Seeing Europe with Famous Authors, Volume I. - Various
From Poet's Corner I continued my stroll toward that part of the abbey
which contains the sepulchers of the kings. I wandered among what once
were chapels, but which are now occupied by the tombs and monuments of the
great. At every turn I met with some illustrious name; or the cognizance
of some powerful house renowned in history. As the eye darts into these
dusky chambers of death, it catches glimpses of quaint effigies; some
kneeling in niches, as if in devotion; others stretched upon the tombs,
with hands piously prest together; warriors in armor, as if reposing after
battle; prelates with croziers and miters; and nobles in robes and
coronets, lying, as it were, in state. In glancing over this scene, so
strangely populous, yet where every form is so still and silent, it seems
almost as if we were treading a mansion of that fabled city where
everything had been suddenly transmuted into stone.
In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner stands a monument which is among
the most renowned achievements of modern art, but which to me appears
horrible rather than sublime. It is the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, by
Roubillac. The bottom of the monument is represented as throwing open its
marble doors, and a sheeted skeleton is starting forth. The shroud is
falling from its fleshless frame as he launches his dart at his victim.
She is sinking into her affrighted husband's arms, who strives, with vain
and frantic effort, to avert the blow. The whole is executed with terrible
truth and spirit; we almost fancy we hear the gibbering yell of triumph
bursting from the distended jaws of the specter. But why should we thus
seek to clothe death with unnecessary terrors, and to spread horrors round
the tombs of those we love? The grave should be surrounded by everything
that might inspire tenderness and veneration for the dead; or that might
win the living to virtue. It is the place, not of disgust and dismay, but
of sorrow and meditation.
I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb, and from chapel to
chapel. The day was gradually wearing away; the distant tread of loiterers
about the abbey grew less and less frequent; the sweet-tongued bell was
summoning to evening prayers; and I saw at a distance the choristers, in
their white surplices, crossing the aisle and entering the choir. I stood
before the entrance to Henry the Seventh's chapel. A flight of steps lead
up to it, through a deep and gloomy but magnificent arch. Great gates of
brass, richly and delicately wrought, turn heavily upon their hinges, as
if proudly reluctant to admit the feet of common mortals into this most
gorgeous of sepulchers.
On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of architecture and the
elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. The very walls are wrought into
universal ornament, incrusted with tracery and scooped into niches,
crowded with statues of saints and martyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning
labor of the chisel, to have been robbed of its weight and density,
suspended aloft, as if by magic, and the fretted roof achieved with the
wonderful minuteness and airy security of a cobweb.
Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the Knights of the
Bath, richly carved of oak, tho with the grotesque decorations of Gothic
architecture. On the pinnacles of the stalls are affixt the helmets and
crests of the knights, with their scarfs and swords; and above them are
suspended their banners, emblazoned with armorial bearings, and
contrasting the splendor of gold and purple and crimson with the cold gray
fretwork of the roof. In the midst of this grand mausoleum stands the
sepulcher of its founder--his effigy, with that of his queen, extended on
a sumptuous tomb, and the whole surrounded by a superbly wrought brazen
railing....
When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they were those of men
scattered far and wide about the world, some tossing upon distant seas;
some under arms in distant lands; some mingling in the busy intrigues of
courts and cabinets; all seeking to deserve one more distinction in this
mansion of shadowy honors; the melancholy reward of a monument.
Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a touching instance
of the equality of the grave; which brings down the oppressor to a level
with the opprest, and mingles the dust of the bitterest enemies together.
In one is the sepulcher of the haughty Elizabeth; in the other is that of
her victim, the lovely and unfortunate Mary. Not an hour in the day but
some ejaculation of pity is uttered over the fate of the latter, mingled
with indignation at her oppressor. The walls of Elizabeth's sepulcher
continually echo with sighs of sympathy heaved at the grave of her rival.
A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary lies buried. The
light struggles dimly through windows darkened by dust. The greater part
of the place is in deep shadow, and the walls are stained and tinted by
time and weather. A marble figure of Mary is stretched upon the tomb,
round which is an iron railing, much corroded, bearing her national
emblem--the thistle. I was weary with wandering, and sat down to rest
myself at the monument, revolving in my mind the chequered and disastrous
story of poor Mary....
Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst upon the ear, falling
with doubled and redoubled intensity, and rolling, as it were, huge
billows of sound. How well do their volume and grandeur accord with this
mighty building! With what pomp do they swell through its vast vaults, and
breathe their awful harmony through these caves of death, and make the
silent sepulcher vocal! And now they rise in triumph and acclamation,
heaving higher and higher their accordant notes, and piling sound on
sound. And now they pause, and the soft voices of the choir break out into
sweet gushes of melody; they soar aloft, and warble along the roof, and
seem to play about these lofty vaults like the pure airs of heaven. Again
the pealing organ heaves its thrilling thunders, compressing air into
music, and rolling it forth upon the soul. What long-drawn cadences! What
solemn, sweeping concords! It grows more and more dense and powerful--it
fills the vast pile, and seems to jar the very walls--the ear is
stunned--the senses are overwhelmed. And now it is winding up in full
jubilee--it is rising from the earth to heaven--the very soul seems rapt
away and floated upward on this swelling tide of harmony!...
I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As I descended the flight of steps
which lead into the body of the building, my eye was caught by the shrine
of Edward the Confessor, and I ascended the small staircase that conducts
to it, to take from thence a general survey of this wilderness of tombs.
The shrine is elevated upon a kind of platform, and close around it are
the sepulchers of various kings and queens. From this eminence the eye
looks down between pillars and funeral trophies to the chapels and
chambers below, crowded with tombs; where warriors, prelates, courtiers
and statesmen lie moldering in their "beds of darkness." Close by me stood
the great chair of coronation, rudely carved of oak, in the barbarous
taste of a remote and Gothic age. The scene seemed almost as if contrived,
with theatrical artifice, to produce an effect upon the beholder. Here was
a type of the beginning and the end of human pomp and power; here it was
literally but a step from the throne to the sepulcher. Would not one think
that these incongruous mementos had been gathered together as a lesson to
living greatness, to show it, even in the moment of its proudest
exaltation, the neglect and dishonor to which it must soon arrive; how
soon that crown which encircles its brow must pass away, and it must lie
down in the dust and disgraces of the tomb, and be trampled upon by the
feet of the meanest of the multitude?...
The last beams of day were now faintly streaming through the painted
windows in the high vaults above me; the lower parts of the abbey were
already wrapt in the obscurity of twilight. The chapels and aisles grew
darker and darker. The effigies of the kings faded into shadows; the
marble figures of the monuments assumed strange shapes in the uncertain
light; the evening breeze crept through the aisles like the cold breath of
the grave; and even the distant footfall of a verger, traversing the
Poet's Corner, had something strange and dreary in its sound. I slowly
retraced my morning's walk, and as I passed out at the portal of the
cloisters the door, closing with a jarring noise behind me, filled the
whole building with echoes.
I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of the objects I had been
contemplating, but found they were already fallen into indistinctness and
confusion. Names, inscriptions, trophies, had all become confounded in my
recollection, tho I had scarcely taken my foot from off the threshold.
What, thought I, is this vast assemblage of sepulchers but a treasury of
humiliation; a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the emptiness of renown
and the certainty of oblivion! It is, indeed, the empire of death; his
great shadowy palace, where he sits in state, mocking at the relics of
human glory, and spreading dust and forgetfulness on the monuments of
princes. How idle a boast, after all, is the immortality of a name! Time
is ever silently turning over his pages; we are too much engrossed by the
story of the present, to think of the characters and anecdotes that gave
interest to the past; and each age is a volume thrown aside to be speedily
forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes the hero of yesterday out of our
recollection; and will, in turn, be supplanted by his successor of
to-morrow.
"Our fathers," says Sir Thomas Browne, "find their graves in our short
memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our survivors."
History fades into fable; fact becomes clouded with doubt and controversy;
the inscription molders from the tablet; the statue falls from the
pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of sand; and
their epitaphs, but characters written in the dust? What is the security
of a tomb, or the perpetuity of an embalmment? The remains of Alexander
the Great have been scattered to the wind, and his empty sarcophagus is
now the mere curiosity of a museum. "The Egyptian mummies, which Cambyses
or time hath spared, avarice now consumeth; Mizraim cures wounds, and
Pharaoh is sold for balsams." [Footnote: Sir Thomas Browne.]
