London, Volume 4

Knight, Charles

1843

XCVII.-New St. Paul's. No. II.

XCVII.-New St. Paul's. No. II.

 

 

 Standing the other day before of the monuments in this Cathedral, and allowing our thoughts to glide insensibly into the train suggested by the

classic

character of the sculpture, we could not help wondering what would be the nature of the impressions made upon the mind of a Grecian sculptor of the age of Praxiteles or Phidias. could his shade be allowed to revisit the earth, and to wander awhile among the monuments of . The fancy seemed a pleasing ; and pursuing it, we fell into a kind of reverie, in which, whilst we gradually lost all consciousness of time and of the gazers moving to and fro, the monuments, on the contrary, seemed to stand out from their alcoves and recesses unusually sharp and distinct both in their general outlines and in their minuteness of decorative detail. Presently we became aware of figures by our side, who were engaged in an animated conversation. The little of their dialogue we could catch ran to something of the following purport:--

And what has been the effect on Art of all these marvellous changes you describe in the religion, morals, and manners of the world, during these

two

or

three thousand

years; and, more particularly, in my own department, sculpture? Art, to be true to its own

first

principle-Truth-must be an exponent of what it

sees

of beauty or sublimity in the double world around it,--nature ard man.

These materials by its own inherent powers it idealises-making the beauty more beautiful, the sublimity still more sublime. The new work then returns to the people, from whom so much of it was derived: their sympathies-nay, their vanities are excited by the partial reflection of themselves; and thus the artist obtains a vantage-ground to raise them to the contemplation of higher things--to bring them, in a word, nearer to his own level. From their improvement he again derives fresh strength; and thus Art and the enjoyers of Art act and re-act upon

one

another, to their constant and mutual improvement. In this we see but the beautiful harmonies and reciprocities of Nature generally--the ceaseless circle she so delights in; with the difference-glorious privilege of Man!-that he at the same time goes forward. These considerations render me unable even to guess what new form sculpture can have assumed to be worthy of what you tell me of the greatness of your country. I an only fear

our

works must have faded from your recollection, from the difficulty of making any practical use of them in a state of society so essentially different.

Hem! hem! Why, no, we have managed that pretty well. If you look round, you will see that a forgetfulness of either Grecian or Roman sculpture is the last fault with which we can be chargeable. Here, for instance, is the monument to a zealous and intrepid soldier, Major-General Hay, where we have introduced a naked figure of Valour to support the dying man, although he is in his proper military uniform as an officer of the

nineteenth

century, and the rank of soldiers there, with the short square-tailed jackets, are in theirs. I flatter myself that does not look like forgetfulness.

You jest; this medley must be caricature.

Jest? If you read the inscription, you will see it was erected at the

public expense

of a people not at all remarkable for levity, more particularly where thousands of pounds are concerned.

I must see further before I ask for any explanation of the many difficulties that crowd upon me. Yet there is

one

question I should be glad to have answered. How do the people-having, as you before explained, lost the faith which with us made these impersonations of Valour and other deities a stirring impulse to the hearts and minds of those who gazed upon them-how do they relish such (to them) cold abstractions; or, rather, how do they know this figure means Valour at all?

We tell them so.

Ah, that is indeed an answer! You open a melancholy prospect; but go on.

Well, here is a monument by a mightier hand. This is by Banks, in memory of a naval hero who fell in

one

of our great victories, the battle of the Nile; a locality marked, as you perceive, by the sphynxes and palm-trees, and by the river god himself. The hero is falling into the arms of Victory

--

Who is almost thrown off her balance by the weight, and, instead of keeping him up, seems likely to fall herself, and in a not very dignified or decorous manner. The idea, however, is ingenious--the fall of so great a man overpowers for the moment even Victory; and the sculptor has exhibited considerable tact in choosing the precise moment that shows this, and yet leaves it to be inferred and hoped that the goddess may recover herself. Are these the only kind of monuments that I am to expect?-for, if so, I will not trouble you ainy further.

339

 

 

Pause

one

moment before this, and then perhaps I may better satisfy you. The ship's prow and other devices on the base show you it is a naval monument. The hero is Captain Faulkner, who fell in maintaining a contest for

five

hours with a much stronger French frigate.

Do your English captains, then, like our athletae of old, go naked into battle?

Excuse a smile at your question: they do not. But we consider the costume of our own time too suggestive of a matter-of-fact spirit; and we imitate youwe desire to cultivatethe ideal.

Imitate us!-the ideal!-is it possible? Why, my friend, this figure is positively revolting to me, from the absence of anything not mischievous that my imagination can take hold of. It is simply and truly a colossal piece of nudity, only the more striking for the paltry strip of drapery that hangs from

one

shoulder, and from the prim garb in which Victory is arrayed as she presents the sword.

