The other day I was at Peterborough, and strolled into the Close under
a fine, dark, mouldering archway, to find myself in a romantic world,
full of solemn dignity and immemorial peace. There in its niche stood
that exquisite crumbled statue that Flaxman said summed up the grace of
mediaeval art. The quiet canonical houses gave me the sense of stately
and pious repose; of secluded lives, cheered by the dignity of worship
and the beauty of holiness. And then presently I was in the long new
street leading out into the country; the great junction with its forest
of signals, where the expresses come roaring in and out, and the huge
freight-trains clank north and south. The street itself, with its rows
of plane-trees, its big brick-built chapels, its snug comfortable
houses, with the electric trams gliding smoothly under the crossing
wires--what a picture it gave of the new democracy, with its simple
virtues, its easy prosperity, its cheerful lack of taste, of romance!
Life runs easily enough, no doubt, in these contented homes, with their
regular meals, their bright ugly furniture, their friendly gossip,
their new clothes; for amusement the bicycle, the gramophone, the
circulating novel. I have no doubt that there is abundance of wholesome
affection and camaraderie within, of full-flavoured, local, personal
jests, all the outward signs and inner resources of sturdy British
prosperity. A certain civic pride exists, no doubt, in the ancient
buildings, in the influx of visitors, the envious admiration of
Americans. But, at first sight, what a difference between the old and
the new! The old, no doubt, stood for a few very wealthy and
influential people, priests and barons, with a wretched and
down-trodden poor, labouring like the beasts of the field for life. The
new order stands for a few wealthy people whose hearts are in their
amusements and social pleasures; a great, well-to-do, busy, comfortable
middle class, and a self-respecting and, on the whole, prosperous
artisan class. No one, surveying the change from the point of view of
human happiness, can doubt for an instant that the new order is far
richer in happiness, in comfort, and in contentment than the old.
And then, too, how easy it is to make the mistake of thinking that all
the grace of antiquity and mellowness that hangs about the old
buildings was part of the mediaeval world. Go back in fancy for a
little to the time when that great front of the Cathedral, with its
forests of towers and pinnacles, its three vast portals, was brand-new
and white, all free from the scaffolding, and fitting on so strangely
to the Norman work behind. I can well imagine that some one who loved
what was old and quiet might have thought it even then a very bustling
modern affair, and heaved a sigh over the progress that had made it
possible.
Moreover, looking closely at that great grey front, with its three
portals, I am almost sure that the design is an essentially vulgar one.
It is much of it a front with no back to it; it is crowded with useless
and restless ornament. The rose-windows, for instance, in the gables,
give light to nothing but the rafters of the roof. The designer was
evidently afraid of leaving any surface plain and unadorned; he felt
impelled to fill every inch with decoration. Indeed, I cannot doubt
that if one saw the West Front reproduced now, the connoisseurs, who
praise it so blandly in its mellow softness, would overwhelm it with
disapproval and stern criticism.
Whatever that front, those soaring towers, may mean to us now, they
stood then for a busy and eager activity. What one does desire to know,
what is really important, is whether the spirit that prompted that
activity was a purer, holier, more gracious spirit than the spirit that
underlies the middle-class prosperity of the present day. Did it all
mean a love of art, a sacrifice of comfort and wealth to a beautiful
idea, a radiant hope? Did the monks or the great nobles that built it,
build it in a humble, ardent, and loving spirit--or was it partly in a
spirit of ostentation, that their church might have a new and
impressive front, partly in the spirit indicated by the hymn:
"Whatever, Lord, we lend to Thee,
Repaid a thousand-fold will be"?
Was it an investment, so to speak, made for the sake of improving their
spiritual prosperity?
It is very difficult to say. The monks in their earlier missionary
times were full of enthusiasm and faith, no doubt. But when the Abbeys
were at the full height of their prosperity, when they were vast
landowners and the Abbot had his place in parliament, when the monastic
life was a career for an ambitious man, was the spirit of the place a
pure and holy one? That they submitted themselves to a severe routine
of worship does not go for very, much, because men very easily
accommodate themselves to a traditional and a conventional routine.
And thus one is half inclined to believe that the spirit of the monks
in their prosperous days was not very different from the spirit that
prompts railway extension, and that builds a railway terminus with an
ornamental façade.
And so when one sees prosperity spreading wider and lower, and the neat
villa residences begin to cluster round the knot of ancient buildings,
we must not conclude too hastily that our new wealth has swamped
ancient ideals; probably the ideals of prosperous people do not vary
very much, whether they are monks or railway officials. The monks in
their decadent days have no abounding reputation for virtue or
austerity. One likes to think of them as lost in splendid dreams of
God's glory and man's holiness, but there is little to show that such
was the case.
I do not want to decry the ideas of the monks in order to magnify our
modern middle-class ideals. I do not for a moment pretend to think that
our national ideals are very exalted ones nowadays. I wish I could
believe it; but there is no sign of any particular interest in religion
or cultivation or art or literature or romance. We have a certain
patriotism, of a somewhat commercial type; we have a belief in our
honesty, not, I fear, wholly well-founded. We claim to be plain people
who speak our mind; which very often does not mean more than that we do
not take the trouble to be polite; we should all say that we valued
liberty, which means little more than that we resent interference, and
like to do things in our own way. But I do not think that we are at
present a noble-minded or an unselfish nation, though we are rich and
successful, and have the good humour that comes of wealth and success.
Peterborough is to me a parable of England; it stands for a certain
pride in antiquity, coupled with a good-natured contempt for the
religious spirit--for, though these cathedrals of ours are well cared
for and well-served, no one can say that they have any very deep
influence on national life. And it stands, too, for the thing that we
do believe in with all our hearts--trim, comfortable material
prosperity; a thing which bewilders a dreamer like myself, because it
seems to be the deliberate gift and leading of God to our country,
while all the time I long to believe that he is pointing us to a far
different hope, and a very much quieter and simpler ideal. How little
we make of Christ's blessing on poverty, on simplicity, on tenderness!
How ready we are to say that his strong words about the dangers of
wealth were only counsels given to individuals! The deepest article of
our creed, that a man must make his way, fight for his own hand, elbow
himself to the front if he can--how little akin that is to the
essential spirit of Christ, by which a man ought to lavish himself for
others, and quit the world poorer than he entered it!
I turn again into the great, shadowy, faintly lit church, with all its
interlaced arches, its colour, its richness of form; I see the figures
of venerable, white-robed clergy in their tabernacled stalls, a--little
handful of leisurely worshippers. The organ rises pouring sweet music
from its forest of pipes. Hark to what they are singing to the rich
blending of artful melodies:--
"He hath put down the mighty from their seat, and hath exalted the
humble and meek. He hath filled the hungry with good things; but the
rich He hath sent empty away."
What a message to thrill through this palace of art, with the pleasant
town without, and all the great trains thundering past! To whom is it
all addressed? The spirit of that meek religion seems to sit shivering
in its gorgeous raiment, heard and heeded of none. Yet here as
everywhere there are quiet hearts that know the secret; there are
patient women, kind fathers, loving children, who would think it
strange and false if they were told that over their heads hangs the
bright aureole of the saints. What can we do, we who struggle faintly
on our pilgrimage, haunted and misled by hovering delusions, phantoms
of wealth and prosperity and luxury, that hide the narrow path from our
bewildered eyes? We can but resolve to be simple and faithful and pure
and loving, and to trust ourselves as implicitly as we can to the
Father who made us, redeemed us, and loves us better than we love
ourselves.