Hawksmoor (10 page)

And all Manner of Things shall be well for now my Gout is abated, and I am return'd to the Office where Walter is saying, Why do you Sigh? I did not Sigh, I told him. But then this Thought presents itself to me: do I make Noises that I do not hear, and do I sigh, when I look back on the Years that have passed and which are so much like a Dreame?

For when I was first with Sir Chris. I could not but wonder at the strange Alteration in my Life, from being a meer Itinerant Mendicant of a Boy: it had all fallen out as Mirabilis had prophesied, and I doubted not but that he had in some way determined it. So I did not leave off my Visitings to Black Step Lane, tho' without Mirabilis the Assembly were in a very poor State and it fell to me to decipher his Books: which I did willingly enough, now that I was come (as I suppos'd) to Man's Estate. In the mean time I said nothing of these Matters to Sir Chris, who would have reviled me at a hard Rate and treated me as a meer Merry-Andrew. He liked to destroy Antient things: sad and wretched Stuff, he called it, and he us'd to say that Men are weary of the Reliques of Antiquity. He spoke in their stead of Sensible Knowledge, of the Experimentall Learning and of real Truths: but I took these for nothing but Fopperies. This is our Time, said he, and we must lay its Foundacions with our own Hands; but when he used such Words I was seiz'd with this Reflection: and how do we conclude what Time is our own?

As it turned out, Sir Chris, his own Perswasions were hurled against him, when it came to his Notice that he was building St Pauls Church upon an ancient Ruine. For when we open'd the Ground next to the Seite of the North Porticoe, some Stones were found which on further Inspection, after digging down sufficiently and removing what Earth lay in the way, appeared to be the Walls and Pavement of a Temple: close by was found a little Altar, on hearing of which Sir Chris, laughed and whisper'd to me, Let us make a Pilgrimage to the Pitte!

On our Arrival he heaved himself into the Foundacions and there Rummaging among a great many old Stones he found an earthern Lamp -a very mean work, says he, and throws it back among the Rubbidge. Then the next Morning the Image of a God was dug out of the Ground, being girt about with a Serpent and bearing a Wand in his Hand (the Head and Feet being broken off). It brings to mind, Sir Chris told me, an Observation which Erasmus made: that on the day of St Pauls conversion it was the custom in London to bring in procession to the Church a wooden Staff in which was cunningly wrought a Snake or a Serpent; what think you of that, Nick, since you allwaies have your Head stuck in old Books? And I said nothing, for who can speak of the Mazes of the Serpent to those who are not lost in them? But that some may see and understand an Object, others meerly neglecting it, you have an Instance in Mr John Barber who would not stir from his bed at the Black Boy in Pater-Noster-Row: he thought all the superficies of this terrestrial Globe was made of thin and transparent Glass, and that underneath there lay a Multitude of Serpents; he died laughing, at the Ignorance and Folly of those who could not see the true Foundacions of the World. Thus I also dismiss the narrow Conceptions of this Generation of Writers who speak with Sir Chris, of a new Restauration of Learning, and who prattle something too idly on the new Philosophy of Experiment and Demonstration: these are but poor Particles of Dust which will not burie the Serpents.

And so while others were mouthing such fantastical! and perishable Trash, I kept to my studdy of the antient Architects, for the greatness of the Antients is infinitely superior to the Moderns. It was my good Fortune that in Sir Chris, his Library there was a great Jumble of Books which he had taken up and then tossed aside, so it was here that I examined Cambden's Remains and Lisle his Saxon Monuments, Nicholas Caussin's De Symbolica Aegyptiorum Sapientia and the universall Kircher his Oedipus aegyptiacus in which he concludes that the Obelisks are the tables of esoterick knowledge. And as I write this Walter Pyne takes an exact Account, from my Direction, of my Historicall Pillar beside Limehouse Church: you may hear his Pen scratch. In Kircher, also I discover'd planns of the Pyramiddes, which gave Demonstration of how the Shaddowe is thrown by the Obelisk across the Desart land, and now Walter drops Inke across his Paper. Thus the Subjects of my Thought were the miraculous Memphitic pyrramides which the Aegyptians erected to the memory of their Gods who were Kings also: the Summities of these artificial Mountains were so high that from them, as from some august and terrible Throne, they seemed to the People to be reigning after their Death. This Plan is Ruined from the Staine, says Walter but I make no Answer to him. Thus in Sir Chris, his Library I reflected upon these stupendious Works, vast and of a manner Colossale, and of the curious Signs cut upon their Stone. I gaz'd upon the Shaddowes of fallen Collumnes until my Spirit itself became a very Ruine and so, as I proceeded further in my Books, it was a surety that I studdied part of my self. And Walter leaves the Office now, muttering to himself and walking to the River in order to dear his beating Mind and as I watch him I see my self once more in my youthful Dayes when Sir Chris, found me in his Library: Those who hasten to be wise, Nick, said he looking in on me, have some times lost their own Wits.

