The Cathedral Towns and Intervening Places of England, Ireland and Scotland: / A Description of Cities, Cathedrals, Lakes, Mountains, Ruins, and Watering-places.

by Thomas W. Silloway; Lee L. Powers

CHAPTER VII.

BEMERTON—WINCHESTER—READING—NEWBURY.

In sight of Salisbury Cathedral, and but two miles away, is Bemerton, an ideal spot, combining those qualities that go to make up one of the best specimens of a rural hamlet of Old England,—clean roads, well built walls, highly cultivated land, beautiful trees, grounds with no evidences of poverty or want. A spot that does not appear to have been at all interfered with by any outside trouble, is this little municipality; and how fit a place for "Holy George Herbert" to live and die in. Whoever remembers the hymn beginning,

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky,

will wish to see the place of the author's labors and final repose. He died here in 1632. Charles I. gave him the living; but only for the two years before his death was he rector of the parish. We rode down a quiet lane, and on the left found the miniature church, the smallest we had ever seen. We didn't measure it, but thought it to be about seventeen feet wide, forty feet long, including the chancel, and not more than ten feet high to the eaves. It is built of stone, with a moderately high roof, covered with old reddish tiles. Of Gothic architecture, it had a modest belfrey, a chancel at the east end, with a colored-glass east window, and all the altar appliances of a miniature church. It is built with its side to the lane, only a few feet back, with an entrance through a porch. There are two windows on each side. There are no pews, but the floor is partly occupied with high-backed, flag-bottomed chairs, of which there is room for but three on each side of the aisle. About the building is an old burial-ground, where "the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep."

Here the sweet spirit of Herbert was at home; here from choice he did his work. "Having served his generation, by the will of God he fell on sleep," and beneath the altar his ashes repose. To this spot pilgrimages were made by distinguished men in the days of his rectorship, for he was one of the few not without honor in his own country. Sir Henry Wotton, Lord Bacon, Dr. John Donne,—the poet and Dean of St. Paul's at London, who died the year before Herbert,—these were among the companions who received inspiration from the humble rector of this little church. Honest Isaac Walton could not rest till he had written a biography of him, though it was not published till 1670, more than a third of a century after the good rector's decease.

How choice a place is the Bemerton parsonage. If holy ground anywhere exists, this spot has indisputable claims to the title. Across the road, not more than thirty feet away, is the house in which Herbert lived, much in its old condition, though somewhat enlarged. Humble and unpretentious, it is still the Bemerton parsonage, and occupied by Rev. Mr. Piggot, the present rector. The house is a story and a half high, standing sidewise to the road, and parallel to the church, which might be its twin. Mr. Piggot, a gentleman of means and taste, was absent; but with extreme courtesy his man-servant met us at the door, and cheerfully showed us over the house, especially into the study which makes it historic. The efforts he made for our pleasure, the permission granted us to walk at will over the old garden, indicated the present incumbent as one who would do honor to the memory of the sweet singer of that Israel. How charming that Eden! Walks and lawns are as they were in Herbert's day. There is the medlar tree he planted, now more than two hundred and fifty years old,—decrepit, and supported by props. The trunk, six or eight inches in diameter, is protected by thin metal plates, and cared for like an invalid or a pet child. It yet bears a little fruit, and is a living link between the centuries, bridging over the long chasm from George Herbert to ourselves. The little River Avon, at the rear of the garden and washing its banks, still runs as it did then, and every foot of the acre is sacred. In the immediate rear of the old house, opposite from the river, perhaps two hundred feet away, is a beautiful lawn. Vines climb the housewalls and flowering shrubs complete the picture. Inside the house, works of vertu and evidences of scholarly life abound. All is befitting to the dear memory of Herbert. Exquisite is the beauty of the road, and perfect the shade of the overhanging trees. What a charm seemed to permeate everything!

"Take it for all in all,

We shall not look upon its like again."

Carrying with us better influences than had come from the hills and on the great plain of Sarum and Stonehenge, we bade Bemerton farewell. Passing through Fisherton, a suburban village of Salisbury,—like Bemerton, watered by the Avon,—we reached Salisbury at noon, and at two o'clock took a train for

WINCHESTER,

where we arrived at four. This is historically of remarkable interest, and may be named as one of the few places the tourist cannot afford to miss. It is built mostly of brick, contains 16,336 inhabitants, and is pleasantly situated on the River Itchen, which, though not itself navigable, is used as a canal to the sea. While the buildings have a modern look, and especially the shop windows, one cannot walk far before he feels that he is in one of the old places of England. This was an important place in the days of the Britons, and the Romans are supposed to have built its walls. In the year 519 Cerdic, the Saxon chief, captured and made it the seat of government. Under the Danes it became the capital of England, and so remained till after the reign of Henry II., who died in 1189. It was at the height of its glory in the reign of Henry I., who died in 1135, but in the time of Henry VI. it had materially declined. He is believed to have been killed in the Tower at London, a. d. 1471.

