CANTERBURY.
We have remarked one thing especially in relation to the cultivation of land, and the agricultural habits of the people; and it is that as we approach the seabord from any part of England, and now particularly in the southern part, more attention is paid to the cultivation of garden vegetables and fruit, than is the case in the interior. Soon after leaving London and going southerly, as we did towards Rochester, we began to meet with fine gardens and fruit-raising, strongly reminding us of the eastern shore of Massachusetts. Cherries are raised in great quantities for London market, and now, June 18, while they are not ripe, are at that state of maturity at which they are in Boston forced upon the market. Black Tartarian and the common Ox Heart, and perhaps the Eltons, seem to prevail. We have seen some strawberries in the London markets, but none that were ripe, or, at all events, high-colored. They had a whitish look; and at the time of writing, after the experience in other countries, occupying the entire fruit season, we are sure that in fruit-raising of all kinds, New England is never excelled, unless we possibly except some portions of the Rhine Valley, where plums abound; but even there, no advantage is had over many places in New York State, as for instance on Seneca Lake. Roses are just now at their best. So far as date or time in the season is concerned, they have no advantage over the neighborhood of Boston, or any part of southern New England. Some green peas are in the market, but are really now only just at their best time of blossom. At times, as we pass on the railroad, we see acres of them; also other vegetables for the supply of markets. It has quite an Arlington or North Cambridge look, and we are much at home in the neighborhood of this fine agricultural district; and we cannot but be delighted with the industry of the people here, and the manner in which they manage their farms. We are at a loss to know why the idea is not more contagious than it appears to be. "Alas for poor Ireland," we feel and say,—that garden of the kingdom, as it might and should be. New-Englandize it, and the Irish millennium would come.
After our pleasant ride of about two hours, at 3.30 p. m. we arrive at the famed seat of all the Church of England, the great See of the Archbishop of Canterbury, and our first impression is a delight on landing in this quiet, ancient, neat, grandpaved, and in all respects well-cared-for, aristocratic town. How quaint are many of these venerable houses, Chester-like, with projecting stories,—all in fine repair and good preservation!
The place is pleasantly situated on the River Stow, 56 miles from London, and has a population of 16,508. It has no commercial importance, but is one of the principal markets of a rich agricultural district; and its pretty and inviting location has made it a favorite place of residence, as is evident from the many fine villas and mansion-seats in the vicinity. It has an ancient guildhall, a corn and hop exchange, and a Philosophical Museum. The town existed in the time of the Romans, and many of their coins and remains have been found in and near the city. It was the capital of the Saxon Kingdom of Kent; and it was here that Augustine baptized Ethelbert and 10,000 Saxons in 597, or nearly 1,300 years ago. Augustine was the first Archbishop of England, and died here sometime between 604 and 614.
Aside from the cathedral there are several grand old churches in the city. One of the most interesting is St. Martin's, very old and antique, and full of interest. In St. Dunstan's the head of Sir Thomas More—who was executed July 6, 1535, and buried here by his daughter—was found in 1835, or just 300 years after. He was disloyal to the throne and refused to acknowledge the royal supremacy. On the 1st of July he was brought to the bar of the Court of High Commission, charged with traitorously attempting to deprive the king of his title as Supreme Head of the Church. He was condemned and returned to the Tower. On the morning of his execution he was dressed in his most elaborate costume, preserved his composure to the last, and, as the fatal stroke was about to fall, signed for a moment's delay while he moved aside his beard, murmuring: "Pity that should be cut; that has not committed treason."
There are in Canterbury various relics of past ages. One of the most interesting of these is the great St. Augustine Monastery, once long used as a brewery, but which was at length redeemed from its ignominious use by the munificence of Mr. Beresford Hope, who purchased it, and presented it to the Church as a missionary college, himself also defraying all expenses of the restorations and enlargements.
By the liberality of Alderman Simonds a field called Dane John, containing a high conical mound, was laid out as a public park, and pleasant promenades have been built for the public. On the top of this fine hill has been built a rural structure, of an observatory nature, and from it most commanding and splendid views are had of the surrounding country.
What of course attracts the attention of visitors most, and holds it, is the famed cathedral,—at once the most interesting, all things considered, of any like structure in the kingdom; for it boasts of not only a vast antiquity, but of having been at an early day a church of so much wealth and importance, as to make it the seat of the Church, and of her Archbishop, "the primate of all England." The chapter consists of the archbishop, a dean, six canons, two archdeacons, six preachers, and five minor canons, besides the twelve choristers. The annual income of the archbishop is $75,000.
