ſheep-walks. Sometimes, however, from theſe heights, we are able to obtain a ſweep of coun⯑try [330] unincumbered with the intruſions of art. About Cariſbroke-foreſt particularly, for many miles together, we ſee nothing like cultivation.

But ſtill the beſt of theſe views afford little more than what may be called extenſive fore⯑grounds. Of diſtant country we meet with no⯑thing in a grand ſtile, notwithſtanding our ele⯑vation. In ſome parts we find little dips from the higher grounds into woody bottoms, and in other parts diſtances of a few miles in extent over the country below, but nothing that is remote enough to aſſume grandeur.

A diſtance muſt ſtretch away many leagues from the eye; it muſt conſiſt of various inter⯑mediate parts; it muſt be enriched by numerous objects, which loſe by degrees all form and diſ⯑tinctneſs; and finally perhaps terminate in faint purple mountains, or perhaps mix with the blue miſts of ether, before it can pretend to the character of grandeur. Such were the ſcenes preſented to us from the heights of Pon⯑tic, and the hills of Quantoc ^*. But here we had nothing of this kind. A ſcanty iſland could not afford them. Sometimes indeed, [331] when the foregrounds were happily diſpoſed with the ſea beyond them, we got a grand and ſimple ſea-view, grander perhaps than the diſ⯑tances I have juſt been alluding to, as conſiſt⯑ing of fewer parts; but for that reaſon leſs beautiful and amuſing.

The northern coaſt between Cowes and St. Helen's is generally conſidered as the moſt beautiful part of the iſland; and it preſents, no doubt, many lawns and woods, and a variety of ground, which muſt be ever pleaſing: but ſtill we have only little, pleaſant, paſtoral ſcenes; and theſe but ſeldom in any per⯑fection; for as the whole country is under the diſcipline of cultivation, the pictureſque eye is every where more or leſs offended.

To this may be added, that there is a great deficiency of wood. Though here and there a few plantations about improved ſcenes, make a contraſt with the lawns they adorn; the country, in general is naked; and yet even ſo late as in Charles II.'s time, there were woods in the iſland ſo complete and extenſive, that it is ſaid a ſquirrel might have travelled in ſeveral parts, many leagues together, on the tops of the trees. Theſe woods, however, are now almoſt univerſally cut down.

[332]But it is ſaid, the iſland does not depend ſo much on its home ſcenery. Its views over the channel and the Hampſhire coaſt are its pride. Theſe views, however, are far from being the moſt beautiful of their kind, and much leſs beautiful than we had expected to find them. They want the great ingredients of a pleaſing coaſt view, a variety of line, and an extent of diſtance. Either of theſe ingredients would be a foundation for beauty; but here both are wanting.

In the firſt place, a variety of line is wanting. The line of the oppoſite coaſt runs generally in a ſtraight unbroken courſe for many leagues. At leaſt it appears to deviate ſo little from a ſtraight line, that the deviation is loſt. Where⯑as the true beautiful coaſt line breaks away in various irregular curves, forming either grand rocky projections, or ample bays ſweeping from the eye in winding perſpective. Theſe ideas we had unhappily at this time ſtrong in recollection, having juſt left the ſhores of the Briſtol channel, in which they abound. The compariſon gave additional tameneſs to the lines of the Hampſhire coaſt.

[333]But an extent of country might have made ſome amends for the want of variety in the lines. We had, however, no more of this circum⯑ſtance than of the other. The whole length of the coaſt preſents only a narrow edging of land. Whenever you hear the beauties of it mentioned, you always hear places named; but never a country deſcribed. You are never told, for inſtance, that the country forms ſome ample vale, with wooded hills winding on each ſide; or that the ſcene at firſt is woody, beyond which the country retires into remote diſtance. Nothing of this kind you hear; for nothing of this kind exiſts. Inſtead of this beautiful ſcenery, you are informed, you may ſee Portſ⯑mouth, and Goſport, and Lymington, and a number of other places, which lie near the ſhore. And ſo you may with a good glaſs; for it is the cuſtom of the iſland always to con⯑template landſcape through a teleſcope.