Winchester was the principal residence of the sovereigns till the accession of George I., a. d. 1714. Henry III. was born here in 1207, and here Henry VIII. sumptuously entertained Charles V. In this place also Isaac Walton—author of the Complete Angler, and of celebrated biographies—was born Dec. 15, 1683. The atmosphere is surcharged with great events. Every foot of ground is classic, and in nearly every street may be found mementoes of something famous. We Americans, born and educated under new conditions, are poorly calculated to measure these ancient historic remains; yet by kindred and historic associations we are the very people to best get large and just impressions of England's worth.

At Worcester, Gloucester, Bath, Salisbury, we were richly entertained. At the mention of either place, memory is immediately roused to incidents crowding into reconsideration! Either of these places might take its position as chief! So now of grand old Winchester. How hard it is to write and not be intensely eulogistic. It has enough antiquity for a whole country. On one street is a monument commemorative of the plague of 1669. In the distance, a mile or so from the city, may be seen the hospital of St. Cross, founded in the reign of St. Stephen, who was crowned in 1135, and died 1154, nearly eight centuries ago. We come to the venerable St. Lawrence, the mother church of all in the city, into which each new bishop has, for a thousand years, made solemn entry when he took charge of the See.

At the time of the Reformation, there were ninety churches and chapels, besides monasteries where thousands, under a blind religious policy, were being supported at public expense; but the Reformation drove these drones from their seclusion, reduced the churches to but nine, broke up abbeys, and true progress began.

The city was formerly walled in, and had four gates, but all except the west gate have been removed; and that now stands sentinel-like in the midst of a commercial population, which all day, and late into the night, hurries through the old arch. Its durability, has apparently demanded few repairs.

For centuries upon centuries the chamber over it was the deposit for the national standards of weights and measures, as instituted under King Edgar, who died 975. Who has not heard of the Winchester Bushel? Nine hundred years old is the phrase, yet to-day the identical measures are in existence. We found that they had recently been removed from their long resting-place, to the museum of Guild Hall, a place of great interest. Our first request was to be shown the measures, and there before us was the famous bushel, resting on a low stand. It is of brass, or some similar composition, and dark bronze-like in appearance. We guessed it to be nearly a quarter of an inch thick, and, lifting it, found it to be quite heavy, weighing perhaps thirty pounds. It is in form like a shallow kettle, some sixteen inches in diameter, and eight inches deep, with straight sides, well rounded lower corners, the bottom slightly concave; it rests on three small feet, and has stiff pitcher-like handles on each side. The metallic weights are round, and deep as compared to their diameters. They are various in form and decoration, having been altered under different administrations. The measures of length are brass. All these relics are kept in glass cases.

In this museum are other rare antiques, among them exhumed Roman pottery, ancient proclamations, and rare documents,—among which was one relating to the practice of touching for cure of King's Evil, or scrofula. After reciting cures wrought, and the public press on the occasion, it makes proclamation of rules governing the operation, and naming certain times as set apart for the king's visit and work.

Next, we visit the banqueting-hall of the ancient castle, in which the first parliaments of England were held. While the building has been remodelled and extended, for judicial uses, this hall remains unchanged. It is elaborately finished in oak, which is now like ebony in appearance. The room is, perhaps, one hundred and twenty feet long, fifty feet wide, and forty feet high.

At one end, lying flat against the wall, some twenty feet from the floor, is the Round Table of King Arthur, who must have reigned as early as a. d. 525. Much as we dislike to spoil good stories, we ought to say that doubt exists whether this personage ever lived, for the balance is in favor of the theory that the entire story of King Arthur and his knights is only an English legend; but here is the table, and the only one that claims to be genuine. It appears like a dial,—a round wooden tablet, three inches thick, and eighteen feet in diameter. At the centre is a circle, some two feet in diameter, in which is painted a flower. From this lines radiate to the circumference, making twenty-four divisions. In one of them is a portrait of King Arthur; the other divisions are alternately white and green.

Not far from this hall was the palace, built for Charles II.,—a tame structure of light-reddish stone, three stories high, and of Italian architecture. The old courtyard is now a gravelled parade-ground, and the palace is used for barracks:—

"To what base uses we may yet return."

The music and revelry of the festive board, conspicuous in which perhaps was the fascinating voice of Nell Gwynn, are now supplanted by the notes of the ear-piercing fife and startling bugle, the clatter of arms and the beat of the drum. The courtly king is two hundred years dead. New people walk these grounds, few ever giving thought to the fact that here the highest of the land once dwelt.

"The cathedral," says the reader, "what of that?" Of course it had an early visit, the first hour after our arrival, and it lives in most pleasant recollection. We have said understandingly what has been written of cathedrals before. We have needed all the adjectives of the language, but at times have felt the poverty of words to express our meaning when a cathedral was under consideration.

