The Cathedral.—Forms.—Symbols.—Early history of the Christian church.—Growth of superstition.—Influence of Paganism.—Government.—Growth of the Papacy.—Monasticism.—St. Macarius.—Benedict.—St. Augustine.—Hildebrand.—Celibacy of the clergy.—Herbert of Losinga, founder of Norwich Cathedral.—Crusades, their influence on Civilization.—Historical memoranda.—Bishop Nix.—Bilney.—Bishop Hall.—Ancient religious festivals.—Easter.—Whitsuntide.—Good Friday.—“Creeping to the Cross.”—Paschal taper.—Legend of St. William.—Holy-rood Day.—Carvings.—Origin of grotesque sculptures.—Old Painting: mode of executing it.—Speculatory.—Cloisters.—Anecdote.—Epitaph.—List of Bishops.—Funeral of Bishop Stanley.
“What is a city?” “A city contains a cathedral, or Bishop’s see.”
Such being the definition given us in one of those valuable literary productions that we were wont in olden time to call Pinnock’s ninepennies, and which have since been followed by dozens upon dozens of series upon series, written by a host of good souls that have followed in his wake, devoting themselves to the task of retailing homeopathic doses of concentrated geography, biography, philosophy, astronomy, geology, and all the other phies, nies, onomies, and ologies, that ever perplexed or enlightened the brains of the rising generation; we adopt the term, in memory of those so-called happy days of childhood, when its vague mysticism suggested to our country born and school-bred pates a wide field of speculation for fancy to wander in; a Cathedral and a Bishop’s see being to us, in their unexplained nomenclature, figures of speech as hieroglyphical as any inscription that ever puzzled a Belzoni or a Caviglia to decipher.
We have grown, however, to know something of the meaning of these terms; and having lived to see a few specimens of real cathedrals and live bishops, we are now quite ready to acknowledge the priority of their claims upon our notice when rambling among the lions of an old city.
We say old, but where is the cathedral not old? save and except a few just springing into existence, evidences we would hope of a reaction in the devotional tendencies of our nature, rising up once more through the confused assemblage of churches and chapels, and meeting houses, reared in honour of man’s intellect, sectarian isms; human deity in fact, with its standard freedom of thought, under which the myriad diverse forms of hero worshippers have rallied themselves, each with their own atom of the broken statue of truth, that they may vainly strive of their own power to re-unite again into a perfect and harmonious whole. Setting aside, however, these later efforts to regain something of the lofty conceptions that can alone enter into the mind of a worshipper of God, not man, we have to deal with the monuments of a past age yet left among us, witnessing to the early life in the church, though not unmingled with symptoms of disease, and marks of the progress of decay,—marks which are indeed fearfully manifest in the relics existing in our country, that bear almost equal traces of corruption and spiritual growth, each struggling, as it were, for victory. Is there any one who can walk through the lofty nave of a cathedral, and not feel lifted up to something? may be he knows not what; but the spirit of worship, of adoration, is breathed on him as it were from the structure around him. And should it not be so? does not the blue vault of heaven, with its unfathomed ocean of suns and worlds, each moving in its own orbit, obeying one common law of order and perfect harmony, call up our reverence for the God of Nature? and has it ever been forbidden that the heart and understanding should be appealed to through the medium of the outward senses, for the worship of the God of Revelation? Is the eye to be closed, the mouth dumb, the ear deaf, to all save the intellectual teachings of a fellow man? Is music the gift of heaven, colour born in heaven’s light, incense the fragrance of the garden, planted by God’s hand, form the clothing of soul and spirit, to be banished from the temple dedicated to the service of that living God, who created the music of the bird, the waterfall, and the thunder, who painted the rainbow in the window of heaven, who scented the earth with sweet flowers, and herbs and “spicy groves,” who gave to each tree, each leaf, each bird and flower, each fibre, sinew, and muscle of the human frame, each crystal, and each gem of earth, each shell of the ocean’s depths, each moss and weed that creeps around the base of hidden rocks, even to the noisome fungus and worm that owes its birth alike to death and to decay a material body, full of beauty and adaptation in all its parts; revealing thus to man, that all thought, all life, all spirit, must dwell within an outer covering of form. True, the spirit and life may depart, the garment may cover rottenness and decay, the symbol may be a dead letter, in the absence of the truth it should shadow forth, the candle at the altar, be meaningless from the dimness of the light of the spirit, that it should represent as ever living and present in the church; the eagle of the reading-desk be a graven image, without place in God’s temple, when the soaring voice of prophecy, rising above earth, and fed from the living fire burning on heaven’s altar, that it should symbolize, has ceased to be heard. Incense may be a mystic mockery, when the prayers of the children of God have ceased to ascend in unison as a sweet smelling savour to the throne of their Father; the swelling chant be monotonous jargon, when the beauty and harmony of one common voice of praise, thanksgiving, and prayer, is not felt; the vestment be a mere display of weak and empty vanity, when purity, activity, authority and love, have ceased to be the realities expressed in the alb, the stole, the crimson and purple, the gold and silver; the screen, a senseless mass of carving, the long unbenched and empty nave, so much waste stone and mortar, to those who see not in it the vast Gentile court, where the voice of preaching and invitation was sent forth to sinners to enter the temple and join in the worship of praise and prayer of the church within.
Why are all these too often as cold and empty outlines of a nothing to our senses? is it not that their life is gone? But should we therefore cast away the fragments that remain? should we not rather desire that the spirit may breathe upon the dry bones, that they may live again, and form a new and living temple for the most High to dwell in; the outer edifice of wood and stone, being the model or statue of that spiritual church, of which every pillar, every window, every beam, and curtain, should be formed of living members, with Christ for the foundation and chief corner stone, to be built up and fashioned by the hand of God; every sand or ash of truth that lies scattered over the surface of the earthy being cemented together by bonds of love and charity, to form the masonry of the one great Catholic Church.
Such thoughts may be misunderstood, and bring down upon us, in these days of Papal Aggression, anathemas from many a zealous reformationist, or member of the heterogeneous Protestant Alliance, nay, perhaps every shade of Protestant dissenter, evangelical churchman, and Puseyite, may shake his head at us in pity, and wonder what we mean; we would say to the last, beware of the shadow without the substance, the symbol without the truth, the emblem without the reality; and of the others we would ask forbearance. Popery does not necessarily lurk beneath the advocacy of forms.
