CHRISTCHURCH.
[Illustration: The Priory Church from the Castle Keep.]
I have determined to give a chapter to Christchurch, not because it
contains more than many another town, but because it is a fair
representative of the generality of small English boroughs. There is not
a town in England, dating from even the Middle Ages, which is not full
of interest peculiarly its own, and which does not possess memorials of
the past which no other place can show. It has been proposed, by a no
mean authority, to teach history by paintings and cartoons. But history
is already painted for us on our city walls, and written for us upon our
gates and crumbling castles. Our towns are in themselves the best texts
upon history. For what we have seen with our eyes, and touched with our
hands, leaves a more vivid and more lasting impression than the closest
study of libraries of histories.
Further, the picture of a mediæval town, as given in its own archives,
with its own legislation, its peculiar manufacture, or import, forms, to
some extent, the true social picture of the times. Its history
reflects—and not faintly—the history of the day. Christchurch was never
a town of sufficient importance to show all this in its municipal
records. Yet, too, we shall see that they in another way are, like the
town itself, full of interest. From a modern point of view there is
nothing to be seen beyond three or four straggling streets and its
manufactory of fusee watch-chains—the only one in England. All its
interest and associations lie with the past. The country round it, too,
is equally bound up with that same past. To the north rises St.
Catherine’s Hill, which we saw from the valley of the Avon, with its
oval and square camps, and rampart and double vallum, crested with the
mounds of its Roman watch-towers. The river Stour winds along between
rows of barrows. Hengistbury Head is still fortified by its vast
earthworks, and entrenched by deep ditches from the Avon to the
sea.[156] Here the Britons saw the first swarm of fugitive Belgæ land
and spread themselves along the rich valleys of Dorsetshire.[157] Here,
centuries afterwards, the West-Saxons watched the raven—standard of the
Danes scouring down the Channel, and knew their course along the coast,
at night, by the blaze of burning villages, and, in the day, by the
black trail of smoke.[158]
But to return to the town. Its Old-English names, Tweonea and
Twinham-burn, were given to it from its situation between the rivers
Avon and Stour. They were afterwards corrupted into the Norman Thuinam;
which was lost in the name of its Priory, overshadowing the town with
its magnificence.
Here, in 901, came Æthelwald the Ætheling, son of Æthered, in his
rebellion against his cousin Edward the Elder, and seized the place.
From Christchurch he fell back upon Wimborne, which he fortified,
exclaiming he would do one of two things, “Either there live, or there
lie.” That same night he fled to Northumberland.[159]
From _Domesday_ we find that its manor was held in demesne by the
Conqueror, as also by Edward the Confessor, with a mill renting for
5_s._, whilst another, belonging to the Church, was worth but 30_d._,
and that thirty-one tenements in the borough paid a rent of 16_d._ Its
woods, only, were inclosed in the Forest.
The manor remained in the hands of the Crown till Henry I. bestowed it
on his friend and kinsman Richard de Redvers, Earl of Devon, the ruins
of whose castle still overlook the Avon. Here his son Baldwin de Redvers
in vain fortified himself against Stephen. Here, too, lived his grandson
William de Vernon, who helped to bear the canopy at Richard’s second
coronation at Winchester. Afterwards, the manor passed into the hands of
Isabella de Fortibus, who, on her death-bed, sold it, with all her
possessions, to Edward I., who well knew the value of such a stronghold.
Though Edward II. bestowed the estate on Sir William Montacute, yet the
castle still remained in the hands of the Crown.
It was standing, though no longer a fortification, in the Commonwealth
period. Nothing, however, now remains but the mere shell of the keep,
whose walls are in places four yards thick.[160]
Below it stands what was, perhaps, the house of Baldwin de Redvers, also
in ruins, and roofless, but still a capital specimen of what is so
rarely seen, the true domestic architecture of the twelfth century. Like
all the other remaining houses of this period, it is a simple oblong,
seventy-one feet by twenty-four broad, and only two stories high, placed
for defence on a branch of the Avon, which serves as a moat. On the
south-east it is flanked by a small attached tower, now in ruins, under
which the stream flows. The ground floor was divided in half by a wall,
whilst the outer walls, thicker on the east and south sides, where more
exposed to attacks than on the north and west, are pierced with
deeply-splayed loopholes looking out on the stream. On this side was the
hall, where lord, and guest, and serf, alike ate and drank, and slept on
the floor. The other western half was divided into chambers and cellars,
the kitchen probably standing in the courtyard.
