Over Fen and Wold

by James John Hissey

On the parapet at the foot of the bridge is a mutilated and weather-worn statue, having apparently a crown on its head and a globe in its hand. An absurd local tradition declares this to be intended for Cromwell holding a ball. Why it should be fathered on to the Protector is beyond my understanding; it is more than probable that it existed centuries before he was born. Looking sideways at the figure it is noticeably thin, and was manifestly only intended to be seen from the front. One may therefore, I think, reasonably conclude that it originally came from a niche in the abbey, for it is quite out of place on the bridge, and could never have properly belonged to it. Most probably, judging from similar old sculptures, it was intended for our Lord, and had place in the centre of the pediment over the west front of the abbey, a portion of the building that has now disappeared. Some antiquaries, however, maintain that it is intended for King Ethelbald, the founder of the monastery; this would be a plausible enough suggestion but for the fact that this king is already represented amongst the statues that still adorn the abbey.

The mouldings, ribs, and vaultings of the arches indicate the date of the present bridge to be about the middle of the fourteenth century. It is worthy of note how readily an archæologist may determine the approximate date of an ancient building by its style, even, if needs be, by a small portion of its carvings; but what will the archæologists of centuries hence be able to make of our present jumble of all periods? a mixture of past forms from which the meaning and true spirit have fled. Indeed, a certain famous English architect once boasted, I have been told, that he made such an excellent copy of an Early English building, even to the working of the stones roughly, in reverent imitation of the original, that he gave it as his opinion that, in the course of a century or two, when the new building had become duly time-toned, weather-stained, and the stone-work crumbled a little here and there, no future antiquary would be able to distinguish it from a genuine Early English structure, unless possibly by its better state of preservation. Alas! the nineteenth century has no specially distinguishing style, save that of huge hotels and railway stations! Our most successful ecclesiastical edifices are but copies of various medieval examples. We can copy better than we can create! A new architectural style worthy of the century has yet to be invented, and it appears as though—in spite of much striving after—the century will pass away without such an achievement.

Then we made our way to the ruined abbey in the reverent spirit of an ancient pilgrim, although in the further spirit of this luxurious century our pilgrimage was performed with ease on wheels, and not laboriously on foot. The most picturesque and interesting part of this fane of ancient devotion is the beautiful west front, glorious even in ruin, with its elaborate decorations, its many statues standing, as erst, each in its niche, its great window, now a mighty void, shaftless and jambless, and its graceful pointed Gothic doorway below. An illustration of this portion of the abbey is given with this chapter. The other portions of the building are of much archæological interest, but not so statelily picturesque, nor can any drawing in black and white suggest the wonderful wealth of weather-tinting that the timeworn masonry has assumed. The summer suns and winter storms of unremembered years have left their magic traces upon the wonderful west front of this age-hallowed shrine, tinging it with softest colouring varying with every inch of surface!

RESTORERS OLD AND NEW

Within the ancient nave now open to the sky, where grows the lank, rank grass under foot in place of the smooth inlaid pavement often trod by sleek abbot, and meek or merry monk, we observed the base of a Perpendicular pillar round which the earth had been excavated, apparently to show the foundation, and we noticed that this was composed of various old carved stones of an earlier period of architecture, presumably when the abbey was undergoing a medieval restoration or rebuilding; plainly proving, as is well known, that the builders of the past did not hold their predecessors’ works so very sacred, and to a certain extent the modern restorer would be justified in quoting this fact in extenuation of his doings, or misdoings, “What is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander” surely? Only those medieval restorers sinned so magnificently, and the modern restorer, as a rule, sins so miserably! From the medieval reconstructor to the restorer of the Churchwarden era is a vast gulf. It would be an archæological curiosity and an object lesson in ecclesiastical construction if we could have preserved for our study and edification a church showing all the varying periods of architecture, from the crude Saxon and stern Norman to that of to-day!

Reluctantly we left Crowland’s old ruined abbey that stands alone in crumbling, dusky majesty, as though solemnly musing over the chances and changes of its chequered life’s long history. This remote and hoary pile, surrounded by the wild waste of watery fens, impressed us with an undefinable feeling of mystery and melancholy—a mystery that had to do with the past, and a melancholy that had to do with the present. No other ruin has impressed us quite in the same way, but then Crowland Abbey has a striking individuality seen from near or afar; it is utterly unlike any other spot, and from every point of view forms a most effective picture. Time has fraught its ancient walls with meaning, and the rare dower of antiquity, the bloom of centuries is gathered over them all—a bloom that has beautified what man and age have left of the former hallowed sanctuary. Now a solemn peacefulness broods incumbent over Crowland’s solitary tower, broken arches, and decaying masonry. No more, as in the days of old, at evensong when the silent stars come out, does the belated fisherman stop his skiff awhile by the side of the inland isle, to listen to the sweet chanting of the monks, mingling with the organ’s

CROWLAND ABBEY.

CROWLAND ABBEY