ERASMUS has described the imposing effect of the great Cathedral church on the stranger who entered its doors for the first time, and saw the nave “in all its spacious majesty.” The vision which broke upon the eyes of those pilgrims who, like himself and Dean Colet, visited Canterbury in the early years of the sixteenth century, may well have filled all hearts with wonder. For then the work was well-nigh perfected. The long roll of master-builders, from Prior Wibert and De Estria to Chillenden and Sellyng, had faithfully accomplished their task. Prior Goldstone, the last but one who reigned before the Dissolution, had just completed the central tower, the great labour of his predecessor Prior Sellyng’s life, and was in the act of building the noble Perpendicular{204} gateway which forms a fitting entrance to the precincts.
And now the great church stood complete. Without, “a very goodly, strong, and beautiful structure”: the traceries and mouldings of the windows, the stone canopies and sculptured images of the portal, all perfect; the glorious towers in their might; Bell Harry Steeple, as we see it to-day, matchless in its strength and beauty; and beside it, rivalling its grace and majesty, the ancient Norman tower, which bore the name of Ethelbert, crowned with the Arundel spire. Within, a richness and splendour to which our eyes are wholly unaccustomed: chapels and chantries lining the great nave, fresh from Prior Chillenden’s work; altars glittering with lighted tapers and gold and silver ornaments; roof and walls bright with painting and gilding, or decked with silken tapestry hangings; carved images covered with pearls and gems; stained windows throwing their hues of ruby and sapphire across the floor, and lighting up the clouds of incense as they rose heavenward. All this, and much more, met the pilgrims’ wondering eyes. No{205} wonder they stood “half amazed,” as the Supplementary Tale to Chaucer’s Pilgrimage describes “the gardener and the miller and the other lewd sets,” gazing up at the painted windows, and forgetting to move on with the crowd.
Then the show began. First of all the pilgrims were led up a vaulted passage and “many steps” to the Transept of the Martyrdom, where the wooden altar, at the foot of which the saint fell, remained to show the actual place of the murder, and its guardian priest—the Custos Martyrum—displayed the rusty sword of Richard le Breton. Next, descending the flight of steps on the right, they were led into the dark crypt, where more priests received them, and presented the saint’s skull, encased in silver, to be kissed, and other relics, including the famous girdle and hair-shirt. This Caput Thomæ was one of the chief stations at which offerings were made, and the altar on which it lay, mentioned in the Black Prince’s will as “the altar where the head is,” marked the site of the original grave where the saint was buried by the frightened monks on the day after the murder. The tomb stood in the{206} eastern chapel of Ernulf’s crypt, under the beautiful Pointed arches afterwards raised by that great architect, William the Englishman, whom Gervase describes as “small in body, but in workmanship skilled and honest.” Soon it acquired a miraculous virtue, and the fame of the cures and wonders wrought there rang throughout the world. It was the scene of Henry II.’s penance, and during the next fifty years it remained the central object of interest to the crowds of pilgrims who came from all parts of Christendom. Cœur de Lion, accompanied by William, King of Scotland, knelt here on his way to the Crusades, to implore the martyr’s blessing on his arms. Many were the Crusaders from all parts of France and England who came thither on the same errand. King John and his wife Isabella, who were crowned at Canterbury Cathedral by Archbishop Hubert Walter, at Easter, 1201, offered their coronation canopies at this tomb and vast sums of money were yearly offered here until 1220, when the body of St. Thomas was translated, in the presence of the young King Henry III., to the new Shrine in Trinity Chapel, immediately{207} above the tomb in the crypt. In that year the offerings at the tomb, at the Altar of the Sword’s Point, and at the new Shrine, reached the enormous amount of £1,071, a sum equal to more than £20,000 of money at the present time. After this, the offerings at the original tomb in the crypt diminished in number and value, but the altar and relics of the Caput Thomæ remained an object of deep reverence until the Reformation.
From the dark vaults of the subterranean church the pilgrims were led up the steps to the north aisle of the choir. Here the great mass of relics, including St. George’s arm and no less than four hundred skulls, jaws, teeth, hands, and other bones, were displayed in gold, silver, or ivory caskets, and pilgrims were allowed a glimpse of the magnificent vessels and ornaments stored up under the high altar. “All the gold of Midas and Crœsus,” exclaims Erasmus, “would have been nothing by the side of these treasures!” and he confesses that he sighed to think he kept no such relics at home, and had to beg the saint’s pardon for this very unholy emotion. The golden {208}candlesticks and silken vestments of the sacristy in St. Andrew’s tower, and the saint’s pallium, which no ordinary pilgrims might see, were also shown to Erasmus and Colet, who brought with them a letter of introduction from Archbishop Warham.
After duly inspecting these precious objects, they mounted the long flight of steps behind the high altar leading into Trinity Chapel; a continual ascent, “church, as it were, piled upon church,” which seems to have greatly heightened the impression produced upon the awe-struck pilgrims. Now at last they stood within the holiest of holies. There, before their eyes, was the goal of all their journeyings, the object of their deepest devotion, the Shrine which held the body of the blessed martyr.