_Winchester Cathedral—Relics—Netley Abbey._
In Winchester Cathedral I attended Morning Service, on the feast of St.
John Baptist. I am sorry to say that here, too, the service is
ill-performed; not that there is nothing to enjoy in it, even now: but
that when one reflects what ought to be the daily worship of such a
cathedral, and what it might be, if the laws of the cathedral were
enforced, and if a holy zeal were more characteristic of its
dignitaries: there is nothing to say but—_shame_ on things as they are.
When will the conscience of England clamour against such disgraceful
poverty of cathedral worship; and when will the brain of England wake up
to a sense of what these churches might do for the nation, if rightly
served and administered? The feature of this cathedral which most
impresses the stranger, is its far-sweeping length of nave and choir,
with the light or shadowy vistas, through columns and arches, which seem
to multiply its interminable effect. In its details it is also very
rich, and several of its monuments are of unequalled magnificence. Here
lies, in his superb chantry, William of Wykeham, whose mitred and
crosiered effigy, stretched at full length upon his sepulchre, seems
sublimely conscious of repose, after a life of vast achievement, in
rearing schools for youth, and colleges for the learned, and palaces for
princes, and hospitals for the poor, and temples for God. Bishop
Wayneflete is not less superbly sepulchred in a small chapel, or
chantry, of elegant design, beautifully enriched, and gilded, and kept
in complete repair by the Fellows of his College, at Oxford. His effigy
bears, in clasped hands, a heart, which he thus uplifts to heaven, as it
were, in fervent response to the _Sursum Corda_ of the Liturgy. Over
against this chantry rises, in twin magnificence, that of Cardinal
Beaufort: but in spite of its placid air, beneath those solemn
tabernacles one looks upon his figure with painful remembrances of the
death-scene which Shakspeare has so powerfully depicted. “He dies and
makes no sign,” is the awful thought that haunts the mind, as one
lingers about this perpetual death-bed; and yet it is not difficult to
conclude the inspection with the more charitable ejaculation of King
Henry—
“Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.
Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain close,
And let us all to meditation.”
But Bishop Fox’s monument and chapel are even more affecting than any of
these, from its peculiar combination of ingenious sepulchral devices,
with elaborate graces of architecture. It is overpowering, after
examining the splendours of its canopy and fretwork, to descend to the
little grated recess beneath, where the subject of all this monumental
glory is represented in the humiliation of death and the grave. It seems
like looking into Hades. One sees a ghastly figure of emaciation and
decay; the eyes lying deep in their sockets, in a frightful stage of
decomposition, and the whole frame exhibiting the power of death over
the flesh of the Saints, but suggesting that, while patiently submitting
to the worst that worms can do, it rests in hope and speaks out of the
very grave—“I know that my Redeemer liveth.” In a corresponding chapel,
but of low architectural character, on the other side of the choir, lies
the cruel Stephen Gardiner, the unfortunate son of an adulterous Bishop,
and the fitting purveyor of fire and faggot to the Bloody Mary. The
nuptials of this sulphurous sovereign with Philip of Spain, were
celebrated, by-the-way, in the Lady-Chapel of this cathedral. Strange
that the same Church which entombs her favourite Gardiner, should also
contain the sepulchre of that bloated Hanoverian, the notorious Hoadly,
surrounded with such emblems as the cap of liberty, and the Magna
Charta, in close juxta-position with the crosier and the Holy Bible! The
character of the Bishop would have been better symbolized by some
ingenious device illustrative of the truth, that—“the ox knoweth his
owner, and the ass his master’s crib.”
One cannot but hope that the superb altar-screen of this cathedral will
be more fully restored than at present, and that a proper altar, or Holy
Table, will be added, such as may illustrate the true spirit of the
Anglican Liturgy, and the richness of its Orthodoxy. A poverty-stricken
altar is surely no recommendation of reformed religion; and were I only
an ecclesiologist, it would delight me to show that such a Holy Table as
even the Court of Arches could not presume to desecrate, might be
erected, in strict conformity with the Anglican ritual, and in perfect
keeping with such a choir, that should put to shame the tawdry
Babylonianism of the Romish altars on the Continent.
