_Cathedral Tour—The Border._
A cathedral tour now lay between me and Scotland, to which I began to
make my way rapidly. All that I had yet seen of architecture, promised
to be the mere preface to what was still before me, in the splendours of
Ely, of Peterborough, of Lincoln, of York, and of Durham. To my reader
it will be impossible to convey the idea of variety and ever-novel
delight with which these successive miracles of the builder’s art
impressed me, as I passed from one to the other, from day to day; but I
will touch on the more special characteristics of each, in full
confidence that what is most striking in old historic monuments, like
these, can never tire the head that is furnished alike with eyes and
brains.
The train took me swiftly to Ely, over a fenny district, which supplied
nothing of interest, except the distant view of the towers, which loomed
up, more and more, as we drew nigh the little city. How different this
railway approach from that celebrated by Wordsworth:—
“A pleasant music floats along the mere,
From monks in Ely chanting service high,
Whileas Canute the king is rowing by!”
I found this magnificent work partly in ruins—partly undergoing a
beautiful restoration; and as the pavement of the choir was torn up, I
beheld a stone-coffin, in which, perhaps, lie the bones of one of those
very monks, who were singing in the days of King Canute. At my request,
one of the workmen raised the lid of the coffin, and there lay the skull
and bones of an old ecclesiastic, the former quite entire; or, perhaps,
it was St. Ethelfreda herself, who began her building here in the
seventh century. If so, they are repairing her works, in the nineteenth,
in a spirit of nobler art, than she ever imagined. The restorations are
truly superb, and a future visitor will find the choir of Ely one of the
most impressive temples in Christendom. What an age of restorations this
is, in the Church of England! ’Tis a nobler reformation than that of
three hundred years ago—for that was, necessarily, one of haste and of
overthrow. Now a calm constructiveness is at work, holding fast all that
was gained before; but giving it the finish, which was impossible then.
And these material restorations are but the symbol of a great spiritual
awakening, concerning which, there is one painful thought which no
student of English History should ever forget. It is this, that but for
the Puritans, all this would have been done in the seventeenth century!
Greater and better men were then on the stage than any that are now
living, and all that the age of Victoria is doing for Christ, it was in
the heart of King Charles to do. It is impossible to say what might not
have been the blessed results for the Universe had the Church of England
been in a condition to tempt the Church of France to an alliance in
1682. All we can say on the other hand, is that, let Macaulay declaim as
he may, progressive freedom would have been established in England
without the paradoxical intervention of a Cromwell, while there is
nothing left us, as the direct results of Puritanism, except a few
Socinian congregations, and the “Dissenters’ Chapels’ Bill.”
The massiveness of some portions of this cathedral, and the lightness
and grace of others, are very impressive. Its length is very great, and
the vista “long drawn out.” Amid its ancient monuments I spent a solemn
hour of musing, while the light of the descending sun, through the
clere-story and lantern, showered a soft and melancholy radiance over
the whole interior, admirably harmonizing with the reflections it
necessarily inspired.
I found Peterborough another sleepy little city, and the cathedral
beautifully situated, with the Bishop’s palace hard by. It is a severe,
but grand exterior, and presides over the surrounding trees, and roofs,
like a sort of divinity. It is quite free of encroachment from other
buildings; but its close, or precinct, is guarded by a circuit of
prebendal, and other ecclesiastical houses, with turreted and arched
gateways, which seem to command a reverent approach to the sacred spot.
I omit a technical description of the architecture, but must be allowed
to give some account of the Sunday I spent there, and of one or two
little things that deeply affected me.
