hardwick hall.

mrs. jameson has lately given a very vivid and charming account of this fine old place. i am not going to tread in her steps, but to describe the impression it made upon myself at different times, in my own way, and with reference to my own object.

my first visit to it was when i was a youth of about seventeen. i had heard nothing at all of it, and had no idea that it was an object of any particular interest. i was at mansfield, and casually heard that the present duke of devonshire, its proprietor, was come of age, and that there, as at his other houses, his birth-day was to be kept by his tenants and the neighbouring peasantry in the old english style. the house lies about five miles to the north of mansfield, not far from the chesterfield road. i set off, and learning that there was a footway, i passed through one or two quiet, old-fashioned villages, through solitary fields and deep woody valleys, a road that for its beauty and out-of-the-world air delighted me exceedingly. i at length found myself at the entrance of a large old park. the tall towers of the hall had been my landmarks all the way, and now that unique building, standing on the broad, level plain, surrounded at a distance by the old oaks of the park, burst upon me with an unexpected effect. it was unlike anything i had seen; but there were solemn halls in the regions of poetry and romance, that my imagination immediately classed it amongst. i advanced toward it with indescribable feelings of wonder and delight. i could have wished that it had been standing in its[258] ordinary solitude, for that seemed to my mind its true and natural state; but it was not so: around it swarmed crowds of rustic revellers, and i determined to take things as i found them; to consider this very scene as a feature of the olden time; and to see how it went, about the baronial dwellings in the feudal ages, on occasions like that.

it was not long before i came upon a man lying on his face under the trees,—he was dead drunk. soon i passed another, and another, and another: a little farther, and they lay about like the slain on the outskirts of a battle. when i came into the open plain before the hall, the sound of a band of music which had probably been some time silent through the musicians themselves dining, reached me; i heard drunken songs and wild outcries mingling with it. all about the lawn were scattered clustered throngs. i saw barrels standing; spigots running; men catching their hats full, and running here and there, while others were snatching at their prize, and often spilling the ale on the ground. sometimes there were two or three trying to drink out of a hat at once; others were stooping down to drink at the spigots; there were fighting, scuffling, clamour, and confusion. all round the hall people swarmed like bees. at the doors and gates dense masses were trying to force their way in; while stout fellows were thumping away at their sculls with huge staves, with an energy that one would have thought enough to kill them by dozens, but which seemed to make little impression.

while this was going on, being a slim youth, i slipped beneath the uplifted arm of a stout yeoman, and made a safe ingress. i stood astonished at the place into which i had entered. those ample and lofty rooms, in which stood huge pieces of roast-beef on huge pewter dishes, and great leathern jacks, tankards, and modern jugs of ale, at which scores of people were eating and drinking as voraciously as if they had been fasting all the one-and-twenty years to do due honour to this great birth-day; while the servants were running to and fro, filling up foaming measures, which were emptied again with wonderful rapidity. those vast kitchens too, with their mighty fireplaces, and tongs, and pokers, and spits fit for the kitchen of polyphemus; with broiling cooks and hurrying menials, called on by twenty voices at once. i made my way to the front court, where, under canvass awnings, long tables[259] were set out for the tenantry and yeomanry of the neighbourhood, admitted by ticket. o what a company of jolly, rosy, full-grown, well-fed fellows, was there, making no sham onset on the plum-pudding and roast-beef of old england! the band kept up a triumphant din; but when it ceased for a moment, what a rattle of knives and forks, and a clatter of ale-cups, what a clamour of tongues and hearty laughter became perceptible! and all round the court, the walls were covered with swarms of men, that climbed up no trivial height to get a view of the jovial banquet, and many a cry was raised to throw up thither some of those good things. and sure enough, here went a piece of beef, and here a lump of pudding; and a score of hands caught at them; and a hundred voices joined in the roar of laughter as they were caught, or fell back again into the court, or flew over the wall amongst the scrambling crowd.

but suddenly there was in the midst of all this noise and jollity, a cry of horror; and it was soon seen that one of the pointed stones that stand at intervals on the top of the high wall all round the court, had disappeared. it had given way with a man who clung to it, had fallen upon him, and killed him on the spot. there was a momentary pause in the festivity; a great running together to the spot of the catastrophe; but the body was soon conveyed away to an outbuilding, and the tide of riot rolled on. it was doomed, however, to receive a second check; for another man, in the wild excitement of the time, and of the strong ale, sprang at one bound over a wall that stood on the edge of a precipice, and fell a shattered corpse into the hollow below. these were awful events, and cast over some of the revellers a gloom that would not disperse; but far the greater part were now too highly charged with birth-day ale to be capable of reflection. all around was bacchanalian chaos. singing, shouting, attempts at dancing, reeling, and tumbling. bodies lay thickly strewn through court and hall, and far around on the lawn. some gay sparks were, with mock respect, carried with much struggling and laughter, and laid in sheds and stables and under trees, and one especial dandy was deposited in a heap of soot. for myself, perhaps the only sober person there, i hastened away, resolving to revisit that fairy mansion in the time of its restored quiet.

