WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
For the casual sightseer, however eager, the visiting of the “official
shows”--whether in public picture galleries, museums or cathedrals--is
often a weary business enough. After the first surprise he passes from
object to object, _staring_, and gradually subsiding into a kind of dumb
indifference, and troubled with the feeling that so much more remains to
be seen and reviewed. He really knows not what is to be admired or
distinguished from its fellows. But if, by a happy chance, there were at
his elbow some guide who could select and illustrate for him by a few
observations what was remarkable, and “the why and wherefore” of its
merit, what was singular, and this without show and pedantry or
lecturing, how happy and comfortable would be his situation! One of
these days we shall have guide-books on this principle instead of the
heavy treatises stored with historical and other information, and which
require hard study at home. Such “shows” as the National Gallery, the
British Museum, Westminster Abbey, and St. Paul’s, eminently require
some such mode of illustration. The Abbey itself is one of the most
interesting and richly stored places of the kind in the world, and an
entertaining hour or two can always be spent there, even by the
hackneyed Londoner. That exquisite gem and “perfect chrysolite,” Henry
VII.’s Chapel, may be visited again and again with ever increasing
wonder and delight. So too with the wonderful irregularity of the
chapels, which seem to grow out of the main structure. We are amazed at
the rich and costly tombs, scattered about in profusion, and perfectly
astonishing in their welcome variety of design. These are indeed
buildings in themselves; each teeming with suggestion and stored with
ideas.
There are many Londoners who have never visited the “wonder of the
world,” as it has been styled, Henry VII.’s Chapel, and which it is
impossible to enter without being oppressed with a sense of overpowering
astonishment and admiration. As we lift our eyes, the beautiful roof
overpowers us with its exquisite forms and delicate ornamentation, its
wealth of details that seem to float so airily, and appear to be
crystallized foam, or lace work. The architect is confounded at the
combination of enormous weight and solidity with infinite delicacy, and
notes the art with which the burden is distributed.
[Illustration
Hume Nisbet.
]
The wonderful miscellany of posturing figures in the Abbey, the men,
women and children, gods, goddesses, cupids, river gods, smirking
bishops leaning comfortably on their elbows, warriors ascending to
Heaven, sea fights, marble firmaments, &c., have been often described
and ridiculed. Still they are curious as an expression of the feeling of
their day, and, as progressive changes in treatment, are of value as
signifying the tone of social and public thought. As Professor
Westmacott has shown in one of his lectures, even the early reposing
figures in the chapels betoken the religious feeling of the time. “The
recumbent effigies,” he says, “with uplifted hands and serious
expression, arrest attention, and are aids to reflection. But the time
came when the mere personal honour and glorification of the subject was
to be illustrated. The figures are now found turned on their side and
leaning on their elbow, and look out from their resting-place as if
inviting the notice and admiration of the passers-by.” This contrast is
perfectly just, but is it not the effect of the change of religion, and
in the national feeling towards the dead? The old pre-Reformation
monuments are plastic reminders to pray for the dead--their images are
displayed with a grave and sad solemnity; they are shown kneeling or in
tranquil repose. On the other hand, the obstreperous displays of
warriors crowned by pagan “Victories” betoken a time when the nation was
engaged in wars and desperate struggles. The bishop on his elbow
conveyed the idea of stalled and comfortable ease at a period when
little was expected from the pastoral office.
“How revoltingly misplaced too,” says another writer, “is the
shouldering, elbowing strife, with which, like advertising placards or
rival shops with every trick that can be devised for glaring prominence,
they struggle to outstare each other, as if the very well-being of the
defunct depended upon whose statue shall be seen first, or whose epitaph
read oftenest! How calmly, amid all this feverish strife, lie the modest
retiring memorials of the mighty or the worthy of old, from the
dignified reposing figures of the royal Plantagenets to the unpretending
brasses of the untitled and humble, if indeed modern selfishness has
left any uncovered!”