The foundation of the institution goes back far into antiquity; and we leave the minor items relating to its early history, and simply say that the cathedral had so far advanced, as to be ready for consecration in 1130. It, as all other cathedrals did, met with reverses and ill-conditions innumerable. Indeed, so varied is its history, and so full of great events, that we are discouraged at the thought of attempting the task of making a selection. It has been wonderful in its power and influence, and has in turn had in its embrace men of master minds, whose power has been of most decided character for good or ill; and we are sorry to have to say, that often the latter has transcended the former. A bishop of especial ability and power, if but loyal to the Church and its doctrines, as for the time understood and interpreted, was sure to be sooner or later installed here. "Translated to the See of Canterbury" is a familiar expression, and has been for centuries. How have the fortunes and condition of the entire kingdom, and the whole English-speaking world, been influenced by things said and done here! No spot beneath the broad canopy of the sky is so marked as this. Here Puritanism found its great foes and untiring enemies; and when we speak of this fact, or name the word Puritan, how much is involved! Non-conformist, Pilgrim New England, what she at first was and now is,—all that is involved and comprehended! Archbishop of Canterbury! Name but the three words, and what echoes are awakened, and wander through the corridors of time!
No place is really more intimately connected with Plymouth and Massachusetts Bay than is this. The invisible telegraph of momentous events—a continuous unbroken line—exists, and is as real as the material cable that reposes on the floor of the sea; and when all of them shall have become extinct, this, forever revivified and renewed, will increase in power and be an instrument for good, "till the angel, standing with one foot on the land and the other on the sea, shall declare that time shall be no more."
Not long before the accession of Queen Victoria to the throne in 1838, a most thorough repair of the cathedral was made, and it is now one of the most perfect in England.
In our examinations of these great structures, admiring each of them, we have at times tried to decide which one of all we would, if the thing were possible, transport to America. At times the elegant interior of Winchester, with its fine long nave, is in the front rank. Then appears the great Lincoln, splendid within and without. Next, these are crowded aside by imperial York Minster. Then comes antique but sublime old Durham; how can we part companionship with that? or Salisbury, with its commanding spire, 404 feet high, and its rich transept end? Next, rich gem-bedecked Ely comes well up in front. Finally we make one herculean move, and, as the waking giant shakes his locks and spreads his arms, we make an effort to be unsympathetic; and ignoring these grand old friends, all of whom with charms peculiar to themselves have wooed and captivated us,—leaving them, a noble army of martyrs,—we say Canterbury. The effort has cost us much sacrifice. "Not that we love Cæsar less, but that we love Rome more." The grounds about the structure are very fine and inviting, though they do not possess those charms that exist at Salisbury and Peterboro.
The cathedral was founded by Archbishop Lanfranc, and enlarged and consecrated by Archbishop Corbel in 1130, in presence of Henry I. of England, David, king of Scotland, and all the bishops of England. The roof, or exterior covering, of the stone vaulting is of wood, and was seriously troubled by fire in 1174, when the choir and other portions of the interior were greatly damaged; and as late as Sept. 3, 1872, a portion of the roof, 150 feet in length, was badly damaged by fire and water, but all is now in perfect condition of repair. The cathedral is in extreme length 514 feet, and is 159 feet wide at the transepts. It has a magnificent central tower, of elaborate decorations, which is 285 feet high; also two very beautiful western towers terminating in embattlements and lofty turrets. The stone is of a dark-gray tint, and the structure has a sublime and imposing appearance. The interior is indescribably grand, and has one especial peculiarity, which is that the choir, or head of the cross,—which is the plan of the cathedral,—is elevated some seven feet or so above the floor of the nave, and is reached by a flight of marble steps. The arrangement, if anything, adds to the grand effect.
Beneath is the crypt, or basement, which is common to but few cathedrals. Here are very ancient columns, and a solid stone, groined ceiling; all is but dimly lighted, and was once a chapel in which monks worshipped. A painful silence now reigns throughout; and all is still and solemn, save as the footfalls on its pavements, or our voice,—or it may be sounds from the great cathedral floor coming down through the stone vaulting, subdued and subduing,—break the spell. Except for these, a silence of the tomb prevails. More than half a thousand years are gone since here the fumes of incense and the sound of papal prayers and the repetition of the Mass were begun. Centuries now are passed since all ceased. Dust of many pious ones has been here laid in its last resting-place, and "after life's fitful fever they sleep well." Nations have risen since then, and kingdoms have been transformed. The great realm of thought has been enlarged and extended, and humanity has become enlightened and advanced. Then, monk and nun were the rule, but they are not now even the exception. All are forever gone, and a hard theology, one anticipating an everlasting triumph of evil over good; penance, tormenting the body for the good of the soul,—or, later advanced tenet, that of tormenting the mind for the soul's good,—are discounted. Personal accountability, divine sovereignty, the Golden Rule, progress never ending for the individual and the race, are in the ascendant; and so crypt and dark room are deserted, and only tell of human life and endeavor as they were.
