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Transcribed from the 1893 edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE LATE WILLIAM BECKFORD
OF FONTHILL, WILTS and LANSDOWN, BATH

The Manuscript of the following Letters, written by my Father, hasbeen in my possession fifty years.  He intended to publish it atthe time of Mr. Beckford’s death, in 1844, but delayed the executionof the work, and sixteen years afterwards was himself called to enteron the higher life of the spiritual world.

Mr. Beckford and my Father were kindred spirits, conversant withthe same authors, had visited the same countries, and were both giftedwith extraordinary memories.  Mr. Beckford said that he had nevermet with a man possessed of such a memory as my Father; and many a timehas my Father told me that he never met a man who possessed such a memoryas Mr. Beckford.

If my Father had published the Reminiscences himself I think thatmuch misconception in the public mind respecting the character of Mr.Beckford would have been prevented.  For instance, I remember,when a child, being warned that this great man was an infidel. When he showed my Father the sarcophagus in which his body was to beplaced, he remarked, “There shall I lie, Lansdown, until the trumpof God shall rouse me on the Resurrection morn.”

CHARLOTTE LANSDOWN.

8 Lower East Hayes, Bath;
July, 1893.

p. 5RECOLLECTIONSOF THE LATE WILLIAM BECKFORD.

Bath, August 21, 1838.

My Dear Charlotte,—I have this dayseen such an astonishing assemblage of works of art, so numerous andof so surprisingly rare a description that I am literally what LordByron calls “Dazzled and drunk with beauty.”  I feelso bewildered from beholding the rapid succession of some of the veryfinest productions of the great masters that the attempt to describethem seems an impossible task; however, I will make an effort.

The collection of which I speak is that of Mr. Beckford, at his housein Lansdown-crescent.  Besides all this I have this day been introducedto that extraordinary man, the author of “Vathek” and “Italy,”the builder of Fonthill, the contemporary of the mighty and departeddead, the pupil of Mozart; in fact, to the formidable and inaccessibleVathek himself!  I have many times passed the house, and longedto see its contents, and often have I wondered how a building with soplain and unostentatious an exterior could suit the reception of theworks it contains, and the residence of so magnificent a personage.

I first called by appointment on his ingenious architect, Mr. Goodridge(to whom I am indebted for this distinguished favour), and he accompaniedme to the house, which we reached at half-past twelve o’clock. We were shown upstairs, passing many fine family pictures, and wereushered into the neat library, where Mr. Beckford was waiting to receiveus.  I confess I did at first feel somewhat embarrassed, but alovely spaniel ran playfully towards us, licking our hands in the mostaffectionate p. 6andhospitable manner; “You are welcome” was the silent language. I assure you I judge much, and often truly, of the character of individualsfrom the deportment of their favourite dogs.  I often find themexactly indicative of their master’s disposition.  When youare attacked by snarling, waspish curs is it at all wonderful if youfind them an echo of the proprietor?  But this beautiful animalreassured me, and gave me instantly a favourable idea of its master. My astonishment was great at the spaciousness of the room, which hadin length a magnificent and palatial effect, nor did I immediately discoverthe cause of its apparent grandeur.  It opens into the gallerybuilt over the arch connecting the two houses, at the end of which animmense mirror reflects the two apartments.  The effect is mostillusive, nor should I have guessed the truth had I not seen the reflectionof my own figure in the glass.

The library, which is the whole length of the first house, cannotbe much less than fifty feet long.  It has on one side five loftywindows, the gallery having three on the same side.  You have thelight streaming through eight consecutive openings; these openings,with their crimson curtains, doubled by the reflection, produce a mostcharming perspective.  From the ceiling hangs a splendid ormoluchandelier, the floor is covered with a Persian carpet (brought I believefrom Portugal), so sumptuous that one is afraid to walk on it, and anoble mosaic table of Florentine marble, bought in at an immense priceat Fonthill, is in the centre of the room.  Several rows of therarest books cover the lower part of the walls, and above them hangmany fine portraits, which Mr. Beckford immediately, without losingany time in compliments, began to show us and describe.

First we were shown a portrait by de Vos of Grotius; next to it oneof Rembrandt, painted by himself.  “You see,” saidMr. Beckford, “that he is trying to assume an air of dignity notnatural to him, by throwing back his head, but this attempt at the dignifiedis neutralized by the expression of the eyes, which have rather toomuch of sly humour for the character which he wishes to give himself.” To praise individual pictures seems useless when everyone you meet hasexcellencies peculiar to itself; in fact, whatever our ideas of thegreat masters may be, and we certainly do gain from prints and picturesp. 7atolerable idea of their style and different beauties (and I have myselfseen the Louvre and many celebrated pictures) there is in Mr. Beckford’schef d’œuvres something still more lovely than ourimagination, than our expectation.  I speak not now of the St.Catherine, The Claud, The Titian, &c., but all the pictures, whetherhistorical, landscape, or low life, have this unique character of excellence.