With such formidable prejudices as we may possibly have raised by these suggestive hints, dare we hope to find companions in our visit to the venerable pile of building, whose spire still rears itself from the valley, where some eight hundred years ago, the foundations were laid of one of those huge monastic institutions, combining secular with spiritual power, once so common, and plentifully scattered over our country, and even then grown into strange jumbling masses of error and truth, beauty and deformity? the sole trace of whose grandeur is now to be found in the church and cloister of a Protestant cathedral, and the palace of a Protestant bishop.
We must not, however, lose sight of the fact, that this edifice, in common with most others, among which we have to seek the past history of the church either at home or abroad, did not spring into existence until almost every truth possessed by the early Christians was so hidden by cumbrous masses of superstition, the growth of centuries of darkness, that it is difficult, nay, almost impossible, to trace any harmony of purpose in their outline or filling up; hence the inconsistencies that have sprung from the efforts to revive the ornaments and usages of a period when, the life having departed from them in a great measure, their meaning had been lost, and their practice perverted; hence, too, the folly often displayed by zealous ecclesiastical symbolists, in regarding every monkey, dog, mermaid, or imp that the carvers of wood and stone fashioned from their own barbarous conceits, or copied from the illuminations that some old monk’s overheated brain had devised for embellishment to some fanciful legend, as embodied ideas, to be interpreted into moral lessons or spiritual sermons.
Before, however, we enter into the detail of the remnants left us for examination, we may take a glance over the page of the early history of the church, and trace a little of the origin of those errors which had grown around simple truths, converting them from beautiful realities into monstrous absurdities.
A moment’s reflection may suffice to enable us to believe that the church, as planted by its first head and master, was a seed to be watered and nurtured by the apostles, prophets, and ministers appointed to the work, and intended to have an outward growth of form, as well as inward growth of spirituality. During the early period of its existence, while suffering from the persecution of the Roman emperors, it was impossible that the church could develop itself freely; consequently, we are not surprised to find that “upper chambers,” and afterwards the tombs and sepulchres of their “brethren in the faith,” perhaps, too, of their risen Lord, were the places of meeting of its members. Nor is it difficult to trace from this origin the later superstitious worship at the shrines of the saints.
As early, however, as the peaceful interval under Valerian and Diocletian, when there was rest from persecution, houses were built and exclusively devoted to worship; they were called houses of prayer, and houses of the congregation. And the idea that the Christian church should only be a nobler copy of the Jewish temple was then clearly recognized, the outline being as nearly as possible preserved, and the inner part of the church, where the table of the Lord’s Supper stood, ever having been inaccessible to the common people; an idea that has in a certain sort of way survived all the reformations, dissolutions, and dissensions of sixteen hundred years; for do we not even yet see the minister and deacons of the most ultra-dissenting meeting-houses appropriating to themselves the table pew? There has always seemed something incongruous in the idea, that the minute instructions which God himself thought it worthy to deliver unto Moses in the mount, for the construction of a “tabernacle for the congregation,” and to contain the ark of the covenant, which also formed a model for the gorgeous temple of Solomon, should be doomed to entire annihilation at any period of the world’s history.
As Jewish sacrifices, laws, and covenants, were types, pictures, of the embodiments to be found in the Christian dispensation, when the anti-type had appeared, surely it is possible that the tabernacle too was a type of a real building of living stones, then to be formed and fitly framed together, and which might have its outward symbol in the edifices of worship in all ages. We may not pause to dwell upon this idea, further than it was recognized by the early Christians, of which clear proof exists.
For the nearest approach to a perfect development of it, we must look to a later date, when Christianity was first adopted by Constantine, and just prior to its alliance with the state; and although, from the lack of authority in church government, errors had already crept in, and mingled with many of the practices, we believe the modern copyist might find a far more pure and perfect model there, than in the meaningless observances and ornaments of the middle ages.
Churches had then grown large and magnificent; they were divided into three parts, the porch, the nave, and the sanctuary. In the nave stood the pulpit—preaching at that time being considered the invitation, or preparation for the church, whose duty was worship. It was divided from the sanctuary by a lattice work, or screen, behind which was often a veil before the holy table, which answered to the Holy of Holies of the temple, and within it none but the priests entered. The baptistery was usually situated without the church doors, and contained a fount, and a reservoir for washing the hands was always to be found in the outer court that enclosed all the buildings. Some writers have traced this to heathen observances; if so, it without doubt originated in the Jewish practice. The service within the church was conducted with all the means at command for rendering it complete. Music was cultivated—antiphonal singing, or singing in responses, practised. The clergy wore vestments symbolical of their offices, each form and colour having its significant meaning. Candles were burning continually at the altar, as in the holy place of the temple, symbolising God’s presence in the church. Every part of the building was designed to form a proportionate whole, and the principle of dedicating to the house of God the best works of men’s hands was admitted, the embellishment of His temple being then deemed of superior importance to the decoration of individual dwelling-houses.
Transubstantiation had not polluted the table of the Lord by its presence; the mystery of the spiritual presence of the Lord in the Eucharist, appealing to faith, had not been replaced by the miracle, directed to the carnal senses. Images had no place in the house of God, picture worship was unknown. Confession of sins was practised, and penances were imposed, as tests of the sincerity of repentance; at the celebration of the Eucharist offerings were presented, in memory of the dead who in their lives had offered gifts to God; fasting was observed, but only from choice, and Sunday and the feast of Pentecost were the only festivals and holy-days observed. Gradually, however, after the alliance of the church with the state, and through the accession of converts from the heathen world, grosser elements mingled themselves with these observances; the superstition that the spirits of the saints hovered around the mortal remains they had tenanted, led to the removal of their bodies from their tombs, and placing them within the walls of the church, and to the erection of shrines, where, first to offer up worship with them, afterwards to them.
And who among us cannot feel the poetry and truth that gave birth to this superstition? Who that has ever watched in the chamber of death the bursting of the earthly chrysalis, has not felt the soft touch of the spirit’s wing, has not been conscious of the presence of the spiritualized immortal, has not recognized the fragrance of the soul passing from its earthly habitation, and filling the air with the essence of its life, as the sweet scent of the flower when its perfect fruition has been accomplished, lingers around the leaves of the falling petals?
