westminster abbey-第2章

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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。　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　by　the　monument；　revolving　in

my　mind　the　chequered　and　disastrous　story　of　poor　Mary。

　　The　sound　of　casual　footsteps　had　ceased　from　the　abbey。　I　could

only　hear；　now　and　then；　the　distant　voice　of　the　priest　repeating　the

evening　service；　and　the　faint　responses　of　the　choir；　these　paused

for　a　time；　and　all　was　hushed。　The　stillness；　the　desertion　and

obscurity　that　were　gradually　prevailing　around；　gave　a　deeper　and

more　solemn　interest　to　the　place：



　　　　　　　　　　　For　in　the　silent　grave　no　conversation；

　　　　　　　　　　　No　joyful　tread　of　friends；　no　voice　of　lovers；

　　　　　　　　　　　No　careful　father's　counsel…　nothing's　heard；

　　　　　　　　　　　For　nothing　is；　but　all　oblivion；

　　　　　　　　　　　Dust；　and　an　endless　darkness。



　　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　sepulchre　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　upwards　on　this　swelling　tide　of　harmony！

　　I　sat　for　some　time　lost　in　that　kind　of　reverie　which　a　strain　of

music　is　apt　sometimes　to　inspire：　the　shadows　of　evening　were

gradually　thickening　round　me；　the　monuments　began　to　cast　deeper

and　deeper　gloom；　and　the　distant　clock　again　gave　token　of　the　slowly

waning　day。

　　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　sepulchres　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　mouldering　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　sepulchre。

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。　For；　strange　to　tell；　even　the　grave　is　here　no

longer　a　sanctuary。　There　is　a　shocking　levity　in　some　natures；

which　leads　them　to　sport　with　awful　and　hallowed　things；　and　there

are　base　minds；　which　delight　to　revenge　on　the　illustrious　dead　the

abject　homage　and　grovelling　servility　which　they　pay　to　the　living。

The　coffin　of　Edward　the　Confessor　has　been　broken　open；　and　his

remains　despoiled　of　their　funereal　ornaments；　the　sceptre　has　been

stolen　from　the　hand　of　the　imperious　Elizabeth；　and　the　effigy　of

Henry　the　Fifth　lies　headless。　Not　a　royal　monument　but　bears　some

proof　how　false　and　fugitive　is　the　homage　of　mankind。　Some　are

plundered；　some　mutilated；　some　covered　with　ribaldry　and　insult…

all　more　or　less　outraged　and　dishonored！

　　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　wrapped　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；　though　I　had　scarcely　taken　my

foot　from　off　the　threshold。　What；　thought　I；　is　this　vast

assemblage　of　sepulchres　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　mon