Domestic Life

  Thomas Chippendale ran one of the leading furniture manufacturing firms in London in the 1760s. In the first edition of The Gentleman and Cabinet-Maker’s Director (1752), Chippendale describes this collection of furniture designs as a work “calculated to assist the [gentleman] in the choice, and the [cabinet-maker] in the execution of the designs; which are so contrived, that if no one drawing should singly answer the Gentleman’s taste, there will yet be found a variety of hints sufficient to construct a new one.” The plates shown here are from the third edition, which expanded the designs in both scope (to include, for example, clock cases and mirrors) and number (from one hundred and sixty-one to two hundred). It should be noted that Chippendale’s designs are fairly elaborate; a cabinet-maker would need to alter them before building the actual furniture.

The more practical designs in Manwaring’s collection (compared to the Chippendale design book of three years earlier) demonstrate the style of furniture more likely to be owned by middle-class families in the eighteenth century.

Mahogany, used widely in furniture-making, was imported from British colonies in the West Indies.

In the eighteenth century, British ceramics began to be made with kaolin clay, producing porcelain goods similar to those that could previously only be imported from China. These “china” goods were often decorated with designs reflecting British ideas of China and of Chinese art. As china became a more accessible household good, it became associated with domestic, and especially female, consumerism.

Josiah Wedgwood was an influential and innovative potter; in 1766, he was appointed the official potter for Queen Charlotte after he fulfilled a commission for a creamware tea service. In 1769, he opened his Etruria factory, which used a technique he developed himself to produce ornamental pieces that imitated classical style. This blue-and-white bas relief plaque demonstrates the style for which Wedgwood is most famous.

This print depicts three Wedgwood vases that date to around 1789. The vase in the middle is in the Etruscan style, one of the classical types that Wedgwood managed to imitate. A 1773 catalogue for Wedgwood and Bentley advertised that “[t]he Proprietors of this Manufactory have been so happy as to re-discover and revive this long lost art; so as to have given satisfaction to the most critical judges.”

This image depicts a fireplace that was reportedly owned by “W.H. Lever, Esq., M.P.” in the 1790s. The fireplace is ornamented in the bas-relief style developed by prominent potter Josiah Wedgwood, whose work capitalized upon the demand for domestic objects that reflected a classically inspired aesthetic. Wedgwood’s work is visible in the plaques that ornament the chimneypiece and in the vases on top of it.

By the end of the eighteenth century, tea was a common drink in England and had become culturally associated with women and the domestic sphere. Most of the tea imported to England in the early nineteenth century was grown in China; in the 1820s, Assam, India, became a significant source.

Thomas Rowlandson is best known for his caricatures and satirical drawings. Tea-drinking could be a domestic social activity; in upper-class houses, tea was typically made in the kitchen and served in the drawing room.

The following essay is one of a series written by Charles Lamb published both in the London Magazine and in the collection Elia, titled for the pseudonym he used. “Old China” includes an episode of tea drinking; the “Hyson” Lamb mentions is a type of Chinese green tea.

I have an almost feminine partiality for old china. When I go to see any great house, I inquire for the china-closet, and next for the picture gallery. I cannot defend the order of preference, but by saying, that we have all some taste or other, of too ancient a date to admit of our remembering distinctly that it was an acquired one. I can call to mind the first play, and the first exhibition, that I was taken to; but I am not conscious of a time when china jars and saucers were introduced into my imagination.

I had no repugnance then—why should I now have?—to those little, lawless, azure-tinctured grotesques, that under the notion of men and women, float about, uncircumscribed by any element, in that world before perspective—a china teacup.

I like to see my old friends—whom distance cannot diminish—figuring up in the air (so they appear to our optics), yet on terra firma still—for so we must in courtesy interpret that speck of deeper blue, which the decorous artist, to prevent absurdity, had made to spring up beneath their sandals.

I love the men with women’s faces, and the women, if possible, with still more womanish expressions. Here is a young and courtly Mandarin, handing tea to a lady from a salver—two miles off. See how distance seems to set off respect! And here the same lady, or another—for likeness is identity on teacups—is stepping into a little fairy boat, moored on the hither side of this calm garden river, with a dainty mincing foot, which in a right angle of incidence (as angles go in our world) must infallibly land her in the midst of a flowery mead—a furlong off on the other side of the same strange stream!

Farther on—if far or near can be predicated of their world—see horses, trees, pagodas, dancing the hays.