What, then, is to insure this pile which now towers above me from sharing
the fate of mightier mausoleums? The time must come when its gilded
vaults, which now spring so loftily, shall lie in rubbish beneath the
feet; when, instead of the sound of melody and praise, the wind shall
whistle through the broken arches, and the owl hoot from the shattered
tower--when the garish sunbeam shall break into these gloomy mansions of
death, and the ivy twine round the fallen column; and the foxglove hang
its blossoms about the nameless urn, as if in mockery of the dead. Thus
the man passes away; his name perishes from record and recollection; his
history is as a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin.
THE HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT [Footnote: From "English Note Books." By
arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers of Hawthorne's
works, Houghton, Mifflin Co. Copyright, 1870-1898.]
BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
A little before twelve, we took a cab, and went to the two Houses of
Parliament--the most immense building, methinks, that ever was built; and
not yet finished, tho it has now been occupied for years. Its exterior
lies hugely along the ground, and its great unfinished tower is still
climbing toward the sky; but the result (unless it be the river-front,
which I have not yet seen) seems not very impressive. The interior is much
more successful. Nothing can be more magnificent and gravely gorgeous than
the Chamber of Peers--a large oblong hall, paneled with oak, elaborately
carved, to the height of perhaps twenty feet. Then the balustrade of the
gallery runs around the hall, and above the gallery are six arched windows
on each side, richly painted with historic subjects. The roof is
ornamented and gilded, and everywhere throughout there is embellishment of
color and carving on the broadest scale, and, at the same time, most
minute and elaborate; statues of full size in niches aloft; small heads of
kings, no bigger than a doll; and the oak is carved in all parts of the
paneling as faithfully as they used to do it in Henry VII.'s time--as
faithfully and with as good workmanship, but with nothing like the variety
and invention which I saw in the dining-room of Smithell's Hall. There the
artist wrought with his heart and head; but much of this work, I suppose,
was done by machinery.
It is a most noble and splendid apartment, and, tho so fine, there is not
a touch of finery; it glistens and glows with even a somber magnificence,
owing to the deep, rich hues and the dim light, bedimmed with rich colors
by coming through the painted windows. In arched recesses, that serve as
frames, at each end of the hall, there are three pictures by modern
artists from English history; and tho it was not possible to see them well
as pictures, they adorned and enriched the walls marvelously as
architectural embellishments. The Peers' seats are four rows of long sofas
on each side, covered with red morocco; comfortable seats enough, but not
adapted to any other than a decorously exact position. The woolsack is
between these two divisions of sofas, in the middle passage of the
floor--a great square seat, covered with scarlet, and with a scarlet
cushion set up perpendicularly for the Chancellor to lean against. In
front of the woolsack there is another still larger ottoman, on which he
might lie at full length--for what purpose intended, I know not. I should
take the woolsack to be not a very comfortable seat, tho I suppose it was
originally designed to be the most comfortable one that could be
contrived.
The throne is the first object you see on entering the hall, being close
to the door; a chair of antique form, with a high, peaked back, and a
square canopy above, the whole richly carved and quite covered with
burnished gilding, besides being adorned with rows of rock crystals--which
seemed to me of rather questionable taste....
We next, after long contemplating this rich hall, proceeded through
passages and corridores to a great central room, very beautiful, which
seems to be used for purposes of refreshment, and for electric telegraphs;
tho I should not suppose this could be its primitive and ultimate design.
Thence we went into the House of Commons, which is larger than the Chamber
of Peers, and much less richly ornamented, tho it would have appeared
splendid had it come first in order. The Speaker's chair, if I remember
rightly, is loftier and statelier than the throne itself. Both in this
hall and in that of the Lords we were at first surprized by the narrow
limits within which the great ideas of the Lords and Commons of England
are physically realized; they would seem to require a vaster space. When
we hear of members rising on opposite sides of the House, we think of them
but as dimly discernible to their opponents, and uplifting their voices,
so as to be heard afar; whereas they sit closely enough to feel each
other's spheres, to note all expression of face, and to give the debate
the character of a conversation. In this view a debate seems a much more
earnest and real thing than as we read it in a newspaper. Think of the
debaters meeting each other's eyes, their faces flushing, their looks
interpreting their words, their speech growing into eloquence, without
losing the genuineness of talk! Yet, in fact, the Chamber of Peers is
ninety feet long and half as broad and high, and the Chamber of Commons is
still larger.
