westminster abbey-第1部分

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　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　THE　SKETCH　BOOK

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　WESTMINSTER　ABBEY

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　by　Washington　Irving



　　　　　　　　　　　When　I　behold；　with　deep　astonishment；

　　　　　　　　　　　To　famous　Westminster　how　there　resorte

　　　　　　　　　　　Living　in　brasse　or　stoney　monument；

　　　　　　　　　　　The　princes　and　the　worthies　of　all　sorte；

　　　　　　　　　　　Doe　not　I　see　reformde　nobilitie；

　　　　　　　　　　　Without　contempt；　or　pride；　or　ostentation；

　　　　　　　　　　　And　looke　upon　offenselesse　majesty；

　　　　　　　　　　　Naked　of　pomp　or　earthly　domination？

　　　　　　　　　　　And　how　a　play…game　of　a　painted　stone

　　　　　　　　　　　Contents　the　quiet　now　and　silent　sprites；

　　　　　　　　　　　Whome　all　the　world　which　late　they　stood　upon

　　　　　　　　　　　Could　not　content　or　quench　their　appetites。

　　　　　　　　　　　　　Life　is　a　frost　of　cold　felicitie；

　　　　　　　　　　　　　And　death　the　thaw　of　all　our　vanitie。



　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　CHRISTOLERO'S　EPIGRAMS；　BY　T。　B。　1598。