I fear you are right; for about the period of its erection it is said that certain parties were so struck by this effect, as to induce them to apply to the artist to add a little to the breadth of the drapery. But come, here at least, in the southern aisle, is a work better calculated to please your somewhat fastidious taste. This is the monument to Lord Collingwood, by Westmacott. I will--read you the description of it given in the

Guide Book.

The moment chosen by the sculptor for illustration in this monument is, the arrival of the remains of the Admiral on the British shore. The body, shrouded in the colours torn from the enemy, is represented on the deck of a man-of-war; the sword of the hero, which he used with so much glory to himself, and to a grateful country, is in his hand. In the foreground, attended by the genii of his confluent streams, is Thames, in a cumbent posture, thoughtfully regarding Fame, who from the prow of the ship reclines over the illustrious admiral, proclaiming his heroic achievements.

&c.

The pervading principle of Grecian sculpture was simplicity; but then, it is true, we had not the

Guide Book.

How much we had to learn! The general grouping of this work I admire; the separate figures are excellent; that of Thames, when you can manage to forget the associations raised by the babes playing about his knee, has a lofty and severe air, in which I recognise something kindred to the old spirit; yet, with us, the general effect of a work--the sentiment expressed at once by it to the mind of ordinary spectators--was so pre-eminently the object of the sculptor's toil and ambition, that a compliment to any of the lesser points, whilst that was passed by in significant silence, would have been the signal for the artist instantly to break up his work, and re-task his energies for a race where success was indeed glory. What sentiment, at once .simple and forcible, does this convey? That exquisite bit of workmanship there on the latter part of the ship is, for this reason, to me, worth all the rest. The delicate continuous scroll enveloping the different phases of the story suggests but to the eye-what the examination of each confirms to the mind--the beauty and completeness of the thought. We do not need your Guide Book here to tell us the meaning of the boyish form gazing upon the movements of the

Nautilus

in

one

compartment; or of his trusting himself so doubtfully to a frail bark with a flowing streamer, in imitation of the

Nautilus's

sail in the next, or the rude support for the sail he has raised in a

third

, whilst looking upwards to the stars

that guide his course; or of the compass in his hands in the

fourth

; or, lastly, of the weapons he finds it necessary to forge for defence in the

fifth

. In that space of

three

or

four

feet long by only a few inches broad, you have a history of Navigation, which Art may be proud of.

Under the window there, at the farther end of this transept, is another work by the same artist, Sir Ralph Abercromby's memorial.

Aye, this is truly a step upwards. Here we can understand an entire work without the aid of the

Guide.

The death-wound given in the moment of conflict--the fall from the horse into the arms of an attendant soldier, and the scene--Egypt--marked by the sphynxes on each side, express at least an interesting fact in a vigorous and truthful manner. But it does more than this. The choice of these Egyptian symbols is truly artistical. Remaining to this hour

one

of the most characteristic features of that ancient kingdom, the mind at once acknowledges the propriety of their presence, as a means of marking the scene of the event commemorated; and then gazing upon their passionless yet high and solemn countenances, imbibes an influence felt, but indescribable, which affects the aspect of the whole work: the sculptor, in short, has idealised it by their means. What is that monument which caught my eye to the right of the entrance into the innermost part of the structure?

You mean Flaxman's memorial to Nelson, our great naval hero. There it is.

I begin now to perceive you

may

have a great English school of sculpture, if your sculptors will but understand their deficiencies. Cut. away this feeble moral on the

one

side, Britannia and the

two

boys she is bidding to look up to their exemplar, do the same with the still feebler allegorical lion on the other, and you have a truly great work--a representation of your hero as simple and austere as it is grand and expressive. It is very unlike a Grecian hero, it is true-and there lies

one

of its merits--the artist is not ashamed of his own country, but shows us, as he ought, an English warrior in an English garb. Yet neither this nor the other monuments of merit I see here and there around us speak to me as they ought of the acknowledged genius of your country. You tell me of the superiority of your religion and morals to those we cherished-of our love for physical and yours for mental and moral beauty and grandeur; surely that superiority should evidence itself in your arts. Yet what is there among these productions, which include, it appears, some by all your best artists, that can possibly be to your posterity,

two thousand

years hence, what ours, you tell me, are still to you? You are silent. Well, let us change the subject. I see, from the great number of the monuments to naval and military men, that we must be in a temple dedicated in some way or other to their worship, or, pardon me, to their honour. If I might venture to guess its name, I think I should not be far wrong. There--must be some latent idea in the great number of shapes I see representative of the God of Victory--is it not some kind of Temple of Victory?

With the echoes of a loud burst of laughter ringing, as it seemed, in our ears, the reverie was broken.