There are indeed times when views on this coaſt are grander than can be exhibited in any part of the world. When the navy of England is forming a rendezvous at Spithead, or waiting for a wind at St. Helen's, every curious per⯑ſon, who loves a grand ſight, would wiſh for a ſtand on the iſland-coaſt. And indeed the [334] eaſtern end of it is generally entertained with ſome exhibition of this kind, even in time of peace; for though a fleet of thirty or forty ſail of the line is not continually riding near the coaſt, yet generally, either ſome ſhips of war, or two or three frigates, are paſſing or re⯑pairing from Portſmouth-harbour, going out on a cruiſe, or returning from one.

Theſe are ſights with which the weſtern coaſts of the iſland are not often entertained. The teleſcope there is ſeldom levelled at fleets, or ſhips of the line. Sometimes a ſolitary frigate, with a fair wind, or an Indiaman, may lead through the Needles, and attract the atten⯑tion of the weſtern iſlanders; but on that ſide of the coaſt they muſt generally be content with views adorned with ſkiffs, paſſage-boats, and fleets of whiting-fiſhers. If, however, they will be content to ſubſtitute the pictureſque in the room of the grand, they have in theſe minuter appendages the advantage of their eaſtern neighbours.

Having thus conſidered the higher and lower grounds of the Iſle of Wight, we conſider laſtly its rocky ſcenery. This is ſeldom an ornament to [335] the ſcenes of the iſland, as it is ſeldom ſeen from any part of it. Sometimes you may get a per⯑ſpective view of a range of rocky-coaſt; but in general the rocks of the iſland make a ſhew only at ſea ^*; and there they are grand, rather than pictureſque. Their height gives them gran⯑deur, ſome of them rearing themſelves ſix hundred feet above the level of the water. Their extent alſo is magnificent, as they range in ſome places perhaps a dozen miles along the coaſt. But their form and colour unite in in⯑juring their beauty.

With regard to their form, inſtead of pre⯑ſenting thoſe noble maſſes, and broad ſur⯑faces of projecting rocks, which we ſee along many of the coaſts of England, they are broken and crumbled into minute parts. The chalky ſubſtance, of which they are con⯑ſtructed, has not conſiſtence to ſpread into an ample ſurface. It ſhivers too much. If I were to deſcribe theſe rocks therefore in two words, I ſhould call them magnificently little. This, however, is a diſadvantage only on the foreground. At ſea all theſe frittered parts diſ⯑ſolve away, and are melted by diſtance into broad ſurfaces.

[336]But here again the colour offends. Theſe cliffs are not chalk, yet are ſo like chalk, that the foſſiliſt hardly knows what elſe to call them. The painter is in the ſame dilemma. He finds them not white, but ſo nearly white, that he hardly knows what other colour to give them. Nature has, in many parts, ſpread over them a few ſtains and tints, as ſhe ſeems always ſtudious to remove an offenſive glare. But on ſo large a ſurface, this has but a partial effect; and the whole coaſt, for many leagues together, appears nearly white. Now of all hues the painter diſlikes white the moſt; as it is the moſt refractory and unaccommodating to his other tints. Of courſe, therefore, the cliffs of the Iſle of Wight offend him.

From this uniformity of colour, the rocks of Allum-bay ſhould be excepted; the ſtrata of which are tinted, and marbled with red, brown, blue, and other colours, in a beautiful manner. This bay is nearly oppoſite to Hurſt-caſtle, and is the moſt weſtern inlet, which is formed on the northern ſide of the iſland.