Who that has ever witnessed the laying down of life in ripened age, by some great and noble type of our humanity, in whose heart the lion and the lamb, the eagle and the dove have dwelt together, but has seemed to breathe an atmosphere laden with power and love, strength, beauty and gentleness, as the spirit passed forth at the call of Him who gave it birth? And who has ever seen the portals of the spirit world open before them, for one in whom all earthly trust, and confidence, and love were centred, but has felt that an angel guardian lived for them in Heaven? Is there no plea for saint worship? But, alas! the poetry and the truth of the superstition became clouded, and were lost in the dark mists of ignorance and worldliness, and from their decay sprung up, like a fungus plant, the noxious idea of the efficacy of reliques, with the monstrous absurdities that accompanied their presence. Confession and penance merged into the sale of indulgences, purchased absolutions, and interdicts; the sleep of the dead, into a belief in purgatorial fires, voluntary seclusion from the gaieties and follies of the world, into forced separation from its active duties; saint worship, image worship, and picture worship gradually usurped the place of the worship of the one God; the cross, from a symbol grew into an idol, and emblems, vestments, and incense, losing their character, from the reality departing, whose presence they should only shadow forth, grew into mere accumulations of ceremonial, covering a decayed skeleton. In this process it is easy to trace the influence of Pagan superstition. As the heathen world gradually became converted to Christianity, objects in the new faith were sought out, around which to cluster the observances and rites of the old system. Thus the worship offered to Cybele, the great mother of the gods, who among the innumerable deities of ancient Rome was pre-eminent, was readily transferred to the madonna, from a fancied resemblance, and as Juno, Minerva, Vesta, Pan, and others, were the especial guardians of women, olive trees, bakers, shepherds, &c. &c. So Erasmus, Teodoro, Genaro, and other saints received homage as the peculiar patrons of individuals or classes. The Genii, Lares, and Penates, occupying the Larrarium of the ancient houses, were replaced, or oftener rebaptized under the names of a madonna, saints or martyrs; the Emperor Alexander, the son of Mammaea, actually placed the image of Christ in his Larrarium, with his Lares and Penates. The Sacrarium took its origin hence. The Pagan had been accustomed to bring his hostia as a sacrifice to Jove; the convert found opportunity to engraft the idea on the commemorative service of the Eucharist.
Meantime church government had been going on in a floundering sort of way, groping about in the dark for authority on which to act, but having lost the apostleship and prophets, set in the church to rule and guide it, and to aid in the work of perfecting the saints, the pastors or bishops set about establishing a system to replace that given them from above—thence began divisions, schisms, and heresies without number, and as early as the commencement of the third century, we find the bishops holding synods as a means towards obtaining Catholic form of doctrine; gradually the bishops in whose provinces these synods were held, who were called metropolitans, took precedence in rank to others, and thus those of Rome, Antioch, and Alexandria, came to be recognised as the heads or chiefs. After the removal of the seat of empire by Constantine, this principle extended itself in the western church at Rome, until the final assumption of temporal and spiritual power over all Christendom by Hildebrand, or Gregory VII., who, although not the first that bore the title of Pope, was the first who thoroughly established the power of the Papacy.
Another important feature of Christianity during these ages, was the progress of monasticism, which had steadily increased from the time of Anthony the Hermit, who fleeing from the corruptions and vanities of the world, had sought to prove and improve his sanctity, by retirement to a solitary cell, there to practise all manner of self tortures; in this laudable attempt he was followed by a host of others, each vying with his brother, as to which could attain the highest perfection in extravagant folly. Thus one lived on the top of a pillar, and was emulated by a whole tribe of pillar saints; another punished himself for killing a gnat, by taking up his abode in marshes where flies abounded, whose sting was sufficient to pierce the hide of a boar, and whose operations upon his person were such as to disfigure him so that his dearest friends could not recognise him; another class, the ascetics, carried on their rigid system of self-denial in the midst of society, others wandered about as beggars, and were afterwards called mendicants, or wandering friars; but the anchorets, or pillar saints, attained the ultimatum of glory, in their elevation of sanctity on the top of their pillars. In progress of time these hermits began to associate themselves into fraternities; and as far back as the middle of the second century, we hear of a body of seventy, establishing themselves in the deserts of Nitria, by the Nitron lakes. It is told of St. Macarius, the head of this body, that having received a bunch of grapes, he sent it to another, who tasting one, passed it to another; he being like abstemious, sent it again forward to another, until, having gone the circuit, it reached Macarius again unfinished.
Basil the Great first founded a permanent monastic establishment to convert people from the error of Arianism; and Benedict, a native of Mursia in Umbria, a.d. 529, first established a regular order among the scattered convents, by uniting them under a fixed circle of laws, seclusion for life being the primary one. These societies also were made useful by him, in having allotted to them various occupations, such as the education of the young, copying and preserving manuscripts, recording the history of their own times in their chronicles, and also in the manual labour of cultivating waste lands. At first the monks had been reckoned among the laity, the convents forming separate churches, of which the abbot was usually presbyter, standing in the same relation to the bishop as in other churches; but monastic life gradually came to be considered the preparation for the clerical office, especially that of bishop. This led to the adoption of monastic discipline among the clergy; and the law of celibacy which had been rejected at the council of Nice, was then prescribed by Siricius, bishop of Rome.
The convents were the representatives of the Christian aristocracy or monarchy, the mendicant orders, were the clergy of the poor. And each in their sphere exercised a great civilizing influence on the people; the latter especially, because the former, by their studies and literary labours, were more occupied in preparing the revival of letters, and the diffusion of knowledge in their own circle. Under the auspices of the church, systems of Christian charity were established, schools for children, hospitals and homes of refuge, were multiplied; all this was beneficial, it was the warmth of Christian light shining in dark places, although deep and painful wounds existed, whose fatal consequences soon became manifest.
Such was the state of the church when St. Augustine laid claim to the supremacy of this country, towards the end of the sixth century.
This zealous missionary, according to Neander, would seem to have been especially wanting in the Christian grace of humility, which no doubt was the cause of the disputes between the early British church and the Romish Anglo-Saxon that ensued, which, however, were settled by Oswys, king and afterwards saint of Northumberland, who decided upon acknowledging the Romish supremacy, and from that time the doctrines, ritual, Gregorian chaunt and Latin service of the Romish church were adopted, and an admirable old man, Theodore of Cilicia, who brought sciences with him from Greece, occupied the see of Canterbury, a.d. 668–690. The thirst for knowledge among the people at this time was ministered to by this good old man, who, with his friend Abbot Hadrian, made a progress through all England, seeking to gather scholars around him; and the instructions thus communicated to the English church were soon after collected by Bede, that simple and thoughtful, as well as inquiring and scientific priest and monk, who says of himself, “I have used all diligence in the study of the Holy Scriptures, and in the observance of conventual rules, and the daily singing in the church; it was ever my joy either to learn, or teach, or write something.”
