On my way to Winchester, I was led to stop for an hour at Basing-stoke, by an idle curiosity to behold a place in which some of my forefathers once resided. It gave me an opportunity of visiting the tomb of the elder Warton, close by the altar of the parish Church. From Winchester I went by post, in the twilight, over downs, and through dingles and dales, to Hursley, where I entered the Church, and found Mr. Keble and his curate celebrating Evening Prayers. I had brought with me, from Hampton Court, a feeling of overpowering depression, and having seen the admired poet in circumstances so fitting to his character as a Christian priest, I was about to turn away, and drive back to Winchester, when another impulse suddenly prevailed, and I ventured to present myself. I had a preconception of his piety and unworldliness, that affected me with awe, and embarrassed me, in approaching him; nor did anything in his cordiality divest him of something that restrained me in his presence. Nothing could be more simple and unaffected than his manner; and yet, in a word, it was as if George Herbert had risen from his grave, and were talking with me, in a familiar way. He would not hear of my departure, but instantly made me his guest; and thenceforth I was in a dream, from the time that I first saw him till I bade him farewell. Nothing could be more kind than his hospitality; nothing more delightful than the vision on which I opened my eyes, in the morning, and looked out on his Church, and the little hamlet contiguous. Hursley is a true poet’s home. It is as secluded as can well be imagined. England might ring with alarms, and Hursley would not hear it: and it seems all the more lonely, when one learns that Richard Cromwell retired hither, from a throne, and after waxing old in a quiet contentment, died here in peace, and now sleeps beneath the tower of the Church, just under the vicar’s windows, with all the cousinry of the Cromwells around him. A wise fool was Richard! But to think of a Cromwell lying still, in such a Church as Mr. Keble has made this of Hursley! It has been lately rebuilt, from the foundation, all but the tower, and its symbolism and decoration are very rich, though far from being overdone. The taste that has enshrined itself in “the Christian Year,” has here taken shape in stones. One of the windows, the gift of friends, is an epitome of that delightful work, and displays the chief festivals, beginning with the Circumcision. In the minute adornment of the corbels, my attention was called to a beautiful idea, which runs through the whole series, and which is said to furnish the hint for interpreting the ornaments of older churches. Entering the south porch, you observe the sculptured heads of the reigning sovereign and the present bishop of the See; and then, at the door, those of St. Helena, and St. Augustine of Canterbury. At the chancel arch are St. Peter and St. Paul; and over the altar, beneath the arch of the East window, are the figures of our Lord, and of His Virgin Mother. Thus, from the present, the mind is carried on to the past; and from pastors and rulers, through doctors and apostles, up to Christ. The north porch exhibits the heads of Ken and Andrewes, of Wykeham and Fox; while the corbels of the exterior arch of the east window, bear those of Ambrose and Athanasius. The tower of the Church is finished by a graceful spire, and the gilded cock surmounts the pile—
“——to tell
How, when Apostles ceased to pray, they fell.”
A grateful feeling comes over me at every remembrance of my visit to Hursley, for I felt all the time like an intruder, receiving privileges beyond my power to repay, while my kind entertainer seemed as one who desires no such tribute to his genius as mere tourists are wont to afford. An inferior character might be flattered to find himself sought out, of every traveller; but all the heartfelt kindness of the vicar of Hursley was no disguise, to me, of a spirit that loves the Paradise of a blessed seclusion from the world, and which nothing but benevolence can prompt to welcome the stranger, that desires to see him face to face, and to thank him for the soothing influences and inspiring harmonies of his perennial songs.