The monument before which we had been standing, whilst fancy had been so busy, was Chantrey's striking work to the memory of Major-General Houghton, where the dying General is seen rising for a moment to direct his men in a

341

 successful charge, but which is deformed by the eternal conceit of a Victory, or some mythological personage, appearing in the field of battle to crown the fallen warrior. But--the consideration is forced on us-what have such works to do with a place of religious worship? There must be something indeed inexpressibly shocking to a pure and devout mind, filled with the spirit of Him who came to preach

Peace on earth, good will among men,

to find the records of deeds of violence and slaughter intruded upon his notice, in the very temples where he might least expect to find such associations. War may be necessary, and, as a consequence, some form of

hero-worship ;

but it is truly humiliating to find a Christian country and a Christian government so inconsistent as to make every pier and window and recess in our chief Cathedral repeat the same melancholy story of war-war-still everywhere war. There are now about monuments in , of which there are but devoted to other than naval and military men. The recklessness with which such monuments have been determined on is no less striking; we have had in half a century heroes, or we have, in many cases, expended our money and degraded the art in cutting in stone

paragraphs of military gazettes,

to use Flaxman's phrase. And if, as it often happens, there be in the lives of such men some delightful incident which would really render their memory dear to us, that, be sure, is forgotten. Here is a signal instance in this monument by Rossi, where Victory and Fame, seated at the corners, in a posture as unbecoming as it must be uncomfortable, are placing medallions of Captains Mosse and Riou on the front of the work. The inscription does tell something more, for it records an act of intrepidity of Riou's, in the preservation of a ship under his command, not unworthy of remembrance. But this friend of Nelson's, this seaman of whom Southey, alluding to his death, says, that

except it had been Nelson himself, the British navy could not have suffered a severer loss,

was something better and higher still. Before the fleet left our shores for Denmark in , some Danes in Riou's frigate, the

Amazon,

learning the place of their destination, went to him, and entreated that he would get them exchanged into some other ship not included in the proposed expedition. They assured him they had no wish to quit the British service; but begged most earnestly that they might not be sent to fight against their own country.

There was not,

says Southey,

in our whole navy a man who had a higher and more chivalrous sense of duty than Riou. Tears came into his eyes while the men were speaking. Without making any reply, he instantly ordered his boat, and did not return to the

Amazon

till he could tell them that their wish was effected.

[n.341.1]  During the tremendous battle of Copenhagen, Riou, whilst endeavouring to obey Sir Hyde Parker's signal of retreat, was exposed to a most murderous fire. Although he had been already wounded in the head, he took his place upon a gun to encourage his men. , his clerk was killed by his side; then several of the seamen, who were hauling in the main brace, were swept away.

Come then, my boys,

was Riou's address to the others,

let us all die together.

The words had scarcely left his mouth, when he fell dead, cut in by a raking shot. We must dismiss the remaining monuments of the class in question, by merely recalling to the recollection of those who have seen them, or suggesting as worthy of examination to those who have not, the noble

342

 figure of Lord Duncan by Westmacott, Chantrey's powerful battle-pieces, the Cadogan and Bowes memorials, and the recently erected statue of Sir Pulteney Malcolm, by the same artist. The more ambitious works we have passed unnoticed speak very loudly for themselves.

Among this host of heroes, men of pacific eminence have been condescendingly admitted, and very ingenious and thoughtful seem to have been the arrangements. Thus we have bishops, Fanshaw Middleton and Heber, a considerate compliment to the church in which the heroes have been so kindly treated; philosopher, Johnson; philanthropist, Howard; artist, Reynolds; physician, Babington; and as a mere poet would have been, perhaps, too greatly honoured in being chosen, a kind of medley of all the foregoing, added to some poetical reputation, makes up the in Sir William Jones. Of these the memorials of the alone demand notice. Johnson's, by Bacon, is often the subject of high praise; and, no doubt, if it were the memorial of some Stoic of the earlier ages of the world, or of some bulky philosopher of the woods, it would be indeed a masterly performance; but--the desire may be a very foolish and inartistical -we confess we would rather see in a representation of the author of the than all the Stoics of ancient Greece. Howard's and Reynolds' statues are among the finest works in the whole Cathedral-the , from the perfect and impressive manner in which the history of a life is told in the simplest manner, by the key in his hand, the chains at his feet, and the dungeon scene in the bas-relief of the base; and the , for the graceful, serene dignity which so happily represents the original, as well as for the unobtrusive manner in which we are reminded of him who was little less than an object of idolatry with Reynolds, Michael Angelo, by the medallion-portrait on the pedestal, to which our great painter's fingers seem, as they rest on the latter, unconsciously to point. The sculpture is by a kindred spirit, Flaxman.