ST. PAUL'S [Footnote: From "Walks in London."]
BY AUGUSTUS J.C. HARE
It will be admitted that, tho in general effect there is nothing in the
same style of architecture which exceeds the exterior of St. Paul's, it
has not a single detail deserving of attention, except the Phenix over the
south portico, which was executed by Cibber, and commemorates the curious
fact narrated in the "Parentalia," that the very first stone which Sir
Christopher Wren directed a mason to bring from the rubbish of the old
church to serve as a mark for the center of the dome in his plans was
inscribed with the single word _Resurgam_--I shall rise again. The other
ornaments and statues are chiefly by Bird, a most inferior sculptor. Those
who find greater faults must, however, remember that St. Paul's, as it now
stands, is not according to the first design of Wren, the rejection of
which cost him bitter tears. Even in his after work he met with so many
rubs and ruffles, and was so insufficiently paid, that the Duchess of
Marlborough, said, in allusion to his scaffold labors, "He is dragged up
and down in a basket two or three times in a week for an insignificant
L200 a year."...
The interior of St. Paul's is not without a grandeur of its own, but in
detail it is bare, cold, and uninteresting, tho Wren intended to have
lined the dome with mosaics, and to have placed a grand baldacchino in the
choir. Tho a comparison with St. Peter's inevitably forces itself upon
those who are familiar with the great Roman basilica, there can scarcely
be a greater contrast than between the two buildings. There, all is
blazing with precious marbles; here, there is no color except from the
poor glass of the eastern windows, or where a tattered banner waves above
a hero's monument. In the blue depths of the misty dome the London fog
loves to linger, and hides the remains of some feeble frescoes by
Thornhill, Hogarth's father-in-law. In St. Paul's, as in St. Peter's, the
statues on the monuments destroy the natural proportion of the arches by
their monstrous size, but they have seldom any beauty or grace to excuse
them. The week-day services are thinly attended, and, from the nave, it
seems as if the knot of worshipers near the choir were lost in the
immensity, and the peals of the organ and the voices of the choristers
were vibrating through an arcaded solitude....
The most interesting portion of the church is the Crypt, where, at the
eastern extremity, are gathered nearly all the remains of the tombs which
were saved from the old St. Paul's. Here repose the head and half the body
of Sir Nicholas Bacon (1579), Lord Keeper of the Great Seal in the reign
of Elizabeth, and father of Francis, Lord Bacon. Other fragments represent
William Cokain, 1626; William Hewit, 1597; and John Wolley and his wife,
1595. There are tablets to "Sir Simon Baskerville the rich," physician to
James I. and Charles I., 1641; and to Brian, Bishop of Chester, 1661. The
tomb of John Martin, bookseller, and his wife, 1680, was probably the
first monument erected in the crypt of new St. Paul's....
In the Crypt, not far from the old St. Paul's tombs, the revered Dean
Milman, the great historian of the church (best known, perhaps, by his
"History of the Jews," his "History of Latin Christianity," and his
contributions to "Heber's Hymns"), is now buried under a simple tomb
ornamented with a raised cross. In a recess on the south is the slab of
Sir Christopher Wren, and near him, in other chapels, Robert Mylne, the
architect of old Blackfriars Bridge, and John Rennie, the architect of
Waterloo Bridge. Beneath the pavement lies Sir Joshua Reynolds (1742), who
had an almost royal funeral in St. Paul's, dukes and marquises contending
for the honor of being his pallbearers. Around him are buried his
disciples and followers--Lawrence (1830), Barry (1806), Opie (1807), West
(1820), Fuseli (1825); but the most remarkable grave is that of William
Maillord Turner, whose dying request was that he might be buried as near
as possible to Sir Joshua.
Where the heavy pillars and arches gather thick beneath the dome, in spite
of his memorable words at the battle of the Nile--"Victory or Westminster
Abbey"--is the grave of Lord Nelson. Followed to the grave by the seven
sons of his sovereign, he was buried here in 1806, when Dean Milman, who
was present, "heard, or seemed to hear, the low wail of the sailors who
encircled the remains of their admiral." They tore to pieces the largest
of the flags of the "Victory," which waved above his grave; the rest were
buried with his coffin.
