Canterbury

by W. Teignmouth Shore

Yet again did fire conquer and destroy; and once again it will be best to quote from the monkish chronicler, this time from Gervase, who was witness of the destruction.[2]

“In the year of grace one thousand one hundred and seventy-four, by the just but occult judgment of God, the church of Christ at Canterbury was consumed by fire.... Now the manner of the burning ... was as follows. In the aforesaid year, on the nones of September, at almost the ninth hour, and during an extraordinarily violent south wind, a fire broke out before the gate of the church, and outside the walls of the monastery.... From thence, while the citizens were assembling and subduing the fire, cinders and sparks carried aloft by the high wind were deposited upon the church, and being driven by the fury of the wind between the joints of the lead, remained there amongst the half-rotten planks, and shortly glowing with increasing heat, set fire to the rotten rafters; from thence the fire was communicated to the larger beams and their braces, no one yet perceiving or helping. For the well-painted ceiling below, and the sheet-lead covering above, concealed between them the fire that had arisen within.... But the beams and braces burning, the flames rose to the slopes of the roof; and the sheets of lead yielded to the increasing heat and began to melt. Thus the raging wind, finding a freer entrance, increased the fury of the fire; and the flames beginning to show themselves, a cry arose in the churchyard: ‘See! see! the church is on fire.’

“Then the people and the monks assemble in haste; they draw water, they brandish their hatchets, they run up the stairs full of eagerness to save the church, already, alas! beyond their help. But when they reach the roof and perceive the black smoke and scorching flames that pervade it throughout, they abandon the attempt in despair, and, thinking only of their own safety, make all haste to descend.

“And now that the fire had loosened the beams from the pegs that bound them together, the half-burnt timbers fell into the choir below upon the seats of the monks; the seats, consisting of a great mass of wood-work, caught fire, and thus the mischief grew worse and worse. And it was marvellous, though sad, to behold how that glorious choir itself fed and assisted the fire that was destroying it. For the flames multiplied by this mass of timber, and extending upwards full fifteen cubits, scorched and burnt the walls, and more especially injured the columns of the church.

“And now the people ran to the ornaments of the church, and began to tear down the pallia and the curtains, some that they might save, but some to steal them. The reliquary chests were thrown down from the high beam and thus broken, and the contents scattered; but the monks collected them and carefully preserved them from the fire. Some there were, who, inflamed with a wicked and diabolical cupidity, feared not to appropriate to themselves the things of the church, which they had saved from the fire.

“In this manner the house of God, hitherto delightful as a paradise of pleasures, was now made a despicable heap of ashes, reduced to a dreary wilderness, and laid open to all the injuries of the weather.

“The people were astonished that the Almighty should suffer such things, and maddened with excess of grief and perplexity, they tore their hair and beat the walls and pavement of the church with their heads and hands, blaspheming the Lord and His saints, the patrons of the church; and many, both of laity and monks, would rather have laid down their lives than that the church should have so miserably perished.”

It was worth quoting this account almost in full both for its vividness and vigour, and for the incidental details given of the structure; but the account of the rebuilding must be summarised, full as it is of picturesque and graphic touches. For some time nothing was accomplished in the way of restoration; the roof of the choir was, of course, entirely gone, and all the columns were in a dangerous condition. A French architect, William of Sens, was called in to advise. He was an active, handy man, skilful and resourceful, and the carrying out of the work was entrusted to him. The ruins were cleared away, stone procured from beyond the Channel, sculptors and masons assembled, and a commencement made in September 1174. For over four years William of Sens worked diligently, when by a terrible fall he was “rendered helpless alike to himself and for the work, but no other person than himself was in the least injured. Against the master only was the vengeance of God or spite of the devil directed.” How closely in touch with God—or the devil—were those men of old.

William the first, rendered helpless by his injuries, after a brave struggle returned to France, and was succeeded by William the second: “English by nation, small in body, but in workmanship of many kinds acute and honest.” It was not until 1184 that the new choir and some of the adjacent buildings were completed, and it is these that we view to-day. But some five years after the disastrous fire, the eager monks urged on the builders, being filled with a longing to celebrate Easter in the new choir. William the second worked manfully toward this end. On Easter Eve fire was lit and consecrated in the cloister, then carried in solemnity, with the singing of hymns and burning of incense, into the church, and the Paschal candle lit therewith.