[Illustration: The Norman House.]
Above, approached by two stone staircases from within, and not, as in
most cases, from without, was the principal dwelling-room, the solar,
lighted on each side by three double lights, carved on their outer
arches with zig-zag and billet mouldings, and on the south by a
circular, and on the north by a fine double window, once richly
ornamented, but now nearly destroyed. The fire-place, the only one in
the house, is set nearly in the centre of the east wall; and above it
still stands, in the place of the old smoke-vent, the beautiful round
chimney, one of the earliest in England, like the fire-place, hid in
ivy.
There seems, however, as in the case of the still older Norman house at
Southampton, to have been no wall-passage connecting the building, as we
might have expected, with the castle; but like it, its entrances, of
which there were three, one opening out upon the stream, were on the
ground floor.[161]
Coming down to later times, the great Lord Clarendon here possessed
large property, and one of his favourite schemes was to make the Avon
navigable to Salisbury. For this purpose it was surveyed by Yarranton,
the hydrographer, who not only reported favourably of the idea, but
proposed to make the harbour an anchorage for men-of-war, bringing
forward the great natural advantages of Hengistbury Head, as also the
facilities of procuring iron in the district, and wood from the New
Forest.[162] All, however, fell to the ground with Clarendon’s exile,
and the harbour is now silted up with sand and choked with weeds.
Nothing else is there to be mentioned, except the visit by Edward VI. to
the town, from whence he wrote a letter to his friend Barnaby
Fitz-Patrick, far superior to most royal letters. The lazar-house, which
stood in the Bargates, has long since been destroyed. The old
market-place has been lately taken down; but in the main street, not far
from the castle keep, remains, lately-restored, one of those timbered
houses so common in the Midland counties and the Weald of Kent, with
their dormer windows and richly-carved bressumers and barge-boards, but
rarer in the West of England.[163] The glory, however, of the town, the
Priory Church, still stands. Before describing it let us give some
account of its history. Its earliest buildings were founded by some of
the secular canons of the order of St. Augustine, probably on a spot
used for worship by the Romans.[164] Mention of it is made in _Domesday_
as existing in Edward the Confessor’s reign, and as possessing five
hydes and one yardland in Thuinam, as also its tithes, and the third of
those of Holdenhurst.[165] The present building, however, dates only
from the time of Flambard, who rebuilt the church, pulling down the
earlier building with its nine cells.[166] And in Henry I.’s reign,
Baldwin de Redvers brought in the regular instead of the secular canons,
and placed them under the first prior, Reginald.
With this change new privileges and grants were made. Riches flowed in
on every side. Not only were the Redvers benefactors, but the
Courtenays, and Wests, and Salisburys, into whose hands the manor of
Christchurch came.[167]
Like most other ecclesiastical buildings, we hear but little of it till
its dissolution. From its state we may be able to judge of the general
condition of the monasteries, and how imperative was the change.
Leland[168] tells us that the Priory possessed but one volume—a small
work on the Old-English laws. Their own accounts show us that the rules
of St. Augustine had long been forgotten. Drunkenness had taken the
place of fasting; and instead of giving they now owed.[169] Tradition,
too, adds that the brethren were known in the town as the “Priory
Lubbers.” To this had the Austin Canons sank. So it was throughout
England. Abbot and poorest brother were alike steeped in sensuality, and
benighted in ignorance.