If, for the reasons before given, the sculpture in be little else than a desecration of the sacred edifice to the devout, and a barbarism from its inapplicability to every man of refinement, there is an incident in the history of the edifice, the mere remembrance of which may well make both classes doubly impatient: the what is is so strikingly contrasted with the what might have been. The reader will remember Wren's intentions (as pointed out in our last number) with regard to the sumptuous altar-piece and the mosaic dome: let him suppose these views carried out, and then the views developed in the following passage from Northcote's and imagine what a scene of Splendour would have become:

The Chapel of Old

Somerset House

, which had been given by His Majesty to the Royal Academy, was mentioned

one

evening at the meeting [of the members] as a place which offered a good opportunity of convincing the public at large of the advantages that would arise from ornamenting cathedrals and churches with the productions of the pencil: productions which might be useful in their effect, and at the same time not likely to give offence in a Protestant country. The idea was therefore started, that if the members should ornament this chapel, the example might thus afford an opening for the introduction of the art into other places of a similar nature, and which, as it was then stated, would not only present a new and noble scene of action that might become highly ornamental to the kingdom, but would be in some measure

absolutely necessary for the future labour of the numerous students educated under the auspices of the Royal Academy. All the members were struck with the propriety, and even with the probability of success that attended the scheme; but Sir Joshua Reynolds, in particular, immediately took it up on a bolder plan, and offered an amendment, saying, that instead of the chapel, they should fly at once at higher game, and undertake

St. Paul's Cathedral

. The grandeur-and magnificent liberality of this idea immediately gained the suffrages and plaudits of all present, and the President was empowered to make the proper application to the Dean and Chapter: an application which was immediately acceded to on their part. At that time Dr. Newton, Bishop of Bristol, was Dean of

St. Paul's

, who was a strong advocate in favour of their scheme. A meeting of the Academy then took place, when

six

artists were chosen for the attempt; these were Sir Joshua Reynolds, Mr. West, the present President, Barry, Dance, Cipriani, and Angelica Kauffman. The Society for the Encouragement of Arts and Manufactures also took up the business, and added

four

artists to the original number. The subject which Sir Joshua proposed to execute was that of the Virgin and Christ in the Manger, or the Nativity. But the whole plan was set aside in consequence of Dr. Terrick, then Bishop of London, having refused his consent.

This has been noticed by Barry in of his letters, where he says,

Sir Joshua Reynolds, who had undertaken the management of this business, informed me last Monday, after his return from Plympton, where he was chosen mayor, that the Archbishop of Canterbury and Bishop of London had never given any consent to it, and that all thoughts of it must consequently drop.

The Dean (Bishop Newton) has also left an account of this splendid offer, and its reception, with some additional particulars. He says,

The Dean [himself], in the fullness of his heart, went to communicate it to the great patron of arts, and readily obtained his royal consent and approbation;

and half intimates that it was from jealousy of his having thus anticipated his ecclesiastical superior that the latter refused his consent, although the plea was--the noise and clamour that would be excited against the measure as an artful introduction of Popery. To some such miserable feeling we certainly owe this great national loss, for Dr. Terrick had himself sanctioned the setting up a picture of the Annunciation, by Cipriani, in his own College Chapel, Clare Hall, Cambridge, and, when pressed to admit only pictures by way of experiment in , returned an equally ungracious refusal. These were to have adorned the compartments over the doors leading from the choir into the north and south aisles; the painters named were Reynolds and West, the former having, as before mentioned, the Nativity for his subject, the latter the Giving of the Tables to Moses from the Cloud of Glory:

Here,

as the Dean remarks,

was the beginning both of the Law and the Gospel.

To appreciate the value and self-sacrifice of the artists in this offer, it is only necessary to give a single illustration-Reynolds obtained guineas for the picture with which he had proposed to commence at . Allan Cunningham, alluding apparently to the Royal Academy, says, the rejection of this offer is

considered as an injury deserving annual reprobation.

It is pleasant to see such a feeling among our chief artists; but a repetition of the offer from them would be pleasanter still, and might be more successful. What say they:? It is but justice to the memory of the

344

 warmhearted and persevering Dean to state that, having failed way to introduce the Arts, he tried another. He left, by his will, for the erection of a monument in the Cathedral; but the ecclesiastical heads were as obdurate as ever. And it was not till that any relaxation of the severe rule of exclusion took place: Howard's statue was then admitted, and soon after Johnson's. How widely the doors were subsequently thrown open we have already seen.

Is there no monument here to Wren?

is, no doubt, a question often asked, before that inscription over the entrance into the choir has been noticed, but never after. In the few concluding words-

If you would behold his monument, look around you

--a monument has been raised, which makes the cold frigidities of the greater part of the surrounding sculpture positively painful to contemplate. Let us hasten to a more interesting spot. Wren himself lies below in the Crypt, or vaults, a solemn and mysterious looking place, dimly lighted at intervals by the faint beams which alone penetrate into their depths.
Tread reverently on these stones as you move forward-great men repose beneath. Mark the names which those half-illegible letters form: Sir Thomas Lawrence, Benjamin West, John Opie, James Barry, Sir Joshua Reynolds-a company that may well make death itself proud-gathered together into those few yards of space. Step a little farther, and you add Fuseli's name to the list. Near the men whose works he had so appreciated, and so enthusiastically striven to introduce into his Cathedral, is the grave of Bishop Newton. And, lastly, in the same aisle, in appropriate juxtaposition, the tombs of Mylne and Rennie, the engineers and architects, both men who have adorned their country with some of her most useful and grandest works. The of the , and the Waterloo and Bridges and the famous Breakwater of the other, promise to both a long period of fame, which men of equal merit in other departments of art and science can scarcely hope to enjoy.