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and in what a far different aspect did it present itself when i next saw it; and with what a far different company did i witness it! it was on one of the most glorious days of a splendid summer that we passed under the shadow of its oaks, as happy and attached a company as ever met on earth. ah! they are all dispersed now! out of a dozen glad hearts, not more than three are living now. but let me forget that. we were a joyful band of tried friends then. all, except myself and a young yorkshire damsel, light as a sylph, and lovely and frolic as a fairy, were in carriages; we were on horseback; and scarcely had we entered the park, when, as if the sight of its fine wide level had filled her with an irresistible desire to scour across it, the madcap gave her horse the rein, and darted away. under the boughs of the oaks she stooped, and flew along with arrowy swiftness. every moment i expected to see her caught by one of them, and dashed to the ground; but she was too practised a horsewoman for that: she cleared the trees; the deer bounded away as she came galloping towards them, and turned and gazed at her from a distance; the rooks and daws, and lapwings feeding on the turf, soared up and raised wild cries; but she sped on, and there was nothing for me to do but to follow. i spurred forwards, but it was only to see her rush, at the same reckless speed, down a deep descent, where one trip of her horse—and nothing was more likely—and she would have flown far over his head to certain death. yet down she went, and down i followed; but ere i reached the bottom, she was urging her horse up as steep an ascent, on whose summit, as i approached it, i found her seated on her panting steed, laughing at her exploit and my face of wonder.

when we reached the hall, there were all our friends in the court, and the kind-hearted old gentleman, the head of the party, standing at the great hall door, laughing heartily at the attempts of each of the youngsters in succession to walk blindfold up a single row of the flags that lead from the court-gates to the house. every one began full of confidence; but the laughter and cries of the rest soon proclaimed the failure of the enterprise. when it came to the turn of our merry madcap, up she walked with a bold step, and course as strait as if guided by a clue, from gate to door. all at once exclaimed that she could see, and busy[261] hands were soon at work to fasten the handkerchief so artfully round her head, that she could not possibly get a glimpse of daylight. again she was led to the gate, and again she marched up to the door as quickly and directly as before. the wonder was great; but still it was asserted that she must see;—it was that fine grecian nose of hers that permitted a glance down beside it, enough for the guidance of the spirited damsel; so handkerchief was bound on handkerchief, aslant and athwart, to exclude every possibility of seeing; and again she was set at the gate; and again went gaily and confidently to the door without one erring footstep. there was a general murmur of applause and wonder. i see that light and buoyant figure still advancing up the line of flags; i see those golden locks dancing in the sunshine as she went; i see that lovely countenance, those blue and laughing eyes, full of a merry triumph, as her friends unbound her beautiful head. i see the same glad creature, all vivacity and happiness, now sitting on the warm turf, now bounding up long flights of stairs; now standing, to the terror of her companions, on the jutting edge of a ruinous tower;—and can it be true, that that fairy creature has long been dead! the light of those lovely eyes extinguished! those lovely locks soiled with the damp churchyard earth! alas! we know too well how readily such things come to pass. but no black presage came before us then. all around was summer sunshine; we explored every nook in that old ivied ruin, the older house of hardwick, in which the queen of scots was confined; paced the celebrated banqueting-room, adorned with the figures of gog and magog, with an angel flying between them with a drawn sword. we rambled over the leaden roof, and in the happy folly of youth, marked each other’s foot upon it, with duly inscribed names and date. we went all through the present house; through its tapestried rooms, along its gallery, into its ancient chapel, and up to its armoury, a tower on the roof; and finally adjourned to the neat little inn at glapwell, to a merry tea, and thence home.

my next visit to hardwick was in the autumn of 1834. my companions now were, my true associate for the last seventeen years, and one little boy and girl, who, as we advanced up the park, rambled on before us in eager delight. twenty years had passed since that[262] youthful party i have just mentioned was there;—twenty years to me of many sober experiences; of naturally extended knowledge; of observation of our old english houses in various parts of the kingdom: but as i once more approached hardwick, i felt that it had lost none of its effect,—nay, that that effect was actually increased: it was more unworldly, more unlike any thing else, or any thing belonging to common life; more poetical, more crowned and overshadowed with beautiful and solemn associations, than it was when i first beheld it in my youth. the distance you have to advance, from the moment you emerge from amongst the trees of the park into a full view of the hall, until you reach it, tends greatly to heighten its effect. there it stands, bold and alone, on a wide unobstructed plain.

