A BORROWER OF THE NIGHT
_"I must become a borrower of the night,
For a dark hour or twain."_--MACBETH.
Midnight has just sounded from the tower of St. Martin. It is a peaceful
night, faintly lit with stars, and in the region round about Trafalgar
Square a dream-like stillness broods over the darkened city, now slowly
hushing itself to its brief and troubled rest. This is the centre of the
heart of modern civilisation, the middle of the greatest city in the
world--the vast, seething alembic of a grand future, the stately
monument of a deathless past. Here, alone, in my quiet room of this old
English inn, let me meditate a while on some of the scenes that are near
me--the strange, romantic, sad, grand objects that I have seen, the
memorable figures of beauty, genius, and renown that haunt this classic
land.
Illustration: "Church of St. Martin."
How solemn and awful now must be the gloom within the walls of the
Abbey! A walk of only a few minutes would bring me to its gates--the
gates of the most renowned mausoleum on earth. No human foot to-night
invades its sacred precincts. The dead alone possess it. I see, upon its
gray walls, the marble figures, white and spectral, staring through the
darkness. I hear the night-wind moaning around its lofty towers and
faintly sobbing in the dim, mysterious spaces beneath its fretted roof.
Here and there a ray of starlight, streaming through the sumptuous rose
window, falls and lingers, in ruby or emerald gleam, on tomb, or pillar,
or dusky pavement. Rustling noises, vague and fearful, float from those
dim chapels where the great kings lie in state, with marble effigies
recumbent above their bones. At such an hour as this, in such a place,
do the dead come out of their graves? The resolute, implacable Queen
Elizabeth, the beautiful, ill-fated Queen of Scots, the royal boys that
perished in the Tower, Charles the Merry and William the Silent--are
these, and such as these, among the phantoms that fill the haunted
aisles? What a wonderful company it would be, for human eyes to behold!
And with what passionate love or hatred, what amazement, or what haughty
scorn, its members would look upon each other's faces, in this
miraculous meeting? Here, through the glimmering, icy waste, would pass
before the watcher the august shades of the poets of five hundred years.
Now would glide the ghosts of Chaucer, Spenser, Jonson, Beaumont,
Dryden, Cowley, Congreve, Addison, Prior, Campbell, Garrick, Burke,
Sheridan, Newton, and Macaulay--children of divine genius, that here
mingled with the earth. The grim Edward, who so long ravaged Scotland;
the blunt, chivalrous Henry, who conquered France; the lovely,
lamentable victim at Pomfret, and the harsh, haughty, astute victor at
Bosworth; James with his babbling tongue, and William with his
impassive, predominant visage--they would all mingle with the spectral
multitude and vanish into the gloom. Gentler faces, too, might here once
more reveal their loveliness and their grief--Eleanor de Bohun,
brokenhearted for her murdered lord; Elizabeth Claypole, the meek,
merciful, beloved daughter of Cromwell; Matilda, Queen to Henry the
First, and model of every grace and virtue; and sweet Anne Neville,
destroyed--if his enemies told the truth--by the politic craft of
Gloster. Strange sights, truly, in the lonesome Abbey to-night!
In the sombre crypt beneath St. Paul's cathedral how thrilling now must
be the heavy stillness! No sound can enter there. No breeze from the
upper world can stir the dust upon those massive sepulchres. Even in
day-time that shadowy vista, with its groined arches and the black tombs
of Wellington and Nelson and the ponderous funeral-car of the Iron Duke,
is seen with a shudder. How strangely, how fearfully the mind would be
impressed, of him who should wander there to-night! What sublime
reflections would be his, standing beside the ashes of the great
admiral, and thinking of that fiery, dauntless spirit--so simple,
resolute, and true--who made the earth and the sea alike resound with
the splendid tumult of his deeds. Somewhere beneath this pavement is the
dust of Sir Philip Sidney--buried here before the destruction of the old
cathedral, in the great fire of 1666--and here, too, is the nameless
grave of the mighty Duke of Lancaster, John of Gaunt. Shakespeare was
only twenty-two years old when Sidney fell, at the battle of Zutphen,
and, being then resident in London, he might readily have seen, and
doubtless did see, the splendid funeral procession with which the
body of that heroic gentleman--radiant and immortal example of
perfect chivalry--was borne to the tomb. Hither came Henry of
Hereford--returning from exile and deposing the handsome, visionary,
useless Richard--to mourn over the relics of his father, dead of sorrow
for his son's absence and his country's shame. Here, at the venerable
age of ninety-one, the glorious brain of Wren found rest at last,
beneath the stupendous temple that himself had reared. The watcher in
the crypt tonight would see, perchance, or fancy that he saw, those
figures from the storied past. Beneath this roof--the soul and the
perfect symbol of sublimity!--are ranged more than fourscore monuments
to heroic martial persons who have died for England, by land or sea.
Here, too, are gathered in everlasting repose the honoured relics of men
who were famous in the arts of peace. Reynolds and Opie, Lawrence and
West, Landseer, Turner, Cruikshank, and many more, sleep under the
sculptured pavement where now the pilgrim walks. For fifteen centuries a
Christian church has stood upon this spot, and through it has poured,
with organ strains and glancing lights, an endless procession of
prelates and statesmen, of poets and warriors and kings. Surely this is
hallowed and haunted ground! Surely to him the spirits of the mighty
dead would be very near, who--alone, in the darkness--should stand
to-night 'within those sacred walls, and hear, beneath that awful dome,
the mellow thunder of the bells of God.
Illustration: "Westminster Abbey."