The sarcophagus of Nelson was designed and executed for Cardinal Wolsey by
the famous Torregiano, and was intended to contain the body of Henry VIII.
in the tomb-house at Windsor. It encloses the coffin made from the mast of
the ship "L'Orient," which was presented to Nelson after the battle of the
Nile by Ben Hallowell, captain of the "Swiftsure," that, when he was tired
of life, he might "be buried in one of his own trophies." On either side
of Nelson repose the minor heroes of Trafalgar, Collingwood (1810) and
Lord Northesk; Picton also lies near him, but outside the surrounding
arches.
A second huge sarcophagus of porphyry resting on lions is the tomb where
Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, was laid in 1852, in the presence of
15,000 spectators, Dean Milman, who had been present at Nelson's funeral,
then reading the services. Beyond the tomb of Nelson, in a ghastly
ghost-befitting chamber hung with the velvet which surrounded his lying in
state at Chelsea, and on which, by the flickering torchlight, we see
emblazoned the many Orders presented to him by foreign sovereigns, is the
funeral car of Wellington, modeled and constructed in six weeks, at an
expense of L13,000, from guns taken in his campaigns.
In the southwest pier of the dome a staircase ascends by 616 steps to the
highest point of the cathedral. No feeble person should attempt the
fatigue, and, except to architects, the undertaking is scarcely worth
while. An easy ascent leads to the immense passages of the triforium, in
which, opening from the gallery above the south aisle, is the Library,
founded by Bishop Compton, who crowned William and Mary, Archbishop Seeker
refusing to do so. It contains the bishop's portrait and some carving by
Gibbons.
At the corner of the gallery, on the left, a very narrow stair leads to
the Clock, of enormous size, with a pendulum 16 feet long, constructed by
Langley Bradley in 1708. Ever since, the oaken seats behind it have been
occupied by a changing crowd, waiting with anxious curiosity to see the
hammer strike its bell, and tremulously hoping to tremble at the
vibration.
Returning, another long ascent leads to the Whispering Gallery, below the
windows of the cupola, where visitors are requested to sit down upon a
matted seat that they may be shown how a low whisper uttered against the
wall can be distinctly heard from the other side of the dome. Hence we
reach the Stone Gallery, outside the base of the dome, whence we may
ascend to the Golden Gallery at its summit. This last ascent is
interesting, as being between the outer and inner domes, and showing how
completely different in construction one is from the other. The view from
the gallery is vast, but generally, beyond a certain distance, it is
shrouded in smoke. Sometimes, one stands aloft in a clear atmosphere,
while beneath the fog rolls like a sea, through which the steeples and
towers are just visible "like the masts of stranded vessels." Hence one
may study the anatomy of the fifty-four towers which Wren was obliged to
build after the Fire in a space of time which would only have properly
sufficed for the construction of four. The same characteristics, more and
more painfully diluted, but always slightly varied, occur in each. Bow
Church, St. Magnus, St. Bride, and St. Vedast are the best.
The Great Bell of St. Paul's (of 1716), which hangs in the south tower,
bears the inscription, "Richard Phelps made me, 1716." It only tolls on
the deaths and funerals of the royal family, of Bishops of London, Deans
of St. Paul's, and Lord Mayors who die in their mayoralty.
THE BRITISH MUSEUM AND THE CRYSTAL PALACE [Footnote: From "Notes on
England." By arrangement with the publishers, Henry Holt & Co.]
BY HIPPOLYTE ADOLPHE TAINE
I have letters of introduction and a ticket of admission to the British
Museum. About the Grecian marbles, the original Italian drawings, about
the National Gallery, the Hampton Court galleries, the pictures at
Buckingham Palace and Windsor Castle, and the private collections, I shall
say nothing. Still, what marvels and what historical tokens are all these
things, five or six specimens of high civilization manifested in a perfect
art, all differing greatly from that which I now examine, and so well
adapted for bringing into relief the good and the evil. To do that would
fill a volume by itself.
The Museum library contains six hundred thousand volumes; the reading-room
is vast, circular in form, and covered with a cupola, so that no one is
far from the central office, and no one has the light in his eyes. All the
lower stage of shelves is filled with works of reference--dictionaries,
collections of biographies, classics of all sorts--which can be consulted
on the spot, and are excellently arranged. Moreover, a small plan placed
on each table indicates where they are placed and the order in which they
stand.