  LIKE human beings, the chapel has received well-merited praise from many, while some have used their knowledge (or want of it) to criticise. Fuller speaks of it "as one of the rarest fabricks in Christendom, wherein the stonework, woodwork, and glasswork contend which shall deserve most admiration." To quote Carter again: "It is entitled to be ranked with the finest buildings of the world," although he further goes on to say: "The exterior aspect is perhaps justly open to some criticism, but it has received unqualified abuse at the hands of some writers." Ruskin was very severe, comparing it to a billiard table, turned upside down, the four corner turrets being the four legs; but he afterwards, it is said, retracted. The late Rev. Augustus Austen Leigh, Provost of the College from 1888 to 1905, in writing a history of the College, says: "Like other really great works, King's Chapel produces an impression which is instantaneous, and at the same time permanent. It does not disarm criticism, but I cannot end this brief sketch better than by quoting Wordsworth's two famous sonnets on King's College Chapel:— "Tax not the Royal Saint with vain expense, With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned— Albeit labouring for a scanty band Of white-robed Scholars only—this immense And glorious work of fine intelligence! Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore Of nicely-calculated less or more; So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells, Where light and shade repose, where music dwells Lingering—and wandering on as loth to die; Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof That they were born for immortality. ........ What awful pÉrspective! while from our sight With gradual stealth the lateral windows hide Their portraitures, their stone-work glimmers, dyed In the soft chequerings of a sleepy light. Martyr, or King, or sainted Eremite, Whoe'er ye be, that thus, yourselves unseen, Imbue your prison-bars with solemn sheen, Shine on, until ye fade, with coming night. But from the arms of silence—list! O list! The music bursteth into second life; The notes luxuriate, every stone is kissed By sound, or ghost of sound, in mazy strife; Heart-thrilling strains, that cast, before the eye Of the devout, a veil of ecstasy! |
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