and honorable lineage* than one which affirms of a noble house that "all the brothers were brave, and all the sisters virtuous." 10. In the opposite transept to Poets' 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 160 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 165 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? 170 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. 11. While wandering about these gloomy vaults and silent 175 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 180 feelings, thus to hear the surges of active life hurrying along, and beating against the very walls of the sepulchre. * 12. 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 185 frequent; the sweet-tongued bell was summoning to evening 161. tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, by Roubillac. The monument is, in point of fact, to Mr. and Mrs. Nightingale. Mrs. Nightingale (née Lady Elizabeth Shirley) was the wife of Joseph Gas Louis coigne Nightingale. 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 leads up to it, through a deep and gloomy but magnificent 190 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. 13. On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of architecture and the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. The very 195 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 minute- 200 ness and airy security of a cobweb. 14. 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, 205 with their scarfs and swords; and above them are suspended "Chorister," one of a choir (not necessarily one who leads a 203. 189. Henry the Seventh's Chapel. It is HAM. 191. gates of brass. Not literally accurate (see preceding note for the precise details). 200. fretted. See Gray's Elegy, page 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 210 of his queen, extended on a sumptuous tomb, and the whole surrounded by a superbly wrought brazen railing. 15. 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 215 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 220 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 225 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 signs of solitariness and desertion. 16. When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they 230 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. 17. Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a 207. emblazoned, adorned with figures of heraldry. stateliest and daintiest tombs of Europe." 209, 210. mausoleum, splendid tomb. 228. friezes. The "frieze," in archi sepulchre of its founder: that is, the altar-tomb of Henry VII. tecture, is "that part of the entablature [i. e., the part over the columns, and including the architrave, frieze, and cornice] of a column which is between the architrave and cornice." 235 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 240 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. 345 18. 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 250 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 checkered and disastrous story of poor Mary. 19. The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey. 255 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, 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 260 265 they swell through its vast vaults, and breathe their awful har-270 mony through these caves of death, and make the silent sepulchre vocal! And now they rise in triumphant 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 war- 275 ble 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 power- 280 ful; 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! 20. 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. 285 290 21. I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As I descended the flight of steps which leads 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 295 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 funereal trophies to the chapels and chambers below, crowded with tombs, where warriors, prelates, courtiers, and statesmen lie mouldering in their 300 "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 293. the shrine of Edward the Confessor. 301, 302. chair of coronation. (See AdEdward the Confessor (reigned dison's paper, page 138, note |