been paid him for his work. He undertook his mission against his will and
only by the peremptory orders of Pope Gregory the First; orders which he
feared to disobey even more than he had dreaded coming over the sea from
sunny Italy to convert the pagan Saxons. As first Archbishop of Canterbury
he died in A.D. 605; and when he died he left the first Cathedral already
built on the site of an ancient Romano-British Church where the present
great Minster stands. But that was not by any means the first Christian
Church in England. To the little village church of Saint Martin belongs
that honour, and to this day the hoary walls of that building show the
traveller unmistakable Roman tiles which, having been originally built
into a pagan temple, remain to prove the humble beginnings of the Word
that has spread throughout the world.
Saint Augustine's Cathedral was small, but, patched and tinkered by
generation after generation, it lasted nearly five hundred years; until,
in fact, the troubles of the Conquest practically ruined it. Lanfranc, the
first Norman Archbishop, rebuilt the Cathedral Church, and now one
rebuilding speedily followed another, each one growing more elaborate than
before. Lanfranc's work was superseded in 1130 by a magnificent building
approaching the present bulk of the Cathedral. Henry the First was present
at its consecration, with David, King of Scotland; and all the
ecclesiastical dignitaries of the realm, together with a great concourse
of nobles, assisted. Conrad and Ernulf, Priors of Christ Church, were the
architects of the work, and so grand was it, and so great was the
occasion, that an old chronicler described the ceremony of consecration as
"the most famous that had ever been heard of on earth since that of the
temple of Solomon."
But, four years later, the "glorious choir of Conrad" was burned down, and
all the pious fervour and exaltation that had raised these sculptured
stones and tall towers was wasted. People and clergy alike "were
astonished that the Almighty should suffer such things, and, maddened with
grief and perplexity, they tore their hair and beat the walls and
pavement of the church with their heads and hands, blaspheming the Lord
and His saints, the patrons of the church."
This fury of rage and perplexity overpast, however, the strenuous folk of
those times began the work of rebuilding the church almost before the
blackened stones and charred timbers of the ruined building were cold.
They employed a French architect, William of Sens, and for four years he
laboured in designing and superintending the construction of choir,
retro-choir, and the easternmost chapels, incorporating with his work the
old Norman towers and chapels which had, in part, survived the great fire.
William of Sens did not live to see his task completed; for, one day, as
he was on the lofty scaffolding, directing the work of turning the choir
vault, he fell and was disabled for life. His successor, who brought the
rebuilding to a close, was "William the Englishman," identified by some
with that William de Hoo, the architect-Bishop of Rochester.
[Sidenote: THE CHOIR]
The present choir, then, shows the work of these two Williams; nearly all,
in fact, to the eastward of the crossing, from choir-screen to Becket's
Crown, is their handiwork. Meanwhile, Lanfranc's heavy Norman nave was
left uninjured by fire and untouched by those mighty builders, and it was
not until the fourteenth century that it was reconstructed in the
Perpendicular style by Prior Chillenden. "It had grown ruinous," so say
the records, but the greater probability is that it was not so crazy but
that effectual renovation without rebuilding would have been possible. But
the spirit of the age was altogether opposed to the ponderous character of
Norman architecture. Men began to build so lightly and loftily that walls
soon assumed the appearance of mere framings to the huge windows that
characterize this ultimate phase of Gothic architecture.
The constructional aspect was gone altogether, and most of the artistic
interest too. Vulgar ostentation of skill--engineering knowledge that led
architects to pile up slender alleys of stone to the last point of
endurance--was the note of the age. Unfortunately, the age which witnessed
the growth and development of the Perpendicular style was one of the
greatest wealth and activity. A ceaseless and untiring energy pervaded the
land, tearing down the Norman, the Early English, and the Decorated
churches, and rearing upon their sites buildings immeasurably larger,
loftier, and lighter, but less individual and less interesting in every
way than the work of the builders who had gone before.
