to the Lady of Pity; and above the spot where Herbert laid the foundation stone, was placed the altar, dedicated to St. William. As this sounds rather an unsaintly name, we must explain that St. William was a little boy, aged nine years, who, in the time of Rufus, when the Jews were powerful in our land, fell a martyr to their hatred of the Christians. The tale runs that, in 1137, the Jews, then the leading merchants, doctors, and scholars of the day, stole a little boy, crucified him, and buried him in Thorpe wood. They were discovered on their road to the burial, but escaped punishment by some clever monetary arrangement with the authorities. Little William was buried in the wood, and a chapel raised above his grave, the outline of which is yet discernible by the fineness of the grass, that distinguishes it from the heath around, the wood having long since narrowed its limits; the shepherds say weeds will not grow on the spot, for it is “hallowed ground.” The bones of the unfortunate boy were afterwards brought to the cathedral, where another shrine was erected, and dedicated to the little saint; and Thomas, a monk of Monmouth, is said to have written seven books of the miracles wrought by these bones. It was essential, before a saint could be canonized, that three miracles should be proved to have been wrought by him in life, or after death; hence, no doubt, the efforts of the monk to prove their potency, as the
youth of the martyr would render it doubly essential to establish his claims to the honour indubitably. The body of a saint, by act of canonization, was placed in a sarcophagus, an altar raised over it, where mass was said continually, to secure his or her mediation.
Above the anti-choir was the rood loft, in which were kept the reliques, and on which was erected the principal rood or cross, with the figure of the Saviour carved on it. The rood loft was always placed between the nave and choir, signifying that those who would go from the church militant, which the nave then represented, into the church triumphant, must go under the cross, and suffer affliction. The festival of the cross was and is called Holy Rood Day, and was instituted first on account of the recovery of a large piece of the cross by the Emperor Heraclius, after it had been taken away, on the plundering of Jerusalem by Chosroes, king of Persia, a.d. 615. Rood and cross are synonymous. The rood, when perfectly made, had not only the figure of Christ on it, but those of the Virgin and St. John, one on each side, in allusion to their presence at the Crucifixion.
Besides the rood, this loft also once contained a representation of the Trinity, superbly gilt; the Father blasphemously figured as an old man, with the Saviour Christ on the cross, between his knees,
and the Holy Spirit, in the form of a dove, on his breast. This image was ornamented with a gold chain, weighing nearly eight ounces, a large jewel, with a red rose enamelled in gold, hanging on it, and four smaller jewels. A silver collar was also presented to it in 1443, that had been bestowed upon some knight as a mark of honour. Among the relics was a portion of the blood of the Virgin, to which numbers came in pilgrimage, and made offerings. Whether or no it liquefied at stated seasons, like that of St. Genaro, is not recorded.
It is not pleasant to watch the growth of such gross materialisms over the sacred truths and symbols of Christian worship; nor can we wonder at the re-actionary enthusiasm that came and swept them all away, however much good taste may deplore the loss of many beauties and solid treasures, that disappeared amid the tumult of the “dissolution.”
Passing beneath the rood loft, now the gallery for one of the finest organs and choirs our country can boast, we enter the choir, which, as it extends westward considerably beyond the tower, is of unusual length, and imposing in its effect; the lantern, or lower part of the tower, rising in the centre, supported by four noble arches, that bear the weight of the whole tower and spire, is impressively beautiful, albeit modern decorators have been at work to spoil the harmony that should prevail, by medallions
and wreaths that should have no place there, however pretty in themselves.
The connoisseur may here find an abundant field to exercise his architectural knowledge, in deciding the various dates of the several portions of this beautiful part of the building. The long row of stalls, with their high-backed and projecting canopies, crowned with multitudes of crocketted pinnacles, the richly decorated screen-work, that shuts out the plainer Norman aisles, the mysterious-looking triforium running round the curious apsidal termination, the light clerestory, with its tier of windows, divided by feathered and canopied niches, whence spring the main ribs of the vaulted roof,—form a whole, that it needs no skill in art or science to be enabled to appreciate and enjoy. Of painted glass, perhaps the less said the better—we may be wanting in taste or judgment; certain it is, it forms no very prominent feature of beauty, and a kaliedoscope of mediocre arrangement, and a rather indifferent illumination transparency, may, we fancy, each find a counterpart among the specimens of colour that do exist. Something is in progress—perhaps on an improved scale.
But we must not omit to glance at a few of the quaint old carvings, that remain almost as sole relics of the ancient furniture of the church. Entering any stall, we observe the seat turns up on hinges,