While speaking of the choir, let me not forget the little chests which
surmount the screens of the sanctuary. Who can look at them without
emotion, when informed that they contain all that remains of princes and
priests, and of mighty kings, and fair ladies, their queens. There are
the remains of Canute and of Rufus, of “Queen Emma and the Bishops Wina
and Alwyn.” On one may be read the inscription—“King Edmund, whom this
chest contains, oh, Christ receive.” Another, marking the era of the
Rebellion, with a striking trophy of its infamy, bears the legend—“In
this chest, in the year 1661, were deposited the confused relics of
princes and prelates, which had been scattered by sacrilegious
barbarism, in the year 1642.” The havoc made by the Puritans in this
holy place is everywhere painfully visible. The beautiful chapel, in the
rear of the choir, is filled with fragments of carved work and mutilated
sculpture, which bear silent witness against the “axes and hammers” of
the Puritans: while many a corresponding “stone out of the wall” seems
to cry shame, and “many a beam out of the timber, to answer it.” The
noble figure of a knight, in bronze, upon an altar tomb, bears the marks
of their indiscriminate violence, in deep cuts or hacks made by a sword,
apparently in a spirit of wanton brutality. It was refreshing to turn
from such Vandal tokens, to the simple memorial of one who lived in the
age that produced them, but whose character furnishes altogether as
striking a contrast to the turbulent spirit of his times, as the still
waters and green pastures of his native land afford to the elements of
the Lapland storm. In Prior Silkstede’s chapel, I paid a parting
reverence to the slab that covers the honourable remains of Izaak
Walton. Verily, he served God in his generation: for when they knew not
how to sport at all, he spake of fishes, and when again they sported
like fools, he spake of men.
After a walk through sweet meads, and by a clear stream, I climbed St.
Katherine’s hill, and took a full view of the city and its suburbs; and
soon after left for Salisbury. It was, indeed, a feast day, that day of
St. John the Baptist, on which I saw two such cathedrals as Winchester
and Salisbury: the former, characterized by all the grandeur of the
long-drawn aisle—the latter, by all the glory of the culminating spire.
The emotions inspired by the one were those of a well-chanted service;
but I found the effect of the other like that of a rapturous anthem. I
speak now of the external views only: and certainly my first view of
Salisbury, that fine midsummer evening, was as a vision of Paradise. The
heavenward shooting of all its parts, and the consummate unity of effect
with which they all blend in the sky-piercing pyramid, around which they
are grouped, exceeds all that I ever saw of the kind. I only grudged to
the levels of Salisbury, what ought rather to crown such a sovereign
hill as that of Lincoln.
This Church is familiar to the architect as the full-blown flower of his
art. It stands in a lonely retirement from the town, and, sitting down
in its precincts to enjoy the view, I found myself uninterrupted in my
meditations for a long, delightful hour, the only intruders being some
nibbling sheep that pastured under the walls, and the chattering rooks,
that seemed to amuse themselves in making a spiral flight round the
spire, and so winding up from its base to its tapering point. Beautiful
for its figure and its decoration, is that spire, and so is the
incomparable tower, from which it springs like a plant; and wherever the
eye rests in wandering over the splendours of its surrounding walls,
buttresses, pinnacle, arches, and gables, all is in keeping, and one
spirit seems to animate the pile. I am sorry to confess disappointment
as to the interior. It is so neglected, and has been so much impaired.
The clustered columns that support the tower have yielded to its weight,
and are visibly bowed and sprung from their piers. The chapter-house
exhibits a shameful neglect, and its beautiful decorations have suffered
from violent abuse. The present Bishop is exerting himself effectually,
however, in the work of restoration: and one cannot but hope that the
next generation will see this cathedral the seat of a living and working
system of diocesan zeal, and the centre of Gospel life and influence to
the surrounding rural district, and its many needy souls.