Penetrating still farther into the crypt, along the middle avenue, where the massive character of the piers and arches and pillars constantly remind you that is upon them, the guide lights his lantern, and the grandly picturesque

345

 resting-place of Nelson is before us in the centre of a circle of pillars directly below the dome. The sarcophagus we see was originally prepared by Cardinal Wolsey for his own interment in the chapel at Windsor, but unused on account of his disgrace, and subsequently forgotten. On the top of the sarcophagus are Nelson's coronet and certain knightly emblems; the latter having a suggestive value, which changes what would be otherwise a mere heraldic absurdity into something appropriate and forcible. They seem to remind us that, if the age of chivalry has gone, never perhaps did the spirit of chivalry burn more brightly than in the breast of our great naval commander. There are events in his life as a man which rival some of the most touching stories of the world's history, and which would make his name an honoured , were it possible that the events of his professional history could be forgotten. incidents in particular rise to the recollection, and these are not the only ones of the kind to be found. In the night attack on Teneriffe, where our forces were defeated, he received so severe a wound in his arm, that he must have perished in the boat where he was, but for the assistance rendered him during all the hurry and excitement of the scene; which assistance, of course, was of the rudest kind. The vessel the retreating boat came across was the Seahorse, commanded by Captain Freemantle, whose newly-married bride was on board. Faint as he was, however, he insisted on being carried to another vessel, saying,

I had rather suffer death than alarm Mrs.-Freemantle by letting her see me in this state, when I can give her no tidings whatever of her husband;

and so they went on till another was found. It was that wound which caused the loss of his arm, and months of intense agony before the amputated limb healed. The other-incident occurred during the battle of the Nile, when a piece oflangridge-shot laid bare his forehead to the bone, and blinded him. He thought the wound was mortal. As- soon as he was brought--to the cockpit, the surgeon came running to assisthim, not :unnaturally forgetting every else around in the appalling danger of losing his commander.

No

,

said Nelson, quietly,

I will take-my turn with my brave fellows ;

and he rigidly kept his determination. Who can wonder at the idolatry of the sailors for such a man, or help sympathising in their delight when

Saint Nelson's

turn did come at last, and the dreaded wound was pronounced superficial? His prayer before the battle of Trafalgar, and the circumstances of his death in it, reveal another phase of his character, still more deserving of honour and imitation.

May the great God, whom I worship, grant to my country, and for the benefit of Europe in general, a great and glorious victory,

and may no misconduct in any one tarnish it; and may humanity, after victory, be the predominant feature in the British fleet

,

&c. That these were no empty words, the sad issue of that battle as regards him reminds us but too painfully. Twice did he order his own men to cease firing into the French --ship,the Redoubtable, which was alongside, thinking she had struck; but his humanity towards his enemies had outrun their desire to avail themselves of it: he was mistaken, and from that ship received his death-wound soon after. His last words were,

I thank God, I have done my duty;

and they found solemn response in the anguish with which his countrymen generally of all classes and parties received the news of their bereavement. They could think little of the great victory that had been achieved: it appeared at the best only a fatal success. And as the effects of the blow wore off, and the funeral rites had to

346

 be paid to the hero's remains, the anxiety of the nation generally to lavish all conceivable honours upon them is almost without parallel. At the Nore the body was shifted from the coffin in which it had been brought home, and placed in another, the history of which forms an interesting episode in Nelson's life. After the battle of the Nile, part of the mainmast of l'Orient, the French ship which blew up with so terrible an explosion during that battle, was picked up by Captain Halliwell of the Swiftsure. Some time after Nelson received the strange present described in the following letter :--

Sir, I have taken the liberty of presenting you a coffin made from the mainmast of l'Orient, that, when you have finished your military career in this world, you may be buried in

one

of your military trophies. But that that period may be far distant is the earnest wish of your sincere friend,.

Benjamin Halliwell

.

Nelson not only accepted the coffin in the spirit in which it was offered, but caused it to be placed upright against the bulkhead of his cabin, behind the chair in which he usually sat. He was persuaded, however, to remove it out of sight by a faithful and attached servant, and ultimately it was sent to his upholsterer in London. Before leaving London for the last time, he called pn the upholsterer, and desired him to engrave the history of the coffin on its lid, remarking that it was highly probable he might want it on his return.