This cathedral has many monuments, and well it may have. How long is her line of bishops and illustrious men! A history of 700 and more years of active work, must have made conditions of note and renown; but we leave these monuments as we must, and say a few things of two or three of the noted ones who here kept holy time. Every reader of history has anticipated the name we speak of first, Thomas à Becket. At the north cross-aisle, or transept, is a small alcove, or chapel, on the right side of which is a table-altar. On the 29th of December, 1170, but forty years after the cathedral's consecration, and more than 700 years ago, as he was kneeling at this altar, he was assassinated, killed on the spot; and now a small place, six inches square, is shown in the floor, where some of his blood fell. The stone was long ago cut out and sent to Rome.
Few mortals have had a history as eventful as his. Born in London, in the olden time of 1117, he was educated, and finally appointed Archdeacon of Canterbury; and, in turn, prebend of Lincoln, and of St. Paul's at London. Nothing short of distinguished abilities and intellect could have brought such honored conditions as these.
When at the age of forty-one, in 1158, Henry II. made him Chancellor of England. So powerful was he in influence over the King, that in 1162, on the death of Theobold the Bishop of Canterbury, the King pressed his election to this See. He was appointed, and so was the first native Englishman who held the archbishopric of Canterbury. He was first ordained a priest, and then made Primate of all England. He resigned his office of Chancellor against the desires of the king, and in retaliation was deprived of his archdeaconship which he wished to retain along with his archbishopric. He at once began to exercise great authority. He became reserved and austere, and soon acquired great renown for his sturdy defence of the prerogatives of the Church against the threatened encroachments of the crown and the nobility.
In 1164 he strongly opposed the famous constitutions presented by Clarendon, and bitter feuds arose between him and the King. The hostility of the King to him was great, and his persecutions increased. He became exceedingly unpopular with the nobility, and at length fled from England. He spent nearly two years in an abbey in Burgundy, and was encouraged by the Pope, who, refusing to accept his resignation of the See of Canterbury, reconfirmed him as Primate of all England, except the See of York.
The strife between King Henry and Becket increased, but after a long continuance of the quarrel, in 1170 a reconciliation took place, and on his return to England the people gave him an enthusiastic reception; but he soon revived his old troubles by publishing the suspension of the Archbishop of York, and the King taunted his attendants for remissness in revenging the overbearing prelate. This excited four barons of the court, Reginald Fitzurse, William de Tracy, Hugh de Moreville and Richard Brito, who undertook the work of his assassination. Dec. 28, 1170, they met at the castle of Ranulth de Broc, near Canterbury, accompanied by a body of armed men. The next day they went to the Archbishop's palace and there had a stormy interview, and on the same evening invaded the cathedral at vesper service. Becket prevented all opposition to their ingress by declining, as he said, "to convert a church into a castle," and implored the assailants to spare everybody but himself. They attempted to drag him from the church, so as not to desecrate it by bloodshed; but while manfully wrestling with De Tracy, Becket received a blow, inflicting a slight wound, which, falling obliquely, broke the arm of his cross-bearer, Edward Grimes. The Archbishop then kneeled at the altar, when the three other barons gave him the death blow, and his brains were scattered on the floor. The cathedral was then ordered by the Pope to be closed for one year.
In 1172 Alexander III. canonized Becket as St. Thomas of Canterbury. In 1221 his remains were deposited by Henry III. in a rich shrine, which became a great resort for pilgrims.
After the Reformation, Henry VIII. despoiled the shrine of its treasures of silver and gold, which were of incredible value; and he had the saint's name stricken from the calendar, and his bones burnt to ashes and scattered. The shrine was in the cathedral, back of the high altar, and now its only traces are in the marble floor where it rested, and in the worn and sunken line encircling it, made by the feet and knees of pilgrims who for three centuries had there paid tribute.