A series of altar tombs, in the nave and aisles, gives a peculiar effect
to the spaces between the columns, and to the arches above. Among them
is the tomb of an unfortunate nobleman, who was hanged for murder some
three hundred years since, and over which was, for a long time,
suspended the silken noose which suspended him. The tomb of a
boy-bishop, marked by a little figure in pontificals, is a curious relic
of mediæval mummeries; and not less so is the sepulchre of Bishop Roger,
a Norman, who first attracted the admiration of King Henry I., by the
galloping pace at which he contrived to get through a mass. I paid a
more reverent tribute to the plain slab that covers Bishop Jewell, who,
with all his faults, deserves the rather to be reverenced, because this
age has bred a set of men, who seem to take pleasure in spitting upon
his memory, while defiling, with equal insolence, the face of their
Mother the Church.
As evening came on, I took a post-chaise for Amesbury and Figheldean,
where I had been invited to visit that interesting personage, Mr. Henry
Caswall, a clergyman who has done, perhaps, more than any other man, to
make known, in England, the history and peculiar characteristics of the
American Church. He is by birth an Englishman; he is nevertheless in
American orders, and thus, in his person, unites the Church in which he
ministers to that in which he received his commission. The interest with
which I now sought his acquaintance may therefore be imagined. After a
pleasing drive over the downs, and a rapid inspection of the curious
remains of “Old Sarum,” I found myself in a small, but picturesque
hamlet, in which almost every house was thatched, clustered at the foot
of a knoll, on which rose the parish Church of “Filedean”—for so it is
pronounced. In a few minutes I was Mr. Caswall’s guest, and, for the
first time since leaving home, I was able to talk over American subjects
with one who entirely understood them. After a cordial reception by his
amiable family, a long and cheerful review of American matters closed
this very happy and memorable day.
I was much entertained to observe in Mr. Caswall many of those traits of
enterprise and efficiency which seemed to me to be developments of what
we should call Western life, though the English would consider them
simply American. That he is naturally enterprising and ingenious to a
great degree, I am sure no one can doubt: it was probably this
characteristic which originally led him, though a nephew of the Bishop
of Salisbury, to seek the wilds of Ohio, and to become a Missionary
under Bishop Chase. But who, that had not been disciplined to invention
in our Missionary field, could exhibit, as he does, the fruits of this
faculty, in an exuberant degree, amid all the comforts of an English
vicarage! A river runs near his Church; he has boats upon it of his own
construction, and one has paddle-wheels. In the tower of his ancient
Church, there ticks a clock of very curious mechanism: it is entirely of
his own manufacture; he cast one of its wheels in Kentucky, and bought
another in New-York! So, too, he has lately built an organ, which
discourses excellent music; and his other ingenuities are innumerable,
to say nothing of his very able works, in which he always contrives to
tell what is worth knowing, and to say what is just to the point.
In his neighbourhood is Milstone, the birth-place of Addison, to which
he conducted me with obliging enthusiasm. The native nest is a modest
parsonage, hard by the Church, which is one of the very humblest of its
kind, and has no tower. I peeped in at the windows, and saw where
Addison was baptized. Our walk was extended to Durrington, where a fine
Church was re-appearing on the foundations of a very ancient one. In the
afternoon of the same day, this kind friend took me to Amesbury, where
the remains of a Roman encampment are still visible in some trenches and
hillocks, which were made by the soldiers of Vespasian. Thence we went
to see the grounds of the once celebrated Duchess of Queensbury, and a
grotto, which was formerly frequented by the poet Gay. We passed an old
lodge upon this estate, which gave shelter, during the Reign of Terror,
to a community of French nuns. Next, we drove to the famous Stonehenge,
on Salisbury plain. To me, these gigantic remains of Druid superstition
were of surpassing interest: and while my friend explained to me the
various theories of their origin and use, I found the actual inspection
of this old scene of horrible idolatry, the rather fascinating, because
from its still existing altar, one can just descry over the hills in the
horizon, the needle-like point of the spire of Salisbury. I never felt
before, that England had once been Pagan, and that the Gospel had
conquered it, and made it all that Salisbury is, as compared with this
accursed temple of the idol Bel. The Chaldean Shepherds seem indeed to
have shared their superstition with those of Salisbury.