　　ON　ONE　of　those　sober　and　rather　melancholy　days；　in　the　latter　part

of　Autumn；　when　the　shadows　of　morning　and　evening　almost　mingle

together；　and　throw　a　gloom　over　the　decline　of　the　year；　I　passed

several　hours　in　rambling　about　Westminster　Abbey。　There　was　something

congenial　to　the　season　in　the　mournful　magnificence　of　the　old

pile；　and；　as　I　passed　its　threshold；　seemed　like　stepping　back　into

the　regions　of　antiquity；　and　losing　myself　among　the　shades　of　former

ages。

　　I　entered　from　the　inner　court　of　Westminster　School；　through　a

long；　low；　vaulted　passage；　that　had　an　almost　subterranean　look；

being　dimly　lighted　in　one　part　by　circular　perforations　in　the

massive　walls。　Through　this　dark　avenue　I　had　a　distant　view　of　the

cloisters；　with　the　figure　of　an　old　verger；　in　his　black　gown；　moving

along　their　shadowy　vaults；　and　seeming　like　a　spectre　from　one　of　the

neighboring　tombs。　The　approach　to　the　abbey　through　these　gloomy

monastic　remains　prepares　the　mind　for　its　solemn　contemplation。　The

cloisters　still　retain　something　of　the　quiet　and　seclusion　of

former　days。　The　gray　walls　are　discolored　by　damps；　and　crumbling

with　age；　a　coat　of　hoary　moss　has　gathered　over　the　inscriptions　of

the　mural　monuments；　and　obscured　the　death's　heads；　and　other

funereal　emblems。　The　sharp　touches　of　the　chisel　are　gone　from　the

rich　tracery　of　the　arches；　the　roses　which　adorned　the　key…stones

have　lost　their　leafy　beauty；　every　thing　bears　marks　of　the　gradual

dilapidations　of　time；　which　yet　has　something　touching　and　pleasing

in　its　very　decay。

　　The　sun　was　pouring　down　a　yellow　autumnal　ray　into　the　square　of

the　cloisters；　beaming　upon　a　scanty　plot　of　grass　in　the　centre；

and　lighting　up　an　angle　of　the　vaulted　passage　with　a　kind　of　dusky

splendor。　From　between　the　arcades；　the　eye　glanced　up　to　a　bit　of

blue　sky　or　a　passing　cloud；　and　beheld　the　sun…gilt　pinnacles　of

the　abbey　towering　into　the　azure　heaven。

　　As　I　paced　the　cloisters；　sometimes　contemplating　this　mingled

picture　of　glory　and　decay；　and　sometimes　endeavoring　to　decipher

the　inscriptions　on　the　tombstones；　which　formed　the　pavement

beneath　my　feet；　my　eye　was　attracted　to　three　figures；　rudely

carved　in　relief；　but　nearly　worn　away　by　the　footsteps　of　many

generations。　They　were　the　effigies　of　three　of　the　early　abbots；

the　epitaphs　were　entirely　effaced；　the　names　alone　remained；　having

no　doubt　been　renewed　in　later　times。　（Vitalis　Abbas。　1082；　and

Gislebertus　Crispinus。　Abbas。　1114；　and　Laurentius。　Abbas。　1176。）　I

remained　some　little　while；　musing　over　these　casual　relics　of

antiquity；　thus　left　like　wrecks　upon　this　distant　shore　of　time；

telling　no　tale　but　that　such　beings　had　been；　and　had　perished；

teaching　no　moral　but　the　futility　of　that　pride　which　hopes　still

to　exact　homage　in　its　ashes；　and　to　live　in　an　inscription。　A

little　longer；　and　even　these　faint　records　will　be　obliterated；　and

the　monument　will　cease　to　be　a　memorial。　Whilst　I　was　yet　looking

down　upon　these　grave…stones；　I　was　roused　by　the　sound　of　the　abbey

clock；　reverberating　from　buttress　to　buttress；　and　echoing　among

the　cloisters。　It　is　almost　startling　to　hear　this　warning　of　departed

time　sounding　among　the　tombs；　and　telling　the　lapse　of　the　hour；

which；　like　a　billow；　has　rolled　us　onward　towards　the　grave。　I

pursued　my　walk　to　an　arched　door　opening　to　the　interior　of　the

abbey。　On　entering　here；　the　magnitude　of　the　building　breaks　fully

upon　the　mind；　contrasted　with　the　vaults　of　the　cloisters。　The　eyes

gaze　with　wonder　at　clustered　columns　of　gigantic　dimensions；　with

arches　springing　from　them　to　such　an　amazing　height；　and　man

wandering　about　their　bases；　shrunk　into　insignificance　in

comparison　with　his　own　handiwork。　The　spaciousness　and　gloom　of

this　vast　edifice　produce　a　profound　and　mysterious　awe。　We　step

cautiously　and　softly　about；　as　if　fearful　of　disturbing　the

hallowed　silence　of　the　tomb；　while　every　footfall　whispers　along

the　walls；　and　chatters　among　the　sepulchres；　making　us　more

sensible　of　the　quiet　we　have　interrupted。

　　It　seems　as　if　the　awful　nature　of　the　place　presses　down　upon　the

soul；　and　hushes　the　beholder　into　noiseless　reverence。　We　feel　that

we　are　surrounded　by　the　congregated　bones　of　the　great　men　of　past

times；　who　have　filled　history　with　their　deeds；　and　the　earth　with

their　renown。

　　And　yet　it　almost　provokes　a　smile　at　the　vanity　of　human

ambition；　to　see　how　they　are　crowded　together　and　jostled　in　the