Of the last prior, John Draper, we catch some faint glimpse in a letter
from Robert Southwell and four other commissioners to Cromwell, dated
from Christchurch, the 2nd of December. He appears to have been a man
who trimmed his course with the breath of authority, utterly selfish,
utterly despicable. Not one word does he appear to have raised on behalf
of his priory. Not one sigh did he utter for the old, nor one aspiration
after the new religion. Thus the commissioners write:—“Our humble
dewties observyd unto y^r gudde Lordeschippe. It may lyke the same to be
advertised that we have taken the surrender of the late priorye of
Christ Churche twynhm̄, wher we founde the prior a very honest,
conformable p̄son, And the howse well furnysshede w^t Jewellys and
plate, whereof som be mete for the King^s majestie is use as A litill
chalys of golde, a gudly lardge crosse doble gylt, w^t the foote
garnyshyd w^t stone and perle, two gudly basuns doble gylt having the
Kings armys well inamyld, a gudly great pyxe for the sacramēt doble
gylt, And ther be also other things of sylv̄, right honest and of gudde
valewe as well for the churche use as for the table resyvyd, and kept to
the Kings use.”[170] Before the Dissolution came, whilst matters still
trembled in the balance—whilst still there was hope that Protection
would, for a little time longer, be given to hypocrisy, and Authority to
sloth, he pleaded with Henry.[171] Now, when all hope was lost, when the
end had arrived, the commissioners compliment him as the “very honest,
conformable person.” Had he previously been in earnest they must have
written very differently. By his conformity he purchased his peace. And
so, after giving up his priory, he was allowed to depart with a pension,
to finish his life as he pleased, at the Prior’s Lodgings at Sumerford
Grange. There he died; and was buried in front of what had been his own
choir; and his chantry still remains in the south choir aisle. Of the
conventual buildings, which stood on the south side of the church,
nothing remains except the fragments of the outer wall and the entrance
lodge, built by Draper, with his initials still carved on the window
label. A modern house stands on the site of the Refectory; and in
digging its foundations, some tombs of the fourth century were
found.[172] Other traces remain only in the names of the places, as
Paradise Walk, by the side of the mill stream, and the Convent meadows,
where, in an adjoining field, are the sites of the fishponds of the
brethren.
The church stands at the south-west of the town, on a rising ground
between the two rivers, its tower alike a seamark to the ships and a
landmark to the Valley. But the first thing which strikes the visitor is
not so much the tower, as the deep, massive north porch, standing right
out from the main building, reaching to its roof, with its high-recessed
arch, and its rich doorways dimly seen, set between clusters of black
Purbeck marble pillars, and ornamented above with a quatrefoiled niche.
Standing here, and looking along the north aisle, the eye rests on the
Norman work of the transept, the low round arches interlacing one
another, their spandrels rich with billet and fishscale mouldings;
whilst beyond rises the Norman turret, banded with its three
string-courses, and enriched with its arcades, the space between them
netted over with coils of twisted cables.
This is true Norman work, such as you can see scarcely anywhere else in
England. And imagine what the church once was—a massive lantern-tower
springing up from the midst, the crown of all this beauty.
Beyond all this lovely Romanesque work, rises the north choir aisle,
with its quatrefoiled parapet, whilst above gleam the traceried windows
of the choir, with their flying buttresses; and beyond them again stands
the Lady Chapel, surmounted by St. Michael’s loft, ugly and vile.
Entering, and standing at the extreme south-west end, we shall see the
massive Norman piers rise in long lines, lightened by their columns, and
relieved by their capitals, the spaces above each arch moulded with the
tooth ornament. Above springs the triforium with its double arches, some
of their pillars wreathed with foliage, the central shafts chequered in
places with network, and woven over with tracery. Above that again runs
the clerestory, now spoilt, whilst an open oak roof, hid by a ceiling,
but once rich with bosses and carved work, encloses all.
To go into details. The porch and north aisle are Early-English, whilst
a Norman arcade runs the whole length of the south aisle. The tower, and
choir, and Lady Chapel, are Perpendicular, and the nave, as far as the
clerestory windows, Norman.
Passing through the rich rood-screen, which, however, sadly blocks up
the way, we reach the choir, with its four traceried windows on either
side, and clustered columns, from which springs its groined roof with
bosses of foliage and pendants bright with gold, whilst the capitals of
the shafts and the quatrefoils of the archivolts are rich with colour.
The stalls are carved with grotesque heads and figures, like those in
the Collegiate Church of the Holy Trinity, at Stratford-upon-Avon.