no trees crowd upon it, or break, for a moment, the view; it lifts itself up in all its solemn and unique grandeur to the blue heavens, like a fairy palace, in the days of old romance. it is a thing expressly of by-gone times—darkened indeed by age, but not injured. unlike modern mansions, you see no bustle of human life about it; no gardens and shrubberies; but wings of grey, and not very high walls, extending to a considerable distance over the plain, from each end of the house, inclosing what gardens there are, and paddocks. you see no offices appended,—it seems a place freed from all mortal necessities,—inhabited by beings above them. all offices, in fact, that are not included within the regular walls of the house, are removed to a considerable distance with the farm-yard. as you draw near, its grave aspect strikes you more strongly; you become more sensible of its loftiness, of the vast size of its windows, and of that singular parapet which surmounts it. it is an oblong building, with three square towers at each end, both projecting from, and rising much higher than, the body of the building. the parapet surmounting these towers is a singular piece of open-work of sweeping lines of stone, displaying the initials of the builder, e. s.—elizabeth shrewsbury,—surmounted with the coronet of an earl. on all sides of the house these letters and crown strike your eye, and the whole parapet appears so unlike what is usually wrought in stone, that you cannot help thinking that its singular builder, old bess of hardwick, must have cut out the pattern in paper with her scissars. it is difficult to say, whether this remarkable woman[263] had a greater genius for architecture or matrimony. she was the daughter of john hardwick of hardwick, and sole heiress of this estate. she married four times, always contriving to get the power over her husband’s estates, by direct demise, or by intermarrying the children of their former marriages with those of former husbands, so that she brought into the family immense estates, and laid the foundation of four dukedoms. her genius for architecture is sufficiently conspicuous in this unique pile, and in the engraving of worksop manor in thoroton’s nottinghamshire, as erected by her, though since destroyed by fire,—a building full of the same peculiar character. it is said that it having been foretold her by some astrologer, that the moment she ceased to build would be the moment of her death, she was perpetually engaged in building. at length, as she was raising a set of almshouses at derby, a severe frost set in. all measures were resorted to necessary to enable the men to continue their work: their mortar was dissolved with hot water, and when that failed, with hot ale; but the frost triumphed—the work ceased, and bess of hardwick expired! this noble building i trust will long continue to perpetuate her memory, lifting aloft on its parapet her conspicuous e. s.

all the lower walls surrounding the courts and paddocks, are finished with similar open-work of bands of curved and knotted stone. a colonnade runs along each side of the house between the projecting towers, and the entrance-front is enclosed by that court of which i have already spoken; having its walls mounted, at intervals, with quaint pyramidal stones. on this side of the house a fine valley opens itself, filled with noble woods, a large water, and displaying beyond a hilly and pleasant country.

at about a hundred yards from the hall stand the remains of the old one. the progress of dilapidation upon this building, since my last visit, was striking. then you could ascend to the leaden roof; but now means were adopted to prevent that, on account of its unsafe state; in fact, the stairs themselves have partly fallen in; many of the floors of the rooms have fallen through; the ceiling of the celebrated banqueting-room itself has given way by places, and in others is propped up by stout pieces of timber. the glory of gog and magog will soon be annihilated, or they will be left on the walls, exposed to the astonished gaze of the passer-by, as are some[264] stucco alto-relievoes of stags under forest trees on the chamber walls, with ivy drooping over them from the top of the walls above, and tall trees that have sprung on the hearths of destroyed rooms below, waving before them. this is the outward aspect of those old halls where mary stuart, and the almost equally unfortunate arabella stuart, once dwelt. within, the present hall is as perfect a specimen of an elizabethan house, as can be wished. “the state apartments are lofty and spacious, with numerous transom windows admitting a profusion of light. the hall is hung with very curious tapestry, which appears to be as ancient as the fifteenth century. on one part of it, is a representation of boar-hunting, and on another of otter-hunting. in the chapel, which is on the first floor, is a very rich and curious altar-cloth, thirty feet long, hung round the rails of the altar, with figures of saints under canopies wrought in needlework. the great dining-room is on the same floor, over the chimney-piece of which are the arms of the countess of shrewsbury, with the date of 1597. the most remarkable apartments in this interesting edifice are the state room, or room of audience, as it is called, and the gallery. the former is sixty-four feet nine inches, by thirty-three feet, and twenty-six feet four inches high. at one end of it is a canopy of state, and in another part a bed, the hangings of which are very ancient. this room is hung with tapestry, in which is represented the story of ulysses; over this are figures, rudely executed in plaster, in bas-relief, amongst which is a representation of diana and her nymphs. the gallery is about 170 feet long and 26 wide, extending the whole length of the eastern side of the house; and hung with tapestry, on a part of which is the date of 1478.”[11] the house has not only been kept in repair, but exactly in the state in which its builder left it, as to furniture and fitting up, with a very few exceptions, and these in the most accordant taste. for instance, the duke of devonshire has brought hither his family pictures from chatsworth, so as to make this fine gallery the family picture gallery. not another painting has been suffered to enter. he has also now added a most appropriate feature to the entrance hall, a statue of the queen of scots, of the size of life, by westmacott. it stands on a pedestal of the same stone, bearing an armorial escutcheon.