As we stood there we could in imagination see the incessant train coming in with demure look, and with a pious reverence kneel and offer their humble petition for the repose of his soul and for the prosperity of the religion he defended. Fearfully in earnest were these honest but superstitious ones, and so was Henry VIII. when he said to the enslaving service, "Thus far shalt thou go and no farther, and here shall thy proud waves be stayed." What determination, what intrepidity, were requisite for the inauguration of reform like this! What master-work to do! Becket and his adherents meant well, but they were superstitious and blind to truth and fact. Henry VIII. did a great work, but when he did it he also did unchristian things. So of Queen Mary, when to the stake must go Rogers and Hooper, Cranmer, Latimer, and Ridley. We cannot well stop there. Puritanism established, somebody was responsible for the persecutions of Roger Williams, of Marmaduke Stevenson, and others. Persecution for opinion's sake is not yet done, but "out of the bitter comes forth the sweet." Becket and his coadjutors, the kings and queens of England, Boston ministers and judges of old, form one long connected chain of defenders of the faith,—not always of clear vision, but outside of themselves governed and overruled; and so, by the work done, humanity steps up higher, and walks on towards the perfection attainable, and in the end sure to be attained.
That work, done in the time of Becket, was the transition period from the Papal Church to the Protestant. Our next man of renown was the noted Archbishop Laud; and his administration was the transition period, from intense formality and ritualism, into a somewhat similar form of Christian worship and work, out of which has come our New England's existence and element and life,—and so, indirectly, our Great West, which in its early days New England people and customs did so much to mould and establish.
William Laud was born at Reading in England, Oct. 7, 1573, but eighteen years after the death of the martyrs at Oxford. He nursed from his mother's breast the spirit of the time, or, like Laurence Sterne's Tristram Shandy, was able to date his nature and inclinations to acting and influencing elements at a day the very earliest in his history. He was educated at St. John's College, Oxford; obtained his fellowship in 1593, clerical orders in 1601; and in 1605 became chaplain to Charles, Lord Mountjoy, Earl of Devonshire; and here, he showed pliability of conscience which was ever a distinguishing feature of his life, for he was willing to perform the marriage ceremony between the Earl and Lady Rich, whose first husband was still living.
In 1608 he was made bishop of Nene, being then but thirty-five years of age. In 1611 he was president of the college at which he was educated. In 1616 he was Dean of Gloucester; was a prebendary of Westminster in 1620, and Bishop of St. David's in 1621. In 1624 he was member of the Court of High Commission; in 1626, Bishop of Bath and Wells, and in 1628 Bishop of London; and now begins his great life-work, for he became confidential adviser of Charles I. in ecclesiastical affairs. Succeeding Buckingham in the royal favor he began to play important parts in politics, and his first object and step was to force Puritans, and all Dissenters from the Established Church, into conformity. Macaulay says:—
Under this direction every corner of the realm was subjected to a constant minute inspection. Every little congregation of Separatists was tracked out and broken up. Even the devotion of private families could not escape the vigilance of his spies. Such fear did his rigor inspire, that the deadly hatred of the Church, which festered in innumerable bosoms, was generally disguised under an outward show of conformity.
In 1628 Robert Leighton, a Scottish prelate, published a book, "Sion's Plea against the Prelacy." At the instigation of Laud he was in 1630 brought before the Star Chamber, condemned to pay a fine of £10,000; and he was twice publicly whipped and pilloried in Cheapside, London, had his ears cut off, his nostrils split open, and his cheeks branded with S. S. (Sower of Sedition), and he was incarcerated ten years in the Fleet Prison.
Flattered with success, Laud, being present at the coronation of Charles in Scotland, urged the forced establishment of Episcopacy and uniformity in that country, which resulted in revolt; and, contrary to the ambitious and narrow-minded Bishop's anticipation, ended in the adoption of the National Covenant, and so Presbyterianism triumphed. On his return from the ceremonies of coronation, and doubtless in aid of their enterprise to "kill out Puritanism" and to "harry the Puritans out of the land," he was appointed to the See of Canterbury. He became a politician in the more odious sense of that word, and so worked himself in as one of the committee of the king's revenue, and in 1634 he became a commissioner of the treasury; and soon after, and finally, was made Censor of the Press under decree of the Star Chamber in 1637.
He was powerful, overbearing, and injudicious, and the public odium soon manifested itself largely against him. The Long Parliament in 1640, impeached him for high treason, and he was committed to the Tower. After an imprisonment of more than three years he was tried and condemned,—and, as now thought, according to the letter of the law, illegally,—and was executed in the Tower, Jan. 10, 1645, at the age of seventy-two.