Get thee to a Privy, I whispered to myself as he went away chuckling.

One remarkable Passage concerning our Relations I was like to have forgot: which was our Discourse in the shaddowe of Stone-henge. Sir Chris., who as I said confus'd antique with antick, was not inclined to make so hard a Journey (it being more than eighty-five miles from London) but I perswaded him otherwise with an account of the Stones: some, by report, were of a lightish blew with a glister as if minerall were amongst them, and some of them again were of a greyish colour and were speckled with dark green. He had a Fancy to set such Stones in the Fabrick of St Pauls -since the Quarries of Hasselborough and Chilmark were close to the border of the Salisbury plain, and the great quarry at Aibury not many miles distant, I put it into his Head that we might discover more of the same curious Stones there. I am no great Traveller, having never been above three miles from London before, but I could not be appeas'd until I had seen this bowing place, this High Place of worship. Master Sammes believes it to be Phoenician, Master Camden thinks it belongs to the idol Markolis, and Mr Jones judges the Structure to be a Roman work consecrated to Coelus; but I got its Imagery by Heart (as they say): the true God is to be venerated in obscure and fearful Places, with Horror in their Approaches, and thus did our Ancestors worship the Daemon in the form of great Stones.

On the day of our Journey I waited on Sir Chris, at his House by the Office; Coming, coming he calls out to me from above the Stair-head, I'm only seeking my Ruffles and I hear his quick Steps echo through the Bed-chamber. Presently he is down like the Wind, out the Door, and into White-hall, settling his Wigg as he goes: then we coach'd it to the Standard in Cornhill, where the Stage for the London to Lands-End Road waited. What Company have we for the Coach? he asks of a Servant of the Inn.

Two only, and both Gentlemen, he replies.

I am pleased at this, Sir Chris, says to us both, but he was not so pleased neither: when he rode in a London coach, one arm would be out of the Coach on one side and the other on the other, but he was sore pressed for so much Room on this Journey. He took the place fronting to the Coach-box and clapped his Cloak-bag beneath his Legs: Well, says he smiling civilly upon the Company, I hope no one will smoke Tobacco since my Clerk here grows melancholy upon its Vapours. And I dared not deny it, for who knows but it may be true?

We pass'd along Cornhil, Cheapside, St Pauls Church-Yard (where Sir Chris, leaned out of the Coach, looking piercingly), Ludgate Hill, Fleet Street, The Strand, Hay-Market, Pickadilly (where Sir Chris, took out his Linnen and blew a Piece of Jelly from his Nose into it) and then past the Suburbs thro' Knightsbridg, Kensington, Hammersmith, Turnham Green and Hounslow: the Coach-man was driving at full career, as is too usual with them, but Sir Chris, says to me with a look of inexpressible satisfaction, You must acquire, Nick, the right Knack of hunouring the Coach's motion. And then he smiled upon our fellow-Travellers again. At this point, crossing Baker Bridge with the Powder-mills on the right and the Sword-mills on the left, we were jolted almost to Death by a number of large Holes: Don't spill us, Sir Chris, calls up, and then he gets out his Pocket-Book for his own Calculations, at which he continu'd until he slept. Thus on thro'

Staines and across the Thames by means of a Wooden-bridge to Egham and, after an easie Descent by the New England Inn on the left, we crossed over Bagshot Heath and came to Beugh-wood and Bag- shot.

Sir Chris, had now woken from his Doze and was engaged in familiar Conversation with one of the Companions of our journey: he had taken off his Wigg and played with it on his Lap as he talked, plucking at it as if it were a Goose. He loved to act the Schoolmaster with those unskilled in his Arts and, since he did not so much as notice me as he continued with his Discourse, I was able to fall into a Sleep until he woke me with his Nick! Nick! We are come to a Halt! We are come to a Halt!