The history of the western church becomes merged henceforth in the papal power, and we pass on to the era of Hildebrand, or Gregory VII., its great representative. The struggles of this prelate to suppress simony, and enforce the celibacy of the clergy, are among the most notorious features of his reign; legates were despatched to all the provinces of the west, over which he had already set up claim to supreme power, stirring up the people against the married clergy; and in order at once to strike at the root of simony, he forbade entirely the investiture of ecclesiastics by civil authorities. He excommunicated five councillors of Henry IV. of Germany, threatened Philip of France with the same punishment, and would doubtless have carried out his plans with equal rigour in England, but for the potency of the monarch with whom he had to deal. William the Conqueror refused permission for the bishops to leave the country when summoned to Rome, exercised his right of investiture, and treated the demands of the Pope with cold indifference. Yet Gregory took no further steps against so vigorous an opponent. After the death of both, the contest on the right of investiture was revived, and in the reign of Rufus was maintained against him by Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury.
We have dwelt perhaps tediously on this period of history, but its connection with our subject will be apparent, when we come to the foundation of the cathedral we are visiting; but we must not altogether omit mention of the most conspicuous feature of political activity and religious zeal combined, that characterized that age. The Crusades will eternally remain in history an example of the devotion and mighty efforts of which men are capable, when united by a common faith and religious ideas. Gregory was the first who conceived the project, realized afterwards by Urban II., through the instrumentality of that wonderful man, Peter the Hermit, who went through all Europe fanning into a flame the indignation that had been kindled by the reports of the ill treatment of pilgrims to Palestine; and it was not long before a countless host, urged on as much perhaps by love of adventure, a desire to escape from feudal tyranny and hope of gain, as religious enthusiasm, gathered round the banner raised in Christendom. The object in view was not gained, but the consequences were numerous and beneficial. Nations learnt to know each other, hostilities were softened by uniting in a common cause of Christian faith; literature in the west received a stimulus from the contact into which it was brought with the more enlightened eastern nations, and the poetry and imagery of the sunnier climes threw their mantle of refinement over the barbarisms of the colder countries. Among the writings that bear this date, is the celebrated controversy between Lanfranc, Archbishop of Canterbury, 1089, with Berengen, Archdeacon of Angers, on the doctrine of Transubstantiation, a doctrine first promulgated by Paschasius Radbertus, and at that time supported by Lanfranc, and opposed by Berengen.
A proof of the partial failure, at least in this country, of the legislations of Gregory, is found in the history of the founder of the Norwich Cathedral. Gregory died a.d. 1085, and Herbert of Losinga, Abbot of Ramshay, Bishop of Thetford, and afterwards Bishop of Norwich, to which city he removed the see from Thetford, laid the first stone of the present cathedral, a.d. 1096. Much has been said and written as to the birth-place of this prelate: it has usually been considered that he was a Norman, brought over by William Rufus in 1087, but it is much more probable that he was a native of Suffolk, and his return with Rufus is readily accounted for by the custom existing at that time of sending youths to France, especially Normandy, to complete their education. That he purchased the see of Thetford is undisputed, and also the abbey of Winchester for his father, who, although a married man, filled a clerical office. Remorse for these simoniacal transactions is said to have quickly followed, and we are told that the bishop hastened to Rome to obtain absolution, and then and there had imposed on him the penance of building a monastery, cathedral, and some half-dozen other large churches. This incredible legend is much more reasonably explained by reference to the disturbed state of the affairs of the church before referred to, which most probably rendered it difficult for Herbert to obtain the spiritual rights of the see, although possessed of its temporalities, therefore his visit to Rome; and as for the rest of the churches attributed to him as works of penance, some other explanation of their origin must be found. The coffers of the wealthiest monarch in Europe could not have furnished means to fulfil such a penance; and when the purchase-money of the see, £1900, and £1000 for the Abbacy of Winchester, the expenses of the journey to Rome, and the cost of his work in the cathedral be considered, we may fairly doubt even the wealthy Herbert’s resources proving sufficient to meet the further demands of such splendid edifices.
There is little doubt that while at Rome arrangements were completed for the transfer of the see, but most probably only in accordance with a previous determination of the Council of London, a.d. 1075, when it had been decreed that all bishoprics should be removed from villages to the chief town of the county. Historians have bestowed upon this bishop the title of the “Kyndling Match of Simony,” but the sin was far too common in that age for him to deserve so distinctive an appellation; and chroniclers, quite as veritable and much more charitable, have given sketches of his character, that prove him to have been an amiable, accomplished, and pious man, of great refinement, and possessing a remarkable love of the young, and a cheerfulness and playfulness of manner in intercourse with them, that rarely is an attribute of any but a benevolent mind. We must not, however, linger upon the personal history of the founder. Associated with him in the ceremony of laying the foundation, we find the name of the great feudal lord of the castle, Roger Bigod, and most of the nobility and barons of the district, one of whom, Herbert de Rye, was a devotÉ from the Holy Land. The first stone was laid by Herbert, the second by De Rye, the other barons placing their several stones, and contributing in money to the work. The church, as left by Herbert, consisted of the whole choir, the lower part of which, now remaining, is the original building, though much concealed by modern screenwork; the roofs and upper part are of later date. Eborard, the successor of Herbert, built the nave, not then raised to the present height, but terminating at the line distinctly traceable below the clerestory windows. The Catholic cathedral, or Catholic architecture, so miscalled Gothic, is the pride and glory of the middle ages. The spirit of the times, of fervent aspiration towards heaven, speaks in it more, perhaps, than in the purer models of more ancient works. Architecture was then the language through which thoughts found expression, speaking to the eye, the mind, the heart, and imagination. Kings, clergy, nobility, people, all contributed towards these structures. Painting, sculpture, music, found a place in them, and flourished under the auspices of religion. “The Anglo-Norman cathedrals were perhaps as much distinguished,” says Hallam, “above other works of man, as the more splendid edifices of later date;” and they have their peculiar effect, although perhaps not rivalling those of Westminster, Wells, Lincoln, or York.
We shall not attempt to expound the details of the building; but even the uninitiated may discern at a glance that it is a work to which many a different age has lent its aid. The simplicity of the Anglo-Norman style is blended with various specimens of later date, not inharmoniously. The nave, with its beautifully grained and vaulted roof, and elaborately sculptured bosses, like forest boughs, and pendant roots, with tales of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and hosts of other old Scripture heroes carved upon them, might almost seem one work with the sterner aisles, but modern windows bespeak the hand of perpendicularism to have been busy in after-years. To Lyhart, bishop of the see in the reign of Henry VI., this roof is attributed, and to his successor Goldwell the continuation of the design over the choir. Lyhart lies under a stone beneath his own roof; Goldwell moulders under a tomb reared in the choir, where he lies in stone, robed in full canonicals, his feet resting upon a lion.