After lying in state in the Painted Chamber at-Greenwich, the body was brought in procession to , the--sombre but magnificent pageant comprising, , principal barges, then the barges of the King, the Lords of the Admiralty, the Lord Mayor, and each of the civic companies, the whole flanked by gun and other boats keeping clear the line of progress, and moving to the sound of the and the occasional booming of the artillery at the Tower and other places passed. From thence the body was conveyed to the Admiralty for the night. The next day, , the grand procession to thronged the streets with the densest multitude ever perhaps collected in them. To describe the pageant would occupy many pages. Suffice it, therefore, to say that, from the Prince of Wales and the Dukes of York and Clarence downwards, all that was distinguished in rank, as well as all that was illustrious in judicial, legal, or political station, was present. Hardy and a little band of the other dear companions of the dead chief were objects of especial interest. So were those veterans, in number, chosen from Nelson's own ship, from among Nelson's own men. The marked attention to these men is of the most delightful evidences of the spirit in which the funeral was conducted. Around the opening in the pavement beneath the centre of the dome, where the body was to be lowered into the vaults, they took precedence even of the blood of royalty itself, forming a circle round the beloved remains they were soon to behold no more. Beyond them was a starred and gartered multitude, with all the lesser personages of distinction who had shared in the procession; then a clear space, like a broad encircling ring, the outer line of which was formed by the Highland soldiers, who had been with Abercromby in Egypt; and, lastly, a lofty amphitheatre of densely packed human faces, with other ranges, branching off without interruption along the nave to the very entrance doors. As the afternoon came on a magnificent effect was given to the scene by an octagonal lantern, covered with innumerable lamps, suspended from the centre of the dome. But there were

347

 feelings at work that made the moral grandeur of the scene far outstrip the phy, sical, unprecedented as that seems to have been. Could Nelson have been sensible of all that passed, we doubt not he would have felt more deeply the touching incident that marked the lowering of his body into the grave than all the honours of the magnificent ceremonial. Nelson's flag was to have been placed
by his side in the grave; but, just as it was about to be lowered for that purpose, the sailors, moved by impulse, rent it in pieces, keeping each a fragment. Lord Collingwood, in accordance with his own request, lies near Nelson, beneath a plain altar-tomb.

Retracing our steps, we meet with the graves of Dr. Boyce, next to Purcell perhaps the greatest English musician, and of George Dance, the architect, and last survivor of the original of the Academy. But what is this dark recess in the eastern wall, where all sorts of grotesque or mutilated figures are dimly descried?

They are the remains of the monuments of Old

St. Paul's

,

we are told; and the guide, ascending the platform of the recess with his lantern, the cause of their grotesque appearance in the gloom is explained. statue of goodly aspect, and in complete armour, has lost its legs : strange enough to say, that is supposed to be Elizabeth's dancing Lord Chancellor. others, male and female, that appeared to be equally deprived of their fair proportions, we now see are in a sitting posture, a is noseless, a still more extensively mutilated. Among the additional remains which have been recognised are the effigies of Sir Nicholas Bacon, in full armour, bare-headed, and of Dean Colet. Of all the figures here, but remains perfect, and that is Donne, the poet, whose whole history is a kind of serious but deeply interesting romance, and in which this effigy itself forms not the least unromantic feature. Why this statue is not carefully cleaned, and placed in of the best parts of the

348

 Cathedral, it is impossible to say. certainly does not possess any other relic of half its interest--the history of the Cathedral presents no name that is calculated to shed so much ilasting honour upon it as the poet-dean's. There is a pride of ancestry which every can appreciate: such was Donne's, who could point to his descent by the mother's side from the author of the

Utopia.

His father was a merchant, who bred him so carefully at home, that when, at the age of , he was sent to college, some gave

this censure of him,

says delightful old Izaak Walton:

that this age had brought forth another Picus Mirandola; of whom story says that he was rather born than made wise by study.

Donne's parents were Roman Catholics, who were anxious that he should remain in the same faith, but the continual mingling through all his studies with Protestants naturally compelled him to think of the respective merits of the creeds, and he had the additional motive that he was unable to take honours on account of the oath then administered. Accordingly, at the age of he set down in earnest to the inquiry, and, in a spirit which demands the warmest admiration,

he proceeded,

he says,

with humility and diffidence in himself; and by that which he took to be the safest way-namely, frequent prayer, and an indifferent affection to both parties.

It does not seem, however, that his judgment rose satisfied from the inquiry : as--no result is given by Walton. After travelling abroad for some years he became secretary to the Lord Chancellor Ellesmere, an event which materially influenced all Donne's subsequent life. In the Chancellor's household was a young gentlewoman, niece to the Lady Ellesmere, and daughter to Sir George More, Lieutenant of the Tower, who attracted Donne's attention: an acquaintance was formed which soon ripened into love, and mutual promises were interchanged before probably either was aware of the severity of the opposition that would be offered. Sir George, the moment he received intimations of what was passing, removed her into the country, which seems to have only brought matters to a speedier issue: they were married, and in secret. The rage of Sir George was unbounded, and sought the most unnatural modes of gratification. He would not rest till he obtained Donne's discharge from Lord Ellesmere's service, though the latter, in reluctantly acceding to his wishes, observed,

He parted with a friend, and such a secretary as was fitter to serve a king than a subject.

It may give the reader a foretaste of the peculiarities of Donne as an author, to state that in the letter to his wife announcing this melancholy news, he thus subscribed his name:--

John Donne, Anne Donne, Un-done

.

