westminster abbey-第2章

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devotion；　others　stretched　upon　the　tombs；　with　hands　piously

pressed　together：　warriors　in　armor；　as　if　reposing　after　battle；

prelates　with　crosiers　and　mitres；　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　every

being　had　been　suddenly　transmuted　into　stone。

　　I　paused　to　contemplate　a　tomb　on　which　lay　the　effigy　of　a　knight

in　complete　armor。　A　large　buckler　was　on　one　arm；　the　hands　were

pressed　together　in　supplication　upon　the　breast：　the　face　was

almost　covered　by　the　morion；　the　legs　were　crossed；　in　token　of　the

warrior's　having　been　engaged　in　the　holy　war。　It　was　the　tomb　of　a

crusader；　of　one　of　those　military　enthusiasts；　who　so　strangely

mingled　religion　and　romance；　and　whose　exploits　form　the　connecting

link　between　fact　and　fiction；　between　the　history　and　the　fairy　tale。

There　is　something　extremely　picturesque　in　the　tombs　of　these

adventurers；　decorated　as　they　are　with　rude　armorial　bearings　and

Gothic　sculpture。　They　comport　with　the　antiquated　chapels　in　which

they　are　generally　found；　and　in　considering　them；　the　imagination

is　apt　to　kindle　with　the　legendary　associations；　the　romantic

fiction；　the　chivalrous　pomp　and　pageantry；　which　poetry　has　spread

over　the　wars　for　the　sepulchre　of　Christ。　They　are　the　relics　of

times　utterly　gone　by；　of　beings　passed　from　recollection；　of

customs　and　manners　with　which　ours　have　no　affinity。　They　are　like

objects　from　some　strange　and　distant　land；　of　which　we　have　no

certain　knowledge；　and　about　which　all　our　conceptions　are　vague　and

visionary。　There　is　something　extremely　solemn　and　awful　in　those

effigies　on　Gothic　tombs；　extended　as　if　in　the　sleep　of　death；　or

in　the　supplication　of　the　dying　hour。　They　have　an　effect

infinitely　more　impressive　on　my　feelings　than　the　fanciful　attitudes；

the　overwrought　conceits；　and　allegorical　groups；　which　abound　on

modern　monuments。　I　have　been　struck；　also；　with　the　superiority　of

many　of　the　old　sepulchral　inscriptions。　There　was　a　noble　way；　in

former　times；　of　saying　things　simply；　and　yet　saying　them　proudly；

and　I　do　not　know　an　epitaph　that　breathes　a　loftier　consciousness

of　family　worth　and　honorable　lineage；　than　one　which　affirms；　of　a

noble　house；　that　〃all　the　brothers　were　brave；　and　all　the　sisters

virtuous。〃

　　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　his　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　spectre。…　But　why　should　we　thus　seek　to

clothe　death　with　unnecessary　terrors；　and　to　spread　horrors　round　the

tomb　of　those　we　love？　The　grave　should　be　surrounded　by　every　thing

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。

　　While　wandering　about　these　gloomy　vaults　and　silent　aisles；

studying　the　records　of　the　dead；　the　sound　of　busy　existence　from

without　occasionally　reaches　the　ear；…　the　rumbling　of　the　passing

equipage；　the　murmur　of　the　multitude；　or　perhaps　the　light　laugh　of

pleasure。　The　contrast　is　striking　with　the　deathlike　repose　around：

and　it　has　a　strange　effect　upon　the　feelings；　thus　to　hear　the　surges

of　active　life　hurrying　along；　and　beating　against　the　very　walls　of

the　sepulchre。

　　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　sepulchres。

　　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　the　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；　though　with　the　grotesque

decorations　of　Gothic　architecture。　On　the　pinnacles　of　the　stalls　are

affixed　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　sepulchre　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。

　　There　is　a　sad　dreariness　in　this　magnificence；　this　strange　mixture

of　tombs　and　trophies；　these　emblems　of　living　and　aspiring

ambition；　close　beside　mementos　which　show　the　dust　and　oblivion　in

which　all　must　sooner　or　later　terminate。　Nothing　impresses　the　mind

with　a　deeper　feeling　of　loneliness；　than　to　tread　the　silent　and

deserted　scene　of　former　throng　and　pageant。　On　looking　round　on　the

vacant　stalls　of　the　knights　and　their　esquires；　and　on　the　rows　of

dusty　but　gorgeous　banners　that　were　once　borne　before　them；　my

imagination　conjured　up　the　scene　when　this　hall　was　bright　with　the

valor　and　beauty　of　the　land；　glittering　with　the　splendor　of　jewelled

rank　and　military　array；　alive　with　the　tread　of　many　feet　and　the　hum

of　an　admiring　multitude。　All　had　passed　away；　the　silence　of　death

had　settled　again　upon　the　place；　interrupted　only　by　the　casual

chirping　of　birds；　which　had　found　their　way　into　the　chapel；　and

built　their　nests　among　its　friezes　and　pendants…　sure　sign　of

solitariness　and　desertion。

　　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　oppressed；　and　mingles　the　dust　of　the　bitterest

enemies　together。　In　one　is　the　sepulchre　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　sepulchre　continually　echo　with　the　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