How looks, to-night, the interior of the chapel of the Foundling
hospital? Dark and lonesome, no doubt, with its heavy galleries and
sombre pews, and the great organ--Handel's gift--standing there, mute
and grim, between the ascending tiers of empty seats. But never, in my
remembrance, will it cease to present a picture more impressive and
touching than words can say. Scores of white-robed children, rescued
from shame and penury by this noble benevolence, were ranged around that
organ when I saw it, and, with artless, frail little voices, singing a
hymn of praise and worship. Well-nigh one hundred and fifty years have
passed since this grand institution of charity--the sacred work and
blessed legacy of Captain Thomas Coram--was established in this place.
What a divine good it has accomplished, and continues to accomplish, and
what a pure glory hallows its founder's name! Here the poor mother,
betrayed and deserted, may take her child and find for it a safe and
happy home and a chance in life--nor will she herself be turned adrift
without sympathy and help. The poet and novelist George Croly was once
chaplain of the Foundling hospital, and he preached some noble sermons
there; but these were thought to be above the comprehension of his usual
audience, and he presently resigned the place. Sidney Smith often spoke
in this pulpit, when a young man. It was an aged clergyman who preached
there within my hearing, and I remember he consumed the most part of an
hour in saying that a good way in which to keep the tongue from speaking
evil is to keep the heart kind and pure. Better than any sermon, though,
was the spectacle of those poor children, rescued out of their
helplessness and reared in comfort and affection. Several fine works of
art are owned by this hospital and shown to visitors--paintings by
Gainsborough and Reynolds, and a portrait of Captain Coram, by Hogarth.
May the turf lie lightly on him, and daisies and violets deck his
hallowed grave! No man ever did a better deed than he, and the darkest
night that ever was cannot darken his fame.
Illustration: "Middle Temple Lane."
How dim and silent now are all those narrow and dingy little streets and
lanes around Paul's churchyard and the Temple, where Johnson and
Goldsmith loved to ramble! More than once have I wandered there, in the
late hours of the night, meeting scarce a human creature, but conscious
of a royal company indeed, of the wits and poets and players of a
far-off time. Darkness now, on busy Smithfield, where once the frequent,
cruel flames of bigotry shed forth a glare that sickened the light of
day. Murky and grim enough to-night is that grand processional walk in
St. Bartholomew's church, where the great gray pillars and splendid
Norman arches of the twelfth century are mouldering in neglect and
decay. Sweet to fancy and dear in recollection, the old church comes
back to me now, with the sound of children's voices and the wail of the
organ strangely breaking on its pensive rest. Stillness and peace over
arid Bunhill Fields---the last haven of many a Puritan worthy, and
hallowed to many a pilgrim as the resting-place of Bunyan and of Watts.
In many a park and gloomy square the watcher now would hear only a
rustling of leaves or the fretful twitter of half-awakened birds. Around
Primrose Hill and out toward Hampstead many a night-walk have I taken,
that seemed like rambling in a desert--so dark and still are the walled
houses, so perfect is the solitude. In Drury Lane, even at this late
hour, there would be some movement; but cold and dense as ever the
shadows are resting on that little graveyard behind it, where Lady
Dedlock went to die. To walk in Bow Street now,--might it not be to meet
the shades of Waller and Wycherley and Betterton, who lived and died
there; to have a greeting from the silver-tongued Barry; or to see, in
draggled lace and ruffles, the stalwart figure and flushed and
roystering countenance of Henry Fielding? Very quiet now are those grim
stone chambers in the terrible Tower of London, where so many tears have
fallen and so many noble hearts been split with sorrow. Does Brackenbury
still kneel in the cold, lonely, vacant chapel of St. John; or the sad
ghost of Monmouth hover in the chancel of St. Peter's? How sweet tonight
would be the rustle of the ivy on the dark walls of Hadley church, where
late I breathed the rose-scented air and heard the warbling thrush, and
blessed, with a grateful heart, the loving kindness that makes such
beauty in the world! Out there on the hillside of Highgate, populous
with death, the starlight gleams on many a ponderous tomb and the white
marble of many a sculptured statue, where dear and famous names will
lure the traveller's footsteps for years to come. There Lyndhurst rests,
in honour and peace, and there is hushed the tuneful voice of
Dempster--never to be heard any more, either when snows are flying or
"when green leaves come again." Not many days have passed since I stood
there, by the humble gravestone of poor Charles Harcourt, that fine
actor, and remembered all the gentle enthusiasm with which (1877) he
spoke to me of the character of Jaques--which he loved--and how well he
repeated the immortal lines upon the drama of human life. For him the
"strange, eventful history" came early and suddenly to an end.
Illustration: "The Castle Inn."
In that ground, too, I saw the sculptured medallion of the well-beloved
George Honey--"all his frolics o'er" and nothing left but this. Many a
golden moment did we have, old friend, and by me thou art not forgotten!
The lapse of a few years changes the whole face of life; but nothing can
ever take from us our memories of the past. Here, around me, in the
still watches of the night, are the faces that will never smile again,
and the voices that will speak no more--Sothern, with his silver hair
and bright and kindly smile, from the spacious cemetery of Southampton;
and droll Harry Beckett and poor Adelaide Neilson from dismal Brompton.
And if I look from yonder window I shall not see either the lions of
Landseer or the homeless and vagrant wretches who sleep around them; but
high in her silver chariot, surrounded with all the pomp and splendour
that royal England knows, and marching to her coronation in Westminster
Abbey, the beautiful figure of Anne Boleyn, with her dark eyes full of
triumph and her torrent of golden hair flashing in the sun. On this spot
is written the whole history of a mighty empire. Here are garnered up
such loves and hopes, such memories and sorrows, as can never be spoken.
Pass, ye shadows! Let the night wane and the morning break.
THE END