Frankly, then, the great soaring nave of Canterbury, with its long alleys
of clustered pillars, its great windows and broad, unornamented
wall-spaces, is disappointing. No details tempt the amateur of
architecture to linger, and the sole ornamentation which the builder has
allowed himself in this long-drawn-out vista is seen on the sparely
sculptured bosses of the groining. The times which witnessed the piling up
of this great nave were days when this church was rich beyond compare with
the offerings of pilgrims; and, given riches, ostentation is sure to
follow, but art is not to be bought at a price.
A long array of altar-tombs of kings, princes, warriors, and archbishops
adds to the historical interest of Canterbury Cathedral. Easily first,
both for historic and artistic value, are the tomb and effigy of Edward
the Black Prince, who, dying of a wasting disease in 1376, was entombed in
the Cathedral as near as might be to the Martyr's shrine. There is not a
statue in all England to rival the beautifully-wrought bronze effigy of
the Black Prince which lies on an altar-tomb decorated with the Prince of
Wales's feathers he was the first to assume, surrounded by the _Ich Dien_
that so admirably expresses the chivalry of his character.
The shields bearing his arms and badge are interesting. The arms, those
with the leopards (or lions) of England, quartered with the lilies of
France, are ensigned with the mark of cadency, indicating the heir, or
eldest son, and bear above them the word "Houmout." This is a Flemish word
meaning "Chivalry," literally "high mood." The Dutch language has "hoog
moed," with the same sense.
[Illustration: THE BLACK PRINCE'S ARMS AND BADGE.]
[Sidenote: "ICH DIENE"]
The shield with the badge of three ostrich feathers standing upright on
their quills, bears the words "Ich diene." In his will the Prince
especially directed that these should appear. These "Prince of Wales"
feathers, said to derive from the ostrich plumes of John, King of Bohemia,
slain in the Battle of Crecy, give antiquaries a good deal to consider,
for it is by no means certain that this is all the story. The Prince's
mother, Queen Philippa, used the badge; which, furthermore, seems to have
been not unknown as a royal device. "Ich Dien" == "I serve," is an
expression of the heir's loyalty and submission to the sovereign; and is
perhaps a reading of Galatians IV, i, "The heir, as long as he is a child,
differeth nothing from a servant, though he be lord of all." The modern
drawing of the Prince of Wales' feathers originated in Tudor times.
Here, then, he lies, in full armour, as he had enjoined in his will, the
likeness of the spurs he won at Crecy on his heels, his head resting on
his helmet, and his hands joined in prayer. The face and head are clearly
an excellent portraiture of him, so masterly is the work, and so like the
features to those of his father in Westminster Abbey and his grandfather
at Gloucester! Traces remain of the gilding with which the effigy was
covered; the shields of arms and the curious Norman-French inscription are
uninjured, and every little detail of his magnificent memorial is as
perfect now as when it was finished five hundred years ago. The wooden
canopy suspended over his tomb has survived the march of time and the fury
of revolution; his wooden shield; his blazoned tabard, colourless now and
in the semblance of a dirty rag, but once a truly royal adornment of
velvet, glowing with the red and blue and golden quarterings of England
and France,--all these things are left to speak of the grief with which
the nation saw its most perfect gentle knight borne to his grave. His
gauntlets, too, and his tilting helmet are here, and only one thing is
missing from its place. The sword wielded at Crecy and Poictiers, and at
many another fight, has vanished from its scabbard. If, as tradition says,
Cromwell stole that weapon, how much more impressive it is to think of the
hero-worship thus felt by one great captain for another.