Before us now stands the lovely reredos, illustrating the words of
Isaiah,—“There shall come forth a rod out of the stem of Jesse, and a
Branch shall grow out of his roots.” Jesse sleeps at the bottom, his
hand supporting his head, whilst David, with his fingers on his
harp-strings, and Solomon, sit on each side, the vine spreading upwards,
bearing its leaf and full fruit in Mary, to whose Son the Wise Men are
offering their presents. Such is the screen, and had the execution been
equal to the design, it would have been the finest in England. The
carving seems, however, never to have been finished, and certainly in
parts only to have been roughly cut by some inferior hand, and never to
have received the last touches of the master-artist. Even now, in its
present condition, it stands before those of Winchester and St. Alban’s,
inferior only to that of St. Mary’s Overie.[173]
Passing on we come to the Lady Chapel, with its traceried roof. Under
the east window are the remnants of another rich screen. The high altar,
too, with its slab of Purbeck marble cut with five crosses, remains,
whilst two recessed altar tombs to Sir Thomas West and his mother stand
in the north and south walls.
But what we should especially see, both for its beauty and its interest,
is the Chantry Chapel, built for her last resting-place by Margaret,
Countess of Salisbury, mother of Cardinal Pole. It stands in the north
choir aisle, its roof rich with arabesque tracery and carved bosses,
telling a curious story in our English history. Attainted of treason the
Countess was confined two years in the Tower before she suffered. When
the day of execution came, she walked out on the fatal Tower Green; and
still firm—still to the last resolute—refused to lay her head on the
block. “So should traitors do,” she cried, “but I am none;” and the
headsman was obliged to butcher her as best he could.[174]
In the same letter before quoted from the Commissioners for the
Suppression of Monasteries, dated from Christchurch, occurs this
passage:—“In thys churche we founde a chaple and monumēt curiosly made
of cane [Caen] stone ̄paryd by the late mother of Raynolde pole for
herre buriall, wiche we have causyd to be defacyd, and all the armys and
badgis clerly to be delete.”[175] To this day the vengeance of Henry’s
commissioners is visible, her arms being broken, and the bosses defaced,
though her motto, “_Spes mea in Deo est_,” can still be read.
At the end of this aisle, under the east window, lie the alabaster
effigies of Sir John Chydioke and his wife. The knight, who fell in the
wars of York and Lancaster, wears his coat of mail, his head resting on
his helmet, and his hands clasped together in prayer. At the western
end, adjoining the north transept, stand two oratories with groined
roofs, enriched with foliated bosses, whilst the capitals, from which
the arches spring, are carved with heads.[176]
In the south choir aisle stand more monuments, amongst them the mortuary
chapel of Robert Harys, with his rebus sculptured on a shield; and the
chapel of Draper, the last prior, noticeable for its rich canopied niche
over the doorway.[177]
And now that the reader has seen each part, let him go back to the west
end, and sweep out of sight the whole thicket of pews, and break down
the rood-screen blocking up the view, and looking through and beyond it,
past the long line of Norman bays, with their sculptured tables, and
past the chancel, imagine the stone reredos, as it once was, shining
with gold and colour, all its niches filled with statues, and the
windows above blazing with crimson and purple, through which the
sunlight poured, staining the carved stalls and misereres,—and then he
will have some faint idea of the former glory of the church.[178]
Most interesting is it, too, from another point of view. Since the
Austin canons were more especially concerned with man’s struggle in
daily life, their churches assumed a parochial character. Hence we here
have the spacious nave, so different to that of the old Nunnery Church
of Romsey, the west tower and doorway—absent at Romsey—and the lovely
north porch looking out to the town.
The whole building, I am sorry to add, is sadly out of repair.
Restoration has been going on for some time past; but here, as in all
similar cases, money is much needed. Surely men might give something, if
from no higher motive than of keeping up a memorial of the piety of a
past age. We inveigh against Cromwell and the Puritans—against the
sacrilege of horses stabled in the choir, and the stalls turned into
mangers;—against the sword which struck down the sculptured images, and
the fire which consumed the carved woodwork. But the harm which the
Puritans wrought is little compared with ours, in allowing the
loveliness of our churches to rot by our negligence, and their
sacredness to perish by our apathy.
[Illustration: The North Porch and Doorway.]