There are many people and many things connected with the past history of Bath, in days beyond the memory of its present inhabitants, that I might have discoursed upon, with pleasure at least to myself, if not to my readers. Such omissions are compulsory in the limited space at my disposal. I could not ramble on for ever about the beautiful city, which in Miss Burney's time was so "tonish," which, when it took three days to reach it, was frequented by all the chief people of the land, but which, though still one of the pleasantest dwelling-places in the country, and can be reached in three hours, is not now a favourite resort of fashion, or the cherished home of genius and learning. I can only make two more selections from my list of Bath worthies. They are both within the memories of living men. Among the later celebrities of Bath was William Beckford the younger -commonly known as "Beckford of Fonthill "—who wrote the romance of Vathek in early youth, and some volumes of travels when he was older. He had a taste for building towers (or, as they are called by others, "follies"), and for collecting pictures and articles of vertu. On these objects of curiosity, which he kept as much as possible to himself, he expended vast sums of money which he had inherited from his father, a West Indian merchant, who was twice Lord Mayor of London, and who died with the civic harness on his back. The father was deeply and widely regretted-which history cannot record of the son.

For my own part, I am disposed to think that the elder Beckford was a more interesting character than the younger. He was a plainspoken, honest man; just, generous, and charitable. He snubbed George the Third, and gave a banquet in the City during his second mayoralty to both Houses of Parliament, which cost him ten thousand pounds. In those days the after-dinner toasts were less "healths" than "sentiments." Among Lord Mayor Beckford's toasts were, "May the fundamental liberties of England be revered and defended!" " May the noble assertors and protectors of English liberty be held in perpetual remembrance! " "May the violators of the rights of election and petitioning against grievances be confounded!" "May corruption cease to be the weapon of Government!" This was in 1770. One can imagine the startling effect which such a toast as the last of these would have produced at Guildhall or the Mansion House, just a century later, if substituted for that of "Her Majesty's Ministers." Not contented with the ventilation of these liberal sentiments, Lord Mayor Beckford desired to induce his guests to sign a document "binding them while in public life to speak and act by the dictates of conscience, and to pledge themselves to maintain in

calls, and concerts, and evening-parties, it is not easy to reconcile the two dates. In the letter of which I am speaking, she says: "My cousin George (at the concert) was very kind, and talked sense to me every now and then, in the intervals of his more animated fooleries with Miss B--, who is very young and rather handsome, and whose gracious manners, ready wit, and solid remarks, put me somewhat in mind of my old acquaintance L. L." Mansfield Park has nothing to do with Bath, but one is irresistibly reminded by this of Fanny Price, Cousin Edmund, and Miss Crauford.

violably the integrity of the Constitution, without views of ambition or aggrandisement, unaccompanied by place, pension, promotion, or any personal advantage." It is stated that Lord Rockingham strongly objected to this proceeding, and that the intention was foregone. Shortly after this, he made the famous speech to George the Third, which excited his Majesty's resentment as much as it delighted the citizens of London. The biographer of the younger Beckford says that some sceptical persons have questioned whether the speech was ever spoken. Just before dinner at Guildhall, little more than a year ago, I read the greater part of it engraved in marble beneath Beckford's statue, in the Banqueting Hall. It was spoken on the 13th of May, 1770. Less than six weeks afterwards he died. He had travelled up from Fonthill (no very easy journey in those days) to attend to some business connected with the mayoralty, and had caught a rheumatic fever which ended his useful life.* Much honour was done to him after his death-especially by the citizens of London. Among the elegiac verses which commemorated his decease, was a poem containing these lines

A patriot firm from motives ever just,

Nor place, nor pension could betray his trust;
His soul untainted with the golden bait,

Still scorned the reigning maxims of the great.

As he had something like 100,000l. a year, this was among the least of his merits. What place or pension could have been of any use to him? Some ingenious friend might have whispered to the poet to substitute the word "title for "pension." He died plain Mr. Beckford. Worse men have been made peers, even in our times, on account of their money. But, as the writer says, in by far the best line in his piece, the alderman was one, who—

Did what he said and said whate'er he thought,

so he had no chance with George the Third.