Sir George further threw his son-in-law into prison, with the friends who had assisted at his marriage. The imprisonment, however, does not appear to have been protracted. Another misery now awaited him. His wife was kept from him, and only obtained back through the medium of

a long and restless suit in law,

which took away nearly the whole of his little patrimony.

Silence and submission,

observes Walton,

are charming qualities, and work most upon passionate men.

Sir George relented in some degree; and, as a evidence of his altered feelings, endeavoured to obtain his son-in-law's restoration to the secretaryship. Lord Ellesmere's answer was in itself a punishment for all the violence he had exhibited:

That though he was unfeignedly sorry for what he had done, yet it was inconsistent with his place and credit to discharge and readmit

servants at the request of passionate petitioners.

Most men, under such circumstances, would have endeavoured to do all for Donne and his wife that their own power, at least, enabled them to do: Sir George, however, having given them his paternal blessing, left them to live as they might, and die, apparently, if they could find no mode of living. It is difficult to imagine a more melancholy position than Donne's at this time: his own privations and sufferings were nothing in comparison with those he saw inflicted on his beloved wife, who had been nursed in the lap of luxury, and accustomed to have herJightest wishes anticipated, her lightest troubles made a matter of anxious attention. But there was something about Donne which seems to have won upon every heart that he came in contact with except Sir George's: in the midst of their distress Sir Francis Wolly of Pirford

entreated

them to make his house their home. They did so, and there

remained with much freedom to themselves, and equal content to him, for some years; and as their charge increased-she had yearly a child-so did his love and bounty.

Circumstances now began to try searchingly the depths of Donne's character. Dr. Morton, then only a beneficed clergyman, sent for him day, and told him he had a proposition to make to him, but which he would not declare till Donne had promised him to think it over for days before giving his answer. The promise was given; and then the good bishop, telling him he was no stranger to his necessities, said,

The King hath yesterday made me Dean of Gloucester, and I am also possessed of a benefice, the profits of which are equal to those of my deanery; I will think my deanery enough for my maintenance-who am, and resolve to die, a single man-and will quit my benefice, and estate you in it--which the patron is willing I shall do--if God shall incline your heart to embrace this motion,

&c. Donne received this remarkable offer with a

faint breath and perplexed countenance,

showing the inward conflict that at once began, but departed in silence according to his promise. We wish our space admitted of our transcribing his answer in his own words; as it is, we can only observe that, with a heart

full of humility and thanks,

he declined the offer, partly on account of

some irregularities

of his early life, which he thought might dishonour the sacred calling, partly that as God's glory should be the end, and a maintenance only the motive, to embrace the church, he could not clearly satisfy himself that it would be so with him , and partly because there were other reasons, which he craved leave to forbear expressing; but which, no doubt, were connected with the undecided nature of his religious tenets. On the death of his noble patron, Sir Francis, he took a house at Mitcham, in Surrey, where his pecuniary difficulties recommenced; nearly his whole dependence being some a-year, wrung from his father-inlaw a little before. A patron again partially relieved him. This was Sir Robert Drewry,

who assigned him and his wife a useful apartment in his own large house in

Drury Lane

, and not only rent free, but was also a cherisher of his studies, and such a friend as sympathised with him and his, in all their joys and sorrows.

Soon after occurred of the most interesting passages in Donne's life. Sir Robert, determining to go with Lord Hay on his embassy to France, desired Donne to accompany him. His wife, at the time, near her confinement, ill in health and low in spirits, begged him not to leave her, saying,

Her divining soulboded her some ill in his absence :

--the affectionate husband

350

 at once agreed. But Sir Robert again pressed so earnestly, that Donne, in a chivalrous sense of gratitude, again sought his wife's consent. It was given, and they parted. The following verses belong to this period and severance. We omit the commencement :

Dull sublunary lovers love, Whose soul in sense cannot admit Absence, because it doth remove Those things which elemented it. But we by a love so much refined, That ourselves know not what it is, Inter-assured of the mind, Care less eyes, lips, and hands to miss. Our two souls, therefore, which are one, Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to airy thinness beat. If they be two, they are two so As stiff twin compasses are two: Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show To move; but doth if the other do. And though it in the centre sit, Yet when the other far doth roam, It leans, and hearkens after it; And grows erect when that comes home. Such wilt thou be to me, who must, Like th' other foot, obliquely run: Thy firmness makes my circle just, And makes me end where I begun.

[n.350.1]  Whilst in Paris, Donne was- day left alone for a short time ina room where he and Sir Robert and other friends had been dining.

To this place,

according to Izaak Walton's narrative,

Sir Robert returned within half an hour; and, as he left, so he found Mr. Donne alone; but in such an ecstasy, and so altered as to his looks, as amazed Sir Robert to behold him: insomuch that he earnestly desired Mr. Donne to declare what had befallen him in the short time of his absence. To which Mr. Donne was not able to make a present answer; but, after a long and perplexed pause, did at last say,

I have seen a dreadful vision since I saw you :. I have seen my dear wife pass twice by me through this room, with her hair hanging about her shoulders, and a dead child in her arms: this I have seen since I saw you.