We drove over the plains, so called, to visit Wilton, and my attention
was continually attracted by the shepherds and their flocks, not unlike,
in some respects, to those who are seen on the Roman Campagna. Their
dogs, who do the work of men, in searching stragglers, and in driving
and tending the sheep, are interesting objects. Of course the story of
Hannah More came often to mind as we encountered these sights. But other
interesting associations were excited by the evident remains of old
Roman roads, which traversed these pasturages in ancient times. There
were, besides, some strange circular hollows, in form like saucers, of
undoubted Roman origin, which lay on either side of our way as we drove
over a sort of ridge-road. As we left the downs, we had a fine view of
the surrounding country, and descried Trafalgar House, the seat of Lord
Nelson, at a distance. We passed a noble estate of the Pembroke family;
and visited the magnificent Church, at Wilton, reared by Mr. Sydney
Herbert, at his personal expense of sixty thousand pounds. It is a
superb Anglican basilica, a curiosity in England, as departing from the
historical architecture of the realm, and closely resembling the finest
churches of Italy. It is, however, a blessing to the place, and is
largely frequented by the poor. From this splendid Church we drove to a
still more interesting one, although a church as remarkably poor as this
is costly. The smallest and plainest little Church I had yet seen in
England was reached at last, and reverently entered. A few pews, a
chancel and Holy Table of starving plainness, and a pulpit to match!
This was holy Herbert’s Church—this was Bemerton! I climbed, and then
crawled into the little box of a belfry, to see the bell which he tolled
when he was instituted; and then I went outside, and looked in at the
window, through which he was descried tarrying long at prayer, on his
face, before the altar. How a good life can glorify what otherwise would
be utterly without attractions! Even in America, I have seldom seen a
church look so mean as that at Bemerton: yet few places have I ever
visited with more of awe and affection; and verily, all the
embellishments of the Sistine Chapel failed to produce in me such a
sense of the beauty of holiness, as did the sight of the humble altar,
at which ministered before the Lord two hundred years ago, that man of
God, George Herbert.
Reaching Southampton early in the evening of a mid-summer day, I had
time enough, during the long twilight, for an excursion to Netley Abbey,
which I made in a boat, rowed by an old waterman and his son, a lad of
twelve years. The descending sun threw its radiance over the bright
Southampton water, as we left the pier, and a pathway of burnished gold
seemed to lie in our wake, as we glided rapidly along. The boy
volunteered to sing a little hymn which he had learned at Sunday School,
and, accordingly the praise of God was sweetly wafted by the sunset
breezes that played about us; and if I have heard more romantic strains
on the Venetian waters, since then, from the gondoliers, I can testify
that they were no sweeter, and not half so inspiring to a devout
disposition. This beautiful bay was filled with many sails, and the
neighbouring shores, on every side, were highly picturesque. We reached
the “glad nook,” whose corrupted Latin name survives, in _Netley_, just
in time to disturb the composures of the rook and owl, as they were
congratulating themselves on the close of the day, and settling for the
night, the one in his dormitory, and the other in his watch-tower. There
was enough of day to display the entire beauty of the ruins, and enough
of melancholy night to give them a mysterious solemnity. Here I stumbled
over piles of rubbish, overgrown with grass and wall-flowers, among
which slender trees have sprouted side by side with the branching
columns of the architect; while through graceful tracery, and broken
vaulting, I looked up into the deep heaven, and descried the first stars
as they began to twinkle in its unfathomable azure. I fancied I could
hear the gentle sigh of the waters on the pebbled beach, which spreads
hard by beneath its walls, and the charms of the spot, as a home of
religion, became very vividly impressed on my mind as the soft
susurrations appeared to bewail the loss of responsive vesper-songs from
the consecrated pile. It was a bewitching hour for such a visit: and
when I went down into crypts, and gloomy vaults, which were barely light
enough to enable me to feel my way, and to descry the surrounding
outlines of Gothic ruin, through loop-holes and doorways festooned with
luxuriant ivy, all that I ever read of romance, in its wildest forms,
seemed conjured about me. It was quite dark as we returned, but the
waters glittered with tremulous reflections of many lights on the shore;
and our little pilot sung—“There’s a good time coming, boys!” with a
sort of pathetic thrill, which made me love him, and I prayed that he
might live to see the good time which he so feelingly promised himself.