At Winchester, there are three great sights, besides several of minor interest: the hospital of St. Cross, the college of Wykeham, and the cathedral. Let me first speak of the school, a sort of Eton, but less aristocratic, and certainly far less attractive in its site and circumstances. It glories, nevertheless, in its founder, and in his fellow-architect, Waynflete, and in many eminent names in Church and State. Enough that it bred Bishop Ken; and that his initials may be found, cut with his boyish hand, in the stone of the cloisters. In the chapel, what chiefly arrests the eye, is the gorgeous window, with its genealogy of the Saviour, displayed in the richest colours and designs. The library, within the area of the cloisters, was an ancient chantry, designed for masses for the dead in the surrounding graves: and, I confess, I wish it were still a chapel, in which prayers might be offered, and the dead in Christ commemorated, although not as aforetime. Without particularly describing the hall, or refectory, I must not omit to mention the time-honoured Hircocervus, or picture of “the Trusty-servant,” which hangs near the kitchen, and which emblematically sets forth those virtues in domestics, of which we Americans know nothing. It is a figure, part man, part porker, part deer, and part donkey; with a padlock on his mouth, and various other symbols in his hands and about his person, the whole signifying a most valuable character. This for the college menials; but the boys also are made to remember by it, that, for a time, “they differ nothing from a servant, though they be lords of all.” In the lofty school-room, they are further taught, in symbols, the Medo-Persian character of the laws of the school. A mitre and crosier are displayed as the rewards of scholarship and fidelity; an ink-horn and a sword intimate that a blotting-out and cutting-off await the incorrigible; while a scourge suggests the only remedy, known to the school, short of the final penalty. Under these salutary emblems, the Wykeham boys of many generations have read and pondered the legends, which explain them severally, thus—Aut disce—aut discede—manet sors tertia cædi! Tables of the college laws are set up with like publicity, after the manner of the Decemvirs. It is evident that the Wykehamists are in no danger of forgetting that “manners maketh men.”
Through a pleasant meadow, and by a clear stream, I made my way to the hospital of St. Cross, founded by Bishop De Blois seven hundred years ago: yet, in conformity with the will of that prelate, when I knocked at the porter’s lodge, I was duly presented with a slice of bread and a horn of wholesome beer, which I was just then quite thankful to receive, and to despatch in honour of his memory. To such a dole is everybody entitled who applies in the same manner: and a larger charity is, at stated times, distributed at the same place, to the neighbouring poor. The establishment to which I was admitted, after such an introduction, is one of the most interesting objects I ever saw. Its old courts and halls reminded me not a little of Haddon; a pair of leathern pitchers were shown me, as vessels which once held ale for Cardinal Beaufort: but its chapel is indeed a relic of surpassing interest. It is built in cathedral form, and combines both Saxon and Norman details, with the first formal step towards the pointed arch. From the intersection of two of its circular arches, according to some, sprang Salisbury cathedral—the whole idea, from crypt to the vanishing point of its spire. And from this last remnant of conventual life, why should not the true idea of such establishments be in a similar manner revived throughout Christendom? Here live some dozen poor and aged men, who else would have no home on this side heaven. Each wears a flowing garment of black, with a silver cross shining on its cape: they call one another brother; they study to be quiet; prayer is their only business; and order and neatness reign throughout the holy place. No one can visit St. Cross without praying that the Church of England may be blessed with hundreds more of just such homes for aged poverty, and that wherever wealth abounds in her communion, it may be devoted to erecting them.
CHAPTER XXIX.
Winchester Cathedral—Relics—Netley Abbey.
In Winchester Cathedral I attended Morning Service, on the feast of St. John Baptist. I am sorry to say that here, too, the service is ill-performed; not that there is nothing to enjoy in it, even now: but that when one reflects what ought to be the daily worship of such a cathedral, and what it might be, if the laws of the cathedral were enforced, and if a holy zeal were more characteristic of its dignitaries: there is nothing to say but—shame on things as they are. When will the conscience of England clamour against such disgraceful poverty of cathedral worship; and when will the brain of England wake up to a sense of what these churches might do for the nation, if rightly served and administered? The feature of this cathedral which most impresses the stranger, is its far-sweeping length of nave and choir, with the light or shadowy vistas, through columns and arches, which seem to multiply its interminable effect. In its details it is also very rich, and several of its monuments are of unequalled magnificence. Here lies, in his superb chantry, William of Wykeham, whose mitred and crosiered effigy, stretched at full length upon his sepulchre, seems sublimely conscious of repose, after a life of vast achievement, in rearing schools for youth, and colleges for the learned, and palaces for princes, and hospitals for the poor, and temples for God. Bishop Wayneflete is not less superbly sepulchred in a small chapel, or chantry, of elegant design, beautifully enriched, and gilded, and kept in complete repair by the Fellows of his College, at Oxford. His effigy bears, in clasped hands, a heart, which he thus uplifts to heaven, as it were, in fervent response to the Sursum Corda of the Liturgy. Over against this chantry rises, in twin magnificence, that of Cardinal Beaufort: but in spite of its placid air, beneath those solemn tabernacles one looks upon his figure with painful remembrances of the death-scene which Shakspeare has so powerfully depicted. “He dies and makes no sign,” is the awful thought that haunts the mind, as one lingers about this perpetual death-bed; and yet it is not difficult to conclude the inspection with the more charitable ejaculation of King Henry—
“Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.