In the dim light of the winter's afternoon it
is as though a great army of men had fallen fighting there, and had
been turned to stone as they fell. Rank upon rank they lie, with that
irregularity which comes of symmetry destroyed, like columns and files
of soldiers shot down in the act of advancing. And in winter, the gray
light falling upon the untrodden snow throws a pale reflection upwards
against each stone, as though from the myriad sepulchres a faintly
luminous vapour were rising to the outer air. Over all, the rugged
brushwood and the stunted trees intertwine their leafless branches and
twigs in a thin, ghostly network of gray, that clouds the view of the
farther distance without interrupting it, a forest of shadowy skeletons
clasping fleshless, bony hands one with another, from grave to grave, as
far as the eye can see.
The stillness in the place is intense. Not a murmur of distant life from
the surrounding city disturbs the silence. At rare intervals a strong
breath of icy wind stirs the dead branches and makes them crack and
rattle against the gravestones and against each other as in a dance of
death. It is a wild and dreary place. In the summer, indeed, the thick
leafage lends it a transitory colour and softness, but in the depth of
winter, when there is nothing to hide the nakedness of truth, when the
snow lies thick upon the ground and the twined twigs and twisted
trunks scarce cast a tracery of shadow under the sunless sky, the utter
desolation and loneliness of the spot have a horror of their own, not to
be described, but never to be forgotten.
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