There is one circumſtance belonging to the weſtern rocks of the Iſle of Wight, which, [337] though but a trifling one, is of a pictureſque nature, and ought, therefore, to be mentioned. At periodical ſeaſons, they are frequented with prodigious flights of ſea-fowl of various kinds. Their numbers can only be deſcribed by the hyperbolical expreſſion of darkening the air. They ſit commonly, when they are not in mo⯑tion, on the ledges of the cliffs; in the cran⯑nies of which they breed. You ſee them ranged in black files through a conſiderable ſpace. The report of a gun brings them all out of their receſſes; and the air, which a moment before was ſtill and quiet, is now beaten with myriads of buſy wings, and filled with ſcreams and cries as various as the ſeveral tribes from which they iſſue. ‘We have often reſted on our oars under the rocks,’ (ſays Mr. Pennant, with much deſcriptive elegance,) ‘attentive to the ſounds above our heads, which, mixed with the ſolemn roar of the waves ſwelling into the vaſt caverns beneath, and retiring from them, produced a fine effect. The ſharp note of the ſea-gull, the loud ſcream of the awk, together with the hoarſe, deep, peri⯑odical croak of the cormorant, which ſerves as a baſe to the reſt, often furniſhed us with [338] a concert, and, joined with the wild ſcenery that ſurrounded us, afforded us a high degree of pleaſure.’ But it is not, I think, from novelty, to which Mr. Pennant aſcribes it, that the pleaſure ariſes. Theſe notes, though diſ⯑cordant in themſelves, are in perfect harmony with the wild ſcenes where they are heard; and this makes them chiefly intereſting. In the views, therefore, of this rocky coaſt, theſe flights of birds ſhould never be forgotten, as they may well be numbered among its pictu⯑reſque appendages.

Neither fiſh nor fowl can haunt a coaſt, but the inhabitants find ſome means of turning them to advantage. Theſe airy inmates of ſuch cliffs and precipices as hang beetling many fa⯑thoms above the ſea, one ſhould imagine might paſs their lives in full ſecurity. But man, with the hand of art, contrives to reach them. He fixes an iron crow firm in the ground, and tying a rope tight to it, he lets himſelf down with a baſket in his hand, among the middle regions of the cliffs, where the fowls inhabit. So bold and ſudden an invaſion frights them immediately from their receſſes. With a watch⯑ful eye he examines the parts of the rock [339] from which they chiefly eſcape; and ſcram⯑bling about by the help of his rope, he fills his baſket with their eggs, for which he can al⯑ways find a ready market.

Theſe birds alſo furniſh amuſement to all the neighbouring country. In ſummer, a number of ſhooting parties are formed both by land and ſea; and when the weather is fine, you can ſeldom ſail paſt without falling in with ſome of them.

That man has a right to deſtroy ſuch ani⯑mals as are noxious to him is undoubted. That he has a right alſo over the lives of ſuch ani⯑mals as are uſeful to him for food and other neceſſaries, is equally unqueſtioned. But whe⯑ther he has a right to deſtroy life for his amuſe⯑ment, is another queſtion. If he is determined to act the tyrant, (that is, to conſider power as conferring right,) the point is decided. Power he certainly has. But if he wiſh to act on authorized and equitable principles, let him juſt point out the paſſage in his charter of rights over the brute creation, which gives him the liberty of deſtroying life for his amuſe⯑ment ^*.

[340]I ſhall conclude theſe remarks on the nume⯑rous flights of ſea-fowl, with a paſſage from Vaillent's Travels in Africa, which is the moſt curious of the kind I have met with. On his landing on Daſſen iſland, at the mouth of Saldanha-bay, near the cape of Good Hope, he tells us, ‘there roſe ſuddenly from the whole ſurface of the iſland an immenſe ca⯑nopy, or rather a ſky, compoſed of birds of every ſpecies and of all colours, cormorants, ſea-gulls, ſea-ſwallows, pelicans, &c. I believe all the winged tribe of Africa were here aſſem⯑bled. All their voices united together, formed ſuch horrid muſic, that I was every moment obliged to cover my head to give a little [341] relief to my ears. The alarm which we ſpread was the more general among theſe legions of birds, as we principally diſturbed the females who were then ſitting. They had neſts, eggs, and young to defend. They were like furious harpies let looſe againſt us. They often flew ſo near us, that they flap⯑ped their wings in our faces; and though we fired repeatedly, we could not frighten them. It ſeemed almoſt impoſſible to diſ⯑perſe the cloud. We could not move a ſtep without cruſhing either eggs or young ones. The earth was entirely ſtrewed with them.’

