in the foregoing view, the three initial letters are the only ornament;
and being in the Saxon form, the effect is rather pleasing than
otherwise.--But in order to give the reader a more correct notion of the
interior, we proceed to the particular features selected for
illustration. Among these is
<g>The Nave</g>, to which we have slightly alluded, and on the spectator few
things can be imagined more likely to make a strong and lasting
impression. From whatever point it is contemplated, laterally or
longitudinally, grandeur of design and elaborate execution are the
leading characteristics. To enter into minute detail of its
architectural beauties were impossible in our narrow compass. The
general effect is all that we can presume to describe; and of this,
assisted by the very correct view prefixed, the reader will have little
difficulty in forming a just estimate of the magnificence that reigns in
this venerable temple of our ancestors. There is one feature
particularly deserving of notice, as a boundary line between two grand
epochs in ecclesiastical architecture: this is, the point where the
Saxon and Gothic meet in the same column. From the great western
entrance, right and left, the massive clustered pillars have been
evidently chiselled, at vast labour and expense, out of the original
Saxon--thus engrafting the new style upon the primitive stock. The point
where the Gothic ceases and the Saxon remains, and marking where the
progressive work of transformation had been arrested by some public
event, forms an admirable contrast, and shows the Gothic to infinite
advantage. But the Saxon arches, still untouched by the reformer’s
chisel, will be viewed by every lover of native art as precious relics
of antiquity.
“In Saxon strength that abbey frown’d,
With massive arches, broad and round,
That rose alternate, row and row,
On ponderous columns, short and low.”
Near the centre of the pavement is a remarkable echo, limited to one
particular position, and quite inaudible as we diverge from the spot.
The voice, or clapping of the hands, is reverberated with a noise like
the discharge of cannon, or the roll of distant thunder; at first, loud
and multiplied, and then dying gradually away in languid undulations.
<g>St. Cuthbert’s Screen</g>,[71] which divides the nave from the choir, forms
an imposing boundary to the _coup-d’œil_; but over its top the
spectator’s eye penetrates the lofty transept, takes in the whole space
between the high altar and the western portal, and wanders over the
richly emblazoned ceiling with feelings of mingled awe and admiration.
To the right and left are objects that rivet his attention to the spot:
the names and monuments of the dead; the tablets that encrust the walls,
or mix with the pavement, are eloquent of the past, and address him in
terms of solemn admonition. The dust of many abbots, the remains of
unnumbered monks, rest within its walls; ‘these all died in the faith,’
and, from the steps of the altar, descended into the regions of silence.
They, too, who had circled the monarch’s throne, swayed the senate,
fought his battles, fostered science, and enriched their country with
the spoils of nations, have all in their turn craved, like Wolsey at
last, the favour of a little hallowed earth to rest their weary heads
on. To enumerate the illustrious dead who have here taken up their last
abode, is not within our limits; but we must not omit, even in the most
cursory notice, to mention the famous traveller who saw, or feigned,
more wondrous things than ever fell to the lot of any other “pilgrim of
the nations.” We mean Sir John Mandeville, a native of the place, whose
tomb, covered with a massive slab of grey marble, and verified by an
inscription on the adjacent column, bears record to his eventful
history. But as he died at Liege in 1372, after thirty-four years spent
in travelling, doubts must necessarily arise as to the fact of his being
buried here. The evidence by which it is supported, however, is equal to
that of his travels.
<g>The Choir</g>, comprising the whole space between the western arch of the
tower and the great altar, is indisputably grand. Flanked by two
magnificent tombs right and left; closed on the east by the celebrated
altar screen, canopied, niched, and carved--_magna componere
parvis_--with all the fanciful, yet classic elegance of an ivory fan,
the stranger is almost bewildered by the profusion of objects that here
claim his notice and admiration. To dwell upon these in anything like
minute description, would preoccupy the space which we must reserve for
other particulars; but a few words are indispensable for
[Illustration]
the sake of the engraved view. The light, which is finely modified by
the means usually adopted, falls from the centre of the tower upon the
various objects in the choir, with a subdued religious effect which
greatly adds to the general impression. In this position, surrounded by
the varied labours of many centuries, we can fancy in part the scenes
and events which have transpired within these arches, before that altar,
at which so many kings and peers have bent the suppliant knee in
penitence and confession. In those early times it was a blessing, that
when outrage, violence, and injustice were irrepressible by any other
means, the strong arm of the church was sufficient to restrain--and when
it could not effectually restrain, to punish with its stigma--the
licentious baron, the crowned despot, and make the culprits quail at the
very head of their armies and retainers. Where the law was weak,
religion was strong, and, like the voice of God, heard upon earth,
encouraged the prostrate, and brought the rebellious under subjection.