The Black Prince was the darling of England. He had won a glory for this
country the like of which had never before been known, and he was the
flower of chivalry. But do those who gather round his tomb, and feel
themselves the greater for being countrymen of his, ever think how little
his chivalry would have spared them? His humble and dutiful bearing
towards his father, and even to his captive, the King of France, shows
that his reverence was for rank and titles; the cruelty he exhibited
when, the city of Limoges having revolted, he ordered a general massacre
of the inhabitants and was carried through the streets in a litter, to see
his bidding done, dims the glory of his arms. Men, women, and children
were alike butchered in those streets, and when, crying for mercy, they
were hewed in pieces before his eyes, their fate left him unmoved. It was
only when he saw three French knights fighting valiantly in the
market-place against overwhelming odds, that the chivalry of the Black
Prince was touched. That hundreds or thousands of the citizens should be
slain was nothing to him, for _they_ were nothing, but to see gentlemen of
rank and birth fighting a hopeless fight was too much. He ordered the
massacre to be stayed.
XXXVII
[Sidenote: THOMAS A BECKET]
When in the last days of 1170 Becket was murdered in his own Cathedral, no
one could have foreseen how fertilizing would be the blood of the martyr
to religious faith; and not only to faith but also to English thought,
trades, and professions. No sinner could be considered safe for Paradise
unless he had made pilgrimage to Canterbury, and this pilgrimage became
one of the chief features of English life during four hundred years. We
owe directly to it the inspiration which has given Chaucer, our earliest
poet, an immortal fame; from it comes the verb "to canter"--originally
describing the ambling pace at which the pilgrims urged their horses on
this road, and now common in modern English speech; while the great bulk
of the Cathedral would never have loomed so largely across the Stour meads
to-day had it not been for the fervent piety that, centuries ago, heaped
gold and jewels here for the expiation of sins. Pilgrimage was a blessed
thing indeed for the keepers of inns and for a multitude of other trades;
and mendicants had but to take staff and scrip, and tramp in guise of
palmers through the country to be liberally helped on their way. The
Palmer was, indeed, the ancestor of the modern tramp. He had but to go
unwashed, unshaven, and unshorn, and he could live his life without toil
or work of any kind. If he were taxed with filthy habits, he could reply
that a vow to remain unwashed until he had reached this shrine or another
forbade him to remove the grime that covered him as a garment; and his
claim to be dirty would be allowed. Eventually the number of these palmers
at home and from over sea became a nuisance and a danger to Church and
State, and no less objectionable were the hermits who squatted down at
every likely corner of the roads and solicited alms. Human nature in the
fourteenth century was not appreciably different from that of the present
era, when many would rather beg a livelihood than earn it; and not only
the laziness and the number of these palmers and hermits, but also their
shocking immorality, became a scandal, until many laws and Archiepiscopal
edicts were levelled against them. Pilgrimage, Saint Thomas, and religion
itself became discredited by these creatures, and even as early as the
year 1370, the fame of Becket was resented by some, and the efficacy of
pilgrimages doubted. That year was the fourth jubilee of Saint Thomas,
when pilgrims were crowding in many hundreds of thousands to Canterbury
from all parts of the civilized world to receive the free indulgences, the
free quarters, and the free food and drink, alike for themselves and their
horses, that were accorded to all who came to the jubilee festival that
was held, once in every fifty years, for a fortnight. As these multitudes
of pilgrims were proceeding along the road to Canterbury during the
Festival fortnight of 1370, Simon of Sudbury, the then Archbishop,
overtook them. This Prelate had a hatred for superstition somewhat in
advance of his time. He did not believe at all in pilgrimages and but
little in Thomas a Becket, and he told the crowds he passed on the road
that the plenary indulgence which they were pressing forward to gain would
be of no avail to purge their sins. The people who heard this heretical
and previously unheard-of doctrine issuing from the mouth of an
Archbishop, turned upon him in fear and rage, and cursed him as he went. A
Kentish squire among the throng rode up and indignantly said, "My Lord
Bishop, for this act of yours, stirring the people to sedition against St.
Thomas, I stake the salvation of my soul that you will close your life by
a most terrible death." To this all the people replied with a fervent
Amen!
[Sidenote: SIMON OF SUDBURY]
Saint Thomas was indeed avenged upon the Archbishop. Eleven years later,
when Wat Tyler's rebels pillaged London, and forced themselves into the
Tower, they found Simon of Sudbury there, among others. Dragging him out,
they beheaded him with revolting barbarity, and here he lies in the Choir,
where his headless body was seen, years ago, the place of the missing head
supplied with a leaden ball.