On the south side of the nave, between the pillars, is the tomb of Chancellor Spencer. Upon it the chapter formerly received their rents, and the stone was completely worn by the frequent ringing of the money. On the same side, further up, are two elaborately decorated arches in the perpendicular style, looking strangely at variance with the simplicity prevailing around. These purport to be the chapel of Bishop Nix, who lies buried beneath them, and an altar formerly stood at the foot of the eastern pillar. The iron-work on which hung the bell, is still visible on the side of the western pillar. The pulpit stood near here; a faint trace of its site is discernible against the pillar, but that is all that remains to speak of the original purpose of this spacious court. Bishop Nix it was who tried and condemned the martyr Bilney, whose trial, as all others of the same nature, was conducted in the consistory court, or Bishop Beauchamp’s chapel, in the south aisle of the choir. In the north aisle of the nave, between the sixth and seventh pillars, is a door-way, now closed, and converted into a bench, through which the people formerly adjourned after prayers in the choir to hear the sermon, which was preached in the green yard, now the palace gardens, prior to the Great Rebellion. Galleries were raised against the walls of the palace, and along the north wall of the cathedral, for the mayor, aldermen, their wives and officers, dean, prebends, &c.; the rest of the audience either stood or sat on forms, paying for their seats a penny, or half-penny each. The pulpit had a capacious covering of lead, with a cross upon it. On the church being sequestered, and the service discontinued during the Commonwealth, the pulpit was removed to the New Hall Yard, now the garden of St. Andrew’s Hall, and the sermons were preached there. The devastations committed in and about the building at that period, formed the subject of grievous lamentations from the pen of good bishop Hall, then the Bishop of the see, whose sufferings from persecution have become a part of our country’s history. Hall spent the last melancholy years of his life in the little village of Heigham, where the Dolphin Inn, with its quaint flint-work frontage, mullioned windows, and curiously carved chamber roof and door, yet remain to associate the spot with his memory: his tomb is in the little village church close by.
In the centre of the roof of the nave is a circular hole, the purpose of which for many years puzzled enquirers; but one of the industrious and intellectual archÆologians of the present day, to whom we are indebted for many interesting discoveries connected with the cathedral, has reasonably suggested that it was the spot from whence was suspended the large censer swung lengthwise in the nave at the festivals of Easter and Whitsuntide. On the north side of the choir there still exists the small oriel window, through which the sepulchre was watched from Good Friday to Easter Morning. This ceremony consisted of placing the host in a sepulchre, erected to represent the holy sepulchre, covering it with crape, and setting a person or persons to watch it until Easter Sunday, as the soldiers watched the tomb of Christ. During the time, no bells sounded, no music was heard, and lights were extinguished. In silence and gloom these three days were passed. In reference to the length of time usually so denominated, that is from Friday to Sunday, a curious solution, attributed to Christopher Wren, the son of the architect, has recently been published; he seems to have puzzled himself over such like problems, and says, “that the night in one hemisphere was day in the other, and the two days in the other were nights in the opposite,” so that in reality there were three nights and three days on the earth; and as Christ died for the whole world, not only for the hemisphere in which Judea was, he therefore truly remained in the grave that time.
It is difficult for us, accustomed to the sober undemonstrative, not to say cold demeanour of modern Protestantism, to form a conception of the effect of the seasons of festivity or humiliation, as observed even in our own land in earlier times. The setting apart the greater portion of the day for weeks together, for religious ceremonies, and especially the almost dramatic scenes of the Passion week, sound to our ears as tales of mummery. Whether we have gained much by the acquisition of the wisdom that sees nothing in them but occasion for ridicule, or pity, may be a question. Certain it is that many of the practices were gross and debasing; many, had beauty and truth in them.
Amongst those peculiar to the season of Easter, are the ceremony of creeping to the cross on Good Friday, and the kindling of the fires and lighting of the paschal on Easter Eve. As these are distinctly mentioned in ancient Norfolk wills, as practised in this cathedral, we may just describe them in connection with our visit to it. It was often customary to leave lands chargeable with the payment of offerings at this season, both at the creeping of the cross, and to furnish new paschals or tapers for lighting at Easter.
The creeping to the cross is mentioned in a proclamation, black letter, dated 26th February, 30th Henry VIII., in the first volume of a collection of proclamations in the archives of the Society of Antiquaries, where it is stated, “On Good Friday it shall be declared how creeping to the cross sygnyfyeth an humblynge of oneself to Christ before the cross, and the kyssynge of it a memory of our redemption made upon the cross.” In a letter from Henry to Cranmer, of later date, a command is issued that the practice should be discontinued as idolatrous. The ceremony is described by Davies in his rites of the cathedral church of Durham, where he relates, “that within that church, upon Good Friday, there was a marvellously solemn service, in which service time, after the passion was sung, two of the ancient monks took a goodly large crucifix, all of gold, of the picture of our Saviour Christ nailed upon the cross, laying it upon a cushion, bringing it betwixt them thereupon to the lowest greese or step in the choir, and there did hold the said cross betwixt them. And then one of the monks did rise, and went a pretty space from it, and setting himself upon his knees, with his shoes put off very reverently, he crept upon his knees unto the said cross, and after him the other did likewise, and then they set down again on either side of it. Afterward, the prior came forth from his stall, and in like manner did creep unto the said cross, and all the monks after him in the said manner, in the meantime the whole quire singing a hymn. The service being ended, the two monks carried the cross and the sepulchre with great reverence; kings, queens, and common people, all followed the same custom; it was, however, usual to place a carpet for royal knees to creep upon.”
The paschal, or taper as it was called, was lighted from fire struck from a flint on Easter Eve, all previous fires being extinguished. The paschal was often of great size: that of Westminster Abbey, in 1557, weighed three hundred pounds. Many curious records of church disbursements for these and such like things are recorded; in those of St. Mary-at-Hill, in London, stands, “For a quarter of coles for the hallowed fire of Easter Eve, 6d.; also for two men to watch the sepulchre, from Good Friday to Easter Eve, 14d.; for a piece of timber to the new paschal, 2s.; paid for a dish of pewter for the paschal, 8d.”
The church on Easter morning presented another scene. The sepulchre removed, tapers were lighted, fires kindled, incense burned, music pealed from the bells, Te Deums from organs, flowers fresh gathered lent their fragrance to the hour, birds set loose from the crowd, all joined to celebrate the joyful festival of the resurrection, and altars glittered with the whole wealth of silver and gold, that munificence or penitence had enriched them with. We have left off all these things—but we sing the Easter hymn.