dust；　what　parsimony　is　observed　in　doling　out　a　scanty　nook；　a　gloomy

corner；　a　little　portion　of　earth；　to　those；　whom；　when　alive；

kingdoms　could　not　satisfy；　and　how　many　shapes；　and　forms；　and

artifices；　are　devised　to　catch　the　casual　notice　of　the　passenger；

and　save　from　forgetfulness；　for　a　few　short　years；　a　name　which

once　aspired　to　occupy　ages　of　the　world's　thought　and　admiration。

　　I　passed　some　time　in　Poet's　Corner；　which　occupies　an　end　of　one　of

the　transepts　or　cross　aisles　of　the　abbey。　The　monuments　are

generally　simple；　for　the　lives　of　literary　men　afford　no　striking

themes　for　the　sculptor。　Shakespeare　and　Addison　have　statues

erected　to　their　memories；　but　the　greater　part　have　busts；

medallions；　and　sometimes　mere　inscriptions。　Notwithstanding　the

simplicity　of　these　memorials；　I　have　always　observed　that　the

visitors　to　the　abbey　remained　longest　about　them。　A　kinder　and　fonder

feeling　takes　place　of　that　cold　curiosity　or　vague　admiration　with

which　they　gaze　on　the　splendid　monuments　of　the　great　and　the　heroic。

They　linger　about　these　as　about　the　tombs　of　friends　and

companions；　for　indeed　there　is　something　of　companionship　between　the

author　and　the　reader。　Other　men　are　known　to　posterity　only　through

the　medium　of　history；　which　is　continually　growing　faint　and　obscure：

but　the　intercourse　between　the　author　and　his　fellow…men　is　ever　new；

active；　and　immediate。　He　has　lived　for　them　more　than　for　himself；　he

has　sacrificed　surrounding　enjoyments；　and　shut　himself　up　from　the

delights　of　social　life；　that　he　might　the　more　intimately　commune

with　distant　minds　and　distant　ages。　Well　may　the　world　cherish　his

renown；　for　it　has　been　purchased；　not　by　deeds　of　violence　and　blood；

but　by　the　diligent　dispensation　of　pleasure。　Well　may　posterity　be

grateful　to　his　memory；　for　he　has　left　it　an　inheritance；　not　of

empty　names　and　sounding　actions；　but　whole　treasures　of　wisdom；

bright　gems　of　thought；　and　golden　veins　of　language。

　　From　Poet's　Corner　I　continued　my　stroll　towards　that　part　of　the

abbey　which　contains　the　sepulchres　of　the　kings。　I　wandered　among

what　once　were　chapels；　but　which　are　now　occupied　by　the　tombs　and

monuments　of　the　great。　At　every　turn　I　met　with　some　illustrious

name；　or　the　cognizance　of　some　powerful　house　renowned　in　history。　As

the　eye　darts　into　these　dusky　chambers　of　death；　it　catches

glimpses　of　quaint　effigies；　some　kneeling　in　niches；　as　if　in

devotion；　others　stretched　upon　the　tombs；　with　hands　piously

pressed　together：　warriors　in　armor；　as　if　reposing　after　battle；

prelates　with　crosiers　and　mitres；　and　nobles　in　robes　and　coronets；

lying　as　it　were　in　state。　In　glancing　over　this　scene；　so　strangely

populous；　yet　where　every　form　is　so　still　and　silent；　it　seems　almost

as　if　we　were　treading　a　mansion　of　that　fabled　city；　where　every

being　had　been　suddenly　transmuted　into　stone。

　　I　paused　to　contemplate　a　tomb　on　which　lay　the　effigy　of　a　knight

in　complete　armor。　A　large　buckler　was　on　one　arm；　the　hands　were

pressed　together　in　supplication　upon　the　breast：　the　face　was

almost　covered　by　the　morion；　the　legs　were　crossed；　in　token　of　the

warrior's　having　been　engaged　in　the　holy　war。　It　was　the　tomb　of　a

crusader；　of　one　of　those　military　enthusiasts；　who　so　strangely

mingled　religion　and　romance；　and　whose　exploits　form　the　connecting

link　between　fact　and　fiction；　between　the　history　and　the　fairy　tale。

There　is　something　extremely　picturesque　in　the　tombs　of　these

adventurers；　decorated　as　they　are　with　rude　armorial　bearings　and

Gothic　sculpture。　They　comport　with　the　antiquated　chapels　in　which

they　are　generally　found；　and　in　considering　them；　the　imagination

is　apt　to　kindle　with　the　legendary　associations；　the　romantic

fiction；　the　chivalrous　pomp　and　pageantry；　which　poetry　has　spread

over　the　wars　for　the　sepulchre　of　Christ。　They　are　the　relics　of

times　utterly　gone　by；　of　beings　passed　from　recollection；　of

customs　and　manners　with　which　ours　have　no　affinity。　They　are　like

objects　from　some　strange　and　distant　land；　of　which　we　have　no

certain　knowledge；　and　about　which　all　our　conceptions　are　vague　and

visionary。　There　is　something　extremely　solemn　and　awful　in　those

effigies　on　Gothic　tombs；　extended　as　if　in　the　sleep　of　death；　or

in　the　supplication　of　the　dying　hour。　They　have　an　effect

infinitely　more　impressive　on　my　feelings　than　the　fanciful　attitudes；

the　overwrought　conceits；　and　allegorical　groups；　which　abound　on

modern　monuments。　I　have　been　struck；　also；　with　the　superiority　of

many　o