While the bells were thundering for Morning Service, I stood in the
nave, wholly lost in contemplation of its plain, but massive majesty. A
train of children entered, with their teachers, evidently a
Sunday-school. I watched the little procession as it wound its way amid
the columns, and turned to the left of the choir. Following them, I saw
them enter the choir, by a small side-door, and as they stepped into it,
every little foot fell on a slab of stone, in the centre of which was a
little brass plate, not so large as one’s hand. When all had gone in,
and were kneeling in their meek array, I drew near, and stooped down to
see over whose dust they had been treading. I read a few words, but they
thrilled me like electricity—“Queen Katherine, 1536!” Here, then, lies
that proud daughter of Arragon, whose mournful history has left its mark
upon nations, and upon Christendom! The scene in Shakspeare rose before
me—Pope—Cardinals—Princes—Henry VIII. This stone covers all, and
peasants’ babes trip over it as lightly as if the life that lies
extinguished there, had been as simple as their own!
In the corresponding spot, on the other side, lies just such another
slab, over another sepulchre. The body has been removed to Westminster
Abbey; but its first repose was here. The brass has been torn out; but
it once read, “Queen Mary, 1587”—for here the poor Queen of Scots was
laid, headless, and festering in her cerements, six months after that
fatal day, in the neighbouring Fotheringay Castle. The date of her
interment offers the best apology for the severity she had suffered,
although nothing can excuse the sin of Elizabeth. It was the year before
the Spanish Armada; and it is now known that she had, _two years
previously_, given her kingdom to Philip II., inviting that bloody bigot
to set up his Inquisition among her Scottish subjects, and excluding her
own son from his right. Such was her crime against her own people,
aimed, however, more especially at England, by her fanatical zeal.
Between these solemn tombs of a Queen of France, and a daughter of
Spain, I worshipped that day, and received the Holy Communion, to my
comfort. The anthem was a familiar strain, from Mozart, which we sing in
America to the Christmas hymn, set to words from the Psalter—_Quam
magnificata opera tua!_ The Bishop of Peterborough was the preacher, and
I heard him again at Evening Service. As you leave the nave through the
western entrance, you see an odd portrait set against the wall, that of
a grave-digger, spade in hand. Underneath, you read—“R. Scarlett, died
1594, aged 98.” He buried the two Queens, and the inhabitants of the
town _twice over_, as you learn from uncouth rhymes subjoined. Was ever
such a “king of spades?”
Next morning I saw “Lincoln, on its sovereign hill,” and heard the Great
Tom—“swinging slow with sullen roar.” The restorations going on in the
choir had driven the service into a little chapel, near the west end;
but the singing was very sweet, and solemn, though entirely without
ceremony. I devoted the morning to the survey of this model of art,
which I like the better, because it is, in part, a monument of the
Anglican Liberties, as they were maintained in the middle ages, against
the Roman Pontiff. The central tower is the work of brave old Bishop
Grostéte, in the thirteenth century. He was the predecessor of Wycliffe
and Cranmer, in defying the Pope, and in spite of papal anathemas, he
died in peaceful possession of his See. All honour to his pious memory.
It is the custom to admire the west front of this cathedral
extravagantly; but I confess that with all that there is to admire in
its separate parts, the whole seems, to me, ill-composed. The towers,
more particularly, strike me as possessing no unity with the mass of
architecture, behind which they rise, as from a screen, whose broad
rectangular frontage detracts from the apparent height. It is only as
seen from the foot of the hill, that the whole architectural bulk
affects the eye sublimely, towering majestically over the town, which
crouches at its base. The whole pile affords to the architectural
student every luxury of his art, both within and without; but such were
the desecrations which it suffered from the Cromwellians, that few of
those gorgeous shrines, for which it was formerly distinguished, remain,
to delight the ordinary visiter. In the cloisters have lately been
discovered some Roman remains: a mosaic pavement, in particular, such as
the traveller is so often shown in Italy. “The Jew’s house,” so called,
a relic of mediæval art, was more interesting to me, as connected with
the legend of the little martyr who lies in the cathedral, and who is
celebrated by Chaucer, in the tale of the Prioress.
The City of York makes an imposing show, crowned by the glories of its
vast minster, and walled in, like Chester, with ancient ramparts, which
nearly encircle the town. How singular the reflection that Constantine
the Great was a native Yorkshire-man, born in this town, in A.D. 272!