Of the many other noted and eminent men of Canterbury's almost interminable list, we take but one, and that was the second Protestant bishop, Matthew Parker. He was eminent as a churchman, as much so as Laud, but was a man of good judgment, and more than any other person gave the character of worship which the Established Church of England now has. He was born at Norwich, Aug. 6, 1504, and entered Corpus Christi College at Cambridge in 1520; in 1533 was licensed to preach, and soon was made Chaplain to Anne Boleyn. He was Dean of Clare College in 1535; chaplain to Henry VIII. in 1537; Master of Corpus Christi College in 1544; and Dean of Lincoln Cathedral in 1552. Having married in 1547, on the accession of Queen Mary he was deprived of his office, and obliged to remain in obscurity. He then translated the Psalms into English verse, and wrote a treatise entitled "A Defense of Priests' Marriages."
His fortune at length turned, for on the accession of Queen Elizabeth, and a reform in the religion, he was chosen Archbishop of Canterbury, and Dec. 17, 1559, was consecrated in the chapel at Lambeth. He was successful in dispelling the Queen's lingering affection for images, and he filled all the vacant Sees with decided Protestants, and did all in his power to render the rites and ceremonies of the church uniform. He founded schools, made valuable presents to the colleges at Cambridge, was one of the first chosen to review the Book of Common Prayer; and was employed in the revision of the Bishop's Bible, which passed under his inspection, and was published at his own expense in 1568. He was the author of several other standard works, and at last, after a life of remarkable activity and usefulness, he died at London, May 17, 1575, at the age of seventy-one, deeply lamented.
1575! 200 years before the declaration of our American Independence, and almost half a century before the Pilgrims set sail for America! He did much towards establishing Protestantism, and making Puritanism possible; and so he was the John the Baptist to prepare for the bad work of Laud and his coadjutors,—which caused the persecution of the non-conformists, and, indirectly, the emigration to the New World, and the great good which is its outcome. Laud, thunder-storm-like, induced a clearer theologic atmosphere.
There is a thing yet untouched we would speak of, but must forbear a long recital. In speaking of the crypt, we strangely forgot to mention that, in the time of Queen Elizabeth, there were a company of French silk-weavers, who were driven from their native land, and sought refuge in England. They were called Walloons, and the crypt of the cathedral was granted them by the Queen as a place of worship. In the time of Charles II., who died in 1688, they were the most noted silk-weavers in England. The blood was strong; and, strange to tell, to this day the humble remnant, after the lapse of centuries, still claim and use this room as their place of worship. There is a tinge of melancholy that comes over one as he thinks of their devotion and humble sanctuary, but it is Sabbath home to them, and so is at once cathedral and gate of heaven.
At the Altar of Martyrdom, where Becket died, in 1170 was that appalling scene of riot, distress, and death. 129 years gone, and how changed! Then was gathered another crowd, and all was peace, happiness, and life, for Edward I. and Margaret were there to be married in 1299.
On the 8th of June, 1376, great commotion was in the Episcopal Palace near by, for there lay in the agonies of death their great-grandson, Edward the Black Prince, who was so called from the color of his armor. Two days after he was buried in the cathedral; and now, after 500 years, we look upon his effigy in bronze, old and black, but highly wrought, and once and for years of rich gilt. Above his tomb are suspended the helm, surcoat, shield, and gauntlet he wore on the field of Cressy. In this cathedral is the ancient chair in which all the old kings of Kent were crowned.
And so we might go on; and when many pages had been written, the door would but be opened, and an inexhaustible store of things of inexpressible interest present themselves, and be in waiting for consideration.
We must now begin to think of parting companionship with these cathedral towns, for we are to move on yet more southerly till Dover is reached; and so for a time is to end our good stay in historic Old England, the mother country of us all. We confess to a feeling of dislike, and at the same time to a consciousness of grand satisfaction of what we have enjoyed, and so that feeling, if permitted to prevail, would neutralize the anticipation of good to come.
We now, at 6 p. m., take cars for Dover. The ride is like that before it, very much like one over lands in New England, on the South Shore Road, towards Hingham and Cohasset. There are rocks, and even ledges, increasing as we advance. There are grand fields of hops, an incredible number of them, and gardens with the new vegetables of all kinds, as in our Old Colony at that time of the year.
Now at 7.30, after a ride of an hour and a half, we come in sight of the bluffs and chalk-cliffs and abrupt hills—a wonder to us indeed. "How extensive, how white!" we say.
And now comes the well-known odor of the heavily charged salt air of the sea. Cohasset, Nantasket, or Nahant, even at their best, could do no better. We are as it were in a new world of observation, feeling, and thought; and on landing there is opened to us a vast panorama of sea view, of high life and animation, a new paradise,—not an old one regained, for we never at home nor abroad had one like this to lose.