When the younger Beckford sold Fonthill to Mr. Farquhar, he came to reside at Bath, and lived at the end of Lansdowne Crescent. He was then in his sixty-third year. His biographer says: "The life this singularly gifted man led at Bath was as retired as that at Fonthill. He brought there the same habits; but they were on a diminished scale. The inhabitants of the city in which he resided knew as little about him as those of the metropolis. He was seen occasionally on horseback with the Duke of Hamilton, passing through the streets; but not more than half-a-dozen persons, literary men and artists, were admitted to his acquaintance. His old porter at Fonthill, Pero, a dwarf, continued to be his porter at Bath. Old servants were still in his service, and strongly

In the interim he had gone up to the King with an address on the birth of one of the numerous royal children (a Princess); George kept him waiting for some time, and then sent him a message by the Lord Chamberlain, saying: "That as he had thought fit to speak to the King after the answer to the remonstrance, his Majesty desired that nothing of the kind might happen for the future."

attached to him, as both his tenantry and domestics had been at Fonthill." This, at least, is something in his favour. But it would be hard to conceive any severer condemnation of a man of vast wealth, than the statement by a friendly biographer, that the inhabitants of Bath knew as little about him as the citizens of London. It is plain that he was

not minded to give to the poor, or otherwise to do his duty to his neighbours. He died in his eighty-fifth year, on a May morning in 1844, having probably been as little a benefactor to his fellows, as any man who ever lived so many years and spent so vast a sum of money. I am not surprised, therefore, to find that he has anything but a good reputation in Bath, among the few who know anything about him. He was, indeed, a vain, selfish, egotistical, rather priggish sort of person,* with moderate abilities, which his wealth vastly magnified in the eyes of his parasites. Bath has certainly revenged herself upon him for his neglect, by neglecting him in turn. I have often heard him spoken of as "Mr. Beckwith."

Among the recognised sights of Bath is "Beckford's Tower." It stands in the Lansdowne Cemetery-a statement which, although perfectly true, has something of the appearance of an anachronism. For the tower preceded the cemetery, which was laid out around the building, and in consequence of its antecedent existence. For Beckford had directed that his remains should be buried at the foot of the tower, which was not within consecrated ground-a matter which did not disquiet him in the least, as it has not disquieted many wiser men. After his death, the circumjacent ground was sold; and there was a design of appropriating it to the purpose of a tea-garden. In this crisis, Beckford's daughter, the Duchess of Hamilton, intervened, and with filial reverence, not to be too highly commended, repurchased the ground, and presented it to the City of Bath, for a cemetery. And a very beautiful cemetery it is. Beckford's body rests, therefore, on consecrated ground near the Tower, not underground, but in a handsome red marble sarcophagus, within an entrenched position, near the base of the "folly." The tower itself is, of course, dismantled. It contains none of the treasures of art, which it was once considered a privilege to be permitted to examine. But the treasures of nature are the same as they ever were, and you may see from the upper windows much finer pictures than you could have seen on the inner walls of the eccentric building.

*It is related in his Memoirs that he said to a friend, "Now mark a singular thing, which will never happen to you again as long as you live. A few days ago I gave you my Lives of Extraordinary Painters; I now give you another of my books, written seventy years afterwards. What do you think of that?" "Your Life will some day be among that (?) of extraordinary authors." "Yes; and of extraordinary artists, too," he interrupted.

This might seem to be a truism; but it is not. For Beckford's tower is so built as to look over the city of Bath into the distant country, and the rural prospect, therefore, has not been marred by the activity of architects and masons, as otherwise it might have been.

Beckford's tomb, as originally designed, had a heavy iron railing around it,

The Memoirs of William Beckford of Fonthill, published anonymously in 1859, by Mr. Skeet, has the distinction of being one of the worst books ever written. It would be very dull but for the slip-shod style, which is sometimes extremely amusing. Take this for an example“He (Alderman Beckford) laid it down as a maxim that no one should be suffered to sign his own confession of a crime when brought before himself."* Again, "On a friend telling him (William Beckford, the younger) that he knew his age from two letters to Lord Chatham, in one of which he said—' William was made a Christian of last night.' 'Well! and no doubt you think a very pretty sort of Christian I was manufactured into."" Such a jumble of he's was never, perhaps, known before-the remarkable fact being that the "he" who wrote the letter to Lord Chatham is not once mentioned. The he was William Beckford, the elder, who did not write that his son was "made a Christian of," but "that his son was made a Christian." One more example. It appears that Beckford the younger, with an amount of filial reverence and good taste not to be too highly appreciated, told some one, in the course of conversation, that his father had "scores of natural children." On which the biographer observes, "Not scores exactly-he recognised and provided for them all, as well as for a daughter, Barbara, Mrs. Wale. His sons were Richard, Charles, John, Rose, Thomas, and Nathaniel." This makes out a list of sevencertainly "not scores exactly." But the most noticeable point of all is that the biographer seems distinctly to repudiate the idea of a daughter being a child at all.

