Picturesque London

by Percy Fitzgerald

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.