Every Monday and Tuesday, as is generally known, the whole Abbey is
thrown open to sightseers, who may range unguided, and as they list,
through the beautiful Henry VII. Chapel and the side chapels. The shrine
of the Confessor is in a very shattered and mouldering state, but the
wonder is that everything is in such excellent preservation. A reason is
given for this state of decay. Once, when they were putting up Lord
Bath’s monument, in presence of a great crowd, a mob broke in, so that a
number of gentlemen who were standing on the ledge at the back of one of
the royal tombs were seized with a panic and tore down the canopy of the
tomb to defend themselves with the fragments. There is an odd bit of
economy, by-the-way, in the direction of showmanship which might be
remedied, and which has an air of shabbiness, viz., the setting out the
names of the tombs and chapels on dirty cards in pen and ink.
As we make our careless and perhaps superficial promenade from chapel
to chapel, we are almost bewildered by the number and variety of the
huge edifices, rather than monuments, which record the memory of the
great seigneurs who repose below. These are all of grand and solemn
proportions--great gloomy pillared archings and entablatures--huge
altars below, tiers and galleries, and angelic or kneeling figures. The
materials are of the richest--costly deep-toned marbles and bronzes.
Connected with each there is a regular history, which chroniclers like
Dean Stanley have set out at great length. Indeed, a full history of
Westminster Abbey would fill many a portly volume. We may, without
following in the laborious steps of these historians, take a few
glimpses at the more striking, and that without any order.
These vast structures, often of a solid and massive pattern, rising to
sixty or seventy feet, with columns, arches, carvings, bronzes and rich
onyx-like marbles, could not have been reared in our time under some
twenty thousand pounds, the Wellington monument, not nearly so
elaborate, costing some twenty-seven thousand.
Here, for instance, in St. John the Baptist’s Chapel, we find ourselves
before Lord Hunsdon’s enormous monument, which is truly imposing, and
considered by Fuller “the most magnificent” in the Abbey. As Dean
Stanley points out, its sumptuousness was intended as an _amende_ for
the earldom three times granted and three times revoked, the Queen
herself coming to him when he was dying and laying the patent on his
bed. “Madam,” was his reply, “seeing you accounted me not worthy of this
honour whilst I was living, I count myself unworthy of it now that I am
dying.” It is worth while thinking of this scene, as we gaze on its
stupendous and stately proportions, and learn that it is the loftiest in
the place. But what a point this little story gives to this spectacle of
empty magnificence!
In St. Nicholas’ Chapel we are struck by another of these vast and
overpowering tombs, reared aloft, rich in its copper tones and
decorations, crowned at the top by a wrought picture. This is in honour
of a high dame, Mildred, Lady Burleigh--“a very expensive monument,” as
it is described. It is divided into two compartments, one elevated over
the other. In the lower lies Lady Burleigh, in a recumbent posture, with
her daughter, Lady Jane, in her arms, and at her head and feet are her
children and grandchildren, kneeling. In the upper compartment is the
figure of a venerable old man, supposed to be Lord Burleigh, on his
knees, as if in fervent prayer. In this chapel, also, are “two beautiful
pyramids dedicated to children”--one a child of two months old,
“overlaid by his nurse; he was the son of Mr. Nicholas Bagnal;” the
other, a child of a year old, daughter to Harlay, the ambassador, who
had “her heart inclosed in a cup and placed at the top of the pyramid!”
One of the aisles of the north transept is crowded up with some very
striking, interesting, and original tombs, and here an hour might be
spent profitably if the reader cared to trust himself to judicious
guidance for a few minutes, instead of being led sheep-like by the
guide, or wandering vacantly about, depending on his own resources. It
is customary to speak of “The Poets’ Corner” as the most interesting or
most popular portion; but the one I am speaking of is more dramatic.
Here, one of the first things that strikes us is a Roman general,
perched on a pedestal as though he were going to topple over, and which
is said to have been the first monument set up in the Abbey proper. But
the eye is more attracted by a striking monument in St. John’s Chapel--a
great slab or table, supported on the shoulders of four kneeling
knights, whilst on the table is the armour of the knight himself, who is
reposing below. The grace and chivalry in these warriors is
remarkable--they have no air of subservience. The knight himself was Sir
Francis Vere, a famous warrior. It was erected by his widow, but it is
said to have been imitated from the Count of Nassau’s tomb at Breda.
“Hush! he will speak presently,” Roubiliac was heard to say, in rapture,
as he gazed on one of the figures.