[11] lyson’s magna britannia.

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mrs. jameson expresses strongly the effect of the huge escutcheons, the carved arms thrust out from the wall, intended to hold lights, and the great antlers, as she first entered this hall by night; but what would have been the effect of seeing mary stuart herself standing full opposite, as if to receive her to this place of her former captivity.[12] to her, and to every imaginative person, the effect must have been powerful, and solemnly impressive. gray the poet, instead of thinking that the queen of scots had but just walked down into the park for half an hour, would have seen her visibly here. i have seen the portraits of queen mary, both here and in holyrood, but none of them give me a thousandth part of the idea of what she must have been, compared with this statue.

[12] i do not mean literally that this house was the place of her captivity, it was the old one.

with these two exceptions, both of which tend to strengthen the legitimate influence of the place, all besides is exactly as it was. you ascend the broad, easy oak stairs; you see the chapel by their side, with all its brocaded seats and cushions; you advance along vast passages, where stand huge chests filled with coals, and having ample crypts in the walls for chips and firewood. here are none of the modern contrivances to conceal these things; but they stand there before you, with an air of rude abundance, according well with the ancient mixture of baronial state and simplicity. you go on and on, through rooms all hung with rich old tapestry, glowing with pictorial scenes from scriptural or mythological history; all furnished with antique cabinets, massy tables, high chairs covered with crimson velvet or ornamental satin. you behold the very furniture used by queen mary; the very bed she worked with her own fingers. but perhaps that spacious gallery, extending along the whole front of the house, gives the imagination a more feudal feeling than all. its length, nearly two hundred feet; its great height; its stupendous windows, composing nearly the whole front, rattling and wailing as the wind sweeps along them. what a magnificent sough, and even thunder of sound, must fill that wild old place in stormy weather. there you see arranged, high and low, portraits of most of the characters belonging to the family or history of the place, of all degrees of execution. it is not my intention to give any details, either of those or of the furniture; that having[266] been done by mrs. jameson with the accuracy and feeling that particularly distinguish her. i aim only at imparting the general effect. it is enough therefore to say that there are “many beautiful women and brave men:” portraits of bluff harry viii.; those of the rival queens, mary and elizabeth; her keeper, the earl of shrewsbury, and his masculine wife, elizabeth of hardwick; and the philosophers, boyle and hobbs. one interesting particular of mrs. jameson’s statement, however, we could not verify:—the tradition of the nocturnal meeting of the rival queens in the gallery. we never heard of it before; nor could we now find, by the most particular inquiries, even among the domestics, any knowledge of such a tradition. it was as new to them as to us; and we therefore set it down as a pleasant poetical tradition of the fair author’s own planting.

the duke was come hither from chatsworth, to spend a week, and he seemed to have come in the spirit befitting the place; for there was scarcely more than its usual establishment; scarcely less than its usual quietness perceptible. the duke himself we had met on the road, and in his absence were shewn through the apartments which he uses on these occasions; and it had a curious effect amid all this staid and sombre antiquity, to find, on a plain oak table in the library, the newspapers of the day; the athen?um, court journal, the spectator, and edinburgh review; the works of dr. channing; and hood’s tylney hall, just then published. what an antithesis! what a mighty contrast between the spirit of the past and the present!—the life and stir of the politics and the passing literature of the day, in a place belonging in history, character, and all its appointments, to an age so different, and so long gone by, with all its people and concerns.

nothing, perhaps, could mark more vividly the vast changes in the manners and circumstances of different ages in england; the wonderful advance in luxury and refinement of the modern ones, than by passing from hardwick to the old hall of haddon, built in 1427, when the feudal system was in its strength; when the manor-house was but one remove from the castle; to visit this with its rude halls, its massive tables, its floors made from the planks of one mighty oak, its ancient arras and quaint stucco-work; and then pass over to chatsworth, only a few miles distant, where to the[267] past all the splendour of the present has been added; modern architecture, and all its contrivances for domestic convenience, comfort, and elegance; pictures, statuary, books, magnificent furniture, glowing carpets; every thing that the art, wealth, and ingenuity of this great nation can bring together into one princely mansion. but as my limits will not admit of this, i shall content myself with a survey of a more domestic kind, yet connected with the poetical history of our own day—annesley and newstead.