Here, too, his father died, in A.D. 307, and he succeeded to the empire,
going forth to reform pagan Rome, as I trust the spirit of England has
even now gone forth to do the same for Rome papal. Here, too, died the
Emperor Severus vainly striving to reconcile his sons Caracalla and
Geta. Among the monuments of the Roman Forum, these names afterward
reminded me of York; while, across the broad Atlantic, the immense city
where I had been brought up, had always been to me, her memorial. How
many were the reflections with which I walked the whole circuit of her
walls, and surveyed the town, the ancient castle, and the surrounding
scenery, and then sailed upon the river beneath! The beautiful ruins of
an old abbey, near the river, still delight the antiquarian; but after
cursorily surveying these, I hastened to the cathedral.
The western front of the minster is worthy of its extraordinary fame.
The semi-barbarian features of many of the cathedrals are here
superseded by what might seem to be the idealized perfection of their
rude details. The unity which was wanting in Lincoln, seemed to be here
complete and entire; and the rich and delicate tracery which invests it
has the appearance of an elaborate tissue of lace, fitted over the stone
after the substantial part was complete. From other points of view, the
impression is less of grace, and more of majesty. The whole is sublime
in its effect beyond that of any other cathedral that I ever saw; and
even in Milan, I could not but say to myself, as I gazed on its
wonderful _Duomo_—“after all, it is, as compared with York, only a
beautiful monster.” There is something about it which realizes the idea
of a cathedral, in its model form; and this is a charm that is wanting
in many others of its class. In its ample choir, I was more affected by
the service than at any other place, with the exception perhaps of
Canterbury, so far as it depended on the elevating influence of mere
architecture, consciously felt and employed to ennoble the sacrifice of
praise and prayer. With the survey of the chapter-house, cloisters, and
tombs, I was less interested than with repeated efforts to take in the
vast sweep of the interior, and to animate it with visions of what it
may yet become, when Deans and Canons wake up to the immense
responsibility of their opportunities to work for the glory of God. The
tone of the service, and the swell of the organ, even now, give wings to
worship, when the anthem rises beneath this lofty vault, and dies away
in the profound depth of the nave, or spreads itself amid aisles and
columns, with multiplied reverberations and undulations of harmony; but
oh! what might not be its heavenly effect, were the choir and nave all
one, and filled with kneeling thousands, lifting up their voice with one
accord in the overwhelming common-prayer of the Anglican Church! A
friend of mine, who was once present, in Yorkminster, on a Sunday,
realized something very near what I strove to imagine. The congregation
was swelled by the presence of several regiments of soldiers, who
appeared to take part in the worship, and whose gay uniforms, as they
knelt on the mosaic floor, received a richer splendour from the tinted
lights that flowed down from lofty windows, where meek saints and mighty
princes seem to live again in the lustre of their portraiture.
An early start next morning, a short railway trip, and then a
stage-coach drive of two miles, and then a walk through the fields,
brought me to S—— parsonage, before breakfast, where a kindly welcome
awaited me from my Malvern acquaintances. A day had been planned for me
by the kind lady of the parsonage, and though it threatened rain, she
laughed at the idea of abandoning it on that account. An American lady
would scarcely have thought of it, even in fair weather, as the
excursion involved not a little exercise of the foot. Off we went in a
pony-carriage to Ripon, where I had time for a hasty inspection of the
minster, lately made a cathedral. It is a severe specimen of Early
English, and affords much to interest the student; but very little to
make a story of, unless we adopt Camden’s explanation of St. Wilfrid’s
needle in the crypt. It is a narrow perforation of the masonry, through
which ladies were sometimes required to pass, when, as Fuller says,
“those who could not thread the needle pricked their own credit.”
We went through the grounds of Studley Royal, enjoying a diversified
view of beautiful park scenery, till we came to the neighbourhood of
Fountains Abbey, and exchanged our drive for a walk. We passed through
woods, and by little lakes, and over rustic bridges, and came at last
into a walk richly embowered with trees, along a height, where the
foliage completely screened the view below. Our fair conductress
promised us a lunch at a little halting-place called Anne Boleyn’s Seat.