I conversed with him freely, and found that he had been taught of God,
in the bosom of the Church.
Next morning I took the steamer to Cowes. The sail down the sea of
Southampton was very pleasant, and my fancy was as busy as my sight, as
we skirted along the shore, from which the “New Forest” stretches away
towards Dorsetshire, covering many a square mile of merry England with
woods as dense as those of our own primeval wilds. How exciting to
reflection, the view of a wood which, for so many ages, has perpetuated
the violence of William the Norman, and the tragic memory of Rufus! A
gay little French woman, who knew nothing of the history, however, and
who seemed to take me for an Englishman, expressed herself, in her
sprightly vernacular, in terms of rapturous delight, with reference to
the scenery alone. She was overwhelmed with the luxurious beauty of
England, as contrasted with the penury which stares you in the face for
leagues and leagues in France, in places where nature only needs a
little aid from cultivation to assume a face as cheerful as those of its
inhabitants. When we passed Calshot Castle, and had the Isle of Wight in
full view, I was nearly as much inspired as herself. The admirable
service which the island renders to the British fleet, became apparent
as we looked towards those “leviathans afloat,” at Spithead; but I
turned with greater interest towards the Solent, and tried hard to
descry that lonely spur of Hampshire, on which stands Hurst Castle, the
scene of one of the most thrilling episodes in the closing history of
Charles the First. As we approached Cowes, it reminded me of Staten
Island, off New-York, and, at first, I hardly knew to what I owed the
association, though the similarity of scene is considerable; but when a
second glance showed me a noble ship, of unmistakeable American
proportions, with the American ensign fluttering at her peak, just under
the lee of the island, I felt the home-feeling overpoweringly, and could
have shouted my salutation to my country’s oak, with full lungs and a
fuller heart! I pointed it out to the French woman, and told her of my
country, and then I was saluted with her voluble congratulations, in
such terms as showed that she, at least, thought it a land of which one
has a right to be proud.
Osborne House is a prominent object, on the rising bank of the Medina,
as one drives from Cowes toward Newport, and I looked with no little
interest at the beautiful home in which Victoria and Albert live the
life of private people, without sacrificing the dignity which they owe
it to the nation to sustain. It delights me to say that they have the
reputation of cultivating, there, every domestic virtue; and I was
charmed with a popular print, which one sees in the neighbourhood,
representing the family at Osborne, on their knees, with the prince
reading prayers among his children.
I was fortunate in visiting this gem of the sea, during the most
pleasant part of the year. The hay-makers were at work, and everywhere a
delicious fragrance filled the air. Our drive from Newport to Chale
afforded many pleasing views, and my first view of the open sea was
enchanting. The channel was as smooth as glass, and the vessels that lay
upon it scarcely seemed to move. From the celebrated Black-gang Chine,
the view of the chalky coast of Dorset, the curving shore of
Freshwater-bay, and the bristling file of cliffs, called “the Needles,”
was truly superb. Then wheeling round the bold head of St. Catherine’s
Downs, we entered that sweet realm of Faerie, called the Undercliff,
where a palisade of rock rises on one side of the road, and the
sea-beach lies below, the exposure being such as to receive the breath
and the sunshine of the genial south, with all the vigorous breezes of
the ocean. Here the roses bloom all the year in the open air, and Nature
has made it all that Nature could, by a combination of her charms.