But more striking is the Norris tomb in St. Andrew’s Chapel--dark,
embrowned, rich and stately: Lord Norris, a stout warrior, reposing,
while round him kneel his six sons; their faces, attitudes, etc., are
worthy of long study. Of the six, four fell in battle--“that right
valiant and warlike progeny of his, a brood of martial-spirited men,”
says Camden. What an interest this imparts as we look on this memorial!
One figure will be noted as looking cheerfully upwards, as if to heaven.
As we gaze on the sleeping warrior and his valiant sons kneeling round
him, the whole becomes a living family picture.
One of the many impressions left on us, after a promenade through the
Abbey, is admiration for the fertility and plastic vivacity, if one may
so style it, of Roubiliac. In all the fantastic shapes in which this gay
Frenchman displays his talent, he is never conventional or monotonous,
or repeats himself; he is always dignified, and if extravagant and
theatrical, rarely departs from correctness in his modelling. This
extraordinary man seemed “to do what he pleased” with his clay. His
draperies particularly, though too elaborate and multiplied in folds for
strict sculpture, add a richness to the detail, and indeed suggest a
treatment that is usual in bronze; though time, by softening away sharp
edges and mellowing the natural colour into a rich tawny yellow, has
really imparted a metallic tone. It is said that his fashion of working
these draperies was to arrange the linen, fixing it with starched water;
he thus carved the marble directly, unassisted by a model, as was the
practice of Michael Angelo. All his groups have what artists term
_bravura_--a quality which, though not correctly classical, is always
evidence of talent. Would indeed that in our time our formal sluggish
sculptors indulged oftener in his sort of “dash!” Roubiliac’s limbs
offer a display of muscle and sinew extravagant enough, but showing much
life and action.
There are two of his works which have extraordinary merit: that to the
Duke of Argyll, and the more melodramatic one to Lady E. Nightingale.
The former is really noble, full of movement and suggestion. Fame is
seen writing the hero’s name and achievements on the wall behind, though
the writer has only got as far as “Duke of Argyll and Gr----,” the
“conceit” being that this latter title did not descend to his heirs, and
expired with him. The grace and earnestness of this figure is
remarkable; but the one stooping forward in front as Eloquence, the arm
outstretched, the robe gathered up on it, the body bent, the head eager,
has always commanded admiration. Canova was quite astonished at its
beauties, and after surveying it for some minutes declared that it was
the noblest thing he had seen in England. It is a characteristic work of
the time, and shows the great powers of Roubiliac in invention and
execution, but, like all his works, it is deficient in the repose
necessary in a place of worship. The same criticism applies to his
monument of Handel close by. The expression of rapt attention with which
he appears to be listening to celestial music is admirable, and the
execution is, as usual, good; but the whole design is too theatrical for
a church.
The well-known Nightingale monument is a wonderful _tour de force_, and
every sculptor must admire it for its extraordinary “cleverness” in
every point of view. It is of course altogether melodramatic, and no
doubt travels outside the bounds of plastic art. Above is seen, in a
sort of arched recess, the dying wife, supported by the arm of her
husband, who is starting back in terror from what he sees below. A sort
of iron door, as of a vault, has opened, and a grisly awful skeleton, in
a sheet, half out of the vault, is about to launch his dart at the lady.
There is a contrast of pictorial effect, for the arch is bluish grey,
the iron door black, and the skeleton yellow. It has been a stock show
for a hundred years or so. Here is _bravura_ indeed; but the reckless
extravagance is redeemed by the amazing cleverness and poetry and even
pathos of the show. Nor is dignity wanting. The dying wife is a graceful
figure, which, says a good judge, “would do honour to any artist. Her
right arm and hand are considered by sculptors the perfection of pure
workmanship. Life seems slowly receding from her tapering fingers.” A
tradition of the place runs that a burglar, who had got into the Abbey
by night, was so scared by the figure of Death that he incontinently
dropped his tools and fled. The crowbar is still preserved and shown!
This monument, generally associated with Lady Nightingale, the daughter
of Lord Ferrers, also commemorates her husband, Joseph Nightingale, and
was erected according to a direction in the will of their son. The lady
died in 1734, aged twenty-seven; the husband in 1752, aged fifty-six.
This survival of eighteen years, during which time the sorrowing spouse
had erected no monument, somewhat impairs the dramatic force of the
picture.