I did not tell her that I had foreknowledge of the trick she meant to
play upon me; but I sincerely wish that I had never heard of it, for my
own sake as well as hers. Arrived at the spot, we sat down to rest, when
suddenly the lady flung open a door, and before us was such a view as
can be seen nowhere else in the world. We were balconied, in a lofty
window, and below was the beautiful valley and meadow: at the extremity
of which, rise the ancient walls, chapel window, and tower of Fountains
Abbey—the most poetical ruin in existence. All Italy has nothing to
show, that can be compared with it for beauty, especially if we take
into account the extraordinary charms of the wooded steeps that surround
it, and of the green velvet mead, from which it lifts itself like the
creation of enchantment. Its architecture is vast and majestic in scale,
and the ivy has contrived to festoon and mantle its magnificence, in
such wise as to lend it a grace it never could have possessed even in
its first glory. There is a more sylvan charm about Tintern. Fountains
Abbey is the perfection of artificial beauty, for even its surrounding
nature is impressed with a look of long and complete subjugation to the
hand of consummate art.
I assured our fair enchantress, that although I had heard of this
surprise before, her playfulness had not been lost on me. I had expected
to enjoy it only under the humdrum operation of an ordinary guide. She
had heightened the effect by her talismanic touch and artistic air, and
I was free to confess that the effect produced was such, that “the half
had not been told me.” A little streamlet runs through the meadow, like
a silver thread upon emerald; and nothing which a painter could wish is
wanting to make the scene a picture of delight. I could not but think of
the still waters, and the green pastures, and the glorious mansions of a
better world.
The Abbey was Cistercian, as the fat valley in which it stands might
indicate, according to the rhyme:—
“Bernard the vales, as Benedict the steeps,
But towering cities did Loyola love.”
It was founded, in fact, in the time of St. Bernard, under the first
impulses communicated to Europe by his vast enthusiasm. But it is in
vain that we look for any traces of his asceticism, in the luxurious
splendour of every portion of this noble pile. Here you enter the lordly
refectory; you pass to the ample kitchen, and ascend to the long range
of dormitories. What prince on earth is better lodged? The chapter-house
is on the same scale of dignity; and the cloisters are a long
perspective of pillared arches, through which the eye can scarcely
penetrate to the end. But the church, with its elaborate chapels, of
which nearly half the pillars are standing in their gracefulness,
beggars description. Its floor is green turf, and its walls are hung
with living tapestry; but it seems still a vast cathedral, and the more
beautiful, for its heavenly vault, and its windows, opening in all their
rich variety of form, bright glimpses of wood and sky. Everything is in
keeping, and the whole is such an epitome of the monastic system as
suggests alike its glory and its shame. The excavations are still going
on, and like those of Pompeii, they are revealing the most minute and
tell-tale particulars of monastic life. One cannot altogether regret
that such establishments are of the past, and yet the experiment of
their reform should have been fairly tried, before destruction made it
forever impossible to restore them to noble and pious uses.
Near the Abbey is a yew-tree of great antiquity, beneath which,
tradition says, the first colony of monks assembled, and planned their
future home. In a secluded spot, a little further on, I came to
Fountains Hall, a pleasant manorial residence. It was built in the time
of the first Stuart, and, I am sorry to add, of materials, quarried in
the old Abbey. Such being the case, I am glad it is not mine. Sacrilege
is so fatal a sin, that I hardly dared to take away a bit of moss from
the Abbey walls; and to remove a cubic inch of its masonry, was a
liberty from which I shrank, as a sort of irreverence to God.