On the north side of the entrance from the nave into the anti-choir was placed the chapel, dedicated to the Lady of Pity; and above the spot where Herbert laid the foundation stone, was placed the altar, dedicated to St. William. As this sounds rather an unsaintly name, we must explain that St. William was a little boy, aged nine years, who, in the time of Rufus, when the Jews were powerful in our land, fell a martyr to their hatred of the Christians. The tale runs that, in 1137, the Jews, then the leading merchants, doctors, and scholars of the day, stole a little boy, crucified him, and buried him in Thorpe wood. They were discovered on their road to the burial, but escaped punishment by some clever monetary arrangement with the authorities. Little William was buried in the wood, and a chapel raised above his grave, the outline of which is yet discernible by the fineness of the grass, that distinguishes it from the heath around, the wood having long since narrowed its limits; the shepherds say weeds will not grow on the spot, for it is “hallowed ground.” The bones of the unfortunate boy were afterwards brought to the cathedral, where another shrine was erected, and dedicated to the little saint; and Thomas, a monk of Monmouth, is said to have written seven books of the miracles wrought by these bones. It was essential, before a saint could be canonized, that three miracles should be proved to have been wrought by him in life, or after death; hence, no doubt, the efforts of the monk to prove their potency, as the youth of the martyr would render it doubly essential to establish his claims to the honour indubitably. The body of a saint, by act of canonization, was placed in a sarcophagus, an altar raised over it, where mass was said continually, to secure his or her mediation.
Above the anti-choir was the rood loft, in which were kept the reliques, and on which was erected the principal rood or cross, with the figure of the Saviour carved on it. The rood loft was always placed between the nave and choir, signifying that those who would go from the church militant, which the nave then represented, into the church triumphant, must go under the cross, and suffer affliction. The festival of the cross was and is called Holy Rood Day, and was instituted first on account of the recovery of a large piece of the cross by the Emperor Heraclius, after it had been taken away, on the plundering of Jerusalem by Chosroes, king of Persia, a.d. 615. Rood and cross are synonymous. The rood, when perfectly made, had not only the figure of Christ on it, but those of the Virgin and St. John, one on each side, in allusion to their presence at the Crucifixion.
Besides the rood, this loft also once contained a representation of the Trinity, superbly gilt; the Father blasphemously figured as an old man, with the Saviour Christ on the cross, between his knees, and the Holy Spirit, in the form of a dove, on his breast. This image was ornamented with a gold chain, weighing nearly eight ounces, a large jewel, with a red rose enamelled in gold, hanging on it, and four smaller jewels. A silver collar was also presented to it in 1443, that had been bestowed upon some knight as a mark of honour. Among the relics was a portion of the blood of the Virgin, to which numbers came in pilgrimage, and made offerings. Whether or no it liquefied at stated seasons, like that of St. Genaro, is not recorded.
It is not pleasant to watch the growth of such gross materialisms over the sacred truths and symbols of Christian worship; nor can we wonder at the re-actionary enthusiasm that came and swept them all away, however much good taste may deplore the loss of many beauties and solid treasures, that disappeared amid the tumult of the “dissolution.”
Passing beneath the rood loft, now the gallery for one of the finest organs and choirs our country can boast, we enter the choir, which, as it extends westward considerably beyond the tower, is of unusual length, and imposing in its effect; the lantern, or lower part of the tower, rising in the centre, supported by four noble arches, that bear the weight of the whole tower and spire, is impressively beautiful, albeit modern decorators have been at work to spoil the harmony that should prevail, by medallions and wreaths that should have no place there, however pretty in themselves.
The connoisseur may here find an abundant field to exercise his architectural knowledge, in deciding the various dates of the several portions of this beautiful part of the building. The long row of stalls, with their high-backed and projecting canopies, crowned with multitudes of crocketted pinnacles, the richly decorated screen-work, that shuts out the plainer Norman aisles, the mysterious-looking triforium running round the curious apsidal termination, the light clerestory, with its tier of windows, divided by feathered and canopied niches, whence spring the main ribs of the vaulted roof,—form a whole, that it needs no skill in art or science to be enabled to appreciate and enjoy. Of painted glass, perhaps the less said the better—we may be wanting in taste or judgment; certain it is, it forms no very prominent feature of beauty, and a kaliedoscope of mediocre arrangement, and a rather indifferent illumination transparency, may, we fancy, each find a counterpart among the specimens of colour that do exist. Something is in progress—perhaps on an improved scale.
But we must not omit to glance at a few of the quaint old carvings, that remain almost as sole relics of the ancient furniture of the church. Entering any stall, we observe the seat turns up on hinges, and beneath is a narrow ledge, which it has been presumed was a contrivance to relieve the old monks from the fatigue of standing, during the parts of the service where that position is prescribed by the rubric; they were supposed to lean upon these ledges in a half-sitting posture; but a much more reasonable conjecture is, that they were intended as rests for the elbows and missal when kneeling in prayer; a glance at them when turned up instantly suggests the idea of a prie dieu, which they closely resemble. The lower parts of these misereres, as they were called, are decorated in a most elaborate manner with carving, and supported by bosses, sometimes of one or more figures, often foliage, fruit, and flowers, or shields. Among them may be found the figures of a lion and dragon biting each other; owls and little birds fighting; Sampson in armour (?) slaying the lion; monkeys fighting, one holding a rod, another in a wheelbarrow; the prodigal son feeding swine; a monk tearing a dog’s hind legs; another flogging a little boy, amid a group of other urchins; and numerous other equally inexplicable designs. If, indeed, such objects did occupy the place under the eyes of the monks at their devotions, they must have served admirably to train the risible muscles to self-command.
It is among these carvings that the presumed satires are to be found, that are attributed to the dissensions existing between the secular and regular clergy, about the period of the building of the Cathedral; they would have us interpret them as something akin to liberty of the press, with all its caprices, sarcasms, and ironical sneers; but as the self-same subjects have been found to range over the works of the carvers from the thirteenth century down to the Reformation, and on the Continent as well as in this country, it is much more probable that they were copies from the illustrations of books, at that time popular, or from the illuminations of fanciful legends, upon which the monks were continually engaged, and which were always at hand to serve as patterns for the workmen. The Bestiaria, a work very celebrated, has been suggested as the source of many of the figures; among its pages figured mermaids, unicorns, dragons, &c.; and the calendars also, in which the agricultural pursuits of each month were depicted on the top of the page, might form another copy to be modelled from. Such is the most probable way of accounting for the presence of such objects, although it is possible that in an age when the church offered scope for every talent to display itself, so, obscure recesses were found for the offspring of these original, though not very refined, creations of fancy, often, however, executed by the hands of skilful craftsmen.