[Illustration: The Nightingale Monument]
Our sculptor used to grumble at the injustice done to the position of
what he considered his best work, that of Wade. The marshal’s profile is
displayed upon a medallion over which a female figure with wings is
springing upwards with much spirit and animation to drive back Time with
his scythe, etc. The figures are almost as vivacious as some of those by
Rude, on the Arc de l’Etoile, including a mourning Hibernia (whose child
he was) with a derelect harp, stringless.
Nearly as entertaining is Roubiliac’s memorial of an obscure General
Hargrave, close by: a wonderful piece of execution, and which would be
as attractive as the Nightingale one were it placed lower. The general,
an excellent, spirited figure, but grotesque, is seen starting out of
his bath we had almost said--but it is his tomb, his sheet falling away
from his naked form, one attenuated leg lifted timorously over the edge.
He has been roused by the Judgment: a little angel is sounding the trump
aloft in the marble clouds. There are drums and cannon, a marble flag;
whilst, on the right, a spirited Time is seen thrusting down Death,
holding him in fact on the ground, a grisly skeleton, done with infinite
art and reality--bones, cartilage, etc., all complete. As a sort of
pictorial background, we see the Pyramids, dislodged and tumbling to
pieces, the stones falling in all directions: altogether one of the most
elaborate _tours de force_ in marble existing. But the whole is placed
so high that details are lost. It is astonishing to think that an artist
of such power and taste should have condescended to this vulgar and
ineffective realism, which was, moreover, beyond his material. Near is
Fleming’s, another military tomb; two figures, one seated on an arch,
with a pyramid behind, over which are spreading trees with a cleverly
imitated drum and a flag. The memorial to Sir Peter Warren, in the north
transept, has great merit. It consists of a spirited bust of the
admiral, bluff and dogged, yet good-natured, in which “realism” is
carried so far as to furnish marks of small-pox on the cheeks! The
mourning female figure beside him has been admired, and is graceful
enough; whilst a vigorous Hercules bends over him. The legs and arms may
be noted for their muscularity, and it is said the sculptor obtained his
pattern legs from those of a stalwart Irish chairman; the arms were
compounded from another herculean specimen of the same race.
Roubiliac “cut,” as the vergers would call it, seven or eight monuments
in the Abbey: Lady Nightingale’s, the Duke of Argyll’s, Sir Peter
Warren’s, Hargrave’s, Fleming’s, Admiral Wade’s, and Handel’s. Some of
these are inferior works, or are perched so high as to be beyond our
appreciation. The sculptor was dreadfully put out at being thus “skied,”
but he could not always look for so fine a position “on the line” as he
had for his Duke of Argyll. Not long before his death the Abbey had
become somewhat crowded, and the practice of building up monuments
against the windows had set in, with shocking results. Nearly all the
nave windows have been thus encroached upon, built up with supporting
screens. After a careful examination I find that these amount to about a
dozen, which could readily be cleared away, to the enormous advantage
and beauty of the fane. No more important improvement than this could be
conceived, or more popular if effected, for here the barbarous ignorance
of our forefathers is displayed to the coarsest extent. The best of the
monuments would gain by being brought low down: they might be set up in
the cloisters, for instance, or made a present to St. Paul’s.
Roubiliac had a pupil, one Read, who on his death “carried on the
business;” concluding that by occupying his studio, it would be assumed
he could supply the same article to the public. Strange to say, this
theory was accepted, and he was employed for large and important works.
Many have seen or heard of the famous “Pancake” monument, put up to
celebrate a now forgotten Admiral Tyrrel, who in some engagement abroad,
aboard his good ship the “Buckingham,” met his death. He died on shore,
but was consigned to the deep. Furnished with these heroic materials,
Mr. Read set to work. Room being scarce he was given half of a deeply
embayed window, and determined to excel all other efforts. His master
himself had made a strange prophecy which seemed to point to this very
monstrosity, for on the pupil boasting that when he was out of his time
he would show the world what a monument ought to be, “the other looked
at him scornfully and said: ‘Ven you do de monument, den de vorld vill
see _vot d--d ting you vill make_.’” And so it proved. There is to be
seen on the left an enormous “practicable” flag of white marble, with
all the folds, etc., balanced on the right by the ship “Buckingham,”
about the size of the flag. All the intervals are filled in with what
seem to be corals, waves, etc., an extraordinary jumble, whilst in the
centre was seen ascending from the sea the figure of the deceased
admiral going up to heaven--which Nollekens always declared was like a
man swinging from a gallows with a rope round his neck. Unluckily the
reforming Dean Stanley deprived us of this entertainment, and strangely
cut away the admiral altogether, yet leaving the other monstrosities. As
the Dean said, humorously, the artist’s object seemed to be “to present
the Resurrection under difficulties.”
