CANTERBURY
AGENTS
AMERICA THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
64 & 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
CANADA THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF CANADA, LTD.
27 RICHMOND STREET WEST, TORONTO
INDIA MACMILLAN & COMPANY, LTD.
MACMILLAN BUILDING, BOMBAY
[Illustration: THE NORTH SIDE OF CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL
Before the present Archbishop’s Palace was built]
CANTERBURY
BY W. TEIGNMOUTH SHORE
PAINTED BY W. BISCOMBE
GARDNER · PUBLISHED BY
ADAM & CHARLES BLACK
SOHO SQUARE · LONDON · W.
[Illustration]
_Published April 1907_
TO
E. A. B.
FROM
E. G. O.
CONTENTS
PAGE
FIRST VIEW 1
THE STORY OF THE CATHEDRAL 7
THE CATHEDRAL--INTERIOR 18
THE CATHEDRAL--EXTERIOR 41
CANTERBURY PILGRIMS 54
THE RELIGIOUS 66
OTHER SHRINES 87
A CANTERBURY ROUNDABOUT 104
ENVOI 117
INDEX 119
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
1. The North Side of the Cathedral _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
2. Christ Church Gate 4
3. The South Side of the Cathedral 10
4. The Chapel of “Our Lady” in the Undercroft 18
5. In the Nave of the Cathedral after Evensong 22
6. Edward the Black Prince’s Tomb in Trinity Chapel 32
7. The Warrior’s Chapel, looking Westwards 38
8. The West Towers and South-West Entrance to the
Cathedral 42
9. Ruins of the Infirmary 44
10. The Baptistry, Canterbury Cathedral 46
11. Norman Staircase, King’s School 48
12. The Martyrdom, Canterbury Cathedral 50
13. South-West Transept and St George’s Tower 56
14. The Greyfriars’ House 64
15. Doorway from the Cloisters into the Martyrdom 70
16. Westgate 88
17. The Canterbury Weavers 92
18. The Quadrangle, St Augustine’s College 96
19. St Martin’s Church 102
20. The Cathedral, St Martin’s Church Tower, and
Harbledown 110
CANTERBURY
FIRST VIEW
As we stand upon the summit of Bell Harry Tower--more happily called the
Angel Steeple--of Canterbury Cathedral, looking down upon city and
countryside, much of the history of England lies spread beneath our
feet: the Britons were at work here before the Romans came marching with
their stolid legions; here to Ethelbert, Saxon King of Kent, St
Augustine preached the gospel of Christ; in the church below, Becket was
murdered and the Black Prince buried; to this city, to the shrine of St
Thomas, came innumerable pilgrims, one of them our first great English
poet; then the crash of the Reformation swept away shrines and pilgrims,
the mirk and romance of mediævalism vanished into the mists of history,
and the city to-day lives chiefly in the past. Away to the east and
south are the narrow seas, crossed by conquering Romans and Normans,
crossed for centuries by a constant stream of travellers from all ends
of the earth, citizens of every clime, to some of whom the sight of the
English coast was the first glimpse of home, to others the first view of
a strange land; away to the north and west are the Medway and the
Thames, Rochester and London. From no other tower, perhaps, can so wide
a bird’s-eye view of our history be obtained; Canterbury is so situated
that ever since England has been and as long as England shall be, this
city has been and will be a centre of the nation’s life.
At first entrance to it, Canterbury does not impress with its antiquity;
there are, indeed, the ancient Cathedral, ancient gates and ancient
houses. But as the sights of the city grow familiar, as its atmosphere
enters into our souls, as its story becomes known, gradually and surely
we realise that most of what we see now is but youthful compared with
the great age of the place; and we feel that when all this of the
present day has mouldered to dust, as must all man’s works, here will be
another city, perhaps even fairer than the one we are looking on, and
that the men of those days to come will wonder and speculate as to the
likeness of us of to-day. Canterbury is ancient and beautiful; no place
for the mere tourist who fancies that in an hour or two of sight-seeing
he can learn to know and love her: she is like a beautiful woman, whose
charms never stale; like a good woman, ever showing to those who love
her some fresh enchantment.
But it is not history--not the story of dead events--that chiefly
fascinates us in Canterbury, or, indeed, in any such city; it is the
lives of the men who made that history, who took part in those events.
Here, as we walk the streets, we think of Augustine, of Thomas, of the
Black Prince, of many another; and of many great men of
letters--Chaucer, Erasmus, Marlowe, Thackeray, Dickens, Stanley: the
first painting for us the Canterbury of his own days, the last that of
past times. To understand fully the beauty of such a place, we must
allow not only its spirit to enter into us, but we must in our mind’s
eyes people its ways with those who have walked there aforetime, with
the shadows not of the great only but of the humble, who all in their
degree helped to the making of history and of this historic city.
It is to the Cathedral that most men, when set down here, first turn
their steps; and rightly so. We must not refuse to listen to the voices
of its stones, must not look upon them as dull, dead, dumb things; to
those who are ready to hear they will always a tale unfold--of beliefs
gone beyond recall, of the men whose untiring patience and skill raised
for us this splendid monument of the past, of saints and of sinners, of
victors and of vanquished. The least advantageous way to attempt the
attainment of any true sense of the fascination of Canterbury Cathedral
is to enter it straightway, intent on seeing rapidly all that it
contains of interest; though every stone in its fabric is of interest,
almost every charm that it possesses will be lost to those who thus
wrongly approach. Rather walk slowly round, entering the close by Christ
Church gateway, completed in 1517, sadly battered by time but unspoiled
by the hand of the destroying restorer; without stands the monument to
Christopher Marlowe, son of the city. But we pass in to the quiet trees
and the trim grass; we look up at Bell Harry Tower, the centre of the
Cathedral as the Cathedral is of the city. Walk round, not troubling to
seek out the name or the record of this portion of the building or of
that;
[Illustration: CHRIST CHURCH GATE
Entrance to the precincts of Canterbury Cathedral]
round by Becket’s Crown and the ruins of the Infirmary, by the Dark
Entry and so out into Green Court.
The face of Nature never grows so familiar to us that we know her every
tone and expression; so is it with some of the handiworks of man--with
this Cathedral, for instance. Great changes are wrought in its aspect by
the seasons of the year, by daylight, by the lights of night, by sunrise
and by sunset; changes which every man may see; and slight yet never
insignificant changes are touched in upon the picture by every passing
cloud that casts a shadow upon the grey towers and walls, by every
snowflake that finds a lodgment on its countless graven stones; changes
which only the few who love will discern.
In visiting the interior the usual course pursued by visitors is curious
and unsatisfactory, leaving but a confused impression upon those who
have not read the story of the building, and killing what may be called
its humanity. Of course, the traveller who desires to see as much as
possible in the shortest possible time must not complain if he sees much
and understands little; but those who have sufficient time at their
disposal will do well to make several short visits rather than one of
prolonged duration, each visit being devoted to a specific end. The two
principal points of interest are the history of the fabric, and the
martyrdom or murder of St Thomas à Becket, with its consequences.
THE STORY OF THE CATHEDRAL
To the eye of the expert the buildings of any ancient church or
cathedral tell their story with simplicity and directness. Even to the
eye of the inexpert in such matters, it is at once apparent that
Canterbury is a growth of long ages, the handiwork of many generations
of builders. The grey weather-beaten exterior, with its varied
architecture, is evidently not the design of any single brain, and the
dim, religious aisles and chapels echo with hints of memories of
architects and masons into whose various hands came the glory of
carrying on the work which their forefathers had begun and left for them
to continue or to complete.
It is believed that on this same site there stood once a Roman or
British church, which was granted to Augustine by Ethelbert, and by him
consecrated and reconsecrated “in the name of the Saviour, our God and
Lord Jesus Christ, and there he established an habitation for himself,
and for all his successors”; in short, he founded the monastery of
Christ Church. To this church additions were made by Archbishop Odo
toward the end of the tenth century, concerning whom is narrated a
pretty monkish legend: “The roof of Christ Church had become rotten from
excessive age, and rested throughout upon half-shattered pieces:
wherefore he set about to reconstruct it, and being also desirous of
giving to the walls a more aspiring altitude, he directed his assembled
workmen to remove altogether the disjointed structure above, and
commanded them to supply the deficient height of the walls by raising
them. But because it was absolutely necessary that the Divine Service
should not be interrupted, and no temple could be found sufficiently
capacious to receive the multitude of the people, the archbishop prayed
to Heaven that until the work should be completed, neither rain nor wind
might be suffered to intrude within the walls of the church, so as to
prevent the performance of the service. And so it came to pass: for
during three years in which the walls of the church were being carried
upwards, the whole building remained open to the sky; yet did no rain
fall either within the church, or even within the walls of the city,
that could impede the clergy standing in the church in the performance
of their duty, or restrain the people from coming even to the beginning
of it. And truly it was a sight worth seeing, to behold the space beyond
the walls of the city drenched with water, while the walls themselves
remained perfectly dry.”[1]
Of this Saxon building it is not likely that there are any remnants in
the present church, though it is barely possible that there are some
relics of it in the west wall of the crypt.
When Alphege was archbishop, in the year 1011, the Danes attacked the
city, sacked it, slaughtered the citizens, the while the monks sought
refuge in the church. The archbishop went forth to utter an appeal to
the marauders, who however, turning a deaf ear to his entreaties for
mercy, seized and bound him: “Then these children of Satan piled barrels
one upon another, and set them on fire, designing thus to burn the roof.
Already the heat of the flames began to melt the lead, which ran down
inside.” Driven from their sanctuary, the wretched monks went out to
their death, only four of them escaping. Alphege was carried away to
prison and to torture, and, after seven months, was put to death at
Greenwich. Years after, the saint’s body was restored to his own church.
Fire without the sword wrought havoc in 1067, when “the devouring flames
consumed nearly all that was there preserved most precious, whether in
ornaments of gold, of silver, or of other materials, or in sacred and
profane books.” Three years later when Lanfranc, Abbot of Caen, became
archbishop, he found himself without a cathedral, and set to with vigour
to restore the monastery and the church. In seven years he had raised a
fair, new edifice upon the site of the wrecked building. “But before
this work began, he commanded that the bodies of the saints, which were
buried in the eastern part of the church, should be removed to the
western part, where the oratory of the blessed Virgin Mary stood.
Wherefore, after a three days’ fast, the bodies of those most precious
priests of the Lord, Dunstan and Alphege were raised, and in the
presence of an innumerable multitude, conveyed to their destined place
of interment, and there decently buried. To which I, Edmer,
[Illustration: THE SOUTH SIDE OF CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL
Showing South-West Transept, St Anselm’s Tower, and South-East
Transept]
can bear witness, for I was then a boy at the school.”
Under the high altar of the old church the relics of St Wilfrid were
found, and eventually buried to the north of the altar in the new
building. Here may be quoted another story told us by Edmer: “In our own
time, it happened to one of the elder brethren of the church, Alfroin by
name, who filled the office of sacrist, that he, on the night of the
festival of St Wilfrid, was resting in a certain lofty place in the
church, outside the choir, and before an altar, above which, at that
time, the relics of the blessed Wilfrid were deposited in a shrine.
There, as he lay between sleeping and waking, he saw the church filled
with light, and angelic persons performing the service, and beheld those
whose duty it was to read or sing, ascend the cochlea or winding-stair,
and ask a blessing before the altar and body of the blessed man, which
done, they straightway descended, returned, and resumed the usual office
of the church with all solemnity.”
Are not these stories quaint and simple, these told us by the old monks,
with their simple faith? They dreamed dreams in those days and called
them heavenly visions. To-day we attribute all our dreams to earthly
causes. Who knows whether they or we are the wiser?
Of Lanfranc’s work there are most likely no further remains than some
portions of the walls of the nave, of the Martyrdom and of the splendid
crypt.
Under Anselm, Prior Ernulf continued Lanfranc’s work, by pulling down
the eastern part and rebuilding it with far greater splendour. So
magnificent was it that “nothing like it could be seen in England,
either for the brilliancy of its glass windows, the beauty of its marble
pavement, or the many coloured pictures which led the wandering eyes to
the very summit of the ceiling.”
Ernulf was succeeded by Conrad, who completed the chancel, “the glorious
choir of Conrad.” In 1130 the beautiful church was dedicated by
Archbishop William. Never since the days of the dedication of the Temple
of Solomon, so the story runs, had so famous a dedication been heard of
in all the world.
Yet again did fire conquer and destroy; and once again it will be best
to quote from the monkish chronicler, this time from Gervase, who was
witness of the destruction.[2]
“In the year of grace one thousand one hundred and seventy-four, by the
just but occult judgment of God, the church of Christ at Canterbury was
consumed by fire.... Now the manner of the burning ... was as follows.
In the aforesaid year, on the nones of September, at almost the ninth
hour, and during an extraordinarily violent south wind, a fire broke out
before the gate of the church, and outside the walls of the
monastery.... From thence, while the citizens were assembling and
subduing the fire, cinders and sparks carried aloft by the high wind
were deposited upon the church, and being driven by the fury of the wind
between the joints of the lead, remained there amongst the half-rotten
planks, and shortly glowing with increasing heat, set fire to the rotten
rafters; from thence the fire was communicated to the larger beams and
their braces, no one yet perceiving or helping. For the well-painted
ceiling below, and the sheet-lead covering above, concealed between them
the fire that had arisen within.... But the beams and braces burning,
the flames rose to the slopes of the roof; and the sheets of lead
yielded to the increasing heat and began to melt. Thus the raging wind,
finding a freer entrance, increased the fury of the fire; and the
flames beginning to show themselves, a cry arose in the churchyard:
‘See! see! the church is on fire.’
“Then the people and the monks assemble in haste; they draw water, they
brandish their hatchets, they run up the stairs full of eagerness to
save the church, already, alas! beyond their help. But when they reach
the roof and perceive the black smoke and scorching flames that pervade
it throughout, they abandon the attempt in despair, and, thinking only
of their own safety, make all haste to descend.
“And now that the fire had loosened the beams from the pegs that bound
them together, the half-burnt timbers fell into the choir below upon the
seats of the monks; the seats, consisting of a great mass of wood-work,
caught fire, and thus the mischief grew worse and worse. And it was
marvellous, though sad, to behold how that glorious choir itself fed and
assisted the fire that was destroying it. For the flames multiplied by
this mass of timber, and extending upwards full fifteen cubits, scorched
and burnt the walls, and more especially injured the columns of the
church.
“And now the people ran to the ornaments of the church, and began to
tear down the pallia and the curtains, some that they might save, but
some to steal them. The reliquary chests were thrown down from the high
beam and thus broken, and the contents scattered; but the monks
collected them and carefully preserved them from the fire. Some there
were, who, inflamed with a wicked and diabolical cupidity, feared not to
appropriate to themselves the things of the church, which they had saved
from the fire.
“In this manner the house of God, hitherto delightful as a paradise of
pleasures, was now made a despicable heap of ashes, reduced to a dreary
wilderness, and laid open to all the injuries of the weather.
“The people were astonished that the Almighty should suffer such things,
and maddened with excess of 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;
and many, both of laity and monks, would rather have laid down their
lives than that the church should have so miserably perished.”
It was worth quoting this account almost in full both for its vividness
and vigour, and for the incidental details given of the structure; but
the account of the rebuilding must be summarised, full as it is of
picturesque and graphic touches. For some time nothing was accomplished
in the way of restoration; the roof of the choir was, of course,
entirely gone, and all the columns were in a dangerous condition. A
French architect, William of Sens, was called in to advise. He was an
active, handy man, skilful and resourceful, and the carrying out of the
work was entrusted to him. The ruins were cleared away, stone procured
from beyond the Channel, sculptors and masons assembled, and a
commencement made in September 1174. For over four years William of Sens
worked diligently, when by a terrible fall he was “rendered helpless
alike to himself and for the work, but no other person than himself was
in the least injured. Against the master only was the vengeance of God
or spite of the devil directed.” How closely in touch with God--or the
devil--were those men of old.
William the first, rendered helpless by his injuries, after a brave
struggle returned to France, and was succeeded by William the second:
“English by nation, small in body, but in workmanship of many kinds
acute and honest.” It was not until 1184 that the new choir and some of
the adjacent buildings were completed, and it is these that we view
to-day. But some five years after the disastrous fire, the eager monks
urged on the builders, being filled with a longing to celebrate Easter
in the new choir. William the second worked manfully toward this end. On
Easter Eve fire was lit and consecrated in the cloister, then carried in
solemnity, with the singing of hymns and burning of incense, into the
church, and the Paschal candle lit therewith.
The next great undertaking was the destruction of Lanfranc’s nave in
1378. The Norman’s work seems to have fallen into desperate disrepair.
Archbishop Sudbury appealing for public help, “issued a mandate
addressed to all ecclesiastical persons in his diocese enjoining them to
solicit subscriptions for rebuilding the nave of the church, ‘propter
ipsius notoriam et evidentem ruinam,’” and promising forty days’
indulgence to all who subscribed. Nowadays we should hold a bazaar. The
works were not completed until 1411, under Archbishop Arundel, who
contributed a thousand marks and the five bells known as the Arundell
ryng. But it was not the archbishops in person but Prior Chillenden who
actually carried out the rebuilding, becoming Prior in 1390 and dying in
the same year that his task was completed. Practically nothing of
Lanfranc’s nave remains; it was pulled down wholesale, and the existing
nave, transepts, and portions of Bell Harry raised.
With the building of the towers it is better to deal when we come to
walk round the exterior of the church.
So it will be seen, and more clearly understood as we wander round the
interior, that Canterbury Cathedral sets before us the history of
English ecclesiastical architecture. From Norman down to late Decorated,
all styles are exemplified here, often most beautifully. From these
historic stones echo back not only the voices of the great
dead--warriors, kings and priests--but the noise of chisel and hammer
and axe wielded by pious hands of those who in their humble sphere lived
to the glory of God and of His Church.
THE INTERIOR
The best way to obtain a fair view of the beautiful proportions of the
nave and of the most striking picture of the interior of the church, is
to enter by the south-west door or porch. Here in Saxon days courts of
law were held, cases being tried which could not be referred to other
courts. Prior Chillenden about 1400 built the
[Illustration: THE CHAPEL OF “OUR LADY” IN THE UNDERCROFT, CANTERBURY
CATHEDRAL]
present fine porch; he was a man of energy, and to him and to those whom
he inspired to do his biddings Canterbury owes a great debt. Erasmus has
described for us the figures that used to occupy the panel above the
entrance, the effigies of Becket’s murderers, who, he says, go down to
the ages with much the same ill-name as that which pertains to Pilate,
Judas and Caiaphas. Some vague fragments of the carving still survive,
including an altar, probably that of the Martyrdom. In the vaulting of
the porch are various coats-of-arms, among them those of the Sees of
Canterbury and Chichester, and of the kingdoms of England and of France.
In accordance with an idea suggested by Dean Alford, some of the niches
here and on the west front have been filled in recent days with statues
of men of note who in one way or another have been connected with the
history of the Cathedral.
They are solemn stones, or rather it is solemn ground this, over which
we pass, “where the saints have trod"--saints, soldiers, ecclesiastics,
Christians all in their several degrees, from dim Saxon days down to
this present moment.
Now, we enter the nave.
Somewhat cold, somewhat unearthly almost, is the impression made by the
forest of pillars rising through the clerestory to the vaulted roof;
stretching away to the central tower--Bell Harry--where light shines
down into the gloom. A beautiful place wherein to rest and dream dreams
of the past. All now is grey, but in bygone ages the great church blazed
with colours; paintings and rich hangings adorned the walls; there were
numberless altars with their tiny points of light, and all was enriched
and at the same time mellowed by the splendour shed upon pavement and
pillar from the “storied windows richly dight.” Who shall say whether
the change from pomp to simplicity be for better or for worse? As with
so many other matters in this opinionative world, it all depends upon
the point of view; doubtless to the stern ascetic the rule that now
obtains is for the best; upon the superstitious pilgrim of old the
glories of the past assuredly had their influence. Yet, why think of
what has gone, when that which remains is so worthy?
The nave dates from about 1378 to 1411, in which last year the builder
of it, the aforementioned Prior Chillenden, died, “who after nobly
ruling as Prior of this church for twenty years twenty-five weeks and
five days,” says his epitaph, as given by Willis, “at length on the day
of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary closed his last day.” As it
was written of Christopher Wren, so here it might be of Chillenden--“If
monument be asked for, look around.” The architecture here is
Perpendicular, contrasting exquisitely with the early work of the choir;
it is no new simile--but there is no call to provide a new when the old
is so good--to say that these splendid pillars, rising from their firm,
fixed roots in the stony floor and springing up into the grey heights
far above, strike deep upon the imagination as being akin to the
glorious pillars of a stately forest.
A curious and oft-repeated error is to say that Canterbury is unique
among churches, in that from the nave we look _up_ to the choir, the
latter being raised on the crypt. A precisely similar cause and effect
are to be found, for example, at Worcester.
The stained glass which once adorned the nave, is gone, smashed by
zealous Puritans, and all of olden colour that we now see is in the
great west window, compiled of fragments from those that have departed.
Of the tombs and monuments in the nave the most noteworthy are in the
north aisle--those of Charles the First’s famous organist, Orlando
Gibbons; of Sir John Boys, founder of the hospital for the poor near the
North Gate of the city; and the altar tomb of Archbishop Sumner. Also to
be noted, a window to the memory of Dean Stanley, sometime canon of the
Cathedral and writer of that famous work, _Historical Memorials of
Canterbury_.
As we stand in the choir of to-day, we would indeed be of dull
imagination did we not see and drink in the poetic beauty of such a
growth as this, beautiful in its association with the centuries, with
countless thousands of worshippers; beautiful intrinsically and as a
record of faithful labour, of splendid artistry, of devout perseverance.
There are other cathedral choirs more perfect as specimens of one or
other style of architecture, but not one more hallowed by sacred and
stirring memories. Here stands Norman and Early English work side by
side, melting, as historically they did, from one into the other; the
work of French and English hands and brains. Here the mind is forcibly
carried back to the far, dim ages, when on this very ground the rude
Saxons worshipped--this ground which Augustine found already dedicated
to the worship of Christ, upon which he reared his new temple,
[Illustration: IN THE NAVE AFTER EVENSONG, CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL]
where ever since has sounded the chanting of the monks and of
sweet-voiced choirs.
One unusual structural feature at once strikes even the usually
unobservant; the trend inward of the walls as they reach toward the
east, accounted for by the builders having to accommodate themselves to
the two towers of St Anselm and St Andrew, left undestroyed by the great
fire which called for the rebuilding of the choir. It is not possible to
say with any degree of surety at what point the work of French William
ended and was succeeded by that of English William; and, indeed, it is
most probable that the latter worked from and completed the designs of
the former. Striking, however, is the exquisite contrast in the
combination of the French stone from Caen and the English Purbeck
marble. Glorious as was the choir of Conrad, this that succeeded to it
is far more beautiful and, of course, more ornate. The mouldings are
very varied--billet-work, dog-tooth, zigzag and so forth, Norman
intermixed with the succeeding style. Gervase states that “The old
capitals were plain, the new are most artistically sculptured. The old
arches and everything else either plain, or sculptured with an axe and
not with a chisel; but in the new work first-rate sculpture abounded
everywhere. In the old work no marble shafts, in the new innumerable
ones.” But excellent work in stone can be executed with the axe in
skilful, practised hands--easy tools do not necessarily mean fine
output; and Willis points out the interesting fact that down to his day
at any rate French masons used the axe “with great dexterity in
carving.”
A noteworthy feature of the triforium is the curious conjuncture of an
outer round-headed arch enclosing two that are pointed, again a mingling
of the Norman and Early English styles. To quote Willis yet again, this
“may have arisen either from the indifference of the artist as to the
mixture of forms, or else from deliberate contrivance; for as he was
compelled, from the nature of his work, to retain round-headed arcades,
windows, and arches in the side-aisles, and yet was accustomed to and
desirous of employing pointed arches in his new building, he might
discreetly mix some round-headed arches with them, in order to make the
contrast less offensive by causing the mixture of forms to pervade the
whole composition, as if an intentional principle.” Commentators are
very fond of reading into the works of dead and gone writers, in
particular into the plays and poems of Shakespeare, thoughts and
speculations and intentions entirely alien to past ages. Is it not more
than likely that architectural critics fall not seldom into the same
blunder? Probably the sheer truth concerning these old builders is that
they builded better than they knew, and that we with the light of later
and present days attribute to design what was the result of
inadvertence. But why analyse and speculate? Let us be thankful for what
we have received; if it be justifiable to say grace before books, how
much more so to return thanks for these pictures drawn in stone.
Around the choir stands the screen of Prior Henry de Estria, dating from
about 1305, at least partly his handiwork; and noteworthy is the Norman
doorway.
The altar stands high, situated as it is above the later and loftier
portion of the crypt. Rich indeed it must have been in pre-Reformation
days, glowing with its costly and precious vessels; in a grated vault
beneath it, the treasury of gold and silver, which would have made
Crœsus and Midas feel poor, so says Erasmus. Most of this splendour
was swept up by the greedy hands of Henry VIII., the “professional
widower” and equally professional thief, and what of beauty this sinner
left undespoiled was destroyed by Puritan saints. The present altar is
rich, but not religiously impressive.
The vast difference between the Christianity of mediæval times and of
the days that followed the Reformation cannot be more forcibly
emphasised than by recalling that this choir, now the centre of a simple
ritual, was then one of the most famous homes of relic worship. To the
new choir when ready to receive them were restored--they had stood in
its predecessor--the remains of St Dunstan and of St Alphege, “the
co-exiles of the monks.” Says Gervase: “Prior Alan, taking with him nine
of the brethren of the Church in whom he could trust, went by night to
the tombs of the saints, so that he might not be incommoded by a crowd,
and having locked the doors of the church, he commanded the stone-work
that enclosed them to be taken down. The monks and servants of the
Church, in obedience to the Prior’s commands, took the structure to
pieces, opened the stone coffins of the saints, and bore their relics to
the _vestiarium_. Then, having removed the cloths in which they had been
wrapped, and which were half-consumed from age and rottenness, they
covered them with other and more handsome palls, and bound them with
linen bands. They bore the saints, thus prepared, to their altars, and
deposited them in wooden chests, covered within and without with lead;
which chests, thus lead-covered, and strongly bound with iron, were
enclosed in stone-work that was consolidated with melted lead.” There is
eloquent evidence of the morality of the times in that “in whom he could
trust”; thefts of relics were common enough, and monks earned high
recompense for showing themselves successful “cracksmen.”
Indeed, the bones of the saints were often the cause of bad blood
between communities of Christians, who preached to others peace and
goodwill among men. These very relics of St Dunstan are a case very much
to the point. The monks of Glastonbury denied that Canterbury possessed
them at all, saying that they had been conveyed thence to Glastonbury
when the Danes had sacked the metropolitan church. In 1508 Archbishop
Warham, little foreseeing the near approach of these days when saints’
relics would not any longer be a valuable property, answered this claim
by opening the shrine, wherein lay fragments of a human body, and on the
heart a leaden plate bearing the words SANCTUS DUNSTANUS. The Abbot of
Glastonbury, however, refused to be convinced or to be comforted, at
last pitiably confessing that “the people had believed in the
genuineness of their saint for so long” that he was afraid to speak the
truth to them! When the tomb was laid open, the skull of the saint was
removed from it, set in a silver reliquary, and added to the other
relics that were displayed to wondering though not always credulous
pilgrims. Among these other relics may be named the right arm of Jesus
Christ, some of the clay from which Adam was created and portions of
Aaron’s rod. Wonderful are the abuses of credulity.
Of the shrine or altar of St Dunstan, destroyed at the Reformation, on
the south of the great altar, some Decorated diaper work is all the
remnant; of that of St Alphege, which probably stood opposite, there
remains not a trace.
There are many tombs here which may well give us pause, for in them lie
buried many of the great ecclesiastical rulers of days gone by. Hard by
where stood the altar of St Dunstan, sleeps Simon of Sudbury, archbishop
from 1375 to 1381. He was one of those enlightened few who protested
against the evil resulting from the promiscuous concourse of pilgrims
that resorted to the shrine of St Thomas. Let Dean Stanley tell us the
story: “In the year of the fourth jubilee, 1370, the pilgrims were
crowding as usual along the great London road to Canterbury, when they
were overtaken by Simon of Sudbury, at that time Bishop of London, but
afterwards Primate, and well known for his munificent donations to the
walls and towers of the town of Canterbury. He was a bold and vigorous
prelate; his spirit was stirred within him at the sight of what he
deemed a mischievous superstition, and he openly told them that the
plenary indulgence which they hoped to gain by their visit to the holy
city would be of no avail to them. Such a doctrine from such an
authority fell like a thunderbolt in the midst of the vast multitude.
Many were struck dumb; others lifted up their voices and cursed him to
his face, with the characteristic prayer that he might meet with a
shameful death. One especially, a Kentish gentleman--by name, Thomas of
Aldon--rode straight up to him, in towering indignation, and 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 which the vast concourse
answered, ‘Amen, Amen.’ The curse, it was believed, prevailed. The _vox
populi_, so the chronicler expressly asserts, turned out to be the _vox
Dei_. ‘From the beginning of the world it never has been heard that any
one ever injured the Cathedral of Canterbury, and was not punished by
the Lord.’ Eleven years from that time, the populace of London not
unnaturally imagined that the rights of St Thomas were avenged, when
they saw the unfortunate Primate dragged out of the Tower, and beheaded
by the Kentish rebels under Wat Tyler. His head was taken to his native
place, Sudbury, where it is still preserved. His body was buried in the
tomb, still to be seen on the south side of the choir of the Cathedral,
where not many years ago, when it was accidentally opened, the body was
seen within, wrapped in cerecloth, the vacant space of the head occupied
by a leaden ball.”
Archbishop Stratford (1333-48) lies to the west of the above, a monument
sadly defaced. It was he who rendered weighty service to Edward III.,
when the monarch looked upon him with unfavourable eye, considering that
it was his advice that had caused his, the King’s, troubles. The
archbishop fled from London, seeking refuge at Canterbury. He preached a
pathetic sermon to the multitudinous congregation that had flocked into
the Cathedral, concluding by excommunicating the King’s evil advisers.
When the last words were spoken, the torches that struggled with the
gloom were put out; the bell was tolled; the people scattered in
confusion. So great was the power and awe of holy church in those days
that this proceeding of the archbishop’s proved powerfully effective and
the King’s hand was stayed.
Then there is the tomb of Cardinal Kemp, archbishop from 1452-54, with a
curious wooden canopy. He was at Agincourt with Henry V.
On the north side, noticeable is the monument to Archbishop Chichele,
founder of the colleges of St John and of All Souls, Oxford, by the
fellows of which latter college his tomb is kept in repair. The effigy
of the living man is gruesomely put in conjunction with a grisly
skeleton in a winding sheet; to the mediæval mind death was almost
disgustingly horrible. It was he who aided and abetted Henry V. in his
preposterous claim upon the throne of France, which prosaic plea has
been turned into poetry by Shakespeare in Scene 2 Act I. of _The Life of
King Henry the Fifth_.
Then of much more recent date, William Howley (1828-48), who so bitterly
opposed the Roman Catholic Relief Bill and the Reform Bill, which
brought him disfavour with the good citizens of Canterbury. He crowned
Queen Victoria, and performed the marriage ceremony of the Prince
Consort.
Archbishop Bourchier (1454-86) also lies here; who was visited by the
Maronite Patriarch of Antioch, Peter II., with his camels and his
dromedaries, and who left to the church “one image of the Holy Trinity
of pure gold, with the diadem, and xj balassers, x saphires, and xliiij
gems called perlys.”
Then proceeding toward the east we enter the Trinity Chapel, standing
upon the same site as the old chapel of the same name.
But it is not our purpose here to write in detail the story of
Canterbury Cathedral; it can be found elsewhere by those who desire it;
all our aim is to tell sufficient of it and in such manner as to make
the building a living thing, not the dead mass to which it is too often
reduced by guides and guide-books.
To the skill and genius of English William we owe the Trinity Chapel,
where stood the shrine of St Thomas of Canterbury, now but a memory,
where still stands the tomb of Edward the Black
[Illustration: EDWARD THE BLACK PRINCE’S TOMB IN TRINITY CHAPEL,
CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL]
Prince, who, in his will, laid it down that he should be buried in the
crypt, but here in the brighter light he lies. A splendid figure of
romance he was--a great fighter, and, as such, beloved of his race; the
boy victor of Cressy; the conqueror at Poitiers, where the French King
became his captive; in his life the glory of his country, by his
untimely death leaving it to anarchy and civil war. A great figure of a
man, a name resonant in history, yet on the whole one of the least
effective of our princes in that his work lasted not. We stand by his
tomb, looking upon his effigy which is life-like in its strength. “There
he lies: no other memorial of him exists in the world so authentic.
There he lies, as he had directed, in full armour, his head resting on
his helmet, his feet with the likeness of ‘the spurs he won’ at Cressy,
his hands joined as in that last prayer which he had offered up on his
death-bed.” That prayer which he uttered when the evil spirit, the lust
of revenge, departed from him: “I give Thee thanks, O God, for all Thy
benefits, and with all the pains of my soul I humbly beseech Thy mercy
to give me remission of those sins I have wickedly committed against
Thee; and of all mortal men whom, willingly or ignorantly, I have
offended, with all my heart I desire forgiveness.” He died on Trinity
Sunday in the forty-sixth year of his age. Above the canopy hang his
gauntlets, his helm, his velvet coat that once blazed with the arms of
England and of France, and the empty scabbard of his sword. We stand by
this tomb, and all the horror, brutalities, cruelties of those cruel
days are forgotten, and the air resounds with echoes of the trumpets of
chivalry.
Close by lie Henry IV. and his second queen, Joan of Navarre; in 1832
the tomb was opened, and the body of the King found in strangely perfect
preservation: “the nose elevated; the beard thick and matted, and of a
deep russet colour; and the jaws perfect, with all the teeth in them
except one fore-tooth.” Hard by is the small chapel founded by the King,
“a chauntre perpetuall with twey prestis for to sing and prey for my
soul”; but their voices are hushed.
Here also are the monuments of Odo Coligny, brother of the famous
admiral, and of Archbishop Courtenay (1381-96); he gave munificently to
the building and its adornment; he was the judge before whom Wiclif was
arraigned, and found no pity in his heart for the reformer’s disciples.
Fortune has spared for us three of the interesting thirteenth-century
windows in this chapel, and they well repay study. The rest were smashed
amid the ruinous havoc decreed by Henry VIII., which is described
elsewhere. The pictures are of scenes connected with the miracles
wrought by the dead saint, with representations of his first tomb in the
crypt below and of his later shrine in this very chapel.
Becket’s Crown forms the easternmost portion of the Cathedral. The
old-time explanation that this chapel was so named as having contained
once a part shorn off from the saint’s skull by the sword of one of his
murderers, can scarcely be correct. On the north stands the tomb of
Cardinal Archbishop Pole (1556-58), who died but two-and-twenty hours
after his cousin and patron, Queen Mary; and, in the centre, the chair
of St Augustine, carved out of three pieces of Purbeck marble. By some
it has been called the chair of St Ethelbert, saying that he himself
used it as a throne, and, after his conversion, gave it to the greater
saint. Others, more cautious, hold that it dates only from the
Translation of St Thomas in 1220. Indeed, it is a question of “may-be”
and “may-not-be,” such an one as delights the hearts of militant
archæologists.
St Andrew’s and St Anselm’s towers, both Prior Ernulf’s work, stand
opposite each other on the north and south sides of the Trinity Chapel,
and are sturdy survivors of the great fire that destroyed Conrad’s
choir. Dividing St Anselm’s tower from the aisle is the beautiful altar
tomb of Archbishop Simon de Mepham (1328-33), with ornate canopy, who,
so it is said, died of a broken heart, the Pope siding with Grandison,
Bishop of Exeter, in his quarrel with the archbishop. At the east end of
this chapel stood the altar of St Peter and St Paul, behind which St
Anselm was buried. Of the saintly figures connected with the Cathedral,
that of Anselm is one of the most fascinating; a personality purely
mediæval in its saintly piety and its sturdy, unbreakable upholding of
the rights of mother church against the encroachments of the temporal
powers. After a life of turmoil and trial, he died here in Canterbury,
and sleeps in this chapel that bears his name. Above is the watching
chamber, where nightly and night-long a monk stood keeping watch and
ward over the treasures of the shrine of St Thomas. At least this is one
account of the uses made of this chamber--but there are others. But with
whatever object it may have been, there can be small doubt that for one
purpose or another a watcher was stationed there at night; solemn his
task and his vigil, yet not without its moments of beauty, as all know
who have wandered in a vast cathedral, when the moon pours its dim,
misty light through the great windows.
Journeying westward we come to the south choir transept, in the two
apses of which there used to stand altars to St Gregory and St John, and
here the admirable work of the piscinas and credence tables is well
worthy of examination. Here, under the south window, which is a memorial
to Dean Alford, lies Archbishop Winchelsea (1294-1313), who was regarded
by the poor as a saint on account of his profuse almsgiving. On the
north side of the building is the companion transept, where the altars
in the two apses were dedicated to St Martin and St Stephen. The white
marble altar tomb of Archbishop Tait (1861-82) stands here, erected in
1885, the effigy being the work of Sir Edgar Boehm. While Tait was
archbishop the Cathedral was yet again attacked by fire, on September 3,
1872. Bell Harry rang out the alarm; clouds of heavy smoke circled up
from the roof of the Trinity Chapel, obscuring the beautiful outlines of
the Angel Tower. An hour and a half elapsed before a supply of water
was obtained and brought to bear upon the flames. Havoc was wrought to
the roof, molten lead poured down into the edifice, but at last the fire
was conquered and the church rescued from the threatened repetition of
the disaster that had destroyed Conrad’s choir. _Te Deum_ was sung that
afternoon from full hearts.
The two western transepts are the building of Prior Chillenden. Opening
out of the southern is the chapel of St Michael or the Warrior’s Chapel,
built by whom is uncertain, but, according to Willis, probably by
Chillenden. The tomb here of Archbishop Stephen Langton is curious: in
shape like a coffin of stone, half of it in the chapel and half under
the eastern wall. It was Cardinal Archbishop Langton who forced Magna
Charta from King John, and who divided the Bible into chapters--both
permanent works. In the centre of this chapel is the beautiful sepulchre
of Lady Margaret Holland (d. 1437) and her two husbands, John Beaufort,
Earl of Somerset (d. 1410), and Thomas, Duke of Clarence (d. 1420), the
lady thus surviving her second husband by some seventeen years. The
monument is of marble and alabaster, and the three effigies of striking
interest.
Then through the passage beneath the steps of
[Illustration: THE WARRIORS’ CHAPEL, CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL
Looking West]
the choir into the transept of the Martyrdom. There remains here little,
if anything, that was seen by Becket’s eyes. Here lie buried Archbishop
Peckham (1279-92), an interesting monument, and Archbishop Warham
(1503-32). The latter was notable--among other things--for his lavish
hospitality, and for spending an immense sum upon his palace at Otford,
money which he would have lavished upon Canterbury had not the citizens
indiscreetly quarrelled with him. He was the friend of Colet and
Erasmus, of whose visit here we shall have something to say later on. To
the east of this transept is the Lady Chapel, built by Prior Goldstone,
the fan-vaulting of which is rich and beautiful.