Winchester Cathedral! How futile will be the attempt to speak worthily of it; but the reader should have some facts concerning it. The longest of all the twenty-nine cathedrals, it has the finest nave in the kingdom, and a history of more than nine hundred years. It is another of the architectural wonders of Great Britain. The lawn and great trees furnish a befitting environment, and a genuine cathedral atmosphere envelops the venerable ecclesiastical residences near by. The ruins of the monastery and abbey lend their charm, and the grand cathedral stands solemn and majestic in their midst. Founded in 648, in 980 the stones were refashioned into their present forms, which have continued to this day. Centuries have now passed since all was complete; and save for the repair of a crumbling stone, or a restoration of some portions to original conditions, nothing needs to be done. It is 527 feet in length, seven more than Quincy Market in our Boston, and 186 feet wide at the transepts. The low demure-looking tower, only 26 feet taller than the roof, is 130 feet high. In color, it is much like Salisbury Cathedral,—a dark indistinct gray, with thin moss-patches. Parts of the exterior are very rich in decoration, and a feeling akin to admiration is inspired as one gazes at the turreted walls. We enter the nave. This part was built under the administration of William of Wykeham, who was also the architect. He was made bishop of the See in 1366, and died in 1404. It is imposing in its proportions; and simple, though gracefully elegant, is the decoration of columns, arches, and ceiling. White throughout as new-fallen snow, every moulding and carving is of such admirable size as to be clear and distinct in outline. The interior is more than one hundred feet high. The light is solemnly toned down, and everywhere there is an impression of vastness. And how can pen or tongue adequately picture the great reredos, the strange monuments, and the countless mementoes of departed worth? Again comes the impression, this is the cathedral.

Here sleeps Isaac Walton. Wood, the historian, says of him: "In his last years he lived mostly in families of eminent clergymen of England, of whom he was much beloved." Dec. 15, 1683, at the age of ninety, he died in Winchester, at the residence of his son-in-law. Who that reads his "Complete Angler, or the Contemplative Man's Recreation," does not admire the sweet temper and good sense, the cheerful disposition and honest purpose of the old saint, enthusiastic in his devotion to his pastime and calling? Nature and his spirit were in remarkable harmony. A large flat stone tells us that here his dust was deposited nearly three centuries ago, but the bookstores of England and America prove that, like the great Webster, he still lives.

"So works the man of just renown,
On men when centuries have flown;
For what a good man would attain,
The narrow bounds of life restrain;
And this the balm of Genius gives:
Man dies, but after death he lives."

On a marble pedestal reposes the effigy of Wykeham, once painted in gaudy colors,—perfect yet in every line of his benignant countenance, of his stole and his canonical robe. Beneath this monument has rested his revered dust for nearly five hundred years.

Forty-three years after the burial of the great bishop, on the 13th of April, 1447, the solemn stillness was disturbed by a procession to deposit the remains of Henry of Beaufort, the successor of Wykeham in 1404, afterward made cardinal of St. Eusebius, by Martin V. This is he of whom Shakespeare said, "He died and made no sign." How unlike John Knox, of whom Carlyle says: "When he lay a-dying it was asked of him, 'Hast thou hope?' He spake nothing, but raised his finger and pointed upward, and so he died."

Beaufort was a remarkable man. He was president of the court when Joan of Arc was on trial; by his countenance and aid she was sentenced to death. What influence this dust once had on kings! Out of Beaufort's vast cathedral revenues, $150,000 was advanced to his nephew, Henry V. To the infant Henry VI., who was brought up under his immediate care, he advanced $50,000. But we must not play the historian now, and only call attention to the fact that, in the play of Henry VI., Shakespeare represents him as dying in great remorse. As a redeeming quality be it said, that when spirit and body must part companionship, the good angel of charity took possession of him, and his great property went to works of charity. The hospital of St. Cross speaks for him more eloquently than monumental stone, or the chantry where he ministered in the great cathedral itself.

Here too is kingly dust, that of William II., son of the Conqueror,—William Rufus, as they called him, because of his red hair. Shot in the New Forest in the year 1100, by Walter Tyrrel, Lord of Poix, he died instantly, at the age of forty-four, and for 783 years his royal body has been mouldering here. But he is only one of many, for over each side range of the choir stalls are oak chests,—containing what? Records of the church or important papers of State? Jewels of deceased bishops, or their robes? No; but the mortal remains of Wessex and Saxon kings. Each chest is perhaps three feet long, eighteen inches square, and bears on its side the name of its occupant. These bones were once buried in the crypt, between the years 1126 and 1171, but were put into these chests by order of Bishop De Blow. Three hundred and eighty-four parishes pay their homage to the Bishop of Winchester. No See in all England is as rich in its revenues as this.

As we pass to other visits the thought comes that, like Newton, we have picked up but a few pebbles on a limitless shore. As the immortal Sumner said, "the description is, to the reality, as a farthing candle held up to the sun." At 12 m. we leave for the old city of Newbury, but on our way to take a look at