In the south transept there is a monument to Garrick, representing the
actor standing in a fantastic attitude, having suddenly drawn aside a
pair of curtains to reveal himself. This excited the derision of Elia,
and yet it is effective enough, and expresses Garrick’s humour fairly.
Notwithstanding all Mrs. Garrick’s doting affection for her spouse, it
is said this had to be put up by other hands, and the donor declares
that he appealed in vain to her for her approbation or aid. Close by is
a very quaint and original monument to the learned Grævius, who is shown
seated in an easy attitude on the side of his sarcophagus, looking at a
book in a careless happy mood. There is a quaintness about this that
causes a smile.
Of sculptors so eminent as Flaxman and Chantrey there are few examples,
and these not particularly remarkable. In the north transept is the
ambitious monument to Lord Mansfield, who is presented seated aloft in a
judicial chair, on a ponderous circular base, on whose various tiers are
found Justice and the other unavoidable attendants. This has been
admired, but the effect is grotesque, the Chief Justice, with a very
homely air, appearing as if he was about to call on “Brother Buzfuz.”
But we go round to the back, and find an exquisite female figure, in
the best style of sculpture, with much grace of attitude, refinement of
curves and softness and delicacy of the skin. Here we come upon those
tremendous piles of masonry which Westmacott and Bacon introduced,
enormous pyramidal screens on which flounder as it were huge marble
figures, Neptunes and other gods and goddesses, while the suffering hero
reposes in the middle nearly naked, with weeping nymphs bent over him.
These vast efforts were no doubt owing to the great sums given by public
grant; Bacon receiving for his “Lord Chatham” £6,000, Nollekens for the
“Three Captains,” much more. Chantrey, the foremost of modern sculptors,
is scarcely represented here at all.
There is a pleasing figure of Horner, full of character in the face and
eyes, with an almost pictorial expression. By what must have been some
miscalculation the scale is too small, and as we turn from the huge Sir
William Follett--a plain, roughly-finished work of Behnes’--it seems the
likeness of a half-grown youth.
The two Pitts, father and son, are here: the great earl in the north
transept--his monument wrought on the most tremendous scale--a vast
screen or pyramid of stone filling in the span between two pillars.
Below are enormous reclining gods. But raising one’s eyes aloft we see a
small dapper figure set in a niche, and stooping forward to address the
public. It is the great earl in a court dress. Far away at the west end,
and actually perched over the door, is his gifted son, treated in the
usual heroic style; the statesman standing aloft and airily on a huge
base of marble, “arrayed in his parliamentary robes as Chancellor of the
Exchequer. History, in a kneeling posture, is recording his words; and
on the opposite side Anarchy seated in chains.” There is also a kneeling
negro. Close by him, but on the ground, is one of the most singular yet
amusing effects in the Abbey, a memorial to the lamented Charles James
Fox. The deceased statesman is shown in a recumbent attitude, with a
rueful face, on a mattress, “expiring in the arms of Liberty,” his
enormous figure as fat as marble can make it, at his feet, Peace,
reclining languidly; an African on one knee, with his arms clasped to
his breast as if in gratitude. The whole effect is gross, and suggests a
corpulent man who has just had, or is about to have, his bath. Fox’s
physique was untreatable for poetical purposes; yet we are assured that
when Canova was taken to inspect this figure in Westmacott’s studio, he
declared to Lord Holland “that neither in England nor out of it had he
seen anything that surpassed it.” The king gave a subscription of 1,000
guineas, a handsome tribute considering his Majesty’s known feelings
towards Mr. Fox.