There is, beſides theſe flights of birds, ano⯑ther pictureſque circumſtance frequently ſeen on the coaſts of the Iſle of Wight, which may be mentioned, though it is a dreadful one, that of ſhipwrecks. As the diſtreſſes of man⯑kind furniſh the choiceſt ſubjects for dramatic ſcenes, ſo do they often for painting. And among theſe, no marine ſubject is equal to a ſhipwreck in the hands of a maſter. I put it into the hands of a maſter, becauſe I have more frequently ſeen this ſubject miſmanaged than any other. A winter ſeldom paſſes in which [342] the inhabitants of theſe dangerous coaſts are not called together to ſee ſome dreadful event of this kind. Long experience has taught them to judge, when the miſchief is inevitable. They ſee that every wave, which beats over the periſhing veſſel, drives her nearer ſome reefs of rocks, well known to them, though the ſeaman knows it not. Signals can be of no uſe; yet they make what ſignals they can to point out the danger. In a ſhort moment the dreadful craſh arrives. The labouring veſſel, now beating among the rocks, gives way in every part; and the hoſpitable iſlanders, very unlike their neighbours on the Corniſh coaſt, have nothing left but to do every thing in their power to ſave the miſerable people, and recover what they can from the wreck.

Having now finiſhed our view of the Iſle of Wight, we returned from the rocks of Freſhwater to Yarmouth, where we took boat for Lymington.

SECT. XXXVI.

IT has long been a queſtion among natu⯑raliſts, whether the Iſle of Wight was ever joined to the coaſt of Hampſhire? Its weſtern point has greatly the appearance of having been torn and convulſed. Thoſe vaſt inſulated rocks, called the Needles, ſeem plainly to have been waſhed away from the ſhores of the iſland. One of them, which was known by the name of Lot's Wife, a tall ſpiral rock, was undermined and ſwallowed up by the ſea not many years ago; and there is every proba⯑bility that the reſt will follow.

What renders this ſeparation of the iſland from the main ſtill more probable is, that the ſea makes yearly depredations along that part of the Hampſhire coaſt called Hordle-cliff, which is juſt oppoſite to the Needles. It has been obſerved too, that there are chalk-rocks at the bottom of the water, exactly like the Needles, all along the channel towards Chriſtchurch.

The beſt recorded authority which we have of this early union between the Iſle of Wight [344] and the main, is given us by Diodorus Sicu⯑lus. This writer, ſpeaking of the tin trade in Britain, informs us, that the people of Corn⯑wall brought this metal to a certain iſland called Ictis, for the ſake of its being more eaſily tranſported from thence to the Conti⯑nent; into which iſland they carried it in carts, when the tide ebbed; for Ictis, he ſays, was only an iſland at full ſea ^*.

By Ictis, it is ſuppoſed, Diodorus meant the Iſle of Wight; the ancient name of which was Vectis, a name nearly ſimilar. This opinion however has been oppoſed by ſome; and par⯑ticularly by Mr. Borlaſe in his Antiquities of Cornwall, who rather ſuppoſes the Ictis of Dio⯑dorus to be ſome iſland, though he does not well ſettle where, upon the coaſt of Cornwall. But Mr. Whitaker, in his Hiſtory of Man⯑cheſter, has brought forward the old opinion again with new authority.

