第7章 威斯敏斯特教堂WestminsterAbbey(2)

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 gravestones，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 ofgigantic 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 sepulchers，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.

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I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb，and from chapel to chapel.The day was gradually wearing away;the distant tread of loiterers about the abbey grew less and less frequent;the sweet-tongued bell was summoning to evening prayers;and I saw at a distance the choristers，in their white surplices，crossing the aisle and entering the choir.I stood before the entrance to Henry the Seventh’s chapel.A flight of steps lead up to it，through a deep and gloomy，but magnificent arch.Great gates of brass，richly and delicately wrought，turn heavily upon their hinges，as if proudly reluctant to admit the feet of common mortals into this most gorgeous of sepulchres.