Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain close,
And let us all to meditation.”
But Bishop Fox’s monument and chapel are even more affecting than any of these, from its peculiar combination of ingenious sepulchral devices, with elaborate graces of architecture. It is overpowering, after examining the splendours of its canopy and fretwork, to descend to the little grated recess beneath, where the subject of all this monumental glory is represented in the humiliation of death and the grave. It seems like looking into Hades. One sees a ghastly figure of emaciation and decay; the eyes lying deep in their sockets, in a frightful stage of decomposition, and the whole frame exhibiting the power of death over the flesh of the Saints, but suggesting that, while patiently submitting to the worst that worms can do, it rests in hope and speaks out of the very grave—“I know that my Redeemer liveth.” In a corresponding chapel, but of low architectural character, on the other side of the choir, lies the cruel Stephen Gardiner, the unfortunate son of an adulterous Bishop, and the fitting purveyor of fire and faggot to the Bloody Mary. The nuptials of this sulphurous sovereign with Philip of Spain, were celebrated, by-the-way, in the Lady-Chapel of this cathedral. Strange that the same Church which entombs her favourite Gardiner, should also contain the sepulchre of that bloated Hanoverian, the notorious Hoadly, surrounded with such emblems as the cap of liberty, and the Magna Charta, in close juxta-position with the crosier and the Holy Bible! The character of the Bishop would have been better symbolized by some ingenious device illustrative of the truth, that—“the ox knoweth his owner, and the ass his master’s crib.”
One cannot but hope that the superb altar-screen of this cathedral will be more fully restored than at present, and that a proper altar, or Holy Table, will be added, such as may illustrate the true spirit of the Anglican Liturgy, and the richness of its Orthodoxy. A poverty-stricken altar is surely no recommendation of reformed religion; and were I only an ecclesiologist, it would delight me to show that such a Holy Table as even the Court of Arches could not presume to desecrate, might be erected, in strict conformity with the Anglican ritual, and in perfect keeping with such a choir, that should put to shame the tawdry Babylonianism of the Romish altars on the Continent.
While speaking of the choir, let me not forget the little chests which surmount the screens of the sanctuary. Who can look at them without emotion, when informed that they contain all that remains of princes and priests, and of mighty kings, and fair ladies, their queens. There are the remains of Canute and of Rufus, of “Queen Emma and the Bishops Wina and Alwyn.” On one may be read the inscription—“King Edmund, whom this chest contains, oh, Christ receive.” Another, marking the era of the Rebellion, with a striking trophy of its infamy, bears the legend—“In this chest, in the year 1661, were deposited the confused relics of princes and prelates, which had been scattered by sacrilegious barbarism, in the year 1642.” The havoc made by the Puritans in this holy place is everywhere painfully visible. The beautiful chapel, in the rear of the choir, is filled with fragments of carved work and mutilated sculpture, which bear silent witness against the “axes and hammers” of the Puritans: while many a corresponding “stone out of the wall” seems to cry shame, and “many a beam out of the timber, to answer it.” The noble figure of a knight, in bronze, upon an altar tomb, bears the marks of their indiscriminate violence, in deep cuts or hacks made by a sword, apparently in a spirit of wanton brutality. It was refreshing to turn from such Vandal tokens, to the simple memorial of one who lived in the age that produced them, but whose character furnishes altogether as striking a contrast to the turbulent spirit of his times, as the still waters and green pastures of his native land afford to the elements of the Lapland storm. In Prior Silkstede’s chapel, I paid a parting reverence to the slab that covers the honourable remains of Izaak Walton. Verily, he served God in his generation: for when they knew not how to sport at all, he spake of fishes, and when again they sported like fools, he spake of men.
After a walk through sweet meads, and by a clear stream, I climbed St. Katherine’s hill, and took a full view of the city and its suburbs; and soon after left for Salisbury. It was, indeed, a feast day, that day of St. John the Baptist, on which I saw two such cathedrals as Winchester and Salisbury: the former, characterized by all the grandeur of the long-drawn aisle—the latter, by all the glory of the culminating spire. The emotions inspired by the one were those of a well-chanted service; but I found the effect of the other like that of a rapturous anthem. I speak now of the external views only: and certainly my first view of Salisbury, that fine midsummer evening, was as a vision of Paradise. The heavenward shooting of all its parts, and the consummate unity of effect with which they all blend in the sky-piercing pyramid, around which they are grouped, exceeds all that I ever saw of the kind. I only grudged to the levels of Salisbury, what ought rather to crown such a sovereign hill as that of Lincoln.