If then this ſuppoſition is at length well grounded, we may gather from it theſe points of information, that the Iſle of Wight was once a vaſt promontory, running out into the ſea, like the Iſle of Purbeck at this time; that [345] it was then united ſolidly to the coaſt of Hampſhire at its weſtern point, and in all other parts ſurrounded by the ſea; but that about two thouſand years ago, (which is ſomewhat before the time of Diodorus,) the ſea had gained ſo far upon it, that it became inſular and peninſular, according to the flux and reflux of the tide, till at length the ſea, gaining ſtill far⯑ther poſſeſſion, formed it, as it is at preſent, into an abſolute iſland.

As we entered Lymington-river, we found a freſh proof of the probability of the ancient union between Vectis and the main. The tide was gone, and had left vaſt ſtretches of ooze along the deſerted ſhores. Here we ſaw lying on the right, a huge ſtump of a tree, which our boatman informed us had been dragged out of the water. He aſſured us alſo, that roots of oaks, and other trees, were often found on theſe banks of mud, which ſeems ſtill to ſtrengthen the opinion that all this part of the coaſt, now covered with the tide, had once been foreſt-land.

SECT. XXXVII.

FROM Lymington we proceeded to South⯑ampton; but all this part of the country, through New-Foreſt, as far as to the bay of Southampton, hath been examined in another work ^*.

At Redbridge we croſſed the river, which flows into Southampton-bay, over a long wooden bridge and cauſeway, ſometimes co⯑vered by the tide. Ships of conſiderable bur⯑den come up as far as this bridge, where they take in timber from New-Foreſt, and other commodities.

A little beyond Redbridge, at a place called Milbroke, a beautiful view opens of South⯑ampton. Before us lay Southampton-bay, ſpreading into a noble ſurface of water. The town runs out like a peninſula on the left, and, with its old walls and towers, makes a pictu⯑reſque appearance. On the right, forming the other ſide of the bay, appear the ſkirts of New-Foreſt, []

[347] and the opening in front is filled with a diſtant view of the Iſle of Wight.

Southampton is an elegant well-built town. It ſtands on the confluence of two large wa⯑ters; and when the tide is full, is ſeated on a peninſula. It is a town of great antiquity, and ſtill preſerves its reſpectable appendages of ancient walls and gates. The country around is beautiful.

At Southampton we took boat to ſee the ruins of Netley-Abbey, which lie about three miles below on the bay. As we approached, nothing could be ſeen from the water; the bank is high and woody, and ſkreens every thing beyond it. Having landed and walked up the meadows about a quarter of a mile, we entered a circular valley, which ſeems to be a mile in circumference, and is ſkreened with wood on every ſide ^*, except that which opens to a part of the river, and which has probably once been wooded alſo. In a dip, near the centre of this valley, ſtands Netley-abbey. As you approach it, you ſee buildings only of the moſt ordinary ſpecies, gable-ends and ſquare [348] walls, without any ornament, except a few heavy buttreſſes.

You enter a large ſquare, which was for⯑merly known by the name of the Fountain-court. The ſide on which you enter ſeems to have been once chambered, and divided into various offices. Such alſo was the left ſide of the court, where the bakery and ovens may ſtill be traced. But in general, whatever the rooms have been which occupied theſe two ſides, the traces of them are very obſcure. On the third ſide, oppoſite to the entrance, the court is bounded by the ſouth wall of the great church; and along the fourth ſide range dif⯑ferent apartments, which are the moſt perfect of any that remain in this whole maſs of ruin.

The firſt you enter ſeems to have been a dining-hall. It is twenty-five paces long and nine broad, and has been vaulted, and cham⯑bered above. Adjoining to it, on the right, are the pantry and kitchen. You ſtill ſee in the former the aperture, or buttery-hatch, through which victuals were conveyed into the hall. The kitchen of Netley-Abbey is inferior to that of Glaſtonbury, but is a ſpacious and lofty vaulted room; and what is peculiar, from one ſide of it leads a ſubterraneous paſſage to the river, which ſome imagine to have been a com⯑mon []

[349] ſewer, but it is too ample, I ſhould ſup⯑poſe, to have been intended for that purpoſe.