Adieu to Fountains—but the scene will never leave my mental vision,
which will retain as tenaciously, also, the recollection of those whose
company enabled me to enter into the spirit of the scene, as I never can
when alone. Reluctantly bidding them farewell, I went by rail to South
Shields, on a visit to an estimable M.P., whose acquaintance I had made
in London. He is a man of great natural refinement, and of very superior
accomplishments, having greatly distinguished himself in early life, at
Oxford, though his retiring disposition has kept him from the ambitious
dignities which he might easily have commanded. Though there are few, in
England, to whom I became more attached, I must add that it was neither
from political nor religious affinities. He is as much of a dissenter as
a churchman can well be, and as little of a John Bull as an Englishman
can well be; but it is my creed, that none but the most narrow-minded
mortals limit their society to those who share their own likes and
dislikes, and never has my contempt for Sallust’s rule of friendship
been more richly rewarded than in the relations which I formed with Mr.
I——. With his liberal feelings towards America, I was particularly
gratified; and it was pleasant indeed to listen to this estimable man,
as he generously eulogized several of my countrymen, whom he had made
his friends. Most attractive too was his unassuming piety. His Greek
Testament was his familiar companion, and he was sometimes betrayed into
scholarly criticisms of its text, which I could not always adopt, but
which I was forced to admire, as drawn from stores of classical
knowledge and accuracy. I felt it a great privilege to be his guest, and
fell asleep in my chamber, full of happy reflections on the pleasures of
the day, and lulled by the sounds of the sea, which breaks on the
boundaries of his demesne. The morning light came to my window over the
German Ocean, for the King of Denmark is next neighbour to my friend in
that direction.
I was now among the collieries, but had no desire to know anything about
them. I saw the mouths of the doleful pits which descend to these human
burrows, and to think of the miserable population below, was enough!
There they live, and die, and are buried while they live, and are far
more wretched, I should imagine, than the servile class, in most cases,
among us. The amelioration of life in the collieries, is by no means
neglected however. England is alive to the spiritual and temporal
destitution of her poor, of every condition; and happy will it be for
us, when our national evils are as deeply felt as those of England are
by Englishmen; when they are as temperately and freely discussed, and as
boldly submitted to an enlightened spirit of progress and reform.
With my estimable friend, I visited Durham, its cathedral and
University, and enjoyed great privileges in so doing, as the result of
his kindness. On our way, he pointed out the secluded and saintly
Jarrow, and the tower of Bernard Gilpin’s Church. In this neighbourhood
occur two names that startle an American: he comes to _Franklin_, and to
_Washington_, little villages which have imparted their names to
hundreds of places in America, by first giving them to two really great
men. With us, places are named from individuals; but in England, the
reverse is more frequently the case.
“Stupendous”—is the epithet for the cathedral of Durham. It is the
poetry of the frigid zone of architecture, as Milan cathedral is of its
tropics. The first impressions, on entering, were instinctively those of
the patriarch—“how dreadful is this place—this is none other than the
House of God.” At York, I had said—‘this is the gate of heaven.’ Here
an overpowering solemnity brooded over every thought, and I less admired
than wondered. One thing was most pleasing: there is no screen, and the
eye ranges through nave and choir, unrestrained, to the altar itself to
which a bas-relief of the last supper, gives a fine effect. Under the
guidance of Canon Townsend, who had lately returned from his most
primitive visit to the Pope, we surveyed the entire cathedral and its
adjoining courts, all alike builded for everlasting, if the solidity and
grandeur of its masonry be any index of its design. We visited “the
Galilee,” and the tomb of the venerable Bede, the “nine altars,” at the
eastern end, and the tomb of St. Cuthbert. Also, the chapter-house,
hallowed by the names of Aidan and Finan, those apostles of the North,
who came forth from Iona to illuminate our Saxon ancestors. I pity the
man who claims no kin with their ancient faith and piety! They infused
into the Church of England many elements of its present character, and
Bernard Gilpin was their legitimate son, even more than Bede himself.
In the library, we were shown, by the polite dignitary who was our
guide, many antiquarian and literary curiosities. The stole of St.