Here—a cow and rabbit couchant, and coextensive—so objects show, seen through the lucid atmosphere of fine Cathay.

I was pointing out to my cousin last evening, over our Hyson (which we are old-fashioned enough to drink unmixed still of an afternoon), some of these speciosa miracula upon a set of extraordinary old blue china (a recent purchase) which we were now for the first time using; and could not help remarking, how favourable circumstances had been to us of late years, that we could afford to please the eye sometimes with trifles of this sort—when a passing sentiment seemed to overshade the brows of my companion. I am quick at detecting these summer clouds in Bridget.

“I wish the good old times would come again,” she said, “when we were not quite so rich. I do not mean, that I want to be poor; but there was a middle state” —so she was pleased to ramble on—“in which I am sure we were a great deal happier. A purchase is but a purchase, now that you have money enough and to spare. Formerly it used to be a triumph. When we coveted a cheap luxury (and, O! how much ado I had to get you to consent in those times!)—we were used to have a debate two or three days before, and to weigh the for and against, and think what we might spare it out of, and what saving we could hit upon, that should be an equivalent. A thing was worth buying then, when we felt the money that we paid for it.

“Do you remember the brown suit, which you made to hang upon you, till all your friends cried shame upon you, it grew so threadbare—and all because of that folio Beaumont and Fletcher, which you dragged home late at night from Barker’s in Covent Garden? Do you remember how we eyed it for weeks before we could make up our minds to the purchase, and had not come to a determination till it was near ten o’clock of the Saturday night, when you set off from Islington, fearing you should be too late—and when the old book-seller with some grumbling opened his shop, and by the twinkling taper (for he was setting bedwards) lighted out the relic from his dusty treasures—and when you lugged it home, wishing it were twice as cumbersome—and when you presented it to me—and when we were exploring the perfectness of it (collating, you called it)—and while I was repairing some of the loose leaves with paste, which your impatience would not suffer to be left till daybreak—Was there no pleasure in being a poor man? or can those neat black clothes which you wear now, and are so careful to keep brushed, since we have become rich and finical, give you half the honest vanity with which you flaunted it about in that overworn suit—your old corbeau—for four or five weeks longer than you should have done, to pacify your conscience for the mighty sum of fifteen—or sixteen shillings was it?—a great affair we thought it then—which you had lavished on the old folio. Now you can afford to buy any book that pleases you, but I do not see that you ever bring me home any nice old purchases now.

“When you came home with twenty apologies for laying out a less number of shillings upon that print after Leonardo, which we christened the ‘Lady Blanch’; when you looked at the purchase, and thought of the money—and thought of the money, and looked again at the picture—was there no pleasure in being a poor man? Now, you have nothing to do but to walk into Colnaghi’s, and buy a wilderness of Leonardos. Yet do you?” …

In this engraving, Thomas Rowlandson satirizes the notion of “taste,” which took on great importance as a marker of class and social position in the eighteenth century. Elizabeth Bennet admires Mr. Darcy’s “taste” when she tours Pemberley, noticing that the house is “neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of splendour, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.”

Private art galleries and collections were common for gentry in this period. Collections might contain family portraits, as well as new acquisitions meant to exhibit the collector’s artistic taste.

James Edward Austen-Leigh, Austen’s nephew, wrote a biography of her over 50 years after Austen’s death; this text is partially responsible for the nostalgic characterization of Austen as a domestic-minded spinster. The first passage below accounts for the differences in domestic culture between Austen’s lifetime and 1870, when Austen-Leigh is writing; the second passage describes Austen’s needlework.

from Chapter 2

Changes of Habits and Customs in the last Century

But a still greater difference [between 1770 and 1870] would be found in the furniture of the rooms, which would appear to us lamentably scanty. There was a general deficiency of carpeting in sitting-rooms, bed-rooms, and passages. A pianoforte, or rather a spinnet or harpsichord, was by no means a necessary appendage. It was to be found only where there was a decided taste for music, not so common then as now, or in such great houses as would probably contain a billiard-table. There would often be but one sofa in the house, and that a stiff, angular, uncomfortable article. There were no deep easy-chairs, nor other appliances for lounging; for to lie down, or even to lean back, was a luxury permitted only to old persons or invalids. It was said of a nobleman, a personal friend of George III and a model gentleman of his day, that he would have made the tour of Europe without ever touching the back of his travelling carriage. But perhaps we should be most struck with the total absence of those elegant little articles which now embellish and encumber our drawing-room tables. We should miss the sliding bookcases and picture-stands, the letter-weighing machines and envelope cases, the periodicals and illustrated newspapers—above all, the countless swarm of photograph books which now threaten to swallow up all space. A small writing-desk, with a smaller work-box, or netting-case, was all that each young lady contributed to occupy the table; for the large family work-basket, though often produced in the parlour, lived in the closet. …