At the other end of the dining-hall, you paſs through a ſmall vaulted room, into the chapter-houſe, which is ten paces ſquare. This room is beautifully proportioned, and adorned on each ſide by three arches, which uniting at the top in ribs, ſupport a vaulted roof. To this adjoin two ſmaller rooms, from whence there is an entrance to the great church by the croſs aiſle.

The great church has been a very elegant piece of Gothic architecture; and is almoſt the only part of the whole ruin, which is pic⯑tureſque. All traces of the aiſles and pillars are loſt; but the walls are entire, except half the croſs-aiſle, which is gone. The eaſt and weſt windows remain; the former has not yet loſt all its ornaments; and both are very beau⯑tiful without, as well as within. Maundrel tells us, that the eaſt windows in all the Chriſtian churches he met with in his travels as far as Tyre, which were not fewer than a hundred, were left uninjured ^*. A ſimilar remark, I think, may be made on moſt of the ruined churches in England. The fact is ſingular, [350] but whether it is owing to chance or ſuper⯑ſtition may be doubted. In that part of the croſs-aiſle at Netley-Abbey which remains, a ſmall part of the ſtone roof is ſtill left, and is a very curious ſpecimen of Gothic antiquity.

More of this roof might ſtill have remained if the warnings of Heaven (as that renowned antiquarian Brown Willis informs us) had taken effect. From him we have an anecdote, which, he aſſures us, is founded on fact, of a carpenter, who once trafficked with the owner of Netley for this elegant roof, which he meant to pull down and convert into gain. As he retired to reſt, his ſlumbers were diſ⯑turbed with dreadful dreams. Theſe having no effect, the next night viſions appeared; venerable old men in Monkiſh habits, with frowning faces and threatening hands. Still he purſued his wicked purpoſe. But the next night he had ſcarce fallen aſleep, when a mon⯑ſtrous coping-ſtone fell plumb upon his head. He ſtarted with horror, and was hardly at length perſuaded it was a dream. All this having only a momentary effect, in the morn⯑ing he went to work on the execution of his deſign. No farther warning was given him. He had ſcarce mounted a ladder, when a cop⯑ing-ſtone fell in earneſt from the roof, and put [351] him to inſtant death. Others, however, it ſeems, have been found, notwithſtanding this example, who have purſued the deſign, for a mere fragment of the roof only now remains.

The preſent poſſeſſor purſues an oppoſite extreme. The whole body of the church is now ſo choaked with ruin, and overgrown with thickets and ivy-buſhes, that the greateſt part of the building is inviſible. A degree of all theſe, no doubt, would be ornamental; but like other ornaments, when they are too pro⯑fuſely ſcattered, they offend. Theſe ruins are as much obſtructed on the outſide, as they are within. We walked round them, and could find only two places, the two end windows, where we could poſſibly take a view. Every other approach is excluded, except on the ſide we entered, which leaſt deſerves to be expoſed. This part is ſo very ordinary, that it raiſes a prejudice at firſt againſt the whole; and the ruin would be ſhewn to much more advantage if this ſide were blocked up with wood, and the approach made either by the eaſt or weſt window of the great church. Beyond the ruins are the remains of large ſtew-ponds, which were formerly appendages of the abbey.

SECT. XXXVIII.

AS we ſet ſail from Netley-Abbey, we had a beautiful view of Southampton, running from us in a point directly oppoſite to that view which we had from Redbridge. The indentations made by the river Itchin, and other creeks, are great advantages to the view.

From Southampton we took our rout to Wincheſter, through a very beautiful country. The firſt object is an artificial avenue, com⯑poſed of detached groups of fir. The idea of an avenue as a connecting thread between a town and a country, is a good one. We obſerve, however, that the beauty of this avenue is much greater as we approach Southampton, than as we leave it. As we leave it, the ave⯑nue ends abruptly in a naked country; but as we turned round, and viewed it in retroſpect, it united with the woody ſcene around it, which had a good effect. A retroſpect alſo []

[353] afforded beautiful views over Southampton river, and its appendages, the town, New-foreſt, and the Iſle of Wight. All this pleaſ⯑ing country appeared under various forms; and was often ſet off with good foregrounds.