Indeed, the circuit of the coast, from here to Yaverland, seen, at
various hours of the day, in all the shifting effects of the sun and
shadows, affords a panorama of incomparable attractions: here a dense
grove, and there a deep cleft in the rocks, intercepting the sea-view,
and then, again, a fresh apocalypse of beauty, breaking upon the sight,
at some unexpected turn of the way. The murmur of ocean comes to the ear
just as the eye catches the numberless smiles of its surface, and a
glimpse through green foliage will often discover a brilliant
perspective, in which the blue sea, and the gray rocks, and the fading
horizon, are enlivened by a stretching show of snowy canvas, reflecting
the golden light of the sun, sail after sail, the tiniest glittering far
off on the verge of the expanse, like a star in the twilight.
The Tom-thumb Church of St. Lawrence, with walls six feet high, and all
the rest in proportion; the beauties of Ventnor, and Bonchurch, and
Shanklin Chine; in short, the entire scenery of the Undercliff is
enchanting, and bewitches one with a desire to build a tabernacle there,
and to rest from one’s labours. At Brading, I paused, in honour of good
Legh Richmond, and visited the grave of his “Young Cottager.” Ryde is a
pleasant place enough, something like our Staten Island towns in
situation, and in many other particulars. But my drive from Ryde to
Newport, through Wooton and Fern-hill, disclosed many of those inland
scenes of rural beauty, for which the Isle of Wight is unsurpassed.
Hedges, thick and green, on each side of the road, with wild woodbine
twisting all over them, and loading the air with perfumes, were the
appropriate frame-work of rich fields, waving with golden crops,
fragrant with new-mown hay, or filled with pasturing cattle, while here
and there they enclosed a little garden full of flowers, or were broken
by the prettiest cottages in all the world, neatly whitewashed, and
trimly thatched, and planted about with white and red roses, clambering
over the windows, mounting to the eaves, and even straggling among the
straw, to the ridge of the roof. Again I caught a glimpse of the towers
of Osborne; but it seemed to me that the Queen herself might be willing
to exchange them for these charming little snuggeries of her contented
peasantry.
But I came to the Isle, above all, to see Carisbrooke Castle, and
thither I went, after a night at Newport. It was a bright, unclouded
morning, and I went alone. Over a little bridge you pass to the great
doorway, between two massive towers, hung with verdure, and pierced with
cross-shaped arrow-slits. All was as quiet and as beautiful as if no
history brooded over the spot, with strange and melancholy witchery. The
twitter of a bird, the nodding of a wild rose in the morning breeze, the
sparkling of the dew upon the leaves, all seemed to share something of
the mysterious spell. ‘How still, and yet how speaking, thought I, this
scene of mighty personal struggles, of a crisis of ages, of overwhelming
sorrows! Is it not conscious of its own dignity? Poor Charles! after
seeing thy brief wrestling with adversity, it has lapsed into
desolation, and lets the world have its own way, while it alone wears
enduring tokens of sympathy with thee!’
I saw the window where the King made one last effort to be free. Sir
Thomas Herbert’s portraiture rose all before me, and a thousand busy
thoughts, which any one may imagine, but which language fails to arrest,
much more to convey. Ascending to the keep, surveying the undulating
scenery, and loitering here and there among the ruins, the past, the
entrancing past floated around me like an atmosphere; and I felt how
much more powerful than romance, is the charm of historic fact, when
invested with living interest, by associations of religion, by
connections with surviving realities, and by the perpetual attraction
and moral sublimity of an example of greatness and worth, tried in the
furnace of affliction.
Nor did I forget that lily among thorns, the little princess who died in
this doleful prison, of a broken heart, after bewailing her father’s
murder a single year. The sweet child, Elizabeth! what a thought it was
to imagine her moaning her young life away, amid these gloomy walls,
surrounded only by the butchers of her adored parent, mocking her woes!
Among tales of childhood’s sorrows, there have been few like hers.
Everybody has heard of “a pebble in Carisbrooke well.” I tried the usual
experiments, and saw a lamp let down in it, three hundred feet, and then
drank of the water, drawn by donkey-power, with all the sublime emotions
conceivable on such an occasion. There is a story that the well was
originally of Roman construction, and that the Romans had a fortress
here, which it first supplied. At any rate, it is a very good well, and
no doubt administered many a refreshing draught to the royal prisoners,
to whom “a cup of cold water” was well nigh all that the charity of the
place afforded.