Cuthbert, taken from his coffin, and some needlework of the sister of
Alfred, were of the number, and divers manuscripts, on vellum, of great
beauty, and one the autograph of Bede! Some modern copes, of the time of
Charles First, were shown us, as having been worn in Divine Service, in
the cathedral, according to the rubric, till Warburton laid them aside.
We also visited the University, which now fills the old castle of
Durham. This castle was built by William the Conqueror, and was long the
residence of the Bishops, as Lords of the Palatinate. Its old Norman
chapel is very interesting, and the modern fittings are in good taste
throughout, and turn it to good account. In one of the prebendal houses,
we found the Bishop of Exeter, a prelate of great distinction, and
celebrated for making warm friends and bitter foes. Canon Townsend gave
us our lunch, at his own table, and warmly eulogized the American
Church, which he designs to visit. He also praised our country and its
achievements. His burning desire seems to be to unite all Christians,
once more, in one holy fellowship of faith and worship, and it was in
this spirit that he visited the Vatican, and exhorted the Pope to
repent. It was the last testimony to Pius Ninth, before he dared to
commit that damning sin against Christian charity, on the 8th of
December, 1854. In my opinion, Canon Townsend need not be ashamed of
having preached the Gospel at Rome also.
I crossed the river Wear, and gained from its well-wooded bank, the best
view of the cathedral. It rises on the opposite bank, high over the
stream, like part of the rock on which it is built. It presents the
appearance of entire “unity with itself.” Massive and ponderous dignity
invests the whole pile, and with the advantage of its deep descent to
the river, I know not where to look for anything that seems at once so
fixed to the earth, and yet so aspiring in its gigantic stretch towards
heaven. The cathedral at Fribourg, in Switzerland, not only lacks its
grandeur, but is too far from the edge of the steep, on which it stands,
to derive much character from it. Durham, on the contrary, grows out of
the cliff itself, and it is hard to say where the natural architecture
terminates, and art begins.
I heard the service, in the cathedral, and it was effectively performed.
From preference, I occupied the extremity of the nave, and enjoyed its
distant effect. The Episcopal throne, in this cathedral, is a great
curiosity. Had I not been told it was a throne, I should have said it
was a gallery, or orchestra. Its style is altogether curious, and
unique; but I should think his Lordship would prefer any place in the
cathedral, to such a strange eminence. I left Durham, with great regret
that I could not linger for a long time, amid its venerable and sacred
attractions.
A good portion of the succeeding day was given to Newcastle-upon-Tyne,
its smutty old-town, and its spruce and showy new-town. Here is Norman
England on one hand, and England of the Reform-bill on the other.
Standing upon one of its lofty bridges, I surveyed the town, and the
river, and felt more pleased with what I saw than I had supposed it
possible for me to be with such a coal-hole.
Out of the hole I climbed, however, to the height on which stands its
old castle, built by Robert Curthose, son of William the Conqueror. It
is a dingy tower, at best; but massive, and full of historic interest.
Its chapel, only a few yards square, and dimly lighted, is remarkable
for some of the finest specimens extant, of the Saxon arch. Its parts
are distinctly marked, as chancel, nave, sacristy, and the like; but it
is more like the chapel of an Inquisition, than of a royal castle.
Several rooms in the castle are filled with Roman relics, all found in
the neighbourhood of the town; and often, when I afterwards visited
Rome, and thought of this far distant place, did it give me new ideas of
her ancient power, to reflect upon her identity here and there, and upon
the skill in overcoming difficulties, which, in that barbarian day, made
her to be felt as really upon the Tyne, as upon the Tiber. I saw very
soon the same marks of Roman conquest, far away in Scotland, near Elgin,
and Inverness.
And to Scotland I now made my way, without stopping. Flying through
Northumberland, I caught many glimpses of its scenery and antiquities,
about Warkworth and Alnwick. Far out at sea, I spied the lofty bulk of
Holy Island, or Lindisfarne, the Iona of England. I instinctively bared
my head to it. At length I sighted Berwick-upon-Tweed, the _Amen Corner_
of England, where the Church ceases, and the Kirk begins. Anon, I was
over the Border.