The spirit of irreverence grew fast. In 1512 Erasmus made, with Dean
Colet, a pilgrimage to Canterbury, not so much from piety as from
curiosity. Descending the hill of Harbledown, they came into the city,
wondering at the majesty of the Cathedral tower and at the booming of the
bells resounding through the surrounding country. They entered the south
porch, discussing the stone statues of Becket's murderers, then to be seen
there; they entered the great nave, where Erasmus noted satirically the
apocryphal Gospel of Nicodemus chained to a pillar; and, armed with a
letter of introduction from Archbishop Warham, they were shown many things
not usually exhibited to the crowd. Passing through the iron gates which
then as now divided the nave from the more holy portion of the building,
they were taken to the Chapel of the Martyrdom, where they kissed the
sacred rust that remained on the broken point of Brito's sword. From here
they descended into the Crypt, which had its own priests in charge of the
martyr's perforated skull, which was shown, with four of his bones, on a
kind of altar. The forehead was left bare to be kissed, while the rest was
covered with silver. Here hung in the dark the hair-shirts, the girdles
and bandages, and the cat-o'-nine-tails or more with which Becket had
subdued the flesh; striking horror with their very appearance, reproaching
the pilgrims for their luxuries and self-indulgence, and perhaps, as
Erasmus remarks, even reproaching the monks. From the Crypt they returned
to the Choir, where the vast stores of relics were unlocked for their
admiration and worship.
To read of the relics shown by the monks of Canterbury Cathedral fills one
with amazement, both at the impertinence of those disgusting humbugs, and
at the illimitable credulity that accepted the exhibition as genuine.
Besides the pre-eminently holy (and really genuine) relics of the Blessed
Thomas were heaps of bones, hair, teeth, and dust of a vast concourse of
miscellaneous saints, with portions of their attire and articles connected
with their domestic history. How genuine they were likely to be may be
judged from a short list of the most venerated among them. The bed of the
Virgin, with the wool she wove, and a garment of her making, occupied the
foremost place, and the rock on which the Cross of Christ stood; His
sepulchre; the manger; the table used at the Last Supper; the column to
which He was bound when He was flagellated by the cursed Jews; and the
rock whereon He had stood on ascending into Heaven, were prime favourites.
More wonderful still, the monks possessed Aaron's Rod; a portion of the
oak on which Abraham mounted that he might see the Lord; and--more
stupendously blasphemous than anything else--a specimen of the clay with
which God moulded Adam!
[Sidenote: THE NEW PILGRIMS]
Colet was wearied with all this, and when an arm was brought forward to be
kissed which had still the bloody flesh of the martyr clinging to it, he
drew back in disgust. The priest then shut up, locked, and double-locked
his treasures, and showed them the sumptuous articles, the great wealth of
gold and silver ornaments, kept under the altar. Erasmus thought that in
the presence of this vast assemblage of precious things even Midas and
Croesus would be only beggars, and he sighed that he had nothing like
them at home, devoutly praying the Saint for pardon of his impious thought
before he moved a step from the Cathedral. However, they had not yet seen
all. They were led into the Sacristy, and "Good God!" exclaims Erasmus,
"what a display was there of silken vestments, what an array of golden
candlesticks!" Saint Thomas's pastoral staff was there, a quite plain
stick of pear-wood, with a crook of black horn, covered with silver plate,
and no longer than a walking-stick. Here, too, was a coarse silken pall,
quite unadorned, and a sudary, dirty from wear, and retaining manifest
stains of blood. These things, relics of a more simple age, they willingly
kissed, and were then conducted to the Corona, where they saw an effigy of
Saint Thomas, "that excellent man," gilt and adorned with many jewels. But
here Colet's anger broke forth, and he addressed the priest in this wise.