At the time when Jane Austen lived at Steventon, a work was carried on in the neighbouring cottages which ought to be recorded, because it has long ceased to exist. Up to the beginning of the present century, poor women found profitable employment in spinning flax or wool. This was a better occupation for them than straw plaiting, inasmuch as it was carried on at the family hearth, and did not admit of gadding and gossiping about the village. The implement used was a long narrow machine of wood, raised on legs, furnished at one end with a large wheel, and at the other with a spindle on which the flax or wool was loosely wrapped, connected together by a loop of string. One hand turned the wheel, while the other formed the thread. The outstretched arms, the advanced foot, the sway of the whole figure backwards and forwards, produced picturesque attitudes, and displayed whatever of grace or beauty the work-woman might possess. Some ladies were fond of spinning, but they worked in a quieter manner, sitting at a neat little machine of varnished wood, like Tunbridge ware, generally turned by the foot, with a basin of water at hand to supply the moisture required for forming the thread, which the cottager took by a more direct and natural process from her own mouth. I remember two such elegant little wheels in our own family.

from Chapter 5

Description of Jane Austen’s Person, Character, and Tastes

… Her needlework both plain and ornamental was excellent, and might almost have put a sewing machine to shame. She was considered especially great in satin stitch. She spent much time in these occupations, and some of her merriest talk was over clothes which she and her companions were making, sometimes for themselves, and sometimes for the poor. There still remains a curious specimen of her needlework made for a sister-in-law, my mother. In a very small bag is deposited a little rolled up housewife, furnished with minikin needles and fine thread. In the housewife is a tiny pocket, and in the pocket is enclosed a slip of paper, on which, written as with a crow quill, are these lines:—

This little bag, I hope, will prove
To be not vainly made;
For should you thread and needles want,
It will afford you aid.

And, as we are about to part,
’Twill serve another end:
For, when you look upon this bag,
You’ll recollect your friend.

It is the kind of article that some benevolent fairy might be supposed to give as a reward to a diligent little girl. The whole is of flowered silk, and having been never used and carefully preserved, it is as fresh and bright as when it was first made seventy years ago; and shows that the same hand which painted so exquisitely with the pen could work as delicately with the needle.

Needlework was a common occupation for women in the home: formal work like this piece, made of silk on canvas, could be done during visits. Women of the gentry did household mending as well, though not in company.

Georges Walker’s depiction of the “Costume of Yorkshire” includes this cottage interior. Spinning was an occupation of the laboring classes.

Bell systems in eighteenth-century country houses allowed for a division of space in which service quarters were separate from living ones. Once it became possible to call for a servant from any part of the house, the “closet” affixed to the bedchamber, which had formerly been a place for a servant to sleep, took on a new function as a space for private work.

Over the course of the nineteenth century, Broadwood and Sons became a world-renowned manufacturer of the pianoforte, which rose in popularity during that time. Musical skills such as playing the pianoforte were considered important to a young woman’s education.

Mary Leapor’s “Crumble Hall” was first published in 1751, five years after her death. It is thought that this poem refers to Edgcote House in Northamptonshire, where Leapor worked as a kitchen maid until 1745.

Of this rude Palace might a Poet sing
From cold December to returning Spring;
Tell how the Building spreads on either Hand,
And two grim Giants o’er the Portals stand;
Whose grisled Beards are neither comb’d nor shorn,
But look severe, and horribly adorn.

Then step within—there stands a goodly Row
Of oaken Pillars—where a gallant Show
Of mimic Pears and carv’d Pomgranates twine,
With the plump Clusters of the spreading Vine.
Strange Forms above, present themselves to View;
Some Mouths that grin, some smile, and some that spew.
Here a soft Maid or Infant seems to cry:
Here stares a Tyrant, with distorted Eye:
The Roof—no Cyclops e’er could read so high:
Not Polypheme, tho’ form’d for dreadful Harms,
The Top could measure with extended Arms.
Here the pleas’d Spider plants her peaceful Loom:
Here weaves secure, nor dreads the hated Broom.
But at the Head (and furbish’d once a Year)
The Heralds mystic Compliments appear:
Round the fierce Dragon Honi Soit twines,
And Royal Edward o’er the Chimney shines.

