LETTER XII
Andrew Pringle, Esq., to the Rev. Charles Snodgrass
WINDSOR, CASTLE-INN.
MY DEAR FRIEND--I have all my life been strangely susceptible of pleasing
impressions from public spectacles where great crowds are assembled.
This, perhaps, you will say, is but another way of confessing, that, like
the common vulgar, I am fond of sights and shows. It may be so, but it
is not from the pageants that I derive my enjoyment. A multitude, in
fact, is to me as it were a strain of music, which, with an irresistible
and magical influence, calls up from the unknown abyss of the feelings
new combinations of fancy, which, though vague and obscure, as those
nebulae of light that astronomers have supposed to be the rudiments of
unformed stars, afterwards become distinct and brilliant acquisitions.
In a crowd, I am like the somnambulist in the highest degree of the
luminous crisis, when it is said a new world is unfolded to his
contemplation, wherein all things have an intimate affinity with the
state of man, and yet bear no resemblance to the objects that address
themselves to his corporeal faculties. This delightful experience, as it
may be called, I have enjoyed this evening, to an exquisite degree, at
the funeral of the king; but, although the whole succession of incidents
is indelibly imprinted on my recollection, I am still so much affected by
the emotion excited, as to be incapable of conveying to you any
intelligible description of what I saw. It was indeed a scene witnessed
through the medium of the feelings, and the effect partakes of the nature
of a dream.
I was within the walls of an ancient castle, "So old as if they had for ever stood,
So strong as if they would for ever stand," and it was almost midnight. The towers, like the vast spectres of
departed ages, raised their embattled heads to the skies, monumental
witnesses of the strength and antiquity of a great monarchy. A
prodigious multitude filled the courts of that venerable edifice,
surrounding on all sides a dark embossed structure, the sarcophagus, as
it seemed to me at the moment, of the heroism of chivalry.
"A change came o'er the spirit of my dream," and I beheld the scene
suddenly illuminated, and the blaze of torches, the glimmering of arms,
and warriors and horses, while a mosaic of human faces covered like a
pavement the courts. A deep low under sound pealed from a distance; in
the same moment, a trumpet answered with a single mournful note from the
stateliest and darkest portion of the fabric, and it was whispered in
every ear, "It is coming." Then an awful cadence of solemn music, that
affected the heart like silence, was heard at intervals, and a numerous
retinue of grave and venerable men, "The fathers of their time,
Those mighty master spirits, that withstood
The fall of monarchies, and high upheld
Their country's standard, glorious in the storm," passed slowly before me, bearing the emblems and trophies of a king.
They were as a series of great historical events, and I beheld behind
them, following and followed, an awful and indistinct image, like the
vision of Job. It moved on, and I could not discern the form thereof,
but there were honours and heraldries, and sorrow, and silence, and I
heard the stir of a profound homage performing within the breasts of all
the witnesses. But I must not indulge myself farther on this subject. I
cannot hope to excite in you the emotions with which I was so profoundly
affected. In the visible objects of the funeral of George the Third
there was but little magnificence; all its sublimity was derived from the
trains of thought and currents of feeling, which the sight of so many
illustrious characters, surrounded by circumstances associated with the
greatness and antiquity of the kingdom, was necessarily calculated to
call forth. In this respect, however, it was perhaps the sublimest
spectacle ever witnessed in this island; and I am sure, that I cannot
live so long as ever again to behold another, that will equally interest
me to the same depth and extent.--Yours, ANDREW PRINGLE.