Without its power and influence--its holy exercises and humanizing
studies--without the spiritual arm to check aggression, to redress
grievances, the baser passions must have revelled without control, and
life have become a scene of continued warfare. These considerations are
nowhere felt with more obvious truth than on the spot where we now
stand, where so many deadly feuds have given way to religious
exhortation; where they who had met as foes quitted the altar as
friends--friends at least in act, if not in heart--and returned the
guilty sword to its scabbard. But we need not detain our readers with
what is manifest to every reflecting mind--that if justice and redress
were anywhere to be found in those times, it was rather in the abbeys,
than either in the Star Chamber or Westminster Hall.
<g>The Screen</g> of the great altar, or “Wallingford’s screen,” was begun and
finished in the reign of Edward the Fourth, and is one of the best--if
not the very best--specimens of the style and architecture of that
epoch. It was the munificent taste of Abbot Wallingford, and his liberal
encouragement of the arts, which have bequeathed this precious morceau
to the admiration of posterity. It has suffered little from the lapse of
time and the momentous changes which have passed over the abbey; and for
beauty of design and elegance of workmanship is worth a pilgrimage. Its
front consists of three divisions--a centre and two wings, the latter
being perfectly symmetrical; the lower part of the centre displays a
double series of small niches with rich canopies. On great festivals of
the Church this splendid tabernacle was covered with cloth of gold or
crimson, and, drooping from its lofty pinnacles in ample folds, must
have produced an effect worthy of the gorgeous taste of Wolsey himself,
who carried the “state ecclesiastical” to a higher pitch than any of his
predecessors.
<g>The Pulpit</g>, which is a fine specimen of oak carving, though not
apparently of a remote date, is well deserving of attention; and in
recalling the splendid ceremonial of former times, with the impressive
but simple and decorous service of the present day, the mind is prepared
to weigh and contrast the spiritual energies which, exercised under that
canopy, have expounded the doctrines and enforced the duties of a
religious life. The pulpit of St. Albans would be no bad subject in the
hands of another Boileau.
On the right of the altar, and closely adjoining the screen, is the tomb
of Abbot Ramryge--an elaborately carved Gothic chapel or shrine, greatly
admired for the beauty and delicacy of its workmanship, which is in high
preservation.
Opposite to this, and occupying the corresponding arch, is another but
less ornamental shrine to the memory of Abbot Whethamstead. Both are of
native stone--of a remarkably fine close texture, procured from the
quarry of Tottenhoe, light Portland colour, and capable of being wrought
into the most delicate tracery. Of this material all the finest
chisel-work of the abbey is composed.
Erected against the south wall of the church, where a door formerly
existed, is a beautiful Piscina, represented in many engravings. It has
all the marks of antiquity, and is said to occupy the spot where, in the
earliest times of Christianity in this country, two devout Eremites had
chosen their cell, and there, by a life of austere penance and
mortification, left a holy example for their brethren in after times. As
a fragment of the colossal Abbey, this traditionary relic is of itself a
gem, and never fails to secure a full share of the stranger’s
attention.[72] On one of the windows of the south aisle, was “a
representation of the martyrdom of St. Alban” in painted glass, only a
few fragments of which remain. On the wall below was an inscription, now
almost obliterated, beginning thus:--
“This image of our frailty, painted glass,
Shews where the life and death of Alban was.
A knight beheads the martyr, but so soon
His eyes dropt out to see what he had done;
And leaving their own head, seemed with a tear
To wail the other head laid mangled there,” &c.
Between the east façade of the great screen and the end of the church
wall, is the space occupied by the modern Vestry, containing several
objects well deserving of notice, and long hallowed in the eyes of
priest and pilgrim as the spot on which the <g>Shrine</g> of the protomartyr
had stood for centuries, and drawn much tribute from the devout of all
nations. Deeply cut in the pavement near this spot, is the following
inscription: