interior of the Cathedral. This crypt, which we owe to Prior Ernulf,
subsequently Bishop of Rochester, is most impressive in its massiveness,
its Norman sturdiness, the square bases of the round pillars, the
ponderous capitals; the roof, which seems as though too heavy even for
such strong supports; the narrow, round-headed windows. The carving,
executed after the capitals were put in place, is worthy of note--rough
and ready, but thoroughly characteristic. In that portion of the crypt
beneath the south transept a French service is still celebrated, an
institution which dates from about 1575, when many Protestants sought
refuge in Canterbury. They were weavers for the most part, but neither
in their works nor their speech do they now survive, though many
families of French lineage and name live here still. In the centre of
the crypt was the altar and chapel of the Virgin, once glorious with
riches, now a dismal desolation, unfrequented, a shadow of a cult no
longer here followed. Close by lies buried Cardinal Morton of the famous
“fork,” and in the beautiful screen is the tomb of Lady Mohun of
Dunster. There is something creepy, uncanny, about these tombs lying
dark beneath the mass of building above, something fateful as compared
with a grave in some quiet village churchyard. Then there is the chapel
of St Gabriel, with the tomb of the Countess of Athol of Chilham Castle
(1292), defaced of its splendours. Ernulf’s work ends where the crypt
suddenly assumes loftier proportions in the easternmost part built by
William the Englishman; here Becket was first buried, here he slept
until his remains were translated to the gorgeous shrine in the church
above. Here, too, have been found bones, including a skull with marks
of violence, which may be, which may not be, the martyr’s. Not only is
this eastern portion of the crypt loftier, but also lighter in its
architectural features: the Norman style has vanished, we have here very
early Early English, pointed arches, circular capitals, the beginning of
“sweetness and light.”
THE EXTERIOR
There is a passage in _The Stones of Venice_ that should be in
everyone’s mind when walking in any cathedral close: “Let us go together
up the more retired street, at the end of which we can see the pinnacles
of one of the towers, and then through the low grey gateway, with its
battlemented top and small latticed window in the centre, into the inner
private-looking road or close, where nothing goes in but the carts of
the tradesmen who supply the bishop and the chapter, and where there are
little shaven grass-plots, fenced in by neat rails, before old-fashioned
groups of somewhat diminutive and excessively trim houses, with little
oriel and bay windows jutting out here and there, and deep wooden
cornices and eaves painted cream colour and white, and small porches to
their doors in the shape of cockle-shells, or little, crooked, thick,
indescribable wooden gables warped a little on one side; and so forward
till we come to larger houses, also old-fashioned, but of red brick, and
with gardens behind them, and fruit walls, which show here and there
among the nectarines, the vestiges of an old cloister arch or shaft, and
looking in front on the Cathedral square itself, laid out in rigid
divisions of smooth grass and gravel walk, yet not uncheerful,
especially on the sunny side where the canons’ children are walking with
their nurserymaids.” Is not the atmosphere exactly caught and held?
Then, as did Ruskin, look on the Cathedral itself. Up high soars the
beautiful central tower, now known as Bell Harry, but once and better
called the Angel Steeple. Of this perfect building the beginning was in
1433, under Prior Molash, and after delays and intermissions it was
brought to completeness by Prior Goldstone, of whose handiwork it has
been written: “He vaulted it with a most beautiful vault, and with
excellent and artistic workmanship, in every part sculptured and gilt,
with ample windows glazed and ironed. He also with great care and
industry annexed to the columns which support the same tower two arches
or vaults of stone-work, curiously carved, and four smaller ones to
assist in sustaining
[Illustration: THE WEST TOWERS AND SOUTH-WEST ENTRANCE, CANTERBURY
CATHEDRAL]
the said tower"--a remarkable feature of the interior. The west front of
the Cathedral is flanked by two towers: the south-west known as the
Chichele or Oxford tower, basely imitated by the north-west tower--the
Arundel--which dates from 1834, when Lanfranc’s work was destroyed.
In the close we must try to forget the present day. When we go to
Canterbury to see the Cathedral, when that is practically all in all to
us, we must endeavour to call back the past, to put back the “horologe
of time,” to remember that this fine pile was once the busy centre of a
great monastic community, of whose buildings there are many interesting
remnants, stone records crumbling away. St Augustine, who founded this
powerful monastery, was a Benedictine. The rules were severe, enjoining
silence, work, and divine worship. The monastery flourished, and when
Lanfranc was appointed archbishop by the Conqueror, its fortunes
received a great impetus from the ambitious prelate. It was not only the
church that showed the marks of his strong hand but the monastic
buildings also, which he surrounded with a great wall. He added to the
riches of the community and to the number of the monks, whom he
endeavoured to bring back to strict obedience to their rule; he
encouraged learning and literary work; he placed the governance of the
monastery in the hands of a prior instead of the archbishop, as
heretofore. The monastery, as the years went by, grew more powerful,
more rich, more proud, achieving much work of splendid usefulness, some
of no use at all. And then came Henry VIII. The buildings inside the
monastery walls were numerous--the church, the chapter-house, the
cloisters, the dormitories, the buttery, the kitchen, the dining-hall,
the infirmary, store-houses and bakeries, stables, houses of
entertainment for guests of high and low degree--a beehive of
industrious monks. What remains of it all? But little; the memory of a
greatness gone for ever--a few buildings, some ruins. These are the
picturesque ruins of the infirmary adjoining the east end of the
Cathedral, portions of its hall and of the chapel attached to its east
end, so that the sick might not be deprived of the solace of the service
of God. There is a lovely view of the Cathedral through the fine archway
that still stands. Passing westward we come to the Dark Entry, which,
turning to the right, takes us to Green Court: it is a dark, gruesome
passage, meet for the habitation of the ghost whose history has been
sung by Ingoldsby; but it is
[Illustration: RUINS OF THE INFIRMARY, CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL]
beautiful also. Close by is the Baptistry, as the Lavatory Tower is now
miscalled, which nestles snugly against the Cathedral, whence was
distributed the supply of water to the various buildings. Green Court is
worthy a visit for its own picturesque sake, but above all because it
contains one of the most delightful specimens of Norman architecture,
the magnificent staircase leading up to the King’s School; there are
those who say that the Normans built splendidly, but not beautifully, to
whom this one work is sufficient answer. Of the chapter-house, what can
we say save that the hand of the restorer has been laid heavily upon
it?--translator-traitor we have been told; we may say with almost equal
truth, restorer-destroyer. And then we may go into the cloisters, which
next after the church was the centre of monastic life. The present
cloister is chiefly the work of Prior Chillenden, but traces of many
periods are to be found--Norman, Early English and Perpendicular. Do not
hurry here; it is a place in which to loiter, examining its many
beauties, watching the Cathedral the while; as the white clouds sail
behind the great tower, or as the storm darkens the day. The lightning
flashes, the thunder rolls and mutters, and as the mirk grows deeper
and deeper, as though night were upon us--what do we hear? The echoes
from long ago of the cries of terror-stricken men, the imperious tones
of a haughty priest, the shouts and clamour of armed men. We have
travelled back to the dark night of December 29, in the year 1170, the
night of Becket’s murder. There have been penned many accounts of this
tragedy, but we shall not do ill to follow closely that handed down to
us from the clerk Edward Grim, who stood stoutly by his master almost to
the end, stood by him till severely hurt himself.[3]
The four murderers, Fitzurse, Moreville, Tracy, and le Bret, arriving in
Canterbury on the afternoon of this fatal Tuesday, acted in a curiously
hesitating manner, due either to nervousness or to want of any settled
plan. After an interview with Becket of which the accounts vary
considerably, the murderers retired to arm themselves. But they quickly
returned with swords and axes, only to find all entrance barred. But
they were not to be baulked, and, guided by Robert de Broc, the
custodian of
[Illustration: THE BAPTISTRY, CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL]
the palace during Becket’s long exile, the knights forced their way in
through a window. Terror-stricken at the noise, the servants and almost
all of the clerks fled like sheep before hungry wolves. Those with the
archbishop in his chamber besought him to fly, to seek safety in the
church where vespers were being sung; but he strenuously refused,
unmoved by either arguments or prayers. Then the monks took courage to
act, and half dragging, half pushing, half carrying, forced him to fly.
But the door leading into the cloister had some days previous been
barred up; yet when one of the monks laid his hand upon the bar it
yielded to him, coming out of the socket as “though fastened by nothing
stronger than glue.” The cross was carried before by the clerk, Henry of
Auxerre; and beside Grim there were with him his faithful friend John of
Salisbury, his chaplain William Fitzstephen and a few monks. They were
now in the cloister and dragged the still unwilling man along the north
wall and so on to the chapter house. “What means this, sirs? What is
your fear?” he continued asking them, as he angrily resisted their
importunity. At last they reached the door opening into the church from
the south-east corner of the cloister. As they passed through, the
knights were heard following at full speed; and, on the other hand, the
monks who had been singing the vespers, broke off, hastening to meet
him, glorifying God because they saw him living and unharmed. So almost
in the dark they must have stood, for it was late of a winter afternoon.
The monks made to bar the door, but Becket bade them forbear, bidding
them not to make “into a tower the house of prayer.” The murderers
pushed in, with swords unsheathed, shouting, “Where is Thomas Becket,
traitor to King and realm?” Receiving no reply, they called again,
“Where is the archbishop?” Whereon he advanced to meet them from the
steps to which he had been carried by the retreating crowd of monks, and
answered, “Here I am, no traitor to the King, but a priest. What do you
seek of me?” He turned aside to the right, under a pillar, on one hand
the altar of the Virgin and on the other that of St Benedict. The
knights followed him, bidding him restore those whom he had
excommunicated, only to be met with blank refusal. They attacked him,
endeavouring to drag him outside the church; but they could not move him
from the pillar. Then one of the knights, to whom Becket spoke roughly
as he shook him off, raised
[Illustration: NORMAN STAIRCASE, KING’S SCHOOL, CANTERBURY]
his sword to strike, and the archbishop, bending his neck as though for
prayer, and raising his hands, prepared for the martyrdom which he seems
almost to have sought. The knight struck, shearing away the top of the
skull, and with the same blow almost cutting off the arm of Edward Grim,
who was supporting him. Another blow and another, then Becket fell on
his knees, saying in a low voice, “For the name of Jesus and for the
protection of the Church I am prepared to die.” Then Bret struck at him,
wounding him severely: struck with such violence that he not only
shivered his sword against the pavement, but also cut the crown from off
the martyr’s head so that the blood, whitening from the brain and the
brain reddening from the blood, “empurpled the face with the whiteness
as of the lily and redness as of the rose, the colours of the Church as
Virgin and Mother.” Another of the murderers placed his foot on the neck
of the prostrate man, and with his sword’s point scattered the brains
and blood about the pavement, calling out, “Let us go hence! This fellow
will not rise again any more.” As the murderers fled out into the thick
mirk of the night; as the monks cowered in terror in the black darkness
of the silent Cathedral; as the crowds surged anxiously in the narrow
streets of the city; as the dead archbishop lay there upon the
blood-stained pavement, a few trembling but faithful friends near
by,--there burst forth a tempestuous storm of rain and thunder. Then the
silence of night and of fear. By-and-by the monks plucked up courage to
approach the spot where lay the dead archbishop; turning the body they
saw that the face was peaceful, no trace of terror or of wrath, he
looked as one sleeping. After binding up the frightful wound in the
head, they carried the body through the choir and laid it on a bier
before the high altar. There in the dim light of the candles the monks
mourned the fallen man, listening to Robert of Merton, who told them
that Becket had lived a saint as he had died a martyr, showing them the
monk’s habit beneath the dead man’s garments and the hair shirt next the
skin. Then the monks broke out in praises of the man they had sometimes
misjudged, knelt, kissed the hands and feet of the corpse, crying
“_Saint_ Thomas.”
The body was first laid to rest in the crypt, until the translation in
1220. In 1173 Becket was canonised, December 29th being the feast of St
Thomas of Canterbury. To this tomb in the crypt came Henry II. to do
penance for his own
[Illustration: THE MARTYRDOM, CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL]
sin and his servants’, in the darkest hour of his reign. Barefoot and
fasting he came; with rods he was beaten by bishops, abbots and monks;
in the crypt he passed the hours of night; so his sin was washed away.
The bones of the martyr brought greater prosperity to the monastery and
church than ever it had known, and as their fortunes rose, so those of
their rival St Augustine’s declined. In 1220 the martyr’s remains were
translated from the crypt to the new chapel of the Trinity which had
arisen from the ashes of the old one burnt down in 1174--moved thither
with splendid pomp and ceremony, and laid in a glorious shrine. The
feast of the Translation of St Thomas of Canterbury was commemorated for
over three hundred years, until by Henry VIII. it was suppressed. To
this shrine, glowing with gold and gems, journeyed pilgrims from every
quarter of the world; before it they knelt, and were cured of their ills
of the flesh and of the spirit; to it they made their offerings, many of
great price, such as the magnificent carbuncle, “the Regale of France,”
which, when Louis VII. was reluctant to part with it, flew from out the
ring upon the King’s finger and stuck fast to the wall of the shrine.
Here is a description of the shrine by a Venetian who saw it about the
year 1500:--“The tomb of St Thomas the Martyr, Archbishop of Canterbury,
exceeds all belief. Notwithstanding its great size, it is wholly covered
with plates of pure gold; yet the gold is scarcely seen because it is
covered with various precious stones, as sapphires, balasses, diamonds,
rubies, and emeralds; and wherever the eye turns something more
beautiful than the rest is observed. Nor, in addition to these natural
beauties, is the skill of art wanting, for in the midst of the gold are
the most beautiful sculptured gems both small and large, as well such as
are in relief, as agates, onyxes, cornelians, and cameos; and some
cameos are of such size, that I am afraid to name it; but everything is
far surpassed by a ruby, not longer than a thumb-nail, which is fixed to
the right of the altar.[4] The church is somewhat dark, and particularly
in the spot where the shrine is placed, and when we went to see it the
sun was near setting, and the weather was cloudy; nevertheless I saw
that ruby as if I had it in my hand.”
Hither came Richard Cœur de Lion from his Austrian prison, Henry V.
from Agincourt, and--strange irony of fate--Henry VIII. and the Emperor
Charles V. Then came the storm of the Reformation; by the King’s order
the treasures of the shrine were carried off to the royal treasury, and
the Regale adorned the thumb of the royal humbug. Of the shrine nothing
remains now, nothing but a memory. A memory, only a memory; but no one
can realise what mediævalism was, how powerful superstition was, or the
place in English and Continental history that Canterbury held for those
three hundred years, to whom this memory is not present as he stands
where once stood the shrine of St Thomas of Canterbury. We are very far
removed from those days, but if we would understand them aright, we must
here endeavour to probe the spirit which brought weary pilgrims to this
holy shrine, some of them to scoff, but the majority in faith. Nor is it
seemly to jeer at that superstition--to those whom it guided it was
light in darkness; and maybe we have some superstitions of our own
to-day, the folly of which will remain for future generations to point
out. So from this darkness of mediævalism let us pass out into the
daylight, not foolishly thinking that we have seen all or half all that
there is to see, but content if we have drunk in somewhat of the beauty
and solemnity of this great church.
CANTERBURY PILGRIMS
When seeking for the bright, sweet English daylight, who better could be
our guide than Geoffrey Chaucer?
We have outlined briefly the story of the shrine, and of the resort to
it of pilgrims high and low; but in order to paint effectively and to
call up a true picture of mediæval Canterbury, let us betake ourselves
back through the centuries and set out from Southwark on an April
morning, adding our humble selves to that immortal band of Canterbury
Pilgrims, who whiled away the tedium of the journey with jest and story.
Let Chaucer limn the day for us:--
“Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open eye,--
So priketh hem Nature in hir corages,--
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmeres for to seeken straunge strondes,
To ferne halwes kowthe in sondry londes;
And specially, from every shires ende
Of Engelond, to Caunturbury they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for to seke,
That hem hath holpen whan that they were to seeke.”
They formed a company of nine-and-twenty, and in fellowship we’ll go
toward Canterbury, with a right merry cheer. This is our route--
“Lo, Depeford, and it is half wey pryme.
Lo, Grenewych, ther many a shrewe is inne”;
then--
“Lo, Rouchestre stant heer faste by!”
and so along our pilgrims’ way through the pleasant country of Kent
until we reach
“A litel toun,
Which that y-cleped is Bobbe-up-and-doun,
Under the Blee in Caunterbury weye”;
maybe Harbledown, where we will loiter anon. And so to close sight of
the Angel Steeple and of the hospitable red roofs nestling round the
church, wherein stands the shrine we have set forth to see. Then down
the steep way into the city, perchance to the music of Canterbury bells.
We have arrived toward dusk, and naturally we shall at once seek out our
lodging for the night, as did Chaucer’s company--
“When all this fresh feleship were com to Cantirbury.”[5]
Alack, we cannot lay our heads under the same roof as did they--
“They took their in and loggit them at mydmorowe, I trowe,
Atte Cheker of the Hope that many a man doth knowe.”
There is little room for doubt but that this inn, the “Chequers of the
Hope,” occupied the west corner of the angle formed by the High Street
and Mercery Lane, hard by the old Butter Market and Christchurch Gate.
Of the original building only fragments remain, for fire was only too
busy here in the year 1865. Here was the dormitory of the Hundred Beds,
the Pantry, the Buttery, the Dining Room, and the beautiful garden with
its herbs and flowers, to all of which the writer of the “Supplementary
Tale” makes reference. In olden days Canterbury might almost have been
described
[Illustration: SOUTH-WEST TRANSEPT AND ST GEORGE’S TOWER, CANTERBURY
CATHEDRAL]
as a city of churches, religious houses, and hostelries and other
accommodations for pilgrims--that was the atmosphere of mediæval
Canterbury. On the opposite side of High Street to the “Chequers” was a
lodging for pilgrims erected by Prior Chillenden in the fifteenth
century, which was for long years after the Reformation an ordinary inn
for travellers.
Pilgrims came throughout the year in companies large and small, but the
throng and press was tremendous at the festival of the Martyrdom on
December 29, and in summer for the festival of the Translation on July
7, which also was the first day of Canterbury Fair. Larger still the
crowds in the years of jubilee, 1270, 1320, 1370, 1420, 1470, and 1520,
when on each fiftieth anniversary of the Translation the feast lasted
for two weeks and indulgences were granted to all pilgrims.
Beside the inns, there was plenty other accommodation for pilgrims of
all degrees, in the hospitals and convents, and, above all, in the
Priory of Christ Church.
The city fathers, too, took their share in the festivals, among other
entertainments providing a pageant of the Martyrdom; and here follow a
few quaint extracts from an account of the expenditure one year upon
the same: “Paid to carpenters hewing and squaring of timber for the
pageant, 8d. For making St Thomas’s cart, with a pair of wheels, 5s. 8d.
Paid a carpenter and his fellows making of the pageant, by four days,
taking between them, by the day, finding themselves, 14d., 4s. 8d....
For 114 feet of board, bought for flooring the same pageant, 2s. 8d....
For nails, 7½d. For tallow for the wheels, 1d. For ale spent 1d. To four
men to help to carry the pageant, 8d.... For gunpowder, bought at
Sandwich, 3s. 4d.... For linen cloth for St Thomas’s garment, 6d. For a
dozen and a half of tin silver, 9d. For glue and pack-thread, 3d.... To
John a Kent for the hire of a sword, 4d. And for washing of an albe and
an amys, 2d.”
Our pilgrims, who seem to have arrived fairly early in day,
“Ordeyned their dyner wisely, or they to church went,”
and then went along Mercery Lane, under the great gateway--as we all
still may go--and then broke upon their view a sight different in many
ways, yet in many the same as now meets the eye. Dean Stanley has
described it well for us: “The pilgrims would stream into the Precincts.
The outside aspect of the Cathedral can be imagined without much
difficulty. A wide cemetery, which, with its numerous gravestones, such
as that on the south side of Peterborough Cathedral, occupied the vacant
space still called the Churchyard, divided from the garden beyond by the
old Norman arch since removed to a more convenient spot. In the cemetery
were interred such pilgrims as died during their stay in Canterbury. The
external aspect of the Cathedral itself, with the exception of the
numerous statues which then filled its now vacant niches, must have been
much what it is now. Not so its interior. Bright colours on the roof, on
the windows, on the monuments; hangings suspended from the rods which
may still be seen running from pillar to pillar; chapels, and altars,
and chantries intercepting the view, where now all is clear, must have
rendered it so different, that at first we should hardly recognise it to
be the same building.”
Returning to our friends:--
“Whan they wer al y-loggit, as skill wold and reson,
Everich aftir his degre, to chirch then was seson
To pas and to wend, to make their offringis,
Righte as their devocioune was, of silver broch and ryngis.
Then at the chirch dorr the curtesy gan to ryse,
Tyl the knyght, of gentilnes that knewe right well the guyse,
Put forth the prelatis, the parson and his fere.
A monk, that took the spryngill with a manly chere,
And did as the manere is, moilid all thir patis,
Everich after othir, righte as they wer of statis.”
After they had been thus sprinkled with the holy water--
“The knyght went with his compers to the holy shryne,
To do that they wer com for, and aftir for to dyne,
The pardoner and the miller, and othir lewde sotes,”
waiting behind, gaping at the beautiful stained glass which then filled
the windows of the nave, and wildly guessing at their subjects--
“‘Pese!’ quod the hoost of Southwork, ‘let stond the wyndow glassid,
Goith up and doith your offerynge, ye semith half amasid.’
* * * * *
Then passid they forth boystly, goggling with their hedis,
Knelid adown tofore the shrine, and hertlich their bedis
They preyd to seint Thomas, in such wyse as the couth;
And sith the holy relikes ech man with his mowith
Kissid, as a goodly monk the names told and taught.”