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.

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.

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.