There my sense of fitness was
outraged. The place was meant to be cheerful. It was brilliantly lit.
A band was playing popular tunes. Downstairs there was even a
restaurant. (Let fancy fondly dwell, for a moment, on the thought of a
dinner at Madame Tussaud's: a few carefully-selected guests, and a
menu well thought out; conversation becoming general; corks popping;
quips flying; a sense of bien-e^tre; `thank you for a most delightful
evening.') Madame's figures were meant to be agreeable and lively
presentments. Her visitors were meant to have a thoroughly good time.
But the Islip Chapel has no cheerful intent. It is, indeed, a place
set aside, with all reverence, to preserve certain relics of a grim,
yet not unlovely, old custom. These fearful images are no stock-in-
trade of a showman; we are not invited to `walk-up' to them. They were
fashioned with a solemn and wistful purpose. The reason of them lies
in a sentiment which is as old as the world--lies in man's vain revolt
from the prospect of death. If the soul must perish from the body, may
not at least the body itself be preserved, somewhat in the semblance
of life, and, for at least a while, on the face of the earth? By
subtle art, with far-fetched spices, let the body survive its day and
be (even though hidden beneath the earth) for ever.
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