Safely the Mice through yon dark Passage run,
Where the dime Windows ne’er admit the Sun.
Along each Wall the Stranger blindly feels;
And (trembling) dreads a Spectre at his Heels.

The sav’ry Kitchen much Attention calls:
Westphalia Hams adorn the sable Walls:
The Fires blaze; the greasy Pavements fry;
And steaming Odours from the Kettles fly.

See! yon brown Parlour on the Left appears,
For nothing famous, but its leathern Chairs,
Whose shining Nails like polish’d Armour glow,
And the dull Clock beats audible and slow.

But on the Right we spy a Room more fair;
The Form—’tis neither long, nor round, nor square;
The Walls how lofty and the Floor how wide,
We leave for learned Quadrus to decide.
Gay China Bowls o’er the broad Chimney shine,
Whose long Description would be too sublime:
And much might of the Tapestry be sung:
But we’re content to say, The Parlour’s hung.

We count the Stairs, and to the Right ascend,
Where on the Walls the gorgeous Colours blend.
There doughty George bestrides the goodly Steed;
The Dragon’s slaughter’d, and the Virgin freed:
And there (but lately rescu’d from their Fears)
The Nymph and serious Ptolemy appears:
Their aukward Limbs unwieldly are display’d;
And, like a Milk-wench, glares the royal Maid.

From hence we turn to more familiar Rooms;
Whose Hangings ne’er were wrought in Grecian Looms:
Yet the soft Stools, and eke the lazy Chair,
To Sleep invite the Weary, and the Fair. …

Thus far the Palace—Yet there still remain
Unsung the Gardens, and the menial Train.
Its Groves anon—its People first we sing:
Hear, Artemisia, hear the Song we bring.
Sophronia first in Verse shall learn to chime,
And keep her Station, tho’ in Mira’s Rhyme;
Sophronia sage! whose learned Knuckles know
To form round Cheese-cakes of the pliant Dough;
To bruise the Curd, and thro’ her Fingers squeeze
Ambrosial Butter with the temper’d Cheese:
Sweet Tarts and Pudden, too, her Skill declare;
And the soft Jellies, hid from baneful Air. …

Thus she—But now her Dish-kettle began
To boil and blubber with the foaming Bran.
The greasy Apron round her Hips she ties,
And to each Plate the scalding Clout applies:
The purging Bath each glowing Dish refines,
And once again the polish’d Pewter shines. …

This painting depicts a kitchen interior and a servant in an eighteenth-century house. Asparagus, cabbage, and celery, all pictured here, were native to and cultivated in Britain.

This painting depicts a kitchen interior and a servant in an eighteenth-century house. Chicken, hare, and duck seem to be on the menu; the cat is domestic.

… and their voice,
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in its sound.

