ABINGDON, FROM THE RIVER.
All that there is of interest in Abingdon centres round the bridge—the two ancient churches, the ruins of the abbey, and the market-cross. So many rich and flourishing towns grew up, in the far monastic days, around the great abbeys that it is a not unfair presumption that before the Dissolution Abingdon enjoyed comparatively greater importance and prosperity than it does now. It is still a flourishing place, and although its streets are quiet they present no signs of decay. It is true that it did not become a borough until after the Dissolution; but since the charter was granted by Queen Mary, it may have been intended as some solatium for what the townspeople had lost. That they really did lose much is clear. Abingdon was a mitred abbey, and very ancient, having, all legend says, been founded in the seventh century. At the Conquest the abbot held great landed possessions in his trust, and the house was no doubt rich in the portable wealth for which the monasteries were renowned—vessels of gold and silver, censers encrusted with gems, jewelled crosses, and vestments embroidered with cloth of gold. As the abbey grew in riches and independence the monks seem to have taken very little trouble to keep on good terms with the townspeople or with the country-side. Quarrels were constantly brewing, provoked, no doubt, by each side alternately; but the town was stronger than the abbot and his chapter and all the brethren, and about the time of Edward III.’s accession the men of Abingdon and Oxford united to read the monks a lesson they were not likely to forget. A great riot occurred, in which the Mayor of Oxford and the more muscular students of the University lent their aid, with the result that a large portion of the abbey buildings was burned. The town was gradually becoming independent of the large revenues disbursed by the abbot, for it conducted a very remunerative commerce in cloth, and, indeed, an old chronicler tells us, “stood by clothing.” Nevertheless, when, in 1538, the abbey went the way of all the other monasteries, Abingdon necessarily received a heavy blow. The remains of the monastic buildings, although not extensive, are picturesque and exceedingly interesting. The abbey precincts probably sloped to the water’s edge, since the gateway, which is still in fair preservation, is close to the river, near the market-place. It has been shorn of much of its ornamentation, and now possesses no very remarkable features, either of architecture or of decoration; but it has been carefully conserved, and remains whole and sound. The most attractive portion of the abbey buildings still existing is used as a brewery, and this, like the gateway, has been religiously shielded from other injury than Time inflicts. This portion consists of the abbot’s apartments and the crypt beneath. The abbatial parlours have been converted into lofts, while the crypt has returned to what may not improbably have been its original uses—the storage of great casks of the ale for which Abingdon is well famed in its own neighbourhood. The crypt is entered beside a backwater, where grow more of the abounding chestnuts; but to reach the lofts, where once the abbots of Abingdon transacted such secular affairs as the regulation of accounts and the inditing of business letters, one has to ascend a short flight of time-worn steps. The doorways have pointed arches, and the windows likewise, in the main, preserve their ancient appearance. In one of the lofts are the remains of a handsome fireplace, which has been assigned to so remote a period as the reign of Henry III. The gigantic chimney served by this fireplace presents a remarkable and picturesque appearance as seen from the road. To those of an antiquarian turn of mind these monastic remains are very interesting; and they deserve to be better known.
At the corner of the Market-place, adjoining the Abbey Gateway, is the church of St. Nicholas, which, although far less interesting than St. Helen’s, nearer the river, yet contains much that is worth seeing and describing. Architecturally it is not remarkable, save for a Norman doorway and an unusual little turret which surmounts the tower, and forms the roof of a minstrels’ gallery of great antiquity. Here is the tomb of John Blacknall and his wife, who left many bequests to the town, one of which is still enjoyed by forty-seven poor persons, who receive each a loaf of bread at their benefactors’ tomb every Sunday. The monument to this united pair is of great height, and records that, by a rare coincidence, they both died on the same day—the 21st of August, 1625. The epitaph insists upon this touching unity even in death in the undignified language common to inscriptions of the kind:—
“Here death’s stroke even did not part this pair;
But by this stroke they more united were.
And what they left behind you plainly see—
One only daughter and their charity.
What though the first by death’s command did leave us,
The second, we are sure, will ne’er deceive us.”