Far more to be held in remembrance, as one of the worthies of Bath, is Walter Savage Landor. By ties closer or less close he was connected with Bath for a period of sixty years. He sowed his wild oats here on first coming into his paternal property; he married here; and he lies buried here. For many consecutive years, towards the close of his life, he dwelt

with pillars or piers of masonry. A local writer, with reference to the Widcombe cemetery, at the very opposite extremity of Bath, in which it was at one time placed, says:-"The whole space in front of the chapel is occupied by the enclosure of the tomb of Beckford of Fonthill, with its heavy railings and hewn stone piers. What a pity it is that he did not himself design it! Then, indeed, his grave would have been an ornament; whereas now it seems uselessly to occupy the foreground of the chapel. The red granite tomb, which was made under his direction, is one of the most chaste and beautiful efforts of the sculptor which modern times have produced. Descended from the Saxon kings, he is interred (?) above ground, his tomb bearing on bright brazen scrolls the words he himself wrote," &c. &c.-Tunstall's Rambles about Bath. After resting in Widcombe for some time, the sarcophagus clomb the Lansdowne Hill again, and there it is now to be seen. The outer works (railings, &c.) I was told by the presiding genius of the cemetery had been sold.

* I am reminded by this of a most delicious bit of information that I recently found in a fashionable London paper :-" Certain aristocratic ladies of the West End," it was stated, "who cannot brook the idea of their churches being cleaned out by the hands of hireling menials, have formed themselves into a society called the Phabes, the members of which are solemnly pledged to do the work of cleaning themselves."

almost entirely in Bath, and he would have died here but for a painful circumstance, which caused him, when in his eighty-fourth year, by the advice of his friends, to betake himself to Italy. The natural impetuosity of his temper, acting upon a judgment impaired by age, rendered him scarcely responsible for an act which none defended and all deplored. In the words of one who loved and admired him, he

stooped

Into a dark tremendous sea of cloud,*

and this temporary obscuration is not now forgotten in Bath, where still any mention of his name commonly elicits the remark, "Oh! he did soand-so, and he had to leave the place." His local reputation, perhaps, is even less than Beckford's-but then he did not build a tower of brick and stone. The tower which he built was of another kind-exegit monumentum, et cæt.—and years will add only to its beauty and its strength.

What primarily took Landor to Bath I do not know. Probably, in the first instance, he came, as many others did, from the days of Matthew Bramble downwards, because it was comparatively accessible from Wales. It is enough, that on succeeding to his property, he came here to spend his money and to write his poems. Mr. Forster, quoting a letter from Landor's younger brother, says that he had "the reputation of great wealth, and the certainty, at his mother's death, of still greater. A fine carriage, three horses, two men servants, books, plate, china, pictures, in everything a profuse and wasteful outlay, all confirmed the grandeur." 'Upon the whole," adds Mr. Forster, on his own account, "not a life for such a man either profitable then to have lived or now to recall." Of course it could not last very long. His affairs soon became involved, and he had to think seriously of disentangling them. He adopted a more modest plan of living, and sought better excitement in foreign travel and the throes of literary labour. He visited Spain, and he wrote Count Julian. He lived then on the South Parade, in the lower part of the city. Of his habits of composition we have, at least, one extraordinary glimpse in a letter to Southey. "I believe," he wrote, "that I am the first man who ever wrote the better part of a tragedy in a concert-room." As soon as he had completed this magnificent monument of his genius, he fell in love. "It is curious," he wrote to Southey, in April, 1811, "that the evening of my beginning to transcribe the tragedy, I fell in love. I have found a girl without a sixpence and with very few accomplishments. She is pretty, graceful, and good-tempered-three things indispensable to my happiness."

The young lady was Miss Julia Thuillier. She was a member of a family well known and much respected in Bath during a long series of years. The head of the house was of Swiss extraction, a member of a noble family, who, probably for some political reason, had been compelled * Robert Browning. I do not mean that the poet wrote this of Landor. He wrote it of Paracelsus.