BROADMINSTER IS ONE OF THE LESSER cathedral towns of England. There is
nothing remarkable about the Minster except its antiquity. It does not
convey the idea of vastness as do some of these venerable buildings.
One would never imagine oneself in the midst of a petrified forest
on passing through the porch. The carving about the pillars does not
suggest lacework in stone, though it is admirable in its way, and
the screen shows signs of having been “restored” in the days when
restoration meant spoliation. The coloured glass of the windows is not
especially good, but the oldest is undoubtedly the best. The modern
memorial windows were apparently estimated for and the specification of
the lowest-priced competitor accepted; but, really, the Chapter should
have prevented the perpetration of such a blunder as that of the artist
who, in his representation of the entrance to the sacred tomb, with the
sleeping Roman guards on each side, put a crescent moon in the very blue
sky! But for that matter, when I pointed out the mistake to one of the
higher canons, he did not perceive for some time that the Paschal moon
was bound to be within a few days of the full.
The old Minster is, however, worthy of every respect, if it does not
quite inspire such feelings of reverence and awe as does Westminster
Abbey or Canterbury or Durham or Santa Croce at Florence. One feels that
it is the sort of building one can trust. It is solid throughout,
and that is something. I remember years ago, when I was lecturing a
long-suffering group on the marvels of Milan, calling attention to the
wonderful scheme of lighting by which the High Altar was made the centre
of illumination, I observed some shadows of the stone spandrels on the
roof for which I could not account. There the light spines and ridges
flowed upward to meet at the apex, and there the shadows slept,
increasing the effect amazingly. Only after some patient investigation
did I find that the groins were painted on the woodwork to imitate the
stone where the stonework ended!
If there is nothing to wonder at in the interior of Broadminster, there
is at least something to trust. It is sound throughout.
But why, oh! why, should that old woman be allowed to stand just outside
the porch with a basket of nuts on her arm, offering them for sale to
all visitors?
A stranger within our gates was puzzled by this apparition at the door
of the church. He had just come from London, and he had been taken to
the Zoo. He looked for some reason for the nuts at Broadminster--reason
and consistency. If nuts, why not buns, he wished me to explain to him.
I felt incapable of clearing away this mystery. I could not tell him,
under the shadow of the sacred building, the legend that I invented to
account for the nuts, but I told him in full when we got away from that
influence of veracity: it had to do with a crusader who, forsaken by his
comrades in the Lebanon, was forced to sustain himself with nuts,
and vowed that if ever he should get back to England he would endow
a Minster and decree that nuts should be offered at the porch between
prime and angelus every day for a thousand years. He kept his vow,
hence----
That was eight hundred and eighty-two years ago, so that only one
hundred and twenty of the vow had yet to run, and then----
He was barely satisfied with this explanation. I could scarcely blame
him: it did not satisfy myself.
There are some people who think that the best part of St. Ursula--the
Minster is dedicated to St. Ursula--is the Close. The Deanery, and the
residences of the canons, major and minor, and all the officials of the
Cathedral, lay as well as clerical, stand on two sides of a square, with
the old building in the centre. Green meadows with a glimpse of green
hills beyond are on the other sides of the square, and just behind the
houses of the Close flows the Avonbeck, a narrow winding river in which
trout may be caught by the dozen by the least skilful fisherman.
The beautiful gardens of the Close slope down to the banks of the river.
I was told a pathetic story by the wife of one of the dignitaries
respecting a young man who had never any especial leaning for the Church
as a career, but who made up his mind, when he saw this Close and walked
through the gardens and fished in the Avonbeck, that the Church was the
only possible profession for him. He went through the usual course, was
ordained, and appointed to a parish in a slum in the Midlands, where he
has remained ever since--and that was twenty-five years ago.
Equally pathetic, however, to some people may be the case of the
clergyman who practically started life as one of the lesser dignitaries
of the Cathedral and has remained there ever since--and that was
thirty-five years ago. It was said that he was once a good preacher, and
even now he seldom falls more than a couple of tones in going from
the Responses to the Prayers. He began with high ideas regarding Greek
texts, but now he devotes himself to Canadian trout. He has great hopes,
he told me, for the future of Canadian trout.