Having paſſed the avenue, and a few miles of miſcellaneous country, no way intereſting, we entered, about the ſixth ſtone, a foreſt-ſcene, abounding with all the charms of that ſpecies of landſcape. In this we continued three or four miles.

From theſe woody ſcenes the country be⯑comes more heathy; but is ſtill diverſified with wood, and affords many pleaſing diſtances on the right; till at length it ſuddenly dege⯑nerates into chalky grounds, which are of the ſame kind as thoſe deſcribed in our approach to Wincheſter ^*.

We left Wincheſter by the Baſingſtoke road; which paſſes through a country, with little pic⯑tureſque beauty on either hand. It becomes by degrees flat and unpleaſant, and ſoon dege⯑nerates into common-field land, which, with its [354] ſtriped diviſions, is of all kinds of country generally the moſt unpleaſant.

Near Baſingſtoke ſtand the ruins of Baſing-houſe, which we cannot paſs without feeling a reſpect for the gallant figure it made, beyond that of any fortreſs of its ſize, in the civil wars of Charles I. It was at that time the ſeat of the Marquis of Wincheſter, who fortified and held it for the king, during the greateſt part of thoſe troubleſome times, though it underwent an almoſt continued blockade. Once it was ſo far reduced by famine, as to be on the point of ſurrendering; and its relief by Colonel Gage was conſidered as one of the moſt ſol⯑dierly actions of the war. Lord Clarendon has detailed this gallant enterprize at length. The outlines of it are theſe. The King was then at Oxford. He had been applied to for aſſiſtance by the garriſon at Baſing-houſe; but it was blockaded by ſo large a force, that all the mili⯑tary men about him thought any attempt to relieve it, deſperate. Gage, however, offered his ſervice; and getting together a few volun⯑teers, well mounted, undertook the buſineſs. On Monday night he left Oxford, which is forty miles from Baſing-houſe; came up with the beſiegers before day-light on Wedneſday [355] morning; forced their lines by an unexpected attack; and entered the place with a ſtring of horſes laden with proviſion. The enemy ſoon found how contemptible a number had alarmed them; and returning to their poſts, began to cloſe up the avenues. Gage, with that readi⯑neſs of invention which is able to command the criſis of a great action, ſent orders into the country, to provide quantities of proviſion for a large reinforcement, which he hourly ex⯑pected. This intelligence gave a momentary pauſe to the motions of the enemy. A mo⯑ment was all that Gage wanted. He iſſued in⯑ſtantly from the garriſon with his ſmall troop of horſe; and through bye roads got ſafe to Oxford without interruption. Thus relieved, Baſing-houſe continued to baffle all the at⯑tempts of the Parliament, till the fatal battle of Naſeby. After that event misfortunes came in with a full tide upon the king. Every day brought him ſome new account of the loſs of his garriſons; and among other places he had the mortification to hear of the loſs of Baſing-houſe. Cromwell himſelf appeared before it, and ſummoning it in haughty language, was anſwered with ſcorn. The incenſed chief fell upon it with a body of his veteran troops; car⯑ried [356] it by aſſault; and put the garriſon to the ſword.—Among the few fugitives that eſcaped, was the celebrated engraver Hollar, who had been ſhut up in the caſtle. This event, in a pictureſque work, is a circumſtance worth mentioning.

From Baſingſtoke we continued our route to Bagſhot. Lord Albermarle's houſe and im⯑provements appeared to great advantage, con⯑traſted by the heath, which ſurrounded them. They ſeemed like an iſland in the main. As we approached Stains, the Duke of Cumber⯑land's plantations in Windſor-park made a no⯑ble appearance.

From Stains we croſſed the Thames at King⯑ſton, where we entered Surrey.