The Muses are turned gossips; they have lost
The buskined step, and clear high-sounding phrase,
Language of gods. Come, then, domestic Muse,
In slip-shod measure loosely prattling on
Of farm or orchard, pleasant curds and cream,
Or droning flies, or shoes lost in the mire
By little whimpering boy, with rueful face;
Come, Muse, and sing the dreaded Washing-Day.
Ye who beneath the yoke of wedlock bend,
With bowed soul, full well ye ken the day
Which week, smooth sliding after week, brings on
Too soon; for to that day nor peace belongs,
Nor comfort; ere the first grey streak of dawn,
The red-armed washers come and chase repose.
Nor pleasant smile, nor quaint device of mirth,
Ere visited that day; the very cat,
From the wet kitchen scared, and reeking hearth,
Visits the parlour, an unwonted guest.
The silent breakfast meal is soon dispatched,
Uninterrupted, save by anxious looks
Cast at the lowering, if sky should lower.
From that last evil, oh preserve us, heavens!
For should the skies pour down, adieu to all
Remains of quiet; then expect to hear
Of sad disasters—dirt and gravel stains
Hard to efface, and loaded lines at once
Snapped short—and linen-horse by dog thrown down,
And all the petty miseries of life.
Saints have been calm while stretched upon the rack,
And Montezuma smiled on burning coals;
But never yet did housewife notable
Greet with a smile a rainy washing day.
But grant the welkin fair, require not thou
Who call’st thyself perchance the master there,
Or study swept, or nicely dusted coat,
Or usual ’tendence; ask not, indiscreet,
Thy stockings mended, though the yawning rents
Gape wide as Erebus, nor hope to find
Some snug recess impervious; should’st thou try
The ’customed garden walks, thine eye shall rue
The budding fragrance of thy tender shrubs,
Myrtle or rose, all crushed beneath the weight
Of coarse checked apron, with impatient hand
Twitched off when showers impend: or crossing lines
Shall mar thy musings, as the wet cold sheet
Flaps in thy face abrupt. Woe to the friend
Whose evil stars have urged him forth to claim
On such a dav the hospitable rites;
Looks blank at best, and stinted courtesy
Shall he receive. Wainly he feeds his hopes
With dinner of roast chicken, savoury pie,
Or tart or pudding:—pudding he nor tart
That day shall eat; nor, though the husband try,
Mending what can’t be helped, to kindle mirth
From cheer deficient, shall his consort’s brow
Clear up propitious; the unlucky guest
In silence dines, and early slinks away.
I well remember, when a child, the awe
This day struck into me; for then the maids,
I scarce knew why, looked cross, and drove me from
them;
Nor soft caress could I obtain, nor hope
Usual indulgencies; jelly or creams,
Relic of costly suppers, and set by
For me their petted one; or buttered toast,
When butter was forbid; or thrilling tale
Of ghost, or witch, or murder—so I went
And sheltered me beside the parlour fire:
There my dear grandmother, eldest of forms,
Tended the little ones, and watched from harm,
Anxiously fond, though oft her spectacles
With elfin cunning hid, and oft the pins
Drawn from her ravelled stocking, might have soured
One less indulgent.—
At intervals my mother’s voice was heard,
Urging dispatch; briskly the work went on,
All hands employed to wash, to rinse, to wring,
Or fold, and starch, and clap, and iron, and plait.
Then would I sit me down, and ponder much
Why washings were; sometimes through hollow
bole
Of pipe amused we blew, and sent aloft
The floating bubbles, little dreaming then
To see, Mongolfier, thy silken ball
Ride buoyant through the clouds—so near approach
The sports of children and the toils of men.
Earth, air, and sky, and ocean hath its bubbles,
And verse is one of them—this most of all.

This work belongs to a category of tourist guide-book that described the features of various country-houses; guides tended to describe, with varying emphasis, the estate grounds and prospects, works of art collected, or notable aspects of the house interiors. Blenheim, the house of the Duke of Marlborough, is the grandest house in this particular guide and receives the most extensive description. Under Queen Anne, the house was built using public funds; building began in 1711 and finished in 1732.

from Description of Blenheim

The Hall, which lies in the centre of the North or Grand Front, is entered through a superb portico, supported by massy Corinthian columns, of prodigious elegance and uncommon dimensions. The cieling, which is the height of the building, is painted by Sir James Thornhill, and represents Victory crowning John Duke of Marlborough, as she points to a Plan of the Battle of Blenheim. This room contains a bust of John Duke of Marlborough; a Venus de Medicis, and Faun, in bronze, from the original in the Grand Duke of Tuscany’s collection; several marble Termini; and two beautiful statues, one representing a Nymph, and the other a Bacchanal.

Next to the Hall is the Bow-window Room; the tapestry of which represents the famous Battle of Blenheim, and other exploits of John Duke of Marlborough, in the most flowing colours, and the most exact proportions. Among other elegant paintings of approved artists, this room is adorned with a very capital original picture of the Virgin and Child, St. John, and St. Nicholas, by Raphael.

Adjoining to this is the Duke’s Dressing-Room; which, besides a variety of other celebrated productions of the pencil, contains a very fine Holy Family, by Rubens; Our Saviour in the Virgin’s Lap, crowning two Female Martyrs, by Titian; the Circumcision, by Rembrandt; and an Academy Figure, by Vandyck.

The East Drawing-Room, to which the visitors of Blenheim are next conducted, is adorned with many superb paintings; particularly, a very capital and strikingly picturesque Bacchanalian piece, the Offerings of the Magi, and Rubens with his Wife and Child; all by that celebrated master, the last being a present from the Town of Brussels to John Duke of Marlborough. Also, a Man’s Head, by Titian; a Holy Family, esteemed the work of Raphael, given to his Grace by the Town of Ghent; and an enchantingly beautiful picture, by Sir Joshua Reynolds, representing Lady Charlotte Spencer, in the characters of a Gypsey, telling her brother, Lord Henry, his fortune: the archness of expression thrown into these last delightful portraits, by the hand of Sir Joshua, is superior to all description.