Crossing from the Isle of Wight to Portsmouth, I had a fine sight, in
the incessant broadsides which were fired by her Majesty’s ship, the
“Vengeance,” anchored at Spithead, apparently for exercise, or sport.
The gallant ship, the blazing port-holes, the rolling clouds of smoke,
and the reverberating thunders, made our transit, from shore to shore,
one of exciting interest. The “Royal George” went down just in that
anchorage, and there she lies now. I paid a visit to the “Victory,” in
the harbour of Portsmouth, after an unsuccessful effort to board the
beautiful yacht, in which the Queen makes her progresses by sea. On the
deck of the “Victory” fell the idolized Nelson: a small brass plate
marks the spot. After looking at this, and trying to reproduce the
scene, I descended to the cock-pit, and surveyed the dark and gloomy
cell in which he breathed his last, reclining against a huge rib of his
ship. Poor soul! If he had but served God as he served his King, there
would have been a glory in that death, beyond that of “victory, or
Westminster Abbey.” After a rapid survey of the dock-yards, I made my
way, by rail, to Chichester.
A fine market-cross distinguishes this city, and is kept in excellent
repair. But the great attraction is, of course, its cathedral, a
mutilated but still noble structure, which I found well worthy of a
visit. It exhibits some praiseworthy restorations, and I was pleased to
find that its nave is frequently used for sermons. It has many tombs and
monuments of note, and many of its architectural peculiarities are
attractive. Relics and antiquities connected with the history of the See
are shown, and it is painful to find, in one apartment, mysterious
evidence of the ill uses to which a church could be put, before the
Reformation. In the Bishop’s Consistory Court, there is a secret door in
the wainscot looking like a mere panel. This moves with a slide, and
covers a massive gate, with a lock, which opens into a strong room, once
used as a prison. It was no doubt the scene of suffering for conscience
sake, in the days of the Lollards.
After having so lately described other cathedrals of much greater
interest, I will only add, concerning this, that I was much pleased to
note among its monuments the modern one, by Flaxman, commemorative of
the poet Collins. Architecturally, indeed, it is out of place: but the
unfortunate bard was a native of the cathedral precinct, and the
Christian artist has seized upon that incident in his unhappy life,
which attests the consolations which highest genius may derive from the
same source that makes childhood wise unto salvation. “I have but one
book,” said he to a visitor, shortly before he died, as he held up the
New Testament, and added—“the best.”
My next stage was Brighton, where I enjoyed a sea-bath, and a brief
survey of that beautiful creation of fashion. But my chief enjoyment
here was received in the delightful hospitalities of a distinguished
family, which I shall always remember with sincere regard, as embracing
some of the most agreeable persons I have ever met. Among the varieties
of English character which have most charmed me, those to which I now
gratefully refer, are often reviving in memory, as affording a true
ideal of domestic happiness, enlivened by sentiment, and hallowed by a
spirit of devotion.
I was forced to make a very rapid survey of the southern coast, passing
by the old abbey at Lewes and the castle at Pevensey; and pausing
scarcely an hour upon the noble beach at Hastings, and amid the ruins of
its castle. With greater regret I was forced to omit visits to Battle
Abbey, to Hever Castle, and to Penshurst, to the last-named of which I
had an especial drawing, for the sake of Hammond and Sir Philip Sydney.
I was engaged to spend St. Peter’s day at Canterbury, and to be the
anniversary preacher, a privilege to which I was willing to sacrifice,
many other pleasures. Passing, therefore, through some pretty Kentish
scenery, and pausing to visit the old monuments at Ashford, I made my
way, before nightfall, to the city of pilgrimages, and was received as a
guest within the Warden’s lodge at St. Augustine’s. An anniversary
dinner was served in the hall, at which several distinguished personages
were present; and afterwards I saw the ceremony of admitting a scholar
to the foundation. I then visited the room over the gateway, which
lodged King Charles I., on his bridal tour; and, after service in the
chapel, retired to my room in this holy and religious home of the
Church’s children.