One look at the antique specimen of the reading desk—a pelican supporting it with the clot of blood on its breast, symbolizing, we are told, the shedding of the blood of Christ, as that bird sheds its blood for its young. It may, or may not be so—but if it be, it is indeed a gross substitute for the eagle, a symbol that has at least poetry and spirituality to recommend it.
Beyond this, and behind the high altar, in the recess of the apse, once stood the bishop’s throne, a plain stone chair, in the days when the priests did occupy their places in the church. The seat may still be seen in the aisle, at the back of this spot, by any one adventurous enough to climb a ladder, and peep into a niche they will find high up in the wall.
We let pulpits and thrones of the present day speak for themselves, and leaving the choir, take a brief look at the fine old chapels of St. Luke and Jesus, on the north and south side of the apse. The former still remains in good preservation, and is used as the parish church of St. Mary in the Marsh, destroyed by Herbert, the founder of both these chapels, as well as the Cathedral. The only font within the precincts is here; it is an ancient affair, brought hither from the demolished church, and is decorated with carvings, representing the seven sacraments, the four evangelists, and divers figures of popes, saints, confessors, &c. Over this chapel is the treasury of the dean and chapter, from amongst whose stores, hid up where moth and rust do corrupt, a beautiful and curious painting of scenes in the life of Christ, has been of late years rescued, and promoted to the honour of a place in the vestry room (the ancient prison of the monastery), where it has been placed under a glass case. It appears to have served originally as some part of the decoration of an altar, and was set in a frame, the mouldings of which are richly diapered and ornamented with gilding, with impressed work and fragments of coloured glass inserted at intervals, a mode of enrichment of which specimens are very rare in this country. The corners of the frame had been removed to adapt it to the purpose of a table, at the period of the great “dissolution,” where it had remained with its back serving for the top of the required table, until accident revealed it to the eyes of archÆological research.
The painting is divided into five compartments, each on a separate panel, the subjects being the Flagellation of Christ, Christ bearing the Cross, the Crucifixion, and the Ascension. The entire back-grounds of the paintings are gilded and diapered in curious patterns, and the ornaments, such as the bosses of the harness on the horses of the soldiers, the goldsmith’s work on the cingulum or belt, are in slight relief. This mode of painting is described as being executed upon a thin coating of composition, made of whiting and white of egg, laid on the oaken panel; upon this the outline of the design was traced with a red line, and the spaces designed to receive gilding were then marked out with fresh whitening and egg; the stems marked with a modelling tool, and leaves added by filling moulds with the paste, and fixing them by pressure on the surface of the picture; the puncture work and little toolings were then produced, and the modelling finished. The gilded portions were next covered with gold leaf, and the artist proceeded with his pictures, using transparent colours liquefied by white of egg.
At the extreme end of the Cathedral once stood another chapel, dedicated to St. Mary the Great, of considerable note in early times—the offerings at the high altar amounting to immense sums—daily mass was said here for the founder’s soul in particular, his friends, relations, benefactors, &c. The chapel was about seventy feet long and thirty broad, and had a handsome entrance from the church; it has long since disappeared. The Jesus chapel on the opposite side is rather a melancholy looking place at present, one high tomb of some pretensions in the centre alone distinguishing it from a lumber room; near this chapel, in the north aisle, is the speculatory before alluded to, as the opening through which the sepulchre was watched at Easter; it has, until recently, been called the ancient “confessional,” a somewhat extraordinary position for such a priestly office to be exercised in, as were it so, the penitent must of necessity have stood in the aisle on tiptoe to reach the ear of his confessor in the choir, who must equally of necessity have lain upon the ground to receive the confession.
And now we must pass on to the cloisters, where one almost involuntarily cries out for “the monks of old,” to come and give life to the walks among the tombs, no other earthly figure or garb, save a cowled monk, seeming to have place in such a scene. The long lines of beautiful windows, on the one side of pure early English tracery, on another of the decorated period, and another line still more elaborate in its turnings and twistings, while the last bespeaks the perpendicularism that prevails among so many of the windows of the church—each and all are beautiful. The splendidly carved doorway entering into the church, that has puzzled learned and simple alike to interpret truly, is a gem, and the perfectly preserved lavatories at the opposite corner have their own features of interest. The roof, groined and vaulted with sculptured bosses, is covered with fanciful and legendary carvings—the martyrdoms of saints, St. Anthony roasting on his gridiron, &c., St. John the Baptist and Herodias with his head in a charger; the mutilated body of another headless saint has received from some kind charitable hand the blessing of a new head, while the old one is under his arm; the date of this addition or growth is uncertain—it looks very white, rather new; above the door leading into the ancient refectory is a carving of the Temptation, Adam and Eve and the serpent as usual; about this said carving hangs a tale, another than the story of the Fall of man, and too good to be omitted. The great historian of this comity, and all the little historians that have condensed, contracted, extracted, and dove-tailed little bits of his history together, have all with wonderful precision agreed that above this arch was carved the espousals or Sacrament of Marriage; and upon that foundation, or perhaps rather under that head we should say, entered into elaborate details of how this spot was the chosen site for the celebration of the sacrament of marriage, which every one knows was performed in the porch of the church, and not in the church itself as now, but as this spot is a very considerable number of yards distant from either church or porch, some of those troublesome people who will be continually saying Why? and seeking for a Because, began to look for these espousals, and found only a Temptation. One of these individuals, of a peculiarly persevering nature, earnestly desirous of reconciling these strange discrepancies between the assertion of a respectable old historian, and his own eye-sight, set to work, and the following was the result. He found that much of this good historian’s description of the cloister was a tolerably free translation of an old Latin work by William of Worcester, the original manuscript of which exists in the library of Corpus Christi, at Cambridge. It was printed and edited, many years ago, by one Nasmith, and an extract is to be found in the last edition of the Monasticon, where the work of a bishop who built one side of the cloister is described as extending to the arches, “in quibus maritagia dependent,” which must be translated “in which the espousals or marriages hang.” Now it seemed to this inquisitive individual that a very trivial error of the transcriber might have entirely altered the sense of the passage; that if the word “maritagia” should turn out to be “manut’gia” for “manutergia,” all the mystery would be explained. Upon inquiry, and inspection of the original manuscript, this proved a correct surmise on the part of the ingenious as well as inquisitive individual, and the arches in which the (manutergia) towels hang, close by the lavatories, turn out to be the substitute for the arches in which the espousals hang. Overlooking the single stroke of a pen, produced these queer misconceptions for above a century.