To which Sir Robert replied:

Sure, sir, you have slept since I saw you; and this is the result of some melancholy dream, which I desire you to forget, for you are now awake!

To which Mr. Donne's reply was:

I cannot be surer that I now live, than that I have not slept since I saw you; and am as sure that, at her second appearing, she stopped, and looked me in the face, and vanished.

A servant was immediately sent off to England to satisfy Donne, who returned on the

twelfth

day with the intelligence that Mrs. Donne had been delivered of a dead child, after a long and dangerous labour, on the same day and about the same hour of the supposed appearance of the apparition.

At length a more powerful patron took Donne by the hand--no less a personage than the King (James), who was so pleased with the substance of a conversation he chanced to engage the poet in respecting the Oath of Supremacy and

351

 Allegiance, as to bid him put his matter into a methodical form. Hence resulted in weeks Donne's

Pseudo-Martyr.

James himself now sought to bring him into the ministry, and, all his weightier objections being removed he no longer gave an absolute refusal, but spent years in preparation. When he did enter preferment was rapid. He was almost immediately made the Royal Chaplain in Ordinary. A delightful instance of his modesty must not be forgotten. His earlier sermons were delivered privately in the neighbouring villages of London, whither he was accustomed to go with some friend. His biographer's account of his characteristics in the pulpit, given in connection with his sermon before James at , will live as long as the discourses they commemorate. He

showed his own heart was possessed with those very thoughts and joys that he laboured to distil into others: a preacher in earnest; weeping sometimes

for

his auditory, sometimes

with

them; always preaching to himself, like an

angelfrom

a cloud, but

in

none; carrying some, as St. Paul was, to Heaven in holy raptures, and enticing others by a sacred art and courtship to amend their lives: here picturing a vice so as to make it ugly to those that practised it; and a virtue so as to make it beloved, even by those that loved it not; and all this with a most particular grace, and an unexpressible addition of comeliness.

As an evidence of the general estimation of the beauty and greatness of Donne's character, a circumstance recorded in his biography is very interesting:--In the year of his ministry he had advowsons of as many benefices offered to him. All the troubles of his earlier years past, a new and greater than all threw an almost impenetrable shadow over his latter ones. His wife, beloved as few wives have been beloved, died and left him with children. Walton is evidently guilty of no exaggeration when he says that Donne, having voluntarily assured his children never to bring them under the subjection of a step-mother, buried

with his tears all his earthly joys in his most dear and deserving wife's grave, and betook himself to a most retired and solitary life.

The sermon he preached after this event was at in , taking for his text,

Lo, I am the man that has seen affliction ;

and his whole manner told but too sadly the applicability of the words to his own case. He was made Dean of by James, on the removal of Dr. Carey to the bishopric of Exeter. Among other pleasant reminiscences of his connection with , is that of the hymn composed during of his illnesses, commencing-

Wilt thou forgive that sin where I began,

&c. which he caused to be set to

a most grave and solemn tune,

and sung frequently by the choristers to the accompaniment of the organ during the evening service. He was wont to say of such occasions,

The words of this hymn have restored to me the same thoughts of joy that possessed my soul in my sickness, when I composed it. And,

0

! the power of Church music!

His latter days were spent in a state of beatitude such as we read of only in the lives of the saints of the primitive Christian Church. The monument to which we have referred was originated by Donne's intimate friend, Dr. Fox, who persuaded him to have made. The mode he adopted of carrying his friend's wishes into effect was not a little remarkable. He sent for a carver to make him an urn.

352

Then without delay a ch

61

ce painter was got to be in readiness to draw his picture, which was taken as followeth. Several charcoal fires being

first

made in his large study, he brought with him into that place his winding-sheet in his hand, and having put off all his clothes, had this sheet put- on-him, and so tied with knots at his head and feet, and his hands so placed as dead bodies are usually fitted, to be shrouded and put into their coffin or grave. Upon this urn he thus stood, with his eyes shut, and with so much of the sheet turned aside as might show his lean, pale, and death-like face, which was purposely turned towards the east, from whence he expected the

second

coming of his and our Saviour Jesus Christ.

He was drawn in this posture; and the picture became from that time an object of continual contemplation. After his death, the statue seen below was sculptured from it. He died in . With a verse from of the poems written on his death-bed, a we conclude:

Since I am coming to that holy room

Where, with the Choir of Saints, for evermore

I shall be made thy music; as I come

I tune my instrument here at the door,

And what I must do then, think here before.

 
 
 
Footnotes:

[n.341.1] Life of Nelson, in Family Library, p. 228.

[n.350.1] Transcribed from the recent handsome edition of Donne's Works by the Rev. Henry Alford.

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