We had arriv'd at Blackwater, a small place where we took Ayre by an Inné and, having need to Shit, I used the House of Office. Here it was agreed that we would Stick for the Night: Sir Chris, was all for going on, but he saw that the Journey had brought on me a small Feaver (since I sweat when I am away from home). Time is pressing, says he, but Nature presses on you more. He laughed then, and was inexpressibly merry after with the Travellers at Supper. When we climbed up to our Chamber at last, I very weary, he scanned the Observations and Rules for Guests affix'd to the Wall: Remember ye, says he intoning the Words as if they were meer Foolishness, that ye are in this world as in an Inné to tarry for a short space and then to be gone hence. At night when you come to your Inné thanke God for your Preservation: next morning pray for a good Journey. We must be on our knees then, Nick, he goes on, but I fear more from the Lice in these Beds than from the Roads. Then you must pray to the God of Lice, I replied, and hurried down to the Yard to vomit up my Meal.

On the next Day we passed thro' Hartley Row, eventually descending to Basingstoke, and it was when we had reached Church-Oakly that Sir Chris, desired to set up a Magneticall Experiment in the Coach. The other Travellers being willing to observe his Art, they tucked their Shooes up beneath them to give him more Room upon the Floor; he took out the sphericall Compass from his Cloack-bag and produc'd like a Conjuror a peece of Plane Board. The Magnet was half immersed in the Board, till it was like a Globe with the Poles in the Horizon, and he was about to bring on his steel-filings (the others looking on Transfix'd) when of a sudden there was a terrific Quake: going fast over a Bridge close to Whitchurch, the Driver had turned short and two of the Horses were over the Bridge; only the wheel horse hanging dead was able to keep the Coach from going over, as I lay tumbled on the Floor with my Fellows. Sir Chris., trying his Agility to get out of the window, was like to have jumped into the River as I watched but instead he dropp'd into the Dust. I thought it to be a terrible Fall, but he stood up with a good grace and looked puzzled at the Ground: then he seemed to have a need to Make Water and unbutton'd his Breeches in sight of us. One by one we escap'd through the same Window, and then were forced to sit in the Cold till a Team of Horses could be sent from Whitchurch to pull the Coach away from the Bridge; that night we stopp'd at a wretched Inn where we were smirked at by the Hostess. You could not have Prayed last night, said I, as the Observations recommended. No, he replied, and I have lost my Compass as a Penance for it.

The latter part of our Journey from the entrance of Wiltshire into Salisbury was very rough and abounded with Jolts, the Holes we were obliged to go through being very many and some of them Deep; and so it was with much Relief that we left the Coach at Salisbury and hired two Horses for the road across the Avon to the Plain and Stonehenge.

When we came to the edge of this sacred Place, we tethered our Horses to the Posts provided and then, with the Sunne direct above us, walked over the short grass which (continually cropt by the flocks of Sheep) seemed to spring us forward to the great Stones. I stood back a little as Sir Chris, walked on, and I considered the Edifice with steadinesse: there was nothing here to break the Angles of Sight and as I gaz'd I opened my Mouth to cry out but my Cry was silent; I was struck by an exstatic Reverie in which all the surface of this Place seemed to me Stone, and the Sky itself Stone, and I became Stone as I joined the Earth which flew on like a Stone through the Firmament.

And thus I stood until the Kaw of a Crow rous'd me: and yet even the call of the black Bird was an Occasion for Terrour, since it was not of this Time. I know not how long a Period I had traversed in my Mind, but Sir Chris, was still within my Sight when my Eyes were clear'd of Mist. He was walking steadily towards the massie Structure and I rushed violently to catch him, for I greatly wished to enter the Circle before him. I stopped him with a Cry and then ran on: when Crows kaw more than ordinary, said I when I came up to him all out of Breath, we may expect Rain. Pish, he replied. He stopped to tye his Shooe, so then I flew ahead of him and first reached the Circle which was the Place of Sacrifice. And I bowed down.

Master Jones says it is erected on the Cubit measure, says Sir Chris. coming after me and taking out his Pocket-Book, and do you see, Nick, its beautifull Proportions?

It is a huge and monstrous Work, I answered standing straight, and it has been called the Architecture of the Devil.

But he paid no heed to me: They must have used tall trees for Levers, he continu'd squinting up at the Stones, or they discover'd the art of ordering Engines for the raising of Weights.

Some said Merlyn was the Father, I replied, and raised these Stones by the hidden Mysteries of Magick.

Sir Chris, laughed at this and sat upon the Stone in the inner Circle.