The Grant Cabinet is enriched with some of the most capital original paintings in any collection. Among these are a Madona standing on a Globe, surrounded with Angels, by Carlo Marratti; Christ blessing the Little Children, by Vandyck; Pope Gregory, and a Female Martyr, both by Titian; a Magdalen, by Carlo Dolci; a Holy Family, by Ludovico Caracci; Lot’s Departure out of Sodom, a present from the Town of Antwerp; the Flight into Egypt; the Roman Charity; and two portraits, one of Paracelsus, the other of Rubens himself, all by that great master.

The Blue Drawing-Room likewise contains several elegant paintings: the principal of which are, Catharine de Medicis, by Rubens; Time clipping Cupid’s Wings, by Vandyck; an Astronomer and his Family, by Dobson; two Family Portraits; and a collection of beautiful Miniatures, in a single frame.

The tapestry in the adjoining Winter Drawing-Room particularly attracts the notice of every spectator of taste. It represents the Four Cardinal Virtues, with their proper emblems; and approaches nearer to painting than any thing of the kind. Vandyck’s pencil has produced a fine portrait of Mary Dutchess of Richmond, Lord Stafford and his Secretary, and two Favourites of Charles II. which are the only paintings in this room.

The Dining-Room is remarkable for containing a very capital painting of the present Duke, Dutchess, and Children, by Sir Joshua Reynolds. The figures are large as life; and it is said to be the largest piece Sir Joshua ever executed. In this room are likewise elegant paintings, by Ruben, of Lot and his Daughters, and Venus and Adonis, both presents from the Emperor of Germany; a Bacchanalian piece, by Vandyck; and a beautiful portrait of Anne, Princess of Denmark, by Sir Godfrey Kneller.

In the Saloon, a noble and highly-finished room, lined in the lower part with marble, after the Italian taste, are several lofty compartments, containing representations of the different nations of the world in their characteristic dresses and expressions, by La Guerre. The cieling, executed by the same artist, described John Duke of Marlborough in the career of victory, arrested by the hand of Peace, while Time reminds him of the rapidity of his own flight.

Several of the victories of John Duke of Marlborough are delineated in the tapestry of the Drawing-Room to the right of the Saloon; and over the chimney there is a curious clock supported by an elephant. The principal paintings are, Meleager and Atalanta, by Rubens; the Adoration of the Shepherds, by Lucca Giordano; and a few pieces by Poussin.

The tapestry of the Middle Drawing-Room, to the right of the Saloon, exhibits other battles of John Duke of Marlborough; and contains, likewise, a capital painting on black marble, by Alessandro Veronese; with a beautiful portrait of Lady Sunderland; and some other paintings of less importance.

This room leads to the State Bedchamber, the chimney-piece of which is adorned with a bust of Diana; and over it is a superb painting by Lucca Giordano, representing Seneca bleeding to death. A portrait of Edward VI. by Holbein; the Burning of Troy, by Old Frank; and two pieces of Still Life, by Maltese; are the other paintings which deserve most attention in this apartment.

From the profusion of splendid objects in this stately suite of rooms, the eye is at one charmed and relieved, on entering the Library. This noble room is one hundred and eighty-three feet long, and thirty-one feet nine inches wide: nor is it possible to conceive any thing more elegantly finished than the solid columns of marble which support a rich entablature, the Doric pilasters of the same, the surrounding basements of black marble, and the stuccoed compartments of the lofty vaulted cieling.

This spacious room was originally intended as a gallery for paintings; but has since been furnished with a noble collection of books, comprising upwards of twenty thousand volumes, in various languages, arts, and sciences.

At the upper end of the Library stands a highly-finished statue of Queen Anne, in her coronation robes, by Rysbrack; and at the lower end is a fine Grecian bust of Alexander the Great, in good preservation, as dug out of the ruins of Herculaneum, and supported by an elegant modern Therm. On one side, above the book-cases, are several busts, and a number of whole-length family portraits; and on the other, large bow-windows, the frames of which are exquisitely finished, from whence there is an Elysian prospect of the beautifully-covered descent to the canal, and of the rising groves on the opposite hill.

From the Library, a long Gallery leads to the Chapel, in the western wing of the palace; where there is a stately monument, by Rysbrack, to the memory of John Duke of Marlborough and his Dutchess, represented with their two sons, who died young, as supported by Fame and History: beneath, in a basso-relievo, is the taking of Marshal Tallard. The altar-piece, which represents Christ taken down from the Cross, is painted by Jordaens of Antwerp. …