This Church is familiar to the architect as the full-blown flower of his art. It stands in a lonely retirement from the town, and, sitting down in its precincts to enjoy the view, I found myself uninterrupted in my meditations for a long, delightful hour, the only intruders being some nibbling sheep that pastured under the walls, and the chattering rooks, that seemed to amuse themselves in making a spiral flight round the spire, and so winding up from its base to its tapering point. Beautiful for its figure and its decoration, is that spire, and so is the incomparable tower, from which it springs like a plant; and wherever the eye rests in wandering over the splendours of its surrounding walls, buttresses, pinnacle, arches, and gables, all is in keeping, and one spirit seems to animate the pile. I am sorry to confess disappointment as to the interior. It is so neglected, and has been so much impaired. The clustered columns that support the tower have yielded to its weight, and are visibly bowed and sprung from their piers. The chapter-house exhibits a shameful neglect, and its beautiful decorations have suffered from violent abuse. The present Bishop is exerting himself effectually, however, in the work of restoration: and one cannot but hope that the next generation will see this cathedral the seat of a living and working system of diocesan zeal, and the centre of Gospel life and influence to the surrounding rural district, and its many needy souls.
A series of altar tombs, in the nave and aisles, gives a peculiar effect to the spaces between the columns, and to the arches above. Among them is the tomb of an unfortunate nobleman, who was hanged for murder some three hundred years since, and over which was, for a long time, suspended the silken noose which suspended him. The tomb of a boy-bishop, marked by a little figure in pontificals, is a curious relic of mediæval mummeries; and not less so is the sepulchre of Bishop Roger, a Norman, who first attracted the admiration of King Henry I., by the galloping pace at which he contrived to get through a mass. I paid a more reverent tribute to the plain slab that covers Bishop Jewell, who, with all his faults, deserves the rather to be reverenced, because this age has bred a set of men, who seem to take pleasure in spitting upon his memory, while defiling, with equal insolence, the face of their Mother the Church.
As evening came on, I took a post-chaise for Amesbury and Figheldean, where I had been invited to visit that interesting personage, Mr. Henry Caswall, a clergyman who has done, perhaps, more than any other man, to make known, in England, the history and peculiar characteristics of the American Church. He is by birth an Englishman; he is nevertheless in American orders, and thus, in his person, unites the Church in which he ministers to that in which he received his commission. The interest with which I now sought his acquaintance may therefore be imagined. After a pleasing drive over the downs, and a rapid inspection of the curious remains of “Old Sarum,” I found myself in a small, but picturesque hamlet, in which almost every house was thatched, clustered at the foot of a knoll, on which rose the parish Church of “Filedean”—for so it is pronounced. In a few minutes I was Mr. Caswall’s guest, and, for the first time since leaving home, I was able to talk over American subjects with one who entirely understood them. After a cordial reception by his amiable family, a long and cheerful review of American matters closed this very happy and memorable day.
I was much entertained to observe in Mr. Caswall many of those traits of enterprise and efficiency which seemed to me to be developments of what we should call Western life, though the English would consider them simply American. That he is naturally enterprising and ingenious to a great degree, I am sure no one can doubt: it was probably this characteristic which originally led him, though a nephew of the Bishop of Salisbury, to seek the wilds of Ohio, and to become a Missionary under Bishop Chase. But who, that had not been disciplined to invention in our Missionary field, could exhibit, as he does, the fruits of this faculty, in an exuberant degree, amid all the comforts of an English vicarage! A river runs near his Church; he has boats upon it of his own construction, and one has paddle-wheels. In the tower of his ancient Church, there ticks a clock of very curious mechanism: it is entirely of his own manufacture; he cast one of its wheels in Kentucky, and bought another in New-York! So, too, he has lately built an organ, which discourses excellent music; and his other ingenuities are innumerable, to say nothing of his very able works, in which he always contrives to tell what is worth knowing, and to say what is just to the point.