The following is an epitaph composed for Jacob Freeman, who was buried in the cloister yard, where he used often to lie upon a hill and sleep, with his head upon a stone. The old man was very hardly used by the committee for so doing, and for frequenting church porches, and repeating the common prayer to the people, in spite of ill treatment, he being often sent to Bridewell, whipped and reproved for it.
EPITAPH.
“Here, in this homely cabinet,
Resteth a poor old anchoret;
Upon the ground he laid all weathers,
Not as most men, goose-like, on feathers,
For so indeed it came to pass,
The Lord of lords his landlord was;
He lived, instead of wainscot rooms,
Like the possessed, among the tombs.
As by some spirit thither led,
To be acquainted with the dead:
Each morning, from his bed so hallowed,
He rose, took up his cross, and followed;
To every porch he did repair,
To vent himself in common prayer,
Wherein he was alone devout,
When preaching, jostled, praying out,
In sad procession through the city,
Maugre the devil or committee,
He daily went, for which he fell
Not into Jacob’s, but Bridewell,
Where you might see his loyal back
Red-lettered, like an almanack;
Or I may rather else aver,
Dominickt, like a calendar;
And him triumphing at that harm,
Having nought else to keep him warm.
With Paul he always prayed, no wonder
The lash did keep his flesh still under;
Yet whip-cord seemed to lose its sting,
When for the church, or for the king,
High loyalty in such a death
Could battle torments with mean earth;
And though such sufferings he did pass,
In spite of bonds, still Freeman was.
’Tis well his pate was weather-proof;
The palace like it had no roof;
The hair was off, and ’twas the fashion,
The crown being under sequestration.
Tho’ bald as time and mendicant,
No fryer yet, but Protestant—
His head each morning and each even
Was watered with the dews of heaven.
He lodged alike, dead and alive,
As one that did his grave survive,
For he is now, though he be dead,
But in a manner put to bed,
His cabin being above ground yet,
Under a thin turf coverlet.
Pity he in no porch did lay,
Who did in porches so much pray;
Yet let him have this Epitaph:
Here sleeps poor Jacob, stone and staff.”
We must not close our chapter on cathedrals and bishops without some little further notice of the more important branch of the subject, although we venture not upon biographies of the many whose names shine forth from among the list of “spiritual fathers,” well meriting more detailed sketching than would be here in place. Hall, Nix, Lyhart, and Goldwell, have had their share of passing comment, but there are other names that must not be looked over in silence. Among the earliest stands Pandulph, the notorious legate from the Pope, during the troubled reign of John, when disputes about the appointment of Stephen Langton to the archbishopric of Canterbury had had our country under the interdict of his papal majesty; and for six years all Christian rites were suppressed, save baptism and confirmation, in consequence of jealousies between these rival powers upon the vexed question of the right of investiture. It was mainly through the agency of Pandulph that the king was at last inclined to submit, in return for which the bishopric of this diocese was conferred on the successful diplomatist. Walter de Suffield, another name of at least great local repute, was the founder of the Old Man’s Hospital, an institution at this day in the receipt of £10,000 a year, out of which some two hundred old men and women are maintained in clothes, food, and a shilling a day, and lodged in a beautiful old church, founded by Lyhart at a later period, the trustees of such a fund thinking this arrangement preferable to restoring the church to its original use, and providing more suitable buildings for the accommodation of the recipients of the charity. The tomb of Suffield, in his own chapel, at the east end of the cathedral, became a shrine for worship, to which pilgrimages were frequent, and miracles in abundance were said to be wrought.
Percy, brother of the famous Earl of Northumberland, was another who wore the mitre of the see; he lies buried before the roodloft door. Henry de Spencer, the warrior bishop, is another, who raised and headed an army of three thousand men, and conducted it in person to Flanders, where he figured prominently in the wars between Richard and the French king, as well as in the struggles of Urban and Clement for the papacy. His military fame was rivalled by his notorious zeal in the cause of his church, evidenced by unmitigated persecution of the Lollards, whose adherence to the doctrines of Wickliffe was rewarded by every variety of penance or punishment that could be devised to exterminate the heresy. A splendid monument of this spirit of the man and age is left us in the magnificent gateway opposite the West entrance to the cathedral, erected by Sir Thomas Erpingham, at the bidding of De Spencer, as a penance for his sympathy with these heretical doctrines. Above the doorway is an effigy of himself in armour, kneeling and asking pardon for his offence. Rugg—an instrument of Henry’s, in obtaining the divorce of Catherine of Arragon; Hopkin—a notorious persecutor of the Protestants in Mary’s reign; Parkhurst—a literary celebrity; Wren—the victim of Puritanism, which placed him a prisoner in the tower for eighteen years without a trial; Butts—a friend of Cranmer; Horne, whose letters on infidelity have given him a fame; and Bathurst, respected in the memory of many yet living; are names conspicuous in the catalogue; not yet complete without two others, Stanley and Hinde. Of Hinde we can but say his work is yet in hand, he is earning his place in history, for some future pen to chronicle; but may be, no fitter subject could be offered for a closing scene to this chapter on the bishops and cathedral of this see, than memory can recal of that day, when beneath the lofty nave of the one, a grave was opened to receive the mortal remains of the loved and honoured Stanley. Who, among the thousands that then gathered themselves together, wearing not alone the outer symbols of mourning and grief, but carrying in their hearts deep sorrow, and in their eyes unbidden tears—who will forget the solemn stillness of the thronged multitude as the simple pall was borne, unmocked by plumes or other idle trappings of fictitious woe, through the avenues of unhired mutes, whose heads were bowed in heartfelt reverence, and lines of infant mourners, clad in the livery of their benefactor’s bounty, and watering the pathway to his tomb with honest tears of childhood’s love—the attitudes of grief and saddened faces that filled the crowded aisles, and no less crowded walks above—the hushed breathing that left the air free to echo the tones of the wailing dirge, as it rose upon the voices of the surpliced choir, who mourned a child of harmony, and wafted their strains of lamentation through all the heights of the vaulted roof, while beneath its centre the grave was receiving the earthly tabernacle of the good, the noble-hearted, and the great in deeds of love and charity? Who does not remember the measured tread of the dispersing thousands, as each took his last look of the simple coffin in its last resting-place, and as the dead march sent forth its full low notes from the organ’s peal, and the rich closing bursts of harmony proclaimed like a rush of mighty wind the soul’s release and triumph? and who has not often since lingered around the simple marble slab that marks the spot, and felt that it had been consecrated as a shrine, by a baptism of tears from the fountain of loving hearts on that memorable day?