"Good father, is it true what I hear, that Saint Thomas while alive was
exceedingly kind to the poor?" "Most true," said he, and he then began to
relate many of his acts of benevolence towards the destitute. "I do not
imagine," said Colet, "that such disposition of his is changed, but
perhaps increased." The priest assented. "Then," rejoined the Dean, "since
that holy man was so liberal towards the poor when he was poor himself and
required the aid of all his money for his bodily necessities, do you not
think that now, when he is very wealthy, nor lacks anything, he would take
it very contentedly if any poor woman having starving children at home
should (first praying for pardon) take from these so great riches some
small portion for the relief of her family?"
The priest pouted, knitted his brows, and looked upon the two friends with
Gorgonian eyes, and he would probably have turned them out of the building
had it not been for the Archbishop's letter of introduction which they
carried with them. Erasmus was alarmed at his friend's free speech. He was
pacifying the priest when the Prior approached and conducted them to the
Holy of holies, Becket's Shrine. A wooden canopy was raised, and the
golden case enclosing the martyr's remains disclosed. The least valuable
part of it was of gold: every part glistened, shone, and sparkled with
rare and immense jewels, some of them exceeding the size of a goose's egg.
Monks stood round, and they all fell down and worshipped, after which they
returned to the Crypt, to see the place where the Virgin Mother had her
abode, a somewhat dark one, hedged in by more than one iron screen. "What
was she afraid of, then?" asks his interlocutor, and he replies, "Of
nothing, I imagine, except thieves," for the riches with which she was
surrounded were a more than royal spectacle. Again they were conducted to
the Sacristy; a box covered with black leather was brought out, and again
all fell down and worshipped. Some torn fragments of linen were produced;
most of them retaining marks of dirt. With these the holy man used to wipe
the perspiration from his face and neck, the runnings from his nose, or
such other superfluities from which the human frame is not free. The Prior
graciously offered to present Colet with one of these dirty rags, and,
indeed, to the devout such a gift would have been of a quite inestimable
value. But Colet, handling the rags delicately as though they might
possibly infect him, replaced them in the box with a contemptuous whistle.
The Prior was a man of politeness and good breeding. He appeared not to
notice this rude, not to say heretical, rejection of his gift, and,
offering them a cup of wine, courteously dismissed them.
XXXVIII
Soon after this came the downfall. With the struggles of the Reformation
went the relics, the gold and jewels, and--worse than all--the decorations
and painted windows of the Cathedral. With many abuses and with the
disgusting humbug of the old order of things went also, it is sad to
think, much of the living reality of religion; and Canterbury Cathedral is
to-day an historical museum to the crowd of tourists, and an architectural
model for students of that first of all the arts. Curiosity, and little
else, draws the crowd. Byron has caught the spirit of the times happily
enough (although "beadle" and "cathedral" are not among the elegancies of
rhyme) when he says of Don Juan and his companion:--
They saw at Canterbury the Cathedral,
Black Edward's helm, and Becket's bloody stone,
Were pointed out as usual by the beadle,
In the same quiet uninterested tone:--
There's glory for you, gentle reader! All
Ends in a rusty casque and dubious bone.
And how very dubious are the bones that are said to be those of Becket is
a question that may not be enlarged upon here.
For the rest, a holy calm reigns unbroken in the Cathedral Close. Hemmed
in and surrounded[7] by massive walls, modernity has no place here, and if
the interior of the building is somewhat disappointing, the exterior and
its surroundings, especially the north-east aspect, viewed from the Green
Court, must be seen to be appreciated. To be sure, this part of the
building is Norman and Early English, and no other periods produced such
wildly irregular masses. Added to the original irregularity of outline are
the puzzling ruins--ivied wall and broken window--dating from the time
when Henry the Eighth's Commissioners destroyed the monastery. Queer
passages, dark and tortuous, giving suddenly upon little cloisters and
grassy quadrangles, are to be found everywhere; conspicuous among them the
"Dark Entry," immortalized by Tom Ingoldsby in his _Legend of Nell Cook_.
[Sidenote: THE CITY SERGEANT]