On each side of the arched doorway of the screen we find two imposing
monuments which seem to fill their places in a satisfactory way, and
are in harmony with the situation. That on the left of the spectator
commemorates Sir Isaac Newton. The pendant to Newton’s is Lord Stanhope,
a warrior. Both are conceived in a fantastic vein. Newton’s was designed
by an architect, Kent, who also conceived the well-known, familiar
figure of Shakespeare, leaning in a graceful attitude on an altar, and
which is almost accepted as a portrait, so familiar has it become. The
figure of Newton is exceedingly good, dignified, and well executed. He
is seen reposing on a couch, leaning on his elbow, an uncomfortable
support. Over him is an enormous sphere, “projecting from a pyramid
behind,” which seems to fill the whole space, and which is scored deeply
with erratic lines delineating, we are told, “the course of the comet in
1689, with the signs, constellations, and planets.” But then comes a
singular conception: on the sphere is seated Astronomy, a huge female
figure, with her book, in a very thoughtful, composed, and pensive mood.
The inevitable chubby cherubs are of course present, employed suitably
to their strength in supporting or struggling with a scroll. This
combination leaves a singular impression.
The military memorial on the other side seems by its treatment to have
been intended to correspond. A robust Roman warrior is reposing after
his labour, leaning also on his elbow, but holding in one hand a
marshal’s staff, in the other “a scroll.” Before him stands “a cupid
resting upon a shield.” Behind him rises a marble tent, the canvas folds
portrayed minutely, and then, marvel of marvels! on the top of this is
seen perched a large lady, Minerva! Behind is a slender pyramid. This
wonderful combination must be seen to be appreciated. Rysbraeck, a
Dutchman, the author of this composition, was another of the Abbey
sculptors who was in fashion. He worked somewhat after the pattern of
Roubiliac; but he had not the easy grace and versatility of the
Frenchman.
There are many whimsicalities, as they may be called, to be seen in the
Abbey, witness the huge table tomb, with accommodation on its broad
black marble slab for three persons, Lord Exeter’s, who had prepared
this roomy accommodation for himself and his _two_ wives, one to repose
on each side of him. There, accordingly, he lies, arrayed in state, in
the centre; on his right his first lady, a beruffled dame, but on his
left--a blank space. It seems his second lady was offended at the place
of honour being given to her predecessor, who was of somewhat lower
degree, and flatly refused to be laid there.
A favourite show with the guides is that of the lady “who died from a
prick of a needle”--Lady Elizabeth Russell, in white alabaster. She is
holding out her finger, indeed, but is really pointing to the
death’s-head at her feet. The Duchess of Newcastle’s tomb will be looked
at with interest by admirers of Elia, who will recall his praise of the
“high fantastical lady.” We should note her ink-bottle and book,
showing her literary taste, for she was the authoress of thirteen folio
volumes. Her husband is beside her, who once made the remark that “a
very wise woman is a very foolish thing.” The row of modern full-length
statues of patriots, orators, and politicians in the north transept has
an odd effect, and suggests a visit to the waxworks. Some are very
inferior. By-and-by, when they are toned down, they will look better and
less offensive. Modern coats, trousers, shoes, etc., are unsuitable for
treatment in marble. There is a very striking cluster of the three
brilliant Cannings. An excellent _coup de théâtre_, this placing the
trio together--George, the statesman; Earl Canning, Governor of India;
and the “great Eltehi,” Sir Stratford. The first is Chantrey’s
work--though it has rather the air of an actor with his toga; and it is
curious to contrast with this attempt at spiritualizing the realistic
style of the other two by Foley. If we turn to some of the inferior ones
close by, we shall feel at once the want of a cultivated artist. Lord
Beaconsfield, for instance, by Raggi, lacks poetry and expression, and,
indeed, proportion, for the head is surely too small for the trunk. The
robes droop ponderously, and do not reveal or indicate the figure. Peel,
by Gibson, meant to be highly oratorical, is of a rather conventional
sort. Lord Palmerston, on the other side, in his Garter dress, looks a
Merry-Andrew. There is an absurdly homely expression on his face. It is,
indeed, a most extraordinary spectacle, and not to be matched in any
country, this row of _marble men_; but it were to be wished that they
had been allowed to assume the proper yellowish or tawny hue, instead of
being diligently scrubbed at intervals. Note the downcast, doomed look
in the eyes of Castlereagh--a forecast of his sad fate, death by his own
hand, and a burial here amid the howls and execrations of a furious mob.
So much for this wonderful temple and its extraordinary treasures and
curios.